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It’s your friend’s idea, of course.
They send you a flyer the night before — a blurry photo of some guy in a cape, across the bottom were scribbled in bright letters. You think it’s a joke at first. A magician? In broad daylight? In the middle of Robloxia?
“Come on,” your friend insists. “It’ll be fun. Or at least funny.”
It does sound ridiculous. But you’re free, and you’re curious too. If this Artful guy is really the talk of Robloxia, you want to see why.
So now you’re here, squinting against the afternoon sun with half a town crammed into the park for long 7 minutes. People stand scattered across the grass, some pacing, some sighing loudly as if to announce how bored they are. Kids weave between legs, laughing as they chase each other. Someone’s crunching chips loudly. A group of teens lounge against a tree, already smirking like they came just to heckle.
“Bet he doesn’t even show,” your friend mutters, hands shoved deep in their pockets. “If I were him, I’d be too embarrassed to show my face.”
You roll your eyes. “Maybe he’s just late.”
They grin at you. “Aw, look at you defending him already.”
You want to say something back, but then you hear a cough, a shuffle, the scrape of a mic stand being dragged across wood.
The crowd stirs. Heads turn toward the makeshift stage at the center of the park, nothing more than a few planks laid out and draped with a lopsided curtain. And there he is at last, stepping out from behind it like he owns the place.
At first glance, he looks like he’s walked out of another century, black and white against the bright day. A dark suit with crisp white arms, tie knotted too perfectly, a wide top hat tilted just so. Half his face disappears behind a cracked black mask, jagged like it’s been through one too many shows...
In one hand, he carries a wand that emits faint white sparks, the glow strange in daylight, as though it’s trying its best to be seen.
He doesn’t stride out, exactly. More like… he stands there, letting everyone take him in. The angry scowl painted across his face is sharp enough to cut, but something about his posture — stiff, almost self-conscious — makes you think he knows just how absurd he looks.
“God, look at this guy,” your friend mutters under their breath, snickering. A few others laugh along.
But then Artful raises the wand, taps it once against the mic stand, and his voice bursts bright and cheerful:
“For this trick,” he says, “I’ll need a volunteer.”
There’s a ripple of silence.
Seriously, nobody moves.
The mood in the crowd shifts, some shuffling their feet, others glancing at each other with smirks like, you go first. Artful stands there with his wand raised, his posture stiffening with each second that ticks by. The crackle in his voice when he tries again doesn’t quite mask the hesitation.
“Anyone at all?”
Your friend elbows you, grinning like they’ve been waiting for this. “Hey, you should go.”
You whip your head around. “What? No.”
“C’mon, don’t act shy.” They’re loud on purpose, their voice carrying over the quiet audience. “Besides…” The grin grows, and their eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ve got a crush on him, don’t you? You seemed out of place when he walked in~”
Your face heats up. “What? That’s because he looks—old-fashioned, not—”
Before you can argue, Artful’s gaze snaps toward you. For a second he looks startled, almost flustered behind that half-broken mask — then he recovers, clearing his throat. You wonder if your friend was too loud.
“You there,” he says, pointing the wand straight at you. His voice is too bright now, almost rehearsed. “Would you do me the honor?”
And just like that, every pair of eyes in the park swings your way.
Your stomach flips. The wand is aimed squarely at you, sparkles fizzing faintly at its tip. You open your mouth to protest, but your friend is already shoving at your back, all but hurling you toward the stage.
“Perfect!” Artful declares, relief almost slipping into his tone, though he catches himself quickly. His voice rises into a dramatic timbre, carrying over the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a brave soul!”
The audience reacts with a scatter of chuckles and polite claps. You climb the shallow step onto the planks, trying not to trip.
Up close, Artful looks even stranger. His sharp black-and-white form feels out of place against the sunlit park, like someone cut him from an old photograph and pasted him here. The half-broken mask covers most of his face, but you can see the tight line of his jaw, the faint twitch in his gloved hand gripping the wand.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says, voice pitched softer now, meant only for you. The angry scowl painted across his face makes the reassurance sound ironic, almost mocking, but there’s a warmth beneath it that surprises you.
The crowd is watching. You force yourself to nod.
“Good,” he murmurs. Then, louder, with a flourish of his free hand: “Now! For this trick, I require trust. Absolute, unshakable trust!”
Somebody in the audience snickers. A kid shouts, “Boo!” Your friend cups their hands and yells, “Don’t drop ‘em!” earning a ripple of laughter.
Artful doesn’t flinch, but you notice his fingers tighten slightly around the wand. He takes a slow breath, tilts his head toward you, and says just quietly enough: “Ignore them.”
Then, with practiced ease, he raises the wand high. The sparks flare brighter, impossibly bright against the daylight. Gasps stir through the crowd, it looks real.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs.
You hesitate, but eventually, you do.
The air feels different immediately, heavy with expectation. You hear the soft swish of his sleeve, the faint crackle of sparks as his wand cuts through the space between you. And then—!!
...Nothing.
The silence lingers there for far too long that you crack an eye open to see if anything happened.
Artful is frozen, wand raised, sparks sputtering weakly like a dying campfire. He tries to flick his wrist again, harder this time. A puff of smoke pops out,pathetic, no bigger than the steam off a tea kettle. Someone in the crowd snorts. Another laughs outright.
“Is that it?” another heckles from the tree.
The laughter swells, rippling through the audience. Your friend doubles over, wheezing. “Oh my gosh,” they choke out between laughs, “that’s— that’s the big trick? I can’t—”
Your cheeks burn with secondhand embarrassment. Artful lowers his wand slowly, stiff as a statue. He bows with exaggerated flourish, but you’re close enough to see the tightness in his shoulders, the way his gloved hand trembles faintly before he tucks it behind his back.
The applause he gets is sparse, scattered, and mostly sarcastic. Within moments, the audience begins to drift — kids pulling at their parents, teens shaking their heads as they stroll away. Your friend is still giggling, wiping tears from their eyes.
You, though—your chest aches a little.
When the stage clears, you linger. Artful stands there alone, facing the lopsided curtain as though trying to will it closed. For a moment he looks… smaller. It looks like the black-and-white edges of him might blur if you stared too long.
You take a cautious step forward. “Uh... hey.”
He startles, just barely, before straightening and turning toward you. The angry looking scowl hasn’t changed, but somehow his whole demeanor shifts. He smiles, though it is not wide, not cocky, but steady, almost gentle. “Ah. My bravest volunteer. You were magnificent.”
You raise a brow. “I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s the secret of it.” He taps the side of his mask with his wand, as if that explains everything.
For a moment, you don’t know what to say. He looks fine on the surface, but you can still feel a bit of his disappointment lingering in the air. So you grin at him, nudging at him lightly: “Well, if it makes you feel better… I thought the smoke was impressive.”
That earns a soft huff of laughter from him. He tilts his head, as though weighing you, then lifts the wand again. “Impressive, you say? Hm. Perhaps… one more try.”
The wand flickers weakly at first, like it might sputter out again. But then, with a little flourish, he produces something small in his palm. A flower. Not perfect, the petals look a little wilted, edges uneven, but it’s there, conjured from nothing.
He holds it out toward you. “For my assistant, in today's show.”
When you take it, the sparks at his wand’s tip shine alive again — brighter, steadier, almost like they’re responding to you.