A/N: Yes, I am still working on Silver Kastet, Rubies and Stars. I've been very busy recently, what with high school coming up next year, so please excuse me for that. Also, I've been playing Bioshock Infinite (which I beat in 3 days after it came out) and Minecraft. Anyway, this takes place from maybe the end of 1918-1921. I apologize for any OOC-ness there may be. I ALSO OWN NOTHING HERE. Read and review please!
Cast List:
Nick Carraway: Elizabeth (Bioshock Infinite)
Jay Gatsby: Erik Destler
Daisy Buchanan: Christine Daae
Tom Buchanan: Raoul De Chagny
Jordan Baker: Alexei Vronsky (Anna Karenina)
Myrtle Wilson: Meg Giry
Owl Eyes: Number 10 (Doctor Who)
George Wilson: Marius (Les Miserables)
Catherine: Courfeyrac (Les Miserables)
Catherine's Husband: Eponine (Les Miserables)
When we were escaping from Columbia, my guardian, Booker DeWitt, gave me some advice that I've been thinking on ever since the incident.
"One thing I've learned; if you don't draw first, you don't get to draw at all."
Booker didn't tell me more, but ever since he found me in the floating city of Columbia, we've been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood Booker meant much more than simply talking about fighting. As a consequence of him telling me such, I'm inclined to, when a whim enters my mind, and after thinking it through, act on this whim, which has made me the subject of not a few miraculously solved problems. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a person who only APPEARS to be normal like me, and so it came about when Booker and I were still traveling through Columbia I started to doubt myself and my actions. Thankfully, Booker was there to reassure me that I was no monster.
Anyway, after boasting this way of my outlook on life, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Outlook may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I couldn't care less what it's founded on. When I came back from Long Island last autumn, I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the heart of another human: like how it was before Booker Dewitt crashed through the ceiling of my isolated tower in Columbia.
Only Erik, the man who gives his name to no one, was exempt from my reaction-Erik, the man who represented everything for which I have a burning hatred for. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something incredibly beautiful about him, a heightened sensitivity to what life could bring to him. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that impressibility which is dignified under the name of 'creative temperament'-it was an extraordinary gift of hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never seen in anyone else-not even my guardian Booker. No-Erik did turn out alright in the end, I guess-it was just that it was what preyed on Erik, what poison floated in the dark recesses of his mind that temporarily closed out my interest in his unspeakable sorrows and the short-winded elations of other people.
And so the time has come, it's here
The silence ends, change is near
You wait in the balance libertine
Come into the pantheon
Welcome to the universe
When I went to live on my own after convincing a hesitant Booker, the first place he told me to check was the West Egg in Long Island. Long Island is near Manhattan, so I knew I'd always be able to go back to Booker if something happened. I was hiding under the lie that I was some distant 3rd niece twice removed, as Elizabeth DeWitt. Anyway, I did end up living in the West Egg, the-um, well, the less desirable of the East and West Eggs. My little house was at the tip of the egg, maybe 100 yards from the sound, and snuggly squeezed between two much larger houses. The one on my right was gigantic-it looked like the Opera Populaire in Paris that I dragged Booker to go see so many months ago! Complete with a green roof and statues of angels on either side of the roof.
It was Erik's home. Or more like...well, since I didn't know Erik, it was the house of a man named Mr. E. My house was much smaller-maybe about the size of my quarters in Columbia-but unlike my Columbian rooms, I could go out whenever I wished, had a pretty view of the Long Island Sound-all for sixty dollars a month, paid by Booker.
Across the courtesy bay, the fairytale-esque palaces of beautiful East Egg glistened along the water, and I guess the history of the summer really begins the evening I went over there to have dinner with the de Chagnys. Booker had introduced me to Raoul a few weeks ago when I told him I wanted to not be a hinderance to Booker's home life, and I had met Christine when Booker took me to Paris. Raoul, among various other accomplishments, was one of the most cultural influences in all of New York-he was proud to support all the arts, along with his parents, who I've never met and have no intention of doing so. He and Christine still lived in Paris when I went on my trip there, but now he'd left France and come West in a fashion that took my breath away-for example, he'd brought with him 7 horses from a ranch in the state of Texas. It was hard to imagine someone to have that much wealth.
