She arrived at the community center just as the sun went down. The air smelled like fresh cut green grass and California winter. Unmowed leaves blew in the wind and trashbags caught on the edge of the buildings benches. Inside she saw lights and people moving about. She couldn’t make out any faces. She didn’t see any bodies.

The front door was open but nobody was in the entrance hallway. Signs advertising long gone childrens fairs and basketball teams hung on the notice boards by the entrance. She heard soft music playing from the basketball gym. As she walked down the music got louder and louder, she recognized the piece it was Shostakovich’s string quartet number 8 in C minor. Her mom like all eastern European moms wanted Iona to be a violinist. She’d constantly play the songs while Iona bathed or slept and probably even when Iona was in the womb but the music never stuck. She remembered the tune though. She hummed it to herself as she walked in.

The room was crowded and hung with people. Men, women and she thought she saw a small child. The dress by in large was business casual. Lots of buttondowns and jeans. Some of them looked like they’d just come off the streets. Under one of the pulled up basketball hoops sat the band. Each one had to have been about seventy years old but their instruments hummed away like little humming birds.

The music flowed through her ears and something else changed. She felt like she’d just drunk coffee. It felt amazing. Her eyes sharpened and focused and she could smell something like cooked barbecue. They were Masters. All of them, the whole band. Along the bleachers someone had set up tables full of refreshments and snacks. Bags of chips and guacamole. Christian stood looking miserable eating a chip. He saw her and looked away and then he looked back at her and remembered he was meeting her. He walked over.

“Are they all Masters?” She asked him indicating the band

“Nice to meet you too porkie. Fatso. Everyone here is one or about to be one.”

“Everyone?” He nodded and she regarded everyone in a different light. They didn’t look that different. They dressed the same, they walked the same, but they all held immense powers. The music shifted and they started to play the opening to the Firebird suite. Her heart started to bubble. Anxiety blemished in her brain.

Someone screamed. A deep guttaral male scream. Something she’d never heard before. She looked for the source and realized it was above her. Hanging from the ceiling was a cage and in the cage sat an older man. His nose was bulbuous and hung out from his face. Someone smashed his hair in multiple places. His skin clung to his bones.

“Is that?” She asked Christian.

“Yep. This ugly motherfucker.”

“What did he do?”

“One of the worst crimes any Junker can do. He became too fucking good. He’s too close at least we think.” Christian said

“He’s about to go Wonderland.”

“I hope so.” She looked at him and frowned.

“Why do you hope so?”

“Because we could very easily be getting the wrong man. We know someone is going Wonderland but we don’t know who and he has all the signs.” She looked at the man searching for anything that could tell her more. He seemed like an ordinary crazy.

“What is he a master of?”

“Look at his shoes idiot.” She looked. And she saw the most magnificent beautiful pair of shoes she’d ever seen. The crispest shiniest leather. They twinkled under the light, as she looked more they enraptured her attention. They swirled with filigree and design. Etched dragons moved on the leather. The music grew louder in pace. Her heart rushed with adrenaline.

An official looking man came over to Christian. He glanced at her and her heart took a double-take. She’d never been stared at with such hatred. He looked at Christian the same way. The man whispered in Christian’s ears, Christian nodded and frowned.

“Duty fucking calls.” And he walked away leaving her alone. Nobody spared her a glance. She took a chip and tried to eat but her mouth didn’t even want to swallow so the mushed up chip just sat under her tongue.

The music switched again. One of the musicians pulled out a clarinet. Iona had tried to play the clarinet unsuccessfully once. The music always called to her, she loved the clarinet so much but she’d never got the hang of it. It might’ve been the saddest song she ever heard. Pure sorrow distilled in musical notes. The air noticeably got tinged with blue. She almost started to cry.

Everyone began to gather in a circle below the cage. Iona’s heart jumped in it’s chest, waiting for the cage to drop, waiting for Christian to begin with his crime. And now she saw Christian take center stage, he held the black ball of her emotions in his right and his tattoo gun in the left. He switched them realizing that he would have to tattoo with his right. Everyone looked at him and nobody talked. The music fell to just soft notes in the background, even the musicians leered in.

“We, the Masters of Junktown have come to prevent our destruction. The cities seers have declared that there is a Junktown Master about to go Wonderland. Mr. Boucher, our esteemed friend, seems to be that one. Would the evidence be presented?” The man who whispered in Christian’s ears shouted to the crowd. He stood next to Christian brandishing a long sword, the same sword she saw tattoo’d on Christian.

A short women stepped out of the crowd.

“I received this pair of shoes from Mr. Boucher on June 23rd.” She held out a pair of long black stilettos. The style of Mr. Boucher shone through the shoes. Filigree and pomp covered their surface and a million swirling designs moved and swarmed.

