It was early in the morning – so dreadfully and devastatingly early in the morning – and the annoying sound of her alarm’s unforgiving siren startled Ziggy from her dreams. Waking up in the middle of a dream is the worst, and Ziggy started her day off bad. It was a Saturday, too, which meant that there was a theater meeting.

The early hours of the morning were spent in the presence of emails about potential jobs – mostly sending her resume and a sense of failure written in it; Ziggy loves Abracadabra! but it doesn’t pay well. Plus, Ziggy was becoming increasingly mortified over being a nearly-thirty year old living in her parents’ basement. Unfortunately, there wasn’t many jobs around St. James that were in demand of Ziggy’s skillset.

Her email was underwhelmingly bare, only a small unread blue circle from an interior design company in Charlotte Hills, Illinois. She had applied to it a while ago, before she joined Abracadabra!, in the week after she was fired and her parents pressured her into sending in her resume. The subject field ominously said “New Position Opened”. Ziggy lightly tapped her finger on her mouse, not hard enough to click anything – she could feel her toes flexing with the harsh burden of indecision.

“I’ll open it later.” She murmured to herself, closing out of her email and stretching. The clock on her computer told her that she should leave for the meeting soon, and it was a couple minutes slow.

Ziggy grabbed her jacket and propped her foot on the first step out of her pathetic temporary room, but the blue glow of the computer gave her a sense of guilt. Ziggy wanted that job – it’d be good for her, to get back on her feet. But that meant leaving a whole lot behind. Ziggy’s toes flexed again when she pulled out her phone and began tapping a message.



Shit, that sounded bossy. But it was too late to unsend it. It would really suck if Noa said no – Ziggy couldn’t even think about eating lunch with her mom. It probably would have been much simpler if Ziggy just said she wanted to see him, just so she could lie to herself and say that staying in St. James was the better option – because of the potential of Abracadabra! and they’re small but slowly growing relationship. But it felt clingy, and Ziggy would hate herself if she was the clingy type – how awkward. No, it was much better to pretend to be a starving actress.

“Zdzisława, are you about to leave?” Ziggy’s mom bumbled through the door, a plate of waffles drowning in syrup in her hand. “I was hoping we could have some breakfast together.”

Ziggy cursed her luck and her mother and those god damn delicious-looking waffles. Ziggy could never say no to her mother, anyways, not with her puppy dog eyes that looked so hopeful. It was disgusting. “I’m running a bit late, so I might as well be really late for breakfast.” As an after-thought, Ziggy added, “I’ll probably be out with Noa later, so I probably won’t be home for lunch.”

Her mother practically escorted Ziggy to the dining table, a watchful eye on her – probably to make sure she didn’t pull a Houdini and disappear. “Noa? Why?”

“Lunch date.” The waffles cut easily under her butter knife and Ziggy dragged a slice of it through the thick syrup. She pretended to be absolutely fascinated with her waffles, instead of glancing up to see her mother’s undoubtedly confused eyes.

Her mother gave her a moment of peace before she asked, letting Ziggy chew her food before she could further investigate. Ziggy took her time; the waffle became soggy mush too soon. “Lunch date? Is he paying? When your mama and tata were dating, he was such a gentleman. He used to take me to all the restaurants and would always pay for my bill like it was nothing! I wouldn’t be surprised if he laid down in a puddle just so I wouldn’t get my shoes wet. You are like your mama, Zdzisława, you like gentlemen – only a gentlemen could take care of someone as particular as you. I hope this Noa is a gentleman.”

Ziggy flushed – only her mother could make her face this red so fast. Ziggy couldn’t wait to get out of this house. Even her mother thought she was high-maintenance, and her mom was the most high-maintenance woman she’d ever met. It was time to go-go-go before the topic spiraled even further downwards.

“I should go now, I don’t want to be too late.” Ziggy made an exaggerated glance at her wrist. She wasn’t wearing a watch, but her mother couldn’t tell that since she was wearing long sleeves.
“All right, I’ll clean the dining table, you hurry on and go.”

Ziggy rushed out the door and didn’t bother to look back; she might have even broken something when she slammed her car door too hard. Ziggy gripped the steering wheel and let muscle memory take her to the theater.