Anyway, so it happened on a warm evening with tiny lightning bugs surrounding me I went over to East Egg to see two friends that I really don't know. Their house was like a palace-a royal blue and white mansion overlooking the bay. It had a huge yard with a little beach, complete with a stable, a memorial to Christine's father, and a flower garden with no red roses. There were every flower imaginable in that garden-even white and pink and yellow roses-but no red ones. This mystified me to no end, until I got to know Mr. E. The de Chagnys even had their own dock, and Raoul had told me they were getting a boat 'within the next year or so'. It's not like I'll get to ride it or anything.
The windows were of French style, glowing with reflected sunset colors and open to the breeze, and there was Raoul de Chagny standing upon the porch in a white button down shirt and brown pants. Raoul did not seem to have changed since our last meeting. He was still a sturdy, light-brown haired man of maybe 28 with shining eyes that established dominance over his face. His speaking voice, a smooth tenor, added to the impression he conveyed to me. We were always cordial to each other, and though we were never as close as Booker and I, I always had the impression (Booker commented on it too) that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness.
We talked for a bit on the porch. "Do you like my house?" he inquired. I could sense in his voice he was trying to make me love it, so I agreed and he showed me inside. We walked through a high hallway into a bright living room, windows slightly open and shiny against the perfectly cut grass. Breezes blew in and out the room, blowing curtains in one end and blowing out the others across the room. It looked as how I always pictured a family house in Columbia too seem like.
Sitting on the sofa were a woman and a younger man. This man was a curiosity, a stranger to me. He had curly hair the color of honey, a little honey mustache, and clear light blue eyes. He was extended full length at his end of the sofa, completely motionless and with his chin raised a little bit. If he saw me, he gave no hint of it-I actually murmured a half apology under my breath for disturbing his peace. The woman, Christine Daae, got up, giggled, a charming little giggle, and I laughed too and went fully into the room. "Bonjour, Elizabeth!"
She laughed again as I responded in kind and she held my hand for a moment, looking in my eyes, promising that there was no one else in the world she wanted to see right then. It made me feel special, although if I met her these days, it would be empty. She hinted in a murmur that the name of the blonde man on the couch was Vronsky. Vronsky. What an odd little name. At any rate, Mr. Vronsky's eyes examined me, he nodded almost interceptibly, and then went back to keeping his chin in the air. I almost apologized again. An odd name for an odd man. I looked back at Christine, who began asking me questions in a high singsong voice. It was the kind of voice that when you hear it, you follow the notes up and down, as if every word is an arrangement of notes that you can only catch if you listen very closely.
Her face was sad but pretty with sparkly things in it, sparkly eyes and a sparkly attitude to go with it. We continued talking for a while, and Raoul went to sit with Vronsky. When I asked her if she would think of ever going back to France, she started laughing again. "Oh, we'll stay here in America, don't worry Miss DeWitt," Raoul said. "We'd be fools to live anywhere else!"
Here Vronsky said: "Of course!" with such suddeness that I nearly jumped. It was the first words I'd ever heard out of his mouth. Apparently it surprised me just as much as it did him, because he stood up rapidly and stood next to Christine. "I'm stiff," he complained, his eyes drifting over to me and then leaving quickly. "I've been lying on that sofa for hours." "Don't blame us," Raoul said jokingly as he stood up and goes to be next to me. "We've been trying to get you to come to the city with us all afternoon."
They bantered like this on and on until dinner was called. The four of us trooped out to the balcony, where the sunset was still spreading over Long Island. As we sat, Vronsky looked at me again. "You live on the West Egg," he stated. I looked at him, down at my plate, and back up just as quickly. "H-how did you know?" "A fellow there told me about you moving in next door to him." "Really? I don't know-" "Oh come now Miss DeWitt! You must know Mr. E." I cocked my head curiously at the name. "Mister E?" "I-I've never met him." I replied to Vronsky. "Oh, then you must come to one of his parties sometime soon," he continued, but then food is served and we all went silent because it's spaghetti.
