The Roof is on Fire (Transylvania/Prostitutes/Public)

"Auguste.....?"

He stirred only slightly but was otherwise dead asleep; Crina lifted her head from his chest and gazed down at him. He looked so peaceful...It was almost disgusting. The Transylvanian fell back onto her pillow and turned her back on the Frenchman.

Bruises, scratches, a mixture of flowery scents that were anything but her own- It didn't take much for the young prostitute to put two and two together, no matter how slow people considered her. Auguste had cheated. Lied right to her face. He was a slimy, manipulative bastard who never cared or loved her to begin with-

Yet, Crina had nobody to blame but herself. She should have figured he would had another woman besides her, he had done it before (and she had been that 'other woman'). Once a cheater, always a cheater, as they would say, and still she acted naive.

But, hurt and angry, she began to wise up.

Tomorrow she decided she would end it. There would be no more dates, no more late night visits, no more him. And if he thought he could convince her otherwise...well...He would have her brother to deal with.

With another sniffle, she wiped the tears from her face and closed her eyes. Oddly she felt more relieved now that she had come to a decision (and a quick one at that). Crina only hoped she could wake up before Auguste did so he wouldn't run off, as he often did.

Her breath became steadied as she slowly drifted into slumber; Her dream wasn't a pleasant one and it only seemed to get gradually worse.

It was in a dark, little cell.
The air was putrid, a mixture of sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids. She felt frightened- she was frightened, the figure that loomed dangerously overhead caused her to recoil back to the corner in fear. He had unfamiliar features but nothing that stood out. His lips curled into a small smirk as he asked an unheard question.
Crina opened her mouth to speak as the air began to grow thick. "I-i...."
His mouth now moved again angrily, still no sound except the sudden scream of her mother from some distant cell soon to be joined by her brother then others, quickly multiplying. The figure's fingers wrapped around her delicate neck and squeezed tightly.

She couldn't breathe.

Panic swept over her as she struggled to break free. The more she thrashed the tighter the grip became, and the faster a new, indescribable pain began to dance up her legs and onto her waist. Crina choked, fought, cried and finally-

Her own blood-curdling scream woke her up. The woman jolted up and began to slap at her legs frantically. The pain, which she had thought to have been just from her dream, were flames engulfing the thin cotton sheet that covered her body. Crina kicked the blanket from the bed and rolled as far as she could away. The whole box car wall, it had seemed, was ablaze and the fire was spreading up onto the bed and around.

"Auguste--" She coughed while shaking him. "Auguste wake up...!"

The Transylvanian crawled over him and grabbed her robe from the bed knob, just barely saving it from a little flicker that was beginning behind it. She pulled at Auguste's arm, her voice breaking into shrill cry.

"A-AUGUSTE WAKE UP!"

(I am an awful, lazy human being. I am sorry. ))): Also, her dream sorta refers to reeducation...sorta...Not at all a pleasant thing in Communist Romania. :\)

((/do not know if should crash yet...... I will wait.XD))

"A-AUGUSTE WAKE UP!"

The noise was so shrill, the heat was so much, the sensations were so insufferable, Auguste's eyes had no choice but to snap open. It was not often that Auguste had good dreams. But it was a common night. Nightmares, as usual, had plagued his thoughts.

And even when he thought he was awake, they still plagued his thoughts and senses?

It took a while for those senses to realize what was going on. It hurt to open his eyes, he soon realized. He then took a breath. And something thick and heavy filled his lungs. Crina was on top of him, he could see, but her face, even though hardly far away, was blurred out with some dark smoke. And the walls, his eyes flickered to the walls, he realized then, that they were on fire.

There was so much going on, he did not understand. But now, now he understood what was going on. Hopping out of bed, almost as a reflex, he ended up tumbling down Crina with him.

"CRINA!" He shouted, touching her arms, to see if she was perhaps on fire. Loosely slipping on the underwear that was carelessly strewn across the floor, he looked at her again. His eyes were wild, and wide, stretched out to their full extent. And for once, they were so heavily filled with emotion, with fear, it was like he had a different pair of eyes.

"What-...?" He wanted to ask her what happened, what did she do, what could possibly be going on. But nothing came out. His words became jumbled, he was not eloquent. And then he broke out into a fit of coughing, as the smoke filled his lungs.

"Come on...Crina...." Grabbing tightly, with his hands that still did not want to let him grasp onto things tightly, he cared little for his or her comfort. Just safety. The flames were spreading quickly, for one reason or another. They had already made their way to the car door. Auguste made the mistake of grasping the brass doorknob. He forgot how those things conducted heat.

He did not have time to kneel over, he did not have time to show any kind of pain that the fresh burn deserved. He just cursed a quick 'Merde,' and stepped backwards. Backwards far enough to shove a bare foot into the hot door. He tried again, and again. It hurt as well, and the French obscenities flew out, words he had used so often back in those days when he was not a gentleman.

And still, the door did not budge. The flames were suffocating the room. Their smoke, suffocating the occupants. Throwing out another cough, Auguste burst forward, into the door. He did not have time to look for his overcoat, to cover his arms. He could not see it, because almost everything was obscured with black.

Finally, the full force of his body did have some effect. The door broke off from its hinges. It fell so suddenly, that Auguste did not get the chance to control himself. Though still holding onto Crina, who sat on that solid though flaming ground, he still fell forward.

((omg this is too dramatic, but fires are kind of dramatic. :l Soon you can, B) probably outside, everyone is hanging around, burning and such.))

She was sure they were going to die.

Crina coughed and choked, gasping for air and squinting through the thick smoke. She could just barely see Auguste's outline, kicking at the door that just wouldn't budge.

This was it.

She clenched her stinging eyes shut at the sound of splintering wood, supposing it was the support around them caving in. Even as cool night air hit her body and she was knocked onto the hard ground, she believed they were goners. Crina's body trembled violently while her lips moved in silent prayer. The only thing to break her from shock was the sound of another scream.