The theater is a sad looking, especially in the morning. It’s easy to ignore it falling apart at night, when they’re working like busy bees; but with the light shining on it, all the cracks and crumbs are visible. Ziggy belatedly realizes that she wasn’t late at all – her clock must be fast instead of slow – since there’s only two cars in the parking lot. Hers and, most certainly, the Director’s.

The hidden wooden floor creaks under Ziggy’s feet and after a small cracking sound, she’s a little bit scared one of the planks will collapse. When she walks into the theater, she can see the wild brown mop of Art’s hair.

“How long do you think it will take the others?” The question comes out more exasperated and snippy than Ziggy meant it to, but she wasn’t going to correct herself any time soon.

The sight of dawn breaking over the horizon, thought Noa, was one of those pleasures worth losing sleep over. He stood on the steps of his little house, a mug of midnight black coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. The pale light of early morning sun washed over him like chill water, washing dreams from his mind bringing him entirely into the here and now. For a few seconds, he closed his eyes and tried to sense some warmth on his skin, some sense that the new day would be warmer than the long night.

He’d barely slept, tossing and turning before eventually deciding to give up the ghost and just get up. The cupboards were mostly bare, containing only enough food for a modest breakfast, or several large ones by anyone else’s standards. He’s sat at the kitchen table in the dark, eating and drinking in almost complete silence, hearing only the occasional sound of a forlorn bird or confused fox. When he glanced at his battered watch, he realised he might as well take in the morning sun, given that he’d beaten it in getting up.

So there he sat, sipping coffee that could kill a horse and wondering whether the local 7/11 would be open yet. Being the neo-hippy nature lover that he was, he generally disdained the place in favour of locally grown, organic goodness but needs must when the devil drove away all the food. The only other thing on his mind was how to kill time until 9:00AM, when he was expected at the The Lawrence Theatre for a company meeting.

A part of him wistfully considered blowing it off, maybe scrounging up a few dollars and catching a bus someplace else. He could go north, lose himself in the woods for a few days, or south, there was bound to be a river or a lake he hadn’t swum in yet. The voice in his head suggesting these things was small at the moment and easily squashed, but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t be gone for long. Without distraction, without action, it grew and grew until he could hear nothing else. It was probably his own fault, he had listened to almost exclusively for many, many years and that was like feeding a wild animal; it only got hungrier.

Thinking of hunger, he swallowed the last of his coffee, wolfed down the last bite of breakfast, stood up and stretched. A complicated series of pops and clicks later, he shook himself off and stepped back inside. Whatever else he decided, I might as well fit in a run. Even on a less than fulfilling breakfast, Noa could run a marathon and be ready for more, yet another talent picked up from years of uncertain living. Breakfast used to be a much less certain proposition from day to day so he’d gotten used to working hungry and using the dream of lunch to power through hard work.

The run wasn’t more than an hour or so, just around the neighbourhood a couple of times, but it put some life into his limbs and got the blood moving. More importantly, it moved the day from ‘so early that’s it’s practically still late’ to ‘if you absolutely must’. A few windows were opening, a few lights were flickering on. Some people were already hurrying off to work, some were just stirring because the light was now that off a proper day, though the summer sun rises indecently early.

Noa’s neighbourhood was a mixed bag of poor families that worked manual labour jobs, poor families that worked jobs off in the nearest big city and poor families that didn’t work any sort of job. The houses were cheaply made things, thrown up for the minimum cost available when St. James had last been booming. Now they housed only those spent little time at home, those who couldn’t afford better and artists who would accept ‘fixer-uppers’. He didn’t mind though, it was an excellent opportunity to practise his carpentry and an excuse to wear the messy work clothes at home that he would’ve be wearing anyway.

He was about to leave the house with a tote-bag, intent on refilling his cupboards with as much food as he could carry back, when his mobile buzzed. It was an ancient thing, the sort of Nokia artefact that made people instantly assume you’re a drug dealer and that it’s your burner. Actually, Noa had been using the phone for a couple of years now and was yet to see the point in switching to a more modern one. After all, this one could send texts, make calls and could even access his email account. What more did a man need to communicate with?

buy me lunch later
don’t have food need to go shopping

With a chuckle, he tossed aside the bag and sank into a battered armchair. He’d rather wait until after the meeting and shop with Ziggy in the city centre (such as it was) than stump off to the local place. She was so direct, he reflected, seemingly unworried about saying what she wanted to do and telling him where to turn up. It was probably why they got on so well, given his more aimless approach to life and disinterest in command over others. That voice at the back of his mind started up again, pointing out that she wasn’t the sort of girl who’d wait for him to turn back up after a sojourn on the road but he ignore it again.

