Are You Sitting Comfortably
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: Sudden burst of energy—here it is, part nine of an ongoing
alternate reality/crossover. I found more Catatonia lyrics, this time for their
song "Arabian Derby." Needless to say, I keep sensing inspirational depths in
their sassy songs. I collected a few characters from Utena, Rurouni Kenshin,
Cowboy Bebop and Gundam Wing to cast my story.)
"It's certainly a different dynamic, that it is." Kenshin Himura crossed his arms
and tipping his head back a bit so he could focus better through his dark rimmed
glasses. The stage was a general cluster of actors, all seeming rather
directionless which was quite often the case before Saitou stepped in to organize
their creativity. "Coupling the new group from the Glass House and our loss of
Ruka . . . it hardly seems like the same theater, that it doesn't."
"Writer's intuition is it?" Saitou scoffed, his arms were crossed as well, pulling
tight his well defined arms. He scowled at the confusion as well, thereby able to
single out each actor and calculate exactly what he or she was doing at that
moment.
"I'd say, more the keen writer's sense of observation." Kenshin bristled, but kept
his voice cheerful enough. He and Saitou had formed a compromise based on
the trust they would not interfere directly with the other's particular area of
artistic interest.
"Time to clean up this disaster." Saitou mumbled to himself, instinctively
reaching up to where his cigarette was not balanced between his lips. His scowl
darkened. Saitou didn't care so much about following his own rules as he was
about enforcing them.
Sanosuke Sagara was trying to gain the attention of Dorothy Catalonia. The
rooster-head's hair boyishly tousled as usual, but the fellow was physically
trying to imitate Dorothy's impeccable posture and assimilate her intrinsic sense
of sophistication. The result mostly resembled a bed-rumpled private being
called for inspection unexpectedly. "Death of a Salesman?" Sano lifted an
eyebrow, "Well, I, no, I hadn't realized that this character was inspired by . . ."
"You've heard of it?" Dorothy smiled, appearing amused, but hardly glancing
up from her script. In the stage lights her hair almost seemed white as it veiled
her expression from the awkward interests of her companion.
"Kenshin's good." Sano said, starting to sound a tad stubborn—reflecting the
personality that both he and his sister shared. "Of course he intended to add
such literary depth to his original shorts."
"Well, it certainly is nice to do something original for a change." Dorothy said,
apparently allowing for Sano's defense.
"Sagara, find your scene and stick with it." Saitou commanded, passing by the
two of them while also snapping a finger at Spike and Julia who were speaking a
bit farther back, heads close. They parted professionally, but shared a chagrined
look.
Saitou noticed the ripple affect as he simply walked along the stage. Persons
automatically stepping aside and collecting themselves into their appropriate
places. However, he was not finding the one person who was supposed to be
coordinating this disaster. Reluctantly, he stopped his pacing and simply called
out with an edge to his voice, "FAYE-?"
"I'm here, boss!"
Saitou saw her pushing through the doors to the auditorium. Momentarily
doubled over as she rested on hand against the door, the other supporting her
breathing.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Faye repeated in a chant like fashion as she half-walked,
half-skipped to the stage. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." She didn't stop until she was at
Saitou's side and took one last deep breath. "Sorry." She sounded more like a
recording than sincere.
"Don't mention it." Saitou ignored her to address the rest of the casting who
watched Faye's entrance with a great deal of amusement. "Alright. I'd like us
all to concentrate on unity in both our individual scenes and as a group. We've
got a few new faces at the Road Rage and I want everyone to transition
smoothly. Likewise, I want to emphasize that while some of you have many
parts—and you all might not have a chance to work together—the Summer
Spotlights," he ignored Sanosuke's wild holler of 'shorts' and continued, "will
have common threads of characters or theme or setting. I want audiences to feel
as if they are watching a collage of scenes intentionally developed to be
understood and enjoyed as a whole.
"Today I'd like to have a comprehensive read through of the scripts so you can
familiarize yourself with your part in this larger endeavor. Perspective of
productive is a starting point. After that, consult with Ms. Valentine for
individual rehearsal schedules. Any questions?" Saitou scanned the faces,
systematically recognizing each, filing the memory away, and acknowledging
that he had their attention, "If not, then let's start with scene one . . . everyone
else, take a seat."
Utena, meanwhile, had appeared from behind the scenes to wave Saitou over.
"Mikage is rewiring some of the lights, but it shouldn't interfere with your work
too much, I wouldn't think." Utena added as the actors continued to rearrange
themselves. "And Catherine confirmed that lunch could be brought in for
everybody."
"Thanks, Utena." Saitou nodded. The transitions did seem smooth so far. No
one expressed open hostilities about their casting, although he'd certainly
detected a few dark looks being passed about between the actors. "Keep an eye
on things."
"Of course, sir." Utena smiled.
And so the players
Have changed
Soon we'll memorize the names
But somehow something's
Never quite the same
"Hello, Mikage." Juri was waiting in the back of the auditorium. Utena needed
some costuming assistance, but so far none of the pre-ordered items had arrived.
Juri kept constant attention on the theater door watching for their appearance.
"Juri." Mikage nodded. She appreciated the time she'd taken to understand the
technician. His cryptic, silent attentiveness and unusual, directionless way of
speaking didn't seem so paradoxical to her anymore. Although, she often
wondered what might have happened to make him so withdrawn and so
accurately perceptive. "Trying something different?" He asked vaguely.
