...

The man had travelled for many miles. He wasn't even sure where he had ever started. He'd stick around for a while, work odd jobs here and there, and disappear like the wind. He was a person with a thin shadow, an existence that people seemed to pass by and forget easily. Few people questioned who he was, and those who did forgot in time. His favourite job was a clown, to stand in front of crowds and make people laugh with his seeming stupidity. He was a skilled one too. Making mess-ups seem like actual mess-ups instead of orchestrated ones were second nature to him, and his skills in juggling and acrobatics were superb. However, he was old. That's why he was cast as the clown, which was fortunately his favourite job. The ringmaster didn't want to let the crowd see that his real face was old, drab, and homely. The circus was supposed to represent a kind of romance, pretty women with umbrellas walking the tightropes, youth doing acrobatics, a strong looking beast master, a benign ringmaster. A face that was approaching fifty or so (no one knew the man's age) was not to be shown. He must be the clown. His name wasn't even listed in the pamphlets that were handed out before the circus; it just said CLOWN, which suited the man fine. He kept his makeup on, even when it wasn't show time. The other acrobats and members of the troupe often didn't like him much; he was a curious man. That suited him fine; he seemed to want to just wander about. The clown shined on stage, making people laugh throughout the decades. One little boy, who watched him one night, said of him after watching,

"I feel sad for him. He's always being laughed at."

The man looked at the last of the leaves falling from the tree. They were rotten, shrivelling leaves that had endured the autumn winds only to wither and fall as winter was on the cusp. He absentmindedly patted the dog that he had become friendly with, long ago. It was a show dog that could do tricks, and when he had noticed it had been following him. That had been a long, long time ago. Maybe years? The man didn't know. He now found this odd. He stroked the dog, mesmerized by the brown spots on its coat. He had never actually looked at the coat of the dog before. The dog had been with him for a while, but he didn't have a name. The troupe he was with always decided that. The man looked at the cloudy white sky, dazed. He knew this brightness, of the sun behind the clouds, emanating a luminous glow. The man smiled. He was at a place that was brighter than white, he decided. The dog curled up beside him.

Some time must have passed, for when he noticed there was a plate of warm food besides him, and he had no idea how it got there. He was cold, and the dog was whimpering. He brushed the copious amount of snow that had accumulated off him, and went inside, the dog following him. He sat at his end of the long brown tables that were for the circus performers, eating and sharing his food with the dog.

The man felt a kick, and woke up. The perpetrator was a young man standing before him, his face in a cruel sneer. The man studied his face, trying to remember. The face was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. It was like his brain had processed that this particular face was not important to remember, although the man did not know how his brain processed that.

"We're goin' ta start soon, Clown." The sneering young man said, emphasizing the word 'clown' in a demeaning way. The man smiled politely. Perhaps this young man was mad that he couldn't remember his name. The young man grew angry at the smiling man.

"Wot's so damn funny?" He aimed another kick at the man, but this time the man was ready. He was a clown. Dodging and looking funny was his forte. He did a cartwheel to dodge, sliding deftly under the younger man's legs. The dog, excited, started to bark as his master did these things. It was practice, once more. The man danced in circles, slipped, and did overall ridiculous things as he dodged the younger man, who tried to punch him. The dog followed suit, doing somersaults and tricks to compliment the man's. It ended when the dog launched himself into the air and the man caught him, for another member of the performers poked her head out to yell in a irritated fashion,

"Nice practicin', Clown, Cosimo, but would ya two mind helpin' us set up?" The ringmaster followed closely behind her, looking disapprovingly at them. The young man looked down in shame, his face bitter. The man walked off, the dog still in his arms. Cosimo. That was the young man's name. The man searched his memory for that name. Cosimo. He always fell, and blamed others. Cosimo. If he remembered correctly, he was one of the many troupe members that had nothing but the circus. That made sense. The dog started to yelp to get his master's attention. The man, surprised, let the dog go, and petted him, taking the dog's accessory from his pocket to slip it onto the dog's neck. It was a frilly collar, much like the one the man wore. The dog barked happily; it knew it was show time.

"Good job, all of you! I heard some pretty good things from the audience tonight!" The ringmaster said happily to the entire troupe as they feasted that night. "The clap at the end was especially spectacular-" The ringmaster went on with his speech. The man did not particularly care, but he and the dog had done a good job, as always, so he politely smiled and clapped.

