Notes: I hope I still know how to write an actual story. Side note to AuburnCollision – consider this challenge accepted. Kind of.

This is where the story starts.

"If you had the chance to change the past," asks the Earl, "would you?"

He learns to craft masks when he's bored. He figures that Bookman probably won't approve, but he accidentally gets addicted to the craft. There is something about this whole process of creating, destroying, and recreating himself over and over again. He takes big, ugly, malformed chunks and pounds them flat on the surface of his work area. He pinches at it and creates little noses. Ears. Eyes. Lips. He gives himself high cheekbones this time for the hell of it.

It's pretty easy.

It's even easier to tear it all down to nothing.

His name is Seral.

Bookman pauses. "What are you doing?"

Lavi grins toothily and carelessly lifts the mess of clay up in the air for Bookman to see. They sink like putty in his hands. "What do you think?"

Bookman just stares at it for a while, regards it with something like apathy. The look on his face is neither quite bored nor impressed. It is wholly ambiguous, it is the master trick of the biggest faker of them all, and Lavi really should know better than this.

Bookman sniffs and turns back to perusing the bookshelf he had been cataloging. "I think there's a reason why you're not going to be an artist."

Lavi laughs shortly and shapes another semblance of a mouth. It is quickly contorted into a chapped curl, and he touches it up with a stroke of crimson. "Aw, that's not really a nice thing to say, gramps."

"I'm not here to play nice."

"Don't I know it."

Bookman doesn't even miss a beat. He whacks Lavi on the head before dropping a stack of newspaper clippings on Lavi's cluttered desk. "Watch how you address your elders," he reprimands primly. "And put that thing away, you have work to do today. Did you forget why you're even here?"

Lavi rubs the spot where Bookman had hit him and sets aside the clay for now. He'll finish molding it later. It is something he will have to do, he decides. "I don't think I could forget even if I tried."

The words are heavy in the air, sticky like venom. It is a confession that neither of them will ever choose to acknowledge.

"Good."

Lavi flips through the clippings and sloppily slouches over his desk. Headlines eventually all wash out together anyway, so he never bothers to look at them for too long anymore. His eye is like glass, and it reflects. "So what should I do with this?"

The answer is simple and pretty much the same as usual. The words are cut dry and concise, and Bookman speaks blandly. "Just read and memorize. We'll see tomorrow. Be ready to record, Seral."

Lavi turns through the pages and sees the rewind, repeat headliner of some warning of an onset of some conflict. He picks up his bit of clay again and idly crushes the almost-mask he had been working on. He doesn't even need to read these clippings – or any other clippings in any other place at any other time, for that matter – to figure out what will happen to this town.

This, he decides, is just begging to happen.

It does, of course.

There is a long silence before them, and it will take even longer before the sun will come out. Lavi closes his eyes and counts to nine. He now knows better than to count to ten.

One, two, three, four. He imagines a countdown, prayers that will never have a chance to be said, the sound of children on Sunday afternoons, the sweet warmth on the intersection between the bakery and the church. Five. He can hear the birds starting to move out, and their wings cut black across the sky.

Six. He holds his breath. Seven, eight. There is the sound of something being killed, of something dying. Or maybe both.

Nine, and there is despair etched out to the horizon. He looks up and sees that sky is now sunk in colors that shouldn't even be allowed to exist in the natural world. Bookman doesn't even flinch.

And.

Ten.

"It is time," says Bookman.

A new town.

Thank god, he thinks.

He can never stay in one place for too long. He moves around enough to never have to belong anywhere, and even just the idea staying in a different town is enough to comfort him. At least this will not be something that will last.

He whistles to himself. The day is still early and the streets are empty, save for the sellers setting up their stands and stalls. Today, he has the streets all to himself.

He only needs to walk through the main street once to understand the rhythm of this town. One of the later things Lavi picks up on as an aspiring Bookman is that streets make up for some of the best storytellers out there. Each stretch of street is a single composition – a beginning, an ending, and a necessary confession, all sharing snatches of history, all leading somewhere. Streets always have to lead to somewhere.

This street is another story – one that discusses anticipation and expectation.

This is one that will end very, very fast, he imagines.

There are more people out now, so Lavi just watches them for a while. People-watching is his secondhand habit. Bookman pronounces it a necessary trade skill. Bookman had always been explicit and exact in his instructions, and Lavi had always wanted to be a Bookman, through and through. So he had listened and he had learned.

"Stay close enough to be a part and understand everything that's going on," Bookman had advised. "But far enough to remain removed and apart. Be able to disappear at any given moment."

It hadn't sat very well with him at first. Disappearing. He bears all the trademarks of someone sunk in silent rebellion: red hair, eye patch, hoop earrings. Or maybe it could have all been desperation. Anxiety. Devastation. There could have been a whole network of feelings crammed inside of him, and he'd never even know.

