Freak Show (no name derp) IC

See OOC for plot and stuff.

Heavy chains rattled across the floor, dragging as a young.. something stirred in his sleep. Cuffs were constricting his wrists and ankles tight, but he had gotten used to them ever since he arrived more than a decade ago. Other than the rattling produced by the chains connected to the wall-- restraining him from going far-- there was a eerie silence; and the cage/cart he was in twenty-two hours a day was dark excluding the strands of light wriggling in from behind the drawn curtains. His eyes opened drowsily and he sat upright, rubbing the boogers from them and yawning widely. Upon close examination, his jaws appeared to have stretched forward. so much that his teeth showed and that his lips couldn't cover them. Ruffled, messy black hair blanketed his ears, bristling the back of his neck; he cupped his hands over his elbows and shuddered in the dark, cold and dry place he called home. Making no vocal sound, he looked down and began to eat the lukewarm bowl of rice set out for him, like every day.

Time for another day of misery, he thought with a sigh.

Lemur woke up wrapped in his chains, everyone of them thick and welded to the equally thick cuffs around his wrists, ankles, neck and torso. The Ringmaster had learned long ago to never underestimate Lemurs strength, and they both knew that one day Lemur would be strong enough to break even these bonds. But for now, they just did what they had too.

Lemur was a hit whenever he was let out of this cage, and he had to confess that there was something about the roar of the crowd that he actually enjoyed. But times like this reminded him what was really going on.

His coward parents, preferring to abondon him to slavery than raise him.

The endless taunts of those who thought him handicapped from his blindness.

The unspeakably long hours here, in this place.

Dark.

Cold.

Hell.

He waited.....

A young boy lay shivering in his cart, curled up in a little ball. He did not even bother to eat the rice put out before him, for he was not hungry. In reality, he was sick. If the cart wasn't so dark it would have been easy to see it. He was pale, gaunt, and thin, though moreso than the others. He was a bit short, maybe around 5'3, which did make it easier to stand in the cart, but made it harder to struggle when the goons tried to let him out. He was cold and somewhat clammy to the touch, and was sweating and shaking all over. His eyes, a pleasant light shade of blue, were closed. The only clothing he had on him were a pair of ragged shorts and the small cuffs attached to his ankles, which by now were already rubbing deeper than raw since the time he first received them. The goons thought that since he was so weak, he really didn't need any other restraints. As for the clothes, they didn't allow him to wear anything other than the shorts, just so the public could see more of his amazing disease.

All over his body, in the place of what would be hair, were feathers. They were not the long, sturdy feathers used for flight, but rather the soft, downy kind that would be normally seen on chicks. They were extremely soft and light, and each one was a pleasant, white color. He probably would have been a blonde if fate had been kinder, but unfortunately the fates were not. They were a bit longer and fluffier on his arms, and in general were purely relative to the hair size distribution on the normal human body. However, on his head the feathers were long, white, and very solid. In general they started out smaller towards the top, but there were also feathers that reached down to about chin-length, and hung down somewhat limply. He was really an amazing specimen.

Yet the throes of sickness shook him, and he was shivering from the fever. Chicks might have been able to make due with the weather, but his feathers were too sparse to offer protection against the elements. He was close to dying, but it wasn't like anyone else knew.

The roars and cheers and woots of the crowd was a rather routine but unwelcome sound to the young man's ears, his lips curled into a frown at the thought of going out there again. However, it would get him out of this cage for at least two hours before having to retreat back to it's cold, dark grip. "Thank you, thank you!" Came the bellowing, gruff voice of the Ringmaster as he pushed the curtains to the side and staggered in, letting light spill in and making the young freak wince and turn away. "Looks like you're up first, Lucas!" The middle-aged man said, glancing to the freak and grinning whilist taking his mahogany top hat off and slicking his hair back, then putting it back on. He turned to the side and whistled to an unseen area.

