Chapter Text
Clea forgot about his birthday.
If he tries to confront her, she'll swear up and down that she didn't forget anything, and she'll have a gift prepared in time for the party, but a gift isn't what she promised him. He's furious at her for not keeping her word, and he knows no one will do anything about it. Clea can lie and promise she'll spend an afternoon in the Canvas with him, and their parents don't care that she doesn't follow through with it. Verso wants to yell at them all, but he knows it'd be a poor idea to make a scene on his birthday.
He's still fuming an hour after their missed rendez-vous. How could Clea do this? Doesn't she know how important this promise is to him? She hasn't visited their painting in months. More than a century has passed inside, the world and culture changed, the people they painted grew, and she doesn't seem to care at all.
No one but him cares.
He can hear his parents preparing his birthday party in the distance. His friends won't be visiting today, but his mother insisted on inviting some of their family, and Verso knows she's blown the gathering out of proportions again. She likes everything to be perfect, to the point of extravagance, and he wishes he could tell her no, but he can't bear to see her disappointed. He doesn't want to spend an evening playing the part of the perfect boy for his cousins, uncles and aunts. He doesn't want to be sitting there all alone. He wishes Clea had kept her word.
Verso casts a glance at the Canvas next to him.
He doesn't feel much like going in by himself. However, he told his parents he'd be spending the afternoon inside. His mother was delighted, she wants the party decorations to be a surprise, and she made him swear to stay in the workshop until she's done. It infuriates him. If he goes out, he'll get in trouble, on his birthday no less, but Clea gets a free pass because she's the oldest.
He might as well hop inside the painting and look for a fight. His Gestrals will be happy for the challenge, and if that doesn't scratch the itch he can visit the Endless Tower to beat up one of Clea's stupid monsters. In any case, it'll be more fun than sitting all by himself at the back of the workshop.
Verso stands and holds out his hand, brushing his fingers against the paint.
The Canvas welcomes him with a warm rush of chroma. He lets the flow of power carry him down and rides the waves of energy in between the stars until he can see his world in the distance. It shimmers like a diamond in the middle of the endless night he painted. Esquie isn't flying around in the sky, so he reorients himself and dives down into the atmosphere, gaining speed and piercing through the clouds. Droplets of water fly around him as he cuts a rainstorm in half, he waves his hand and erases them, not wanting to spend his first hour in the Canvas soaking wet.
Verso is close enough to the ground that he can see the different continents and islands. The Grandis are holding another of their grand debates inside their capital, Libra. He flies by to wave at them, darting in between the twinkling towers and palaces made of ice. One of the two speakers, an old giant he can't remember the name of, replies with a stern salute. If Clea were there, Verso might have dropped by to entertain her with an argument, but she isn't and he doesn't care what she'd have liked, so he turns in the air and heads down the side of the mountain.
His Sunday clothes aren't the best for acrobatics, they're too tight and stiff. Before he reaches the ground, he paints himself a new outfit, straight out of one of Alicia's adventure books, complete with a satchel full of supplies and a sword at his belt.
He swerves up moments before hitting the ground. Snowflakes float up, carried alongside him, and he lets himself roll with the wind, arms stretched out. For a time, the anger and frustration he feels at Clea's betrayal vanish.
It comes back with a vengeance when he spots Esquie sitting atop his nest. His friend is cradling François in his arms, and Verso is reminded that he isn't the only one who looked forward to spending time with his sister. Clea didn't just betray him, she betrayed François, one of her oldest friends. She truly is the worst.
"Mon ami!" Esquie says, with his deep voice. "It has been too long!"
Verso floats down to his level, keeping himself a few meters off the ground so they can look at each other in the eyes.
"Sorry Esquie, I've been at school, then at practice, but I will always make time to see you." Clea isn't there, otherwise he would have thrown her a very pointed look.
"Is Clea late?" François asks, his small stone head stretching out so he can peer up at the galaxy in the sky.
Verso winces. "No, she isn't, she..."
"Did she stop to debate the Grandis again? She always liked getting into arguments. You should drop me off there, you old wine bag, she needs me in the audience if she wants to win."
Esquie gives François' back a friendly pat while Verso winces again.
"She isn't coming today," he says, feeling sorry for the poor turtle.
François' head drops. "Is she coming tomorrow?"
"No, she isn't coming tomorrow either. Or the day after that. She isn't visiting with me this time."
The stone turtle's face fully retreats into his shell. "She must be very busy."
Verso's anger rises again and he shakes his head. "She isn't, she just doesn't care about us. I bet she's with her other friends, having the time of her life."
"That isn't kind to say, Verso," says Esquie, "I'm sure Clea is busy and she would come if she could. Right, François?"
"Clea wouldn't leave us," says François.
His voice sounds very small and sad. Verso's frustration vanishes. Now, he feels bad for worsening his friend's mood. He clears his throat and exchanges a look with Esquie, who seems quite worried for the turtle's mental state.
"Yes," he lies, "she's very busy. She's working hard every day, but she'll come back when she has some free time."
François perks up. "You should tell her I'll wait as long as she needs me to."
"I will," says Verso.
