False Bravado

(Victorie)

A slender girl of about eighteen years old stands outside the entrance of the circus, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her favorite gray hoodie. Her dark brown eyes stare at the festivities, though they lack the warmth usually hidden in their depths. The harsh night air pulls her long blonde locks from her face, and she sighs, slightly annoyed.

'I guess now's as good a time as any,' she thinks to herself as she hears the excited roars of the crowd inside. The sign above the entrance catches her eye for a split second before she slips inside, disregarding the fact that she'd ever seen it. She absentmindedly hands her ticket to the person collecting them, her eyes roaming the large expanse of room, and her eyes light up for a brief second before the light dies away.

The guy suddenly speaks, causing her eyes to dart to him instinctively, "The Viribus Circus is the best in Orbis." His blue eyes are earnest and the girl resists the urge to roll her eyes. "There's no reason for such a glum look on your pretty face once you step through those doors." His tone turns cocky as he nods toward the double doors ahead of her and this time, the girl really does roll her eyes, moving past him and into the crowded circus.

'Viribus Circus is the best in Orbis.' The girl repeats sarcastically in her mind, 'More like the only one in this Godforsaken city.' Her tone turns sardonic in her mind as she thinks the last bit.

Orbis, California was a small city. So small, in fact, that if it weren't for the circus the girl had just forced herself to enter, it wouldn't be as populated as it was. That being said, there were only 500 odd souls in the city, making it appear deserted even on its busiest day.

Victorie Daniels weaves her way to a seat, sitting just in time to see the final act, which appeared to be far more interesting than anything that ever happened in Orbis. Well, Victorie found it exciting, anyway. It was as exciting as one got in a city of fools and false bravado.

(Ira)

Ira scoffed, smoke billowing out from his lips. What a bunch of bullshit this was. Ira glared at the poster right outside the tent, his dark eyes squinting at the cheerful font, the curving painted letters almost taunting him. They mocked his being here. That little hat and whip on the Ringmaster, they teased him, playfully snapping the whip, as if to just nip his nose. Call him arrogant, but this poster was created just to torment him.

So he tore it down. Just like that, delighting in the sound of the fibers ripping, relishing the strange sense of satisfaction that came from destroying this enemy of his. Crumpling up the strip of paper, he tossed it to the ground, and, after looking around with a suspicious glare, slipped back into the tent, leaving the crumpled ball of what used to be the poster and the smoke of his cigarette trailing behind him.

Once he reached his mirror– a simple thing, only a few pictures pinned around the frame, his stage makeup at the base, neatly organized, and some powder and a box of cigarettes, unknown to (almost) everyone else but him– he slid off his trench coat, black wool heavy, revealing his show costume underneath, red, almost flame-like pattern adorning his bare chest. He wore black leggings, a right he gained in an argument with the manager after complaining that the leotards were much too flashy. That was a rather sweet victory, he remembered, smiling just a bit to himself.

The first act was already through; Ira's performance was in the second. He took his arm across his chest, feeling his shoulder muscles flexing, then snapping back into place as he switched arms. Trapeze wasn't an easy act, but it was the one he was doing. But only doing it here for a week more. Just one more week, one more week and he would travel to Oklahoma to rejoin his circus. His circus, the one he grew up in, not this Viribis joke.

But for now, he had to make his keep– and preferably some extra on the side, legal or not. This and other similar thoughts ran through his mind as he dusted his hands with chalk at the top of his platform, one hand already grabbing onto the bar that would be his only lifeline in a moment. Folks wouldn't know it, but the netting beneath Ira's feet wasn't as strong as it seemed. He had learned that the hard way.

(Victorie)

Victorie sits up in her seat, the eyes that had, just moments before, been filled with disdain now lighting up with admiration as she views this new being. He didn't look like he was from around here, and that struck Victorie as odd. Everyone from round these parts was from around these parts. Except for this guy, this flying master who caught the audience's attention with the first motion he made. Why anyone-especially someone as talented as he- would choose to come to Orbis for the heck of it was beyond Victorie's comprehension. And that was saying something.

Victorie presses her lips together to hold in a small sound of surprise as the guy flies from one bar to the next, gracefully, fluidly, as if he'd done it his entire life. Her brown eyes struggle to keep up with the guy, who she figured was somewhere around her age, maybe a year older, her heart nearly stopping as he hovers in the air for a moment before grabbing onto the next bar.