Two goons unlocked the cage and rumbled in, one of them fumbling with a set of keys before taking the cuffs off: for Lucas, it felt nothing short of wonderful to have them off, to let his skin breathe. They handed him a set of clothes for him to put on- beige shorts that were a bit loose on his scrawny frame and a also-beige t-shirt that seemed a size too large- perhaps to cover the long gashes that broke the skin on his upper back; a result of attempting to defy the Ringmaster during a show. The marks were mostly healed, criss-crossing and intersecting in all directions, and weren't a problem once they were covered. Lucas slipped on a pair of boots, strapped them and headed towards the curtains, preparing for another day of misery.

Lemur heard the Ringmasters voice. Filthy creature. He would do anything to anyone to turn a profit. If the abduction and torture of children wasnt beneath him, it was hard to imagine that there were any depths of depravity he wouldnt stoop too.

Cold. Lemur hated cold. The pain he could cope with, but the cold was persistent, pervasive. It would kill him if he let it.

The day he escaped would be a fine day. He would find somewhere warm and stay there.

Castor sat in the furthest back of his cage or wagon or whatever this was. The biting of the steel around his ankles and stomach and wrists hurt as much as always; that was, to say, not at all. Nor did the cold affect the young man. You see, Castor could not perceive pain... And, as such, he had been subjected to cruel forms of torture, brought almost to death, repeatedly. But his ignorance of pain was not his only strange quality. His vertebrae each extended about a half inch up, attempting to break through his flesh, but failing. Coupled with burns, slashes, and wounds of all kinds, Castor certainly looked like a freak.

Castor stared out of his cage with the forlorn gaze of a long-lost man. He had long ago given up...

The boy opened his eyes slowly, allowing himself to adjust to the sudden light of the show outside. He hated days like these, which would technically be every day, but that didn't make it any less painful. At least he wasn't being roughly dragged out by the goons, who would usually poke him with sticks until he was finally awake. He felt...so cold...It looked hot outside but somehow he still managed to get the chills. Being sick was horrible. At least before all of this his mother would stand by the little mat he used as a bed and give him soup. It was mostly made from leftovers, but it still tasted good to him. Every time, his mother would always whisper his name, and tell him everything would be alright. Cameron...Yes, that was his name. It wasn't exactly a "cool" name or anything, but he loved it all the same. Too bad the ringmaster didn't. He insisted on giving him a stage name.

Thus, Cameron the boy was replaced by Icarus, the Feathered Freak. He really hated the circus. However, he knew that he had to keep his hopes up. Mother would get enough money one day and buy him back! He knew it!

A cough then rattled his body, bringing him back to reality. What was he thinking? He would die here. They didn't bother to care for him at all, and now they would pay the price, right? The rusted cuffs around his ankles rubbed against his raw skin even more, causing him to whimper a little. There wasn't enough light in the cabin itself, but for a moment he swore that he saw the area inflamed and discolored. It was probably was infect, but the cuffs were still too tight to get a proper look. He was just glad that he wouldn't be first this time. Maybe they would choose for him to be last! He had to admit, being last was a bit fun. Last time he let some little kids feel his arms. They said that he felt soft. Those words seemed to make up for every one of his "performances"...Did he taste blood in his mouth? Again? This just wasn't good at all...

Lucas sighed and gazed upon the crowd before him, his grotesque mouth being the only thing they were able to set their eyes upon. The Ringmaster was busy chattering to the people whilist Lucas stood there like an idiot, waiting for a command.

Suddenly, his sight felt.. strange.. he began to feel very woozy and, when he walked, he appeared to wobble and wan. His tongue felt like sandpaper, sticking to the roof of his mouth. The Ringmaster whipped around and grunted in annoyance at this before the freak collapsed, faceplanting into the dirt. The cheers of the crowd turned into confused whispers and gasps. The Ringmaster could only stare back at them; he picked Lucas up by the shoulders and dragged him back to the shelter of the curtains.