“On June 28, the shoes began to change. At first I thought nothing of it but they began to ‘help’ me” She did air quotes with her hands on ‘help’. In any other person Iona would’ve laughed, in any other situation she would’ve laughed but her words had grave consequence.

“I began to want to make shoes of my own. Even in my sewing I began to engrave similarly to Mr. Boucher’s uniqueness.” At these words she held up a sweater. It looked purple in the light, then it looked red, then it looked yellow, then Iona realized the trick. The sweater shone like stained glass. Iona looked harder and realized that each stitch seemed to move on the sweater, they swirled in the same way that the shoes swirled. The man with the mean eyes began to speak again.

“Is this not evidence enough for the Crown? We need to stop the transformation-” Mr. Boucher screamed. Long and anguished, piercing through the air, Iona covered her ears.

“You motherfuckers. You idiots. You absolute clowns. You know nothing of creation. Just because the power of my art has compelled an idiotic women doesn’t mean that I am close to Wonderland. I have followed every single procedure. I have checked myself. Just because I am the greatest motherfucker of all of you doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.” He barked, his voice raspy and curved. It sounded like the crescendo of a symphony. As he stopped to catch his breath, one of the musicians, the bassist, a tall thin man with hair covering his arms like a wooly coat, played a sharp note. Mr. Boucher tried to speak again but no words came out, only soft bass.

“He has shifted towards insanity. I’m sure most of us are aware of Mr. Boucher’s previous inclinations. Would he ever shout at us like that?” A man in the crowd said. Christian nodded. They all murmured.

“A decision is in order, those among us in favor of the Crown raise their hands.” The man with the mean eyes looked at Iona as he said his words. He knew she wasn’t one of them. Hands shot up one by one, not everyone, but most of them, Christian shifted his feet. This time the man next to him looked at him. He raised his hand.

“It is decided. Lower the cage.” Iona watched as Mr. Boucher screamed. His voice came out only in loud bass notes. He banged on the cage. He thrust his arms out grasping towards them. One of the violinists played a note and Mr. Boucher’s body straightened up like it’d just been shocked. He didn’t move a muscle. The cage lowered. Christian looked around, his eyes darted from person to person, he looked, well he looked scared Iona thought.

Christian walked towards Mr. Boucher and unlocked the cage with a key in his back pocket. Christian grabbed Mr. Boucher and yanked him out, thrusting him onto the floor. He dipped his tattoo gun in the black emotions and began to work. The band played louder now. Mr. Boucher’s eyes stared out. She could see the pain, the utter agony dart in his vision, she could almost smell it. The pain in the air stunk. She watched as Christian drew a single thorn, then another and another. His hand darted over the man’s neck. It was a murder. It was a decapitation. The tattoo gun became the executioners axe.

She smelled sulfur in the air, magic had sufused the area. Some of the Masters looked away, some of them cried. They all looked like someone had struck them in the face. They all looked punched. Everyone looked awful, except the man who ordered it. He stared with his mean eyes at Christian. No emotion besides cruelty touched his face.

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Christian threw his tattoo gun up to the air, he’d completed the front half of the Crown. He gestured towards someone in the crowd and they flipped the man over. Iona could only watch his work. She tried to move a muscle but she’d been paralyzed. Her heart couldn’t handle this. This wasn’t necessary. Couldn’t they just let him live?

Christian began his work again, connecting each thorn together, connecting each line, connecting each little death. In five minutes, Christian completed half of the crown. His pace slowed, each new line he drew with difficulty. He even stepped back for a second to admire his work and shake out his arm.

After twenty minutes, the full Crown needed only one thorn. This was her fault, if she didn’t let herself get caught, if Iona didn’t feel these awful emotions. If she hadn’t gone to investigate. Her mind went faster and faster. Thoughts flew, pictures dotted her brain. Pictures of herself wearing this Crown. Wearing this guilt.

“Can you stop.” She said it like a whisper but her whisper turned out to be much louder. Everyone stared at her. The eyes felt awful, like needles in her skin, like a thousand tattoos dotting her arms.

“Can you please stop this.” She said it, louder, almost prouder.

“Who are you? Who are you? Who the fuck are you?” The man with the mean eyes said but she could only look at Mr. Boucher’s eyes staring at her. He knew. Her thoughts were suffusing him, she could feel them.

“I am the ink.” Christian paused his work and looked at her. She’d never felt this many eyes on her, so many judgements.

“And because you are the ink, you have some right to doom our whole world? You have no permission to speak, you hardly have permission to be here.” His words echoed harsh in her ears. The bands music played louder in her ears.

“Do you even know that his crime is true?” The words fell out and she didn’t know how they got there.

“That doesn’t matter.” The man with the mean eyes said. Those same eyes fixed themselves on her brow. He didn’t even look at her. He didn’t even see her. But she noticed that everyone else didn’t look at her anymore, they looked at him.