As we were being cleared of our dinner plates, the butler came in and whispered something into Raoul's ear. Raoul muttered an apology and left the table. As if his departure quickened something inside her, Christine leaned forward towards me again and spoke in that glowing singsong voice: "I love the sight of you here, Elizabeth. You remind me-of a rose, a white rose. Doesn't she?" Christine turned to Vronsky as I raised my eyebrows. A white rose? Alright then. Vronsky just raised his eyebrows like I did, which Christine took as a yes. Then she suddenly stood up and left into the house. I sat there across from Vronsky awkwardly. I'd never been left alone with a man besides Booker in my life of solitude. I cleared my throat. "When does this Mr. E host his par-" "Shhhh!" he said, sitting up abruptly and leaning towards the wall. I did the same, mystified. Murmurs were audible in the room beyond, and for a moment Vronsky and I could make out a few words, then the noise ceased, started up again, and then ceased again.
I opened my mouth to ask him what exactly we were listening for, but he shushed me again. "Don't speak. I want to hear what happens?" "Happens? What's going on?" Vronsky raised his eyebrows again at me and smiled this time-a confidential smile, as if he was going to tell me the secret to ruling the world. "You must really be new here. You mean to say you don't know?" I shook my head innocently. "Well-" he looked from side to side "-Raoul's got a woman in Coney Island." "Got a woman?" I deadpanned. At the time, I had really no idea what he meant. He nodded and sat back. "His mistress doesn't have the decency to leave him some time at dinner, apparently." My jaw dropped. Raoul-the seemingly kind Raoul I'd met not even two months ago-had a mistress. Surprisingly, however, I wasn't shocked. The only thing I was shocked by was my lack of shock. My head was spinning as I stared at my informant across the table. Vronsky smirked, reached across the table, and popped my mouth shut as Christine and Raoul came back outside. Christine started babbling again, and that's how it went on for for awhile.
After Christine gave me a tour of their home, we went back down to the living room. Raoul was sitting comfortably on a leather easy chair reading a book while Vronsky was back to being sprawled on the couch reading the newspaper. When we came in, Vronsky stopped us with a lifted finger. "To be continued," he said dramatically, "in our very. NEXT. ISSUE." I started giggling at his antics as he put the paper on the coffee table. He looked at the large grandfather clock near Raoul. "9:30. Isn't it time for a good girl like Miss DeWitt to go to bed?" It then hit me that I'd been there for much longer than I thought. "Oh-I lost track of time, I'm so sorr-" Vronsky raised a hand to silence me. "If you want, I can take you back to your place on the West Egg," he volunteered. I smiled brightly. "Yes please." Vronsky got up and went to get his coat. "Good night, Raoul," I said softly. He looked up from his book. "Good night, Elizabeth. We'll see you anon."
"Of course we will," Christine started up again. "In fact, I think, Raoul, we should arrange a marriage between our soldier here and Miss Elizabeth. Come over a lot, Elizabeth, and we'll sort of-oh-fling you together-" PleasetellmemyfaceisntasredasitseemstobeGodnoshutu pChristine "you know, leave you alone in tight places, set you up to go on a boat, and all that sort of thing-" It's hopeless, my face was burning at the interesting Persian carpet. "Now, Christine," Raoul said jokingly. Vronsky let out a burst of laughter before taking me out the door.
When Vronsky let me off at my house, I sat there on my unkept back lawn for a little while, facing the Long Island Sound. The wind was gone. All was quiet. It was a shock to me-ever since I'd met Booker, there'd almost been no quiet. But now...
A small dark bird flitted past my vision and as I turned to follow it, I realized I was not alone. On my neighbor's property, a dark figure had emerged and was standing with his hands at his sides regarding the stars. Something in the uptight-trying-to-be-natural movement and his secure position on the lawn told me it was this, "Mr. E," Vronsky had mentioned. I got up with a friendly smile, ready to talk to him. But something held me in place. Somehow, just the sight of one lonely black figure in the shadows rooted me to the ground. Maybe he wanted some time for himself. As I watched, he lifted up his arms like that of an orchestra conductor's, and as far as I was away from him, I swear he was trembling. I glanced where he was looking-nothing extraordinary was there, except for a tiny green light that might have been at the end of a dock. When I turned back, Mr. E was gone, and I was alone again, naturally.
