#inferno:start

[remybourque-blog]

DATE: august 2nd ; mid-morning LOCATION: streets of paris STATUS: open 

remy huffs down the road, tote bag dangling off her elbow. she’s already late for work  ( what else is new )  and the lingering crowds of the late summer tourists filling the streets is not helping her get to her morning schedules any more efficiently. dress rehearsals started yesterday and the pressure of her actually having to pay attention has been pressed by michel multiple times in the last week. as she’s brushing past a little american family, her foot gets caught on someone’s ankle and she tumbles forward into someone’s arms.  ‘ merde, ’ she hisses, pulling herself up and brushing her clothes off.  ‘ i am so sorry, that toddler came out of nowhere ! ’

[lisettesorelli-blog]

date: august 7th time: 11:45pm location: outside the point of no return status: open

Lisette knew that she wasn’t welcome at The Point of No Return. It was Chaney territory but Lisette was not someone who often cared about that sort of thing. She was there for a reason, although that reason was meant to be kept a secret. She stood outside of the building, its flashing lights sending a message that she would soon come to understand. This was it. This was the point of no return.

She had walked up and down the street for what felt like a thousand times, waiting for the signal. A million thoughts ran through her head: was she in the right place (it obviously was), had she misheard what time she was supposed to come, did he even truly care about her, was this all a set up. Every question that she gulped down her throat burned her tongue, snaking its way to her heart. 

As she paced back and forth across the street, she finally grew tired of waiting and decided to make her way across and towards The Point. As she placed one foot in front of the other, her feet pounding against the ground, she had not been paying attention. This caused her to run head-first into whoever managed to get in her way, making her forget for a moment why she was running in the first place. It must have been that she hit her head pretty hard against their shoulder.

“Watch it!” she hissed at whoever had the displeasure of running into her.

[symphonicspectre-blog]

time frame: august 10th, morning

setting: the lake museum of natural history

status: open to all 

There’s something about the phantom that seems best acquainted with the darkness and small spaces, the thick curtains of the theater that allow for no light or the passages beneath the stage itself where a hand on the wall is the best way to navigate, and yet, here he stands in the light of an open room, looking out of place at best: a forgotten relic of some long gone exhibit, one that should quickly and quietly be put away into storage as not to frighten the patrons. Before they start asking about what lurks behind the face covering. Before they ask is that supposed to be blood or dirt beneath his fingernails?

Unlike an exhibit though, he moves – his feet echoing coldly against the marble floor. Still, he feels at home here (despite his appearance) among the preserved, the not quite dead but the certainly not living. A museum is a purgatory of thoughts and things. His own thoughts seem to be haunting him, distracting him from the rest of the world, allowing him to take that corner a bit too quickly and a bit too short. When he rounds it and finds himself close to a face he was not expecting, he is drawn partially from his reverie, enough to accusingly ask the other about their presence.

“What are you doing?” he poses the question, seemingly startled by something living in his halls of the undead.

[officerjacqueline-blog]

date: june 3 time: 11 pm location: saint james ballroom status: open

They had been over and over the case. The detectives were stumped about the man who had gone missing on his way home from the ballroom two weeks ago, and with no leads and no desire to go back to her empty apartment, Jacqueline decided to take the initiative to do her own questioning. There had to have been something they were missing, some key witness that they weren’t quite managing to catch. Eyes scanning the ballroom, she landed on one person sitting alone at the bar and approached with decisive steps. Although clearly not dressed for the ballroom in her leather jacket and work boots, her badge was tucked safely away in her pocket until she assessed how best to handle this situation. “Excuse me,” she said politely, approaching the figure from behind.

[starriingrole]

date: may 25th time: 9:03am location: the yellow room café status: open

It’s arguably too LATE in the day for Christine to be looking as though she’s just rolled out of bed, curly hair an unruly mess of chestnut tangles, face brushed over with only a BB cream — COOLA Rōsilliance organic, a little pricey but totally worth it, and it’s made with ROSES, as she dutifully rattles off to anyone kind enough to comment on her complexion  — and eyelashes still dark and curled from her last lash lift. It’s an expensive sort of dishevelment, the type of effortless beauty that you look at and decide that’s how one looks when they’re naturally modelesque and ethereal, when in actuality it’s taken YEARS and copious amounts of money to pull off. Though Christine herself might not be a celebrity, she’s certainly grown up in the lap of luxury which only a life of fame and fortune can provide.

