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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 words feel like poison in his mouth; he says them with that same old, infuriating eloquence that Elias rarely faltered from. He stops a mere step away, a hand lingering on the smooth wood surface of the desk.

"Less time to prepare was crucial, I'm afraid. Granted how tense things have been. I'm sure you understand."

That hand lifts, measured and deliberate, with a skill Jon himself does not have. He takes one of Melanie's own, while the other finds its way beneath her arm, to her back, pulling her along. Leading, whether she has any say in the matter or not.

(They both know that neither of them does, of course.)

"You've been with the Institute for a few months now. I hope it's been treating you well?"

For all the extrasensory awareness the stage grants her, it does not give her the courtesy of letting her go unsurprised at the points of contact. Muscles jar, teeth snap together, air hisses—and then she falls into lockstep. As if there were ever any other option.

Material tugs at her arms as they spread to accommodate the posture asked of her. That lighter material, she thinks, hanging from her shoulders and now lifting with her limbs. The wings she cannot see and that cannot see her spread and she does not fly.

"Well," comes out through gritted teeth, a token of protest she's not sure is even her own and not a part of the act, "there hasn't been a lot of direction."

A sharp turn, one way and then back the other. Her feet scramble expertly to keep up, a faux display, a piece of the show.

"Mostly, I've been working on my own thing."

"I've noticed."

The words come with a sharp stop to the quiet music, a sudden drop-off, before Jon turns on his heel, a sharper turn than the last had been, with less warning. Strung along by any of the whims the role might have in store, pulled to some great unknown, never allowing her to stray far. Every movement turns the dance into a cage.

"Plotting my demise, no matter what I've tried to tell you. You simply won't listen," the remark comes with no shortage of exasperation. "If only I knew the words to make you believe me. This really is for the best, you know."

Edited 2025-06-13 00:42 (UTC)

"For the best!" It's half a bitter, incredulous laugh, half a desperate, angry exhalation. Even in the beat of silence, even beneath the music that fills the room, there is another rhythm (one that she knows has been excised from her soul, one that she recognises all the same in this new illusory form) beating away in her skull that slowly creeps out onto the stage. War drums, a discordant undercurrent at battle with the quiet tune that owns the scene. "Well, I think it's for the best if you die choking on your own blood! If you don't want that—"

Another sharp turn. She feels her hip almost graze the chair as they cut past and then the world falls out from beneath her—the whistle of air, the billowing of fabric, the rush of blood to her head as she's dipped back. One foot still on the ground, she realises only as she jerks to a stop mid-air.

"—then let me go or kill. Me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Melanie."

The dip is held for a long beat, before she's pulled out of it, and spun with some facsimile of tenderness - it's almost mockery in motion, really. Jon wears none of it on his face. He's quiet, contemplative, and still. His eyes flit about, one way, then another, before he has to focus on his movements again; even if there's no way out of this, he wants to hope. He has to hope that they could break out of this spell, one way or another.

They reconnect in the dance, and the lines continue their flow, an onward march to drumbeats he can't hear.

"It's all this perfect rationalization, isn't it? I'm too dangerous to live, no matter what it is I'm planning. It's a noble death. All to hide the selfish truth that you'd rather be dead than trapped without that self-determination that is so very important to you. But I won't be doing that. I won't indulge these ultimatums. We've got options, of course..."

A pivot, and another sudden halt, the music holding its breath in time.

"I'm not above threats, if that's what we need to see eye to eye."

Empty sockets stare into his.

She can so clearly imagine the cold, disinterested grey irises that stared back at her from across the desk, that day. Eyes that felt as if they were probing into your very soul, seeking out something intangible to fashion into a blade designed to perfectly fit between your ribs and pierce the heart. Even knowing it's Jon there, green-eyed and never quite so needle-sharp, doesn't dispel the thought. She doubts even being able to see him would. Those eyes are burned into her memory like brands.

Her heart thunders in her chest.

"Try me. I've got nothing left to lose."

"That's almost true, isn't it?"

Against his own will, Jon's grip tightens. One step, then two. Slow, then fast. A facade of predictability with sharp steps intermingled in, like the piano melody of a madman, created specifically to fail to follow anyone's rhyme or reason beyond that of its master. It feels perfectly tailored to string Melanie along, to drag her deeper into the strange waltz. Jon would give anything to be able to exert just enough will to break free of it.

He hadn't even been able to do that during the Unknowing when it mattered the most, though, had he? What would possibly make that change now?

"That's part of the reason you were chosen for this, of course. So few ties left to the outside world. Just one last anchor... your father. It didn't matter what life would throw at the two of you--- turmoil, difficult moves, even dementia--- all the way to the end, you were his 'little moth, weren't you?"

The fabric stretched between her shoulders spreads, flutters, pulls, suddenly feeling so very hot against the breadth of her back—and just as suddenly, Melanie understands what it is. Can almost see the moth wings in her minds' eye, with ocelli as blind as she is. False eyes waiting to be opened to a truth she did not ask for and did not want, does not want, but cannot reject.