"Not really," Juri chose an answer, almost as vague. "It seems like I've stayed
quite the same while everything shifted around me." Mikage tipped his head,
giving a low throated agreement while she continued, "How can you change
when all the choices are taken from you?"
"Matthew." Mikage said. The word that had built their bond.
"Maybe," Juri sighed heavily, "Then again. Perhaps the best thing I could do
would be to forget."
Mikage glanced up quickly, his interest suddenly kindled and something darkly
curious lighted his odd eyes. Juri studied him just as keenly, curious herself
what insight or connection they might have made.
"To forget is to make the memory all the more dangerous." He spoke at last,
turning from her to walk away but pausing mid-step. Turning his head back to
her as if to say more, but re-thinking, continued.
Juri watched him go. Intrigued. But patient.
She waited for the delivery for some time before it came.
I never feared the rain
Until you turned to me
And said you'd failed again
It makes a perfect day so lame
And leads us halfway
To nowhere...
Shiori balanced herself on the front desk, watching the cast filter their way out
from day's work. No one paid her much mind. Nearly the last to leave, Utena
was chatting quite friendly with one of the new actors. He ran one hand full of
long fingers through his reddish-brown hair, not so much trying to keep it from
falling forward but to give himself a moment's relief. The way he seemed so
relaxed and genuine even while detached and distant reminded Shiori that this
man had to be Trowa Barton . . . not only Ruka's replacement, but his parallel.
Shiori did little to fight the initial dislike that swelled in her throat. She had lost
little love when Ruka had disappeared. How he had taken her home after the
party, not only taken her home but left her there. Alone like a wet kitten on the
curbside, realizing that she'd been essentially removed from where she had
strength. He'd taken her away from Juri.
But had he known? Had he really known why she was so cruel?
Her rage began to bubble through with a small smile. No matter how furiously
she might have failed. Ruka had failed as well. But while he had fled. Shiori
would stay. Nothing gave her as much pleasure as the game.
And Trowa Barton was not Ruka, he had no invested interest in the game. He
meant very little to her.
With a small wave from his waist, Trowa left Utena and went out from the Road
Rage. Utena cheerfully headed down the hall toward the props room. Soon
after, Dorothy and Nichol were passing through the foyer on their way home for
the evening.
"I like stern direction," Dorothy was saying lightly, but as if her opinion were
the end of the conversation. "Demonstrates that a man knows exactly what he
wants and how to get it. Don't you like being stretched, Nichol."
"Dorothy, Dorothy." Nichol seemed to repress a prudish nature with forced
amusement, "Would you call that stern? The man hardly says a word, but
pierces you with those narrow eyes. Is that communication?"
"I'd say it was acting . . ." Dorothy responded, tossing her hair over one
shoulder and giving Nichol a coy glance across her shoulder. "Communicating
to actors by acting. By the way, do you like anybody, Nichol? Because I would
say that you . . ."
"It's not a matter of liking. It's a matter of trust. Of trust and truth."
Shiori considered those words as they also left the Road Rage. She mouthed the
words to herself with no sound. Liking the way they made impact, even if
Nichol meant little more to her than another convoluted philosopher with an
arrogant agenda.
And then. Juri.
"Hello." Juri said, politeness cutting off familiarity.
"Waiting for Sanosuke?" Shiori asked. Keeping things simple, for now.
"Yes."
"I wish we could do something together again." Shiori paused, "Like . . . that
one evening. You were so happy then. I'd like to see you happy again."
"Happy?" Juri tried to scoff, but her voice, at best, sounded lost in thought.
"When have you ever made me happy?"
Shiori stood, standing awkwardly . . . twisting her arms before her. Lowering
her head to the side, before adding, "It's not a matter of happiness? Then it is a
matter of trust. Of trust and truth." Her eyes flashed, and Juri couldn't help
feeling caught up in their miniature explosions. "Let me know when you're
ready for the truth."
Blindly, Shiori stumbled out into the city streets.
About a block down, she began to quicken her step toward her own car. Her
hand holding the key quivering with barely contained satisfaction.
Still we'll stake a claim
You can count us in again
Cos' everyone's a winner baby
Hedge your bets
Get set and maybe
We could be the first
To cross the line...
"That's a bad habit you've got there." Faye stepped out the back door of the
theater into the nearby alley. She pulled a cigarette from her pack, stuffing the
nearly empty container back into her jacket pocket. She accepted the light Spike
held out for her trembling fingers.
"Why aren't you smoking in the foyer, Faye?" Spike asked with a crooked grin.
He was sitting on some empty crates piled on the side of the door opposite from
the theater's dumpster. The smoke on his breath catching his words and pulling
them down the narrow space between the buildings.
Faye puffed a bit before answering, "Too stressful." She laughed hoarsely.
"Saitou'd kill me. He's not even taking biological breaks himself . . . if you get
my drift."
"We're a bunch of cancer patients waiting to happen, aren't we?" Spike
chuckled, a healthy regret splintering his joke. "It's getting pretty tense."
"Tell *me* about that, huh?" Faye knocked the ash off of her already
disappearing smoke. "Actors are a bunch of brats. I called Shiori twice to
remind her about the nine o'clock rehearsal. The second time, she hadn't even
moved yet. And don't let me get started on how much that Catalonia woman
irks me."