Her hazel eyes flew open and she looked around. Most boxcars were completely engulfed, her's and a few other were following close behind, and only two or three had yet to be touched by the fire. Prostitute's stood around, some screaming and others in awe, handy men from the carnival who happened to be near by ran around frantically, trying to put out the flames.

Crina rolled off of Auguste, shakily putting on the robe she clenched in her deathly white grip, and crawled to her feet (helping him up as well). Part of her legs were raw and blistered, the pain was similar to thousands of knives being pushed into was more than overwhelming, but she limped forward closer to safety, using the man as a support.

"W-what...happened..?" Her question was to in nobody in particular but she hoped somebody would answer.

"CRINA...!" Her brother ran and stumbled to her, not hurt much save for his pride and well... He wasn't sure yet. This was his home, how he made his money, and his family. And it was burning to the ground.

It had been his fault-- something had gone wrong when he had tried to make drugs himself-- a small fire started, and quickly spread in the dry air. Outside, over the grass... And to the other cars.

Dimitrie was a mess. Wild-eyed, he took his sister by the shoulders, making sure she was even alive. Without much of a warning, he just muttered "One," And let go of her, counting down the rest of the women who were outside, not even noticing Auguste. This was their home, too. And he had ruined it.

"Fifteen... Where's the one after fifteen.... Sixteen--" He was having trouble finding his words through the smoke. "Vesna-- where is she--" As he surveyed the crowd, sure enough, the one that would have stood taller than the rest wasn't there.

Her car was one of the last to catch fire, but it was spreading quickly. The door was closed-- she was still there.

Piter hadn't gone to bed that night--had never even gotten dressed for bed. Sometimes, he didn't feel like he needed to sleep, and especially not when he dreamt of so many terrible things. A winter from hell...his own image, a living corpse...bombs raining down from the heavens. It was a terrible thing to watch, over and over again.

But this...this was beautiful.

His eyes were also wide, though not in fear, like so many others around him. Fascination danced in the fire reflected so clearly in those large, black depths. He did not move to put it out; he didn't want it to end so quickly.

He would never have considered himself a pyromaniac--he certainly didn't obsess over this sort of thing--but it did enrapture him. The chaos, the injuries and possible death...it was amazing what a little match or carelessly discarded cigarette could cause. He was drawn to the destruction like a moth.

In his dreams, too, there was sometimes a fire. But he never actually saw it, only heard about it. It was the house of his so-called 'brother', in Moscow. Along with the rest of the city. He was very young, in those dreams, but he waited so impatiently for news of the outcome. Not if his brother was alive, but if he was dead. Had he any clue what thrill felt like, he'd say that was the closest thing he'd ever had to it.

Watching from a short distance as Auguste and his whore escaped (what a shame), and were greeted by the idiot who ran the place, his eyes followed Dimitrie's finger as he counted the survivors. And he came to the same conclusion: the tall one was gone.

Ah, this was an interesting problem.

He would have been only too happy to keep watching to see what would happen, but he recalled something important: Ditya was fond of that prostitute. But he wasn't fond of Piter. But if Piter watched his whore die, he'd be even less fond of him. But if he saved her...

He really did want that autograph, whether Franze had been joking about it or not.

Sighing, as though he were being greatly troubled, he calmly walked over to the last car, barely heeding the fact that this was a very dangerous thing to do. Of course, he knew it was, but fear was another thing he'd never really had. (He was just usually not stupid enough to get himself into situations where one needed to be fearful.) If he wanted to get away from the flames, it was mostly because it was really rather uncomfortably warm.

He wasn't nearly strong enough to break the door down, so he went with the next best option: knocking. ...Oh, that was a bit hot. He didn't have time to inspect his stinging knuckles at the moment, however, as the door creaked open of it's own accord. Intrigued, he peered in and saw that the frame had already been damaged by the fire. How exciting. But he supposed that was his cue to get a move on.

Strolling over to her bedside, he tapped her on the shoulder, saying loudly and clearly, "Terribly sorry, but I do think it might be imperative to wake up now." A nearby roof beam creaked ominously. Oh dear.


((Takin' liberties--but with permission. XD))

It took Auguste a while to get his bearings. This whole event, it seemed so unlikely... And so awful. He felt numb. As the smoke filled his nose, and the gruesome images of the outside filled his eyes... He got up, with Crina, he got up.

All these whores... He spent a lot of time at the brothels, and these women, though they were not supposed to be, were somewhat close to him. He was a valuable customer... though one that did not pay. And they, they were his little diversions from work... But more than that, they were people, concerned and often troubled women. And here they were, burning. Some of them, he noticed while looking around, were blistered and burning. Some of them, he knew, were not going to be okay.

Crina asked what happened.

Auguste could not answer. He did not answer.

The Moldovan man ran by. Despite their hostilites, Auguste could not feel hostile to him, as he counted the whores.

Auguste touched the shoulder of Crina, again, and again, just to make certain that she was there.

"Mon dieu, Crina...." His eyes flashed towards her for a second.

One of the stagehands rushed by, Auguste reached out to them. It took a second for them to realize that this man was their boss. "Call... Call someone... the people who put out fires..." The word would not come to him. They already had called the fire department... And they should be coming soon...?

Almost all the brothel cars were in flames... And one was still caught in the flames. .(Was that Vesna's car...?) And someone had just entered. It was no use saving the brothel, but from the brothel cars, the carnival cars might also burn.

Did he hear Vesna whispered from Ionescu? Though Auguste was not as close to her as he would be with Crina... He knew her. She was a little too tall to make a fitting sex partner. And she was a little too stupid to make a fitting conversation partner. But she was a pretty girl... and kind.

"Ionescu..." He snapped. Auguste knew he was not supposed to be here. His appearance, and his presence with Crina was enough to give everything away... But this brothel was part of the carnival. This occurence was as much his responsibility to deal with, as it was Ionescu's.

"How many women... Are they safe...?"

Despite everything he did that seemed to be able to so easily end his life, Dimitrie was very, very afraid of dying. Especially by fire. What worse a death could be had? So, henwas relieved (if only for himself) that someone else was heading to save Vesna. Or... He thought that was what was happening. Why was he just walking? And did he just knock? He must have been seeing things. That was it.

