The Party at Carousel 1

The Party at Carousel 1
by Alexander "KG" Hwang

Randal Fiedler entered the building.
"Welcome to the party," said the man who had answered his knock. "Name?"
"Um," Randal said, hesitating, "Randy."
"I'm Student," Student replied. He certainly looked like a student: a young man of maybe twenty, two years younger than Randal, sporting a white dress shirt, sky blue jeans, circular glasses, and clean, short dark hair. "Remember the rules. No fighting, no vomiting. Bathrooms are at the end of either hallway. Don't take food if you're not going to eat it. Make sure you introduce yourself whenever you talk to someone, and congratulate them on how useful they are."
"Useful?" Randal asked, feeling lost.
"Or whatever is appropriate," Student amended. "It's technically a costume party, but you're allowed to ask them what's underneath. And watch out for Mister Siva. Be polite to him. He's the one hosting the party. If he gets upset at you, you might get... removed."
Randal nodded numbly and proceeded down the corridor, toward the percussive beat of what sounded like native African music, though he couldn't be sure. It occurred to him, as he walked, that he forgot to ask Student if that was his real name or not. He resolved not to go back and ask.
He came to two short girls, both wearing long yellow dresses decorated with various flowers. They seemed to be whispering to each other about something. One, with her back turned, had shoulder-length brown hair with a daisy stuck in it. The other had long black hair that reached down her back and a crown of cherry blossoms on her head. She peered over her friend to look at Randal curiously and waved. She looked Asian.
Randal waved back and slowed his walking to a stop, unsure if that wave was intended as a beckon or not. He could smell their flowery perfume.
The brown-haired girl turned. She looked Greek, or maybe German. Randal wasn't sure.
"Hi," the brown-haired girl said, giving Randal a friendly smile. Her voice was tinged with a European accent whose origin he couldn't place. "I'm Maia."
"Satsuki," the black-haired girl whispered, staring at Randal with wide eyes. She had a plain-as-day Japanese accent.
"I'm Randy," Randal replied, feeling a little nervous.
Maia laid a soft hand on Randal's chest. He resisted the impulse to jolt backward.
"You're nervous, too?" Maia asked, looking concerned. "I understand. We're both pretty nervous, even though this is our month. But you can't make friends outside your neighborhood if you don't take a few risks, you know?"
Randal nodded, believing that he understood what Maia was talking about.
Maia smiled and dropped her hand to her side, then reached with her other hand out to Satsuki. "Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Randy. You're very convincing."
Satsuki nodded and gave Randal a tiny smile before letting herself be led by Maia further into the building.
Randal smiled dumbly, wondering what Maia meant by "convincing", before following them into the large room ahead.
The room was larger than he thought it was, based on what he remembered from the size of the building, though, on reflection, he wasn't so sure he remembered how big the building was to begin with. There were maybe hundreds of people in the room. The ongoing conversation sounded like a constant wave breaking shore, and the percussive music almost seemed to complement that.
In his awe, Randal had lost sight of Maia and Satsuki. He frowned to himself and walked toward the crowd.
He very quickly bumped into someone. A boy. The boy jumped as if shocked and cried out.
"I'm sorry," Randal insisted. "I'm sorry."
The boy turned around. He was very thin. His hair was light brown and slightly spiky, his shirt was burgundy, his pants were khaki, and he looked shaven.
"What the hell?" the boy inquired, his voice deep yet young-sounding. "Is it really that difficult to watch where you're going?"
"I'm really sorry," Randal continued.
"Calm down, Matches," a girl said severely, though in a soft voice. She was even thinner. Her hair was wavy and blond and went past her waist, her blouse was pale green, and her long skirt was light blue.
"He bumped into me," Matches complained.
"That's nothing to explode about," the girl replied mildly. "He didn't mean to."
Matches grimaced and said nothing.
"I'm sorry," Randal said again.
"Don't worry about it," the girl said. "Matches is very sensitive."
Matches coughed loudly.
"I'm Air," she said. "What's your name?"
