A/N: My first attempt at true fanficition. Realize that I have a very distinctive image of where and how the Assassins "live" in my head, and that this is a reflection of that. It may diverge from the views of others (I've seen a few interpretations) but it's just my own thoughts and ideas It also sets the scene for future Assasins fics. (Oh, and by the way, I figured Guiteau would be unfamiliar with the word "television", having died in 1881, so that's why he says it oddly.) Characters copyright the geniuses, Mr. Stephen Sondheim and Mr. John Weidman. (Thank you two so much for this show.)
"Well, Lee, it seems you've at last decided to join us."
"What the hell is this place?"
"This is our home." It was a poorly lit room, moderately sized. There was a kitchen in the corner, complete with stove and oven, and a giant orange couch with a small, rickety TV in front of it. An expansive dining table with nine chairs had a giant American flag draped over it, obviously to be used as a tablecloth. A few other miscellaneous things—bookshelves and stacks of volumes, an ancient radio, a rack with an assortment of weaponry hanging from it—were present as well. Seven identical doors lined one side of the space. The wallpaper was dirty and peeling, adorned with broken portraits of presidents past that had had their faces childishly smeared with dirt, or colored on. The air smelled faintly of marijuana.
"I don't like it," muttered Oswald, shifting nervously. "There aren't any windows."
"I didn't either at first," replied Booth with a grin. "But when you're going to spend all of eternity somewhere, you grow to love it."
"Why am I here?" demanded the newest assassin, glaring the other man.
"Because you are dead, Lee."
"What?"
"You got shot."
"Oh, right." He remembered it, sort of. The whole thing had been quite a blur. "So…everyone here…is dead? There are others, right?"
"We are all dead on the inside, my friend," said the southerner with his classically smug expression. One of the doors was thrown open, resulting in an ear shattering bang!, to reveal an exuberant Guiteau, his eyes wide and his grin even wider.
"Hey, everyone, look," he shouted. "Oswald's here!" In leaps and bounds, he flew towards Lee, and grabbed his arm. "It was amazing! We all saw it, on the teel-ey-vission! Astounding, there was blood everywhere, wasn't there? And she just kept crying—"
A disgruntled looking Czolgosz emerged from another one of the doors to stand on the threshold, and pointed accusingly at Charlie.
"Fool! I was napping!"
"You are always napping, Leo," was the response, as Guiteau released Oswald from his grasp and turned to face his opponent, hands on hips.
"My name is Leon, you—" growled Czolgosz, but he was cut off as Byck shoved him to the side to get through the doorway.
"You people smell that? Fromme's been cooking again. I hope it's brownies." Sure enough, the red-head entered almost immediately after this was said, carrying a tray leaden with pungent, chocolate brown squares. There was an enormously goofy smile on her face as she placed the food on the table, and then let forth a high-pitched giggle.
The others started to come forward now—Moore, attempting to get a giant stain out of her horrid turtleneck, Zangara, who quickly joined Byck and Fromme in the devouring of the brownies, and Hinckley, who had headphones on and could hear nothing. Booth cleared his throat. Quiet ensued, aside from the faint sounds of chewing. The ringleader turned to the newest inhabitant with an expectant expression. All eyes were now on Oswald, who looked back, unsure.
"These people—"
"Are some of history's most despised figures, yes."
"That's a laugh." Booth smiled thoughtfully before turning to the ensemble.
"Alright, who wants to share a room with Lee?" Guiteau's hand shot up in the air.
"No!" was the instant reply, from more than one person in the room. Constantly Cheerful Charlie's face fell.
"Why not!"
"Because, we made you bunk alone for a reason," declared Czolgosz. "Last time we put you with someone—"
"Poor Zangara," murmured Fromme with a shake of her head.
"—he ran out screaming bloody murder. Still will not talking about what you did to him." The Italian started choking on a brownie, his face suddenly pale. Moore slapped him on the back.
"You no come near me no more," said Giuseppe, with a glare towards his former roommate. Guiteau scoffed.
"That was an accident! It was dark, and I tripped. It's just a coincidence that I happened to fall into that position, and he was—"
"Shut up, Charlie!" cried Moore, clamping her hands over her ears.
"You just don't want him to admit he tried to rape little Zannie because he was hitting on you, too," observed Fromme in a voice even squeakier than usual, chuckling at the other woman, who turned bright red.
"You know," Byck said loudly. "I think he really just needs to get his priorities—straight!" The ill-clad Santa then burst into laughter at his own pun.
"Absolutely preposterous—" started Charlie, in an attempt at self-defence.
"Silence!" roared Booth, and silence he got. The other assassins looked dumbfounded. "Now," he said with a deep breath. "that we are done discussing the sexual preferences of Guiteau, I need a serious answer. Who is Lee rooming with?"
"Czolgosz and I have extra bed. He sleep there," proposed Zangara (now recovered from his painful flashback.) The group seemed to agree, and Oswald was quickly shown around. There was the tour of the shooting range, and the deserted carnival, each of which had its own door, and then there was the door that lead to a different place on each day. They'd been thrown anywhere from the Continental Congress in 1776, to the set of the film 1776. No one could ever predict where it would go. After all this, the basic household rules were laid out.
Number one—no one leaves unless there is 1) an assassination to be provoked, or 2) they, themselves, have an assassination to take care of. Many of the assassins were still waiting. Number two—everyone must be in bed by eleven o'clock. The days seemed to go quicker when you lived in limbo, so you could be awake for three days and have it seem like an hour. A bedtime kept people sane. (Well, I mean, less insane. If any one of them was truly sane, would they have tried to kill a president? Doubt it.)
Number three: if you piss someone off, they get half an hour with you as target practice. The assassins were not flesh and blood at this point, so a shot in the chest did no permanent damage. The wounds simply vanished after a moment. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, however, and was usually effective as punishment. (Unless, of course, you were Charlie. Nothing seemed to stick with him.)
Number four was presented to Lee that evening, as everyone had changed into their bedclothes other than him, and gathered in the main room for his final orientation. They crowded around, their garb varying from Booth and Charlie's plain white gowns with elaborate robes of the 19th century, to Hinckley's sweats and t-shirt of the 80s.
Their ringleader handed the newbie a package. Oswald turned it over in his hands, puzzled. The object was soft, wrapped in brown paper.
"What's this?" he asked.
"The last thing you have to do to get in," answered Booth, grinning. Oswald's brows knitted together, and he started to tear open the thing. Fromme began to giggle incessantly, until Moore hit her over the back of the head. Lee stared at the object now sitting in his lap. It was a pair of silk pajamas, covered in red, white, and blue stripes.
"Upon entry to the Clubhouse, as we call it, every one of us had to wear nightclothes identical to these on our first night. It's like hazing—"
"But funnier!" chorused the others.
Lee looked back and forth between the pajamas and the other assassins for a moment, and then said finally, with a sigh, "This is going to be a long all of eternity, isn't it?"
"Welcome to the family, brother."