"The Hunchback of Notre Dame," She reiterated, reaching out slowly to trace the letters before allowing her hand to fall away. She didn’t want them to overstay their welcome, and judging by the awkward aura her midnight stranger––Colby––emitted, she didn’t want him to think that while she obviously knew a line stood clear and bright, marking the difference between curiosity and overstepping the boundaries of personal space.
"I know what you mean, I happen to always do the same with my books. There’s nothing better than the wear and tear. Smelling the ink on your fingers and touching the worn papers. Every time is so different…" She spoke the words without filtering them. Late at night she couldn’t be bothered to even try. Sometimes they didn’t even make sense, but she didn’t usually mind since she would utter them to herself. Right now though, there was someone that might have minded, considering the stream of words to slip from her throat often made no sense.
"Oh yes. But also no." The answer required minimal thought on her behalf. And maybe that was why it was composed of two parts; A negative and a positive. It was more honest that way, less analyzed and more truthful. Simply her take on how she would feel in the future. A foreboding of the events that would take place, maybe.
"I’m not much of an actress," A little bit of modesty was key, "but even if I was, the 1920s are so hard to get a grasp on. How do you think you’ll fair with acting it out?"
The whole thing was impossible, confusing, and downright pointless, but Colby was too far in to quit. And it wasn't like he had other options, not if he wanted to get off the island for good.
"I'll manage," he said, shrugging. "I'm this god-awful character called Mugsy, and--" He stopped and shook his head. No, he was an employee of the hotel. He should be selling the game, not bashing it, even if he knew it wouldn't be the hit they were hoping it would be.
"It might sound hokey, but once everyone relaxes, it'll be fantastic. Who doesn't want to dress up and pretend to be someone else?"
I don't, he responded to himself, but that was moot. He'd see it through, probably with the help of alcohol.
"Besides, it will all be over soon. Might as well enjoy it while we can."
// For this second prompt, your character will remember back to a time in their life - to an event, a moment or a time in their past that they wished to forget - that they’d wish would’ve up differently - it will be their ‘if only’ moment. Explore their relationships, their pain, their fears and their regrets. //
If only I'd talked to him instead of studying the grains in the wood like a loser and chugging drinks to pretend I wasn't awkwardly at a bar by myself.
He was cute. Too cute. Intimidatingly cute, and that just made it impossible. But maybe it could have happened if I'd done something different?
Would we have 5 adopted kids from all over the world plus a couple fluffy yet functionally useless dogs? Would we have had fancy dinner parties with dozens of our closest friends? Would he have helped me out of my shell?
It's stupid to wonder. I know that, because it just makes you depressed and annoying and sad and it's stupid and you can never get that time back but you do it anyway because you're a fucking stupid fucking asshat who lives for the pain you cause yourself.
I never got his name, but I imagine it was Paul. Bibilical, simple, but unique enough to separate him from the Johns and Jims. He had curly black hair and wore suspenders like no one's business. He oozed fanciness and propriety and...god, he was perfect.
I didn't. I just stared as he hung out with those baffoons. They sucked. He was flawless. Fantastic. Ugh...
He seemed to get brighter as the night went on, and eventually a guy came and put a drink on my table. "From that guys over there. The one in suspenders." I gaped at the drink and Paul-or-whatever-his-name-really-was winked at me and then waved me over.
It was unreal and I thought I was gonna hurl but somehow I didn't.
I headed over, he pulled up a chair next to me, we did introductions, blah blah, and eventually he rested his hand on my knee. "You're cute," he said, smiling and showing his freakishly perfect teeth, and I was shocked and confused but it was awesome until he said "so why are you such a freak?"
His friends laughed and my innards froze and he just kept talking. Why are you so weird and creepy and oh my god stop staring at me you crazy!
I couldn't help but look at the drink in front of me which, of course, was full of bitters. And he noticed me look because then he was all you seriously think I'd get you a real drink? You're a fucking weirdo, and then he grabbed the drink and dumped it on my head because actual people do that sort of shit.
They all laughed, and then Paul clapped me on the back as he stood. And he whispered in my ear that I was gonna die alone because that's what happens to people who sulk in the corner of bars and think they'll actually get lucky with someone who actually functions as a human.