“What?”

“He’s already too far along. Even if he won’t turn Wonderland now, it’s only five years till he will. He’s too good. But he will turn Wonderland. We Masters can smell it on him.” She opened her mouth and closed it. Would anything she say change this? She could try and punch her way through this but none of that would work. There was no way out. But Mr. Boucher looked at her. She could feel his eyes. The only part of his body that could move. But those eyes didn’t have fear, they didn’t have pain, they had pity. Why would he pity her? Why does the dying man pity?

This old man didn’t pity her because she was ugly. She knew that. He’d lived his life for too long, devoted too long to his craft. He pitied her for some hidden third reason, one that lay just beyond her mind, lay just beyond her thoughts.

“Do you have anything else to say miss?” The man with the mean eyes spat. She said nothing because there was nothing to say. She only stepped back a bit, into the crowd. Nobody looked at her but they all felt one emotion for her, the unmistakable stench of embarrassment. The leader nodded and Christian began to work again. As he drew the last thorn something changed in the air. The light in the room began to focus, it began to flow towards the man’s neck. Even the musicians couldn’t stop his convulsing now. He thrashed on the ground, he clutched at his neck, he scraped his long finger nails into his skin and blood spurted out. But the process had been completed. After a minute, he fell still.

Christian whispered in his ear, Iona couldn’t hear it but she knew the meaning, she knew the words.

“I’m sorry. Wake up.” Mr. Boucher’s eyes opened and then they closed and then they opened again. The world didn’t look right to him, shaking his body he balanced on his elbows and looked down at his shoes. He took them off, not peeling his eyes from their body, and he kissed them and he cried.

“It was a good decision professor.” His voice became a thick timber. The man with the mean eyes, the professor, nodded.

“We are all sorry Mr. Boucher.” At this those mean eyes of his softened. They all knew the risks of their profession, they all knew what it felt like to have their lives taken away.

“You will be taken care of.”

“I know. But I don’t know if I want to. Give my journals to the tall girl. I will die now. I think it’s the only way. I can only die. I don’t know if I was going Wonderland but it was a good decision. Feel no guilt any of you. I can finally die in peace. I will not destroy our world.” The professor nodded and signaled some others to help the man up.

Iona could only stare at the ceiling, her mind didn’t have anything in it. She couldn’t do anything. She’d tried to save a man who didn’t want saving. Was she that bad?

Christian said nothing and took her by the arm and led her out of the building. Nobody looked at her and for the first time Iona liked it that way. As they walked out, she heard a voice.

“Are you ok?” Iona didn’t turn around.

“Don’t bother her ugly fucker.” Christian said. But Iona turned and saw who asked. The women’s sharp jawline and blue hair stared back. She knew this women.

“I know her asshole.” Marie said.

“You’re here?”

“I’m here.” She should’ve expected. She should’ve seen her. But everything else distracted her.

“Let me get you some ice cream babes.” Marie said. Christian let go of her arm.

“Ok.” Marie took her hand and Iona felt electricity move through her. Nobody held her hand before. Someone elses hand felt like a mitt. Iona felt her sweat. Felt her fingertips. As they walked neither said anything. It was the thirty minutes before night and purples and oranges dotted the sky. Iona could still hear the music.

“You shouldn’t have been there.” Marie said, gripping Iona’s hand in hers.

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Not many people’s emotions are strong enough for that. I can’t imagine what they’re like now.”

“You’re a Master?” Iona asked.

“I’m almost one but my dad invites me to these things because he wants me to get experience.” They arrived at the ice cream place. It was just a small corner-store, “Venice Convenience.” Marie got two ice-cream sandwiches and a pack of cigarettes. They sat on the corner facing the street. Cars whizzed in front of them. Iona let the ice-cream sandwich sit in her hand. She looked at her stump.

“How did it happen?” Marie asked.

“Just an accident.” Marie nodded but didn’t believe her. Iona could tell from her eyes.

“Can I touch it?” Iona stared at her and said nothing.

“Sorry if that’s a weird question. I’m just so curious what it feels like.”

“You can.” Marie brought her hands to the stump, it tickled when she touched it. The tickle spread throughout Iona’s body. Marie didn’t keep her eyes off Iona’s. They bore into her.

“I know you didn’t get this through a normal accident. I have eyes you know. I’m not an idiot. Like I know you don’t think I am but I really am not.” Iona nodded and looked back at Marie’s eyes. She’d never seen a women who looked like Marie. She just had such a unique face. What a unique combination of characteristics.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Iona said but looked away. She couldn’t reveal the deck. Couldn’t let anyone know. Because anyone could be jealous. Everyone could desire it. They sat for a while together. Neither said much of anything.