Instead, he killed time around the house for a little while, cleaning up a few pieces of stray wood and hoovering the section of the house where he was gradually repairing the damaged walls. The whole house was something of a project, one he was enjoying, but it did make a near constant mess. When the time came, he stepped out, didn’t bother to lock the door and went into the garage. Sitting therein was the one other extravagance; a beaten up and broken down motorbike he’d taken to calling the Guzzler. He wouldn’t trust it for a cross country trip or anything that required real reliability but it was a quick way of shuttling back and forth between the theatre and the house. And when it broke down, there was always the bus.

Today, however, it cooperated and reluctantly sputtered into life. The trip to the theatre was uneventful, it still being early enough on a Saturday that there weren’t too many cars on the road. He tucked the Guzzler away in the alley behind the Lawrence and strolled in the side entrance. There was Art sitting on the stage, looking as attractively dishevelled as ever, and Ziggy, standing behind the director with her arms crossed in her signature stance of mild impatience.

”Morning glorious leader. And to you too Art.”

Billy is not a morning person. He used to be, believe or not, though that was a long, long time ago, and a habit cultivated by necessity. Back in Kentucky, he’d have to get up at the crack of dawn just to make breakfast for his siblings, make sure they brushed their teeth, and if necessary, drag them off to school. Even without an alarm clock, he would always awaken at the crack of dawn. But after so long living away from home, he’s long since grown out of the habit. These days, most of his mornings are spent trying to navigate the apartment with his eyes squeezed shut, barely conscious as he nurses yet another brain-splitting hangover. Only after he downs a steaming mug of black coffee does Billy regain some semblance of humanity, but it still feels like there’s an ice pick lodged in his frontal lobe, and he can’t help but let out a pitiful moan at the pain that thrums through his skull, burying his face into his hands. He supposes it’s true how the things you love end up hurting you the most, and boy, did he fucking adore that bottle of Old No. 7.

Here in St. James, Billy could actually afford to have an apartment to himself. It wasn’t the nicest place, but it was close enough to the city centre to make up for any shortcomings – mostly, anyway. Sure, there was the suspiciously warm patch of mould inching its way across the wall opposite the kitchen, the absolute demon of a landlord, and also how he had to lift-slash-shove the bathroom door back into place every time he wanted to lock it. The rent was cheap, and that’s that. At least he didn’t have to share an apartment with a bunch of stoners anymore; he was tired of having all his clothes smell like weed.

Sat at the kitchen table, Billy’s just about to settle into the deep, dark pit of hangover-induced regret when a sudden bark breaks him out of his trance. Before he can realise what’s happening, a warm, furry mass scrambles its way into Billy’s lap, leaving a trail of slobber down his cheek. He almost falls off his chair at the added weight, but manages to steady himself at the last second, glancing down at the culprit with a wry sort of smile.

“Hey, buddy.” Billy mumbles, voice still husky from sleep, which only earns him another stripe of slobber down the right side of his face. But he doesn’t seem all too bothered by the situation - far from it, in fact. The mere presence of Romeo, the bronze-furred Bullweiler, made him feel just a little less shitty, so he gives him a fond scratch on the head, then again under the chin, for good measure. Of course, it doesn’t take long for his legs to start falling asleep after that, so Billy has to shift a little in his seat, shoving at the overgrown puppy precariously perched across his lap. “God, you’re heavy. Alright, off. I gotta get us both somethin’ to eat.”

In the end, Billy decides on a stale toaster bagel for breakfast, and by the time he finishes it, the bowl of kibble he’d set out for Romeo is already empty.

