Screams filled the air.

Arms were raised.

The stands were packed.

Lug's head itched from the wig, and his feet felt uncomfortable in his oversized shoes.

The red plastic tip covering his nose hurt. Beside him, a clown with blue hair waved his arms. Lug could smell alcohol and cold tobacco on him.

There he was, on stage, dressed as a clown. Everything had happened so quickly that it felt as if he had passed through a time warp.

His stomach was tight, and his thoughts were chaotic. Lug felt almost paralyzed.

To his left, the experienced blue-haired clown seemed to sense his confusion. After a moment, he improvised by reacting to Lug's bewildered expression.

He mimed trying to move Lug by pushing him as if his body were a rock. Then, the clown stopped pushing, straightened up, placed his hands on his hips, and adopted a thoughtful expression, exaggerating his features. Tapping his foot in time, he rubbed his chin.

Lug regained his composure, but he decided to remain still and let his partner continue his act. Suddenly, the blue-haired clown raised a finger, as if struck by an idea. He stepped out of Lug's field of vision. Lug could hear the sound of a metal chest opening and then closing. Then, Lug felt a strong blow on his buttocks, causing him to fall forward. The crowd burst into laughter.

On the ground, Lug turned his head and saw the blue-haired clown holding a large plastic hammer. As he got up, his partner put down the hammer and spoke to him with almost closed lips. "Move, act like a clown, stop ruining the show!" He spoke without changing his facial expression, but the tone of his voice was unmistakable: he was annoyed.

The clown reopened the chest and tossed some juggling clubs at Lug. Then, he moved towards a unicycle resting near another chest.

The stage had transformed into a hardware store, with several chests and various circus props scattered around.

Lug picked up the clubs and was about to start juggling when he saw the blue-haired clown, Bastia, riding the unicycle, pedaling with his hands. His left foot balanced a sword, which he occasionally passed to his other foot. He was skilled, and Lug was impressed.

Being a clown in this circus seemed more awe-inspiring than funny.

Lug looked at the clubs in his hands and thought, "I have to prove that I can do things. I don't have time to waste."

He didn't know how to juggle, but he had learned the basics of psychic projection. Grasping a club with his right hand, he closed his eyes and threw it into the air.

If the spectators could see psychic energy, they would see that Lug had coated the club he had just launched with it. He used this energy to slow the club's descent, making it appear as if it were falling in slow motion.

Lug threw another club while the first was still in the air, repeating the process. Then, he launched a third one.

It required immense concentration, and his breathing quickened as if he were exerting himself physically.

He was so focused that it took him a while to realize that the crowd was becoming interested in his "magic trick." Instead of panicking, Lug played it up. Maybe his clown disguise gave him newfound confidence. Regardless, he slowed the clubs even more, making them appear to float as if gravity had no impact on them.

Lug straightened up and, as a finishing touch, pretended to yawn. He even took the time to stretch while juggling the seemingly weightless clubs.

He waved to the crowd, trotted around, and fixed his hair. The adrenaline coursing through him removed any inhibitions Lug might have had. The crowd, believing they were witnessing a magic act, roared with excitement.

Even Bastia stopped pedaling to watch Lug juggle. He couldn't hide his amazement. Backstage, acrobats, fire-breathers, jugglers, and others watched with their mouths agape. Despite the apparent simplicity of Lug's act, none of these seasoned performers could explain how he was doing it. The clubs were ordinary, as was his clown costume. Everyone wondered the same thing: how was Lug doing this?

Suddenly, the circus lights went out.

The time allotted for the clowns had come to an end, making way for the animal tamer's performance.

Lug and the blue-haired clown returned to their dressing room, bringing the chests with them.

Once there, Bastia confronted Lug. "Where did you come from? What was that? Is the circus trying to replace me or something?" He removed his wig as he spoke, revealing long, greasy black hair and a few wrinkles on his forehead. His voice was a mix of panic and confusion.

Before Lug could respond, a female voice chimed in. "Bastia, leave him alone." It was Deborah, who approached them. "Lug, you've been hiding your talents," she said, a smile on her lips and her eyebrows raised. She continued, "Bastia, you're going to train him in juggling, acrobatics, fire-breathing... everything you know."

The white makeup covering the clown's face distorted as his expression turned to surprise. "Him? Why? Are you trying to fire me?" He gestured wildly with his arms.

"Bastia, you're our mascot. We'd never fire you," Deborah assured him as she walked away. The clown turned to Lug, sighed, and rummaged in his pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and put it in his mouth, the movement almost mechanical. "Which days are you available?" he asked.

"I come here on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays," Lug replied.

Bastia inhaled from his cigarette, closing his eyes as he did so. He seemed to savor the taste as if it were divine. Exhaling the smoke, he resumed the conversation. "Alright, next Monday, be at my gray caravan at the back of the lot at 11 a.m."