The trio headed to the door, hugged, and left separately--the first two together and Paul by himself, and as the drink dripped down my back I felt a really horrible chill and tried not to cry because everyone was starting at me.
Maybe if I'd just talked to him first? Naw. He was a jerk and his friends were jerks. Luckily bad things happen to jerks. Cosmic retribution and all. It's the only way losers like me can sleep at night.
“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt you.” And she seemed to genuinely be upset to be the cause of such interruption. Reading, in her eyes, was a very important thing, possibly as important as showering, and eating and gaining social interactions with others. The thought of having stood in the way of that, was painful to even think about. “What book are––were you reading?” Her eyes flickered to the cover, but the dim lighting made it harder to read the title than her normal eyesight would allow, and that too was weak already considering the amount of time she spent staring at pages and pages of tiny print in her spare time.
"Oh."
Daphne played with the ends of her hair carefully and without any intention but to collect her thoughts. Many people considered her slow for that reason. She wasn’t stupid. She liked to take time to think her answers through.
"Valerie was a… friend of mine in High School. I never really met Keith myself, but I heard good things. It should make sense I would be invited." She held her hands together, close by her hip, twining the slender fingers through until they slid into the gaps until each one was occupied. "Are you too?"
"Naw, you're fine," he said, forcing his best functional smile. Seeing her try to read the title, he tipped it toward her. "Hunchback of Notre-Dame," he said, shrugging. "Old favorite of mine. Torn through half a dozen copies of it since I was a kid."
"Torn," of course, had as many meanings, but the details were unimportant, so he continued. "A guest? No, no. Just a worker. I grew up on the island, though, so I do know some of the people who will be here."
That, too, wasn't exactly accurate. He knew of them, sure, but knew them? No. He'd never spoken to most of them, and the few he had? He'd barely consider them acquaintances.
The way Daphne said "friend" and the way she paused made Colby wonder more about their particular friendship, but he didn't press it. There would be time for that later, perhaps, over cocktails, but for now, intrusion wasn't an option.
Of course, he'd likely forget. It wasn't important anyway; simply his insatiable curiosity.
"Looking forward to the games?" he asked finally in an attempt to fill the awkward lull in conversation. "Excited for your character?"
When you think about Kitty, two words should pop into your head, cuddly or fierce. Kitty was definitely not the former. The girl was tough as nails. Her eyes scanned the crowd. They finally landed at the boy at the bar. A small smiles appeared on her face. She’d be able to serve drinks as well as see how Colby was holding up.
Evelyn made her way over to where her acquaintance had perched himself. She made sure not to make eye contact with him though. “I need another round to pass out to people,” her accent had a certain drawl in it. The woman sat ever so slightly on the chair next to the kid playing Mugsy, it was half sit- half stand.
Colby turned to lean on the bar. "Hows about you have a drink with me first?" he said, facing her and smirking in a way he knew was sufficiently creepy. Before she could answer, he ordered a drink for her.
"Or maybe you just keep me company all night and let another gal serve up the drinks."
Was Mugsy supposed to be a creeper? Apparently. At least that's how he was coming across. And apparently he got information by talking, not watching, which was not Colby's default.
He took another swig of his drink and realized he'd need to slow down. A drunken mobster was bad. A drunken actor was probably worse when that actor could get himself very fired.
He ordered another drink for himself but purposed not to drink it. When he was alone, he'd swap it for soda water. Til then, it was a prop, just like everything else in this little retro dance.
Mugsy Malone was confident. Suave. Sophisticated. Dangerous, too, and the girls all loved it.
Colby was none of those things, but tonight he had to act like he was.
Like Mugsy was.
Damn, acting is hard.
Evelyn had helped, definitely, and he was glad for the extra practice. It made an already terrifying situation a bit more tolerable. It was still uncomfortable, but he was talking with more confidence, talking with more confidence, and exuding the aura of a successful mobster.
He ordered a Southside--that was Capone's drink, he'd read--and leaned on the bar as he drank. Mugsy didn't approach. He was approached with caution and respect and, most of all, fear.
And he observed. It was his job, after all. His eyes were everywhere, on everything, and as he took stock of everyone in the room, he knew that he owned them.