Once, he tries on all the fads of the season for the hell of it – stiff collars, structured bags, and big, gaudy rings. It is somehow hard to swallow, and his shirt feels too tight. The sensation is something like sinking in too deep.

When he sees his own pretentious reflection through the looking glass, he can feel himself consciously disappearing.

Today, he settles with observing from behind the daily newspaper. The people of the town all walk past him – mothers, fathers, children, market bargainers – without really ever noticing him. Sometimes, he doesn't want to disappear and makes conversation that he knows will never last. Sometimes, he is just waiting to die and start over again with a new name and body.

He puts the newspaper down on the table and closes his eyes. Maybe he should count to nine.

He only makes it to four before time is interrupted. A slant of shadow dances over his thick eyelids, and he blinks his eye open. There is not enough sun out yet, and the girl in front of him smiles and lifts a bag in his direction.

Lavi blinks again and gestures towards the bag. It smells a little like freshly-made bread. "Um, what is it?"

"You're a traveler, aren't you?" She refers to his clothes. "You don't really look like you're from around here." And then offers the bread. "Well, you look like you need it, so here. It didn't cost much or anything, really."

He regards the bag warily for a while. He knows better than anyone what a stranger is capable of.

She picks up on his attitude and shrugs. She drops the bag on the table. "Do what you want with it. But it really is good bread, honest, and it would be such a waste if you end up throwing it away."

He deliberates. He can turn this conversation into a terrific work of pointless flirtation, but she does not seem like that kind of girl, and he is far too removed and jaded today to pretend to really even care anymore.

But he still makes sure to show teeth when he smiles before speaking again. His tone is carefully careless and blithe, but his words are more honest than anything he's said in a long while. "Are you giving this to me 'cause you pity me or something?"

The girl shrugs again, and this time her blatancy cuts deep enough to numb. "Well, yes." She pauses for a moment, weighs her words heavy. "I get the feeling you're about to kill yourself."

The sky isn't exploding, but it comes close. It is painted up in a devastating bright blue color, and he can only look at it for so long before his eyes start to strain and dry up. He tries not to look at the things that he knows won't last for long.

Your next name will be Deak.

It's been a while since he's last changed names. The timing is fitting enough though, he decides. The first few times Bookman had asked him to change names, it hadn't mattered so much – he had been so young back then. The next few times, he had been older and he had seen much more. It is harder than he will ever admit, so he learns how to be ready for when the time comes.

He now has a ritual for these transition states. Sometimes, Bookman doesn't give him enough time to breathe in between personas. Other times though, Bookman tells him how long he has left before he has to die again. Sometimes, Bookman allows, these kinds of preparations are necessary.

It is in these final moments before he kills himself that he wants to do something he's never done before. He tries to create something he can tuck away for forever in the cornerstone of his memory. It is his final act of pathetic desperation to remind himself that he is still a part of this world, that he matters, that this will all amount to something, even though this is really just another phase.

He doesn't even know anymore. It's hard to consciously want to live when you've already died so many times. You kind of get used to just existing.

It turns out bread girl's kind of right, he supposes. He really is getting ready to kill himself.

The rest is reality control.

Bread girl finds him later in the day. It's not totally surprising or unexpectedly, since he hasn't moved since day first broke. He sits spent, and the bag of bread beside him is already empty.

She doubles-checks when she passes by him on those storytelling streets. "You're still here?"

He winks and mock-salutes. "Guess I haven't killed myself off yet," he responds cheerfully.

She shrugs again, half-smiles, and pulls out the chair across from him. "That's good. What's your name? Or, well, what should I call you?"

His name is Deak, he says. It's actually Seral. Bookman tells him that starting from tomorrow, he will be Deak, so it's not like it's a total lie or anything. "You?" He asks.

She looks up at that impossible stretch of sky above them. "I think I'll be Elaine today."

He pauses and his mouth tips up good-naturedly. "You think?"

"Yeah. I'd rather not be me today, if you know what I mean."

The concept is in all honesty all he's ever even known; the difference is that he doesn't know who he even is to begin with. "Gotcha," he says. He kind of gets it.

She keeps on talking. "I really am glad, though. That you're still here, I mean."

He isn't really sure what to say to this. "Well, I've still got too much to live for," he throws out carelessly. It's at least a half-truth. "Can't stop here, you know what I mean?"

There is a pause. "I guess I judged wrong. Sorry."

"No big."

There is a moment of empty silence before she gets up again. "I should probably get going soon." Pauses. "Hey, Deak?" She waits till he looks back up at her, and her tone is light and transient. "Don't die, alright?" She jokes and sticks out her pinky finger. "Here, it's a promise, okay?"

Promises are never meant for forever and words like these are practically designed just to be broken, so he smiles a smile that shows a little too much teeth and holds out his pinky finger. Their fingers come together, and he can feel the faint tremor of her pulse underneath his own already empty pulse.

This won't last.

"Promise," he reassures breezily without even meaning a thing.