Auguste was calling him-- Auguste? He must have heard the commotion and came to... He was covered in soot. He didn't have the time to realize what it meant, other things were priority. How many? He stumbled over his english. "Sixteen.... Some-- some hurt pretty bad--doctor, they need a.... One is still in there--"

It wasn't often Vesna could actually sleep well-- so when she had the chance, she slept deeply. But not even a coma could withstand a rude awakening like that. She opened her eyes and they immediately stung with smoke and heat-- how had she slept through this?

Her eyes couldn't focus on the valiant person who had woken her up before she could suffocate, but her blurry vision immediately went towards the sound of crackling paper and exploding clay. "No...." Every piece she had shoved into the corner was being devoured by the fire. Everything that reminded her she wasn't always a prostitute, and wouldn't always be. She shoved Piter past and fell to her knees in front of the flames, not hesitating in saturating her arms in them to salvage what she could or at least be one with her creations for the last time. She was numb to the blistering and burning, as tears blurred her vision smoke filled her lungs. "No, please....!" as if the fire would take pity.

She was relieved to see her brother come running towards them. Instinctively she hugged him tightly, fearing he would slip away in the chaos and never be seen again. But her brother pulled away and broke into counting, leaving her to find comfort back from Auguste.

"Vesna-- where is she--"

The woman whipped her head back, expecting to see the tall blond behind them, but she was nowhere in sight. However, the prostitute's boxcar was quickly becoming consumed by fire. Crina could feel her chest tighten.
Her fingers wrapped around the fabric of his sleeve and tugged. "Dimitrie...! Dimitrie, you have to go get her! Please, don't let her burn-!" Tears began to bubble down her cheeks as she shook his arm. Her friend was in there, the only other person who shared similar (yet still different) views on life, the only other her brought her happiness in her immoral, shameful lifestyle. The thought of her getting hurt made Crina cry even more. The Transylvania began to step forward as if she was going to go in herself and save her.

"Don't-"

A calm, unconcerned looking man made her stop in her place. Unnerved, he knocked then went inside to, she guessed, save Vesna. She was confused by his daring and startlingly unfazed actions but, at the same time, felt at ease. She brushed away the tears as they fell.

"...But...n-nobody dead....right..?"

She prayed that the man and Vesna would get out in time- No, they would. She had to start thinking positive.


(haha I don't know. :'D If Vesna dies, who else will she discuss eating knob at night with? ):--/shot)

Shoved aside, he narrowly avoided falling into a flaming nightstand. How rude; he hoped she realized that he didn't have to be in there. Ditya better appreciate this.

Straightening up, he watched, fascinated, for a moment as she willingly gave herself to the fire. He surmised it was to save the art--which he could understand, in a way--but still, he wondered if she felt the pain. It was remarkable, what adrenaline could do for the human body. He would have liked to watch, but the creaking above was getting louder, and he guessed that there was really no time to be standing around.

Spotting a bell jar full of paintbrushes and murky water, he picked it up, tossed aside the brushes, and threw it at her. The flames sizzled away...for the moment.

He seized the back of her shirt and yanked her upright. Looping an arm through hers (he remembered his manners; Franze would have been proud), he steered her out of the car full of burning art--it really was kind of a shame. But art was dead, and she wasn't famous, anyways, so it didn't have much value in a monetary sense. He felt no great urgency to save any of it. And even if he did, the smoke was starting to get to him, as well.

Dragging her a safe distance away, he let her loose only when the roof caved in and there was no hope of going back in to salvage anything.

Brushing off his clothes, he pulled a book out of his pocket--oh, how fortunate, it was undamaged. That could have made for a really terrible night. He flipped through the pages while a few dozen people lost their homes, already getting bored.

A doctor....?

Yes.

They did need a doctor. The carnival had a doctor sometimes... But sometimes it did not. The man was not employed by Mistique, but by individuals. Why could he had not been employed strictly by the carnival? People had suggested to Auguste, that the carnival needed a stable medical hand, someone who worked and lived at the carnival. But that would have been for the freaks. And Auguste had decided to cut off almost all medical expenses for the freaks.

But now he needed it. Or at least, he needed it for a group of people that were significant enough to live, in his eyes. The whores needed help, Crina needed it... And Auguste was also suffering from those burns put on him by that heated aluminum (with a slight coat of carpet, or something, which had most likely burnt off) car door.

The carnival was far away from the hospital. Auguste did not know what to do. He was panicking. That made him feel sick.

"Ionescu... We should.... to the big tent... take the women somewhere away... it's dangerous here..." His English was just as jumbled up as his rival's. The language could not work well in his unhinged mind, and could not leave well out of his sore throat.

And Auguste, though not nearly as concerned as Crina about the fate of Vesna, still did not know what to think about her.

Until she came spilling out of her car with Piter. Piter of all people...? But no, this was good, because Piter often had an idea of what to do. He might even have medical knowledge. He read so much, he probably had some medical books in his house...?

"Romanov! Romanov!" He shouted, limping as fast as he could towards him. Earlier, he would have thought of nothing worse than to be embarrassed around Piter. But now, scorched, limping, and almost naked, Piter seemed like a person he could trust. Moving his hand towards the book, to snap it shut (as if Piter did not know he was being spoken to), his wild eyes stared to his 'friend.' His non-burnt hand moved around the other man's wrist.

In French, he continued, following on Ionescu's request. "You know medicine, yes?"

How odd that when his whorehouse was burning down from his doing he most desperately wished his mother was there for comfort? Dimitrie's heart was beating faster than it ever had-- if he would have known this would be happening (and he should have-- he did it) he wouldn't have taken so much of... he didn't even remember anymore.

"NO ONE IS DEAD," He projected over the crowd. "MOVE OUT OF THE WAY-- LADIES, GET IN LINE-- THERE ISN'T ANYTHING YOU CAN DO." He could be responsible, if he knew what he cared about. As long as they were alive, his business was still alive-- there had to be extra cars, somewhere. Business would be out for a while until they found more, but it would return soon enough.

