Sailor Moon Fan Fiction ❯ How Bad ❯ Three Ring Circus ( Chapter 5 )

 

A/N: Well, it's been a while, but I LIVE! Sorry again about the insane number of OCs here…hope you don't find them too irritating. We will eventually be getting back to our regularly scheduled canon programming soon. (Also, for those who are wondering, the younger!inner senshi, and possibly younger!outer senshi will be showing up in a few chapters. Be forewarned, however, the inners will be babies. I'm still keeping the same approximate age ratio.)

 

 

Chapter Five: Three Ring Circus

 

I wasn't really worried, at first. I mean, we were surrounded by assassins, (and possibly wasps), but the second-to-worst part, the part where you worry and fret about said assassins and possible-wasps, was over. Besides, the soldier of time was with us.

 

Soldier of time, guardian of Pluto, the barren planet, she had slain hundreds, if not thousands of enemies. She certainly wouldn't let anything happen to us; the assassins were no match for her.

 

The dignitaries, for their part, seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

 

“Sailor Pluto,” said the man in the crimson robes, stifling a yawn, “If you wouldn't mind?”

 

She didn't. Wordlessly, the soldier of time stepped forward.

 

“Want to play that way do you?” said one assassin. “Well, how about this?” Before I had time to react, he reached out and grabbed Endymion.

 

“'Malthea!” Endymion wailed. I stood agast. He'll be killed! I'll be fired! my mind rang. (Hey, you try being entirely lucid in such a situation.)

 

“Stay back or the kid gets it!”

 

Sailor Pluto stepped back. What more could she do? Endymion refused to stop howling.

 

Suddenly, I was reminded of the worst part: the part where they kill you.

 

“Are they gonna kill him?” Nephrite asked, eyes wide.

 

“Um…” Well, in one way, it seemed wrong to lie to him. Why protect them from the truth? They're just going to figure it out anyway. It would be best to simply lay it out. Honesty is the best policy.

 

Obviously, I lied like a Persian rug.

 

“No! Nobody's killing anybody!”

 

“I wouldn't be so sure about that!” Said the second assassin, only it came out `Ide buden't de so sure adout dat'. He sneezed loudly, without covering his mouth. Great, we were going to die and catch all of his horrible assassin-germs.

 

“Everybody sit down!” The first assassin, clearly the ring-leader in this crazy circus, pointed at the yellow chairs.

 

There was a mad scramble for seating when the dignitaries saw that he meant business. Unfortunately, there were only nine chairs.

 

“Um…” I said, hoping that the lack of seating wouldn't be the cause of my demise.

 

“Get the rope!” The first assassin hollered. A large, apparently male entity lumbered into view. He carried several feet of thick rope.

 

If the first assassin was the ring-leader, then this guy was the strong-man. He muscled all nine dignitaries none too gently into the tiny chairs and trussed them up like prize piglets on market day.

 

“What about the rest of `em?” said assassin number two, only, because of his head cold, it came out as `Bud adout da rest ub em?'

 

This gave them pause for a minute or two. Finally, it was decided to secure each of the boys to one of the table legs.

 

“Hey, this one bit me!” (`Dey dis un bit me!') I felt a touch of pride and a whole full-body grope of fear. Why is it that two year olds are frightened by monsters under the bed, but a group of armed men in black does nothing to faze them?

 

“Oof!” Mister Germ fell over his own two feet. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we have our clown.

 

“And her?” said the strongman.

 

“Arg…oh! She can hold the kid!” gasped the ringleader; Endymion proved to be quite the kick-boxer. The strongman pushed me onto the table and the screeching, hissing Endymion was deposited onto my lap.

 

“Don't move.” I felt a cold blade against the back of my neck.

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” I mumbled, sitting up a little straighter. It's amazing what cold steel can do for one's posture.

 

“'Maltheeeaaaaaa!” Endymion hollered.

 

“Shut that kid up!”

 

“Shh, “ I said, putting on my happy, peppy look-how-we're-not-going-to-die voice. I put my arms around him. “Don't worry. Nothing bad will—er well, don't worry, okay?”

 

“What's happening?” said a voice, probably Zoisite.

 

“They're going to assassiminate `Malthea!” said Nephrite. Heavens no! Don't let them assassiminate me! I at least want to die in a correctly pronounced fashion.

 

“It's `assassinate' and no, they're not, idiot,” said Kunzite, “You have to be a political figure to be assassinated.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“They're just going to stab her, then?” said Jadeite.

 

“Yep.” Kunzite leaned back against the table leg.

 

“Right through the heart?”

