Seven people, five dressed in Forsaken rags, stood next to a dirty, red pick-up truck towing a surprisingly fancy trailer, and the bullet-filled, recently-dead corpse of an unfortunate mercenary named Blake. “Do another one, another one!” screamed one of the Forsaken raiders, clapping his hands as though he were a small child.
 
Cyrus rolled his eyes and smiled in response. “Oh, very well!” All the joy in his voice and expression were completely and utterly fake, seeing as they were currently being forced to perform tricks at gunpoint. He threw his blunted training sword up in the air behind him and stuck out his hands to form a platform. The ever-agile Archie used this makeshift platform to vault up in the air, grab the sword from its aerial spin, and land gently on the ground. It was a rather amateur-level acrobatic trick they did – even more so because the sword wasn’t sharp – but the Forsaken they’d crossed paths with seemed to enjoy it regardless. In fairness, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment out in the wilderness of Dust, so this must have been like watching a full-on circus act to them. One of them still had a double-barrel shotgun trained on the pair, but the rest had either holstered their weapons or allowed them to dangle at their sides, just barely holding onto them. [i]Just a bit longer…[/i] he thought, eyeing the armed bandit. There were five altogether, though only the two holding guns gave Cyrus any real reason to worry. As long as they were adequately mesmerized, the element of surprise would give the brothers a massive advantage when they came to blows.
 
[i]… Wait… I know exactly how to speed this up.[/i]
 
“For my next trick, I shall need a volunteer!” Cyrus proclaimed, pointing towards the shotgun-wielding man. “You, sir!” The Forsaken good was all too eager to join him ‘on stage’, so to speak. “What’s your name?”
 
“Bloodfist the Violent.” The Forsaken replied happily, showing off a mostly-toothless grin.
 
“Ah, Bloodfist! Everyone give a hand for Bloodfist the Violent!” The rest of the Forsaken applauded lazily, with one giving a loud “WOOOO, YEAH, BLOODFIST!” before quieting back down.
 
“Please, Bloodfist,” Cyrus said, turning the gunman’s back to him, his front facing the audience, “Hold out your hand.” Sure enough, Bloodfist complied.
 
“Now, watch as my brother and I...” Cyrus waited until Archie's deft hands had already reached the second gunman, and had practically taken it from him already, "beat the absolute shit out of you!"

And with that, the fight began: Cyrus socked Bloodfist squarely in the jaw, and followed up by sweeping his leg. The lumbering brute of a warrior was sufficiently tripped up to fall over forward, and smashed his head on a rock when, knocking him unconscious… or killing him. Cyrus couldn’t tell. The second gunman most definitely would have been able to get a shot off on Cyrus had Archie not deftly stolen his weapon and used the blunted training sword to smash the back of his head. “En garde, motherfuckers! Prepare to have your swashes buckled!” screamed the suave swordsman. Archie bashed the disarmed gunman again on the backswing, knocking him unconscious, letting out a victorious warcry. As Archie dueled with another forsaken, a furious-looking lunatic without a shirt, covered in scars and tattoos, pulled out a sharp combat knife and dashed towards Cyrus.
 
“Really, Archie, two against three? That’s kind of unfair…” quipped Cyrus as he side-stepped away from a vertical slice from a knife-wielding nutcase, “There’s only three of them!” He gave Knifey a knee to the stomach, causing him to keel over, then clasped his fists together and slammed them down on the back of his attacker’s head in a powerful, hammer-like motion. Knifey hit the ground face-first. Cyrus glanced over at Archie, who was still dueling with some lanky bandit bastard, as another foeman approached the valiant shapeshifter.

“Oi, you feckin’ fuck!” another raider screamed. This one was the most intimidating by far: he held an aluminum bat with nails welding to it in one hand and a crude, long machete in the other. This man, whom Cyrus instantly decided to call ‘Sir Dickbag’, reminded him of some of the massive brutes he’d faced during his various arena fights. “You fink you can trick us n’ gettaway wif’ it?!”

“I cannot understand a single word you’re saying, good Sir Dickbag,” Cyrus quipped in reply, “Now if you just wanna lie down and let us take your stuff, that’d be swell--”

As Cyrus was speaking, Sir Dickbag moved closer and closer to him, leaning over the smaller figure and looking down at him intimidatingly. He must’ve been almost seven feet tall. As if to show off his brutish strength, he cut off Cyrus’ right arm with a single, powerful swing of his machete. “Yer’ defeated, ya fook!!” proclaimed Sir Dickbag. 

“I--... uhm... No I’m not!” Cyrus proclaimed, still bleeding lightly from his stump. The wound closed up quickly, though, and the flow of blood was stopped by his natural regeneration. He had to keep this charade up for a moment longer, at least... “It’s just a flesh wound!”

“Wha--?!” Sir Dickbag was confused. “I’ve cut your feckin’ arm off!”

“Yes, but we’ve bashed your head in!” Cyrus countered.