Vesna was alive... but she couldn't have been farther from the rest of them. Her arms were badly burned-- but not so far gone, thanks to the indifferent acts of Piter-- and she could barely choke out, "Please don't go.... please....!" at the car as a cacophony of chimes marked the roof's collapse, as if she was at a funeral for someone she never expected to die-- perhaps herself, or some part of herself. Of course, one could argue that more art could always be made-- but to argue with her was futile. Perhaps she was too far gone in this type of life to ever create again. She didn't know. Certainly she would be without it as long as her hands were healing.

"I'm sorry...." She wailed, pulling at her hair as it was sticking to her blistered hands. She had brought this upon herself-- they all had. It could have been any other part of the carnival-- but it was an act of god. "Please, I'm sorry....." She folded in on herself, resigned that her legs wouldn't move from their place, and she would never be able to go back.

Ah. He lost his place. Forcibly.

Gaze lingering on the spot where the line he'd been reading had been, they moved slowly to Auguste's hand until they traveled to his eyes. His frightened, vulnerable eyes. Eyes that were showing some true humanity, tonight. In comparison, the Russian's empty black ones must have looked something close to those of a shark.

A true chessmaster knew how to improvise when the enemy made an unexpected play. Perhaps now, too, was the time to make an impulsive decision.

"I wouldn't consider myself a doctor, by any means," he finally answered, coolly, "But yes, I inherited some knowledge--and tools--from my father. He was always so interested in surgery, you know." That much was true; he did have a chest of very dated, though still perfectly useable, instruments from his father's belongings. And the rudimentary knowledge of how to use them. He never thought he'd have to--he only kept them for their sentimental value. ...Well, for as much sentiment as he was capable of, anyways.

Pulling away lightly from Auguste's grip, he continued in English, a little more loudly so that the others could hear, "Those interested in medical assistance can be brought to my car. Ladies first, of course." Utilizing the same method as before, he got Vesna up off of the ground and began to direct her away to the direction of his lodgings, "I'll start with this one." It was important not to let her out of his sight; she'd suddenly become a key figure in his plans.

Directing one of the passing stage hands to fetch a large quantity of fresh, cool water from the nearby well, he unlocked his car and sat the distraught Ukrainian into a chair. All around, there were signs of someone in the middle of packing: a medium-sized suitcase was on his bed, with several books and at least one change of clothes inside, among other things. His violin case was next to that. It was clear that his bookcase had been put through an inquisition; whereas it's tombs had been neatly lined up before, some had been pulled out seemingly at random. Those not deemed worthy enough were left on the floor--stacks of literary casualties.
It was from a very large trunk that he pulled the chest of medical supplies that had long since been retired from practice. No matter, expired medicine wasn't the same as expired food. ...And he wasn't the one it was about to be used on, anyways.

Pulling some fresh sheets out of one of his dressers to use for the dressings, he put on some hot water to boil in the tea kettle. A knock at the door--the stage hand with a basin of water.

"Excellent," Piter remarked as it was set down near the injured woman, "Now be useful and go get more."

The protests were ignored as he pushed the man out and rolled up his sleeves. The sooner he finished fixing these stupid whores (of course, he didn't mind as much with this one, because she was relative to his future interests), the sooner he could get to Bourbon...but he wanted to attend to the Frenchman last. Yes, that was necessary.

Using a clean mug from his cabinet, he ladled water onto Vesna's blistered arms. Over. And over. And over again. Ugh. He could tell already that this was going to get very old, very quickly. Florence Nightingale was not a role he was ever meant to play.

Once he'd decided that enough was enough, he opened one of the drawers of his father's chest to reveal a nasty-looking array of medical instruments. ...Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, after all. Selecting what looked like a large pair of tweezers and tiny surgical scissors, he began removing the blistered patches of her skin. Given that she'd stuck her arms straight into a fire, he supposed she was lucky it wasn't as bad as it could have been--not all of the layers of her skin had been affected. He doubted she could even feel the tugging and cutting through the pain of the burns themselves. If she was even feeling anything at all, at the moment.

With that done, he riffled through the little jars at the top of the chest, looking up at a few through the light. ...Was that one aloe vera? ...Maybe. The label was faded, but it looked like it. He applied a thin layer of that all over the afflicted areas. Then, cutting the sheet into strips, dousing them in the boiled water, cooling them in the basin, and wringing them out, he bandaged it up.

...Done. Maybe more care could have been put into it if he actually...well, cared. But it worked, for now. Pulling her out of the chair, he repositioned her onto the bed, next to the trunk.

"Stay here. Don't move, don't speak... Rather, don't speak to anyone. I don't care what you say to yourself. I'm going to Van der Linde's after this; if you do as I say, I'll take you with me." Now he just had to bank on the hope that she would actually care to go. He didn't understand personal relationships so well--much less those of other people. Assumptions had to be made.

Opening the door, he poked his head out to see who was next.


((Peter the Great's personal medical/surgical chest. It's real. I saw it. B) Yes, he did perform surgeries with his own two hands. Which also built ships. What a man, I know.

And yes, I did exclude some steps from Piter's approach to burn treatment, most notably prevention of infection--which burns are prone to. In case anyone was curious to know why it's important to always get professional medical care. /shot))

Like most of the other whores, Crina stumbled to the car but with sights aimed on Vesna more than the Russian. She slid down next to her on the bed carefully and painfully, watching the man clean up one nameless prostitute before speaking up.

"Are...are you alright...? I mean...." Obviously she wasn't. Crina couldn't help but stare down at the Ukrainian's bandaged arms then back up at her face. She looked positively destroyed, broken. And who wouldn't be? Vesna, as she knew, was a painter and how could she make art with two otherwise useless hands? Now she couldn't even look back at her old paintings now that they were....Her eyes flickered up at the crumbled boxcar before falling back down at her lap and a pair of bloodied, blistered legs.