“Jesus. Didn’t know you were that hungry.” The words are accompanied by a chuckle, and a small shake of the head. He really needed to stop feeding Romeo so much. Maybe I should be going on a diet, too, Billy contemplates, sipping his now-lukewarm coffee, and absentmindedly pinches at the bit of flab on his stomach. That train of thought, however, is quickly derailed by the dawning realisation that he needed to be somewhere today. Downing the last dregs of his coffee in a single gulp, Billy rushes past Romeo to make a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later, one could hear the shower burst to life, followed by the ill-suppressed shriek of a man suddenly finding himself soaked head-to-toe in freezing cold water.

---

He’s out of the house in minutes, clad in the cleanest clothes he could excavate from his disaster zone of a closet. But the fact remained that he was going to be late, and that also meant that he had no choice but to bring Romeo along with him to the theatre meeting. That is, unless he feels like coming home to a fate worse, and infinitely more nauseating than death. He’s pretty sure animals weren’t allowed in the theatre, but hey, what other option does he have? So that’s how he ends up trudging through the streets of St. James to The Lawrence Theatre, leash in hand, and a worn-out messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

The journey there isn’t so bad - maybe about three, four blocks distance - but when Romeo stops to sniff a tree for the hundredth time, Billy wonders if it’d be quicker to just pick him up and carry him the rest of the way there. Instead, he just drops to a squat in front of the dog, staring him down with what he hopes was a sufficiently withering look. If the good cop routine didn’t work, then there was only one thing left to do.

“Y’done yet? Because if you don’t get that ass moving right now, you can say goodbye to that steak I’ve been saving since Thursday.” Billy’s voice drops to an angry whisper, partly for intimidation purposes, and partly due to how he didn’t want to look completely off his rocker this early in the morning. Like a warden interrogating his prisoner, he tries to catch Romeo’s line of sight, eyes narrowed to signify his status as the alpha. This method, of course, fails to work, and Romeo seemed perfectly content ignoring Billy’s increasingly desperate attempts at getting him to move. Maybe the canine could sense that the threat was empty, or maybe it was because dogs were altogether incapable of understanding complex human speech, but he seemed utterly unaffected by anything Billy said to him. Five more minutes pass before Romeo finally decides to start walking again, and the hapless Billy could do nothing but trail along behind him, hoping to God that this would be their last detour.

With the help of a few bacon treats stowed away in Billy’s pocket, they make it to the theatre without any further interruptions; and judging from the meagre number of cars parked at the side of the building – he, quite miraculously, wasn’t even that late. Now, it’s just a matter of trying to get Romeo inside the place without alerting the janitor.

The creak of old floorboards, and the repetitive click-clack of claws against hardwood signal Billy’s arrival, but the first thing that flies out of his mouth is an apology. “Hey, uh, sorry about the dog. Didn’t have time to take him on a walk, so I just… brought him here.” He approaches the stage, sounding more than a little sheepish. Other than him, there were three others present – Art, Ziggy, and Noa. All of a sudden, he feels a pressing need to justify himself. Shooting a quick, near-imperceptible glance at Romeo, Billy continues, lips quirked into a half-smile, and raises his hands in a placating gesture: “He'll be no trouble at all. Promise.”

Madelyn rolled over in her warm, comfy bed as her alarm beeped incessantly. Every cell in her body screamed at the thought of getting up. However, routine forced her to hop off of her bunk bed and onto the floor. It jolted her enough to open her eyes and hit the off button on her alarm. It was dreadfully early, not even the birds were chirping away at her window. However, the morning sun did stream through the crack in the curtains of the dormroom. Maddie pulled the curtains back to see the sun poking above the horizon. The light cast itself over the room in an aesthetically pleasing way. Yawing, the drowsy girl went over the her closet to pick out an outfit for the day. A crop top seemed to be the only weather appropriate thing in her closet. Looks like she’d have to do laundry soon. Pulling a pair of jean shorts, and a cardigan from her laundry basket, Madelyn made herself decent.

As per usual, she headed to the bathroom with a tote of her makeup along with a toothbrush and toothpaste. Her blurry mind barely registered the fact that there was trash everywhere in the hall and bathroom. About a half hour later, Maddie was back in her room and finally able to remember that it was Saturday. That meant she had to be at the theatre today. She let out an audible sigh. While she loved working there, it meant she couldn’t stay up late and go to parties or get shit faced drunk. Then again, it was summer, so most people were not at the college. The brunnette checked her phone, looking at all her notifications. Nothing too out of the normal. She took a picture of the morning sun shining in her room and posted it onto her social media. It was about time to head out, so Maddie grabbed her purse and shoved a few necessities that hadn’t already been there. With a quick sweep of the room, she left the dorm, locking it behind her.

