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MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

SYMPHONY OF SORROW

If the Audience Would Please Take Their Seats

You find yourself at the theatre.

You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.

There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.

A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

Observer’s Overture

First Movement in E Minor

adagio, con dolore
PP

Lights down on the chorus, who sits in the stands. They are playing the role of the audience. Ad lib spoken word between chorus members seated near one another. Soft music begins to swell eerily.

Lights up on the stage. A performance begins, apparently in media res, where the chorus is meant to observe.

vacillante, improvvisato
cresc. P

The performers on stage play out their acts, appearing fearful. The chorus ad libs quiet uncertainty from the stands. Some of them will look down at their playbill and find their own name on the schedule of acts to come. There is a brief description on the page of the act that is scheduled for them. It is clear by the state of the ones already on stage that this isn’t something they have a choice in.

Chorus members attempt to rise from their seats, but cannot. Not yet. Foreshadowing to a later movement. For now, they must endure the overture.

Opera Infernale

Second Movement in Various Keys
( A medley of vignettes, performed in various styles)

chorale concerto a tutti, con affetto

F

Various chorus members rise between songs and make their way to the green room, where they are costumed. They have some time to talk with other incoming acts. They will find themselves and their loved ones being prepared for their acts.

segue

Those who performed before stop in the green room again. They look drained. A fate which awaits the incoming acts.

segue

On the stage, each act is a musical recreation of trauma. A worst fear, a most painful moment, an act of cruelty, a time of hardship. The styles will vary accordingly. If the other players in a given tale are present, they will receive their role without question. If a cast member has no fellow performers from their own world present, an understudy will be chosen to play any other roles from those that they are close to. Everyone is off book. Vocal quality is adjusted to match the conductor’s standards. Staff ensures there are no interruptions. The show must go on.

CODA: Für Nimona
A Coda in A Minor

There is a stranger in the green room, unmoving. Pale glowing eyes peer out from an ungulate-shaped void perched atop a high end suit. Antlers leer overhead. He is waiting for someone. Staff take no notice of him.

Ensemble's Lament

Third Movement in G Minor

bocca chiusa
PPP

There are other places to be besides the stage. Other roles to play.

pesante

Behind the stage, the stage crew toil under Baritone, the stage manager and the Viscount of Suffering. There is a pipe organ built into the man’s chest, and the bell of a horn where his heart ought to be. It shows. He is as cruel as he is miserable. He runs a tight ship.

declamando, letando

There are others in the pit, if they have the musical skill for it. And while this part of the performance is managed by a kinder sort, the Contessa of False Comforts is not so named for no reason.

The opera is long. There are no intermissions. The orchestra plays until their lungs ache and their fingers bleed, while Sonata assures them that it will all be over soon. Surely she cannot be lying. Surely there must be an end…

freddo, pietoso

Just outside the auditorium, there is work for the chorus serving food and drinks, taking ticket stubs for the endless stream of audience members, cleaning messes, or all other manner of soulless work. Perhaps these ensemble members simply did not interest the Conductor. Or it could be that they were made more miserable elsewhere.

Reprise - Observer’s Overture

Fourth Movement in E Major

impetuoso
FF It would seem that once a chorus member’s concerto is complete, they are free to move about the premises. At least until they are scheduled in a supporting role for another soloist. This means a chance to explore--- or escape.

presto repente, bellicoso
cresc.

Those attempting to escape will be met with resistance, however. Guarding the doors are shades, creations of the Conductor who can wear the faces of those held dear by those that look upon them. Escape, more likely, will come from within.

Members of the chorus who attempt to do battle with the Conductor, however, will find themselves up against something far more dangerous. Figures of glass, in all different shapes. Some abstract and solid, some hollow and human-like, and everywhere in between. Perhaps some chorus members will find one to be familiar.

The Hero will need an ensemble of her own to make it through and strike at the Conductor. Perhaps a resistance can be formed in a hidden location near the green room.

Homeward Aria

Fifth and Final Movement in C Major

tiempo di fanfara, vittorioso
F

When a dagger of Aster is driven into the heart of Prince Efrain of Sorrow’s Song, at last, the illusion fades. The members of the chorus relinquish their roles and find themselves on the summit of Crane’s Ridge.