(Ira)

When Ira was swinging, there was nothing else in the world that mattered to him. Just him, the bars, and sometimes a partner. It just seems so simple. Despite, you know, trapeze being an incredibly precise and difficult skill to master, especially to Ira's level of expertise. It had taken him years to just manage to pull off his routine, however messy it had been at the time.

A gymnast as a teen, Ira had never really expected to become a trapeze artist in a circus; never really seemed plausible, or even realistic. The thought was just ridiculous. Him? In a circus? No. Yet here he was, swinging through the air, feeling his hands burn through the chalk as they rubbed on the bar that he gripped onto so tightly. Though he had never considered this to be his future, he knew that this, yes, this felt right.

Of course, he thought none of this as he swung and flipped and whatnot, only felt the feeling of doing what he was supposed to do, his predestination if you will. He only felt when he was swinging on those trapeze bars, never thinking, for thinking is what would cause your downfall. Literally.

His routine a memorized pattern of movements in his head, Ira soon had his feet steady on his platform where he had stood only moments before, feeling as if it had all happened too fast. Then again, all he wished was for the time to pass. He watched the bar swing back into a resting position above the netting and climbed down the ladder up, quickly disappearing into where the performers dressed and where all other preparations were put into place, per se.

(Victorie)

As the act finishes, Victorie stands, deciding to leave before the crowd even moved. Her eyes linger on the figure now leaving the arena, before she snaps her attention back to stepping over the legs of the inconsiderate people in the row. She nearly trips over the leg of the last person and he shoots her a nasty look as she regains her balance.

'Well, geez. It's not like I purposefully set up a plot to trip over your leg.' She fumes inwardly, limping toward the exit. She stands outside for a minute, closing her eyes and just taking in the silence. She ponders whether she really wanted to go back to the hectic house she'd just escaped from, with the perverted foster brother. At least the foster parents were decent. She opens her eyes, deciding to take the long way back. She had to walk anyway, why rush the peace and quiet?

(Ira)

Wiping off the black kohl around his eyes, grimacing at the leftover black smudge beneath his eyes, he threw down the wet towel on his dresser. Then, with a sigh, he threw on a shirt and changed out of his leggings, feeling the paint on his chest rub awkwardly on the inside but not caring as he left the tent into the dark of the night. Yet he was resigned at this point, completely apathetic as to what could happen next.

So, naturally, he just left. A satisfying flash of light exploded as he flicked his lighter, taking a puff from the cigarette that had somehow found its way into his hands, just like it always seemed to happen. He walked towards the forest, a dark and looming one at that, hoping to find solace before having to return to the tent again to sleep.

(Victorie)

Victorie looks down as she walks, her long hair shielding her face from the world. She sticks one earbud in her ear, the music the only thing breaking the serene silence. She bites her lip as she glances up, her eyes peering around in the darkness before they drop back to her phone screen.

Seeing as her eyes were glued to the screen of her phone, she didn't notice the figure in front of her, who appeared to be walking into the forest. She lets out a startled yelp as she slams into it-him. Her eyes widen and she looks up from where she'd fallen on the hard pavement.

"I'm sorry." She says, her hand groping for her phone as her eyes lock on the dark ones of the guy she'd slammed into. Then she frowns slightly. Something about the young man struck her as familiar. She looks down as she finally finds her phone, wincing as she sees the crack. "Damn it." She mutters, knowing how the parents were going to react.

She looks back up at the guy, "That was...entirely my fault. I wasn't paying attention." Her dark brown eyes drop to the cigarette in his hand before darting away. She didn't want to judge the dude just because he chose to smoke. It was his body, his choice, right?

Right.

(Ira)

Ira's mind was elsewhere when the girl bumped into him. Starting to feel the high from the tobacco, he barely reacted, but he noticed the collision affected the girl much stronger than it did him, sending her sprawling and him only a few stumbling steps back. His eyes did widen, though, feeling an explosion of pain in his shoulder, but, like, a small one, as it didn’t hurt too bad.

It took a moment for him to assess everything, though: the girl on the ground grabbing around for something, his extinguished cigarette, and his slightly sore shoulder. “It’s alright, don’t worry ‘bout it,” he spoke, his voice a mid-toned mumble. His hand instinctively went up to his mouth, holding the cigarette between his lips, as he dug through his pockets, but to no avail.

