6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (9)
6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (9)
In the world of performance, there is an idiom: "a rotten tomato."
It stems from the age-old notion that a displeased audience will hurl tomatoes at the stage whenever a show proves truly abysmal.
The term doubles as a slur for incompetent performers, or as a critique—something like, "That show was so bad it sent me looking for a rotten tomato."
Actual documented cases of tomatoes being thrown onstage, however, are remarkably scarce.
A survey by Christian Guide, a magazine covering theater and circus arts, claimed that only one such incident had been officially recorded in the last thirty years.
Tonight, in Rouge, that count might just tick up by one.
The day of the Circus Grand Prix opening ceremony.
The plaza in front of the Rose Windmill Cabaret was opened to performers not competing in the main tournament.
Anyone who applied to the organizers and received a spot could set up a stage there and perform freely.
Festive tunes bounced off every wall, instruments struck up lively melodies, acrobats tumbled across the cobblestones, and actors delivered short plays.
Amid all this, two men in suits and bowler hats had planted a sign reading Allen and Joe and were attempting a comedy routine.
The format was classic two-man slapstick—one played the fool, the other shot him down with deadpan scorn.
Yet calling their act "classic" might have been an insult to every classic comedy that ever existed.
Only the template was classic. The contents were novel in the worst possible way.
The dialogue was a museum of mangled grammar, the gags arrived with no setup, and nothing in the show followed from what came before.
Nobody in the crowd could trace how a village elder's complaints about yesterday's fish stew somehow became an argument between an airship captain and his first officer.
The script was a problem, and so were the two men delivering it.
Stilted line readings, breaths that killed momentum, physical comedy that looked like it hurt them more than it amused anyone else.
The pair displayed exactly the kind of talent that invites a baptism of rotten tomatoes—and no excuse to dodge it.
The first few chuckles from the crowd had been disbelieving, but that didn't last. Irritation spread, then open heckling.
"Stop! Just stop!"
"Boo! Get off!"
"Fold the stage and get lost!"
In a festival ringing with laughter and applause, this was the only island of jeers and fury.
Allen and Joe kept at it even as the response curdled. Then they caught the crowd's glare full-on, went pale, and scrambled off the stage. Another moment up there and something was going to come flying at them.
"Bwahaha! Told you, didn't I? That's what you two really are!"
The snake tamer Suave doubled over laughing behind the stage.
She'd been hanging out with Allen and Joe ever since the incident a few weeks back.
Their first encounter had been an absolute disaster, but once they'd actually sat down and talked, the three had clicked in an odd way. A few hangouts later, they'd ended up sharing lodgings and helping each other out with their acts.
But even a friend had her limits, and Suave could not bring herself to call their comedy funny.
They couldn't write a script, couldn't act, and had an off-kilter sense of what made people laugh.
After Wonderstein praised them, it had only gotten worse. The pair had celebrated—finally, their genius was recognized!—and that ego boost had launched them confidently into ever more baffling creative choices.
They rewrote the script, tweaked their performance, adjusted their stances.
It looked like furious effort, and from every angle it looked like wasted effort.
She'd told them repeatedly, "This isn't it." They hadn't listened.
Bad audience reviews just meant the artist's path was long and cruel, or so they insisted.
They'd dug in their heels until today, their big comeback stage, and instead they'd suffered the humiliation of being booed off mid-show.
Allen and Joe pulled their hats low.
This was where stubbornness had gotten them.
They couldn't even lift their faces.
"Rotten tomatoes."
Ella, watching from the crowd, shook her head.
That demon had found yet another bizarre way to claim victims.
Allen and Joe.
She'd written them off as hopeless performers the moment she laid eyes on them.
She hadn't stopped Wonderstein from recruiting them because of one thing: their swordsmanship was genuinely terrifying.
With skills like that, they should've been honing blade artistry, not trying to crack jokes.
If they'd joined the troupe, her plan had been to smother their comedy ambitions and redirect them down that path.
So when the two had turned down the offer, she'd felt nothing but resentment.
Fine—she'd watch and see how far that talent got them out in the world on their own.
But now, seeing them crash this hard, pity crept in.
Ella lifted her gaze to the clock hanging in front of the Rose Windmill.
Almost time.
The opening ceremony would begin soon.
She made her way toward the cabaret's back entrance.
She'd had time to kill before the ceremony, so she'd wandered the plaza, sampling the street acts.
Heading inside early to wait was an option, but not a smart one.
The cabaret staff were all hustling for the big event; standing around loafing in plain view was the perfect way to earn their contempt.
She wasn't just any acrobat anymore.
She was the Deputy Leader of a circus troupe.
