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)
thebackstage2016-11-26 01:27 am
stagemanagers) wrote in thebackstage2016-11-26 01:27 am
a little kink [the It's Curtains kink meme]
GUIDELINES/RULES:
- All requests- smut, fluff, gen, or otherwise (alternate murders, anyone?)- are welcome so long as it's about It's Curtains. Fic and art fills are all good.
- This is for all rounds of It's Curtains. Intermingled cast requests ("what if so-so and so-so from this and that round met?") are acceptable.
- Stay anon because it's funner that way.
- Use proper trigger/content warnings for sensitive and/or offensive subjects, just like you would in a game proper. If you don't, it will be deleted.
- This is a judge free zone; however, be mindful of character ages, esp. in regards to the younger characters.
- If you do not want your character to be involved with the smut or things that make you uncomfortable please contact me. A list is being prepared to remind everyone.
- Respect player wishes if they ask to not have their character be in smut, or anything out of their comfort zone. Again, comments in violation will be deleted.
Have fun, darlings! If any rules are violated please don't hesitate to to PM this account or alert one of the mods.
Swap AU | Any
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 01:28 am (UTC)(link)Could also focus on what the dynamic is like between the Swap Survivors, because more about a survivor pool that contains Captain Hook and Darla Dimple sounds hilarious. Do they have a mole? Basically any elaborations on the great first fill (http://thebackstage.dreamwidth.org/2864.html?thread=160816#cmt160816).
tw: suicide mention
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 04:06 am (UTC)(link)"This isn't fair," he whispers, flicking off his mic to ensure no one hears. "It was an accident. A suicide, if anything." It never should have happened. He knew how Billy felt. They talked this week, a few days before the end, and he'd known that it hadn't made anything better. Maybe if he'd just left his office that night and gone to keep him company...
The Player puts her arm around him, laying her head along his shoulder. "Iiiii know, baby. It's awful. But you know we can't just go changing the rules now. If we start mixing up the execution formula, they're all gonna start coming up with ways it wasn't really their fault. Even if Charming doesn't deserve it, others are gonna."
He folds his arms around himself rather than answer. If only he could convince himself there wouldn't be more...
She squeezes his shoulders a little. "Look. If you really wanna cut it short, I won't say anything. Just make it look good, okay?" The Player reaches up to ruffle his hair, and vanishes with the blackout. All votes have been cast.
When the lights return, he steps out on his cue. Raoul is already there, backing away from the crewmember wearing Billy's hoodie. They're friends, he thinks, as much as any of the cast is his friend. He brought him that cookbook from the library, when no one had to bring him anything. But when he glances over at the Balladeer's entrance, it's obvious that he's not expecting any help.
The Balladeer takes a deep breath and nearly misses his verse.
Past the point of no return, no backward glances
The games of make-believe are at an end
Past all thought of if or when, no use resisting
Abandon hope and let your fate descend
He moves deliberately across the stage as he sings, keeping eye contact with Raoul as he goes. His steps are awkward; he's too conscious of the weight at his hip. But he sticks to their blocking, and does nothing to stop the crewmember from pressing in. There's a noose in their hands. Raoul fights back as well as he's able, but it isn't enough to keep the rope from his neck. He didn't keep his hand at the level of his eyes.
The Balladeer has seen hangings, and this one doesn't look right. That length wouldn't snap anyone's neck. This will be a slow and lingering death, for absolutely no reason at all.
He's seen too many of those already.
Below, the cast is shouting. They remember how Heather fell last week, how long it took until she was finally dead. But the Balladeer barely hears them. His motions feel too smooth, foreign, almost as if someone else is moving his limbs for him. He's never practiced this. But he draws the pistol from his hip (Iver-Johnson .34, why was it here?) and fires in a single movement. Blood sprays across the stage. Raoul drops, nothing now but a limp body dangling by the neck. He got a kill shot, the Balladeer realizes distantly. Beginner's luck.
His hands are shaking. The gun drops. He can't stop the pained wail that's starting to leak out from between his lips, even as he tries to muffle it with his hands.
