Unreal City

[Nayt]

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

- T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land."




Mandaz: It was already very late. His mother was going to have his head for dallying. It couldn’t be helped though; he had wanted to continue practicing until his voice gave out on him. Even when the instructor had tired and left him to the piano and the lingering stagehands wondered off to sip spirits and rummage through the dressing rooms for lost change, he still sat at the modest little piano at the corner of the stage, playing a modest piece to accompany the modest notes he sweetly chirped. It was a soft little Italian number he had been practicing. The lead was written for the voice of a woman, so he felt most comfortable with it, having a naturally softer, higher voice, he couldn’t keep up with the other tunes boys of his age were singing. And he felt even more comfortable now that the concert hall and stage were empty, quiet. Singing for an audience, even if just one, he found himself stifled, not nervous but…shy. Not here though, not now. Alone, he closed his violet eyes and allowed his fingers to trail across the keys they had visited so many times before. Alone, his voice warmed the concert hall.

The music was not the only feminine aspect of the performer. He was a frail boy of nineteen years; hair properly groomed and held up precariously with a red ribbon, chest held tight with a black frilled vest and collared white shirt beneath. For those with bad eyes or someone who would see him from afar he would appear as a woman due to his voice and lack of facial hair. Maladi, was his name. A promising young boy with a passion for singing. And sing he did, even as the sun set on the winters evening.

Nayto: There was no audience for the youth--the perfect opportunity for his practice. He could sing to his heart's content, and no one would hear him, not a single person in the opera hall. Not even a pauper or peasant paid to clean up was inside--not yet, at least. And they never did a good job, anyways, it was always a rushed thing; go in, grab what was in sight, make it look like the floors are swept, and leave. It was one of London's grand Opera Houses--the best place to practice pitch and echo, where the lined up chairs before the stage could allow the same echo effect as a full house of observers, and permit an up and coming singer to discern when he was singing too loud or too quick. It was also a great place to hide. There was a crash shortly after Maladi had begun to practice, and for a long time there was silence. The crash had been loud enough to overpower anything else within the opera house--Maladi's singing and the piano included. It came from within the opera house--a loud slam from the front doors and a bit of running, but no voices. Nothing at all beyond that rush of sound and silence . . .

Mandaz: A gasp had replaced words. The noise was so startling his fingers collapsed onto the keys with fright. His eyes shot open and every muscle tensed, half expecting some sort of monster to come barreling through the hall. The boy shivered a bit, as the flames in the surrounding candles flickered from the sudden gust of an open door. A gust of the frigid air sweeping through like a ghost, snuffing out some of the weaker flames. He immediately stood from his place at the piano, absentmindedly shuffling and straightening his sheets of music after doing so. Perhaps it was nothing. A stagehand going about his business, or his instructor coming to gather something he had forgotten. It wasn’t like someone to slam the doors with such force, it must have been urgent. Maladi tiptoed to center stage, trying to look out into the building to see who had entered, but it was covered in the shadows of the setting sun and the snuffed candles. No luck there, he’d have to get closer. The boy slid his slender frame off of the stage and into the house, clutching his arms for warmth already.

“Hello?” he called out, regretting not bringing his coat along. “T-the house is closed for the evening. They’ll be locking the doors soon.”

He stepped closer and closer, past each row of beautiful seats and pillars towards the lobby and the door which had made the noise in the first place, hoping to be heard by the intruder.

Nayto: There was no answer, no further suggestion that there was an intruder at all. He could very well have been hearing things, or perhaps a stagehand really was hurriedly leaving the house of music, possibly after a bad day--bad enough that he wanted to slam the doors closed behind him to proove a point. The flaw in such reasoning was that the doors didn't slam close, but open. The only way to slam them closed was from the inside. As Maladi tiptoed his way slowly into the lobby, he'd find not emptiness, but an intruder--an unfamiliar face, one that had never been there before, not as a stagehand, not as a performer, not even as a guest.

He was a young man with his back turned, and the only things Maladi would be able to see of him would be just the back of his clothes. He was five feet and eleven inches tall and wore a thick brown jacket, stitched up and tied together where holes had appeared over time, and a pair of slacks with similar stitches. His boots were torn, worn, and old, just like his cap--now like a restless cloth set upon his head, not like a hat. Amongst these features, his hair was visible: blond hair, wild and untamed despite how short it was--as wild as the young man himself . . .

