The Palace Theater, the epicenter of London's best performers and the aspiration of ambitious newcomers. Outside, it's proportions matched those of a city mall. Sculptures sprang up from the laid-stone sidewalk, and fairy lights danced through the trees upon arches and columns. A tired valet passed an excited couple back 9.53 in change, and they chattered on through the double doors in their most impressive clothing. A janitor pulled his waxing machine behind him as someone would drag an ugly neighbor's dead cat. As he passed through the door, The janitor's heavy duffel bag dipped, and the man's hand brushed it. The man jolted and raised his hand as if burned. He tightened his grip around his fiance's arm, where she turned to see what made him tense. the two men held eye contact for a second, then resumed looking ahead as normal. The man loosened his collar and smiled crookedly at the woman, whose lips tilted up slightly. She held his arm tighter as she walked through the theater doors, and began looking at the number plates for their seats.
There were two women seated in the rows, among the others. One was reclining, feet hanging slack to each side, hands rubbing against the warm insides of her pockets, and breathing through her scarf to warm her cheeks, which were flushed with cold. Her companion's attention was on the dancer on the stage. Her eyes were heavy, and she leaned forward with her hands steepled. She was also trying not to hear the volume of her companions thoughts, the pounding My husband is home by now, I should leave and text him. An urgent How can she stand this cold? And a more understated- no that wasn't right, she was deliberately hiding her I'm going to peel off my skin from boredom. I don't care about this. I want to leave. All this she observed in body language, there was no need to delve deeper. Petris deserved better than that. Petris wasn't important, so to speak, but she was company. Sharlot leaned back in her seat, and reluctantly peeled her eyes away from the stage. Low to her shoulder, to not disturb the others, she stated, "You don't see the importance of this, do you?" Petris looked over, and Sharlot had to stop her face from showing how much Petris's cringing face made her feel small.
"You see, those aren't dancers up on that stage, no. Dancers train for their whole life, not to move in a certain way, but to embody separate forms in rapid succession. The key to understanding dance is to realize that the body is the physical medium of a larger piece of art, and the art can only exist inside the performer if they are physically and mentally clay, wholly molded to the needs of the choreographer." Petris's brow wrinkled and she wasted no time contemplating Sharlot's words. The Dancing Killer was nothing to be ignored, even for a second. Petris was two years-new to Scotland Yard, having worked in Belgium's police department for ten years after she finished serving there in the British army. She had long wanted a chance to go back home, biding her time and amassing power and experience. When Detective Inspector Dimmock and Shane Colère, of a lower division, were caught in a gas explosion, her boss extended a letter of transfer, feeling confident that Petris would be a valuable addition to Scotland Yard. Coming back to London was surreal. Beautiful plazas had gone to shit, old forests had turned to suburban homes. The streets she played in as a kid had been re-paved or abandoned. She'd kept in good contact with her parents and surviving relatives in Belgium, but even when she had a week off for vacation time, she spent it on herself and her husband. Petris loved her job, but it was wearing on her.
"The thing, the, what was it. The game. The thing you went on and on about when I told you about the criminal I want caught. That is the most important thing right now. If I were the least bit interested in art, or form or whatever, I would have insisted on going dutch on the tickets. I know you're smart, that's the only reason I'm letting you in on this investigation. I'm not here to chat! Hey! Where are you going?"
Sherlot had already sprinted down the aisle and vaulted onto the stage. "My God…. That crazy bitch better not get us kicked out!" She clumsily shuffled past the seated patrons already disturbed by her yelling.