“What are you talking ab--” Sir Dickbag was interrupted by the thud of Archie’s training sword against the back of his head. One strike wasn’t going to be enough enough, though, as the brute reacted with a wild swing using the spiked bat he was holding in his left hand. Cyrus dodged by rolling under it, grabbing his severed limb up off the ground as he did so. He reared back, holding his right arm with his left.

Cyrus smirked. “Can I give you...”

“I swear, Cyrus,” Archie interjected, “If you say what I think you’re going to--”

“CAN I GIVE YOU A HAND?!” Cyrus used his detached arm to smack Dickbag in the face, confusing him yet further. A sword-strike from Archie to his knee knocked him down to a kneeling position, and a final kick to the face from Cyrus knocked him clean out... or killed him. Cyrus couldn’t tell. Either way, it most definitely broke his jaw and probably caused some head trauma.

“... Well,” Cyrus happily proclaimed, reattaching his arm at the stump and allowing his regeneration to do its work, “To the victor go the spoils! Dibs on the butterfly knife... and Dickbag’s bat.”

“Machete’s mine.” Archie replied, looking down at the corpse of Blake. The brothers were just now taking in what had happened. Suddenly, all of Cyrus’ humour and Archie’s suave bravado vanished. “It’s a damned shame. Blake was one of our better guards.” It was true; Blake wasn’t the most capable of mercenaries, but he was a decent enough shot, and surprisingly loyal for someone with a profit motive. He never complained, and only raised criticisms of the group’s actions when their current course endangered their safety. He had been traveling with the brothers for six weeks now, and Cyrus couldn’t help but feel distraught as he examined the corpse of his fallen friend.

“Well...” Cyrus said, sniffing back a tear, “I... uh... you want his coat? He’s not gonna need it anymore.”

Archie shook his head. “You take it,” he said, grabbing Blake’s hunting rifle. Almost analogous to Blake himself, his gun wasn’t particularly fantastic - a brown, beat-up .22 rifle with a scope attachment - but reliable and useful. Once they’d gathered up the rest of the Forsaken’s things, stopping only to draw a large phallus on Sir Dickbag’s face using a black sharpie, they returned to their truck. They drove on in silence for what seemed like hours as Cyrus began to doze off, getting lost in his thoughts once again...

“Wake up, Cy!” Archibald slugged Cyrus in the shoulder in order to shock him from his slumber. “We’re finally here!”

“Already?” Cyrus mumbled, stretching his arms and rubbing his eyes, “Hgnnmmm... and I was having such a nice dream, too...”

“You spend too much time sleeping, Cy,” Archie added. They had stopped with their vehicle as close to the centre of the town as humanly possible so that the maximum amount of people would see their performance. “Put in your contacts and get ready to perform.”

Cyrus nodded, pulling a small case out of his back pocket. He’d been through this routine dozens of times. Opening it up to reveal a cavalcade of costume contact lenses, he selected two blue ones which matched his brothers and expanded his eye-sockets so that their lids would not get in the way. Considering how practical his immortal powers were and how easy it was for him to conceal his immortality, Cyrus had no qualms using his unique abilities nigh-on every single day. After putting in his lenses, he pulled down the mirror which hung over the passenger’s side of the windshield, ensuring that his face mimicked his brother’s perfectly. He gave a slight smirk as he rapidly sprouted new facial hair until he had a full mustache, much bushier than his brother’s, then exited the vehicle with a cocky spring in his step.

Even long before the performance began, bystanders were beginning to give them odd looks as they walked back behind the truck to open up their gaudy, painted trailer. Cyrus grabbed onto the wooden double-doors on the back and wrenched them open, allowing them to swing as he and Archie entered. Before going inside, he reached in to take out a white bucket marked “donations” and place it on the ground in front of where they would lay down the stage. The trailer was perhaps a bit larger than the truck itself, but looked incredibly cramped, being littered with boxes of costumes and props. A small mirror was in the corner, likely for applying makeup, as well as a long, metal coat rack full of garbs of various sizes. There was a small sleeping area big enough for two small mattresses without frames, one in each of the backmost corners of the trailer, and a long, empty space cutting through the center of all the clutter.

In preparation for their performance, they began to change into their costumes. The costumes were almost identical: two white, flowing, renaissance-looking shirts with tight black pants and sturdy black tap shoes. The only real difference between them was the sash belt on each of the costumes: Cyrus’ was a crimson red, whereas Archie’s was a deep green. They each had matching swords: rapiers, with (painted) gold hilts and steel blades, taken from an abandoned museum and sharpened to a point many years back.

Archie picked up a large mat from a pile of props. It was their substitute for a proper stage, though it essentially amounted to nothing more than a lightly-padded carpet. He towards Cyrus, who pressed his hands against the double doors on the back of their trailer.

“Ready?” Cyrus asked, pressing upon the doors’ levers so that they would open ever so slightly.