Irritated, he kept the cigarette between his lips but groaned under his breath. But the girl was still on the ground, now looking down at the cracked glass of her phone. He extended his hand, asking, his voice clearer, louder now, “You alright, miss?”

His hand was bony, tendons and veins both visible on the tops of his hands. His fingertips were calloused, a couple of little tears of skin from the bar, only visible because of the leftover residue from the chalk. His hand didn’t seem welcoming, though, and Victorie would find that they were almost freezing to the touch.

(Victorie)

Victorie had risen to her knees, and she peers up at the guy as he speaks. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." She takes his hand, slightly startled at the lack of warmth. She opens her mouth as if to ask a question before thinking better of it. "Thanks. For...helping me up. Many would've kept walking."

She looks down at her phone again, a slightly disgusted look passing her face at the broken screen. "My phone, however..." She didn't care about the phone itself, rather about the consequences of breaking it. She sighs, wrapping the cord of her headphones around the phone and sticking it into the pockets of her large sweater.

"I..." She curses herself silently, for her curiosity was making an appearance. "I just...you look familiar. Have I seen you before?" She asks, the dark brown irises darting up to look at his face, and trace the vaguely familiar planes. She bites her bottom lip for a second as she tries to place his face.

(Ira)

Ira scoffed after hearing her thanks, waving a hand dismissively in the air before running that same hand up his forehead and into his hairline, pulling some of the hair away from his face. "Many clearly don't have common courtesy," he retorted. Picking the cigarette from between his lips, he dropped it to the ground, stomping on the last ember, crushing the cylinder's last chance to be used. Oh well, no use for it now anyway.

"And hey," he started, voice no longer distorted by cigarette, "I'm not rich, and I don't have much on me, but would 40 bucks help cover the damage done to your phone?" Despite sounding and acting completely shut off from the world and– honestly– rather apathetic, Ira seemed more than willing to give money to someone he barely knew for something that wasn't entirely his fault. So what was his game?

Whatever it seemed to Victorie, Ira frowned at her inquiry, though he took a moment to think, hooking his thumbs on the loops of his jeans on the side. "No, I don't believe so. If we have, I don't remember your face, sorry," he answered. Shrugging, he continued, "I was at my job at the circus for the past three hours, so I must've seen you before then, yeah? Huh..." Ira pondered her face, looking at it as if he were scrutinizing every detail he could in the chance it would jog his memory.

(Victorie)

Victorie's eyes widen as the memory hits her, "The second act, the trapeze artist...that was you, right?" She asks, a bit hesitant. She frowns slightly before her expression clears, "Yeah, that's probably why I remember your face. Because that act was probably the most exciting thing that's...ever happened in this dump."

Then she hears his offer of the money, and she stares at him in shock, "You'd...you'd give money to somebody you don't even know?" She drops her eyes to the ground, pondering the risks. She didn't know him, what if he had an ulterior motive? But why would he? He had manners enough to help me off the ground. She looks back up at him, "I...I thank you, for the offer, but I can't. I can't accept the money, especially when I know I can't pay you back."

And it was true. She had no money of her own, except for what she'd stolen from the fosters. Technically, it was her money, since she worked for it...But they had this ill-conceived notion that it belonged to them, as she was living under their house. So she'd had to give every penny she made to them, throwing her dreams of running away down the drain.

She flinches slightly as she hears an angry shout behind her and she curls into herself, trying to make herself smaller. Her jaw clenches slightly as she recognizes the voice of her foster brother, Alexander. Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't-- She begs silently, but it was all for naught. He'd seen her.

"HEY VICTOOOOOORIEEEE!!" Alex slurs, obviously drunk as he staggers over to where they were. He eyes the young man, before turning lustful eyes to Victorie. "Where ya been all day?" He drops an arm on her shoulder, nearly knocking her down again as he caresses her long blonde hair. "Ma's pissed, y'know..." He trails off before turning his eyes back to Ira, "Who're you?"

Victorie remains absolutely still, her face pale. She knew if she did move, he'd find a way to make her pay later on. She curses herself for ever letting herself become this afraid of anybody, hates the way it makes her feel. Weak, useless. Which is what the fosters had forced her to believe. That she needed them.