Mandaz: Even just by viewing his back, Maladi could tell the stark differences between the two. A horrible habit he had picked up from his mother, a means of judging someone upon first glance. While Maladi’s clothes and hair were respectable and clean, the intruder looked to be some sort of pauper. He stopped dead in his tracks once the figure came to view, knowing he didn’t recognize him. There was still no threat of danger yet, he could have been a friend of an employee here, or maybe an innocent beggar looking to spend a night out of the cold and surrounded by walls. He didn’t want to startle this person into becoming violent either. There was a chance that he could have been robbed of his possessions simply by being associated with such a fine establishment. He held his hands to his chest, one holding the other to keep the warmth within them.

“I-I’m sorry” he nudged his shy voice out, attempting once again to speak with this intruder. “We aren’t accepting anymore visitors. Are you…here for something?”

Maladi inched closer, curiosity demanding that he talk to this person face to face.

Nayto: "N'more visi'ors, huh?" the young man asked without turning around.

His voice was heavily accented, moreso than most lower class around here. More than likely he was from northern England, where the lower class had an even stronger accent, a stark bastardization of the English language, most Londoners called it--most high class Londoners, that is. Not people like him, though. They were his people. Around here they called them "cockneys," lower classed citizens who had a seemingly different culture and dialect of the rest of England as a whole, people looked down upon as the scum of the earth, worse than any other poor peasant or beggar in market streets avoiding the frequent toss of waste from the windows and flats of buildings. He turned to Maladi only half-way, his eyes still on the two sets of double doors that characterized the entance to the lobby. Seconds later, Maladi had his full attention.

His scruffy blond hair fell over his brow and his light brown eyes (that looked borderline red in the right light) focused upon the male soprano before him. He had a scruffy beard--he could grow a full beard if he wanted to, but it would be blond, and he shaved it regularly, but it looked as if he hadn't shaven it in a few days. Some instances of dirt were caked upon his cheeks and hands as if he hadn't bathed in over a month, but such wasn't uncommon to see on the streets of London--in fact, he looked a bit better than most other paupers did.

"Roig', roigh', tha's grea'. Means no ones gonna come buggin' sooner and later. Roig', roigh'?"

Mandaz: To someone who had been trained with the voice for most of his life, the intruder’s slurred barking was almost abrasive to Maladi’s ears. He recoiled a little, wincing unintentionally. Now he was positive this person was a street urchin, possibly looking to loot the place. But there was no need to jump to conclusions just yet, each person deserved a chance, be them rich or poor. The singer wasn’t one to turn his nose up at anyone, probably because he wasn’t from the wealthiest of families either, he and his mother made enough just to get by, plus a little extra for him to pursue his hobby. He took another step forward, feeling a little braver now that he saw the man’s face. Maladi was the slightest bit taller than he; standing at an even six feet, but the man looked much older due to his facial hair and rough skin.

“W-well not exactly” he confessed in his well spoken English, though just a bit timid and mousier than the intruders tone. “There are a few stagehands left who will snuff out the candles and lock the doors. I’m not sure if they’ll allow you to remain here for the night.”

Nayto: "Ahhhhh, stage'an's, huh?" he asked as he reached up his right hand, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

It was true that Maladi was not in the least bit intimidating, not nearly enough to get this ruffian even remotely stirred up or on his guard. In fact, he felt perfectly comfortable around this other youth, regardless of the inch or two height difference between them--actually, Maladi was a bit taller than normal just because of his footwear alone, while the intruder had fairly minuscule amount of rubber and sole between his feet and the floor. They were boots, but they weren't much.

"Guess I ough'a 'ide ou' somewhere, maybe in a close'--wai' 'til they're good an' gone with their wears, y'know?"

He completely disregarded the conduct of being in private property. He was currently trespassing--he could be arrested for it, among other things. But hey! No one was going to come looking for him in an opera house, that much was for sure. There was a good reason he built up a reputation as uneducated. If he needed some place to hide out, libraries had been his best bet up this point, and now he was just giving them something to mull over--throw them for a loop. He walked by Maladi, peering his head past the open door leading to the stage. He stepped back in shortly thereafter.

"So, where are these stageguys? Or am I gonna 'aveta be on the lookou' all noigh'?"

Mandaz: Maladi help back the urge to tell him that he was probably a prime candidate for a stagehand or a janitor. He held back the fact that those brute boys had scared him immensely, and that he refrained from speaking to them if he could have avoided it.

“They…they like to sit outside and sip on wine this time of night, right before they lock up.” He confessed, answering his question although a better part of him said not to. It was almost as if it had been drawn out of him subconsciously to be truthful to this pauper. “No no no no, you misunderstand!”

