The World's Stage

Auditions

Chapter Ten

Would you rather die or be unwound?

He was flying, perhaps, or simply voyaging the depths of time as it unraveled around him. He's been here before, he's seen this place. He knows everything that will happen, he knows what he will see, because he's traveled here before, either by dream or by nightmare. These were his memories. And just like always he finds himself getting slowly absorbed into a time frame he neither desires or wants to see. The burning and the ache of his heart the source of this very memory. And then, slowly, his eyes close and he gets drawn to yet another nostalgic inception.

"Nii-san, have you ever desired for more then what you have?"

He wakes up.

Relief already sweeping into every pore on his body. Right, all of that was a dream. Kiku would never abandon him like that. He would never. Kiku's still here...These were the mind tricks. The trickery that the vivid back splash of a wooden house did to him. And even with this knowledge he chooses to reject it, his mind flickering between the truth and the dream. His conscious fighting the winning fantasy that conjures in his head.

He looks up, hoping to see the smiling face of the man he knew too well, but the face in front of him is foggy, visually unappealing, and he blinks, thinking it's his poor eyes that are unable to register the man in front of him. Fear absorbs every fiber of his body, he blinks again, pressing his eyelids shut before prying them open. Everything is slow in this time; the water seems too still as the ripples disappear only to reveal a blanked reflection. But even the reflection is hazy, and it remains like a sheet of plastic instead of fine glass. The warm air seems to reach him where the cold doesn't but he knows it's coming. He knows all about this place and how it's fake. How his existence only exists in the real world, where Kiku is not the kind and loving boy he raised. And that's what makes this timeline disappear in a swirl of pink and lavender, small petals that vanish into even smaller thin strands, evaporating as his eyesight leaves him in a clueless yet anticipating heap.

It seems like he's in yet another nightmare.

"You are so naïve, Yao-san."

He wakes up again, except this time he's gasping in pain. Shaking amongst the ground, as his hair cascades downward making an illusion of black swirls. What was this sensation? He looks at his balled hands only to find an accounting pamphlet. The dangerous line of zeroes makes his eyes turn wide. He looks up from his knees but this time he can only see a smile. His smile. His horribletainted smile. And with this smile Yao already knows that everything is over. This is the mere pinnacle of misery that started a hurt that would last a millennial.

There are no words exchanged other than the smile that stares at him. Innocence gone and what was replaced was a crazed smile that left him feeling cold, betrayed, and raged. This was the moment his heart changed. He remembers the days of a happy family, the ignorance and the naivety that seemed to long ago to deem a dream or a memory. He reaches forward clawing at the man standing atop of him, his face streaked with tears, his relentless and dying hope smothered when his hands reach nothing but the filth beneath him. Finally, the form leering on top of him leaves, footsteps walking toward the distance. Feet crashing a bed of pink and magenta, it's pigment matching the red of his cheeks and the blood that courses his body.

And only then does he scream.

"Yao?"

"Yao."

"Yao!"

He jolts awake, cold sweat on his forehead and by instinct looks around. Watching as blank white walls surround him in all their unsightliness. He blinks twice, now facing the man who awoke him. A British accent, a hazy blob of blond and emerald moves in front of him.

"Arthur."

This was indeed the real world. He finds himself seated on a rather ornate waiting chair, the memories of the most recent events crash onto him. That's right, they were waiting to audition. How could he have possibly forgotten? His fingertips dig into the leather that adorns the chair, leaving short deep engraved lines. A nightmare, just a nightmare. His mind blocks off everything that resorts to the thoughts of that cold smile, that invisible gaze, those hidden hints of a cruel corruption that he never saw before. He cuts them off in hopes of losing them entirely, like a cut strand of hair that held too much weight than not. And with that mindset he narrows his eyes, allowing his heart beat to rest. Each heavy beat hammers inside of his ribcage, the thumping grounds him to this thin reality a little bit more. This thin reality that seems to hurt him more than his nightmares. Because reality was cruel and real. Reality was real, and that worse than any nightmare entirely.