She finally reaches the counter and pulls down Cartier sunglasses with a tight smile signaling an effort to be polite, the greatest one she can make at the moment, but she’d rather skip the small talk this morning, thanks. “Large iced coffee, vanilla and coconut syrup, soymilk, no whip.” A beat passes as she drums manicured nails on the counter, and then, “Please.” Dark lips spread into another tight smile and she offers her cell phone, the Apple Pay screen glaring up at the cashier in bright LED lights. “OH, and an orange scone too, I think.”

[philippechaney-blog]

date: may 26th location: the yellow room café status: open

Philippe uncomfortably shifted his weight in the wicker chair he chose perched in the corner of the café. He grumbled something inaudible to himself, grunting about why establishments never seemed to buy any suitable sitting arrangements, no matter where he went. But regardless of how terrible the chairs seemed to him, he always found himself back in that same corner of the café. He enjoyed the soft white noise the place provided to him while he worked; it was a low rumble of gentle voices and light chatter, an aura he found more suitable than just complete and utter silence. 

With one hand, his fingers flipped through the countless pages of case files he had to examine while in the other, he brought a steaming cup of black tea to his lips. He had already been there for a few hours already, and he wasn’t even close to finishing half of his workload. Letting out a sharp sigh, he took an unopened manilla folder and as he was beginning to unfasten its hinge, a sudden push was met to the corner of his table. The force of it caused a few extraneous pieces of paper to flutter pathetically to the ground. “Watch it,” Philippe spat as he put his tea down and began to collect the stray papers. “You’re lucky you didn’t knock my drink on myself. That would’ve been quite a different story.”

[dcstlers-blog]

date: 28 June 2017 location: paris opera availability: open

Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?

No, no, NO.

Erik groaned once more as he shuffled through the sheets of music that threatened to flood over his piano, a current of musical notes and lines that seemed to whirl in circles. It was enough to completely overthrow any thoughts in his mind, as he came closer and closer to opening night and found himself completely obsessed with his production. So much had to be said in one piece of music, and each part of the story had to flow together so perfectly. 

As it stood, he was close to banging his head against the wall and being done with the entire fiasco.

Running a hand through his dark hair, he blew out a puff of hot air, internally thankful for not putting on his mask at that moment. Being alone after hours in the theatre meant that he didn’t have to think about other people for once; he could simply allow himself to be. It was a luxury a monster was rarely given; even with his beloved muse, he was constantly pushing himself to fit her dreams and impressions of him. In solitude, he could just be himself, whoever that happened to be. He wasn’t entirely aware, yet.

That hesitant peace in his mind was shattered when he heard the tell-tale signs of someone moving behind him, stepping into the bubble he seemed to slip into when he was with his instrument. Immediately reaching out a hand, grasping it in hand clumsily and slapping it onto his face, holding it there —— gasping out, “Who’s there?”

[gabrielprideaux-blog]

faux-meditation on faux-vintage

One of the first things Gabriel had done upon coming into the theatre was to seek out it’s quiet spaces. Somewhere away from the rigmarole of a getting a production up and running. “Rigmarole” (to be clear) that he was (undoubtedly) supposed to be a part of. But his role in the chaos was one that required focus and quiet meditation, which required solitude and, most importantly, a place away from his peers. And technically, there were rooms and offices for this sort of work. It would be easy enough to claim on for himself. Surely his position in the company should have given him some leverage to carve out a space for himself on which to affix a DO NOT DISTURB sign. But Gabriel was committed to not stepping on the toes of his superiors. And, that aside, the part of seclusion and privacy that Gabriel enjoyed was the part where no one knew where he was. 

So, he’d found his own place. Hidden within in a jungle of dusty set pieces and backdrop flats with peeling paint, Gabriel sprawled out on a made-to-look-vintage sofa covered in velvet ruby fabric. His feet kicked up on one arm while his head rested on the cushion just below the other, his body not quite long enough to occupy both at the same time. His eyes were closed as he soaked in the peaceful quiet of his surroundings. His fingers drummed against his chest, crafting a rhythm that played alongside his steady heartbeat. It was the soundtrack to his meditation. His notebook lay discarded on the concrete floor beside him, with notes scribbled next to names of orchestral players, lists of cues that he needed to place into the script, appointment times and locations for seedier business that would need to be conducted. But Gabriel needed to escape it, if only for just a few short minutes.

There was a light beat that hadn’t come come his fingers or his heart, though. Somewhere in his private jungle, floorboards creaked and footsteps interrupted the rhythm he played in his head. Sitting up, Gabriel stretched his arms over his head, letting the muscles along his sides pop back to life before he collected his belongings and pretended to be working. “No one is supposed to be back here,” he said loud enough for the intruder to hear him. He drummed his pen against his lips, brow furrowing over a blank page in an attempt to look somewhat productive. “There’s probably a receptionist at the front who can tell you where you need to be.”