Hesitantly, the Transylvanian lightly placed a delicate hand on Vesna's. Just a small act of comfort, the only thing she could think of. Crina kept her eyes locked on her pink, peeling knees.

"..It'll...It'll be okay..." Her voice was barely a whisper. She didn't know what to say- or afraid to say the wrong thing. "Everything will be...okay..."

It was true she felt numb. She wasn't used to taking in so much information on a normal basis. This was all kinds of overload. She was just beginning to process things. Clearing her eyes on her sleeve and getting ash streaked on her cheek, she was able to see more clearly. Her voice still needed some time. "...Piter...?" It was confusing. She almost wanted to ask if she was dead-- but the pain reminded her otherwise, and kept her from speaking. She was still too shellshocked to add decibels to her silent sobbing, which had eased into a continuous trickle of tears and sporadic shudders.

But it was over sooner than she could say anything else (it seemed as if she was moving slower than time) and she was told to keep her mouth shut. For once it wouldnt have to be enforced. She wanted to be near Diederik. There was hardly anyone else that was tall enough to make her feel like it was alright to feel small and lost. It seemed shallow... And he most likely didn't need or want the burden. But she could try-- she had to try.

As if the universe sensed that she needed something to anchor her out of the confusion, Crina seemed to appear out of nowhere. Was she alright? She was alive... But she didn't quite feel so, yet. "I don't know..." She said quietly (so Piter wouldn't notice it) with trembling lips and a weak smile with nothing behind it. If only she could go to sleep and wake up when it all was over. But her home was gone. Catching sight of Crina's legs, she murmured, "I want you to go next, okay...?" before resting her head on the smaller woman's shoulder-- just for a while, until she was seen to. "Is this all supposed to mean something...?"

In the midst of all the screaming and crackling and wind-tossed ashes, Alex was also thrown into confusion, but not without a level head. Where once she was in a deep sleep, only to be occasionally startled awake by night terrors, when the unmistakable crunch of wooden structures roused her from her quarters. By the time she had flung open the shutters, the flames had already claimed much of the prostitutes' side of the caravan, the cacophony of wailing was a good enough wake up call for every able-bodied carnie to take arms against the fire. The dancer stood there for what could have been a minute, absolutely pale-faced at the disaster that leaped across lodging and person alike. Her skin ran damp with sweat at the sight of just one of her many nightmares manifested itself into her privileged reality. Fire, fire was rampant across a city, so familiar yet foreign, it was like watching your family crumble to pieces around you through a two way mirror...

A cry from out of her line of sight jolted Alexandria out of the fantasy and back to the task at hand. The Egyptian spared no time in dressing out of her nightgown, but instead grabbed a small footlocker she kept under her bed. Small vials of assorted sizes containing any number of substances lined the back case while old but unsoiled packs of gauze and antiseptic cleanser filled the bottom of the box. This box was already here when she began working for Mystique, but in no time she had familiarized herself with most of the basics of medical care thanks to her constant reading. There were also some old surgical tools left, but she had neither the time nor expertise to handle that sort of equipment. Besides, whoever needed medical attention the most out there wouldn't in their right mind reject the simplest of aid.

She threw open her door and tagged behind a group of men jostling bucket after bucket of water to extinguish the flames. Alex had no intention of getting so close to that inferno, but she would be willing to assist the burn victims with what medical know-how she had. Why didn't Auguste listen when so many people (her included) stressed the need for a full-time doctor? To save a penny, that's why! Her thin lips curled back into a sneer, sickened by the miserly ways of that self-centered man she called a boss. He reviled her, and yet she tolerated his ways to benefit her own ends. Did that make her selfish? Oh yes, but no where to the ends he had went to cover his tracks and keep from people from seeing his tail between his legs.

Speak of the devil, one that she almost stepped over before catching a second glance at his face. There was Monsieur Bourbon, visibly shaken and cradling his singed fingers like a child who had touched a hot plate. She backtracked and stood before him and the sobbing prostitutes behind him. Her body language less than pleased, Alex crossed her arms and glared at the Frenchman with an inaudible "told you so". Although the Egyptian refused to make immediate contact with him, she attended to the women who had sustained the most wounds. After several minutes of shushing, wailing, and enduring the few jokes about how being Egyptian was relevant to wrapping bandages, the dancer-turned-field medic knelt beside to Auguste.

"I hope you had fun while it lasted," her tone sounded akin to what a mother would say, "please try not to squirm or else the peroxide will sting more." Dabbling his hands with the ointment, Alex noticed that he wasn't wearing his fancy gloves, instead the thin fingers and bare flesh of his hands were visible and somewhat marred. "How did-?" The slight scarring looked like it had healed up just recently, so obviously it wasn't inflicted just moments before by burning. Alexandria glanced questioningly at the man whom they belonged to but said nothing, opting for the echos of fire bells and snapping wood to speak for her.

It took a while for Auguste to process what he was seeing, after he had looked into the Russian's eyes. Even when the Russian had spoken up, and left, those eyes were difficult to cope with. They offered no compassion, no comfort. This was the person that Auguste had always considered... maybe... closest to him... Auguste did not trust him often, no, because Romanov was untrustworthy. But he was... Auguste wanted to say that he could identify with him. Auguste knew of the man's family, and the Russian man knew of Auguste's family. He was the only one here now, that knew the wealth he once had, or knew the culture he once had. Romanov knew what civilization was.

This was difficult for him to deal with. Auguste had always considered himself so important. But in the past days he had been spurned aside by the two most civilized people he knew. He had been spurned away from civilization, he had been spurned away from what mattered most to him.

And now, maybe even by God. He had been caught in fire while sleeping with a prostitute. Even God did not want to give him sympathy. He had used up all the sympathy God would give him. And now, he had been warned. He was going to be burning in Hell's fire.

Other stangehands tried to hose down the fire, but it all seemed so hopeless.