“Let’s get this show on the road!” Archie proclaimed. As Cyrus pushed the doors outwards, he deftly exited the trailer and stepped to the side, allowing Archie to roll the mat directly out from the back of the trailer. Once the mat had ceased its rolling, Archie turned around and dramatically backflipped into full view. Cyrus was soon to follow, somersaulting across the hard ground to take his place next to Archie on the mat.

“Ah, Russel City!” Cyrus proclaimed loudly and dramatically, “You know, I don’t remember this place being so... dead, do you?”

“No, Sergio,” Archie answered, addressing his brother by his stage name, “I do not! Perhaps it is time that we breathe life into Russel once again, eh?”

“I concur, Archibald!” There was no point in hiding Archie’s name; his face and shtick were well-known already. That didn’t stop both of the brothers from hamming it up, though. “We shall resuscitate this weary town the only way we know how!”

“For we are...” Archie said. He gained a running start, then leaped into the air whilst drawing his sword.

“The two and only...” Cyrus braced himself, drawing his sword and pointing it forward as he prepared for Archie, who landed upon his shoulders, striking a graceful-crane like pose with his sword similarly held out in front of him.

“THE AMAZING MARYSON BROTHERS!” both proclaimed in unison as they froze in a diorama-like spectacle, swords held out in front of them. Cyrus pressed a button on a remote in his left pants pocket, which triggered a bouncy, saxophone tune to begin playing from a speaker inside the trailer. Now was the time for their performance to begin. The dance picked up right away, with Cyrus' feet tapping along the mat. Archie, still on Cyrus' shoulders, swung downwards to hit his brother's sword.  As Cyrus moved around the mat in a square, the clang of swords along with the tapping of the shapeshifter’s feet sounded like a percussion section to go along with the saxophone riff. Already, they had drawn a small crowd, and one of them had even noticed the donation bucket. The sound of a dirty round hitting the bottom was one that the brothers knew well, but still one they were happy to hear.

[i]"Oh, in the land of Dust, filled with tiny towns and cities, it’s a hot, dry place, and a little bit  shitty,”[/i] they began singing in unison, as Cyrus continued to move around on the map while pretending to duel with the brother on his shoulders, [i]”It’s a pity that to find an itty-bitty of respite,[/i]

Archie jumped down from Cyrus’ shoulders, turning to face his brother with his sword. Cyrus’ arm went limp, and he suddenly feigned a fearful expression as he leaned back. As Archie sang this next part, Cyrus backed away slowly, the sword point only an inch from his neck. This part was spoken, as opposed to sung, and in a rather sinister tone to boot: [i]”People kill and they steal and they bicker--”[/i]

[i]”And they fight!”[/i] Cyrus “interrupted” Archie by parrying away his sword. Once again, they began to sing in unison, only this time, they both stood on the ground, mirroring each others’ dance moves perfectly as they tapped along. However, though their lower bodies were exactly  The sight of it, as well as the sound, were something to behold.

[i]”People stick themselves with needles, people snort and smoke and bleed,”[/i]
[i]”And they’ll kill, and they’ll steal, for an ounce of coke or weed,”[/i]
[i]”But we’ve got something better than any kind of drug,”[/i]
[i]”So prepare to get infected with the Maryson bug,”[/i]
[i]”You could lose your heart to hookers, you could lose your brain to booze...”[/i]

And now, both brothers stopped dancing for a brief moment, placing their arms around the other’s shoulder, as they sang this next line in a beautiful harmony: [i]”But with the Maryson Brothers, you’ve got nothing to loooooooose~”[/i]

At this point, they both sheathed their swords, and sped up their tap-dancing, substituting words with rapid and calculated movements. The saxophone music stopped altogether, leaving only the sounds of their feet tapping against the mat. For a good minute or so, all they did was dance, switching to different styles as their performance went on. The music eventually returned, switching to a Celtic-sounding fiddle tune, then a Russian choir. Their styles continued to change to match, from river-dancing to cossack dancing, and then more general feats of acrobatics. One highlight in particular featured a similar trick to the one the brothers had amused the Forsaken raiders with: Cyrus tossed his sword high into the air as Archie backflipped towards him. Cyrus stuck his hands out to form a platform, which Archie vaulted off of, grabbing the sword from midair. Of course, he somehow managed to land unscathed.

Eventually, the music returned to the upbeat, saxophone music that they had started with.

[i]”If you’re looking for a good time, we’re better than the others,
Tell your aunt and your uncle and your father and your mother...”[/i]

And to finish the opening act of their performance, Archie and Cyrus struck yet another gaudy, hammy pose: [b][i]”And see the Magnificent Maryson Brothers!”[/i][/b] The end of the number was met with some applause from the now decently-sized crowd which had formed around them. A few more dirty rounds hit the bottom of the donation bucket as Cyrus repeatedly thanked his patrons.

“Anybody have any requests? Songs? Scenes from famous plays? Tricks, perhaps?” Cyrus usually counted on the citizens of Dust not knowing anything too complex or unusual for him to easily perform, what with plays and songs being rather hard to come by, though they occasionally surprised him.