Battle Hymn of the Republic

Marseille, France
Métro Noailles
One Year Prior to Two Minds, One Body

A small family stepped off the tube with the a throng of people in the Métro Noailles. While the majority of passengers went right, they bunched up with a group on a wall.

"Is that everyone? Jean, Jacques, Sophie, Francis, Isabelle, Sacha..." a tallish woman counted off the children with her and her husband, "... and Manon."

The other six children stared at the back of Manon Laframboise in mixed expressions of hope and apprehension. Today she would be auditioning for the French Future for the World Project, an initiative to have French students study abroad to expand horizons and the influence of the French Occultus.

Manon looked over her shoulder at the mention of her name, and then pointed at herself, "Huh? Oh, right! That's me."

The other foster kids laughed, and her guardians smiled. Ever since she came to the home, Manon had been a bit silly, and a bit strange. She was always quick to quip, joke and cajole, which made her a favorite among the children who came and went in the child services system. These days, she was the big sister, the eldest, not quite having found a family yet.

"Manon, where are you going to go?" asked Sacha one of the cildren had begged to come, to see their sister off on this new adventure.

Manon held her head high.

"Why, dear Sacha, I am going to Italy! To study under master Giacomo Accorsi, the finest in the clowning art," she explained, before kneeling down to whisper none-too-quietly, "and also to try on this big boot they keep raving about."

Sacha laughed, not knowing the true depth Manon's audition meant for her plunge into clownish mysticism. Like all of the other children, she had come to the foster home by way of the Aide sociale à l'enfance, and had lived a mundane life until the family was visited by a man who claimed to be relinquishing old family goods.

Jordie and Franciska had never heard anything about Manon having any legal affects. The man explained little else, except that what he gave them belonged to her family. Suspecting trouble, they sent him on his way, and stowed the item away to investigate later. The next day, Manon was making dinnerware dance with her on the breakfast table, somehow having found the item in the night.

A pristine, white harlequin mask.

"Can we watch? I want to watch you do the fire trick!" demanded Sophie, having to be reigned in by Jordie at the top of the stairs.

"Now now, this is Manon's big day, she doesn't need anymore stage pressure," scolded Jordie, but Manon waved off the reproach.

"Hardly, darling!" she said, in Hollywood starlet fashion, "I love the attention, crave it even. But I will need to make time for autographs when I become rich, funny and famous."

"Do you have your nose?" asked Franciska warmly, already knowing the answer. Manon dutifully produced it, an alternative source of power that appeared in the girl's possession as her abilities grew and developed.

A squeaky, red clown nose.

Together the mask and nose formed the identity of her magic, her strange two-toned ability to influence the world around her and to make people smile. However, as with all things magical, study was necessary to truly harness its potential, and Manon wouldn't find that in the mundane schools in France. The French Future for the World project was her way forward, her way to finding a life in the mystical world.

After a long walk of laughing and talking, the family found the Bureau des Affaires Mystiques de Marseille. It sat under the guise of a performance hall built into a set of rowhouses, it did not invite much suspicion from the mundane.

A man stood smoking outside in the morning sun.

"Monsieur, is this the audition?" asked Franciska awkardly, as the secrecy of the Occultus did not come all that naturally. The man looked over at them, before thumbing to the door.

"One adult, one candidate, check in is at the desk," he spoke between puffs of smoke.

"Merci." Franciska nodded and looked to Manon to see if she was ready.

The young lady seemed to catch the first whiff of nervousness since they left home. She turned to her family, her comfort, and, seeing her worry, they rushed her in embrace. Buried under them, she felt small, but reinvigorated.

"These flash mobs are getting rediculous," remarked Manon, wiping her eyes.

They all laughed and waved as the mage-to-be and her foster mother entered the hall to sign in.

"Break a leg!" Jean cheered after her, to which Manon shot her head out before the door closed.

"I'll break two!"

Marseille, France
Bureau des Affaires Mystiques de Marseille

A dark man pressed a cigarette to the bottom of his shoe, before tossing it into a bin. A car went by noiselessly, its electrical engine buzzing his magic addled mind as it went by. Likely a mage, likely an artificer of some kind. He grumbled, cursing his wandering thoughts, redoubling his frustration when his partner leaned out of a door way to the sleepy street.

"Yves! Will you quit it with the fucking smoke breaks? The girls are packed like sardines in here."

Yves grit his teeth, not wanting to go back in to deal with children or Theirry and his evangelism on smoking. Nevertheless he made his way inside, after wiping his shoe of the ashes.

"The Office of Mystic Affairs needs assignments to fifty-seven different schools across the world by close of business and you are no where to be found!" Theirry's hands spat angrily in time with the words.

"We have been interviewing applicants for four months. If I stop smoking now I'm going to end up killing someone."

Patience drained, Theirry rounded on Yves, "I'm not going to bring up the cigarettes; we are almost done. The parents, the children, the whining, the bitching, DONE. I am going to finish this and I am going to finish this strong. 539 students assigned already, we are going to; Finish. This. Moreau will have her fucking French Future for the World and I will be seizing a transfer in the next fiscal quarter."