(Ira)

Ira nodded at her realization, taking his arms forward and lacing his fingers together. Then turning them out, you could hear the bones in his fingers and hands cracking and popping. It was something therapeutic to him. "Yep," he replied, "that would be me. Glad you enjoyed the show," he finished, chuckling under his breath. He was, of course, chuckling to the fact that Viribus usually sucked, so it was nice to get some confirmation from an outside source.

Hearing her refusal, he rolled his eyes, and, taking a step towards her, he took her hand with one on his and put the other hand on top, placing the money in it and closing her fingers around them. "Take it. Please," he said, his voice almost begging, though it was more trying to compromise with her. "I can make this money back easily enough tomorrow."

He looked into her eyes, slightly swaying side to side, his dark eyes complimented by contorted, equally dark eyebrows. He wasn't too much taller than her, but it was enough of a height difference that he had to look down when they were so close.

At the sound of the shout, Ira first looked up towards where the sound had come from, then down at Victorie, seeing the aftermath of her reaction. Leaning in quickly towards her ear, he whispered, "Hide it," pulling back in one fluid movement as if he hadn't said anything at all. As he did so, his hands slipped away, like the first thaw of Spring.

When the other young man, someone who clearly knew Victorie, approached the two, Ira held his ground, though he was forced to give some room when the man, who was significantly larger than Ira, flung himself onto Victorie. "Who is he?" The drunk man had said, Ira tightening his jaw as he was looked up and down.

"I'm the person she was having a conversation with," he retorted, his voice lower than what it had been earlier, his shoulders tensed. He was standing on the edge of a knife, just about ready to dive off.

(Victorie)

Just before Alex had made his appearance, Victorie had stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets, her hands clenching around the money as her muscles tense. She has to hold back a shudder of disgust as Alex slips his finger down the line of her jaw and she nearly turns her head to bite him. You really should... Her mind urges her, but knowing the consequences, she doesn't. She does, however, shrug him off of her, her dark eyes flashing with anger.

Alex stumbles to the side as Victorie shakes him off, shooting her an icy glare that promised retribution before he returns his attention to Ira. "Well, no shit, Sherlock. Though why you'd have a conversation with a freak like her..." He trails off, "Unless you were trying to get into her pants." He shrugs, the motion causing his head to spin slightly. "I meant, wha's your name?"

Victorie, though she despised Alex, had to look at the guy. She hadn't had the chance to ask his name before Alex's less-than-welcome arrival. She tilts her head to the side, curiosity making itself plain in her eyes. She steps back, as if to fade into the background, but Alex's hand shoots out, grabbing her arm in a tight grasp that makes her wince slightly with the pain. Yeah, that was definitely going to bruise in the morning.

"I'm not done with you yet." Alex keeps his eyes on Ira as his hand tightens around Victorie's arm, causing the wince to morph into a silent look of agony, his grip aggravating the old break that had just recently healed. Tears prick at her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall, she wasn't that weak. Not yet, anyway.

(Ira)

Ira's eyes followed Victorie's hand with the money into her pocket but didn't allow any recognition of that action besides his eyes to show. Good, she had heard him. Hopefully, this stranger wouldn't do anything that would expose that. Ira highly doubted that something would, but he couldn't stop his brain from thinking. He did, though, see Victorie's head snap around, a growl playing on her lips. If he wasn't so tense, he might've laughed at her reaction. Stumbling a minute ago, she would be entertaining if the situation wasn't so awful.

But, right now, Ira's blood was boiling. This douchebag had the audacity to think better of himself than Ira, and Ira couldn't stand folks like that. "My name is none of your business and neither are my intentions," Ira shot back, his fists clenching around themselves as his arms hung stiffly at his sides.

Ira's fists began to pull back, gearing up in what was clearly preparation to punch the nasty fellow who had joined them, albeit completely unwelcome. He expected that Victorie had seen this, giving cause to why she had started to back up, but Alexander caught her movement, even as Ira glared at him, and grabbed her.

Seeing the tears welling up in her eyes, Ira's apathetic composure fell, giving in almost entirely to rage. It was something that he had at least semi-learned how to keep under control. But in seeing him and her, he didn't want to control it. It didn't matter how he felt towards the stranger, this girl he had just met, nor did the possibility of ending up injured tonight. The thought of the regret he would have after didn't even cross his mind; he had been clean for so long.