The stage lights go out. The curtain swishes shut.
The cast doesn't see him again until Tuesday.
tw: attempted suicide
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 04:41 am (UTC)(link)"She would have loved it here," Billy said, his fingers tracing the edges of a bush with large, round, pink flowers. He didn't have to say who - his crush on the princess had come to light in the last trial when he had come close to assaulting Hook for making fun of the dead girl. If anyone thought it improper for a man of Billy's age to be interested in a girl of Anna's, no one had said anything. No one knew what to do with the doctor after the trial, he had just sort of. Existed. And his condition had further deteriorated on Monday, and then again on Tuesday, though no one approached him to ask why.
This was the first time that Raoul had seen him out of his room since Tuesday, now that he thought about it.
"Monsieur, are you...alright?" Raoul asked, stepping forward, hand outstretched to find the sleeve of the man's hoodie. Billy turned to him with wet, red-rimmed eyes, and then shook his head.
"...I loved her." He said it almost too quietly to hear. "A girl back home, Penny, she was kind and caring and- and she always did her laundry on Tuesday and Saturday, and I never... got the chance to speak to her." His voice cracks. "But she's dead, and it's my fault."
"...A memory, then," Raoul said softly, sympathetically. Billy flinched away from his hand, shoved his hands deeper in his jacket pockets. "What are you doing in here, Monsieur? It's late- you should be in your room."
"Nothing," Billy lied, but the way he blinked in quick succession, the first time harder than the next, curling his head away to hide his face, made suspicion bloom in Raoul's gut.
"What have you in your pockets?" he asked, hesitantly. "Monsieur, if you are planning to act on that foul motive-"
"I'm not acting! I'm- I'm awful, I'm Horrible! You're better off without me anyway, and-" his voice cracks. "They knew I was going to kill somebody. That was why they brought me here, because they knew I already had. Maybe- maybe they thought that the threat of being exposed would get me to snap, but I don't care about that! Not anymore!" He takes a step back from Raoul, holds up the hand that had been in his pocket this whole time. There was a small glass in it, shimmering with pinkish liquid and filled with floating, wilted petals and leaves.
"But- if someone doesn't die, then everyone's secrets will be revealed. And- and maybe someone else has something that they need to hide." His blue eyes were wide.
"My God! Is that poison?"
"Cyanogenic glycoside - I guess it's not as neat as straight cyanide, but for a murder opera you'd be surprised at how hard it is to kill yourself," Billy said, almost jokingly, more frantically. Raoul's mouth went dry.
"Don't- don't do this..." he pleaded, hands out in front of him as he took a step forward.
"Why can't you see what I see?
Do you believe the lies?
Maybe the fee's too pricey for you to realize,
everyone is slipping..."
He closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling with almost a smile.
"I feel like slipping away..."
"No!" Raoul yelled, lunging forward when Billy raised the glass to his lips. He wasn't thinking, just acting, and he pushed the hand away. He heard the glass shatter.
"What have you done?" Billy said. He pushed Raoul, who met him with hands on his shoulders.
"I've stopped you from making a grave mistake, Monsieur! Death is not the answer!" Raoul begged.
"You saw what happened last week! Killers get executed, Raoul! And if that's what I deserve then I'm not going to give Management the pleasure of doing it for me!" Billy cried.
"See reason!"
"There's nothing worth seeing!" Raoul pushed Billy off of him with a final shove. The doctor, caught on the back foot, staggered back and fell to the ground. Raoul panted, bracing his hands on his knees.
And then he heard the ragged, wet sound of labored breathing. And he realized that Billy wasn't getting up.
"Oh, God..." Raoul murmured. "No! No, no no no no... Monsieur? Billy? Oh, God..." He ran to the man's side and fell to his knees. Billy's adam's apple bobbed with every gasping attempt at shallow breath that he gulped down, but his blue eyes were staring near-sightlessly in the direction of the hydrangea bush. Blood poured down his face, pooled on the dirt beneath him, sticking the soil to his face, his hands, his clothes. Raoul almost reached out to touch him, and then realized the futility. The source of the wounds, a wickedly pronged cultivator, had its claws buried deep in the man's head.
