Thanks, Lady of the Storm! LOL, Roy-Fan-33, I thought my long chapters was scaring people away. I don't mind the long review, sewing life, I'm just glad you are enjoying the story. Not to worry, SnufflesWillRise, here's another update. As for the rest, I'm not giving anything away.
Staged Realities
The Present
Salvana's Fifth Symphony, Revolution, played softly in the background, nearly drowned out by voices and distant sounds of a storm. Splashes of light danced over the ornately patterned carpet of the Royal Acadium Theatre's entryway from the three grand chandeliers hanging high above. They were a reminder, that even in the East, the people could be as beautiful and refined as Central City.
The audience, who had moved from the theatre into the expansive entry still murmured and spoke appreciatively of the highly lauded performance of The Trial of Horace that had been touring Amestris. Part of the crowd had already dispersed into the night but many still waited for their cars or a cab to be brought up so they would not have to walk too far in the rain that had started falling earlier in the evening.
Thunder rolled over the hall, as streaks of lightning lit the world in a purple glow beyond the tall glass doors at the front of the building. Falling rain turned the world glossy under bright marquee lights.
Watching the rain come down in torrents, Roy Mustang sighed as he approached the coat check counter. From where he stood, the chill air of the night blew in every time the crimson dressed doorman opened the door for an exiting couple. Drawing the ticket from his pocket, he slid the piece of paper across the black countertop, the crisp blue of his uniform stark against the dull surface. The girl behind the counter flushed and looked up with a dreamy gaze.
Rain pelted the glass.
He hated the rain.
As the blond reached out to take the ticket, but overreached and lightly drew her fingers over his, but he barely noticed, looking back toward the main area. While he waited, he stared down at his left hand, spreading the fingers and then drawing them into a fist. The skin color looked normal. Good, he thought, having been worried that he might lose the use of his arm due to lack of circulation. His date, Madolen, had held so tightly to his arm most of the evening, he expected it to be dead from the elbow down.
Thunder crashed overhead and while it earned startled whispers from the other theatregoers, it only seemed to depress Roy. Glancing about, he wondered if his date had climbed out the "powder room" window and was racing down the street without her coat. That would be the perfect end to the perfect date.
"Here they are, Colonel," the girl behind the counter said as she laid the black and brown coats across the dark surface.
Roy dimly noticed she was still blushing. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, flashing her a smile. The young woman giggled like a little girl as he took his black coat and slowly pulled it on and then paused long enough to straighten out his appearance. After a moment, he took up Madolen's deep brown coat and slung it over his arm.
Looking toward the corridor his date had earlier vanished into, he was definitely beginning to suspect she ran away. Seriously, how long did it take to powder one's nose? He should ask Hawkeye about that sometime, though, he was not sure she would know. He had rarely, if ever, had seen her in make up.
Not that she needed it.
Another deep rumble charged the air of the entryway and Roy noted that the rain was coming down harder than before.
Lousy weather.
There were still plenty of couples milling about, waiting for their rides or the rain to slow. He also noted other men, mostly young, standing alone holding their significant other's coats, probably abandoned for the powder room as well.
He paced a bit, but quickly gave up, falling against one of the tall white marble columns threaded with black veins near the grand staircase that led up to the balcony seating. From there, he had a clear view of the rain visible through the translucent doors.
If Madolen was maintaining a steady pace, she could be at the train station by now, though he supposed her high heels might slow her down slightly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the poster for the play he had just sat through. He could not exactly say he had seen it, for to be honest, he shut it out of his mind half way through the first act. The Trial of Horace, what a terrible play, he decided. He had been told it was an excellent play with a stellar cast, perhaps though he should have bothered to find out what it was about before arriving at the theatre.
He would not have been willing to sit through it had he known.
Cuthwulf Boolle, the playwright, had spun a yarn about a young soldier named Horace who was caught up in a war beyond his understanding. He did as he was ordered and took many lives as often soldiers were expected to. The crux of the story was Horace dealing with his demons and finding healing in the arms of the girl he had long loved.
It was a poorly told fantasy and a waste of two hours of Roy's life.
He glared up at the poster and saw the face of the actor who played Horace painted in sharp lines. The caricature smiled back, even as he hugged the girl who ever so dramatically professed her love to "Horace" even after he had told her what a monster he truly was.
Thoughts of torching the poster were only stilled by female voice, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting."
He smiled, that smile that always made the young women blush, as he straightened and met Madolen's bright blue eyes framed by dark auburn hair. Gently unfurling her coat, he held it out so she could easily slip it on over her long pale green evening gown. "I don't mind," he said calmly.
As soon as she had her coat pulled tight, to shelter against the falling rain they would soon encounter, she attached herself to his left arm again. Roy winced slightly as he felt the circulation be cut off once more.
"That was such a wonderful love story," Madolen purred as she pressed into him. "I felt so sorry for poor Horace. All those terrible things he had to do."
Roy only half heard her as he led her to the doors. The doorman nodded and pushed open the door, allowing a cool burst of damp air to flood in. The air crackled with electricity as the rain rushed to the earth in a haze of white noise. Still sheltered by the marquee, Roy motioned to one of the yellow cabs that were waiting for a customer.
As the cab's engine started up and the forward lamps lit up, Madolen continued. "I mean poor guy, but it's good that he could find comfort in the arms of the girl he loved. A great war hero—"
"It was entirely unrealistic," Roy said matter-of-factly.
Madolen looked at him with surprise.
He stared straight out into the night, seeing only the distant streets and far off lights of a residential district. "He would never touch the woman he loved with such bloodstained hands. No amount of oaths of love on her part can wash away the demons or absolve him of the innocent lives he took. Many people died because of him and there is nothing that can change that or ease the pain."
The grip around his arm had loosened just before the cab pulled close and Madolen was moving toward it, eager, perhaps, to escape him. A screech of tires and brakes drew Roy's attention, his hand automatically reaching into the pocket where his gloves were securely stored. A dark car cut off the cab, almost jumping the curb before it came to an abrupt stop.
"Hey, you maniac!" the cab driver bellowed as he stuck an arm out the window, waving a rude gesture toward the other driver. The moment the other car's driver door opened, the man went silent as the military blues of Lt. Hawkeye stepped out.
Roy frowned and nodded slightly to the Lieutenant, then escorted Madolen, who stared at Hawkeye, to the cab. He opened the door and helped her get in, then handed the driver some cash. "Take her home, please."
"Yes, sir," came the quick, obedient reply of the driver.
Madolen just looked at Roy, but he knew there would not be a second date. Not that he was too broken up by it; there was that seamstress down the street from Eastern HQ that had been eyeing him. Her name was Eugenie or something.
Once the cab pulled away, he turned to look at Hawkeye who was standing by the car in her quiet, professional manner, waiting. Approaching, he said, "I don't know whether to be annoyed trouble has come up or whether I should thank you for bringing my date to an early end."
Hawkeye opened the back door. "I would not have figured you a fan of Horace."
Growling, he huffed, "No more plays, ever. Dinner, drinks, a little evening entertainment, but no more plays." Once he was in the car, the door was slammed shut, violently rocking the entire vehicle. "Spare the car," he snapped as Hawkeye got into the drivers seat.
"Yes, sir," she curtly replied.
He sighed. Folding his arms across his chest, he sank back into the seat, watching the rain splatter against the windshield as Hawkeye pulled away from the theatre. "So what was so important you had to disrupt my evening?"
"A patrol has gone missing in the Savon District."