"So you've had a close encounter with Dorothy?"
"She's good, damn it." Faye snarled, but wasn't nearly as upset as she sounded.
"I wish she'd stop acting like it." She automatically dropped her dead addiction,
and pulled out another cigarette from her packet. "Last one. Might as well give
myself all the courage I can right now." She saluted Spike with the last of her
pack and tossed the container into the bin.
"Shin gone again?"
Faye blinked and a semi-pleased smile crossed her previously perplexed
features, "How—can you tell? Are we so connected already that you can tell
when . . ."
Spike guffawed, "Hold your ponies there, Faye. Lucky guess." He added
thoughtfully, "Actually, I figured you wouldn't be at the theater nearly this often
if he were around to distract you . . ."
"You've got it, buddy." Faye nodded, working the second cigarette almost as
furiously as the first. She glanced at it disgustedly, "I should really knock off
this habit." She flicked the butt across the pavement.
"Keep telling yourself that," said Spike. He glanced toward the sky, a narrow
strip only visible between the tops of the buildings—grey and clouded. "Looks
like a storm. Back inside?"
"I guess," Faye sighed, "Trading one for the other."
Get up, get set, get ready
Get high, get low, get even
Cos' we're living
In inimitable style
Chasing the ultimate prize...
The little girl was watching them again. It was all too easy to ignore her shaded
glances, but Dorothy recognized something darkly brewing in the child. And
anything that violent kindled a mild interest to occupy a small portion of her
thoughts.
She spent the rest of her time enjoying the stage. She'd missed the challenge of
a fresh role, being the actress to define the part, set the pace of possibilities,
establish the character's first breath. It was quite like the way Dorothy liked to
approach life. Some of her fellow actors were strong—vocal like Nichol, stable
like Trowa, enigmatic like Saitou—each holding their own. And then, there was
the young one.
With an amused narrowing of her eyes, Dorothy remembered first speaking with
the fledgling at the casting announcement. The girl's sweetly innocent
aggravation, her childish pout and disgruntled disposition ever since. All were
devices not unfamiliar to Dorothy herself, but when wielded by a master they
were simply tools—in the hands of the novice they were richly humorous and
brashly dangerous.
A portion of the bubbling emotion was directed at the other cast, and it was
thinly veiled by acting. But Dorothy watched Shiori almost as a hobby to
introduce herself into the rich underbelly of the Road Rage.
"What do you think of our pet?" Dorothy asked as she sat in the auditorium, her
posture impeccably perfect even as she turned to address her slouched
companion.
"What are you talking about?" Nichol said darkly, his dark brows pulled
together as he scowled at the dialogue for his next scene. He slapped the pages
with the back of his hand, "I'm always a villain, can't I escape type-casting? I
have depth . . ."
"Yes dear," Dorothy said in a slick, soothing voice. "It's not so much the type
of character as it is the depth that you pursue with that character."
"I don't need acting lessons from you." Nichol continued to frown. Then he
spoke again, "What pet?"
"Well, little Shiori, of course." Dorothy said quickly, as if surprised he hadn't
remembered.
"I don't feel like adopting." Snickered Nichol, "Especially when pets turn out . .
. distempered."
"You are narrow minded."
"What?"
"Narrow minded." Dorothy felt no need to elaborate. When she didn't clarify,
Nichol's features began to glare even more.
"I don't know what you have in mind. The child is obviously infatuated with
destruction. Have you seen the way that she pines for the stage crew? And the
way she looks at Trowa with a half puzzled expression, it's queer. Appearing so
bashful . . . but her words are undeniably tangled." Nichol tried to read but his
mind was irreversibly preoccupied.
"Isn't it delightful?" Dorothy's smile oozed with each word.
"And she doesn't care for us much." Nichol warned.
His companion laughed cheerily, "All the better." Dorothy paused as the subject
of their conversation passed by, glancing down at the two briefly before quickly
and deliberately speeding up to avoid confrontation. "Oh how beautifully done,
she couldn't bare looking at us at all."
You'd make a fine millionaire
It's only natural to celebrate
But someone's got to
Be there to pay
And we never get there...
"He asked about Juri again." Julia settled the phone in it's cradle and put herself
into Spike's arms. "We haven't done anything for her. Or him for that matter.
He's not going to be happy alive or dead if we can't tell him that Juri's alright."
"Can you blame him?" Spike pondered, amusing himself with the ends of Julia's
coppery-gold hair. "Has the clinic come up with anything?"
"Nothing." Sighed Julia, tracing her fingers along Spike's shoulder, closing her
eyes against the broken parallels. Remember how she could always trust Spike
to wait for her, patiently and endlessly wanting her—even when she had pulled
away and he had doubted. But no powers had taken him in the meantime. No
illness had worked its way into his body. "He mentioned more tests in passing.
Some new doctors are joining the team. Someone from overseas." She bit her
lip, "I don't want him to be there anymore. I want him back with us."
"Well, that would be great," Spike began, "But he wouldn't do us a bit of good
if he stayed getting more and more sickly, would it?" Julia didn't answer.
They stood simply too uncertain what to do next. Spike finding his options too
dismissive; Julia's too self-critical.
Neither finding words. Both feeling shadows of guilt.
