It's Curtains Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stagemanagers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
itscurtains2016-11-26 11:26 am
stagemanagers) wrote in itscurtains2016-11-26 11:26 am
THE FINAL ACT
You've all dispersed into a lot of hidden areas, but you'll come together as a group once more. When you do, you'll find that the theatre doors are open.
For once, things are different inside. There are no podiums in the orchestra pit; instead, the curtain is open and the stage is lit. You'll notice there's a small set of stairs at either end, allowing you easy access up. Ten podiums have been moved onto the bare stage, arranged in a loose semi-circle facing a higher wooden platform. Atop it is a single chair, red-cushioned and gilded like a throne. In the vaguely circular space between the platform and the podiums is absolutely nothing: it's a deep, dark pit. The lighting in here is pretty good, but it still doesn't reach the bottom.
The podiums that once belonged to the dead are gone entirely. The bare lightbulbs that stood in their places, however, are clustered on either side of the stage, like a makeshift audience. They're finally turned off.
As the cast enters and begins to find their places, there's a sound like an invisible orchestra tuning up. Strings and woodwinds run scales in a quiet cacophony that eventually shapes itself into a wordless song. A man in jeans and a plain white T-shirt enters from stage right as they play, singing quietly as if to himself as he ascends the stairs onto the platform and turns out to survey the cast.
Velkommen, bienvenue, welcome...
The Balladeer falls quiet, looking thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head and taking his seat. Once there, he turns his attention to flipping through the papers in his hands. "Well. Let's get started, shall we?"
For once, things are different inside. There are no podiums in the orchestra pit; instead, the curtain is open and the stage is lit. You'll notice there's a small set of stairs at either end, allowing you easy access up. Ten podiums have been moved onto the bare stage, arranged in a loose semi-circle facing a higher wooden platform. Atop it is a single chair, red-cushioned and gilded like a throne. In the vaguely circular space between the platform and the podiums is absolutely nothing: it's a deep, dark pit. The lighting in here is pretty good, but it still doesn't reach the bottom.
The podiums that once belonged to the dead are gone entirely. The bare lightbulbs that stood in their places, however, are clustered on either side of the stage, like a makeshift audience. They're finally turned off.
As the cast enters and begins to find their places, there's a sound like an invisible orchestra tuning up. Strings and woodwinds run scales in a quiet cacophony that eventually shapes itself into a wordless song. A man in jeans and a plain white T-shirt enters from stage right as they play, singing quietly as if to himself as he ascends the stairs onto the platform and turns out to survey the cast.
Velkommen, bienvenue, welcome...
The Balladeer falls quiet, looking thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head and taking his seat. Once there, he turns his attention to flipping through the papers in his hands. "Well. Let's get started, shall we?"
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...I can't believe I was right about the clones.
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It's been almost two months, ten people are dead, a magical girl turned into a poorly-dressed Biblical figure at some point, he had to utter the words "cow pendulum" in all seriousness, last week was probably the most pissed off Billy has ever been, he's spent way too long examining bodies, there's a corpse in a trunk upstairs, he just watched an unexpected historical snuff film, he is possibly here because of motherfucking Aaron Burr of all people, and God is dead and for all we know Fromme probably killed Him, whoever the hell Fromme is.
He is absolutely not here for whatever the Balladeer thinks he's doing right now, and processing it is not going to be a thing that happens anytime soon.]
Good to see that you're doing better. Try not to get blood on the suit this time, all right?
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What... What's the meaning of this?
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What
even
the fuck
is this????]
...That's it. I've gone mad - a man gets shot in the head right in front of me and now he's standing in front of me dressed like a toy murderer...?
[He turns and glares up at the theater boxes.] What evil tricks do you play now, Management?!
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Anyway, he is absolutely not here for any of this today and the exasperation is obvious even without the
So. What do you want us to call you.
[It's not even a proper question he is so Done.]
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That's...casual for you.
...Do they have copies of us too?
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So, uh, does this mean that we can bring people back from the dead?
[I mean, he always kind of suspected that once he realized that they probably weren't trapped in Hell, but wow, it sure is weird looking at the Balladeer after seeing him get shot last week.]
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TERMS AND CONDITIONS
[The Balladeer (or whoever) drops his papers and stands, raising both hands until everyone has stopped talking. Then he lifts one to rub at his temple.]
I completely understand why they wanted an understudy for this now. Alright, I guess you weren't filled in, so here's the situation. You're here to decide how to go forward. There's two options open to you.
First: you can all stay here and join the crew of this Opera House. You guys know what that job entails, right? You must have seen them while you were here... [He waves a hand dismissively.] Anyway. Option two: you can still leave and go back home, but only if you sacrifice one of your own. To pay the toll or something, I guess.
[He sits back down, frowning.]
My place here is just to moderate. Feel free to discuss for however long you want.
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NOT A GAGTAG
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So we're all doing an absolutely swell job of getting angry and hurt and frustrated, and believe me, I understand why. But the fact of the matter is that we're also doing a swell job of getting distracted.
Let's put aside the terms and conditions for now, and more importantly, we're going to have to ignore B until we need him to answer questions. He's already said that he's just here as a moderator. He's not going to help us, but he's not going to hinder us, either, if that's the case, so we need to just leave him alone. Let him play his part while we play ours. It's what we're here to do, right? Play our parts to the best of our abilities.
Last time we were in a situation like this, somebody got shot because we tried to take a third option. So let's cool down the revolution talk a little bit until we know what we're looking at. Being able to make an informed choice is important to all of us, right? So let's look at what we found earlier, let's see what we can figure out, let's try to verify exactly what we're looking at when it comes to this place. We've all found things, it's probably a lot, so...one thing at a time until we can get a clearer picture.
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1/2
On the wall behind the performers a sheer black curtain drops suddenly from the ceiling. There's a beat of silence before a blast of organ music fills the court room. Behind the curtain a light illuminates the figure a person standing just behind it. They're incredibly tall and when stretch their arms out and up the long cape they're wearing flows down gives the illusion of long, trailing wings.
The music swells-]
2/2
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ALRIGHT Y'ALL BRING IT IN
But...the Leading Player's fixation on roles...it gives him an idea. A wonderful idea. A half-baked, Leroy Jenkins-esque, wonderful idea - the beginnings of a third option that would make the audience go wild.
Raoul moves from behind his podium, looking directly at the stagehands on the stage, and spreads his arms wide.]
All of you there - you see us, don't you? You've been watching us just as much as our audience has! And you have tred these floors in the same manner, stood at such podiums and have walked through the darkest of nights! And yet, look at where you are - under the thumb of your once-captor, scrubbed of all agency and personage, and for what? What has become of your lives in servitude to this place?
[He gestures all around him.] Look at us! We have hope among us - love, the possibility for new lives and happy futures! We'll be damned if anyone takes that away for a single one of us! [Slowly, he reaches a hand out towards the stagehands, open, waiting.] And...despite your former choices...do you not think, in the depths of your hearts, that all of you deserve such a chance as well? No option from the Leading Player should ever be in consideration, and if you fear death - the Balladeer was killed in front of all of us, do you not remember? However it is done, we will find the method and ensure that all those who awoke in this opera house are allowed to walk out of it alive!
[And before he says another word, he regards the Leading Player with contempt and, no stuttering, no slouch, still the same upright and confident man he has always been, despite death and dreams and doubt.]
After all...as I have told you, Madame, we were never all that these assigned titles made us out to be. I rival no man.
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