The public transportation was sketchy at best. However, the school bus system was still better than walking. The bus was nearly empty as it shambled it’s way to the edge of St. James, but that was better for her. It meant she could listen to music in peace. Unfortunately, the bus was too rickety for any drawing, but it allowed her to think about what play they would put on next. Maybe a musical? The previous performance hadn’t been very successful, which was kind of worrying. However, Madelyn was an optimist at heart, and didn’t want to think about the looming threat. By the time, she was dropped off in the city, she had put herself in a better mood with the promise of having the evening to herself with a movie marathon.

Since she had enough time, the first stop was a small coffee shop that she frequented often. The place always smelled wonderful and the staff was always nice. The cheery girl ordered a warm mocha latte, and headed to the theatre, sipping away at the liquid caffeine. When she got to the Lawrence Theatre, there were others there. She came in, and headed towards the usual meeting spot. There, she was greeted with an amazing sight.

“Oh my gosh, a puppy!” She gasped rushing towards the cute brown dog. Obviously the dog was older than a puppy, but in her mind, every dog was a puppy. However, as excited as she was, Madelyn made sure to apply some self restraint.

“Can I pet him?” She asked Billy with eager eyes. Unfortunately, pets weren’t allowed in the dorms. Also, her college wasn’t exactly rich enough to invest in stress relief animals. This made any and all pets amazing and special to her. The purpose of the meeting as well as the other people there, flew out of her mind. There was a dog!

Whoever invented caffeine deserved all of the awards of the highest caliber. At this point Lucas was running solely on the power boosts of coffee, splashes of cold water and sheer willpower. If he hadn’t run out of energy drinks and caffeine pills a while ago, those would be on the list as well. The life of a college student was thankless and relentless — exams and essays piling on top of each other with no visible end in sight. Add a heap of responsibility on top of that of checking in with his mother, working as a stage manager at a struggling theater company and juggling an extra part-time job on the side, Lucas was overworked and underpaid. It was alright, human beings don’t need sleep.

The light of the sun brought in splashes of color to the drab apartment, flooding the dull gray hues of the kitchen with illumination far too bright for someone who got less than the recommended hours of sleep. Lucas squinted in the brightness as he swiped a towel through his wet hair, knowing that the effects of an ice cold shower to clear his head and refresh himself was only temporarily effective at keeping the inevitable headache at bay. Unceremoniously, he reached over to draw the curtains, shrouding the room in relative darkness. Lucas could hear his mother chastising him. Something about how soaking up vitamin D important; but the light wasn’t helping Lucas, and it certainly wouldn’t help his roommate.

Speaking of said roommate… At this point, it had become somewhat routine for him to wake Noah up in the mornings (unless Lucas joined Noah in drinking his problems to oblivion). He leaned against the doorframe and rapped his knuckles sharply against Noah’s closed door. “Noah, wake up. We have shit to do.”

Hangovers had a way of making even the most mundane and normal sound reverberate like a tortured cry within someone’s head. The knock on Noah’s door was not just a brief noise, no, it lasted. It echoed as if formed from within a canyon, growing louder and louder with each repetitive clunk of bone and flesh on wood. Then, of course, words had to form. It was only human, right? Speaking, talking, communicating-- only people did that. Well, Noah didn’t feel like much of a person right now. His head hurt too much to even try and force itself awake, and his body was heavy with sweat and full of sick. No, he was not a person.

Today he would be a void.

Endless darkness that continued to swallow itself as those damned words fought through his mind in order to relay his damned roommate’s information. Noah groaned in response, tossing a pillow meekly at the door in an effort to silence Lucas. There was barely a thump as it connected with the floor, and Noah groaned again.

“What shit? Shut the fuck up, Lucas.” He slurred.