"Um. Randy," Randal replied. "Are those your real names?" Randal had been imagining Matches being spelled "Macchis" until Air said her own name.
"Of course," Air answered brightly. "Though a lot of people here like to give funny nicknames. It's the nature of these parties."
"Yeah," Matches murmured. "As a result, you get a lot of nonsense around here."
"Are you guys from here?" Randal asked. He had never been to Carousel before.
"No," Air replied. "We're from... pretty far away."
"We're not going back, though," Matches added.
"Of course," Air said, smiling and interlocking the fingers of one of her hands with one of Matches'.
Then a woman walked over. Her hair was frizzy and red and stopped at the middle of her back, her short red-and-yellow-sequined dress reached just above her knees, and she was wearing sparkling red high-heel shoes. She paused in front of Air and frowned with red lips. She smelled like incense.
"Oh, damn," she murmured, pouting and resting a long red fingernail on her lips. "I thought you were someone else."
"Hi," Air said warily. Matches' eyes seemed to be traveling down the woman's figure.
"Perja," the woman introduced herself. Her voice was smoky. "I also go by Hottie."
Randal smiled to himself.
"I'm Air," Air said. "And this is Matches and Randy."
"Matches, huh?" Perja remarked, glancing at Matches and wetting her lips with her tongue. "Well, I heard your name was Air and I thought you were a friend of mine, Gwynte. They sometimes call her Air, too, so yeah."
"I see," Air replied, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Well, I'm sorry. We haven't met anyone by that name."
"Eh whatever," Perja said, looking around. "See ya." And she walked away.
Randal took note of the fact that Perja had never so much as glanced at him.
"Matches, I'm hungry," Air suddenly said. "Let's go to the kitchen."
"Yeah, sure," Matches replied, looking somewhat distracted.
"You wanna come?" Air asked Randal, who nodded.
He began to follow the two of them, looking around. Many people wore all sorts of different styles of clothes, but quite a few were relatively normal. He also noticed that of those who were dancing, very few of them actually danced the same dance.
The kitchen was also huge, though not as big as the previous room. Compared to the blueness of the previous room, the kitchen was a traditional white.
There was a plethora of food. It looked like Mister Siva had multiple cooks from different parts of the world. It smelled of all sorts of different places, though Randal could smell the spice of curry prominently.
When they reached one end of the table, Randal realized that the plates contained other things that he would not have considered food. He spotted meats, vegetables, fruits, grains, and cheeses, but he also saw candies, chocolates, pills, powders, rocks, bars of soap, toys, human body parts (including hair, fingernails, and teeth), bits of metal and plastic, small electronic devices, stacks of paper, matches (Randal noticed that Matches had paused at that plate for a moment), writing utensils, clothes, and many other things. Randal had considered taking some of the clothes that looked like they'd fit, but he remembered something that Student had told him and decided not to.
At the end of the table, they encountered a tall old man leaning on a lengthy umbrella and a slightly pudgy old woman carrying two books. As Randal approached, he got a strange feeling that there was something wrong with the old woman, but he couldn't say what.
"Good evening," the old man declared, sounding old and German. He wore a blue nightcap that covered his bald head, a long coat that seemed to be green or blue, Randal wasn't exactly sure, and dark red pants. "Liking the party, children?"
"Yes, thank you," Air replied, bowing to the man. "I'm Air, this is Matches, this is Randy."
"They call me Sandman," the old man said, inclining his head and giving them a wrinkled smile. "My friend, here, is the Storyteller."
"Good evening, dears," the old woman greeted them in a grandmotherly tone. She wore a fuzzy white coat over a long violet gown and had perfectly white hair. Randal felt that there was something very strange about her, but it didn't seem to be the fact that she was wearing two pairs of thick reading glasses.
"Please, eat with us," the Sandman implored them. "The two of us are too similar to have much to talk about."
The Storyteller chuckled and smiled.
Randal saw that the Sandman had a small personal plate, covered in what looked like eyes. He was taking one and popping it into his mouth on occasion.