"The ringmaster's happy because he got a lot of tips and praise tonight," The man overheard one of the tightrope performers whisper.

"Hehe, I wonder if he'll give me a tip tonight, since he's in such a good mood? Or he might not do anything, since he'll be so drunk." One of them giggled. The man ignored the comment. The man knew that the ringmaster slept those of the troupe regardless of gender, using excuses such as good performance to bring it about. Most of the time those who were picked by the ringmaster couldn't refuse; they had nothing except for the circus. The man had heard these whispers as he had wandered about this particular circus and had heard of similar things in other circuses, but he didn't pay it much mind. He was a man nearing fifty (perhaps sixty? He couldn't remember), and since he was the clown, and odd person, he was safe. He was also leaving soon, anyways. He petted the dog absently again, enjoying his food, when he sensed everyone to be staring at him. The ringmaster must have said something about him. He cocked his head slightly to one side, an amused expression on his face, as he tried to focus on what was said.

"Clown and his dog did a wonderful job tonight; the crowd roared an encore for them, if you noticed." The ringmaster said gruffly. "The audience complimented you quite a lot." The man knew that the ringmaster didn't really want to say these words of praise, but that it was a fact that an encore was called for the clown, and even that the ringmaster could not ignore. The man said nothing, but humbly looked down at the table with a small smile on his face as a polite round of applause went around. He was not a sociable person, so no one came and clapped him on the shoulder or congratulated him loudly; which suited him fine. He remembered someone from another place saying that he was a man content with being left alone. He thought about that for a bit, losing himself in the logic of it.

It made no sense.

"Ringmaster, how'd I do?" There was a voice. It was an almost pleading, simpering voice, trying to curry favour. There were more words, but the man was tired. So tired. The man lumbered along. He had fallen asleep at the dinner table. He had to get back to his tent and sleep. The main tent was dark now. There was a lit room that was enclosed by a curtain. The man was tired. He knew the exit was a turn from where that room was. The man walked.

"You fool! Because of you the show almost went askew! What were you doing, jumping at that point? Could've caused Madame Lilac to break her neck!" At that moment the curtain was swept aside and light hit the man's eyes, causing him to shield his eyes. The ringmaster, who had opened the curtain, looked at the man and his dog in confusion and turned around to Cosimo. Cosimo was in the back end of the room, half naked. The ringmaster smelled of beer and alcohol.

"Damn it Cosimo, even this dog did a better performance than you!" The ringmaster said, quite drunk. Cosimo's stunned face turned to that of humiliation. The man nodded to the ringmaster and went on his way. He didn't want any trouble, after all.

"Hey! Hey, CLOWN!" The man turned around. It was…Cosimo, running towards him in the darkness. Yes, Cosimo. Pitiful Cosimo. He couldn't quite remember why he was so pitiful though. The man said nothing. Cosimo approached him, his face red from beer, anger and derision distorting his face.

"Prowlin' 'round at night, hopin' the ringmaster would invite ya to his bed, aren't ya? Wot sick taste ya have…too bad you're too old! Haha, even the ringmaster doesn't want ya!" The man continued to say nothing. In fact, he wasn't really listening. He had no idea what Cosimo was saying. He was wondering why Cosimo was pitiful. He wasn't very sure. Somewhere in his mind, he had thought that Cosimo was pitiful, but as to why the connection was lost. The man turned around, his painted, clownish face betraying nothing, and walked away, wondering why. Why? It was a familiar question; he must have asked it of himself before. When was it? He felt like it had something to do with flowers…yes, white flowers, falling from the sky. Why were white flowers falling from the sky? It made no sense. The man was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn't hear Cosimo's words.

"Is he dead?"

A young boy stood arrogantly before him, his breath a puff of white smoke in the cold air. The man did not know when that happened.

"He's dead." The man replied calmly. He had been digging a grave for the dog. Yes, that was right. It was his dog. His dog? Yes, that was right. The dog was his friend. When he had woken up the dog had not been there, and he had gone to look. The dog had been laying in the snow, black and blue.

"…He's covered in bruises." The boy commented. The man said nothing, but started to cover up the grave. He took out an old star-patterned ball from his pocket; the dog had liked it. The boy started to talk.

"Cosimo probably did it. 'cause the audience likes you more than him." The boy said, talking to the mound as the man placed the ball on top of it. "He hates it when others are better'n him. He's got no talent, except when it comes to stuff like this." The man felt like talking.