Uhh..? The freak thought as his eyes steadily opened, snapping into widened circles full of panic when he saw the Ringmaster's pinkish-red, angry face looking at him. When he sat up, he still felt just as woozy as before, but he noticed- much to his dismay and horror- the whip rolled up neatly in the Ringmaster's grubby fingers. "You messed up," He began, the tool unfurling and dropping onto the dusty ground. "so that'll be fifteen lashes for you." He grimaced, swinging his arm back and swinging the whip forward: Lucas could only wince once he felt the sting of it lashing his flesh. Each lash he would crumple closer to the ground until he was nothing but a bleeding, whimpering and sobbing ball of pure patheticness. Afterwards, the Ringmaster turned to one of the other freaks and huffed. "Alright, who wants to go up next? Any takers?" He adjusted his hat and lumbered away, leaving Lucas shuddering and crying in the dirt where everyone could see.

And all he could do was sob... his mouth felt so dry...

Lemur sighed internally and focused on not making noise or moving. Did the Ringmaster honestly think that they were stupid enough to answer him? Maybe for the sake of getting it over with, but he hadnt been born yesterday. He knew that didnt help. Being quiet and still usually helped. Predators hunt movement and noise, after all.

Castor watched Lucas from within his own prison. Pity was not what he felt. No, he would have been touch envious, if he truly could have been. The whipping had harmed his fellow 'freak', something which could never happen to Castor. Pain... Sure, he couldn't feel it, but nor could he feel other things that others might have taken for granted. Warmth. Cold. Love. Hate. Logic was one of the few things Castor had... Cold, uncaring logic that risked life and limb and everybody in his path.

The oaf was asking who would go next. Perhaps he should go. Nothing truly horrible could happen to him, after all. Nothing he could feel or care about, at any rate. He slowly dragged himself up, relishing the feeling of his slowly dying body dragging against his mind. He shambled forward, not feeling the bite of the metal around his ankles. He stared out from his cage, and, in a cold, calculating voice broken only by it's own raspiness, spoke. "I... Will go...

((I think I screwed stuff up but hey oops.))

The thin sliver of light arching down through the narrow slit into the cage glinted off dust motes which hung in the air as the yellow light drifted lazily across them. At the bottom of the metal cage or if it was more appropriately termed, box, were four different sets of chains, heavy iron ones which only had the odd spot of rust here and there. They were suspended from high up on one side of the box and looped down to fasten tightly around the wrists and ankles of a person, a young girl to precise. Although she may not actually be that young. The yellow light fell upon her very long, gnarled dark green hair which had patches of rich reds, golden yellows and crispy browns starting to appear in it. She was curled up, dressed merely in old rags, at the bottom of the box, her hair spread out to cover most of her in some vain attempt to warm up and also catch the light coming in through the slit.
She stirred and her hair began to fall off of her leaf green skin which was intersected by many leaf veins and was devoid of any hair other than that on her head. Like her hair there were small patches of reds, golden-yellows and browns beginning to appear amidst the sea of green. Finally she lifted up her head to reveal the gentle features of her weary face and in particular her large eyes with the green pupils.
The girl let out a sigh and lay back down again, trying to curl back up. She was tired. These days she was always tired. She was let out of the box less than the others, though how many of them there were she didn’t know. She occasionally heard them crying out for some reason or other but she never saw them unless they came off whatever stage they were on late. She couldn’t remember a life before the box, it had always been here. It was one of the constants of her life. Occasionally she’d be let out to see some strange, foreign place full of hostile animals who howled and hooted when they saw her and tried to pull out her hair. She hated the exterior of the box. She couldn’t cope with the exterior of the box. It simply was too horrible a place. The darkness of the box, it was safe, it was constant, it was calm and quiet. And it hid the fact that her skin was more yellow each spring. More… Unhealthy.
She was the only one, she presumed from the appearance of the few other miserable wretches she’d seen, who had some idea of the passing time since her body changed according to the seasons.
She was tired. Perhaps she should just sleep. She was always sleeping. There was nothing better to do…