"Three hours left in the day."

Yves would remember that venemous look on Theirry's face.

----

"Yes Mssr. Lemond, it is my opinion that French Illusion would serve best in an American school," said a young lady from Chartes. The two men had spent the last thirty minutes listening to this one alone. Yves needed a cigarette, Theirry needed a miracle.

"Are there any Americans left?" asked Theirry.

"None since last Thursday," Yves ran his hand through his hair. "The closest is Canada."

The young lady scoffed incredulously, "Canada? I'd rather die."

"Canada it is. Lacroix Institute in Halifax."

Yves shot a look of shock shared by their candidate at Theirry.

"Are you serious?" sputtered the girl, "I just said--..."

Theirry slapped her document on the table, a bit of glowing dust reacted to the wards built into the surface.

"Do you want a free ride or not?"

The silence stretched on painfully, before the package was stamped and the shell-shocked student was ushered out the door.

"How many do we have left?"

"Sixty-two."

"Slots?"

"Fifty-five."

The next hour was a blur of hopeful faces, dissappointment and tears. Thierry began to assign schools in the order they were on the list. Every four or so, he would look up at the clock, before demanding the next applicant.

Yves forgot about his cigarettes.

When they had finally exhausted the list of schools, there were seven unfortunate candidates left. Yves signalled the fairy to bring in the next student as Theirry had gone hoarse by this point. Each one would have to be told that the program had satisfied its quota. It was an unpleasant task, which gave way to a sick sense of finality when they had come to the last applicant.

"Name."

"Manon Laframboise, sir!"

Manon was plainly adorned when she opened the door, but in classical fashion her clothes exploded into a raiment of auguste frills and color. A fierce shower of red, white and green confetti rained on the men's desk. Neither of them had a chance to explain before she burst into a song.

"It is I! The easiest candidate to process you have ever seen," Manon whipped a mystical pole from behind herself, its length growing as it entered their line of sight. "For since I was a girl, I've had but one dream! To live in Italy and study under the great clo--."

"Unfortunately, Ms. Laframboise, there are no schools left," hummed Theirry's voice over Manon's commotion. Yve's hand curled. "Now if--..."

"Have you tried checking right? People are always only looking left when they run short on things."

"Excuse me?"

"Excusemi!" Manon's demeanour loosened only slightly, dropping what had appeared to be an Italian flag. Then, her showmanship caught up with her. "Where in Italy is that? Piedmont? Tuscany? Abruzzo? Apulia? That last one is the heel."

Theirry rubbed his temple, "Ms. Laframboise if you please."

Manon waited only a moment, carrying the show on further, "I do please! If you'd only allow me a moment, I've got a knock-knock joke that will knock your socks off."

"We are done. Finished, finito."

"That doesn't sound like it's in Italy either." Manon tought deeply and then threw a finger up in the air, before tugging a crumpled map from her sleeve. "Look here, it is a country shaped like a boot, you see..."

Yves giggled, taken by the detailed map that revealed Italy as a leather, thigh-high boot worn by Europe, but Theirry growled, "Call the inquisitor."

"Did I mention my uncle is Italian?" Manon threw away the map and produced a Victorian frame of a herself dressed in fine Italian men's fashion, hair combed back and upper lip drawn with a curly moustache.

"Yves."

She flipped the frame, showing the same picture but with a beard. "Okay, you got me; he's Sicilian, but you can't hold that against me."

Yves stumbled to the door, but a tall evoker had already entered to the door.

"Ms. Laframboise, this gentleman will escort you out."

The gentleman gestured Manon to come along, but she shook her head, her red auguste nose swapping for her white harlequin mask.

"My good man," spoke Manon, strangely even-keel, her clothes suddenly fine and austentatious, "surely we can discuss the matter like civil folk. I do not have many options in life, nor will I if I don't get a school."

The evoker eyed the strange girl with caution, finding her abilities a little unnerving. With further urging from Theirry, he made a move to grab her shoulder. An ivory cane, produced from a velvet sleeve in a flourish, struck the man's hand.

"One warning, my good man. Think of the children."

Now annoyed, the evoker channeled energy through his fingers and made to grab her again. She leaped back, flipping on to a large ball that apparated under her feet. Taking just enough time to catch her balance, Manon bounced the ball into the man's face.

What followed was a magnificent display of fire, ice and confetti. The clown and mage danced about the room flinging missiles at each other, some harmless, some funny, some dangerous. As the commotion grew, the doors flew open and people began to flood in to see what was transpiring. Those present would recall a mesmerizing display of acrobatics and magic. Some would swear that the evoker himself was in on the act, but few we disagree on his satisfaction when he finally managed to wrangle the rowdy clown to the ground.

Manon, for her part, had never been arrested before, but believed that she had put up a decent enough fight. She mostly hoped that her mother would come bail her out before she had to find out what came after these sorts of things.