Randal looked at his own plate, which had mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed carrots and broccoli, roasted turkey, and some kind of foreign chocolate balls. His cup was filled with orange soda.
Air's plate had gray and brown powders and paper. Her cup was filled with water.
Matches' plate had yellow powder, burnt pieces of wood, and unfamiliar vegetables that looked like weeds. His cup was filled with wine.
It occurred to Randal that there was something strange about this party. He then realized that he had been missing conversation and started paying attention.
"...to do my job," the Sandman was saying. "But then again, you have all sorts of others to lighten the load, like Morpheus, everyone knows about him."
"You get compensation, though, don't you?" Matches asked.
"Oh, sure," the Sandman replied, chewing an eye thoughtfully. "Probably my best option, all things considered. That doesn't make it much easier, though. Children these days..." The Sandman sighed.
Randal did not understand what they were talking about, so he began to wander around the kitchen.
He noticed a huge muscular man covered in jewels and feathers. His face was painted in black and yellow stripes, his black hair was thick and reached his lower back, his dust-colored chest was bare while his pelvis was covered by a jaguarskin breechcloth. His right leg ended in a pitch-black peg-leg. There was a small child on his plate and his cup was filled with blood.
The man turned to look at Randal, who shuddered, seeing utterly bloodshot eyes and almost fang-like teeth dripping with blood.
There was a tall dark figure who looked like a man but might have passed as a woman from certain angles. Though his skin was a striking pale, his shoulder-length hair, trench coat, and pants were all pure black. His plate held a steak smothered in dark red sauce, several chicken sandwiches, an unfamiliar violet drumstick, and a small mound of black colloid. His cup was filled with a dark soda.
He seemed to notice Randal looking at him and said, in a strong and unmistakably male voice, "Yes, I know I'm beautiful, but you don't have to rub it in."
Abashed, Randal looked away, seeing a group of four wearing gray business suits and standing near one part of the table where Randal saw nothing edible. Curious, he approached the group.
The shortest one was also the heaviest-looking one. His suit was the darkest gray, and he wore a matching bowler hat to cover his bald head. His skin almost seemed to take on a grayish tone.
Taller was the only woman in the group, who seemed to also be the lightest. Her suit had a reddish-orange tinge that appeared to reflect the color of her reddish hair that was tied in a bun. Her skin was tan.
Taller still was a muscular man, who might have been almost as heavy as the shortest one. His suit was a simple gray, and his dark gray hair was cut very short. His skin was a pale brown.
Tallest was a thin but stern-looking man. His suit was a very light gray, and his white hair reached down his shoulders. His skin was so pale it looked white.
Then Randal saw that all four of them had plates containing nothing but pieces of metal and electronic objects.
"Hey, boy," the shortest one said in a voice that sounded like a sledgehammer. "What do you want?"
"Hi," Randal said, suddenly afraid. "I-I'm Randy."
"Rando-" the short one began, when the woman suddenly jabbed an elbow into him and he became silent. The woman then smiled at Randal stiffly.
"I'm L-Plum," the short one eventually said, rubbing his side. "Randy."
"You can call me T-Wolf," the muscled man chimed in, his voice resembling a crate being dragged across concrete.
"Call me C-Cup," the woman said, her voice like coins clattering. "Our names are jokes, by the way."
Randal almost reflexively glanced at C-Cup's chest. He didn't get the joke.
"And I'm known as Sarge," the tallest one declared, his voice like a very sharp knife. He also had a knife in his mouth.
"You were in the army?" Randal asked conversationally.
Sarge looked up, as if remembering. "Frequently. But not often enough. That was usually Iron's department, if anyone's."
Randal got the impression that he had missed something important. There was a brief silence broken by L-Plum noisily crunching on what seemed to be a piece of lead.
"Is that a trick?" Randal asked, not sure what to believe.
"What?" L-Plum replied, examining one bit of metal. "Eating?"
"Well, I mean, you can't really be eating metal, can you?" Randal asked.
L-Plum paused and peered at Randal. He then grinned. Randal saw that all of his teeth were apparently replaced with some kind of metal.