In a way, he even owned Nick.
Colby smiled, polished off his drink, then ordered another.
Not wanting to take too much time, Piper let the dress fall in a puddle around her feet and put her regular, more suited clothes on. Grabbing her boots, she put them on and laced them up quickly, grabbed her jacket, her bag and accidentally opened the dressing room doors a little too violently, causing them to rock back and forth. not even bothering to pick the disastrous dress back where it belongs, for fear of the next girl finding the monstrosity, she walked to where the boy was, hiding in the corner waiting.
Pulling her jacket on, and adjusting her bag around her body, she sighed loudly. She felt frustrated that she couldn’t find a suitable dress, or just something other than pants and lace-up combat boots. Taking her keys out of her bag, she jingled them before approaching him face to face.
"Well, it’s all yours." She said somberly. "But, uhh…sorry about the mess, I just wasn’t in the mood to put anything back. But, if you’re searching for clothes, you’d have better luck on the mainland. Everything is here is, well, shit."
She was supposed to leave, not come over and talk to him.
He looked up and smiled, and shook his head. "You're fine. I'll just kick it in the corner."
Small talk was not his thing, but walking away without another word wouldn't be acceptable. He knew that. It wasn't what normal people did. "I recognize you..." he said, then, realizing that sounded creepy, followed it up with "I mean, you live here, too? Sorry, I don't get out much." He extended his hand.
He was here, well they were here, and their marriage just got all the more real to Piper. Looking down at her wardrobe, after leaving work for the day she knew it would not do, if she so happened to run into the bride & groom. She thought long and hard while on the ferry boat, that was taking her back to the island, about what she would say, or how she would act. Sure, she had received an invitation - one she swore up and down was purposely send to her by the bridezilla herself out of spite - but it was different actually being face to face with the man she left in her past and the woman who swooped in and took him. Piper’s head was a mess, a jumbled crossword puzzle full of ‘what if’s’ and 'why's' that she didn’t have time or patience to decode. Once on the island, she waved to her brother, who waved back somberly and brought his fingers in the shape of a gun to his head, which made her laugh. He was just as uncomfortable as everyone being back as she was, and she was happy for this. Continuing her drive, she stoppd at to the small, and only, boutique on the island and grabbed the first piece of clothing she saw when she entered the door that dinged. But, once she had it on, she regretted it almost immediately. The orange dress clashed with her hair color and caused her to look even more pale than she already was.
"Awesome." She whispered, trying to peel the sticky fabric from her body, when a knock interrupted her.
On her tip-toes - ah, the perks of being tall, she thought - she peeked over the doors and spoke, “Occupied. But, I mean, I’ll be out soon, actually now, well once I get dressed, but yeah soon, now I mean”
"Sorry..." Colby muttered, shrinking back from the door.
He'd thought it was empty, but clearly it hadn't been, and that made things awkward. Even more awkward than the fact that he was shopping.
Clothes were not his thing. Clothes meant he needed a sense of style, and he had basically none. Luckily for the dinner he had a costume, but for the times in between?
Nope.
The pickings were slim, but he'd found a shirt and tie that he figured might work well enough. Maybe. He'd ask someone's opinion, but that meant asking for someone's opinion, and that wasn't likely to happen.
Knowing that the girl would come out soon, he moved toward a corner of the store to wait, and hoped she'd walk past without seeing him.
// For this first prompt, your character will travel back in time to an event, a moment or a time in their past that they wished to forget. Explore their hardships, their pain, their fears and their regrets. What hardships bombarded them? Who did they love, they hate or want back in the day? What fears and dreams corrupted their lives? //
What Colby did not expect when drifting off to sleep was to wake up in his old house to the sounds of screaming parents.
Of course, he had to still be dreaming, because even if he'd gotten black-out drunk--which he hadn't--this was the last place he'd have woken up. There was never a good reason to go back, which explained why he hadn't for four years.
He was in the attic, which had been his favorite hideout as a kid, and blaring from the old record player was Dinah, all sad and sassy and soulful.
It felt like childhood, which was a terrible feeling.