So take some time on our own
We burn enough alone
Close but still not fully grown
Pulling marrow from a bone
"I wouldn't expect to see you here." Juri found herself speaking as he passed by
her.
"The museum is free on Tuesdays." His voice peacefully surprised. Trowa took
a step back and leaned over the bench where Juri had scattered her supplies.
From his vantage point over her shoulder, Trowa commented, "I wouldn't have
expected to see you drawing . . ."
"It's a hobby I pick up when I need to be alone." Juri brushed the eraser remains
from the top page of her sketch booklet settled over her crossed legs.
"Interesting." Trowa said, studying the work she'd done so far with a faintly
impressed nod. "The lines are so sharp and spare."
"I guess I like to keep things simple." Juri said with a sarcastically light laugh.
"And you're inspired by this?" Trowa spread his arms a bit, acknowledging the
established craft everywhere around them. Mostly rich American pieces and
thickly detailed sculptures. "I'd have expected to see you upstairs in the modern
exhibits?"
"They don't have these excellent benches." Juri used one hand to pull her
belongings closer to give Trowa room and an opportunity to stay. "In addition,
it feels much warmer here."
"I'm taking it you don't literally mean the temperature?" Trowa chuckled
lightly, sitting in the space Juri'd allowed, leaning back against the supporting
pillar and stretching his legs before him at a comfortable angle.
"No," Juri felt at ease to continue her sketch, making clean, deliberate strokes.
"I didn't mean the temperature." She worked for a few minutes before she
added, "I once was so intensely needy I made a hideous huge orange scribble. I
keep it in my living room to remind me that I've been there before. I've felt that
way." Trowa listened as she continued, "But today, now, I—I'd like to keep a
bit more control. Do you understand?"
"You're not acting this summer?" Trowa said after a moment.
"No." Juri watched the dark pencil smear as she unintentionally pressed it with
the side of her hand.
"I see." Trowa folded his arms, "I would have liked to performed with you."
Juri looked up to study his unreadable expression, focused on the opposite
portrait of a solitary man on an anonymous brown street. She went back to her
own picture, trying to adjust the image to accommodate the distortion. "I'll act
again."
But there's no turning back
So count us in again...
Going back to the old house
The Marigolds just go to show
That some of us should
Never have left home
"C'mon, Utena . . . I know I've sort of been seeing Misao, but we haven't
promised ourselves to each other or anything. I wouldn't mind if she saw other
guys, see. So I'm sure that she wouldn't "be terribly disappointed" as you put it
if you give me Catherine's telephone number." Sanosuke had persistently
pursued the stylish caterer since they met at Spike's party for the spring show,
although they hadn't ever been formally introduced. "What if I wanted her to
host one of my own parties or something? She has to have a business number?"
"Still trying, rooster head?" Spike picked up part of the conversation as he
walked past, "Don't give in Utena, be strong."
"If Utena doesn't oblige, I'm coming after you next." Sano growled good-
naturedly at Spike's back and retreating wave.
Utena grinned broadly, amused with the entire situation, "I dunno, Sano. I don't
think Catherine's the type to like chicken boys."
Sano's jaw dropped open, he swallowed quickly, "Wha-what?"
Utena cast her eyes to the ceiling, then squirmed free from where Sano was
trying to pin her against the wall, "I'm just saying, you might need to start asking
the girls *themselves* for this sort of information! Ta ta." And she stepped
quickly down the hall.
Sano frowned, not quite understanding. He was still rubbing his chin when Juri
found him moments later.
"Were you looking for me, Sano?" She asked, holding a large art book with one
arm, the other a container of miscellaneous supplies.
"That's right." Sano triumphantly hit a fist into his other open palm. "That's
what I meant to ask Utena. Where've you been?" He asked distractedly as they
began to walk toward the front doors.
"I went to the museum for a bit," Juri explained, shifting the book so it didn't
press into her arm so awkwardly. "Utena and Mikage didn't need me this
afternoon."
"I see." Sano nodded, still distracted. "Hey, do you remember the cute gal
Spike had catering his party? If I were to host a cast party I'd certainly want to
hire her, was her name Catherine? You don't happen to have her number?" He
asked most innocently.
Juri shrugged, a playful sparkle in her eyes, "How should I know?" Sano
slumped noticeably, when Juri added, "Hon, aren't you old enough to ask for
yourself?"
"Again, the world conspires against me." Sano grumbled, pulling at his shirt
sleeves.
"You sound more like your sister every day."
But see I'm still counting
Another flash in the pan
A quick and instant forming tan
It seems to grow on me
Taking inches from a mile
The fine angles of her back pressed against the wall unperturbed. Dorothy
already wore her sunglasses, preparing to depart into what was left of the
afternoon sunshine. Still, she waited as Juri and Sano left before her.
Someone was still left.
From the shadows, Shiori slipped forward, intently focused on the two who were
just ahead. Letting them escape and then taking a quicker step. Her arms at her
sides, swinging freely enough, but the fingertips curled.
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. This kitten wanted claws. Examining her own
nails, Dorothy chuckled lyrically.
"What do you want?" The brown haired girl stood in the light penetrating the
front doors. Peering into the shadows, uncertain who was watching.
"Why, nothing." Dorothy laughed again, sliding past the door and boldly
opening the barrier to the outside. "I have absolutely everything that I could
ever want."
But I'm all for throwing
It on the line...
By Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: Sudden burst of energy—here it is, part nine of an ongoing
alternate reality/crossover. I found more Catatonia lyrics, this time for their
song "Arabian Derby." Needless to say, I keep sensing inspirational depths in
their sassy songs. I collected a few characters from Utena, Rurouni Kenshin,
Cowboy Bebop and Gundam Wing to cast my story.)
"It's certainly a different dynamic, that it is." Kenshin Himura crossed his arms
and tipping his head back a bit so he could focus better through his dark rimmed
glasses. The stage was a general cluster of actors, all seeming rather
directionless which was quite often the case before Saitou stepped in to organize
their creativity. "Coupling the new group from the Glass House and our loss of
Ruka . . . it hardly seems like the same theater, that it doesn't."
"Writer's intuition is it?" Saitou scoffed, his arms were crossed as well, pulling
tight his well defined arms. He scowled at the confusion as well, thereby able to
single out each actor and calculate exactly what he or she was doing at that
moment.
"I'd say, more the keen writer's sense of observation." Kenshin bristled, but kept
his voice cheerful enough. He and Saitou had formed a compromise based on
the trust they would not interfere directly with the other's particular area of
artistic interest.
"Time to clean up this disaster." Saitou mumbled to himself, instinctively
reaching up to where his cigarette was not balanced between his lips. His scowl
darkened. Saitou didn't care so much about following his own rules as he was
about enforcing them.
Sanosuke Sagara was trying to gain the attention of Dorothy Catalonia. The
rooster-head's hair boyishly tousled as usual, but the fellow was physically
trying to imitate Dorothy's impeccable posture and assimilate her intrinsic sense
of sophistication. The result mostly resembled a bed-rumpled private being
called for inspection unexpectedly. "Death of a Salesman?" Sano lifted an
eyebrow, "Well, I, no, I hadn't realized that this character was inspired by . . ."
"You've heard of it?" Dorothy smiled, appearing amused, but hardly glancing
up from her script. In the stage lights her hair almost seemed white as it veiled
her expression from the awkward interests of her companion.
"Kenshin's good." Sano said, starting to sound a tad stubborn—reflecting the
personality that both he and his sister shared. "Of course he intended to add
such literary depth to his original shorts."
"Well, it certainly is nice to do something original for a change." Dorothy said,
apparently allowing for Sano's defense.
"Sagara, find your scene and stick with it." Saitou commanded, passing by the
two of them while also snapping a finger at Spike and Julia who were speaking a
bit farther back, heads close. They parted professionally, but shared a chagrined
look.
Saitou noticed the ripple affect as he simply walked along the stage. Persons
automatically stepping aside and collecting themselves into their appropriate
places. However, he was not finding the one person who was supposed to be
coordinating this disaster. Reluctantly, he stopped his pacing and simply called
out with an edge to his voice, "FAYE-?"
"I'm here, boss!"
Saitou saw her pushing through the doors to the auditorium. Momentarily
doubled over as she rested on hand against the door, the other supporting her
breathing.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Faye repeated in a chant like fashion as she half-walked,
half-skipped to the stage. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." She didn't stop until she was at
Saitou's side and took one last deep breath. "Sorry." She sounded more like a
recording than sincere.
"Don't mention it." Saitou ignored her to address the rest of the casting who
watched Faye's entrance with a great deal of amusement. "Alright. I'd like us
all to concentrate on unity in both our individual scenes and as a group. We've
got a few new faces at the Road Rage and I want everyone to transition
smoothly. Likewise, I want to emphasize that while some of you have many
parts—and you all might not have a chance to work together—the Summer
Spotlights," he ignored Sanosuke's wild holler of 'shorts' and continued, "will
have common threads of characters or theme or setting. I want audiences to feel
as if they are watching a collage of scenes intentionally developed to be
understood and enjoyed as a whole.
"Today I'd like to have a comprehensive read through of the scripts so you can
familiarize yourself with your part in this larger endeavor. Perspective of
productive is a starting point. After that, consult with Ms. Valentine for
individual rehearsal schedules. Any questions?" Saitou scanned the faces,
systematically recognizing each, filing the memory away, and acknowledging
that he had their attention, "If not, then let's start with scene one . . . everyone
else, take a seat."
Utena, meanwhile, had appeared from behind the scenes to wave Saitou over.
"Mikage is rewiring some of the lights, but it shouldn't interfere with your work
too much, I wouldn't think." Utena added as the actors continued to rearrange
themselves. "And Catherine confirmed that lunch could be brought in for
everybody."
"Thanks, Utena." Saitou nodded. The transitions did seem smooth so far. No
one expressed open hostilities about their casting, although he'd certainly
detected a few dark looks being passed about between the actors. "Keep an eye
on things."
"Of course, sir." Utena smiled.
And so the players
Have changed
Soon we'll memorize the names
But somehow something's
Never quite the same
"Hello, Mikage." Juri was waiting in the back of the auditorium. Utena needed
some costuming assistance, but so far none of the pre-ordered items had arrived.
Juri kept constant attention on the theater door watching for their appearance.
"Juri." Mikage nodded. She appreciated the time she'd taken to understand the
technician. His cryptic, silent attentiveness and unusual, directionless way of
speaking didn't seem so paradoxical to her anymore. Although, she often
wondered what might have happened to make him so withdrawn and so
accurately perceptive. "Trying something different?" He asked vaguely.