“God, are you still drunk?” Lucas’ tone wasn’t as exasperated as it could be, having already become accustomed to this scenario. He thumped the door once more for good measure knowing exactly how it would affect Noah. “It’s Saturday, we have those oh-so-productive meetings today where we watch the slow death of Abracadabra! C’mon, get your ass out of bed and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Stop ‘m thumping.” Noah nearly begged, reaching helplessly for the pillow he had thrown before, “Fuck. Give me a second, okay?” His quiet voice repeated within his own skull, cold and emotionless as always. Noah held his blankets taunt over his head, counting to ten backwards and forwards until he was able to coherently see the numbers behind his eyes. Five minutes later, Noah was sitting up and forcing his eyes open, forcibly taking in the hideous gray light of morning.

It’s another five minutes before Noah cracks open the door to glare out at his roommate blankly, “You’re on thin ice, Olson. Move.” The bedroom door opened fully and he stood dwarfed by Lucas, though that was usually how things went with them. He tried to give the other man a weak shove but thought against it at the last possible moment, opting to just glare and wait for him to take a hint.

“When am I not?” Lucas’ prickly personality ensured that when he ventured onto thin ice, he often tactlessly stomped around. With a nonchalant shrug, he obliged Noah’s request and moved out of his way. Stooping down to to his backpack, Lucas swiped his half-empty water bottle from the side pocket and tossed it in Noah’s general direction. It was a small peace offering, though it was callously offered and bluntly delivered.

“You look like shit, dude.” Lucas commented offhandedly, flipping onto the couch. He knew that he probably didn’t look any better himself, but at least a state of perpetual exhaustion was better than fighting off a bad hangover. Flinging his arm over his tired eyes and splaying his long legs off the end of the couch, Lucas settled in for a brief moment of relaxation until they had to leave.

“What a surprise, I was about to tell you the same thing.” Noah hummed, catching the tossed water bottle with only the slightest hint of a fumble. He took a quick swig, washing away some of the unpleasant taste that morning brought, and as he stumbled into the bathroom and set to his usual morning ritual the only thing left reminding him of waking ended up being his headache.

About twenty minutes later, Noah drifted silently out into the living room. The towel around his waist did little to catch the water droplets falling from his soaked hair and chin, though it did hold together what little modesty he had left to offer his prickly roommate. He dragged a steady gaze over the living room, looking for Lucas among the sparse furniture until he finally settled on the lump on their couch. A spark of irritation cut through his usual cloud of dreariness, but he let it simmer for a moment as he turned back to his room to change, slamming his door as a first attempt in waking his roommate up.

His second attempt came as a monotone grumble of, “Get up, moron.” once he had changed into something actually presentable.

With a groan Lucas heaved himself off the couch, his limbs and torso feeling disconnected and far too heavy. After what felt like herculean effort, Lucas got to his feet and stretched until several parts of his body cracked and popped sickeningly, yet satisfyingly. Though his mind was befuddled with sleep and aching with the lack thereof, a quick glance at the ticking clock told him that time was rapidly running out. As petulant and difficult as Lucas was, he was always on time and despised being late.

Stuffing a few last minute items haphazardly into his backpack and stepping into his shoes, Lucas moved with surprising speed for someone so tired. It was all routine — wake up after taking any catnap he could afford, slap some alertness into his face (literally, slapping himself does work), and move onto the next location, the next task, and the next obligation. Patting at his pockets for his keys and turning up empty, Lucas flipped over some of the couch cushions and dug in between them to fish them out. He should really stop sleeping on the couch.

“Let’s go, Auguste. Our chariot awaits.”

Noah nodded, far from sated by his rushed morning, though his discomfort was impossible to notice through his thick mask of indifference. He took another few moments of their now-shared time to slip on his sneakers, and soon enough the roommates were out the door.

The car ride was as silent and dreary as the small town they lived in. Only a limited number of pedestrians crossed the streets, but somehow every single one of them appeared to have a deathwish and kept scurrying in front of the car. Lucas’ irritation only mounted with each time he had to step on the brakes to prevent blood splattering over the windshield, and every stoplight that insisted on flashing red every time they approached.

Red. At least it was a splash of color to an otherwise lifeless gray town, and a dull colorless life. Was it really any wonder that their production company was failing when there was no one around to fill the theater?

