Sundance

17. Deck of cards (Izuna)

Six years later.

I pulled the hood of my costume over my head, fastened it in the mask.

I loved that mask. It was black with a face drawn on it that was a mixture between a jack-o-lantern and a stick figure, the eyes a pair of X's, the mouth a creepy smile. It glowed purple in the dark. My costume was pitch black and hugged my curves, present as ever, so when the lights went out, you could only see the creepy face of our masks for a few moments in time, soaring high up in the air before the light was turned on and you could see us dance in our hoops, or lyras, or circus rings, or whatever you wanted to call them.

"Warmed up, Izuna?"

I jerked as someone put their arms around me from behind, then smiled. I had many friends here. All of them knew I was a burn victim, but none had seen me. They knew I didn't want to share my looks with them, and respected it.

"Not yet."

"Please, let me join."

I had been right in that the company hiring Sundance didn't want me anymore with my burnt face. I had been devastated, but hadn't wasted any time. Alone in an entirely new country, an entirely new continent, even, I had packed my things and left, the only thing I left a note for Madara asking him to please stay with the company even if he was angry with them for declining me and also to please not try to contact me. He had tried to contact me anyway of course, but I hadn't answered.

He stopped trying only last year.

I knew it was childish of me, just like my behaviour had been that night I had caused myself the burn. But I supressed all guilt, giving myself time to mature, to become better, after I had gotten used to my new appearance to the best of my abilities.

I went to Las Vegas in a taxi wearing a medical mask and a hoodie, the only part of my burn showing being around my eyes. I got a place to stay and I never went out but for job interviews to keep my visibility out to a minimum. I tried to get a job as a bartender or barista but to no avail; nobody wanted me.

"I personally don't mind", the tale always went. "But I cannot risk my customers to be scared away. You must understand."

You must understand. I was always supposed to understand. Wasn't it ironic? How I, the man with the burnt face, was the one who was supposed to understand the feelings of those around me without burnt faces. Didn't I understand that my burnt face causes them discomfort?

I was sick of it. So finally, two months after arriving, my savings dwindling even if I lived in the cheapest motels and hardly ate, I sat at a bar, revealing the entirety that was me; my face, my tuft of burnt hair, my distorted appearance, for the first time except for the job interviews. People gave me horrified looks and I looked down in my drink, but I stayed as was sick of it, sick of hiding.

And that's when he approached me.

A man, fifty or so, with snow-white hair, sat opposite me.

He thinks I'm a prostitute, was my first thought. I wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe a rudiment of my old belief that I was just a body. I was a little frightened.

"I know who you are", he said. I shivered. Then, the man burst out laughing, a warm, hearty laugh. He looked like Santa Claus then, a kind and unyielding old soul. I relaxed, but just a little. "So sorry! That must've sounded creepy! It sounded much better in my head." He reached his hand out. "Hank Thomas. Director of Cirque du Soleil in Vegas."