The chains rattled softly as another freak shifted slightly. Her breaths were slow, deep, and subdued. Her eyelids closed, only the rising and falling of her chest signalling life in her lithe frame. It had appeared that she was deep within slumber, that nothing would wake her. In fact, she was far from it. She, in fact, barely slept at all. Of course, she didn't want to give away that little tidbit to the ringmaster. The smell of charcoal tinged the dusty air, where a ray of sun lit the particles of dust which breezily danced about. The chains that held her were especially strong-- she had attempted escape times before. The shackles jangled with her every movement, which annoyed her to madness, for with every step, those heavy shackles would alert the entire box of her actions. Her skin was hot to the touch, radiating a warm orange. If she wished, she could turn down the temperature, cease the heat and fire. She was a lively, headstrong spirit though, and would not conform to look like another normal person. She was a freak, and she was proud. Her hair was a dusty black, and smelled of singed wood and smoke. Her fingernails glowed and especially radiant, bright red, but that paled in comparison to her eyes. Her irises burned. They were a brilliant, bright yellow, that seared your soul, and blazed straight into you. It was comparable to looking straight into the sun. Her eye was the simple milky white, but they seemed to glow as well. It was as if they covered an intense light, blocking out most of its energy, but still sucking in the remnants.
Scars raggedly laced her arms and back, the old wounds still bringing back aching memories of pain .

Her name, Issandra, but of course the Ringmaster conjured yet another fancy title for his "freak". The thought of the Ringmaster disgusted Issandra, and from the first day she had become acquainted with him, she thought the most evil thoughts of his end. She resisted him numerous times, and was rewarded with the most excruciating punishments. The lash of the whip would not stop her though. Not only outside of her, but inside, Issandra blazed. She was a headstrong, stubborn, rebellious sort of person and some haughty fellow with a whip would not daunt her. She had slowly grown to feel the burn (Irony) of the whips against her hot flesh, and it hurt as it would hurt any other freak. It only prodded her on to even more rebel, but then she stopped. She realized, the intelligent thing to do would be to simply wait. Do what the wretched Ringmaster wished, meekly obey, until the chance arrived. Of course, her impatient spirit could not let her do nothing but wait. That was a thing for docile fools. Instead, she subtly tried to keep the spirits of her fellow freaks up (sadly, this was quite hard), as well as improve her skills so when the time came, she would execute with flying colors.

For now though, she would wait.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, you can go." The Ringmaster grumbled, fingering Castor. He whistled and two goons came out, unlocking the freak's cage and handing him some clothes.

He glanced to Lucas and grimaced; with the gesture of a hand one of the henchmen came to his side and forcefully walked Lucas back to his cage, shackled him up and let him be. "Second time this week, Luke: if you know what's good for you, y'should stay put." The cruel Ringmaster informed, bundling his blood-sheathed whip up neatly and going to Castor's side. "Excited, right?" He sneered, snickering below his breath.

Castor stared at the Ringmaster with his grey, cold eyes. He attempted a weak grin that bared his strangely white, pointed teeth. "Naturally..." He proceeded to put on the clothes, and, that completed, rolled his head to the side. "They... Await the show... Let us not... Keep them waiting." The Ringmaster's sneer and snicker did nothing more than mildly stir up an irritation in Castor; still, it was something... And that couldn't be bad. "Lead on..."

"As you wish." The Ringmaster grumbled, shambling to the curtains and parting them, watching to make sure people were still there. "Alright, they're ready. C'mon." He barked, gesturing for Castor to follow as he walked off into the light and cheering.