This unexpected visit home, paired with the familiar sound of screaming from below, had taken some adjustment, so he hadn't noticed the blonde boy curled up in the corner with a book clenched in his hands and wet streaks lining his face.
"Oh god..." Colby muttered, recognizing that shirt, that song, that book.
They were all of his favorite things. The shirt's vibrant colors made him feel fancy--sophisticated, even--and Dinah's tragically beautiful voice comforted him, as did the torn and yellowed pages of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. It was hardly reading fit for a ten year old, but he had always found himself drawn to complicated stories and complicated worlds.
Though Colby had spoken, the boy did seem to hear him. He just focused on his book, his knuckles turning white from his tightening grip.
Colby could hear the distant sound of mother's softer voice trying to keep pace but failing. "You're home ALL FUCKING DAY," his dad continued, "and you can't do ONE FUCKING THING RIGHT?! Dammit, Sandi, why the FUCK do I keep you around?!"
The boy in the corner began trembling as tears splashed on the book's yellowing pages, and Colby remembered that a whimper was forcing itself through his gritted teeth.
A crash--a lamp, he remembered--carried up the stairs, and the noise launched the boy toward the volume knob. He turned it as far to the right as it would go then retreated to his book as the jazz filled the attic.
"No..." Colby whispered, shaking his head as he heard a second crash and then an angry voice, each muffled by the music. Within seconds, loud stomps moved across the room below, and the voice became discernible. "--FUCKING KID GONNA LEARN NOT TO DO THAT IN MY GODDAMN HOUSE!?"
The little boy heard the yelling and scrambled for the volume again, but his dad was on him in a second. He grabbed the boy roughly by the collar and hoisted him into the air. The fabric of his shirt ripped down the seam, and the book tumbled to the floor.
"What did I tell you about the music, you worthless piece of shit!?" He spit in the boy's face before smacking him hard enough to make blood trickle from his nose. He looked at the book on the floor, stomped on it, and twisted his foot, ripping the cover and several pages free from the binding. "Listen to me when I'm talking, boy!"
The child trembled and cried but couldn't say anything. Words were at the bottom of his throat, but they wouldn't come out. Something--fear, panic, or maybe even defiance--struck him mute.
That made the man even angrier, and he chucked the boy into the nearby wall. A crash accompanied a sickening crack as the boy fell limp and a set of high heels joined the chaos.
"Just fucking great, Bill. Just. Fucking. Great. What are we gonna do when you kill the kid?" The woman was exasperated and jittery as she lit up a cigarette and took a long, loud drag. "I'm not gonna get slammed for it, you bastard. That'll be your fucking problem. Lord knows I don't need t' deal with that shit."
The boy tried to sit up, but his arm wouldn't support his weight, and as his arm buckled and he fell over he let out a yelp of pain. His parents said nothing; his dad had proceeded to strike his mom across the face, and a large red mark formed instantly on her cheek. She didn't scream. She didn't say anything. She calmly stepped forward and kicked him squarely in the crotch before walking back toward the stairs with the likely intent of making another whiskey sour.
Through the ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth, little Colby heard his mom's clacking footsteps as she muttered something about "that good for nothing piece of trash..."
After his dad managed to stand back up, he followed after his wife with a string of expletives and didn't so much as a glance at the boy, who had now begun sobbing uncontrollably.
Colby, standing across room watching the little boy bawl, felt tears streaming down his own face as the crashing resumed below.
"It's your fault and your piece of shit family!" was followed closely by "DON'T FUCKING INTERRUPT ME, YOU BITCH!", and all Colby could do was slide down the wall and hug his knees.
Two sets of sobs filled the gaps in the music until Colby woke up in his hotel room, trembling and sweaty, his face covered in tears.
"Oh how interesting," Daphne’s eyes glimmered with fascination, an innate instinct to ask more and learn more. It grew inside her, waiting to be enunciated with words and syllables, but she wouldn’t let them escape. Not when the stranger still seemed so jittery. Perhaps even more than her, simply in her thin robe and flimsy attire. She really should have packed for colder weather, with heavier attire but then she reconsidered this–Heavy attire didn’t make her feel as regal as what she normally wore, and so the argument in her mind was once again dropped without a second thought.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you too, as well, Colby." Her hand found it’s way to his, a slender limb against his larger palm, fingers curling around his own in a small, gentle shake. A new acquaintance made and Daphne could happily attest that the night out exploring had indeed not been a waste.