"Not really," Juri chose an answer, almost as vague. "It seems like I've stayed
quite the same while everything shifted around me." Mikage tipped his head,
giving a low throated agreement while she continued, "How can you change
when all the choices are taken from you?"
"Matthew." Mikage said. The word that had built their bond.
"Maybe," Juri sighed heavily, "Then again. Perhaps the best thing I could do
would be to forget."
Mikage glanced up quickly, his interest suddenly kindled and something darkly
curious lighted his odd eyes. Juri studied him just as keenly, curious herself
what insight or connection they might have made.
"To forget is to make the memory all the more dangerous." He spoke at last,
turning from her to walk away but pausing mid-step. Turning his head back to
her as if to say more, but re-thinking, continued.
Juri watched him go. Intrigued. But patient.
She waited for the delivery for some time before it came.
I never feared the rain
Until you turned to me
And said you'd failed again
It makes a perfect day so lame
And leads us halfway
To nowhere...
Shiori balanced herself on the front desk, watching the cast filter their way out
from day's work. No one paid her much mind. Nearly the last to leave, Utena
was chatting quite friendly with one of the new actors. He ran one hand full of
long fingers through his reddish-brown hair, not so much trying to keep it from
falling forward but to give himself a moment's relief. The way he seemed so
relaxed and genuine even while detached and distant reminded Shiori that this
man had to be Trowa Barton . . . not only Ruka's replacement, but his parallel.
Shiori did little to fight the initial dislike that swelled in her throat. She had lost
little love when Ruka had disappeared. How he had taken her home after the
party, not only taken her home but left her there. Alone like a wet kitten on the
curbside, realizing that she'd been essentially removed from where she had
strength. He'd taken her away from Juri.
But had he known? Had he really known why she was so cruel?
Her rage began to bubble through with a small smile. No matter how furiously
she might have failed. Ruka had failed as well. But while he had fled. Shiori
would stay. Nothing gave her as much pleasure as the game.
And Trowa Barton was not Ruka, he had no invested interest in the game. He
meant very little to her.
With a small wave from his waist, Trowa left Utena and went out from the Road
Rage. Utena cheerfully headed down the hall toward the props room. Soon
after, Dorothy and Nichol were passing through the foyer on their way home for
the evening.
"I like stern direction," Dorothy was saying lightly, but as if her opinion were
the end of the conversation. "Demonstrates that a man knows exactly what he
wants and how to get it. Don't you like being stretched, Nichol."
"Dorothy, Dorothy." Nichol seemed to repress a prudish nature with forced
amusement, "Would you call that stern? The man hardly says a word, but
pierces you with those narrow eyes. Is that communication?"
"I'd say it was acting . . ." Dorothy responded, tossing her hair over one
shoulder and giving Nichol a coy glance across her shoulder. "Communicating
to actors by acting. By the way, do you like anybody, Nichol? Because I would
say that you . . ."
"It's not a matter of liking. It's a matter of trust. Of trust and truth."
Shiori considered those words as they also left the Road Rage. She mouthed the
words to herself with no sound. Liking the way they made impact, even if
Nichol meant little more to her than another convoluted philosopher with an
arrogant agenda.
And then. Juri.
"Hello." Juri said, politeness cutting off familiarity.
"Waiting for Sanosuke?" Shiori asked. Keeping things simple, for now.
"Yes."
"I wish we could do something together again." Shiori paused, "Like . . . that
one evening. You were so happy then. I'd like to see you happy again."
"Happy?" Juri tried to scoff, but her voice, at best, sounded lost in thought.
"When have you ever made me happy?"
Shiori stood, standing awkwardly . . . twisting her arms before her. Lowering
her head to the side, before adding, "It's not a matter of happiness? Then it is a
matter of trust. Of trust and truth." Her eyes flashed, and Juri couldn't help
feeling caught up in their miniature explosions. "Let me know when you're
ready for the truth."
Blindly, Shiori stumbled out into the city streets.
About a block down, she began to quicken her step toward her own car. Her
hand holding the key quivering with barely contained satisfaction.
Still we'll stake a claim
You can count us in again
Cos' everyone's a winner baby
Hedge your bets
Get set and maybe
We could be the first
To cross the line...
"That's a bad habit you've got there." Faye stepped out the back door of the
theater into the nearby alley. She pulled a cigarette from her pack, stuffing the
nearly empty container back into her jacket pocket. She accepted the light Spike
held out for her trembling fingers.
"Why aren't you smoking in the foyer, Faye?" Spike asked with a crooked grin.
He was sitting on some empty crates piled on the side of the door opposite from
the theater's dumpster. The smoke on his breath catching his words and pulling
them down the narrow space between the buildings.
Faye puffed a bit before answering, "Too stressful." She laughed hoarsely.
"Saitou'd kill me. He's not even taking biological breaks himself . . . if you get
my drift."
"We're a bunch of cancer patients waiting to happen, aren't we?" Spike
chuckled, a healthy regret splintering his joke. "It's getting pretty tense."
"Tell *me* about that, huh?" Faye knocked the ash off of her already
disappearing smoke. "Actors are a bunch of brats. I called Shiori twice to
remind her about the nine o'clock rehearsal. The second time, she hadn't even
moved yet. And don't let me get started on how much that Catalonia woman
irks me."