"Ah, I see now," L-Plum said, sneering. "You're a softy."
"None of that," C-Cup murmured.
L-Plum backed off, but he was still sneering at Randal.
Sarge seemed to watch this exchange with disinterest.
Randal shrugged and walked on.
He saw a smiling black man with long dreadlocks and dressed in a casual Aloha shirt and shorts. His plate was stacked with all sorts of random pieces of fruit and meat, including several insects. The man was talking to a bearded Semite dressed in a simple robe that reached his ankles. His plate held only pieces of bread, though he also had a cup of wine.
"That is Anansi, and that is Yehoshua," a girl suddenly said.
Randal turned to see a short girl, her brown hair also short, her face freckled. She was wearing a chartreuse shirt too big for her, short denim shorts that were mostly hidden under the shirt, and knee-length white socks.
"Hi," Randal said, feeling absolutely unafraid of this girl. "I'm Randy. What's your name?"
"Is," the girl replied, staring at him with green eyes.
"Ah," Randal said. "What is your name, then."
"No, I wouldn't find a contraction demeaning," Is said. "Is is my name."
"You mean like Isabelle?" Randal asked.
"It is not a nickname," Is clarified.
"Oh," Randal said, confused. "It's an interesting name, I suppose."
Is shrugged thoughtfully. "Would you like me to accompany you?"
"Um," Randal replied. "I guess that'd be nice."
Is smiled at him and grabbed his arm possessively.
Randal, now feeling nervous and stupid, realized that the girl probably would want to dance or something. So he led Is back out to the big room, where the music had now changed to something Randal had never heard before.
"It is Bengali music," Is remarked.
"I was wondering," Randal admitted.
Is merely smiled.
They walked past two men and women, and Randal started coughing.
"Those four call themselves Al, Caffy, Nick, and Mary," Is murmured. Randal avoided turning his head toward the group and kept walking.
"Um," Randal said, after a certain point, realizing he should have asked this earlier. "Do you feel like dancing?"
"Dancing is a form of art with many styles," Is stated. "Which style are you talking about?"
Randal mulled that question over. "I'm not sure. I actually don't really know how to dance."
Is merely smiled. "When I was last at a party, Quiyoughkasouck danced with me, and it was the sort driven by passion, of a style ancient and lost."
Randal was not about to say something, but if he were, it would have been interrupted by a gasp from behind him. He turned to see a clean-looking man with a bleeding nose, apparently knocked to the floor by a bulkier man with a fist in each hand.
"You did not just punch Thox," a young, princess-y girl said, stepping up to the man. Her purple-dyed hair reached down to her thighs. She was wearing some kind of tiara with a pink jewel encrusted in it, a violet tube top, and a red short skirt. She was a good foot shorter than the man, who was not fat but not thin and wore a khaki-colored business suit.
"Stay out of this," the man growled, his voice sounding strangely monotone.
Then, Randal wasn't sure what happened. There was a blur, maybe a flash of light, then came the sound of something cracking open.
The next instant, the bulky man was on the floor, a piece of his head missing. Wires jutted out of it, sizzling and fizzing out. Randal smelled burning plastic.
Then, silence. The room was suddenly empty, except for himself and Is.
Randal looked around, confused.
"What happened?" Randal asked.
"The party is over," Is said. "The rules were broken, though that was initially Macintosh's fault. Everyone returned to their normal states, except for me. I remained here to inform you of this."
Randal looked at Is. She looked blurry, now. He wondered if he had gotten drunk.
"I advise you go home as well," she said.
"You don't come from around here either, do you?" Randal asked.
"Carousel," Is said, "is not a real town. So, nobody can come from here."
"Where am I?" Randal asked.
"It depends on where you want to be," Is replied. "Right now, you're anywhere."
"Congratulations, by the way," Randal suddenly said, remembering something. "I hear you're very useful."
"Thank you, Randy," Is said.
"Can I go with you?" Randal asked. "I still never got to dance with you."
Is smiled at Randal, then she stood on her toes to kiss him.
"If that is what you want."