"Myself? Oh.. Curiosity yes, that was definitely a factor." Idle, her fingers move to the wall and trace the design of the wallpaper. "A big factor, yes. But I suppose I couldn’t sleep either. Because of the curiosity." She laughs slowly, long and quiet, careful not to disrupt the soft atmosphere. It didn’t take much to recall that there were others in the house that needed their sleep, even if she couldn’t find much of it.
"Yourself?"
The longer she stood, the more restless she felt, so in a good attempt to curb these ideas to continue exploring, maybe even with her new friend, Daphne found the closest surface to her and sat down, watching him through dark, veiled eyes.
"Solace," he said, shrugging, then added "and quiet. I do my best thinking away from people, plus it gives me time to read without interruption." He held up the book, his finger still marking the place he'd left off.
That totally sounded like she'd interrupted, which, to be fair, she had, but now that the initial panic was gone, Colby would at least be able to function. It would just suck his energy. Luckily it was well past an appropriate bed time and sleep would come easily.
"So you're a guest. Here for the wedding, I assume?" It wasn't too much of a stab in the dark. It was the off season, and pretty much the only guests were here for the wedding in one way or another. "How do you know the couple?"
An attempt. Good, good. Not a very good actor, but he’s willing to try. “Loosen up. The dollface could work. It could if you were loose and didn’t think of this as something for the tourists. This is you, living the life of those in books or movies. Now. I’ll get into character if you think that’ll help but I honestly believe, what’s best for you, is figuring out, who Mugsy is exactly.” She stood up and started pacing. Alright, if he wants to try just acting we can do it. “We’ll try your way, see how you interact.”
Evelyn’s eyes looked him up and down a few times. “Which one of Nick’s hounds are you?” Finally her eyes set on his. “I don’t know why I’m stuck here with the likes of you.” She knew kitty was feisty, but she was still a lady.
"The biggest and the bestest one," he said, trying, like she said, to loosen up. He was Mugsy, she was this Kitty person, and they were in the 20s (so the fact that he was in jeans from Walmart was just going to be have to be ignored).
"I'm his right hand. Frees his up for the more, uh, important things, if you catch my drift." He winked conspiratorially. So Mugsy was a creep? Okay. He could work with that.
"And now you know my life story, so what's yours? Cute thing like you's gotta have a story. String of boys, broken hearts, couple dead body in the streets?"
Was this even what the 20s were like? He knew he'd have to Google all this, and probably cool it with the gravely gangster accent he was trying, but hey, method acting worked for the greats, right?
Evelyn nodded. It’d do, at least for now. He needed to get more in touch with who he was playing. That was the key. Understand his background, understand why he is so determined. She stared at the boy a second, figuring out which way he should stand while acting as Mugsy. The boy had a point about the name, it was very, very, generic and obviously fake. Then again, Kitty wasn’t much better. Evelyn flashed him a smile. “Alright, first things first. I ask a couple questions, you answer them as Mugsy.”
The girl walked over to a couch in the room and sat on it. “First, what is Mugsy’s favorite color?” She waited to watch him smirk or give her an odd expression. Most people did. They didn’t understand why she asked such arbitrary questions. To get in touch with ones character, you needed to know everything about them, the favorite everything, their least favorite of those, their past, the relationships.
The way to make human contact even more awkward? Ask Colby to pretend to be a completely different person. It was too much processing for his poor brain, and it really made him reconsider all his life choices.
Like this acting thing.
Seriously?
"Color. Okay. Got it..." he muttered, then he cleared his throat and tried to think like a mobster, which entailed shaking out his limbs to loosen up as he figure out how to embody a person whose inspiration was seriously outdated and definitely dead.
"Color?" A scoff which came out more like a hack. "Who th' fuck cares about colors?" He screwed up his face to convey disgust, but he was pretty sure he just looked confused. Still he focused on not breaking character, even if it was a pathetically bad attempt at character.
"Got a real question there, dollface?"