"So you've had a close encounter with Dorothy?"
"She's good, damn it." Faye snarled, but wasn't nearly as upset as she sounded.
"I wish she'd stop acting like it." She automatically dropped her dead addiction,
and pulled out another cigarette from her packet. "Last one. Might as well give
myself all the courage I can right now." She saluted Spike with the last of her
pack and tossed the container into the bin.
"Shin gone again?"
Faye blinked and a semi-pleased smile crossed her previously perplexed
features, "How—can you tell? Are we so connected already that you can tell
when . . ."
Spike guffawed, "Hold your ponies there, Faye. Lucky guess." He added
thoughtfully, "Actually, I figured you wouldn't be at the theater nearly this often
if he were around to distract you . . ."
"You've got it, buddy." Faye nodded, working the second cigarette almost as
furiously as the first. She glanced at it disgustedly, "I should really knock off
this habit." She flicked the butt across the pavement.
"Keep telling yourself that," said Spike. He glanced toward the sky, a narrow
strip only visible between the tops of the buildings—grey and clouded. "Looks
like a storm. Back inside?"
"I guess," Faye sighed, "Trading one for the other."
Get up, get set, get ready
Get high, get low, get even
Cos' we're living
In inimitable style
Chasing the ultimate prize...
The little girl was watching them again. It was all too easy to ignore her shaded
glances, but Dorothy recognized something darkly brewing in the child. And
anything that violent kindled a mild interest to occupy a small portion of her
thoughts.
She spent the rest of her time enjoying the stage. She'd missed the challenge of
a fresh role, being the actress to define the part, set the pace of possibilities,
establish the character's first breath. It was quite like the way Dorothy liked to
approach life. Some of her fellow actors were strong—vocal like Nichol, stable
like Trowa, enigmatic like Saitou—each holding their own. And then, there was
the young one.
With an amused narrowing of her eyes, Dorothy remembered first speaking with
the fledgling at the casting announcement. The girl's sweetly innocent
aggravation, her childish pout and disgruntled disposition ever since. All were
devices not unfamiliar to Dorothy herself, but when wielded by a master they
were simply tools—in the hands of the novice they were richly humorous and
brashly dangerous.
A portion of the bubbling emotion was directed at the other cast, and it was
thinly veiled by acting. But Dorothy watched Shiori almost as a hobby to
introduce herself into the rich underbelly of the Road Rage.
"What do you think of our pet?" Dorothy asked as she sat in the auditorium, her
posture impeccably perfect even as she turned to address her slouched
companion.
"What are you talking about?" Nichol said darkly, his dark brows pulled
together as he scowled at the dialogue for his next scene. He slapped the pages
with the back of his hand, "I'm always a villain, can't I escape type-casting? I
have depth . . ."
"Yes dear," Dorothy said in a slick, soothing voice. "It's not so much the type
of character as it is the depth that you pursue with that character."
"I don't need acting lessons from you." Nichol continued to frown. Then he
spoke again, "What pet?"
"Well, little Shiori, of course." Dorothy said quickly, as if surprised he hadn't
remembered.
"I don't feel like adopting." Snickered Nichol, "Especially when pets turn out . .
. distempered."
"You are narrow minded."
"What?"
"Narrow minded." Dorothy felt no need to elaborate. When she didn't clarify,
Nichol's features began to glare even more.
"I don't know what you have in mind. The child is obviously infatuated with
destruction. Have you seen the way that she pines for the stage crew? And the
way she looks at Trowa with a half puzzled expression, it's queer. Appearing so
bashful . . . but her words are undeniably tangled." Nichol tried to read but his
mind was irreversibly preoccupied.
"Isn't it delightful?" Dorothy's smile oozed with each word.
"And she doesn't care for us much." Nichol warned.
His companion laughed cheerily, "All the better." Dorothy paused as the subject
of their conversation passed by, glancing down at the two briefly before quickly
and deliberately speeding up to avoid confrontation. "Oh how beautifully done,
she couldn't bare looking at us at all."
You'd make a fine millionaire
It's only natural to celebrate
But someone's got to
Be there to pay
And we never get there...
"He asked about Juri again." Julia settled the phone in it's cradle and put herself
into Spike's arms. "We haven't done anything for her. Or him for that matter.
He's not going to be happy alive or dead if we can't tell him that Juri's alright."
"Can you blame him?" Spike pondered, amusing himself with the ends of Julia's
coppery-gold hair. "Has the clinic come up with anything?"
"Nothing." Sighed Julia, tracing her fingers along Spike's shoulder, closing her
eyes against the broken parallels. Remember how she could always trust Spike
to wait for her, patiently and endlessly wanting her—even when she had pulled
away and he had doubted. But no powers had taken him in the meantime. No
illness had worked its way into his body. "He mentioned more tests in passing.
Some new doctors are joining the team. Someone from overseas." She bit her
lip, "I don't want him to be there anymore. I want him back with us."
"Well, that would be great," Spike began, "But he wouldn't do us a bit of good
if he stayed getting more and more sickly, would it?" Julia didn't answer.
They stood simply too uncertain what to do next. Spike finding his options too
dismissive; Julia's too self-critical.
Neither finding words. Both feeling shadows of guilt.