"I hope you had fun while it lasted,"

He heard Alex say. And Alex, was suddenly before him, and suddenly, he wanted to break down on her. And just as suddenly, he did. As his eyes looked on to the burnt whores, as they looked on into the burnt brothel, as they looked into the fire, the fire of his sins, he began to cry. Partially instigated from her words, but mostly from his guilt. He may have not started the fire, but the guilt that suffocated his body told him that he was to blame. He was the one who did this to these girls. He was selfish, yes. He did not love a single person more than he loved himself, yes. But he had a love for people, people as a whole. He loved society, and though he was not supposed to be in the brothel... these women did bring the closest thing to society that he had.

They were his court, and his court had gone up in flames.

He rarely cried, but now, in front of Alex, of all people... But she seemed like the perfect person to cry to. He knew now, that he could not get sympathy even from her. But he cried for some other reason. He didn't know what it was.

"Don't treat on me...until you have all the other women..." He said, sharing a very rare dose of selflessness to his Egyptian friend.

He did not lose his house, he did not lose his life. But today, he felt like he lost so much.

"And even Ionescu, I don't want these employees to die."

((Omggg, why did this take me so long to write, and this is lame, and just angsting. :l))

Having attended to, and subsequently banished, whatever prostitutes had managed to wander into his car (for god's sake, what a bunch of whiners--some of these burns weren't even second-degree), he noticed that only one remained. And she was talking to Vesna, after he'd specifically requested that she not speak to anyone. It was sometimes just a tad frustrating how even the most basic parts of a plan could be put into danger, solely because he could not rely on other, stupider people to follow the simplest of orders. What was he supposed to do if she let slip to Auguste's favorite floozy (or so he assumed; the man had more tarts than any Knave, and someone like Piter couldn't be expected to understand which one was preferred) the fact that they were going to Van der Linde's location? He banked on the assumption that it would be figured out eventually, but he wanted to at least make the escape without anyone knowing where they were headed.

But all was not lost yet. Maybe she hadn't said anything.

A quick glance at the way Crina's blisters bled told him that they were nothing less than third-degree burns--he would have to cut right into them to remove the deadened flesh. Frustration rising as it was, he couldn't say that he wasn't looking forward to taking it out on someone. That said, he needed to check on Bourbon first, to make sure he was still--

The second he stepped out the doorway to check on the situation, he knew his plans would have to be scrapped, once again. He very nearly cursed the Egyptian aloud for daring to render medical aid, when she knew damn well that it would ruin everything. ...Well, in fairness, no she didn't know that, and for everyone else involved, she was doing a very good thing. For Piter, who was already getting angry (had, really, been getting quietly angry in his own, empty way, ever since Franze left)--in the most childish sense possible, because he wanted his game to go a certain way and would throw a tantrum if it didn't--it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

He burst out laughing, in front of the crying Frenchman and the belly-dancer-turned-nurse and the array of scorched whores. His laughter was soft and light, and also completely inappropriate for any situation it rarely, rarely appeared in.

These people were all so...so hateful! He hated them. He hated them for crying, for caring enough to dress the wounds of those they held in contempt, for being afraid and bizarre and alien in their emotions that he could never quite imitate, no matter how much he observed. He absolutely loathed people, loathed them as much as he was entertained by them. As much as he needed to be around them to displace his perpetual boredom with everything. But these people didn't amuse him anymore. Not since Franze left. They were just making him angry, and he couldn't handle it anymore. It built up underneath his cold exterior until he felt like his heart might very well explode from it--and yet, even here, he knew he lacked the passion that was given to other people by their birthright. He wished they would all just die.

Once, he saw a dream where he felt like he couldn't handle something anymore, but he wasn't quite sure how or why. Just that he vaguely felt like everything was spiraling out of control. And that drastic measures needed to be taken. Like right now.

Without a word, he went back in, grabbed Crina by the wrist, pulled her over to the door, and pushed her out. She could be burned for eternity, for all it really mattered to him. He was too caught up in his semi-manic episode to think about consequences, anymore. Throwing his violin case and the remainder of whatever he thought he could not live without into his open suitcase, he slammed it shut, and, looking around for some inspiration, seized upon a box of matches lying next to the teapot where he'd used them to light the stove.

The books...the books would burn nicely. Some were quite old; they'd go up in seconds. If he had been planning something crazy before, it was nothing compared to this.

It was proof, perhaps, of the true extent of his lack of feeling that he could strike up several matches and throw them at the books that he cherished so deeply, solely for the sake of extracting some kind of irrational revenge. Taking his suitcase, he hurried Vesna out of the car, locking the door behind them to make it harder for anyone to put out the second fire. Maybe it would only burn down his things. Maybe it would burn down the entire carnival. He barely knew what he was doing anymore, just that it was something that could make Auguste suffer. And that was more than enough.

Face and tone still as expressionless as ever, he confessed to the Frenchman before walking away one last time, "I'm afraid I can't stay any longer--if you recall, I said once that Franze was something like my favorite plaything? Well, it's unfortunately become unbearably boring, since you caused her to leave...and I don't appreciate boredom. Da svidaniya."

He guided Vesna to the garage. If she was protesting, if anyone was saying anything, he couldn't hear it. He needed to be somewhere quiet, where it wouldn't feel so much like he was losing his mind. Locating a driver (smoking, likely not expecting anyone to need his services at this hour), he ordered, "Take us into town."


((I feel like I'm losing my mind just daring to post this-- Since what I was already thinking of isn't going to work out now...I didn't know what else to write. If it's too audacious, I have no problem with rewriting it. XD))

She was just beginning to plateau into something near normalcy when Crina was pulled away from her and shoved out of the room. All that came out of Vesna was a frightened squeak. But she didn't have time to realize that it should have made her angry when a match was lit and books started burning just like her canvases (all because she talked to someone??) and she was dragged out of the car. She wanted to make sure Crina was okay; she wanted to scream out that he set another car on fire-- but with the confusion and the smoke's damage to her throat, she was dragged helplessly to a car. Was that a suitcase?

"We...we're coming back.... Right...?" Then again, what did she have to go back to? She assumed that all belonged to Piter, but really she wouldn't have been able to save anything to take with her.