"He was an old dog. He wouldn't have lived much longer anyway." The man paused slightly as he brushed the dirt off of his hands. He felt he should say something reassuring, although he couldn't understand why. "It's all right."

"…hmm." The boy answered, kneeling down to squat next to the man. He looked at the man. "You aren't gonna get revenge?"

"If I do that, I'll get thrown out of here and won't get paid." The man replied as he recited a prayer for the dog. It was a prayer that he had learned before he had joined any circus group, in a far off land. The boy had an almost disgusted look.

"I'm a newcomer, after all." The man said absently. "After Christmas tomorrow, I'll move onto somewhere new…"

"I see." The boy said, placing his jaw on his hand. He looked into space.

"…Hmm?" The man looked at the boy in the face for the first time. The man had been talking; he had known that, but he had not exactly been aware of exactly who. The boy had dirty reddish brown hair, clad in equally dirty clothing that had holes in it. The man couldn't remember his face. Had he seen the boy somewhere? "Who are you, anyway?"

"I do odd jobs around here…I've brought you dinner before." The boy replied, not looking at the man. The man could not remember if he did or not.

"I have a bad memory for faces." It was true. Something stuck out to him as he kept staring at the boy. "Oh my! You're covered in bruises too, aren't you?" The man stuck his finger out and licked it, applying the spit to the bluish purpling bruise on the boy's face. At this the boy immediately recoiled.

"Wah! Gross! Get your spit off me, dummy!" The boy yelled out.

"It's disinfectant." The man said simply. He followed the bruises of the boy with his eyes. "Did Cosimo beat you up?"

"Shut up." The boy's reaction was immediate. The man, although his makeup gave him a perpetual smile, felt his heart smiling for a change, although he didn't know that could happen. It felt like it hadn't happened in a while.

"Don't you have any friends?" The man prodded.

"Shut up!" The boy replied angrily, bringing his head up as if to retaliate, then going back to a crouching position. "When I grow up…I'm getting out of here as soon as I'm strong enough, so I don't need any friends." Somehow, this small speech of the little boy was familiar. The man could not quite place it, but it was familiar to…something. Something nostalgic. The man felt a profound sadness. He needed to chase it away.

"What are you doing?" The boy asked, quite disgusted. The man had created the face that he always made to make the crowd laugh; it was a funny face, where he used his hands to distort his face into one that was almost unreal.

"You didn't think it was funny?" He asked, a little sad that it didn't work.

"Sorry, but I don't like clowns and stuff." The boy paused. "In fact, I hate 'em."

"My, my." The man decided to act miffed. "Well, I hate crowds and children who don't laugh." The boy replied with a "Hmph." Some time passed. The man looked at the trees. It was near Christmas now, so all the leaves had gone. Something about the snow made him feel empty.

"Aren't…you gonna cry?" The man looked at the boy once more. "He lived with you for a long time, didn't he?" The boy was looking at the mound again, eyes focused on the lonely star-patterned ball sitting upon it. "Aren't you sad?"

"So sad I could die." The man said, hanging his head from a quickly made noose that hung off a tree.

"Quit it!" Screeched the boy.

"But I can't cry." The man said. When he said it, he realized it was true. The boy looked at him searchingly, as if to decide whether the man was safe to be around. The man set to untying the noose. "Maybe my tears are dried up." He looked at his hands, at his breath in the cold air. "They just don't come." The boy watched him.

"What's up with that?" The boy asked, his face in a scowl. "What was his name?" The man looked at the mound, with the star-patterned ball atop it. "He licked my hand yesterday. His tongue was warm."

"So how come…" The boy took a breath. He had begun to sob. "I'm crying over him?" The man watched the boy cry in a very loud fashion (consisting of loud wails of "Waah!"), but he felt he understood.

"I see."

"Do you want to become a clown, like me?" The man asked. The boy looked at him, his face in that scowl. The man could tell that the idea was rolling in his head.

"Well, the idea isn't too bad, I s'pose."

The man left the circus on Christmas, like he said, with a little boy walking next to him.

"Mamma, this boy can do a lot of stuff. He can juggle, and-"

"That's wonderful, honey. What's your name, sweetie-" The boy was about to give his name when a screech went up into the air.

