Chapter Text
In the 1920s, the circus lost more and more of its audience each day. No one wanted to see clowns, acrobats, or fire- and sword-eaters anymore. They wanted monsters. Aberrations. People who were physically and mentally deformed, suffering for their entertainment. And this didn’t go unnoticed by our ringmaster, Mister Doom.
He was a kind man. He took me in without hesitation when I showed up at his circus begging to become an acrobat. It had been my dream since I was very little. I remember staring up in wonder as they soared through the low-hung sky of the big top. Their arms outstretched like fairy wings, leaving a trail of light behind them. So when my mother died, my child’s mind couldn’t imagine any other life than running away with the circus and chasing that dream.
And so, at six years old, I—Nico Minoru—came under the care of Doom and the performers of Baxter Circus.
It was a Friday, a moonless night, with crickets chirping and a fine drizzle falling on the main tent. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people in the audience. A tired-eyed mother struggling to wrangle two restless boys. A tiny elderly couple, always holding hands, smiling faintly. A tall, brooding man in a high-crowned hat. And a group of teenagers yelling and throwing popcorn at each other. They looked about my age—around fifteen—as I peeked at the ring from behind the curtain.
I wasn’t alone that night. Johnny was next to me, jittery as always, his hands constantly moving. His blue eyes hardly blinked. He was our resident fire-eater—everyone called him the Human Torch. He had a reputation for being cocky and reckless. Even so, he was like an older brother—always teasing me, always looking out for me.
Then there was the Irishman, Ben Grimm, perpetually grumpy and reeking of liquor. He was our strongman, capable of lifting an entire clown car on his own. He stood behind us, arms crossed, face stone-cold.
Doom had warned us that tonight’s act would be something fantastic—something none of us would ever forget. He claimed he had found the solution to bring Baxter Circus back to fame. That’s why we were all there, peeking through the curtain—more anxious for the show than the audience itself.
When the lights came on, Doom stepped into the ring. He was short, but instantly commanding. His suit was moss green, worn over a gray shirt and tie. A cape of the same green hung from his shoulders, and in one hand he carried a golden staff that twisted at the top. He was eccentric, sure—but the strangest thing about him was his face. A metallic helmet covered his entire head, a solemn expression sculpted into the iron. I had never seen him without it. Rumors said his face had been mauled by some beast, and all you could ever see were his earth-colored eyes, alive and restless inside the lifeless mask, scanning, searching.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Doom’s voice rang out across the tent, pulling every gaze toward him. “Those of you who came seeking entertainment, be ready—for tonight, you will witness the newest number of Baxter Circus. Prepare yourselves for... The Awakening of the Aberrations!”
The teens in the crowd booed. The adults gave him skeptical looks. But nothing rattled Doom.
With a wave of his arm, the spotlight shifted to the performer stepping into the ring: a very tall man with lightly graying hair and stubble. His arms and legs looked unusually long in the tight blue leotard. It was Reed Richards. He and his wife were the circus’s star acrobats—they’d taught me everything I knew. From what I’d heard, they helped found the circus alongside Doom. Now he walked with confidence, climbing the steps to the platform above the ring.
As always, Reed soared from one platform to another in a beautiful arc. His movements were flawless, calculated. He performed solo routines that usually required a partner. That mastery is what made his next move insane. He let go of the bar mid-air and flipped toward the top of the tent, preparing to drop.
But the safety net was gone. Someone had removed it.
Panicked, my eyes shot down to Doom—and what I saw still haunts me. The ringmaster held a book in his hands, glowing with a hateful light even in the shadows.
Reed hit the ground in the center of the ring. I expected blood and bone and brains, but instead... flesh. A trembling, shapeless pile. A mass like discarded animal hides, squirming. Two long, pale appendages twitched uselessly, trying to push upward. Smaller digits curled at the ends. And when we realized what they were—arms—my hands flew to my mouth to stop the bile rising in my throat. Johnny fell back. Ben stepped forward in horror. That thing—that—was Reed.
“Behold, ladies and gentlemen!” Doom’s voice rang with frozen delight. “The transformation of this poor man into the fantastic Boneless Man!”
At the announcement, Reed groaned from his heap of meat—a wet, muffled sound I still hear in my nightmares. The audience gasped. The children stopped running. The old couple clutched each other. The man in the hat stood up. And the teenagers—after a moment of stunned silence—began to clap. The rest followed.
Doom raised his hand again. The clowns entered in procession, each one wearing a mask that mimicked Doom’s—except painted in garish colors. Four clowns grabbed one limb each and pulled in opposite directions. Reed’s body stretched grotesquely, covering the ring like canvas.
“Look at that—seems this acrobat can serve as a safety net now, huh?” Doom jeered.
The crowd roared with laughter, deepening my horror and confusion. Yet I couldn’t look away.
More acts followed. The clowns bounced on Reed. One even leapt from the high platform and floated down using Reed as a parachute. With every movement, Reed let out shrill squeals of agony, drowned by the audience’s laughter and cheers.
“Victor, you bastard!” a voice screamed behind me.
It was Reed’s wife—Johnny’s sister—Sue Storm. Her blue eyes were red with tears and rage. Ben was holding her back as she kicked and thrashed, trying to charge into the ring.
“This isn’t what you promised! This isn’t—!” But pain and fury overtook her, and still crying, she fainted.
Ben carried her away, leaving me alone with Johnny.
“N-Nico... what… Reed…” The boy I saw as an older brother, always smiling, always brave—was now stammering in horror, collapsed on the floor.
I wanted to say something. To comfort him, like he’d done for me so many times. But I knew… if I opened my mouth, I would only vomit.