So take some time on our own
We burn enough alone
Close but still not fully grown
Pulling marrow from a bone
"I wouldn't expect to see you here." Juri found herself speaking as he passed by
her.
"The museum is free on Tuesdays." His voice peacefully surprised. Trowa took
a step back and leaned over the bench where Juri had scattered her supplies.
From his vantage point over her shoulder, Trowa commented, "I wouldn't have
expected to see you drawing . . ."
"It's a hobby I pick up when I need to be alone." Juri brushed the eraser remains
from the top page of her sketch booklet settled over her crossed legs.
"Interesting." Trowa said, studying the work she'd done so far with a faintly
impressed nod. "The lines are so sharp and spare."
"I guess I like to keep things simple." Juri said with a sarcastically light laugh.
"And you're inspired by this?" Trowa spread his arms a bit, acknowledging the
established craft everywhere around them. Mostly rich American pieces and
thickly detailed sculptures. "I'd have expected to see you upstairs in the modern
exhibits?"
"They don't have these excellent benches." Juri used one hand to pull her
belongings closer to give Trowa room and an opportunity to stay. "In addition,
it feels much warmer here."
"I'm taking it you don't literally mean the temperature?" Trowa chuckled
lightly, sitting in the space Juri'd allowed, leaning back against the supporting
pillar and stretching his legs before him at a comfortable angle.
"No," Juri felt at ease to continue her sketch, making clean, deliberate strokes.
"I didn't mean the temperature." She worked for a few minutes before she
added, "I once was so intensely needy I made a hideous huge orange scribble. I
keep it in my living room to remind me that I've been there before. I've felt that
way." Trowa listened as she continued, "But today, now, I—I'd like to keep a
bit more control. Do you understand?"
"You're not acting this summer?" Trowa said after a moment.
"No." Juri watched the dark pencil smear as she unintentionally pressed it with
the side of her hand.
"I see." Trowa folded his arms, "I would have liked to performed with you."
Juri looked up to study his unreadable expression, focused on the opposite
portrait of a solitary man on an anonymous brown street. She went back to her
own picture, trying to adjust the image to accommodate the distortion. "I'll act
again."
But there's no turning back
So count us in again...
Going back to the old house
The Marigolds just go to show
That some of us should
Never have left home
"C'mon, Utena . . . I know I've sort of been seeing Misao, but we haven't
promised ourselves to each other or anything. I wouldn't mind if she saw other
guys, see. So I'm sure that she wouldn't "be terribly disappointed" as you put it
if you give me Catherine's telephone number." Sanosuke had persistently
pursued the stylish caterer since they met at Spike's party for the spring show,
although they hadn't ever been formally introduced. "What if I wanted her to
host one of my own parties or something? She has to have a business number?"
"Still trying, rooster head?" Spike picked up part of the conversation as he
walked past, "Don't give in Utena, be strong."
"If Utena doesn't oblige, I'm coming after you next." Sano growled good-
naturedly at Spike's back and retreating wave.
Utena grinned broadly, amused with the entire situation, "I dunno, Sano. I don't
think Catherine's the type to like chicken boys."
Sano's jaw dropped open, he swallowed quickly, "Wha-what?"
Utena cast her eyes to the ceiling, then squirmed free from where Sano was
trying to pin her against the wall, "I'm just saying, you might need to start asking
the girls *themselves* for this sort of information! Ta ta." And she stepped
quickly down the hall.
Sano frowned, not quite understanding. He was still rubbing his chin when Juri
found him moments later.
"Were you looking for me, Sano?" She asked, holding a large art book with one
arm, the other a container of miscellaneous supplies.
"That's right." Sano triumphantly hit a fist into his other open palm. "That's
what I meant to ask Utena. Where've you been?" He asked distractedly as they
began to walk toward the front doors.
"I went to the museum for a bit," Juri explained, shifting the book so it didn't
press into her arm so awkwardly. "Utena and Mikage didn't need me this
afternoon."
"I see." Sano nodded, still distracted. "Hey, do you remember the cute gal
Spike had catering his party? If I were to host a cast party I'd certainly want to
hire her, was her name Catherine? You don't happen to have her number?" He
asked most innocently.
Juri shrugged, a playful sparkle in her eyes, "How should I know?" Sano
slumped noticeably, when Juri added, "Hon, aren't you old enough to ask for
yourself?"
"Again, the world conspires against me." Sano grumbled, pulling at his shirt
sleeves.
"You sound more like your sister every day."
But see I'm still counting
Another flash in the pan
A quick and instant forming tan
It seems to grow on me
Taking inches from a mile
The fine angles of her back pressed against the wall unperturbed. Dorothy
already wore her sunglasses, preparing to depart into what was left of the
afternoon sunshine. Still, she waited as Juri and Sano left before her.
Someone was still left.
From the shadows, Shiori slipped forward, intently focused on the two who were
just ahead. Letting them escape and then taking a quicker step. Her arms at her
sides, swinging freely enough, but the fingertips curled.
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. This kitten wanted claws. Examining her own
nails, Dorothy chuckled lyrically.
"What do you want?" The brown haired girl stood in the light penetrating the
front doors. Peering into the shadows, uncertain who was watching.
"Why, nothing." Dorothy laughed again, sliding past the door and boldly
opening the barrier to the outside. "I have absolutely everything that I could
ever want."
But I'm all for throwing
It on the line...