Nights in the city are so lovely… thought Francis. He was right; while the mornings were loud and noisy and reeked of coffee, the night was a blanket. Everything worth knowing about happened at night, it seemed. He collapsed on the couch, a mess of sweat and exhaustion. It's a damn shame I never get to see them.

Somewhere else, a young blonde in glasses sat cross-legged at a laptop, chewing the inside of his cheek and trying to condense his thoughts into words. He knew his handwriting was terrible, so he would type out this letter and mail it to his brother. Alfred may have been obnoxious, but he would surely appreciate getting something better than bills and catalogues in the mail for a change.

Dear Alfred,

Well, this is it! Today is the half-anniversary of my working here. I don't think anyone's really noticed me yet, but the boss seems to like me well enough. I mean, he hasn't fired me yet, so at least I've got that going for me.

I get the feeling that I'm just writing the articles that nobody else has time for. I haven't really been assigned to any one department yet, but I'm assigned odd articles that don't seem to have a lot to do with each other.

I have to admit, I really do wish you were here. It's not the same without you around; I think you're the one who gave me the courage to talk to people. I've tried that here, but they just brush me off… another thing I forgot to mention: everybody is always busy. The other day, somebody was sprinting down the hallway with a cardboard box, and the box nailed me right in the stomach as he passed by.

But really, it gets lonely. I just feel invisible a lot of the times, because I get moved around so much. While I was in the culinary department, I think I made friends with this Italian guy. He had a horrible attitude and used the word "bastard" extremely liberally, but his English was impeccable. We talked a lot about the food from where he's from and how different he think it is from American food. He yelled a lot, but he talked to me, and I think that's what counts.

Also, have you seen the posters for the new ballet? I know you probably don't really care about it that much, but the Kirkland Ballet Company is debuting a brand-new ballet, with music by Roderich Edelstein. You probably wouldn't know who he is, but I think he's a genius.

Anyway, it's called "La Ballade de Elizaveta", and it's opening soon. It's been awhile since I last saw a ballet. I'm looking forward to it.

You'll have to come out and visit sometime, once I clear all the bears off of my couch. I miss you.

Your brother,

Matthew

With the push of a button, the printer began to spit his letter out for him to fold and stick into an envelope. Nights in the city are so lovely… he thought. He was right; mornings were dull and grey and consisted mainly of mashing the keyboard and hoping the result was worthwhile. Nights, however, seemed so much more relaxed. It's a shame I'm too scared to explore them.

Francis's dormant figure laid on his bed, curled up and snoring. He was in the middle of a beautiful dream; the nightly performance had just ended to thunderous applause and the throwing of roses at his feet. Amidst these roses was a single envelope, addressed to him. He plucked it off the ground and opened it… inside, there was a beautifully handwritten note.

I'm proud of you.

His eyes swept the audience, eager to find the person who had written it, and his eyes fell upon somebody in the front row, beaming up at him. He could not see who they were, though.

Then, the alarm went off. He grabbed the antique alarm clock off of his nightstand and held it close to his face. "Sometimes I really hate you, you know that?" he unceremoniously tossed it to the foot of his bed and lugged himself to a standing position. He trudged to the restroom to comb back his unruly hair into a shape that would be more acceptable to his supervisor. He wanted to believe he looked nice, but to his critical eye, it looked like he just walked out of the 1920's. "I suppose we can't have everything…" he and his 20's hair then got dressed, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, and gathered everything he'd need until he would next come home. He surveyed the apartment… "Time for work, then."

Of course, it wasn't so much work as it was class. What awaited Francis at the studio was a rigorous ballet technique class, just like the ones he had every day. Although his face may have been perfect, it seemed as though his technique never would be. The ballet master was constantly calling out new adjustments to be made, prompting him to realize that his turnout could be wider, his calf could be tighter, his développé could be higher. Even so, it would never be perfect.

But that didn't mean it couldn't be beautiful.

Matthew gulped as he looked up at the immense gray building that stood before him. He had finished his most recent article about the botanical garden that had just opened in one of the surrounding towns, and would most surely be relocated today. He had just been getting used to that department, too, and he didn't particularly relish the thought of being in another room full of strangers today. Nonetheless, he forced one foot in front of the other before he stood in front of the friendly-looking receptionist.

"Name?"

"M-matthew Williams."

She scrolled through whatever database she had open on her ancient-looking laptop until she found his name. "You're wanted in the entertainment department today," she said. "Third floor." Matthew noticed that her accent was thick and foreign. It sounded almost Russian.

"Thank you!"

He made his way over to the elevator, then to the third floor. The entertainment department was clearly marked on a plain-looking door. He raised his hand to knock, but was cut short when the door was opened by a short, angry-looking young man who could only be described as childish.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Oh, I-I'm sorry. I just got here."

The young man, presumably the head of the department, surveyed the shaking figure of Matthew Williams. "So. You're the extra?"

"So it would seem… sir."

"Hm… you need a haircut. But you'll do."

"Um… thank you, I guess? I'm Matthew Williams." He held out his hand in hopes that the young man would shake it, but instead he grabbed it and pulled Matthew into the room, reaching over to close the door behind him.

"I'm Peter Kirkland, head of the entertainment department." He gestured to the room, which was about twice the size of a high school classroom. There were three rows of desks divided down the middle, with one person on either side of the divider. Each person was glued to a laptop or an encyclopedia or chattering on a cell phone. "Your desk is over there," He said, pointing to an empty space marked by a folded piece of paper that read, "NOOb". "Feliks has taken the liberty of making you a nameplate. Your assignment has been emailed to you."

"Thanks, Peter."

"That's Mr. Kirkland to you."

"Right, sorry." He began to make his way to the empty desk, but a thought struck him and he turned around. "Mr. Kirkland?"

"What is it now?"

"You aren't, by any chance, related to the great Arthur Kirkland?"

Peter gave a sly grin. "So you're a ballet fanatic?"

"Well, I wouldn't consider myself a fanatic, but…"

"He's my uncle. And if you enjoy ballet as much as you're letting on, I can tell you this much: these next few days just might be the best days of your life."

Matthew forced a smile and thanked him, even though he was a bit confused. He hoped his inbox would hold an answer.

To: Mwilliamscanada

From: Feliksthefunkyone

Re: Welcome, bro! Also, your job!

Matthew:

Welcome to the entertainment department. Pete told me that you've been working for the Honda Times for about six months now, so I'm assuming that you already have, like, at least a general idea of what you're supposed to be doing. So, basically, here's your assignment:

The Kirkland Ballet's newest production opens this Friday. That's in eight days, in case you don't own a calendar. Your job is to write an article about the work that's gone into the show, the premise of it, any background information and interesting details… you get the idea. Nobody's heard anything about this ballet, unless you include those posters pinned up just about everywhere, so it's up to you to get as much information as possible from anybody involved: the dancers, the choreographers, maybe even Arthur Kirkland himself. Good luck. Oh, by the way, the deadline is this Monday.

-Feliks Lukasiewicz

Jounalist

The Honda Times

Matthew read and reread the email. Article… Kirkland ballet… interview… He smiled. Peter was right. These next four days would be some of the best days of his life.

Wait. Four days? He opened a new tab and pulled up the company's official website, scouring it for any kind of phone number or email address. There was no time to lose.

A/N: I really have no idea how newspaper companies work. I'll try to research it so it seems more convincing, but for now, sorry… Also, I promise I'm still working on "Her Own Debt to Repay", it's just moving a bit slow.

Also, the site removed the rest of the fake email addresses, so that's why they look like that.