"I'm sorry..." Raoul breathed. There was nothing he could do. But he took Billy's hand in his and held it. "I'm truly... I'm sorry..." The gasping breaths came more and more infrequent, and the tensed muscles relaxed as the Doctor breathed his last. Tears sprang to Raoul's eyes, but he reached out and closed Billy's blue eyes. He stood and walked from the garden to wash his hands and change clothes.
He had no intention of letting the others die for him, but if justice were truly to be served then he would face it as a gentleman.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-12-07 04:51 am (UTC)(link)He's encountered many strange things since coming to the Opera, but sudden messages from their dead compatriots. At this late hour? It seems too convenient - enough to make some of them believe, but no certain indicators, nothing that could really help them. If the dead really wished to be helpful, the Balladeer could come and give up his employer.
But whatever the case, it seemed the perfect thing to watch. And his stakeout has been rewarded. It's fortunate he was here for this one, too - he could not have left the apprehension of such a skilled swordsman to D-ne.
They've fought up and down the lobby, and the stagehand's hood has fallen back in the struggle. Javert memorized all of the faces in the photographs they've found, and this man was in none of them. Perhaps he was already an employee then? He's an older man, closer to Valjean's age, with long white hair and bright eyes. He could have been here decades. How long has this even gone on?
His opponent's sword is larger and heavier than his own, a style he doesn't quite recognize, though it seems old-fashioned. He obviously knows what he's doing as well; he's trying to use the difference to his advantage, pressing forward aggressively. Javert parries a strike, but his blade rings under the assault - it's not as bulky as the other weapon.
But it is well-made. It will hold. It must.
From the shadows, there's a flash of movement. Javert tenses - but he knows that shape and gait. He has only a second to step back before Valjean smashes a chair across the other man's shoulders, breaking it and sending him face-first to the ground. His sword clatters to the floor alongside him.
He's not unconscious yet. Javert's quick to pin him down, pressing a knee into his back and starting to wind the duct tape about his wrists. In the periphery, he's aware of Valjean taking the man's sword - he registers this several seconds before realizing that he should technically be alarmed about a convict taking up arms, and is surprised at his own lack of suspicion.
Valjean holds the heavy blade easily in one hand. If the point is angled towards the ground, it's not for lack of strength. "Who is this?" he asks, peering into the stranger's face as Javert hauls them both upright.
"Some lackey of the management," Javert replies with a shrug. Only one of the old cast is unaccounted for, and this seems unlikely to be J. "Into the bathrooms, there's no cameras there."
Valjean nods, falling in to flank them as they move. The stagehand is struggling and cursing, but he still doesn't raise the weapon. "You might have hit him over the head," Javert observes.
"I didn't wish to hurt him. Not that badly." Valjean's voice is quiet. It's a good point. He's an extraordinarily strong man even at his age, and a blow to the head would be...difficult to control. "Besides, I'm not sure we can take another execution."
"The Opera rules say nothing about killing stagehands." But the thought lingers between them. Valjean has been a fugitive for nearly twenty years now. Javert may be the only one actively pursuing him still, but the law would not be kind should it find him in court once more. At his age...slow or fast, the price would be his life, all that was left of it.
This is what Javert has worked towards. Now, he allows the fugitive to hold a blade, and trusts that he will not allow another stagehand to take him unawares.
......he shouldn't dwell on it. They're both more likely to die here than they are to ever reach Paris anyway.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-12-07 05:17 am (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-12-07 05:24 am (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-12-11 02:54 am (UTC)(link)Anyway, today we were trapped on the second floor. It's me and Natalie and D-ne, apparently, which is cool. Two friends! I'm a little worried about the other floors, but... they'll manage. I don't know if there's really a mole, but... I'm sure things will be fine. Even if we can't sleep. I'm guessing that's going to be the hard part from here on out. But we have food and each other and a lot of movies, so I think we're going to be just fine! And whoever's on the other floors, they'll be fine too. We have enough responsible parties here to manage. Or at least I'm going to tell myself that.