Not a moth, drawn toward a flame of its own ingrained instinct. A moth released into a house fire already raging, beating its wings against thick air and smoke.

Hot tears threaten to well up, not even her empty sockets saving her from the indignity of it.

"Shut. Up. You have no right. No right."

"No, maybe not, but if it's what's going to make myself understood, what choice do I have?"

Even despite the words, there's not attempt to make the point a rational means to an end - it's an empty justification. As measured and unfeeling as a written corporate email, only concerned with conveying words just-so, so that the results fall into his hands exactly as he'd like them to.

The fire rages on, and he stokes it gladly. The future looked so very bright to those cold, immortal eyes.

(In all the cruelty he's doled out in his life, Jon never did anything like this, did he? Supernatural reaching into one's personal life aside, the fact that he has to wonder doesn't help anything.)

"Your dedication, your resourcefulness, are just as much reasons as you being so very alone," he continues, "after all, you did manage to get him into a decent care home, didn't you? Even with all the trouble, you saw he was taken care of. It makes the fire that took his life all that more of a terrible shame."

The dance stops abruptly - Jon's grip on one of Melanie's hands is bidden to tighten.

"That's what they told you, at least, isn't it? Those most peaceful death someone could have in a burning building. Smoke turning sleep into eternal rest."

He steps to the side. Brisk steps move behind Melanie, and scarred hands turn her by the shoulders to face the audience.

"It's a terrible shame that it's just a pretty lie, all to make you feel better about something you couldn't have possibly predicted. Look at it, Melanie. See how he really died."

She feels the memory rising again. It's— different, this time, not in contents but in the feeling of the moment, twisted into something new by the magic of the stage despite all the glaring similarities. Old trauma carving wider tracts through her mind along the lines and curves of well-worn pathways.

Not a peaceful death, not an accident. Filth and rot and decay and infection, intentionally spread. Prolonged and encouraged to fester. The infirm and vulnerable left at the mercy of someone who sought only to spread the Corruption until, finally, it was excised in flame. Not a mercy in the moment. Every second of it still aware.

The defensive tension in her body sags in place, crumpling like an abandoned cocoon. There is no attempt to pull free. There's no sense of a show, anymore.

There's only ugly sobbing.

The hands on her shoulders loosen, freeing her, so that Jon can step to her side, facing the crowd much the same. His hands fold primly at his waist, looking unfazed by her total collapse. There's little more than a glance cast her way, before Jon's head lifts, looking out to the crowd. Yet, he continues to speak to her.

"Now you've seen how your father really died. And I'm sure this is horribly painful for you. But... I can make it so much worse. Interfere with me in any way, Melanie, and I'll make that vision so ingrained in your psyche that you see it every time you close your eyes."

And, at last, he returns his attention to her. He tuts quietly, and moves a hand to pat her shoulder, a far cry from the control her commanded in the touch only moments ago.

"That's alright, Melanie. That's quite alright. Take your time. You take the rest of the day off to process."

His attention lifts to the audience one more time. A small, cloying smile rises to his lips.

"And, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that, all of that aside? Your performance has been satisfactory."

Edited 2025-08-05 20:53 (UTC)

The lights drop all at once, darkness falling on the punchline of this whole horrid affair. Melanie feels it only in the lack of faint heat from the lamps, leaving her all of a sudden very, very cold.

It's over. There's a moment where it feels as if she's about to collapse, like the weight of the darkness at the end of all things is pressing her down in to the solid stage floor—until, instead, she storms off in what she hopes is the direction of the exit at stage left, shouldering past Jon and banging her hip sharply on the desk on her way.

Neither collision stops her.

The dimming of the lights makes Jon feel like he isn't any longer held up by invisible cords, guiding him into each step, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He rubs at his wrists, glancing around, and starts to take a step, when---

Collision. He stumbles a bit, before panic starts to well. Against all better judgement, he follows.

"Melanie--- Melanie, I--- wait, I'm sorry---" He flounders his apologies, teetering on panic. "I didn't know--- I didn't want to do this, I---"

She's half a mind to throw something at him. Might even do it, if the idea of fumbling around to find something to throw at him wasn't humiliating in itself. Even then she stops to yank one of her ill-suited heels off her feet so she doesn't twist her ankle (always has been a trainers or boots kinda girl) and holds it up, as if she's going to—only to throw it at the floor and kick the other off somewhere. Who knows where. She doesn't care.

"O-Oh shut up! You think I don't know that?!" Actually, maybe she didn't. Maybe a part of her can never truly be sure, with Jonathan Sims, which things he wants to do and which things he's pushed into. Even here, where she can feel the strings pulling at her own limbs. "I don't need more of your— relentless fucking apologies, Jon, I—"

Or does she? Or— ugh, fuck, she doesn't fucking know. It's not the same as that first talk after the bullet but something about hearing him say I'm sorry even when it makes perfect sense for him to do so feels like nails on a chalkboard.