"Enjoyed your nap?" Arthur asks, surprised to see the other in such an anxious state. He coughs as he waits for an answer.

"Yes…" In Yao's hesitation, he found his answer. "I had a fine rest." Yao shakes his head annoyed, nonsense talk. He stretches, arching his back while staring woefully at the clock, it's right hand still placed where it was ten minutes ago. "Is it time to head in yet?"

Arthur nods, although his eyes look remorseful. The ghost of a worried expression barely makes it onto his face before vanishing. Simply a mirage that Yao could barely catch. "Just realized the bloody frog and his group's in there." He shakes his head, clenching his teeth before exhaling. Yao eyes widen before frowning. He was doing that more often now, he needed to stop before it left wrinkles.

"You mean Francis?"

Arthur groans before nodding, his head hurting at the very thought of the French man. His eyes shroud in a cloud of uneven emotion. That's right, Francis. The man who once took place in his life, as a reliever, a short muse. The man who spoke of romance and passion as an entirely new dialogue. The man who he went to on the days where sunlight was not gracing his features. The man who he loved, and was loved back. And yet he was the same man who left, the same man who left the unsightly smell of cigarettes in his room, and the same man who taught him a valuable lesson. Love was not worth the pain.

Yao straightens his back before quickly giving the British man an encouraging smile. Whether or not it reaches him he does not know or care. Everyone knew about the past flame between the two men. It was a dangerous topic amongst the media, and even more dangerous with the real people. Love was a dangerous gamble in the world of TV stars and shining idols, because it was all fake. A play that was too real and too deep. Some did it to pass time, others did it for the fame that came with the partnership, but there were some who really did it for love. Some who wanted the commitment and the horrible consequences it would bring. That wasn't him.

"Yao Yao! ~"

Amethyst eyes find their way into his mind. That gentle yet powerful touch, those eyes that stare at him like he was the world. Like he was the very reason of his existence. Like if he could, he could break him entirely with his words alone. And maybe he could, maybe. He remembers the short moment they had within the lonely walls of their duplex, how he was caught in the act, and yet Ivan was still distant. It was indeed true, Ivan would never force him to reveal anything. Ivan would never. It simply wasn't in his nature.

Lying wasn't in his either.

"Well then Arthur, it's best if we start reviewing our routine," Yao quips in, his voice trailing off as he catches deep periwinkle eyes, he shifts uncomfortably underneath the scrutiny of the stare, his heart already singing another heavy beat that deemed fatal in the moment. He wonders if the Russian could sense his discomfort because he looks away, looking bored and mildly distracted. Some part of him seems to clench in pain for a short moment, and just like Arthur, a pained expression appears and vanishes within mere seconds. The betrayal of emotion makes him flush, his rigid stance firming as he forces himself from his lucid sleep.

Almost as sudden as he awoke, a loud door opening could be heard. The howl of a loud cheer resonates against the blank walls decorated by nothing but a clock. His hair whips his face as he turns around.

"Mon ami, the face of adoration on her face was priceless," Francis walks out, his blond hair tied neatly into a ponytail. The collective silence that rings out when he sees familiar faces quiets the entire hall.

Ivan lowers the competition's brochures that he's been reading. Eyes already exchanging a message to Alfred who only frowns- an expression that looked so misplaced on his light content face.

"Look who we have here, the 'ALLIES'," a silvery white head of hair glistens and a pair of red eyes follow. It amazed him that his hair could be so pale, he wonders if it was bleached and dyed but he knows that that's not it. It was to smooth and straight for it to be artificial. Chemicals would have burned that silkiness a long time ago. Just like how anything that wasn't authentic would soon crisp away in the heat of the spotlight. A fake diamond will always be found, and fool's gold is worth nothing.

"Gilbert." Arthur nods curtly although his eyes strain as he tries to spark any emotion within the French man. Anything that tells him he wasn't like the other woman or men he knows Francis spends time with, anything that told him that he wasn't the only person who felt the pain of the departure and the departed. However, his voice betrays nothing as he approaches the two, searching for the remainder Spaniard he despises. The final member of the .Trio.