It will be an arduous journey home, but it can be done with the solace that there is one less Demon Prince to trouble Pumpkin Hollow. Music in a joyful major key swells, then decrescendos.

enfatico, mancando poco a poco

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, entrapment, grief, depression, mood control, loss of bodily autonomy |

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The Godpoke steps forward, Megapon in hand. They stare down the Inspekta puppet, holding their ancient mail cannon aloft and pulling the trigger as it begins to emit a song in familiar voices, one at a time, slotting themselves between any of Inspekta's discordant English lines.

MISS MITTERNACHT:
Inspekta, ti amiamo
Per favore, ascolta il nostro grido!
Sei nostro fratello e nostro amico

HUZZLE MUG:
Inspekta, torna da noi
Non è necessario che sia così
Non ti abbandoneremo

BAUHAUZZO:
Leader coraggioso! Amato eroe! Sei già adorato
Nessuno ti ha dimenticato

THESPIUS:
Ti vediamo, Inspekta!

CLICK CLACK:
La fama non vale tutta questa morte

COBIGAIL:
La tua comunità ti adora

KING:
Inspekta, perché hai paura?

It is as Megapon emits the voice of King that a puppeted hand on a wire smacks Megapon out of Pokey's hands. As soon as this happens, Kelaiah feels their stomach sink in realization. Their gut reaction is to make a run for their megaphone, but it is swiftly denied as the Conductor's magic holds them in place, and they know what must come next.

In the absence of Megapon to sing Miss Mitternacht's final line, they must do it themself. Loud enough to be heard by the entire audience.

Tears streak down their face, sticking to dark walnut fur as a trembling, gloved hand reaches up to their face, and pulls down their bandana unwillingly. And Godpoke themself sings the final English line. Melodic and slow in a sharp but sweet Soprano, reverberating breathtakingly against the far reaches of the amphitheater.

Hector
Hector
I fear our doom may already be rendered
But Hector
Hector,
is this how you want to be remembered?

I shouldn't even be here, Patty thinks in bewilderment. In real life, the Bizzyboys and Grovesfolk were still making their way up the Spire as Godpoke battled with Inspekta, huddled up together in the center of Lumber Jacqueline's elevator and trying not to think about what might happen if any of the junk Inspekta was throwing around hit them. But this is opera, not real life, and that big felt monkey suit has to go somewhere.

Avanti!
Avanti coraggiosi amici
Nella breccia!
Che giustizia sia fatta
Che i falsi dei siano uccisi
Che la luce del cielo brilli
Chiaramente su tutti!

As she sings, her throaty alto weaving in and around Pokey's glass-shivering soprano, she leads the Bizzyboys in a charge against Inspekta. His felt hide bulges under their many hands before coming away from the wooden frame as if it was built for that purpose alone, exposing great rolls of red silk which unravel in great shining waves under the stage lights. And beneath the silk is Hector, looking very small and sad with the ropes that controlled the puppet still clenched in his hands.

Capochin joins them.

In reality, he had led the charge. Had picked himself up off the dirt outside Buzzhuzz with the last vestiges of his will, set aside his self-loathing that was threatening to bleed him out, and tried to remember why any of them were there in the first place.

To do good.

"...Hey, Cap, I had a thought. What if we did helpin' for work?"

Capochin looks up from setting the plates on the table, raising a skeptical brow. "...Okayyy. Howzat work?"

"Hear me out!" Hector closes the fridge with his hip as he speaks, prattling as he starts to reach for cups. "Lot'sa people got lot'sa problems, right? Yew see it on da posters at the park all the time, stuff n' people goin' missing, folks needin' some help with somethin' the can't man-age on their own.. And not all of 'em can be handled by the folks in the gov-her-mint offices. They're too small, or they ain't got enough hands to help with something like that."

He takes the cups to the table, moving with more energy now, clearly getting himself riled up the more he thinks about it.

"We only got two sets o' hands, but maybe, if we start showin' people around here that they can help, too, even if they feel like one lonely set of hands, they might join in! N' if we start bringin' lonely fellas together, we can all look out for each other! Just one person can't do much, but imagine if a whole bunch'a people worked together to make things better around here. We do big jobs that people are willin' to pay for together, so we can help each other and other people around here with!"

He practically whirls around on his heel, demonstrating by linking his fingers together.