So it's weird – I usually just write these things before I go to bed, but I guess there's no bed to go to right now. So before nighttime hours start, I'll just write diary entries. You know, to keep updated. It's a nice break from this weird version of Faust I'm writing, too.
But we ARE going to be okay. I know we are. If nothing else, we have Natalie, and she's one of the most responsible cool people I know. If not THE most responsible and cool. So no matter what, I'm going to trust her.
Weird, that almost makes me sound like I'mDay 2. I've never gone this long without sleep before. Not since I was little and I'd stay up most of the night scared stiff of the angels in my closet, anyway. It's funny how far away that seems now. I'm older, I'm nicer, I live in a murder opera. The times, they are a'changing. But I will persevere!
I hung out with D-ne in the garden a little today, and Natalie... I'll get to that. It's getting hard to focus on writing with this little sleep, but don't worry! I'm going to keep writing in here. I got my diary back from the machine, I can't just stop, you know?
Natalie, though... we had a. A Moment, I guess? I don't know what to call it. We were just singing together, which you know. I've been known to sing sometimes, no big, but this was different somehow. Then we watched this movie, and I don't know? It might just be the sleep deprivation getting to me, but I keep thinking about her. About it. I mean I think about Natalie a lot, she's my best friend, but this is something else.
Leave it to me to fall in love when my diary's on another floor.
Day 3. Yeah, that thing I said at the end of yesterday. That. I kissed Natalie today? And she was cool with it!!! So I guess that's, you know. A Thing. <3
I don't know what comes next, but... I'll figure it out. We'll figure it out. If there's a future out there for any of us... I think we're going to have to work for it. I'm going to have to work for it. See you tomorrow, diary. It should be with more good news.
“Natalie, we have to go to the trial.”
Reality is cold. Reality is cold and things keep going wrong. Everything, time after fucking time. They must be done with the body in the church. It's so fucked up - the library looks just like it has all week. Like nothing changed. Like no one she cares about was found dead this morning just down the hall.
She folds the papers up, tucking them away. It's a good thing, she thinks bitterly for just a moment, that the fourth floor is open now. “Yeah. Coming.”
no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-12-11 03:57 am (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2017-03-04 06:13 am (UTC)(link)The Inspector has joined them as well. It's a testament to their time in the Opera that no one has really questioned this.
It's several months until the next time Valjean has a quiet morning alone in the house. Eliza has gone to speak to some old friends of her husband's, and Javert is seeing to some lingering business in his own version of Paris. Valjean and Eliza were cautious with him once, but by now they both trust that he shall return. Of course, Valjean enjoys both their company very much, but this quiet is something to savor as well. It’s a lovely morning, the crisp beginnings of March, and in the yard the pale green of new leaves speckle the trees. He puts a kettle on to boil. Is it too cold still to take his breakfast outside?
There is a knock at the door.
Valjean opens it and stiffens. The Leading Player’s face is turned away, as if studying the vines starting to crawl along their doorstep, but she thrusts a hand out towards him as soon as he appears. She's holding his candlestick, the one he gave her right before she ended the show. To light her way back home, even if someone as powerful as her might not need it. "Here,” she says briskly. “No room for this with my troupe's props, thought you might want it back."
He takes it, and wordlessly she turns and starts to walk away, heels clicking on the cobblestones. The sound jolts him back into action. "My deepest apologies – “ he calls, starting down the front steps after her. “ - you startled me. Would you like to come in?"
The look she turns on him is suspicious. "Come in?"
"Yes. I'm making tea. If you like, you can have a cup."
The Player stands for a moment on the street. It's still that quiet hour of morning when the world is still, before the wheels of the town have thought to click into motion. She stands out in the pale spring like ink spilled over empty canvas, still dressed all in black, the angle of her bare shoulders sharp. He thinks she must be cold.
"...you and him did that, didn't you?"
Valjean knows who she means. "Yes, we did. A few times a week, at least, before Jezebel."
Her head drops, and she nods. A second passes. She turns on her heel, making her way up the steps and inside without looking at him. "Fine. Let's see what was so special about it."