"What are you doing in Canada?" Arthur asks, although it comes more like an accusation and the German frowns, pouting almost playfully. His eyes twinkle in the florescent lights, that grin that captures everyone's attention drives the four mad. The arrogance and the confidence displayed shamelessly makes them wonder what he wouldn't do. What limits he had. What were his boundaries?

"And that would concern you because?" he grins, his teeth showing. Ah…He hated this man's guts.

"¿Que está pasando aqui?"

[What's going on here?]

A tanned brunette shows his face and Gilbert groans, pointing to Arthur and the rest. "What did I say about speaking Spanish? I don' .Spanish!". Despite his annoyed tone there's a slight weave of a smile on his lips.

Alfred could hear a chuckle before the persistent word that even he understood, "Si, Si, Si."

There's an air of an awkward and unbreakable silence filled with pleading glances and deep stares before finally Gilbert interrupts. Shattering the almost comforting quietness with his witty and blunt remarks, Ivan sighs, something that Alfred catches.

"It's strange that you guys call yourself the 'ALLIES', when you couldn't be the more divided."

He suddenly turns, his short hair losing its form momentarily. His eyes leaving Arthur's only for a moment before a cold smile greets his lips rather than the wolfish grin. Arthur already knows what's going to happen, it haunts him as a memory that can only be contained, not erased. He looks back at his own team members and they all stare forlornly at him. Expecting the supposedly unexpected, they walk closer in means of support. An invisible bond to be reckoned with. A force that nobody thought was powerful until it came to them in all their strength. Yao stands in between him and the Russian, a spark of anger already shown on his feminine features, the itch of the sneer and the narrowed expecting eyes already catching onto his once neutral expression. Alfred simply watches from afar, his fists clenching and releasing in a pre-angered stat, he doesn't trust his capability to 'hold back' so he might as well control from afar.

Suddenly, Francis is in front of them the hint of a deep sorrow and regret in his eyes, his shoulders are tightly grasped by Gilbert's pale fingers. Alfred closes his eyes in pain, clenching his two fists so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"After all, we are the B.T.T. consisting of I, awesome Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis Bonnefoy. Ex member of the 'ALLIES'."

Gilbert smiles triumphally before nodding at the Spaniard who shakes his head looking almost apologetic if not for the exasperated smile on his lips.

There's another silence followed by a woman barely in her thirties opening the door and murmuring a string of four names. And just like that Arthur leaves, walking defeated, his head lowered as his eyes pray that they leave un-drenched with tears, and shortly after there's Alfred that follows, concern and disgust staring at the three. He respected Francis's decision to leave, he always thought the romantic songs and melodies suited him more, and after the dissolution of their five-member band he was certain Francis felt the same. He was like a family member no matter the distance, a bond that would last a lifetime no matter how quickly it was destroyed or interrupted. But what hurt him the most was seeing Arthur slowly die out. Like a candle snuffed of its flame by its own candle wax.

He releases his curled fists. Control.

"Jerk." He refutes loud enough for Gilbert to hear. It was strange, Gilbert and him were great friends but before they could establish any kind of relationship they had to move on from the past, why was it such a difficult thing? He left his ages ago. He shakes his head slowly, but they were also competitors in a big world of numbers and rates, percentage's, and standings. Everything that defined them as enemies. Even he understood the silent tension between the best of friends- the best of enenmies.

"Aiyaa…" Yao sighs, rubbing his temples from an already growing migraine, he too slowly walks past the three, his brotherly protectiveness makes him send a cold glare at the other, muttering a string of diligent and unfriendly warnings in both Chinese and English. His bad mood reeking as he saunters past.

"Please refrain from speaking to a member of my team like that. The next time it will not go away unscathed."

Ivan only chuckles as he listens and trails behind the long ponytail that waves in front of him. "You are lucky, Da? Without Francis, your B.T.T. wouldn't even exist."

Gilbert only growls in response. His sharp teeth baring together like an angry dog or a small puppy in Ivan's eyes. A man who was all talk and no act. Those kinds of men were useless. All that muscle but what would you use it for?