If she acted out of line, it wouldn't just reflect on her—it would stain the entire troupe.
It might even drag down the venue staff who'd extended her a courtesy.
So she'd decided to keep circling outside until the moment was right.
Ella glanced over her shoulder.
A girl with white hair, looking almost like a doll, was following at a distance.
Maya.
A stranger would never guess they were together.
Several meters separated them. They hadn't exchanged a single word. Their eyes were fixed on totally different things.
Neither of them had spoken to the other since their argument the day before.
The rancor hadn't settled yet.
In front of Wonderstein, of course, they'd pretended nothing was wrong. That had been their silent pact.
So they'd act perfectly normal around him, and the second they left his sight, they'd drift apart as if they'd never walked together a day in their lives.
Ella watched Maya feign indifference, her expression carefully blank, and gave a tiny snort.
She knew exactly what the girl wanted.
To be let into the opening ceremony too.
But her pride wouldn't let her ask, so she just kept doggedly trailing behind.
Then again, am I any different?
—Oh well! I'll go by myself! So nice not having to babysit anyone!
She could've just said, "Come along." But she'd dropped a hint instead, leaving the door cracked on purpose, a "come if you want" gesture. Offering outright goodwill would've stung her own pride too much.
Truthfully, she'd half wanted to just ditch the girl and come alone.
But that wasn't an option.
Like her or not, Maya was a fellow troupe member now.
She hadn't known before, so she'd looked the other way. But she did know, and she couldn't pretend otherwise anymore.
"Miss Ella! Right on time. Are you alone?"
At the cabaret's side door, the man who'd promised to let her in was waiting.
Paris, one of the cabaret's actors, greeted her with a welcoming face.
"No companion?"
"Ah, there's one."
Maya slipped up behind Ella.
They still didn't meet each other's eyes.
Paris's gaze swept over Maya, and he let out a small sound of admiration before covering it with a cough.
"A friend of yours?"
At the word friend, Ella and Maya briefly locked eyes.
In that instant, they recognized the same thought mirrored back.
"No."
Paris guided them inside the cabaret.
All around, staff were bolting down hallways, calling for someone, zeroing in on urgent tasks.
He tossed out a few of the usual questions you ask a new acquaintance, but Maya answered every one with a single word, leaving him visibly deflated.
"Hey! Paris! What d'you think you're doing? Equipment needs moving!"
"Ah, shoot! Would you mind waiting here in the guest lounge? I'll be right back—just a quick thing."
Paris scurried off after the senior who'd called for him.
The lounge was a small room with a sofa, enough for maybe half a dozen people.
The two girls sat as far apart as possible, saying nothing.
Minutes passed in awkward silence.
Ella was the one who broke it.
"I'm sorry."
She looked at Maya with a sheepish expression.
"For calling your magic weird."
More silence followed.
Maya didn't react to the apology.
Her face stayed blank.
But Ella could tell.
She's flustered.
Maya opened her mouth after a beat.
"Why do you hate the Troupe Leader?"
Ella considered the question, then found a convenient excuse almost immediately.
"...You've seen me work, haven't you?"
"Oh."
Maya gave a small nod, as if that explained everything. However much she disliked Ella, she couldn't claim the Deputy Leader's workload was light. Hadn't Wonderstein himself admitted he palmed everything off onto his capable deputy so he could gallivant around?
Maya had only been with the troupe a few days, but every time she saw Ella, the woman was working.
Meanwhile, the Troupe Leader was leisurely sipping tea with some other woman...
Phew.
The thought made Maya feel faintly embarrassed about her own recent behavior.
She hadn't considered the Deputy Leader's feelings, toiling away like that.
"I'm sorry too."
A smile touched Ella's face.
Maya showed a faint smile in return.
Anyone else might've asked, "What's that supposed to be?" But Ella understood: this was the visible evidence of Maya trying to smile for her.
Maybe they could even become friends...
"I'll call you Deputy Leader."
Until now, Maya had simply addressed her as "you." Now, she formally raised the topic of how to address her.
Ella's smile turned a touch bashful.
"It's fine. Call me Ella."
"Deputy Leader."
Maya's tone brooked no argument.
"I said it's fine. Just call me Ella."
"I don't consider us that close."
Ella gave a tight, awkward smile at the cool reply.
Yeah, we really don't get along...
But at least we can communicate this much...
"...So I can still call you Maya?"
"Mm."
Right then, the lounge door banged open and Paris burst back in.
"Sorry I'm late! Come on, hurry—the ceremony's about to start. I've got you great seats in the staff section."
The two girls stepped out of the room.
The distance between them was just a little smaller than before.