"We all hold each other up, so nobody slips through da cracks! Yew get what I mean?"

"So... we start--- I dunno, workin' for tips and rewards at first?" Capochin wrings his hands, a little nervous. It's not a real job. It's good work, but it doesn't speak much to steady pay. But maybe if people have the option to pay what they want or what they can, it'd convince them to give it a try. Even if it opens the two of them up to being swindled from time to time...

"Exactly!" Hector agrees, looking a little ridiculously bright in comparison to Capochin's uncertainty. "Even if folks can't give us moneys for it, maybe they could help with food n' other things, right? Anything counts!"

He takes a moment to step over, clasping Capochin's hands in his own, excited but in a tight, reassuring way.

"Maybe it doesn't work, and I'm shore not gonna let us go hungry in the meantime," Hector assures him, offering him a smile, soft and warm. "But I think we could really do somethin' good if it does, don't yew?"

"...Dat's a big risk, Hector," Capochin starts out tentatively. But with those big hands clasping his own, with that godsdamned ridiculous adorable smile---- Capochin relents. How could he not? Hector is the kind of person who could make anyone believe in him. "But it could work. S'pecially if we can recruit more people to help. Plus if I go spelunkin' for people's lost stuff down in the pipes for 'em, I can probably grab some coins while I'm down there."

The spiraling curl of Hector's tail of sheer delight pales in comparison to the grin he brightens into, giving the hands he holds a thrilled little shake.

"Dat's the spirit!!" Hector practically cheers, and finally turns him loose, just long enough to throw an arm around his shoulders. "I'll start lookin' into where we can start, and--- oh! I'll figure out some way that folks can recognize us! Yew'll hear about every part as soon as I got it sorted!"

But here, he stays behind as Patty takes the lead. She deserves it. She's done everything to earn the right to fight back, to save the world, to lead. She earned the right to confront Inspekta where she got none. The right to succeed where Capochin failed. The opera allows her what was denied by reality. It is only when the music drops for a moment of pianissimo that Capochin sings again, joining them in time to lift the puppet's head from its controls.

Ti ho amato
Ti ho amato
Ed è così che mi hai ripagato?

Mi amavi
Mi amavi
Ed è così che ti ripago

A volte mi chiedo se tutto ciò che valeva la pena ricordare di te sia morto il giorno in cui sei entrato nella spaccatura

Spero che mi dimostrerai che ho torto

Ti amo
mi dispiace
Facciamo qualcosa che valga la pena ricordare

The head of the puppet hits the stage with a thundering crash. The music swells, loud and brassy, like the sound of hearts breaking, and all that is left is Hector.

The crowd sees him. Gods, they see him, all of him, and he's never felt nor looked quite so small or sad upon a stage. His hands slowly fall from the pulleys, his tail unwinding, and slowly, he steps from the stool he'd perched upon.

It's a slow turn, to face that beam of light. Even though it's simply the stage, it all feels so real. He can almost feel that cold wind, cutting past him, choking the warm air in his throat.

In another place, another time, they'd be able to close it.

This is not that place. Those are not his lines.

He lifts his hands to that light, tipping his head back. Tears spill down his cheeks, even as he falls to his knees, his singing wavering as his breaths choke in his throat.

La luce è bellissima
La luce è accecante
La luce è terrificante

Sono così spaventata

Tutto ciò che amavo
Tutto ciò che speravo
Tutto ciò che sognavo

È perso, a causa mia

Mio caro mondo
Miei cari amici
Mio caro cuore

Per favore, perdonami

If Patty were in control of herself, she'd start crying right along with Hector. She's not angry anymore, she's sad. She's so sad to see Hector and Capo like this, brought so long by their own shitty choices when they started out so big and bright. She just wanted them to stop being so nasty, she never wanted this...Right?

She's a better person than that, right?

So why does a part of her thrill when she realizes there's a prop knife in her hand?

Giustizia!
Giustizia per il popolo!
Giustizia per i tiranni!

She lunges at Hector, the knife held high.

Godpoke extends a gloved hand toward Hector, opening their mouth to sing again, and is immediately relieved when Patty's voice cuts them off--- a relief which quickly disappears when they understand her intention.

Is it the Conductor that guides them to try and lunge for her, or their own will? The desire to help everyone, to resolve conflict non-violently and with compassion? Their love for all people? Their love for their new father figure? Their desire to see Patty's integrity intact?

