Disclaimer: Wicked the book, from what this story is based on, belongs to Gregory Maguire. Wicked, with all its characters also belong to Gregory Maguire. Yay.
Authors Note: What I think really happened during those five years by herself. Well, part of those five years at least. Curiouser and curiouser.
The point, ironically, was that they were all required to be imperfect.
And that was the whole turn-on, really.
There really could not have existed a more perfectly convenient career for the lot of them.
Delirious
Chapter One: Meet Me In The Red Room
Elphaba lingered outside in the alley while the girl (was it? Bundled up so suspiciously, one can never tell with city folk) in front of her bumbled through the place's auspicious entrance, not even fit with a wooden door and in place of it, strings of beads. What initially startled both was the hand that had suddenly thrust through the beads, snapping impatiently. It was not the hand that scared both, although it appeared grossly grubby and misshapen; it was the snapping.
Which, Elphaba observed warily, is a disease of some kind. Appearing benign and seldom noted, the fear of sound in the city people cited for a much larger, more deeply rooted opinion of the city.
Thus, the Wizard's reign.
The few months she had lived in the Emerald City taught her much in the way of these city dwellers. Although seemingly enigmatic with all their precautions and locked doors, it was what it was. Really, the city dwellers had no more secrets than a lumberjack in Gilikin. Their faces read like open books, and their actions even more so. It was remarkable how a couple of homeless shelters and shit food brought the whole term "city life and people" to reality.
And from the looks of this shit alleyway, she wasn't due for much better. Elphaba inwardly shivered regarding the somber, filthy-looking alley, her grimly chosen background for the moment. A week ago, some other homeless mad woman ran into the shelter, raving about something she had seen: a young, teenage girl forced into an alley by two huge men with enormous blades. Now, they called her "mad" since nothing like that happened in broad daylight-it had been reported as an afternoon crime by the lady-and second of all, no one was allowed to carry weapons with the exception of course, the Gale Forcers. That tidbit of information was quite possibly the last straw for Elphaba.
Yet, she noted, it was also completely ironic and moronic to seek a job in a similar seedy alleyway, so as to avoid the dangers of the city. Lurine, she felt smart.
And it was seedy indeed. The heel of her boot sloshed nosily in some kind of brownish liquid, puddles, she imagined, from the excretions of all the poor located in this part of the Emerald City.
Emeralds indeed, she snorted, though muffled by her scarf. The greenness expanded only from the entrances to the city, then traveled inward to the main, more tourist and wealthy populated areas only. The official budget did not allow the expense of painting and decorating everything green, so they stuck to the more-in their humble opinions-positive areas of the city. Which left the area Elphaba was standing in, and probably eight or so more un-green. All red-light and black market districts were devoid of green mostly, with some splashes of emerald here and there.
Why, Elphaba was living proof. A splash here and there.
She heard the sudden jingle-jangle of beads, which invoked the strangest stab of something in her chest. Glinda, her mind and stomach lurched with softened abandon. She still probably wouldn't have moved, if the snapping hand didn't suddenly start barking at her.
"Ain't got all day, dearest! Faster, if you please!"
And if I don't please, Elphaba thought before following the hand and the voice inside, away from the alley's stench of rotting fish.
The inside surprised Elphaba. One would think, one would assume (if one was the type to judge book by cover) that the place would be as dirty and disgusting as the outside. However, as Elphaba is not one of those people, it surprised her because the hallway and all the fixtures decorating it looked foreign, nothing like she had ever seen before. There were ivory elephants with beaded head ornaments, bathed with silks from the Vinkus, red red red.
Roses without a black background.
There were tiny marble fountains on each polished wood table, jutting streams of what seemed to be red wine, or very crimson water. All the drapes were red. All the walls were painted red. Suddenly Elphaba wondered if the very presence of herself clashed with the room.
Of course, costume jewelry strung in lazy tangent patterns everywhere, hung directly from Unnamed God knows where, but grudgingly she did admit it looked tasteful. Whatever that was.
The place reeked of a smoky, pungent odor of foreign incense; a heavy smell which she instantly despised because of its cloudy, mind-inducing effects. Vaguely she was reminded of opium, and the memory of it ignited something awful. She felt like throwing up, and glanced quickly around.
Strangely, she spotted the person, which she completely forgot about, quietly observing her.
"What?" she snapped, the nausea of the incense fiddling with her emotions.
Short and stout, the said person-dwarf, to be exact-kept running his curious eyes up and down her body, to places unclothed. The dwarf both contrasted and complimented the background, it being both glamorous and terribly foreign. He stood erect and silent for more than a minute, his scraggly gray beard quivering with every inward thought. Finally, he spoke.
"Pretty woman is not to wash dishes, yes? Pretty woman is searching for wait jobs or perchance, money-money job?"
Instead of answering, she removed her hood and scarf, her black hair tumbling messily down her back. She waited for the initial reaction of shock, but both predictably and surprisingly, found none whatsoever.
The dwarf simply nodded, and then snapped his overalls. "You come with me. Yes? We meet Boss." He said that in a whisper, hinting something strange which Elphaba could not quite read. Scratching his ass, he stood a while, perhaps debating which room to enter from the hallway. His grubby fingers first pointed left, then right, then far left, then right again.
He turned to her, grinning wildly and uncharacteristically (funny, how can one judge after ten minutes?).
"It's always right, pretty." He scratched his ass some more, gesturing to the right with his free hand.
"It's always right."