He quickly scurries in between the slowly closing door, his eyes only leaving the crimson ones when the door slams shut, the smug smirk tugging at his lips before he turns on his heels, joining his group members who don't look half as lively when they first arrived. He stands beside the Asian, admiring him in the most innocent way as he confirmed their group name. That voice, heavens could only know what it could do to him. He reports his name lazily when asked before narrowing his eyes, but he had to crack the secret first, that was the first step to any future plans. Any. He remembers those pixelated lines he willed himself to ignore, those eyes that stared at him in utter fright, the thrill of knowing that he had found a side of Yao that he shouldn't have. He delighted in the power it gave him. The dominance, and yet he thought it was the only thing connecting the two, he remembers the embrace they shared, he thought they were as close as can be but with a single touch he could only feel the distance.

He smiles quietly to himself, almost chuckling even if he had no reason to. Then again, being in what he thought was love was surely a good reason. Yao had given him the reason, he was the first person who had given him a reason to do more than just live. No, with Yao he had aspirations, he wanted to live and conquer, maybe even beyond that. The Russian stares past Yao and at the British man who looks glum. He was certain that Arthur had left a certain depth to the French man's heart. No matter how deep or painful, he saw it within every line of music they sung together. Every beautiful glance when the line mentioned a corny but absolutely stunning romanticized lover. He spent ages watching their fights with amused eyes, watching as their insults had no vigor, he's seen the music the two created, and although he was not the kind of man to console another, he was absolutely certain that Arthur had and will always hold a special corner of the French man's heart. He has never felt so certain about anything in his life.

"Please sit down." She gestures to a long sofa. It's onyx exterior resembling the night and the small studded crystals mimicked the millions of stars. "Before we begin let's start with the practical."

There was no way to mistake the truthful shock that spread amongst their faces. Only who hid it better. Yao and Arthur smile, remaining charismatic although there smiles remain professional, warm although no one would dare approach them. Ivan musters a smile to, although it's too cold to be welcoming and the curt nod that follows is too stiff and rough. He hated surprises.

However, Alfred almost chokes in surprise, his eyes wide before he looks at Arthur mouthing the words, 'Practical? We're doomed.'

"No not doomed, simply a series of questions that will hopefully let me get to know your persona's more."

Arthur groans quietly and Alfred simply smiles, his eyebrows itched together in embarrassment.

"So, let's start with Mr. Braginski?" She looks over at the Northerner before pushing her small framed glasses on the bridge of her high nose. Ivan shifts with his name being mentioned, catching the neon streams of colour that reflect off of the miniscule crystals that twinkle in there own night.

"What do you love the most about music? Everyone will have the chance to answer."

The Russian's eyes widen in surprise briefly, his mind flashing creatively for an ideal answer before he smiles. His eyes shining as he starts the beginning of a truthful answer. After all, they wanted the truth no? Or as close as it could get. His mind stresses as he tries to think about a response. A good response, a response that was articulated properly, a response that everyone knew was planned but couldn't say anything more since it was perfect. An answer about how it inspires him and how he loved it since birth- all lies of course. He smiles distractedly at the judicator before opening his mouth. However he finds himself thinking about the colour red instead, and his perfect answer is now merely a rough draft, sentences changing, like a composer thinking up an idea or an architect simply matting out sketches.

"Da, well, I believe that music could very easily interoperate a person's personality." The woman nods firmly before taking an ink pen, scribbling lines of criticism and authentic quotes. His mouth opens in hesitation several times and he could feel the hot gazes of everyone on him. Judging, awaiting what he would say next. He wasn't to sure what to say. He pauses, could he ask to restart?

Ivan continues hesitantly, his eyes widening as he thinks of swirling ink letters- calligraphy. "Music could describe a person very fervently, like touch, and smell. Although you hear it more then you see it…"

He thinks of that person's warm smile and then that person's sad grimace, the one that makes his heart wrench so deeply it was like it was his own pain, "You could feel the emotion. The love and the pain, it's all written in between the black and white music notes. Da?"