A few bars of mournful music escape from Godpoke as Patty moves to strike:

Per favore, amore mio
Smettila a questa violenza
La giustizia non è la stessa cosa della vendetta

But it is too late. The knife comes into contact with a body. Prop that it is, the blade sinks into the handle rather than flesh, but the target it hits is not Hector. No, as Patty's faux blade presses down on an unguarded chest, she is met with Capochin's eyes.

Tears well in them as he sings to her directly, shaking hands reaching up to her in affection even as he acts out his death, brushing back her hair.

Oh, mia cara
Così luminosa e bella
Meriti di essere arrabbiata
Non ti biasimo per l'odio che vive nel tuo cuore
Hector non è il tiranno che finge di essere
Se qualcuno ti ha ferito
Se qualcuno ti ha deluso
Se qualcuno merita il tuo odio
Sono io

Hands raise to where the knife is pressed to his chest, and more fistfuls of blue ribbon are clutched in his fingers. He lets them spill onto the floor before sinking to his knees.

The curtain falls. The spell is broken. Their bodies and voices are their own.

Almost immediately, Godpoke's eyes well with tears and their breaths quicken to the point of hyperventilation. They collapse to the floor, curling into the fetal position and letting out a horrible, squeaking, wheezing noise so loud despite their best efforts that they have to be dragged back to the green room by infernal staff.

The show is over.

The distance from the stage to the green room didn't feel quite so far, but Hector drags himself back to it.

Before the show, even in spite of all the stress, he'd tried to keep himself presentable, work well with the demons attending and dressing all the performers, even chatted brightly-yet-anxiously with those he recognized. It was short lived, considering he had to get swept off the stage quickly, but he tried to make the best he could of the awful situation.

Now, he's never been quite so drained in his life.

That doesn't stop him from hurrying to find Capochin first. He knows the knife was a prop, he knows that he's physically fine, but the weight of everything that happened, how tangible it felt, how the visions of a reality where things fell in that order weigh on him, he needs to see him.

Deep down, had Capochin wanted to join the Bizzyboys in tearing him apart for everything he'd done, too?

A volte mi chiedo se tutto ciò che valeva la pena ricordare di te sia morto il giorno in cui sei entrato nella spaccatura. / Sometimes I wonder if everything worth remembering about you died the day you stepped into the rift.

It's not an unfair thing to wonder. Hector wonders the same thing often, too.

"Cappy, yew--- are yew alright?" He asks as soon as he finds his way over to him, hands finding his shoulders, fretting over him. "That was... it... it shore was some show, wasn't it?"

He tries to put humor into that. He fails; it's quiet and tired at best.

"Hector." The name escapes him like a sigh of relief, and he falls into Hector's arms like a drowning man finding dry land. Fingers curl tightly into the knit of that familiar sweater. "I'm okay," he promises. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," he lies, but holds him securely, nothing short of pure relief in being able to hold Capochin securely after everything.

There's a hesitance in allowing himself to be weak, even in moments like these, but he pushes past it, sinking down to his knees to hold Capochin on a more level ground. He pulls him into a tighter hug, and buries his face in his shoulder for a moment. "I'm just glad yew're okay. I was worried--- I don't know. I don't know what I thought was gonna happen, just--- I kept thinkin' that somethin' real might'a happened to yew somehow. I seen blood in some other shows."

"No, no, I ain't hurt." He rubs at his chest with the heel of his hand. A nervous tick that Hector's probably grown familiar with. That faux knife had been pressed against that thick scar over his heart, slightly sunken by a hand-sized gap filed into his ribs. If Patty had been truly armed, cutting through to that worn and battered heart would have been utterly effortless.

Capochin replaces his arm around Hector as the taller man gets on his level, embracing him tighter, petting the back of his head idly. There's something so grounding about those puffs of bright blue hair. The way they feel under his fingers.

Then, he tries his own hand at adding a bit of levity. "Y'know, I don't think I'm all that into opera anymore."

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just doin' a single tag for both characters

1-1 Splitoff: Inspekchin Edition

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Patty+Pokey subthread

cw: meltdown, self-harm ideation

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1v1 - Capochin & Patty

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1v1 - Pokey & Hector

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Patty + Hector subthread

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