The turtle doesn't thank him, but his stone head does come out of his shell slightly.
"Are the Gestrals at war?" Verso asks Esquie, wanting to change the subject but also hoping for a good fight to work out his frustration. Gestral wars are the most entertaining events in the Canvas, and it's been almost six months of real world time since he's participated in one.
"Not this year, they're preparing for a Grand Championship."
"Well, that's pretty fun too," says Verso. "Do you know when they're holding it?"
Esquie tilts his head and frees one of his massive hands to count on his fingers. "In three months," he says, after taking a moment to think.
Verso deflates. He sinks down to the ground, landing on the sole of his feet. "That's no fun, I can only stay for two."
"Maybe if you ask nicely, Renoir will let you stay longer."
Verso shakes his head. "Papa isn't the problem. Today's my birthday, and Maman wants me to be back for the party. I don't even want to go. I bet it'll be boring and full of old people."
"But it will make Aline happy," Esquie tells him, and Verso sighs.
"I know, I know. I don't want Maman to be mad. It's just nobody cares about what I want." He looks at François, who is paying close attention to his words, and decides not to vent about Clea while the turtle is there. He doesn't want to make him cry. "Maybe I'll be late on purpose," he ends up saying, which makes Esquie gasp, "since they don't even care about me."
"That isn't true Verso, your parents are trying very hard to make your birthday special," says Esquie. "Do you want a hug?"
"I'm not a baby!"
"Adults can hug each other too. Renoir hugs me when he visits."
"Papa is stupid too, he always lets Cl-..." Verso bites his lip and looks away from François, "he always lets Alicia get her way."
Esquie lowers his arms and sets François down on the ground. The turtle rocks in place, muttering to himself about the adventures he'll go on once Clea returns. He's loyal to her and she doesn't even deserve it.
"I think you should visit one of the Gestral villages, you look like you need a good fight," says Esquie.
"Maybe," says Verso, still angry.
"Nobody should be in a bad mood on their birthday."
"Maybe," says Verso, more thoughtfully.
"Go, then you can come back when you're less grumpy."
"I am not-..." he runs his hands through his hair, "fine, maybe I am a bit grumpy. But it's not my fault, it's because of-..."
Esquie looks down at François, and Verso trails off.
"Fine, I'll go. I'll be back later. You two have fun, alright?"
"Don't forget to tell Clea I’m waiting for her," says François.
Verso jumps up and takes to the air so he doesn't have to answer the poor turtle. He doesn't want to make any promises. Right now, Clea is the last person he wants to see. Knowing her, she'll try to twist his words around and make him say that he didn't want her in the Canvas in the first place. She can never admit when she's wrong, and every time they argue, it makes him so mad it takes him a whole day to calm down.
He flies through a series of cloud, relishing in the way they explode as he pierces them. One of them is shaped like a woman, and he takes a bit longer to demolish it entirely. He's mad at his mother for preparing a stupid party he won't like, he's mad at his older sister for lying to him, he's mad at his father for always siding with her, and he's mad at Esquie and François too, because they won't let him speak his mind without making sad faces. The only one who hasn't done anything wrong is Alicia, and that's because she's six years old and all she does is read books.
Instead of wasting his time with one of the smaller Gestral villages, Verso heads for Kastagn, the capital. He can see the colorful towers, shaped like brushes and painting tools, before he reaches the island. In between each buildings stretch rickety wooden bridges on top of which Gestrals young and old alike walk. Verso speeds up, and the wind howls in his ears as he darts down. The first Gestral to see him is a kid, probably not much older than him but already able to climb to the top of the capital's tallest tower. They wave at each other, Verso tries to impress him by doing a flip in the air, and the child claps enthusiastically.
He lands in front of the main marketplace, ducking under the rainbow curtains and weaves that serve as a ceiling for the different stalls. The Gestrals inside take note of his arrival and fall silent as they look at him. He can't stop himself from smiling when he sees how far the shabby market he helped build has come. There are dozens upon dozens of stalls full of food, weapons, and wooden trinkets. He's proud of his paintings for achieving this much while he was gone.
The crowd presses in around him, as the Gestrals welcome his return with shouts and whoops of laughter.
"Verso’s back!"
"Is that another human?"
"Duel me!"
"No, duel me!"
"I'll punch your teeth in, kiddo!"
"Welcome home, Verso!"
"Get in the arena and face me like a Gestral!"
He raises his hands in surrender and grins at the busy crowd, hovering up so he can look at them all at the same time.
"Calm down guys, I'll be there for a month or two, I'll have time to duel everyone."
"You signing up for the championship?" a familiar voice asks, from the back of the pack of excited Gestrals.
He flies a few meters upwards until he can see the face of the person who spoke. Golgra looks even stronger than the last time he saw her. Her wooden body is bulging with power and her hair is much longer, standing in red strands like a burst of flames. He pouts at her.
"I can't, Maman wants me to be back home for the party."
"A party?" one of the Gestral children asks.
"I want to come!" says another Gestral child. He is bolder than his friend and attempts to grab onto Verso's leg by jumping up in the air. His mother, a large puppet with white and green stripes, snatches him mid-leap and throws him over her massive shoulder.