He could feel a molten gold gaze on him now. Swallowing hard, he exhales a breath he doesn't even he's holding. His chest rises as he breaths, almost forgetting where he was and the goal he was trying to accomplish. He wonders if he's coming off too hard, he certainly didn't want to profess his feelings in an audition.

Everyone seems enraptured in his answer, hanging on every word as they piece together their own proper conclusion, but he only needed one pair of eyes on him. Only one.

The woman stares at him for a moment before once again nodding, her pen strokes getting faster and more rushed, but Ivan could care less about the woman, or the interview, or anything in the world. His mind is only on one person, and that person is Yao. He could almost feel his touch, almost feel the drop of temperature when he's upset, so he continues, "It doesn't quite matter the genre, the message is always the same. It's almost like a story, da? You know it, and you could feel it, every sudden stop, every beat. It is simply the embodiment of a perfect fairyta-."

Arthur coughs.

On purpose or not it doesn't matter because everyone is suddenly broken away from the divine spell that Ivan didn't mean to cast. The amber eyes continue to survey him, and only for a moment do they meet eyes before the Russian turns away, heat running up into his ears creating a beat that suited rock more than jazz.

The judicator waits for him expectantly. Probably expecting a grand flourish to a silly answer but instead he cowers away. The feeling of bashfulness too overwhelming for him to think properly. He straightens his back, dusting off the pretend dust on his pants. The British man grins ruefully.

"I…" he stutters, "I find that very beautiful…" That's right. Yao was beautiful. No, he was goddamn divine. "Da. That is my answer."

Arthur smiles softly and Ivan wonders if he sees through his answer and at the real subject he was talking about. He wonders whether or not his answer would be considered a lie while the beauty of the man itself is in every word truthful. He smiles, pained that Yao did not look as impressed as he wanted him to be.

"Mr. Kirkland?" The examiner asks, dropping her pen only to flex her tired muscles.

"Ah...yes," he stalls, "same question?"

The woman nods as he rapidly thinks of an explanation. Like Ivan he starts slowly but he keeps his answer brief and truthful. He doesn't think of anyone during his answer.

"I...I didn't always find the importance of music in my early days…" he really didn't. As he says this his mind dwells on his brothers, he has three but he does not omit names.

"My family has struggled a lot in the past and music has come to me by instinct. A kind of salvage or liberty in my pained past." That's right. He thinks of secret exchanges for cash and the cigarettes that lay on the ground like a bed of burned paper. Smoke always intoxicating his aflame lungs.

"Music came to me as a way to relief myself, for me and my entire family. It helped me understand my emotions and thoughts when words couldn't express properly. It's almost selfish but I used music for myself. It saved me," He closes his eyes, omitting the dark details. The dark trenches, and the calloused people he had met. He breathes softly, his voice a pitch higher. "And for that, I am forever grateful."

He glances at the woman who smiles sadly at him. "I'm certain it must have been very hard for you." Her pen still moves in her hand.

He doesn't know whether or not he's supposed to answer so he only shrugs, forcing a wry grin. "I try."

Her gaze seems to fixate on him before she nods, turning to a new page on her notepad. Her sympathy could only last for so long.

"And...Mr.Jones?" She scribbles a name, starring patiently into the American's eyes.

"Ah, right!" Alfred says, laughing whole heartedly. He pushes his glasses up, careful to not leave finger stains. He edges on the edge of the sofa, his legs spread apart as he leans forward, his two hands forming a ball as they stood balanced on his two thighs.

He grins a toothy grin, his eyes gleaming underneath the spectacles. "Well, to this day music has actually never really benefited me in a lot of ways. I mean what's with this whole music is like therapy thing?"

His grin widens as he thinks about dog tags clinkering together, the musk smell of sweat and iron already so natural to him that he couldn't tell between fresh and dirty air. No, music never saved him like it did to Arthur. He had to fight his way out in the most literal sense there is. He remembers the fighting, the bruises and the scars, all flaws on his perfect body. He remembers it so clearly, all those battered bones and the flowing stench blood, he remembers it. No, he remembers them.