A pair of fine shoes on a set of finely dressed legs pushed through the crowd, and a voice cut above the raucous. It had a strange cloying feeling to the ears, like rosewater on the tongue. Manon did not know why, but it chilled her blood.

"Yes. This one will fit Adrienne's kind just fine."

Safeholme
The Sitting Room
Four Days After Two Minds, One Body

Bands of light cut through the curtains into an airy space just off the library. Normally this room was crowded with students reading and passing their time in recreation, but finals had strained the desire to linger in the school spaces. Open couches soaked in the rays from the towering windows, while small tables laid bare of the usual sodas and tea.

Manon sat deeply in one of these sofas. She had felt tired for days, ever since the incident in the woods. When she woke up in her bed the morning following that fateful night, she only had her shattered mask to remember the events that transpired. A great deal had happened that night, but the memory of a hand snatching away her face and her magic, lay super-imposed over everything.

She had been exempt from exams, a stingingly low grade from a Functional Exercise had taken the place of her usual written tests. The last four days were mostly trying to find some sense in everything, trying to make magic from the pile of shards that had been her mask. Other students leant her magical items to compensate, but they had no effect in her hands. She felt mundane, powerless and increasingly alone as it became apparent she was unable to feel the flow of magic.

From her skirt pocket she tugged out her phone and contemplated calling Franciska. She wouldn't understand, nor would she even remember Manon now thanks to the Occultus, but it was moments like these that made her miss the family she left behind. Hearing their voices would have went a long way.

No magic. No family. No future at the school if something didn't change.

The remains of Manon's mask flashed into her hand, it was the only effect she could produce these days. Her sense of melodrama began to nag at her, comparing her to the shattered heirloom.

"So terrifically tragic, eh Quasimodo?" asked Manon to the mask, laughing wryly.

"Quasimodo? Do not diminish the tragedy of Quasimodo with all that balk," answered the shards.

Manon stared at the remnants seriously, before she looked up and found one of the teachers staring down at her. He had a cold gaze that the clown could tell was practised. She willed the fragments away, knowing she was too late, but she had sworn she wouldn't tell anyone about that night. The motion blended with a dismissive wave.

"Mr. Caxton, you have no power here, I was one of the few smart enough not to fall on the sword that was Totality of Alchemy."

Mr. Caxton's eyes narrowed.

"Ah, I forgot... you are also an adult..." Manon capitulated, rather dramatically, "and one of the faculty at the school..."

"It has come to my attention that you haven't registered courses for the next semester. Why?"

"Oh, is that what this is about? Well, you see, I just can't find a good bakery here in Osaka to save my life and I figured I'd try Unsafeholme over in America. I know, guns and all that, but personally, I'd kill for a tuille right about now."

Silence.

"Alright, alright, maybe I wouldn't kill for it, but I'm getting desperate."

"I can respect secrecy, Ms. Laframboise, but perhaps you can tell me what suddenly drove you to respect the dress-code on the way out?"

"To be honest, I'm starting to really get into uniformity, can't even believe I wore my hat all the time when I could have looked like everyone else. It's actually becoming the new individuality back in France."

She hated playing this game, but an honest answer would lead to further questions. It made her feel alone.

"Does it have anything to do with the rumor going around that you cannot perform magic?"

Apparently she was the only one who could play this game. She cursed herself for confiding her condition to others.

"I think sometimes the smallest changes cause the biggest uproar. For that, we have a lot in common," said Manon, crypticly.

"More than you know," countered Mr. Caxton. The words made her shiver.

Suddenly, Manon had no idea what the teacher knew, or what he thought he knew. She opened her mouth to speak, to retort or change the subject, but he held up a hand and tugged out something from under his arm.

Honk! A bike horn sounded in his hand, its neck was brass and the ball a bright blue. He set it standing on the coffee table in front of her. Manon stared at the horn cautiously, before looking at the implacable teacher.

"For me? You shouldn't have!" Manon reached for it, before jumping back into her seat dramtically, "Actually, should you have? Is this allowed?"

She squinted her eyes, grimacing, "Ouugh, I probably should've asked if it was for me."

"Consider it a learning aid."

"And, what am I learning?"

Mr. Caxton frowned grimly, and that first genuine emotion cut her deeply. Her hands scooped up the horn, without thought, and she held it close.

Warmth filled her, and suddenly she felt a connection she hadn't felt in days. She gasped, staring awestruck at the small bike horn, as its touch brought her in touch with her power again. She could feel it. Instinctively, she tried to drive the clown-magic she had produced before, but could not call it forth. A realization came over her, as the power she felt was deep and most certainly hers, but altogether alien.

Manon looked up to find that Mr. Caxton was gone, and she was by herself in the sitting room. Trepid hands squeezed the horn, but it made no noise, not even a wheeze. Slowly, she clutched the trinket to her chest.

For once, as she wept, she didn't mind being alone.