“Isn’t there a faster way to get there?” I ask Traxon. “Some kind of public transportation system?”
“It’d take us longer to reach the wall than it would to cut through the crowd,” he says, and seeing my confusion he explains. “There’s a train that runs inside the wall enclosing this Pride. But like I said, walking will be faster.”
I look to Ophiuchus to see if he’s as exasperated as I am, but his expression is distant and detached, like Trax and I are kids at an amusement park and he’s the parent with bigger things on his mind.
I glimpse a young Taurian girl eagerly unwrapping a purple chew candy at a treat stand and shoving it into her mouth. “Slow down,” chides her mom as the girl’s jaw works exra hard to eat it quickly. When she swallows, her parents and the salesperson all stare at her expectantly.
Suddenly she releases a shockingly loud burp, blasting her parents’ faces with purple smoke.
The little girl and the Leonine salesperson are in hysterics, but her parents don’t look amused. I look up at the holographic sign over the stand: PURPLE URPLES—YOU’LL BURP PURPLE SMOKE!
“Please, I want them!” I hear her begging her mom long after we’ve passed them. “Pleeeease!”
I fall back a step as a man in an inconspicuous black getup sidles up to Trax. “I’m hiring people for a major jewel heist. Max told me you’re the man for the job.”
Trax glares at the Leonine and adopts a deep, husky voice unlike his usual one. “I’ve got other plans today, old man. Now scram, and don’t breathe a word about me to Max. I’m undercover, understand?”
The man nods and hurries away.
“What the Helios was that?” I ask.
Traxon shrugs. “People don’t come to Leo for judgment—they come to give in to their passions. Sometimes you need to shed your inhibitions and let your weirdness out, so when you hear a Storyline you like, you take it.”
I feel like under other circumstances, I might be charmed by the playful nature of this world, but right now I just want to find the Party and awaken Nishi.
“Your holiness,” Traxon says, turning to Ophiuchus, “I would be honored if I could ask you a few questions, if you’re feeling up to it. I have a show dedicated to exposing politicians’ lies, to keep them from doing to others what was once done to you—”
I roll my eyes so hard I think I see the back of my head.
“You see,” Trax blathers on, “it’s been my life’s dream to find proof of your existence and help you reclaim your place in the Zodiac, and now—well, you can’t imagine what meeting you means to me.”
As Traxon professes his adoration, I’m relieved to see he’s steered us away from the tourist district and onto a quieter street that looks like a real residential area. No one seems to be selling anything here, and the Leonines entering and exiting buildings are dressed up for dramatically different occasions, like the travelers at the spaceport.
I dodge a woman wearing a pink tutu and ballerina shoes who’s dancing her way down the street, and a block later I edge around a painter who’s planted himself in the middle of everything to capture the scene with his brush. Then a man in a top hat emerges from his townhome, sucks in a huge breath, and starts belting out a song:
Life is a story
About seeking glory
Whose plot isn’t always so clear . . .
He strides up the street, tipping his hat to people as he sings, and some of the passersby join his song, like they’re familiar with the lyrics.
So when they told me
To pick who I would be,
I asked for a heart with no fear!
A group of girls starts dancing around him, and soon there’s a mobile musical number making its way down the street. Some people join in by playing their instruments from their balconies, and others contribute by drumming on windows and walls. Even those who are too busy to participate don’t look put out by what’s happening—performing seems to be as natural as breathing here.
“He must’ve just gotten some great news,” says Trax, like that justifies the man’s decision to burst into song in public.
“Is this whole Pride just one big production?”
Right as I pose the question, Traxon stops before a rundown townhouse and knocks on the door. After a moment, a disheveled teen guy opens it and studies us. “Traxon.”
“Tomás.”
Both guys nod and trade a complicated hand touch greeting, then Tomás stands back to let us in. His home is small but cozy: We step into a narrow sitting area that’s adjacent to a kitchen and a study, and in the back of the space a staircase spirals up.
The seating area has a couch and two armchairs around a coffee table, and all the furniture looks beat-up and heavily used. Tangible paper books line the shelves that were built into every wall, and painted canvases of every size and at varying stages of completion clutter the floor. When I look at Tomás again, I notice the paint on the underside of his hands and the back of his neck.
“Tomás is a member of 13,” says Trax, swinging an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “In exchange for helping us, I’ve promised him a secret.”
“A secret?” I ask.
“Truthers trade in secrets,” he explains. “It’s the most valuable currency we can offer. So, Tomás—my secret is this.” He turns to Ophiuchus, who’s standing beside me, and says, “That, my dear fellow, is the one and only Ophiuchus.”
Tomás’s eyes widen with awe as mine fill with fury and fear. “Are you insane?” I shout at Traxon.
“A Leonine always pays his debts,” he says simply, no apology in his voice. I turn to Ophiuchus for backup, but now he’s sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, his eyes closing like he’s descending to his Center. Perfect.
Tomás orbits the Thirteenth Guardian, scrutinizing him closely like a collector evaluating a new piece. “Incredible,” he murmurs every few seconds. When he finally looks at us again, his eyes are just as shiny as Traxon’s.
“Given that you’re all about the truth,” I say to Traxon, “you must hate this Pride since everything seems to be a performance.”
Tomás answers in place of his friend, frowning at me. “This is a land of performers. That’s not the same as a performance, which is something you put on for others. Simply put: Performers perform. Making art is just how we live our lives. We’re not doing it for an audience, but if people want to consume our art because it makes their lives meaningful or enjoyable or even bearable, we welcome them.”
Tomás’s speech sounds rehearsed, like he’s defended his profession before, and I wonder if he realizes that even now he’s performing.
Then again, I’m probably the last person to know what’s real anymore. I’m no longer sure any of us can be completely certain where performances end and truth begins.
“So can you help us find the Tomorrow Party?” Traxon asks his friend.
“I might have a lead. But you and I should go alone—any non-Leonines would be suspicious.”
Trax nods and turns to me. “We’ll be back soon.”