"It never really meant anything to me, and to this day it really doesn't either." The woman stares at him skeptically, pursing her lips and she writes that down. Clearly this is not what she expected.

He chuckles darkly to himself causing everyone to stare at him in surprise. He barely hesitates before he speaks, bold enough to even look at the judicator straight in the eye. "But it did empower me in a certain way."

The woman pinches her eyebrows together before nodding. "Please elaborate."

Alfred nods. Laughing in means of stalling to find a proper answer. "It empowered me in a way nothing could. I could feel the rush of adrenaline and the fake strength it gave me. Not that I don't have any real strength."

Ivan roll his eyes, although he knows that the humour is simply a distraction. A means of matting down the seriousness in the situation, the graveness of how deep Alfred's answer was becoming. Trying to distract the listener of how much information he shouldn't be giving.

"I guess I had a bit of a messed-up childhood, I had to grow up much faster than I thought I would need to." This catches Arthur's attention and he stares both awe struck and completely devastated at the American. There's something cloudy in the blue eyes he's see's every day. Not tears but something off about them that seemed strangely terrifying. There's a shaky breath before he continues.

"I listened to a lot of music growing up, the good ol' rock' n roll, and I realized that although music didn't help my current situation, it moves me in a way that's just…" he makes these strange sounds that mimic an explosion. "mind blowing."

There's an empty silence, Ivan and Yao stares at him in apathy. He chooses to believe that they're simply listening very intently then not caring.

"So, I guess you may wonder why I do this music thing. Well, I want and will always want to inspire people in a way that could push them forward. If you're sad, I want to create something that will make you happy. If you're weak I want to make you strong." Everyone sees the glimmer in his eyes as he says that, and the British man can't help but find something so powerfully endearing in it. Something that assures him that there is a ghost of maturity in the American, that through all those jokes and laughs there sits a version of him that knows what he's doing. The man who knew exactly why he was here and why he had come.

Alfred changes his position, stretching his arms all the while looking the woman in the face. "Music is simply my method of inspiring others. Done."

The woman stares at him in understanding. She opens her mouth, "So you believe music is a form to inspire and help others?"

The blond beams, nodding. "That's right. It's the message that counts."

There's an uplifting glance at Alfred and she smiles, continuously bobbing her head up and down. "Interesting."

There's a pat on Alfred's shoulder and he turns to see Arthur who smiles at him like a father proud of his son. He beams happily, his heart strangely content that he could please him.

"And the last of you four…Mr.Wang?" There's a slight accent at the way she accentuates his name, but he pushes that aside by smiling charmingly. He was like Arthur in this aspect, they both held heavy groundings on their lives. For them there's a border- a line that separates work and personal life, it was only natural that they had different faces for them to. Two embodiments of themselves that are better, more pretty, more refined, simply perfect. A version of themselves that despite their perfection are incredibly fake. Fool's gold amongst others and their sole job was to make people believe they weren't as fake as they knew they were. He would never mix the two together. Business and feelings could only end with one side winning.

"Continue when you are ready."

Yao nods, it doesn't take long for him to find a plausible answer. He could feel eyes on him as he presses his lips into a grim line. Pretending to put some thought in the answer he has already planned.

"Music is an interesting thing-aru." He pauses, "Like Ivan I also believe music holds certain sentiments. There is pain, and there is love, and you could hear them clash together in the song. By the beat or the instruments trying to convey the emotion."

The Eastern man smiles sadly, his face looking awfully pained. "Music has become my method of travelling through time, no matter the genre. When I create music, it is simply verses amongst verses, lines that don't mean any sense if not sung in a certain way."

He remembers what Alfred say's about the meaning of the lyrics and how they are much more important than the melody itself. "I also agree with Alfred. It is the lyrics that makes me feel the pain and the love, and any other emotion that crosses my mind. And with that I travel through time."