((New topic for this one? XD))

That the prostitutes needed to clean up their acts? That what her brother did was unjustified and immoral? That what she also did was immoral?

That is was a dark sign from God?

Probably. But Crina didn't dare open her mouth about it; there was no need to cause upset than there already was. "..I don't know..." Was the only thing she could sigh before before pulled up by the Russian for some sudden, unexplained reason.

"H-hey...Stop..! Stop!" She pounded her fist against his arm but it was no use as she was tossed out the door. The Transylvania scrambled to her throbbing legs and began to shout at the man in her own tongue, cursing his mother and threatening his life if he didn't come out with Vesna. And, as if like magic, they both emerged...With a suitcase? They were leaving?

"Where are you going? Where are you taking her?!" The man simply brushed by without a word, Vesna closely behind, towards Auguste (and another woman) then eventually towards the garage. Crina stood by herself, watching them disappear.

She was confused. Helpless. She wanted to chase after them but couldn't, not only because of her wounds, but because she did not know what the Russian would do if she did. Would he hurt her? Hurt Vesna? He seemed crazy enough to do so. The Transylvania turned to face the now smoking car, entranced by (and frightful of) the orange, flickering glow from within. She didn't want to move and she didn't want to think anymore. All this commotion was more than she could process in one night.

(Idunnoanymorelol)

Quite frankly, Alex was both unprepared for and annoyed by the Frenchman's emotional breakdown. Did he have reason enough to do so? Perhaps, but people were starting to stare and that was enough to prompt Alex to quell the waterworks. She hoisted him off her shoulder, barely concealing the embarrassment on her smudged face.

"Stop this! Whatever money you haven't spent on yourself you can use to finance some homes for these unfortunate women! No one is dead, thank God, but the least you can do is stop boo-hooing. It's unsightly and it certainly doesn't improve the situation."

Although the crying was somewhat lessened, she did a double take at his choice to forgo his own treatment in place of the whores. She dropped an ointment-soaked cotton ball she had been dabbing on his palm when he said such a unselfish thing. Frozen in sudden disbelief, she nodded slowly and began to pack her things. "If you say so, but you'll still get treatment. So don't complain about being last."

Just as she was about to tend to the injured women, Pitor arrived out of the blue with news of his indefinite leave with that Vesna girl. He looked visibly irate which was enough to make the Egyptian girl draw up with fear. To make things even crazier, he lit the medical tent on fire. Pitor the pyro, who would have guessed? She and the whores looked on, wide eyed and unsure, but not daring to get the neurotic Russian's way. Ionescu's sister ran towards the duo as they left in the direction of the nearby town, but it was miles away from the circus. Alex felt a pang of sympathy for the Romanian woman, who was burned more seriously that most of the other women who had escaped before the fire got too bad. Alexandria walked towards the blank faced whore and placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

"Come with me, you're too badly burned to be walking around like this," Alex waved towards Auguste, signaling him to follow the two towards the tent that Pitor had been previously using before he abandoned them. "This isn't over, you'll see her again. Pitor doesn't strike me as the type to abduct someone for any reason to harm, well, or to abduct at all." The whole situation confused her; she had never seen someone so enigmatic be so unreasonable. But the two were long gone now, and there was little that they could do to contact them. Alex was in no mood to wrack her brain and play detective for a spoiled pianist and the stolen doll. Besides, if anything they could get information from the driver when -or if- he returned.

Ushering the two burn victims quickly into her cabin, Alex slid against the door. She ran her hands through her hair, visibly exhausted. Where once she had hoped that the incessant ringing of the fire bells had began to slow, the unyielding string of clanging was nearly enough to make her have a stroke. Pitor certainly hadn't made anything easier, what with torching the only better supply of medicine around. "So," she exhaled before standing up to resume her medical work on the Romanian, "when can we expect to get a real doctor around here?" The question wasn't so much aimed at the prostitute as it was her patron.

((One last post-- XD))

The second the car door shut and he was cut off from the cacophony that was the chaos of the carnival, he felt himself calming down. Enough, anyways. Not entirely. When someone who was normally so controlled snapped, one could guess that it wouldn't be over with quickly.

For one thing, his piano was left behind. For the longest time, he'd entertained the fantasy that he could somehow bring it with him, but he was now decidedly disillusioned. That, more than anything, was what weighed the most heavily on his mind, at the moment. Books were easy to come by; he could replace those. But he didn't know where he'd get another piano. Of course, he had his violin, but the two were their own unique kinds of special. If he had cared to word it this way (and he wouldn't), he'd say these were the only mediums through which he could feel 'human'--or as close to the definition of the word, as other people would have described it. Leaving them behind was no comfort to his currently rattled state of his mind.

But he had his chessboard, his violin, some books... He'd be okay. He reassured himself of this, and of the fact that he had no regrets. Which he didn't. Just a considerable more amount of mental strain than he'd anticipated.

When Vesna spoke up from the backseat (he'd taken shotgun), he didn't register it at first, being so occupied with making his train of thoughts feel less like a radio that'd completely lost it's normal station. Even when he did acknowledge her question, he didn't answer it at first. There was a long moment of silence, then--

"Stop the car, please. I believe I just heard my trunk falling out of the back. Go check it."

The driver, looking understandably disgruntled at the brusqueness, stopped the car as ordered and got out on the pitch-black, deserted country road. The distance between the town and the carnival grounds was marked by a considerable lack of anything resembling human civilization--just empty, fruitless fields that carried the ghosts of ruined farmers' pasts on their winds. It was rather unsettling, at nighttime. Thankfully for Piter, he lacked the capacity to even think to pity the driver for this, as he slipped into his abandoned seat, yanked the door shut, and slammed on the gas, leaving him behind in a cloud of dust.