 

“Looks like it's gonna be in the back, the cowards.”

 

Oh, the confidence was overwhelming.

 

“But, I don't want them to stab her!” said Zoisite, rather angrily.

 

“We don't have much say in it, do we? We're probably next.”

 

“Really?” Zoisite said, with a bit more enthusiasm than I think the situation called for.

 

“Yep,” he confirmed.

 

That Kunzite, always a ray of sunshine, eh?

 

“Kunzite?” asked Jadeite.

 

“What?”

 

“What's a political figure?”

 

“They are,” he thrust his chin to the trussed-up dignitaries.

 

“So, are they going to be assassinated, then?”

 

“Yeah, they'll be assassinated.” The dignitaries paled a little, though this was undoubtedly what they were all thinking.

 

“I don't see why `Malthea can't be assassinated,” grumbled Nephrite. Yeah, why can't I be assassinated? I demand full-blown assassination, here!

 

“She just can't, alright?”

 

“I bet she can so!”

 

“Can't.”

 

“Well,” said Nephrite, beginning to get red in the face, “well, let's just wait for those men to kill her, then we'd see if she was assassinated or not!”

 

“Idiot,” muttered Kunzite, blowing a strand of hair out of his face.

 

Oh joy. This was not the conversation I had envisioned taking place before my untimely demise. (Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of my relatives standing around shaking their heads and saying “Well, it really was death by chocolate, wasn't it?”)

 

“Saw two guys stabbing each other once,” said Jadeite, by way of conversation.

 

“You did not!” said Nephrite, who was apparently still feeling argumentative because I couldn't be assassinated.

 

“Did too.” He stuck out his tongue.

 

“Was there a lot of blood?” Zoisite squirmed, craning his neck. (Jadeite was behind him, next to Nephrite.)

 

“Naw. Not too much. I mean, it wasn't a clear hit. Didn't kill him.”

 

“Oh. Why'd he get stabbed?”

 

“Pfft, why does anybody get stabbed?” Jadeite waved him off, or tried to, anyway.

 

Zoisite thought hard. “Because a bunch of guys come in and tie them up?”

 

“Stupid,” said Jadeite.

 

“Moron,” countered Zoisite.

 

“Idiots,” said Kunzite, to the world in general.

 

“Nit-wit,” put in Nephrite, not to be left out.

 

“Alright,” said the ringleader, banging the table, “that's enough out of you.”

 

The thing they don't tell you about being held hostage is that it involves a lot of waiting.

 

A lot.

 

They seemed pretty tolerant of conversation, but, with a knife at my neck, I didn't want to push my luck. Endymion apparently felt the same.

 

The dignitaries, of course, held no such convictions.

 

“Hmph,” sniffed the woman with the glass beads, “when I was held hostage on the first Trojan asteroid, they got down to business much faster.” She leaned over to the tall woman, “I mean, a few people were killed right off the bat, none of this waiting around nonsense.”

 

“Really?” said the tall woman, “Well, when Marielle and I,” she tilted her head towards the gold woman, “were held prisoner on - what was it?”

 

“Neith,” supplied the gold woman, Marielle.

 

“Right, when we were held prisoner on Neith—“

 

“That's right near Venus, by the way,” put in Marielle, somewhat smugly.

 

“Yep. On Neith, we were held prisoner by this odd sect of women… what were they called? Oh. Yes. The Women-of-the-Veil-No-Mortal-Raised, or WOVNMR, for short. They had boiling oil poured on several of the captives.”

 

“Oh my!” said the woman with the beads.

 

“Yes, and one of them was that awful girl from Mariner Academy! You remember her, Oksana?”

 

“Do I!” said the tall woman, “Her name was—“

 

“Olivia de Leslies!” They said simultaneously.

 

“Did you say Olivia de Leslies?” said the wild-haired man. “Small universe! I used to date her!”

 

“Did you?” said Oksana.

 

“Yes, haven't seen her since … oh, the whole Miranda affair—Jarl'll remember that,” he gave a nod to the man with the yellow beard, “I had wondered what happened to her skin. She wouldn't say!”

 

“Well, now you know!” giggled Marielle.

 

“Pardon me,” said the crimson robed man, “You and Franz were on Miranda when…”

 

“That group of Isiaci radicals took over the Museum of New Age Artwork? Yes!” boomed Jarl.

 

“So was I!” said the crimson robed man, “Third rack from the left, on the east side.”

 

“Heh, they had me tied up over a small pit of fire on the north end. How was that rack? It looked pretty painful.”

 

“Oh, it was, it was…but, between you and me, it was most wonderful for the first few minutes. It worked miracles for my back.”