"The maggot is afraid of facing Golgra!" says Golgra, punctuating each word with a thump to her chest. "Nothing like the other human worm. He wasn't scared to fight Golgra. Their battle was legendary."
"Punch! Kick!" screams the rebellious child, from his place on his mother's shoulder.
Verso glares at her. "I'm not scared of you, you desaturated paint brush. Esquie's more frightening."
"Esquie is far more powerful than Golgra could ever be," she replies wisely, "at least until Golgra finishes her training regimen. Then, she will have the power to punch through the skies."
"Golgra! Golgra!" sing the children in the crowd, and Verso rolls his eyes.
"Papa isn't coming back to fight you," he tells Golgra, "he's like Clea, he has better things to do than spar with you."
"Silly maggot, Golgra is not talking of Renoir. He may be strong, but Golgra surpassed him years ago." She ends her sentence by flexing her wooden arms. "Golgra has a new rival, and the little human maggot will take centuries to reach his level."
"If I'm a maggot, you're a piece of driftwood," Verso tells her. Then, he pays attention to the meaning of her words. "Who's your new rival?"
"His name is Verso," she says, while changing posture to showcase her powerful back. "If the maggot wants to meet him, he should be at the hairdresser."
"But I'm Verso!" says Verso, and the crowd laughs as if he told them a joke.
"There can be more than one Verso, maggot," says Golgra, after stretching both arms out in front of her to make the scratches on them pop.
"You're not making any sense," he sighs. Sometimes he wishes he'd painted the Gestrals with a bit more brains, but then they might have turned out as boring as Clea's Grandis. Their Canvas doesn't need two whole races obsessed with debating and arguing over the smallest details.
Seeing that Golgra isn't planning on giving him more information, and feeling somewhat confused by the situation, Verso flies out of the marketplace to land in one of the busy streets. If he remembers correctly, the hairdresser isn't far from his location. He wonders what sort of creature he'll find there. Perhaps the Gestrals mistook one of Clea's failed monsters for a human, or maybe they encountered one of his and Alicia's Mimes. There aren’t many of them in the world, and they tend to be rather shy, but they are powerful fighters and he wouldn't be surprised if Golgra picked one out as her new rival.
He has to dig his elbows in more than a few Gestrals to move past the thick crowd of puppets. By the time he reaches the hairdresser, he's more concerned with regaining his breath than he is with looking around for a Mime. He lowers his head and crouches down to recover from the rough trip through one of Kastagn's worst streets then, when he feels like he can breathe without his chest exploding, he straightens up.
The hair salon expanded since he last saw it. He remembers it as a tiny hut, frequented only by the most narcissistic of Gestrals, but it is now a sprawling complex, with several buildings and employees. Splashes of colors cover the walls, and the straw roof is painted like a rainbow. Pots of paint are piled high near the three entrances, and he can see a small line of Gestrals waiting for their turn in the front. He walks past them, jumping away when one takes umbrage and attempts to kick him in the guts.
"Oi! No cutting in line!" the angry Gestral says.
"I'm not here for a haircut," Verso replies, parrying another kick, to his head this time.
"Really?" the angry Gestral asks, after punching the air where his nose had been moments before, "you look like you need one."
"Worry about your own brush, stupid puppet."
"Oi, my da's not stupid!" another Gestral yells, "You take that back, you brat!"
Arguing with them will result in a brawl and, while Verso wouldn't say no to a fight, he has business in the salon that doesn't involve starting a Gestral civil war. He gives them the finger and jogs away before they can retaliate.
Despite having grown five times as big, the hair salon remains rather simple on the inside. There are no chairs, only small square carpets for patrons to sit on while the workers paint their brushes. Each carpet is surrounded by buckets full of paint and there are stains everywhere on the floor and up the walls. Where the wood isn't stained, it is covered in pieces of fabric that are just as dirty, but the effect is more joyful than depressing, and the air smells of fresh oil and acrylics.
He doesn't spend very long looking around, because the man sitting at the other end of the room is not a Mime, and he is not a monster.
Verso stops still, staring at the unknown human inside his Canvas. The stranger seems familiar, but he can't put a finger on why. There's something about his face that tells him they've met before, except Verso would definitely remember painting a human, and he'd remember that scar too. Scars are distinctive, that's why Golgra likes to showcase hers.
The stranger hasn't noticed him yet. He is chatting with his hairdresser, appearing perfectly at ease as the Gestral rubs black paint into his scalp. He is wearing a strange outfit, dark in color, with a trim of fur near the collar, and there's a bandana tied around one of his arms. A number is written on it, in pretty golden colors. Thirty-three.
"Oi! Tinhead! Do something, that brat's cutting in line!"
"And he said my da's stupid!"
Verso flinches and whirls around to send a murderous glare at the rowdy Gestrals waiting by the entrance. "I told you, I'm not here for a haircut!"
They mime strangling him. He mimes stabbing them through the heart. He turns back to the stranger, hoping his display hasn't frightened him out of the Gestral capital, but the man is still there.
Their eyes cross.
For some reason, Verso can't shake the feeling that they know each other.