Goodness, he really was having to take a lot of matters into his own hands tonight, wasn't he? He would have to make sure to never attempt any of this again--despite that it was proving very efficient, thus far. He watched in the rear-view mirror as the unfortunate man attempted to chase after them, failing, and resigning himself to shouting pleas for them to come back. His voice and image eventually faded away into the darkness as he became just another forgotten pawn in the Russian's mind. He couldn't very well risk him going back to the carnival and alerting everyone of where they'd gone to. And besides, the car was now a valuable new asset in his arsenal.

As if what had just transpired wasn't enough of an answer, he snarked calmly, "As much as you may be dying to get back to work, no, we are not going back." And that was final. If he was going to go to this many extremes, he certainly wasn't going to allow her to have a choice in the matter, at this point.

If he believed in Hell, he would have agreed that there was a special place in it for people like him.

Dimitrie was either too focused on coming down from the shock or wasn't too worried about Vesna. When she had her wits about her (as much as she had normally, anyways) she could fight back if she needed to. She wasn't small, she wasn't mousy.

But Crina was worried, he knew. The two women were like sisters. In all the mess he had forgotten that he was her actual brother, and he had a responsibility to make sure she was alright.

He found her getting her burns treated-- he was overcome with guilt; they looked awful. He crouched on the ground in front of her and took her hands. "Soră... Don't worry. I'll take care of everything." He had to. As illegal as everything about him was... He had a conscience. And it had never been more prevalent as it was then.

And, as off-on-his-own that he was, he still wished his mother could be there to make it all go away. He was close to tears, himself, and shaking from nerves and illegal substances. "You're going to be okay... Vesna-- she'll be back... And I'll get new rooms for everyone as soon as I can."

Yet even he was unsure. He waited for her response, for her to tell her, Of course you will.

Vesna, meanwhile, was hoping she could go back to the madness-- at least at some point. She did want to see Diederik-- but there were too many people she loved in pain disappearing in the dust behind them. She would get a ride back-- somehow.

When he'd left the driver in the same dust, her eyes went wide and she sucked in a breath that suggested she had something to say about it. And certainly she would have, if she wasn't out of sorts, and if her hands hadn't lost faculty. She would have reached to the front, grabbed his hair or his neck or his eyes-- anything to make him stop the car-- and lecture him without letting go. She wasn't as well-read, but she knew right and wrong. But for now, all she could do was sit and ignore him (she didn't even know why he had forcibly dragged her along; wasn't this supposed to be an 'if you want to join' situations?)... But then again it was probably what he preferred.

Piter's laugh... What a terrible and completely inappropriate time to laugh. He did not see Piter coming... And certainly he did not see that laugh coming. It seemed so... so wrong. Especially while Auguste was in tears. But he had already learned that Piter was unsympathetic... Those black eyes really did reveal all.

The laugh was actually terrifying. It was as terrifying as those eyes. It was the type of laugh that lingered, even as Crina was kicked out of the car. Even as Vesna was pulled away to her mysterious fate with this psychopath. Even as Piter confessed his intentions to Auguste, the laughter still rang through his ears. He heard nothing but it, or at least, it complimented everything. The laughter seemed the perfect soundtrack to this disaster. There was no compassion in the laugh.

Nor was there compassion in the Egyptian's actions. Auguste knew she always fancied him. He didn't know if she was necessarily in love with him, but she visited him often, and she had sex with him. That was worth something. She had never been openly compassionate, but Auguste had never been this pathetic. And as he changed, she did not change herself to accommodate him. There was no compassion at all.

It was strange how compassion and warmth often went together. Because fire had no compassion. The burns on his back and foot and hand were from too much warmth. Warmth now rejected him.

He almost could not tell when Alex had called him forward. He was too stunned. He followed, without much thought, he followed. He noticed faintly that Piter's car was burning, and he noticed that it could burn the whole carnival down if left unchecked. Were people working on putting the flames out? He thought so. But if they weren't, it would not be surprising.

He was still teary eyed, when he entered the tent. And he was crying in his underwear around his rival and his women. Where was his sense of self image, now?

"If we have any money left we can hire someone..." He began his response slowly, turning to Ionescu, "After we get new cars....The cars of the brothel are property of the carnival... You can't do anything... It all depends on my money..." And he did not even take the extra effort to refer to the money as belonging to anyone but him. It must have been an indication to how he had spent the carnival's money. He considered it to be his. He used it as his.

"God..."

As if God cared. Auguste was too lost now. He was the sheep that had wandered to far from the herd. And now, not even God could find him. Not even God could bring him back.

He was missing, his soul was missing.

"We don't have enough...

God... I'm sorry..."

More than God, it was to the others. It was to Crina, who he pledged loyalty to, and who he lied to. It was to Alex, who he took money from, and who he used for sex. And it was to Dimitrie, who he hated, who he hated because he would not admit that Auguste was better. And it was to the brothel, to the women who he liked to call 'his'.

He didn't usually abduct people? Well that wasn't very comforting to hear. Still Crina nodded at her words and followed her inside. She felt sort of bad for the woman, she looked absolutely exhausted. The Transylvanian almost protested getting cleaned up, for the others sake. Her legs weren't...that...bad...

She held back a tiny yelp as the raw skin met contact with the ointment.

"I'm sure one will pop up soon..." She answered anyway. "I mean...We've just about woken up the entire carnival.."

Her attention turned to her brother who looked just about on the verge of tears, promising everything would turn out okay. Crina pulled her hands out of his trembling ones and cupped his face, giving him the best smile she could muster.

"I'm not worried.." Not about the prostitutes or their accommodations, she was sure those would get sorted out, but she was worried about him. He looked like he was reaching his breaking point. And she didn't blame him; he was still a child in her eyes. They both were.

"Maybe..let the prostitutes stay in the main tent at night until things are straightened out..?" But then how would they work? And if the carnival barely had the money to provide cars than they also didn't have the money to feed or take of them either. Crina's eyes flickered up to meet Auguste's, startled by how broken he had become. She almost felt pity for him.

"Or just get rid of the brothel all together...Obviously it's doing more damage than good for Mistique." She awaited his response and even her brother's. She knew it was Dimitrie's life but she also knew it wasn't a good one. If she had to, she'd help him find a new job.