Relentless apologies is fair, but it stings no less for it. It doesn't stop him from trailing along like some pathetic little dog, to the dimly lit door at stage left. He goes to speak, but doesn't even know where else to begin. What else could he possibly say? I know I've just witnessed some of your trauma at the Institute, might have even been a tool in pulling it out of you with my lines, but I hope we can reach some sort of understanding here? Or perhaps I don't suppose this makes you hate my guts any less, does it?

Instead, he swallows whatever words collide in his throat, doing what he can to manage the burning shame of being puppeted along for that. He's at least got to try to make right where he can, and if he can't, maybe it'd be best to leave her be.

"I'll--- try to find your cane. I doubt the demons would see fit to put it anywhere easy for you to find."

An empty, wet snort. "Yeah. W-Wouldn't put money on it."

She could tell him where to shove it. The raw and angry part of her—the part of her that still feels a phantom throbbing where the bullet used to be so stark that she can almost feel out the shape of the place it once sat beneath her skin—really wants to, wants to snap at him and rebuff even this reasonable offer of assistance. Throw it in his face. Grind him to dust under her feet until he doesn't dare speak to her at all.

But even now (maybe especially now) she knows that's not going to fix anything. It's not actually going to make her feel better. It was always just a plaster over a gaping wound.

(And she can already tell she's going to bruise from hitting the damn desk.)

"...f-fine. Fine. I have— no idea where the hell anything here is."

"Alright, just... keep walking straight. The green room's not too far, just down a short few steps, past the props." Jon had wanted to avoid asking, not wanting to to drag her along any further, but with all the obstacles in the way, likely just so to make this all that much more humiliating and miserable for someone to navigate through... "Do you--- need a hand?"

She breathes in, shoulders rising with it and falling heavily on the exhale. Steeling herself. "I-I can manage. With the directions."

There's only so many dings her pride can take. And she can't rule out instinct kicking in if he gets too close. Be a shame to hit him after deciding better of it.

It does suck, without her cane. Having to be careful about every placement of her feet so she doesn't end up tripping over the first step down is slow and frustrating and a little bit embarrassing, but she's stubborn enough to push through.

"Alright. I'll let you know if there's anything to be aware of."

Clear, concise, Jon carefully guides her along, down those short stairs and, thankfully, to the room just to the right of it. There's a change in the sound, when their feet stop hitting wood and hit the dingy rug in the green room, but it gives Jon a good opportunity to find the cane, which had been leaned to the side, just in sight, but out of reach from someone who couldn't see it. Bastards.

"...I'm sorry this is the first time we've--- spoken. Really spoken," he corrects himself quickly, quietly. "I know neither of us have exactly tried to draw it out, but... I should have found the time, before it came to something like this. Things that fester like this, the demons seek them out intentionally."

"Of course they do. Fucking— bastards." Like the Fears all over again, only somehow more pointed. The architects themselves close enough to reach out and touch, not just their lackeys.

Having her cane back in her hand is a tangible relief. She's not sure she realised just how much it's become a part of her sense of security until now—it's never been out of her hand without her say so, since getting to town. Months into learning to live with a disability and there's still so much she's internalising.

"...if you'd pushed it too soon I'd probably have bitten your head off," she admits, because it's true. Stupid, in hindsight. Should've ripped off the damn bandaid, got it over with, instead of awkwardly acknowledging each other only as much as necessary with her swinging by the tea shop. "Should've known it'd come to some bullshit like this."

"Always does, doesn't it?"

It's not so much fatalism as it is simple fact, really. If there's something you're avoiding, in places like this, with influences like these, they'll sink their hooks into it, and throw it directly into your face. It's inescapable. You can only do with it what you can, and try to make the best of a situation no one should find themselves in.

"Not sure if it's worth trying to find a way out of here," Jon admits, letting out a soft, short sigh, the frustration of futility tangled into it, while he takes a look around the room. "These tend to end on the demon's whims. Our best bet may be to find whoever we're able to on the fringes, and try to keep them out of the line of fire until an opportunity presents itself..."

"Sounds like as good a plan as we're going to get. Which is about as far to the opposite of reassuring as possible, for the record."

She just wants this to be over. After all this time, she's so tired of still being stuck in situation after situation where she can do nothing but rage uselessly against the boundaries of a nigh impenetrable cage.

"But if we're going to find people, it better be in literally any other room than this." She doesn't want to stand here and listen to the distress of everyone coming off the stage.

(The uncharitable part of her thinks that Jon just might. Free Fear, right?)

"We'll try the spaces just outside. Let these people have their time, and see if we can catch them before they're made to go back into the audience," Jon decides, looking to the door on the other side. As far as he can see it, it may have been worth trying to stay, if only to give people a hand to safety as soon as they're out of the eyes of the demons. But he decides against it, and starts to head for the door.

"Maybe, if we're in luck, we'll find others who have broken away already. I suppose all we can do for now is... hope, really."

"Right. Because hope has always gotten us so far."

But there's no other option, and so with one big breath, Melanie moves to follow the sound of his footsteps. If her cane catches the back of his ankle a couple times as she catches up, well, that's just a hazard of walking ahead of her.

This will end. All things do. But in the meantime, she will keep hating it, because that's what she does.

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MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

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wrap!