He thinks about Sakura petals that float in the air, suspended in a timeline he can no longer reach out to. He closes his eyes, he would not disclose anything. He was already on the verge of being found out, anything else would simply ruin his complicated lies to begin with. Ivan seems to read his mind as he looks at him, anticipating what he would disclose. What he would risk saying. The same smile he saw moments ago infuriates him. A smile that meant business, cold, placid, and knowing. The smile that condemned a certain kind of power over him. Like he was a dancer only able to dance freely into the palms of someone's hand.

He coughs awkwardly, confused stares piercing him. "I believe a good song is when you can relate to it. When you could feel the pain or happiness of the melody like it's your own. And that is why I love it. I use music to feel the pain of the past, and the hope of the future." Amethyst eyes find his way in his vision. Future.

The woman stares at him in confusion still not wrapping her mind around the concept that he is talking about.

He breathes a sigh, quiet and contained, almost unnoticeable if not for the rise of his chest. "Tell me, have you ever listened to a song that you could relate to so much it made you want to cry?"

He asks everyone in general and they all nod, surprised by the sudden question.

"Well, that is why I love music. I love it because I could relate and I could feel the pain as I think of my own. It's really simple, really- aru."

The woman nods firmly, finally able to process the complex reasoning. "How unique.". There's a meek chuckle coming from the Oriental and he can't help but find the underlining meaning behind her words. The silent meaning that screamed; how different.

The entire room is basked in yet another silence as the woman seems to shuffle through endless pages, something Arthur watches in nervousness.

"Alright then, let's start your audition, if you may? There's the sound system by your left in which you can start playing your own track."

"Arthur." Alfred nods firmly at the British man who stands up, a small USB stick in his hand as he struts to the large computer that flickers alive. The choreography replaying in his head, the hand gestures, the feet kicks and turns. All of them dance in his mind as he pushes the device into an empty jack. His mind races as he opens endless files. Everyone's answers to the same question distracts him into an endless abyss of question. Why had he learnt everything from his partners here out of all places? He clicks onto a new file, it's contents blinking alive as he scans each title. A lonely hole seems to make its way into his heart, worming its way into all of his discomforts and insecurities. Had there years of friendship mean nothing? Then again, he to has never talked about his past with them. He was just like them, guarded, still suspicious, and untrusting.

He finally finds the right track hidden in an endless inception of files.

"What's the name of your original piece?" he overhears, and he could see Yao flush in something that looked like shame. There was no name and yet Yao finds an answer that fits the question he was asked. The look of a deep thought uplifting into a smile.

"'Not… Today'". He answers, and the Eastern man turns to him, silently asking if he was ready. He lets go of a shaky breath, nodding.

The track starts playing silently, going firm as he runs back into his position, his breath calming as he controls his every movement. He sees Alfred grinning at him, the darkness in his eyes so far away, he turns to everyone else. All their expressions relaxed and ready, small smiles on there lips despite the graveness of the situation. And even without a microphone he sings the first empowering line, his voice radiating with every emotion he may be feeling, his body already moving as he lets everyone else slowly pick their ques. There voices playing a stronger part in this war of emotion. Everyone does as they are told, legs move right and then left, and then like everything is alright they all come together. Together they unite until they are nothing more then a harmonious body of sound.

And in that small room, the onyx sofa the only reminder that tells them they aren't on stage, the audience a mere woman who looks on ahead,-

They own it.

In that room as they pant their last lines out, the unknown woman walks toward them, giving them something that seemed important although they don't bother to look.

"Your in."

And then they all smile.

To GUEST:

Yao: The director has told us that you may still be sick since you haven't given us your usual critical feedback, the director is very concerned-aru! I'm certain that my special Chinese medicine would have made you better instantly compared to that sickening western medicine…

Arthur: Oh, shut it Yao! Bloody roots and leaves couldn't possible help our Guest…But yes, do get well soon.

Ivan: Da, da, da, get well soon!

Alfred: Hahaha, dude, get well soon, our director is getting paranoid…It's pretty scary, but I'm certain awesome me's acting in this excerpt will definitely cheer you up! The power of the HERO shines strong!

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