"Monster! Leave my child alone!" The woman walked away with her daughter quickly. The boy frowned. He looked at his arm, his shrivelled, deformed arm. He had kept it hidden well, but he had accidently scratched his nose in front of the woman. He shook his head, telling himself that he didn't care, but the tears came, all the same.

"Are you crying?" The man was standing before him. The man never said it in a patronizing or mean way, just kindly, but the boy still didn't like people doing that. He wasn't used to it.

"Sh-shut up. Am not!" He wiped his tears with his fingers. The teardrops felt cold on his skin. Later, when he was on the man's back, warm and sleepy, he asked a question.

"Would things have been different if I didn't have this arm?" The man didn't answer.

"If things become difficult, never stand still." The man said, in his kind and usual manner. "Always keep walking, Allen." The boy was going to retort that that did not answer his question, but he felt so warm and comfortable that he decided not to.

The man did not wear makeup all the time anymore, he only wore it when they were acting, he and the boy, on the street corners to get tips, or when they performed with a troupe. The winter was getting cold, and he had decided to buy the boy a coat. The boy had cut his hair too. The man thought the boy would be happy with a coat. The man showed it to the boy, and the boy almost ran, but the man was quicker. The man started to wrap the coat around the boy, crouching down to button it.

"I don't wanna wear such childish clothes!" The man smiled as the boy pulled at his cheeks in full retaliation.

"It's fine, you're very cute!" It was a compliment.

"Ugh, but I wanna be a cool clown! Gimme a break!" The bicker squabble continued as the man held up the boy in his arms and put him on his back, a never ending, warm, almost meaningless banter. There was a flutter of feathers atop the treetops of a yellow golem, but that the man and the boy never noticed.

"…" The man called the boy's name. "Do you want to play a game, while we wait for the train?" The boy nodded. He was clad in the coat the man had bought him. It wasn't too bad, he thought with a slight scowl. The man began to draw two circles into the snow with a stick, and started to scribble on the drawn circles.

"…, what's that?" The boy asked, looking at the unfamiliar symbol. It looked like two lines attached to two more lines that had circles at the end of it. The man smiled; a flicker reminiscent of some bygone past.

"This is a note, and it's a code."

"You want me to revive Mana Walker?-3"

A fat clown appeared before the boy. So sad. So lonely. The man was not even related to him, he knew that. But he'd been thrown away because of his defective hand, and the man was the only one that adopted him. The boy spoke the words to the fat clown, words that were only pleas.

"A..lle…n." A coarse voice came from the skull of the skeleton that the clown produced. Was it the man's? MANA was written on the forehead of the skull. "You made me into an Akuma…"

Pain. Pain slashed through the boy. He couldn't open his left eye. What happened? With his other eye he could see blood. His left cheek hurt. He was scared.

"ALLEN! YOU MADE ME INTO AN AKUMA!" The skeleton roared, in the man's voice. "I'LL CURSE YOU-I'LL CURSE YOU, ALLEN!" No. No. The man was supposed to come back. The boy didn't want to make the man mad. From his right eye he began to cry.

The clown hummed a tune. Sorry. He was so sorry. He didn't mean to make the man mad. What was happening? He didn't know. He felt his left arm moving, and saw it tear apart the glove that he wore. In the place of his arm, there was a white, clawlike arm. It went and swallowed the skeleton. The skeleton screamed with the man's voice as the claw came in contact.

"Gyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" The boy didn't know what happened. What was the claw? The clown disappeared. The claw seeked to destroy. It grabbed towards the body, the evil. The boy was dragged along with it as the claw moved itself towards the skeleton.

"What the hell…?" The boy was confused. So confused. What happened? "My hand just automatically.." He looked up and saw the skeleton writhing on the ground, unable to stand. The man. The claw was headed for the man. Destroy. Destroy. Destroy.

"Mana?" No. Not Mana. He didn't want to do this. "No, don't do this to Mana..!" Mana was bleeding from the forehead. He had done it. His arm had done it. No. He didn't want to do this.

"Run…Run, Dad!" He cried out. No. Why did this happen? He just wanted Mana back… Mana couldn't move. The claw…his claw was unavoidable.

"Allen…I…love you…" No. This wasn't supposed to happen. Mana was supposed to hug him. And then tell him sorry that he left so suddenly. And then he'd hug Mana back. And then…and then…

"Please destroy me." As the claws dug in, the curse was forever imprinted in Allen Walker's memory.

"UWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Thank you for reading this long, laborious story of Mana and the Fourteenth.