He gained his sanity and waved his hands a bit as he spoke. “It’s not right to stay here; this building doesn’t belong to you. If it’s the owner’s wishes that the place remain closed to the public at night, then we should respect that, yes? Is there somewhere else you could go? Some inn to reside? I’d offer you my blessings, but I haven’t a single piece of currency to spare.”

His features dropped, sad to turn away this poor creature. But rules were set in stone for him, he had to see that they were followed as long as he was around to witness the crime.

[Nayt]

"Nah, I thin' this is the bes'o' places," the heavily accented young man replied, all the while poking his head forward and looking quickly from left to right--he could've sworn he heard a noise.

Must've been the wind, he told himself. No, no--no way is that someone after my head. Nope. No way in hell. Well, guess I have to hide out right freakin' now.

Paranoia had set in with relentless force--not a dangerous paranoia, but one clearly meriting panic on his part. This panic allowed him to justify breaking into an opera house and using it for lodging for a night. Just one night! A single night, and then he'd be off on his own again. There was no intentional disrespect. What sort of respect was he supposed to be paying these chaps, anyways?

"'soides, it's free to 'oide out 'ere," he announced, hands on his hips.

And free things were vastly superior to things that had to be purchased. Such was the way of the pauper--the peasant, the beggar. It was a fairly easy life, nothing he could complain about.

[Mandaz]

Mandaz: “Are you…feeling well?” Maladi questioned as the intruder jittered and jumped without being provoked.

Perhaps this man was mad or diseased, wrought with dementia and insanity! The feminine boy took a step back, bringing his thin fingers to hide his mouth. Hopefully he hadn’t caught whatever illness plagued this man just by talking to him. Now the pauper absolutely couldn’t stay! He ran risk of infecting the whole house! Maladi loved this building more than anything else; it was his second home, his sanctuary. But he also had a bleeding heart. He looked into the poor man’s panicking brown eyes, wondering why he was so afraid. How horrible that someone in his condition should have to survive on the cold streets. It just wasn’t fair! There had to be something Maladi could do to help this poor creature.

“You…cannot, you just cannot stay here. You’ll be found for sure!” He held back the part about soiling the building with his germs.

He stood firm on his decision, stamped his small foot slightly, but enough to show that the questionable musician was serious. With fingers still hovering over his lips and a little furrow in his thin brow he was silent for some time before casting his violet eyes downward and sighing. He could feel his heart dropping.

“But…I also…I cannot turn someone in need away so harshly. I might know of a warm place you could reside for the night. Just one night! And you have to promise not to take anything, or touch anything, or…or breathe on anything!”


Nayt: The pauper was a bit paranoid, that much was for sure. He wasn't going outside if it was for nothing, either; he'd be found out there, and the was the very last thing he needed. He'd hang for sure if he had no place to hide out, and this music hall seemed as good as any other place. It just so happened that one of its resident performers was so adamant against that idea that he stamped his (or her? the Cockney pauper still hadn't figured that out just yet) foot down and declared that this place would be no such house. The pauper furrowed his brow, as well, and puffed out his lips slightly in displeasure. Looks like he was going to have to do something about this guy! Or . . . wait . . .

"Wot, really?" Maladi had the pauper's full attention just then. "Better'an this?" Hey, if this was going to get him a better place to stay, other than jail (which was actually better than the alternative, all things considered), then he wasn't going to complain in the least!


Mandaz: “Now I never said better” He corrected immediately, temporarily removing one of the fingers from his lips to wag it in the face of the pauper. “In my opinion it is a ghastly place, but more than accommodating for someone like yourself. Here, follow me; the stagehands will be off of their break soon so there is no time to dawdle.”

He took another step back, then another, waiting for the pauper to follow him. Even then, he was still reluctant to turn his back on the young man. Maladi must have looked very silly, hands covering his mouth, stumbling backwards in his heeled boots, eyed never blinking as they focused on the poor man before him. He would lead the strange man down past the seats of the house to the well lit and warm stage. A stage scattered with past props and music sheets that the musician was studying just moments before he was interrupted. In the heavy candlelight the two would be able to see each other much clearer, but Maladi’s true gender would still be undeterminable.


Nayt: Damn. Maybe he wasn't lucking out with this one and finding a place better suited to his preferences . . . not that this place wasn't suited to his preferences. In fact, this place was great. It was nice, cozy, and made him feel like a king or a prince or something. Though, with his accent and attitude, even if he had the money to parade around like a gentleman, no one would ever seriously consider him one. Cockneys like him were generally considered poor, even if they had a massive source of property based income--which in itself allowed a man to parade himself around like a "gentleman."

