[02] Perform for Gamer!

[Cain]

The cyborg looked around for a moment, testing his vision after the previous event. He'd walked outside, seen sunlight, and simply appeared back at the carnival. About the time his stomach started grumbling he'd reappeared. . . here.

"Hold still, hold still," a stooping girl said to Cain, the cyborg sitting in a sturdy but otherwise unmentionable chair. Pads of cloth coated in make-up buffed his face from either of her hands. Her hair was black and tied back in a pony-tail, and her dress was a fairly ritzy t-shirt that strapped at the shoulders and blue jeans. The cyborg thought about stopping her from putting the make-up on him, at which time she smiled.

"Are you nervous?" She stood back for a moment, chewing on her tongue, then swooped back in with her pad and stroked his cheek four times fast. His hand went to scratch his cheek, fingers slightly curled for the action. She stopped him with a light touch from her free hand. "No scratching," she said.

The cyborg laughed at his current predicament. "Am I nervous? They put make up on two kinds of people miss. Dead people and actors, and since I'm talking I must be of the latter group. I haven't rehearsed any lines," He grumbled as she moved toward his pale cheeks with blush. "I don't even know what character I'm supposed to play. Some people get butterflies. I've got albatross' in my belly."

"Afraid I can't help you with your lines," she said, and her soft hands grew wrinkles, as well as her visage, once taut and the popular image of beauty. "But you sure are handsome," she said, taking a step back from him. Her frame stayed petite, though her visible skin was wrinkled. She beamed a smile at the cyborg that made the birds in his belly melt away. "Good luck," she said, and vanished.

The cyborg pondered the event for a moment as he rose and strode around a fairly spartan backstage. "Now where's the mirror?" he muttered, and a mirror sprung up before him, nearly stopping his stride with a crash. Lights rippled on above him, beaming off of white walls.

Cain looked at the image before him for several moments, marvelling at the lady's work. His hair hung in clumped strands of black, visage chalk colored with the blushing cheeks of a prim lady who'd let flee a fart at a prominent dinner. His eyes had comical purple rings around them and the whole of his face itched. "No scratching," he muttered to himself. "Just who the hell am I supposed to be? A mime? Hmm."

The cyborg looked at the mirror for a moment before he started moving. "I'm a horse," he muttered, and air galloped with the aid of flight. Lost in the moment he snorted and reared back his head. As his hair flew back he saw his pale face as that of a horse's, eyes large and brown. The cyborg stumbled backward onto the floor.

"Some makeup," the cyborg muttered, retaking his feet shakily. The birds in his belly were back, squawking and splashing around. "Maybe I should try another one," the cyborg murmured, perhaps a little more comfortable with his surroundings because they were empty.

"I'm a lunatic," he said, eyes springing up to the mirror as he again tossed his hair back. His knuckles hung on slumped shoulders before him as one deranged eye gawked at him, dancing every which way madly, the other white with some sortof prop contact lense. This time the vision before him was less foundation shuddering, as he realized seeing himself act would help with the fear of acting in front of someone else.

An idea sprung into the cyborg's head. "Mirror mirror, who's the craziest one of them all?"

A visage appeared out of smoke in the mirror, it's visage a dramatic mockery of joy on his own pale, blushing face. Half of the drama symbol. "Craziest one of them all?" It said, "You're talking to a mirror buddy. Comprende?"

Cain laughed, unconsciously scratching his nose. "An image of a man that insults him. How about this. Mirror mirror, standing tall what would happen if you were to fall?"

The drama mask completed itself with a frowning version of his own contenance. "If-if-if I were to fall I'd buh-buh-be broken being glass and all."

"Perfect," the cyborg said, giving the mirror a thumbs up. All he saw in return was his own, make-up clad self flashing a thumbs up gesture and a smile. Great now all I need is some more props and a couple more actors. . .

Of a sudden the walls began coming to life with standing cabinets, every inch of the wall covering with new or old crates or drawers. The sound of them springing up, or dripping down, the cyborg thought, was like an elevated plipping of water. As that happened a small note fell from the ceiling. It drifted down like a feather, and then set into the corner of the mirror upright, to be read.

"Every prop imaginable," the cyborg read aloud, and looked at the walls full of various stuffs. "Alright. . . That's half the need. Now what about the actors?" he asked nothing in particular.