Castor grimaced. That man was a fool, of course. Anyone with half a brain could peg him as such. Freaks Castor and his fellows may be... But yet were still human. Castor could see rebellion growing in several, while others (himself included) just seemed to have given up or never cared in the first place. As Castor entered the light, he hunched over slightly, showing the off the strange ridges his vertebrae made as he did. And then he just stood behind the Ringmaster, awaiting further instruction.

The Ringmaster turned around and frowned, "Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there!" He growled, thrusting a outward finger to the curtains.

Lucas watched in silence, his body burning from the many gashes put on it. He appeared to glare at Castor and draw letters in the air with his fingers, as it was the only way he could communicate. D-O-N-O-T-G-O was spelled out between pauses.

Issandra roused from her feigned slumber as a small bowl was shoved between the bars of her cell. She slowly stretched, parting her jaws in a silent yawn. She then slowly ambled forward on all fours, reaching forward and pulling the bowl of rice towards her. She receded back into the corner of her cell, the chains jangling and clicking as they hit the floor. The rice was damp and smelled foul, but it was still food. She slowly picked through it, and of that she didn't eat, she dumped into a small, hidden hollow in the corner. To the observing eye, there was a long crack in the wall. But the shadows melded in a way to hide the fact that it was indeed a hollow the size of two bowling balls. If found though, the hollow would contain nothing more than dry, old rice.

She was roused from her dozing by the grate of metal on metal and then the soft clunk of what was likely a bowl off the floor of a cage. It sounded like the one next to her box, her safe box. Perhaps the occupant of that cage was being fed with the strange, lumpy rice the others were usually given. She didn’t get very much solid food herself; she didn’t really need it really. As she could simply photosynthesise when the light shone through the slit and she rarely moved anyway, although she did need a top of water on regular basis but other than that she was pretty much left alone.
Now she’d been woken up by all that movement outside she wasn’t going to get back to sleep, lovely and safe sleep. She lay there listening to the sounds of what was happening outside of her box, not that she really cared what happened outside of her box. She could hear the rattle and clinking of chains in that cage next to her box. It seemed close by, perhaps they were on the same wagon; if that was so it was unfortunate since it meant she would sleep less while they cried as they usually did.
She didn’t see the point in crying really, she couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be than in this box where the howling and hooting animals who watched manically and gathered in great numbers couldn’t find her or pull out her hair.
Now… What was her name again? She was side tracked as usual but forgetting her name… She supposed that wasn’t so important now that she had another look at it. Perhaps she might remember later, not that it mattered.

Wayne blamed his sister. His sister was the freak, and she was the one who had landed him here. She was always with him; they were inseparable. She was a beautiful singer; she was also a bit of a whale.

No, literally.

She has the skin color and markings of one, with the lungs to match. That made her voice truly something to behold. Sadly, her other features did her more harm than good: the half-formed ridge in the middle of her spine that made it hard to lay on her back was her big one. Then there as the fact that she shared a body with her brother.

He and she were not simply conjoined; they were a chimera. Cells from one and the other wantonly combined, leading to one mostly-unified whole. And that was how his sister had gotten him into the freakshow.

It wasn't like she had much choice in the matter; she didn't even have a brain. That was Wayne's. The only distinct, identifiable part of her was her delicate, pale mouth that sat directly below Wayne's. It wasn't just pale, actually. It was literally white, and it had an entirely different skin texture. A couple of black streaks ran off the boundaries of her mouth and Wayne's, swirling around Wayne's face like an embrace from a life that never truly was. A white blob resided over Wayne's left eye, and mottled swirls of white and black ran all over his body. There was still the malformed protrusion in the middle of his back; that was at once less and more of an inconvenience than the second mouth. The "fin" could be hidden easily. The mouth couldn't, but he could do amazing things with it.

The ringmaster knew that, of course. He'd occasionally bring out an gramophone and a record and make Wayne learn the songs. He wasn't really much to look at, so singing was his entire value.

For now, Wayne just sat in the corner of his cell, halfheartedly chewing on his rice. He'd stay out of the spotlight for the time being, as long as he could.