The pauper followed Maladi down the aisle, taking in the sights of the music hall now that he was well into it. He stopped before the stage, though, only to glance around, from the carpet to his hands, both of which had dirt on them--the latter of which caused by him leaving some behind from his shoes with each step, and the former having already been there. He shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the edge of the stage for leeway, so he could pull himself up onto it . . . rather than taking the stairs, the easy route. He stood up and brushed off his pants.

"This don' look too ghas'ly," he remarked idly, "'soides the hardwood, but tha's good, roight? oI've slept on worse."


Mandaz: “Not here” Sighed the boy with a shake of the head.

He shuffled his boots around the stage and stomped a little bit here and there. He was listening for something specific, something hollow. To someone like the intruder it may have seemed strange for him to do this, but he would see its purpose in due time. Upon hearing the sound he was looking for, a small smirk crossed his face. He bent down before the pauper, brushing the debris off of the stage and using his longer nails to dig into a slot. With his coaxing, a panel of the stage was displaced, and lifted. Some dust swam out into the air, causing the effeminate boy to cough a little and draw back. Underneath the panel sat a ladder leading into a seemingly never-ending darkness. He steadied himself on the first wrung of the ladder; looking up to the cockney to make sure he was ready to follow.

“Hurry and place that panel back when you come down. We’ve got a little ways to go"

[Nayt]

For a moment, he stared at Maladi as if the boy was a bit daft. In fact, he was even tempted to ask that at one point, but it wasn't a second later that Maladi found what he was looking for, and the mussed up blond youth approached in order to look down the wooden portal into the dark recesses of the world. That must have been pretty handy, especially if one was caught swindling a much richer man, or seducing away the daughter of a gentleman--not that he had done anything along those lines! No way, not him . . .

The Cockney youth whistled, impressed. "Looks loike someone 'ere got the same loine o'work as me! Or 'obbies, maybe."

While his treatment of the English language was deplorable at best, he--at the very least--wasn't from so far north in Britain that he used rhyming slang. Not only would his heavy accent get in the way of understanding him, but replacing key words in sentences with completely unrelated rhyming words would have made it impossible! It was key to him that people understand him, though--so, even if he was raised around that sort of slang, he obviously didn't use it. It made communication difficult with non-Cockneys, and in his line of work (or hobby, rather), that was strictly against what he was out to accomplish, and when one's goals were almost entirely self serving, one became that much more compelled to better themselves for that purpose, be it a physical skill or something as simple as talking.

He followed Maladi down once the boy was far down the ladder enough. It would've been no good at all if he started climbing down too soon!

[Mandaz]

Mandaz: “Hardly.” He scoffed. He’d hate to think what the pauper’s ‘line of work’ was, but he knew it couldn’t have been anything good. “It is a trap door used in some of the shows they produce here. The panel is usually pulled loose from underneath the stage; however it can be removed from above if you know where it is located.” He continued to speak, even as he hoped off of the ladder and disappeared into the dark underbelly of the stage.

His voice echoed, but not as much as it had above. It would still allow for the intruder to know he was with him though, even though they wouldn’t be able to see each other. “When someone needs to disappear, they will fall through the trap door; usually landing on some heap of soft stuffing you’ll feel strewn about the floor. We’re under the stage now, please mind your feet, it is quite a task to travel through here safely.”

There was a noise, the sound of a match striking against the wall, and soon the young male had a lit candle perched in his fingers, lighting their way. He’d wait for the pauper to be close enough so he could see him. Maladi didn’t want to risk taking his eyes off of him, lest he snatch some of the props and jewelry.

“I’m sorry sir, but you’re putting a lot of faith into a person you’ve never met before. Just to be perfectly honest with one another, I believe some introductions are in order. At least if I have your name, I will feel less nervous about sneaking with a stranger. A murderous stranger for all I know.”

He felt as if he was babbling too much, especially about admitting his suspicions and fears to the young man. Fear was a weakness, as his mother had told him. Always hold your head up high and show that you are not afraid. Even if you are, never admit it. They were words to live by, but the boy wasn’t as strong as his mother, and never expected himself to be.

“I am Maladi.” He gave a small bow, showing respect to the pauper. “I take singing lessons in this hall, so I know my way about it.”


Nathan Knapp: "When they need t'disappear, roigh', roigh'," the pauper mused as he climbed down the ladder, making it a point to close the trap door once he was past it.