"I'm not done with you yet," Alex had said, looking right at Ira. Ira exhaled through his nose, which was now wrinkled as he looked at the man in disgust. Stepping right up to the young man, and between him and Victorie, he pushed Alex backward, knocking his grip of her arm off. "Hey, man," he said, advancing towards where Alex had stumbled. "You better fuck off right now. Leave 'er alone." Ira could almost feel his knuckles splitting from first impact before his fist even went up. What a rush, and oh, how he loved it.

(Victorie)

Alex was so inebriated, he stumbled back farther than Ira should have been able to push him. Victorie, despite the dangerous situation she'd found herself in, once again, had to drop her head and stifle a small laugh. Her shoulders shake with the silent laughter, though it looked like she was crying to those who weren't paying attention (Alex).

"Wha' the hell?" Alex slurs, blood dripping down from his nose as he staggers toward Ira with an enraged expression on his face. He raises a fist, as if to punch Ira before his eyes focus on Victorie. "I will do wha' I want to the whore. She'd deserve it anyway..." He trails off, trying to stumble toward her before realizing Ira was still in his way.

Victorie's laughter trails off as she hears the underlying threat in Alex's words. When he said stuff like that, she knew he meant it. She winces slightly, rubbing her bruised arm. She'd gotten used to the petty name calling within the first three weeks of her staying in the rotten house.

Alex fixes his furious eyes on Ira again, a snarl on his face. "An' who are you to tell me wha' to do?" He swings his fist, clipping the edge of Ira's jaw, as his coordination is currently off-kilter.

(Ira)

As the drunk man staggered around, Ira made sure to keep between him and Victorie. However, he juggled that with trying to lure him away, trying to get Alex's attention on him and him alone. It was clear that he meant to hurt her, and Ira was very much aiming to avoid that.

"Don't call 'er a fucking whore," Ira shouted, his voice dark and grave, but Alex was quick to speak over him or as quick as you can be when incredibly inebriated. Throwing his own fist in the air, Alex hit Ira's jaw, sending his head spinning to the side, Ira's hand instantly flying up to rub his jaw.

Half turning back to Victorie, though keeping his brown eyes trained on Alex, Ira shouted a command to her. "Hey, lady! Meet me back where we met!" His voice was urgent, his phrasing awkward. "Go! Run! I've got him."

Then, focusing back on Alex, his eyes seemed to flare with green fire. "Is that all you got?" Ira challenged. "Huh? 'S that all you got?" Ira's voice was slurring, his jaw growing lack in an attempt to save himself from further pain as much as he was expecting it.

(Victorie)

Victorie's eyes widen as the guy continues to defend her. As much as she didn't want to leave him to fend Alex off by himself, she knew she had no other choice. After all, she was the object of Alex's sick desire. As soon as she was out of sight, Alex would back down...hopefully. She stumbles back a step before turning and racing back in the direction of the circus. The place where we met... Her mind focuses on the circus and she soon disappears from sight, dodging through the crowd easily, her slender frame slipping through the bloodthirsty ranks.

Alex's mind, drunk as he was, didn't process the fact that she was no longer there until she'd fully disappeared. His drunken rage dissipates some, though he continues to glare at Ira. He growls slightly, causing the crowd to begin chanting for the fight that was sure to come. Alex's fist shoots forward into Ira's stomach, though not really all that hard. Though he looked buff, he didn't work out much at all.

(Ira)

Ira spared a quick glance back, sniffing as kept his hands up, his fists not entirely clenched, poised technically like an old-timey boxer. He took a minute to wipe some of the blood dripping off his chin as he glared down at Alex. He didn't have murder in his eyes, but there was something just nearly as dark. He might glare if someone called him a vigilante, but his sense of righteousness often did cloud his mind from reason.

Watching Alex's fist fly towards his stomach, Ira crouched, catching his fist and then deflecting it, his other hand still guarding his face. He was lighter, quicker, and nimbler than Alex, so just knocking him over wouldn't be an option. However, he guessed he had strength on his side based on how easy it was to deflect Alex's punch.

Breathing out through his nose with the same intensity as a bull about to charge, he exhaled once more before launching himself towards Alex, his fist coming up to hit the bottom of Alex's jaw, a messy but hopefully successful uppercut.

(Addendum: This story has been discontinued until further notice)