 

“Did it, Azar?” said the man in the black headdress, “I've been having trouble with mine ever since the upheaval at Mimas … they had me on one for a few minutes. I've never been the same.”

 

“Hmm,” said the crimson clad man, “Did they crank it clockwise? They did mine counterclockwise…I hear that it makes a difference.”

 

“The upheaval at Mimas?” said the woman with the beads. “Wasn't that the one where—“

 

“A small band of vigilantes incited a riot at the courthouse? Yes. Ye gods, what a mess! There was torture to my left and deviancy at my right!”

 

“You haven't seen deviancy until you've seen the Great Pandemonium of '45, Set,” said the wild-haired man.

 

“Franz, you do go on about that minor skirmish! It was a playground fistfight compared to the Ganymede Slayings!” said the woman with the beads.

 

“The Ganymede Slayings were a picnic compared to the Filibuster at Io, Bernadetta,” put in Marielle.

 

“Ooh, the Filibuster at Io!” Everyone gasped. Even Sailor Pluto looked impressed.

 

“I have heard that they kept you there for three and a half months!” said Azar, the crimson clad man.

 

“We-ell, it was really more like four…but you know the papers, they like to cap it off at a nice, easy number.”

 

“So, were you strapped to the wall or squeezed into the storage closet?” asked Oksana, pleasantly.

 

“It's funny that you ask, actually. They had me in the storage closet at first, but there were too many of us to shut the door properly. Me and a few others kept getting caught in the door-hinges…I still have scars,” she laughed.

 

“Didn't they force you to eat wood shavings? How was that?” asked Franz, his hair flopping over his face.

 

“Not as bad as you'd think…there's a lot of fiber in wood shavings.”

 

“Ah, roughage is good for the digestive tract, I always say!” thundered Jarl.

 

“Hey Nestor,” asked Oksana, “what about you? Bet you've been in some really good hostage situations.”

 

The man in white mumbled something, and Marielle squealed.

 

“No really! Did you hear that, Bernadetta?”

 

“I most certainly did!”

 

“Congratulations,” said Franz.

 

“What?” asked Set, his black hat bobbing.

 

“It's his first time.”

 

“Oh, that! I remember my first time…late at night, the sound of screams, an angry man holding a pitchfork. Ah, youth.” Set almost grinned.

 

“Just you wait, honey,” said Marielle, “The good bit'll start soon.”

 

“You see,” said Oksana, “first they'll off some nobody… they like to go for bigwigs like us last.”

 

“Yes, they are always killing one or two, to put the fear of God into us,” said Azar.

 

“The way things are going,” pointed out Franz, “looks like it'll be her. Then maybe one or two of the kids.” How comforting.

 

“I bet that boy'll go last.” Jarl jerked his chin towards Endymion. “They get skittish around the royals…”

 

“These three look rather amateurish … they don't even have an Iron Maiden or hot coals or anything … but we might still get a good show.” Bernadetta's beads jangled.

 

“Sit back and relax!” Jarl seemed to be enjoying himself.

 

Oh, so now they're getting along, I thought.

 

“All of you shut up!” The ringleader hissed. He started massaging his forehead, like he had a headache.

 

I am locked in a room full of madmen, I marveled. And also, possibly, wasps. I wasn't sure whether the distinctive buzz was a figment of my imagination or not.

 

“Are they gonna stab her yet?” whined Zoisite. “My arms are falling asleep.”

 

Children are really so compassionate, aren't they?

 

“Be patient,” said Kunzite.

 

“Release the hostages!” boomed a voice from above. I realized that it was coming from the impromptu skylight that the assassins had created in the ceiling. (Assassins—the ultimate redecorators!)

 

“Rescuers already?” said Oksana, almost disappointed.

 

“They're usually much slower than this,” said Franz, turning to Nestor.

 

“No one's even lost any toes yet!” said Set.

 

“Improper, is what I call it,” Bernadetta sniffed.

 

“Oh yeah?” said the ringleader, shaking his fist at the skylight. “We have the crown prince! Give in to our demands or we'll slit his throat!”

 

“Ooh, this is good!” said Marielle.

 

“They've got guts! I like it.” Jarl said.

 

Madmen, my mind rang. Everyone in this room is utterly insane. I am going to be stabbed in a room full of the utterly insane. And also, possibly, wasps.

 

“What are your demands?” The voice commanded, a tad less certain.

 

A wasp stung me on the nose. Okay, definitely wasps, I revised.

 

We awaited their demands with bated breath, whatever they were. I wanted to know the name of the cause that I was about to be killed for.