This is a terrible idea, however, as it removed his only source of light, and once he was on his feet in the dark, he was unable to pay any attention to the feminine young man that was guiding him through this dark catastrophe of a place. Almost simultaneously as Maladi's suggestion that the pauper mind his feet, there was a furious tumble, a shout of surprise, and a collapse of props all around. Once the darkness was lit, Maladi had found him pulling himself out from under a series of wooden planks and manequins, all of which he made no effort to put back into place, and if, in fact, he allowed himself to put effort into those objects, it would have been for the sake of drop-kicking them into a splintery oblivion. As the pauper brushed himself off, he started to walk again.

"Edii Terkins," he replied, before extending his open hand towards Maladi. "Noice t'meet ya. Oh, and don't worry! Killin' ain't moy game. Love is. Simple as tha'."


Mandaz: Maladi’s face held a look of utter contempt for the pauper as he tampered with the music hall’s property. He could only imagine what the young man had gotten himself into in the dark. When he lit the candle, his fears were realized as he viewed the mess he had made. No time to worry about it now, though. After he hid away the nuisance he could come back and clean the room. The singer looked at the paupers hand as if it were riddled with insects. He slid his dainty, chalk white fingers into Edii’s rough hands; giving them a bit of a squeeze.

“Charmed, Edii.” He hummed, using the word ‘charmed’ lightly.

“Love?” he repeated, taken aback by his brash display. Maladi didn’t know anything about love, how could someone like this man claim to have any business in it? The only thing the feminine boy could claim to know about the subject was the intense draw he had towards his music and this concert hall. Maladi supposed that could have been considered love, but didn’t think this was what the boy was talking about.


Nathan Knapp: Edii grinned a bit at Maladi. Charmed. It was used so lightly in such an obvious way that even a "pauper" like Edii Terkins to pinpoint it without fail. It was humorous, though. How could it be anything but? Here Maladi was, not quite the epitome of a man--far from it, regardless of his gender. Edii was finally starting to discern that detail, too. Not that it mattered to him. The subject matter he dealt with wasn't restricted by something so fickle as gender or the like.

"Yeah, love," Edii replied with a nod as he withdrew his hand, setting it upon his hips, "S'a good game, profitable and the loike, and one oI'm the best at in this 'ole town." Edii had a strong boast, with no verbally stated proof to back it up. By the way he looked and talked, it certainly would be a confusing idea-- the notion that he could hold superiority over so many in a "game" he referred to as "love."


Mandaz: “I’m sure.” Scoffed the boy again.

They couldn’t have been referring to the same kinds of love. Fascinating that two people from very different wakes of life could have such differing vocabulary. At first he didn’t give it much thought, and just turned his head to Edii and began to lead him through the dressing rooms, first the ladies, then the med, both were long, covered in random threads and props, and had lots of interesting odds and ends to poke through. Maladi knew where he was going though, and held the candle out, lighting the way. The two would reach a staircase, eventually, and it was at this point that the singer began to light other candles as they walked.

“The basement is a bit damp in spots, but there are plenty of clothes to keep warm in, not to mention furniture and blankets. It is where all the larger props are kept, so there should be a loveseat or two for you to sleep.”

He couldn’t get the notion of love out of his mind. What had the pauper meant when he spoke of it? Profitable? The Best? Surely he couldn’t mean….He paused to take a look back at his uninvited guest. What he…a prostitute? Someone as filthy as him? Maladi winkled his nose just thinking about the unsavory notion. Maybe touching his hand was a bad idea.

[Nayt]

So prudish. Edii couldn't help but find humor in this young singe--and interest, of course. But it was only a fleeting interest, as he had other things on his mind. Firstly, he needed to evade his pursuers, and this currently seemed like the best bet, unless Maladi up and decided to turn him in. Edii figured that to be unlikely, considering how the singer acted, and the fact that the singer didn't know who to turn him in to. It wasn't the police that were looking for him. Content that Maladi didn't know who to talk to even if he wanted to, Edii knew that he'd be able to relax and get some sleep amongst all these props, and fully planned to.

He also planned to swipe a few things. A nice shirt or two. He had seen quite a few as they walked, and ever so slyly, he had paid them but a glance, careful to settle any lustful stare upon any item available around him; doing so would set the singer off indefinitely!

"Pretty cozy," Edii responded.

There was a loveseat near--a prop? He couldn't see how it was remotely useful as a stage prop, or how they'd even lug it around as one, but it was one hell of a comfy place to sit. Edii helped himself to lounging as soon as he saw it, shutting his eyes and releasing a content sigh.

He put his hands behind his head, "Yeeeaaaah . . . gotta love it, huh?"