Really, he doubts the tea made that great a difference. She should talk to D-ne, perhaps; she was always closest with the Balladeer. But he keeps that thought to himself and ushers her to take a seat in the kitchen. She doesn't speak, and he's content to prepare the tea in silence. "Would you care for a muffin?" he asks finally, breaking the quiet as he fills her cup.
"Sure." She's distracted, looking out the window, drumming the elegantly-shaped nails of one hand against the table. "So, what do we do now?"
Valjean takes the seat across from her. "We drink and eat, and make conversation."
The Leading Player scoffs lightly. "We've got nothing to talk about. What do you know about what I do?"
"Not much," he concedes. "Will you tell me about it?"
She fixes him with an appraising stare. “…okay. Me and the troupe are looking for a new place to set up shop. We’ve always done Pippin before, when there’s nothing special going on. Like your show.” Valjean can’t tell if it’s meant to be a compliment or insult, so he just nods. “But I don’t feel like going through all that bullshit again. It usually turns out the same way…”
He nods, taking a sip of his tea. That wasn’t especially enlightening, but he’s listened to the Balladeer talk about shows before, enough to understand the main points. “And you’re worried that you’ll lose the audience, if you don’t do something?”
“Exactly!” She gestures sharply, then takes a bite of her muffin. “I’m just trying to give the people what they want! It’s not my fault they keep changing their damn minds!”
“That must be frustrating.” Valjean can’t speak to the particulars of this audience. It’s all a little beyond him. But he knows what the Balladeer has said about roles – how she’s being what she was created to be, on their behalf. How terrible, to try and please someone over and over, only to fail at every turn. “Perhaps you could do something small and simple, for the moment? I don’t know about your crew, but all of us are taking quite a bit of time to recover after the…events of our show.” That is outrageous, comparing their suffering to whatever toll inflicting it may have taken on her and her crew. Valjean would have never said such a thing if any of the others were here; even he can't really support it. But they are not, and he hasn't let her into his home for some sort of suffering competition. “I have never been a theatre-goer, but maybe Shakespeare? That seems reliable enough.”
“Shakespeare.” The Player snorts and turns to look out the window again, expression unreadable. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“A comedy, even, if you’re really looking for something different.” Valjean follows her gaze thoughtfully. There’s a couple of birds on the tree outside, forming what looks like the start of a nest in its branches. “Or you could take a break entirely. Do something else, or do nothing at all. Enjoy each other's company."
She frowns at him, a line creasing her perfect brows. "What, just like that?"
"Just like that."
"I've never done that with them. I guess maybe - " The Player goes abruptly silent, taking a long draw of tea. It must still be quite hot; Valjean winces a little. "Well, whatever. Nice talk, I guess."
She sounds vaguely uncertain, but there's no hesitation as she stands to leave. The muffin is still mostly uneaten before her, and she’s only taken half her tea. Oh, that was an exposed nerve, wasn't it? Valjean rises to see her out, though really she's barely been here. "It was good to see you again," he tells her as he opens the door, and it isn't entirely a lie. He has wondered what became her since they all escaped that place. He's glad to have an answer. "If you like, you could come back the same time next week? I am usually alone in the mornings for a while."
“Seriously?” She looks down her nose at him, somehow, though he is the taller one. It should be intimidating. But Valjean is intimidated by very little – he shares his home with Inspector Javert, what can touch him now? More than that, he remembers the way her grand act fizzled out before them, and the sharp grimace with which she’d packed everything up and hurried off, avoiding the Balladeer’s eyes. She said that she was erasing herself from the narrative. What does that mean when a narrator says it?
He holds her gaze, until finally she gives him a jagged little smile and looks away. “Huh. Okay, sure, why not. You know – I know who you’re supposed to be, Jean Valjean, but you oughta learn that you can take this mercy thing too far.”
“I have been told that,” he replies with a smile. “Next week, then.” The Leading Player shakes her head and walks away, vanishing into thin air before she’s even left his sight.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2017-03-04 02:48 pm (UTC)(link)