"Gyaah!" Deon awoke with a shock. His eyes snapped open — then closed again almost immediately. "Ahhhhh… just a dream… I almost never fall asleep during a bath… so warm…"
"Oh, awake are we?"
"Yes?," Deon answered. "Gyah, no!"
*Thung
"Ugh…" he hit the side of the tub with a dull sound, then slumped back, groaning.
"Easy there… it's about done anyway," said the shopkeeper, his voice smooth and oddly comforting. He lifted a massive, motor-like contraption from the water, dripping and humming softly.
Deon spared no other second. He scrambled out of the tub as quickly as he could, water cascading down his skin. He got out of the tub as quickly as he could, greeted by a mirror shoved in front of him by the shopkeeper.
"In all your glory, m'lord," the man said, bowing his head slightly, voice dripping with theatrical humility.
"Aha!" Deon let out a gasp. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened. "Restored." he celebrated.
He placed both palms on the mirror. There he stood in his reflection: all of his former beauty laid bare. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he hugged the mirror and held it for a long moment.
"Haa… wait… but how?" His voice cracked. "I didn't even ask you to… This is perfect. I look almost as I used to: the cut, the color… How did you make my skin like this too? Like before — only the good remains of the transformation… How did you know? This is perfect. All of it." Deon asked, admiring himself. Turning his head, tilting it, searching every angle.
"I'm just that good. I'm so good that people never have complaints — even those who come specifically to cause trouble never have complaints."
"I won't even ask. You're splendid, my dude. This is all I wanted, and I didn't even tell you…"
"Aww, shucks, geez… flattery won't make this free." The barber getting visibly pink scratching the back of his head.
"I think I love you, my dude," Deon said, still deeply enamored with his own reflection, turning this way and that, inspecting every angle.
"Huh? Now you know." bragged the keeper with his told-you-so tone.
"Hey! If you're done, do I get my turn?!" the stranger yelled from the doorway. "How long do you plan to admire yourself?"
Come on, Luke, give him the time. Every hunter is a narcissist, you know."
"Nah, I'm done," Deon interrupted, stepping back from the mirror with a soft sigh. He looked at the stranger, then at Max. "Feel free to divert your attention to him. I can't imagine being in that state for long either." he continued. Grabbing a pair of pants and a random red jacket off the shelf to cover himself.
"Alrighty," Max said, turning away with a grin. "By the way, just call me Max. Everyone does."
"In hindsight… I don't know what I was afraid of," Deon said, glancing between the two men hoping for an explanation as he pulled his pants back up and slipped his arms into his jacket. He left it unzipped, no shirt underneath — purely to flex, purely to let the world see. After all, hunters were narcissistic by nature. "Also… do I pay for these new clothes? And why do you even have a whole rack of outfits back here in this… torture-chamber closet?"
"Take a seat, m'lord. We'll have you looking like a god before you know it." max gestured to the chair with a flourish.
And so before Max could now turn to answer Deon, the stranger with eager steps ascended unto the chair, his eyes darting nervously between the cracked mirrors and the rusted contraptions lining the walls.
"It's fine," he said, settling in as Max readied his blades. "He has that effect on people. It's his peculiarity. He was born with it. His body gives off this cold aura that often makes people hallucinate details and trigger fight-or-flight responses."
"Must suck," Deon commented.
"I'm actually more than just a barber, you see. People generally show up dressed like hobos here after being afflicted, so I keep clothes on hand for any and all needs. If there's a market, tap it, you know — good business. Especially when your entire bread and butter comes from one specific demographic." Max answered the rest of the questions that Deon had. "And yeah, it does suck, but I'm used to it now." He paused, glancing at Deon. "And yes, you pay for those clothes, obviously. And yeah… it does suck. But I'm used to it now."
The man, without the prior ghastly aura, max seemed... simpler. Still oddball for a truly normal person, but by hunter standards, he was as standard as they came.
He was still unmistakably dressed like an Oompa Loompa and that was not an hallucination, with forest-green hair to match his bright yellow clothes with red stripes. Stickers clung around his eyes and face. For someone who ran the profession he did, his hair was rather overgrown and unmaintained all the way to shoulders and combed just enough to keep them straight— it really was a forest. But beyond that, no quirks to boot, at least as far as Deon had been able to gather. For someone who used to be a hunter, he was the most normal person Deon had seen.
"Anyway, name's Deon, since I am perfection incarnate," Deon continued, introducing himself, finding no longer any point in hiding his identity.
"Call me Luke. I guess I was hoping things would not end up like this, but I see you and—seems you will be seeing me now," the stranger replied while being worked on by Max.
Ting.
"Uh… am I at the right place? I heard this is where I'm supposed to go to get rid of… the Awakening curse." A new customer stepped in — small in stature, looking like a goblin. His hair and clothes hid all his features except for his nose, which managed to protrude through the veil of overgrown hair that reached all the way to the floor.
"Welcome. Please be seated. I'll attend to you in a bit," replied Max in his usual soft voice.
"Wait… so this is common?" Deon exclaimed, stepping out of the hell-chamber and into the main storefront again.
"Yes. For men, that is." Luke answered with something of a smug chuckle, the nervous glance gone along with his disgusting, disheveled look — although still looking rather incomplete.
"What?"
"For some reason, the chamber spits females out prettier than ever and turns us into… vagrants. Sometimes worse…"
"Like a homeless gigolo?" Deon asked, his frown riddled with a migraine of embarrassment, recalling himself just a few minutes prior. "Or that goblin over there..."
"Yeah," Luke commented, chuckling. His confidence and personality returned with every snipping sound max's blades made. "A cruel thing. For ego maniacs like us who hold reflections precious."
"By the way… you know, now that you're 'restored,' I think I recognize you. That bright red choice of hair color… yeah, I think it's you. You left quite an impression on my sister the other day."
"Your sister?" And so it slowly—but as soon as he spoke—it dawned on him. "Oh, blimey… Wolfgrimm." Deon spoke, and not a second too late, as the figure became all too recognizable in the cracked mirror. He was the boy from that controversial clip. One that provoked the masses to take up arms against him. Public enemy number two after his father.
To Be Continued==>