As the word rolled off his tongue, he couldn't help but but wince. This whole thing was tacky, but that felt like too much.
If there was one thing Evelyn understood, it was the pride one had when being faced with something that they knew they probably couldn’t do on their own while refusing to believe it, while also knowing that they really needed someone else’s help. So when she was approached to help the new kid, she knew that he probably had a bit of a trouble with the idea of it.
The girl walked in to the room she was told to meet him at and stood in the door way, “Colby..right?” she heard herself ask. Young and inexperienced. “Who’s your character? What can you tell me about him?” She was curious about his view on his character. For her, the story Cobly tells her about him means the way she can help the boy.
"Yeah, Colby," he said, smiling. "I'm this guy Mugsy? Ridiculous name..."
Awesome. Start off lame like that.
Colby cleared his throat and smiled up at Evelyn. "Sorry, just stuck in my head is all."
Rhythm, Colby!
She wanted to know about the character. Hell if he knew, but he needed an answer. "Okay..." he began slowly, studying the paper in his hand. "'Will stop at nothing to keep it...' Determined, I guess. Damned determined. Sounds like he's loyal to this Nick guy, but if push comes to shove or whatever that means, he'd off Nick to get to the top."
He turned to Evelyn looking for some sort of affirmation, then he wished he hadn't. This wasn't kindergarten. This was real world employment, even if it was really just a kitchy 1920s mobster-themed tourist attraction.
Jaxon hadn’t talked to anyone the entire day and coming to this dinner party felt more like torture than a light dinner. He had parked himself next to the fireplace, hoping that enough people wouldn’t notice him enough to make small talk but as he noticed one of the employees awkwardly make his entrance, he couldn’t help but make eye contact. At least there was someone here worse at interacting with human beings as he was. He tried to pretend as if he hadn’t seen it, given him a free pass to continue on with whatever he had been planning to do but he found himself being talked at by the employee. “Considering I’m the only one, no one did.”
He looked out the window before scanning the room. “Are we allowed to smoke in here?” Hell, if it was supposed to be the 1920’s in a day or so, he wouldn’t mind a cigarette to clear up all this bullshit.
Okay. So another awkward person. That could help ease the tension.
Of course, Colby could also suffer from a feedback loop of social phobias and be rendered entirely unable to function, but he gave this guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe his party could be salvaged if they stuck together?
Ignoring some self-deprecating comment that would just make things more uncomfortable, Colby extended his hand. "Colby Leone. Nice to meet you. And as an employee I'm gonna say no on the smoking, but--" he jerked his head in the direction of the door "--I wouldn't mind getting out of this chaos for a bit." He flashed a smiled that he hoped wasn't too creepy and hoped the guy bit. If not, he'd be left floundering and he didn't know how he'd manage to recover from that.
When he was expected to be somewhere, he was of course late, and he knew that wasn't going to bode well for him.
With his luck, he'd be out of a job before the job even began.
He was putting on his belt as he scrambled from his room to join the party that he really wished he could avoid. After all, there were people. Lots of them. And he'd met exactly two attendees previously. This would take every ounce of acting skill he had, and from earlier, it was pretty clear he had very little.
He skidded to the halt as he entered the parlor, and though he hoped no one noticed his awkward stopping maneuver, he met someone's eyes across the room.
Shit.
With no escape, he put on his best smile and crossed toward the other person. "I was hoping no one saw that. Not my night, eh?"
Pride was never something that Colby had much of, but the bits he did have didn't take well to criticism.
Okay, fine, so he wasn't the best actor, but he wouldn't exactly call himself "stiff" or "unbelievable." "Unapproachable," sure, but that was more him than the character.
It wouldn't do for an interactive murder mystery though, and it wasn't like this acting coach person was really an option. It was a mandate, and he'd just have to deal.
Her name was Evelyn, he'd been told, and that was all he knew. Despite being employed by the hotel, he had met none of his coworkers, and he found it embarrassing that the first meeting would be necessitated by his failure.
He sat in the first room off the main lobby and tried to not tap his fingers nervously. Lucky for him he had time to adjust to the idea of another human. It would at least help him save some face.
Game face, Colby. You got this.
If only he managed to believe his own pep talk, he'd be fine.