Marie drove her back home. She smoked as she drove. Iona wished she would stop but she didn’t say anything. Couldn’t bring herself to. She just sat and twiddled her thumbs on the edge of the car.

The deck of cards in her pocket felt heavy. She knew there’d be a card. Would it be pain? Or would it be some other emotion. Embarrassment? She’d felt so much that maybe the deck would give her two cards.

She knew what she had to do. She’d never thought about her place in the world. She’d never thought about what she wanted to do. She just thought about beauty. Think about beauty? She wanted to do something but at every turn that fact stared back at her. Mirrors hated her and eyes hated her more.

“You know you have such a beautiful face.” Iona looked over.

“I do?” She snorted. But Marie didn’t laugh. She looked relaxed in her seat, like a boxer about to punch. Her whole body sat like that, it’s purpose dedicated to one thing. Each muscle poised, each bone ready. Even her eyes stared out in sharp, distant, watch. Marie pulled her car in to park. She looked at Iona. But she didn’t look at Iona’s face, just a little bit below her shoulder.

“You do.” They sat in silence for a while.

“Ok I should go. Thank you for giving me a ride, I guess I’ll see you at boxing lessons tommorow.” Marie nodded, slowly. Iona didn’t move at all.

“Ok goodbye.” Iona got up and unlocked the door, but she kept looking at Marie. She didn’t take her eyes off Marie. She really saw her, her blemishes, the scar just above her eye, all of it.

Iona got out. Marie waved her goodbye through the window. She watched as she drove away, cigarette smoke flowing out the window like an odorous breadcrumb. The air smelled sweet and thick. The smell of her home.

She got home, cleaned herself up a bit, took a shower, ate a small bit of toast and sat on her bed. She didn’t put on any clothes, just sat naked in the dark, taking in the cool night air. She got the deck of cards from her desk and checked it.

Like gifts on Christmas morning, two new cards appeared. Another 2 of Pain and a 2 of Talking. The time had come for her to mix her cards. She’d accumulated enough. She needed to change.

She had five cards: 2 of Desire, 2 of Pain, 2 of Pain, 2 of Water and 2 of Talking. Most of them seemed unpleasant, especially the pain cards. Iona didn’t want to inflict pain on anyone. What type of pain did it even mean? Emotional pain? Physical? Both? It made more sense to combine cards together. But the water card was definitely the odd one out. What if water started falling out of her body? What if her hair was permanently wet?

She laid the cards out on her bed. The 2 of Desire looked back at her. It glinted, it swirled, it looked utterly beautiful in her vision. But the card didn’t fit with anything. She picked up the 2 of Talking. Talking and desire fit naturally together. Desire came first and then everyone talked. They were a natural fit together.

The process of combination had changed. Maybe it was the type of card that changed it. A sparkling rainbow sheen covered the card. It shone with a thousand different colors, it blasted Iona’s face. Her eyes slammed shut and when she opened them a new card laid in front of her. Blood started to pump in her skull, her eyes wobbled. The card showed Iona’s face and Marie’s face. Their lips moved in imitation of speech. A 3 of Sultry Voice, it said on the top in the same gold writing. Iona didn’t want to see it anymore.

Instead of just inserting the card into her chest immediately, she stood in front of her mirror. Her eyes traced her bodies flaws. The familiar combination of features, the familiar flawed recipe for a face. This card wouldn’t fix it but it would change it.

Her stump ached, that was a problem she couldn’t fix. Iona stared at the card and then it was in her chest. Her hand moved faster than her brain could process. The innate desire in her mind for beauty, for desire, moved without her allowing it. A burning sensation flooded her body, heat from every angle, heat then pain, red white hot pain all along her face, in her throat, in her chest, and in her brain. A splitting headache echoed from every angle of her ears. Everything rang but she kept her eyes open. In front of her, she watched as her face began to shift, her legs grew longer and her skin grew paler.

The pain began to die down but didn’t leave completely. Even as she knew the process was over, a little inkling of pain remained, in her chest, in her core. She looked at the new skin, she looked at the new lips. It didn’t change her completely. She still had the features that dotted her ugly maw but it’d been alleviated a bit. It’d been glossed over.

It was like someone had taken a fan paint-brush too her face. She touched her face. Felt the contours of it. Felt the ways it’d changed and the ways it’d stayed the same.

“Wow.” Her voice, or rather, a voice echoed out of her. Because that voice that she heard didn’t sound like her own. It sounded, well it sounded similar, but not at the same time. As if someone had just slightly changed the tuning. She clutched her throat and talked again.

“Hello World?” She sounded sexy, she sounded alluring, it sounded good. Had she changed? Or had she been replaced? Could she still be herself without her face? Was it even worth it to care about that?

She wept. Tears flowed from her newly minted eyes and for once in her life she felt beautiful.