Pulling into the parking lot with a flawless parking job, Lucas took a moment to sigh and press his forehead against the steering wheel. Sometimes, it took a lot of resolve for Lucas to power through these meetings. A realist to the very core, reassurances that they would somehow pull through made him want to slam his head against the wall. Optimism didn’t suit Lucas, and having to sit through empty promises and false hope was sometimes more than he could bear. If it was up to him, Lucas would tell everyone that if they didn’t all work their asses off they would be shut down by Tuesday.

That explained why Lucas wasn’t in charge, probably.

The roommates walked in the theatre together as they usually did. It seemed that every single time Lucas walked through the worn space he noticed something falling apart that he didn’t before. Today, it was the carpets peeling at the edges, curling and fraying upwards before they met the wall. The magic of a theatre production was that it could still somehow distract from the old creaky auditorium to the point where it didn’t matter anymore. If done right, even the most run-down, shabby stage could be a success.

Was Abracadabra! able to pull that off? It was hard to tell sometimes, but Lucas’ one optimistic thought for the day was that maybe they could.

“Look at what the dog dragged in,” Lucas muttered underneath his breath. It was meant to be a witty comment upon seeing Billy’s dog. There was no bad intention behind it, but as with everything Lucas did, it was twinged with a sarcastic edge sharp enough to cut through the curtains. “Everyone’s looking rather chipper today.” Lucas said, raising his voice to actually be heard this time. Good mornings weren’t Lucas’ thing. A simple nod was enough for a greeting.

Noah, on the other hand, said nothing to the slow-forming group in the theater, and instead drifted right towards Billy’s dog. He dropped silently down onto his knees and greeted the animal with a soft grunt, scratching expertly behind his ear in their usual greeting. He passed the canine’s owner a single glance, squinting up at Billy through the glare of the house lights. His hangover was faltering ever so slightly, chased away by time, but his exhaustion was still clearly pressed onto his face.

He stood eventually and moved off towards the side, lowering his head to focus entirely on the scuffed toes of his fake-leather boots. He was so incredibly done with this meeting already despite just arriving, and after another few silent moments he began tapping his toe, counting each second with the uneven beat. Perhaps he’ll tap his toe hard enough to destroy the entire theater one day, and perhaps he’ll be lucky enough to get crushed by the rubble. Oh, what a lovely, depressing thought.

---

The first noise Dominic made as his eyes opened was a sort of guttural groan, the one you make when you were deeply asleep only a second ago but now you’ve been torn into the waking world and you just know that you won’t be able to go back. He didn’t move, just stared at the blank white of his ceiling and blinked slowly. The cloud of sleep was quickly retreating and the day, with its attendant worries, was rushing in. By his right arm there was a gentle mewing and he looked down to see Toretto, his cat, nuzzling his hand. He could only want attention, however, as Dominic was sure there was food left out for him.

The second noise Dominic made was a mixture of a gasp and a curse, his eyes having found the unforgiving hands of the clock pointing to You Should Already Be Gone rather than No Rush. He threw back the blankets, almost sending Toretto flying, and scrambled towards the shower. In and out in under three minutes, he tried to combine towelling himself with desperately spreading whatever he could get his hands on all over some bread. So less than ten minutes after waking, he waved goodbye to Toretto and stepped out onto the street, his hair still wet and his mouth full of improvised breakfast.

The third noise Dominic made was apologetic, a mumbled excuse as he quietly let himself in just before Art’s announcement. The bus journey had been surprisingly crowded and he’d realised as he ran to catch it that his head was horribly cold and that he might have forgotten to lock the door, so his mood was a little greyer than usual when he’s finally arrived at the theatre. He felt lucky that Art had been in the process of giving something of a rousing speech to the company when he let himself in though, as no one could draw the eye of a group of people away from him quite like the director.

When Art asked for suggestions, however, Dominic made no noise. He waited for someone else to talk and heard Lucas say his piece first. Then their gentle giant, Noa, laughed, wagged a finger at the young man and said “When was the last time we put on anything classic? Most of the stuff we do these days is practically pantomime, not exactly Greek tragedy. If you’re looking for suggestions though Art, I like Lucas’s point about risk. We could do worse than putting on something people know but promise to do it in a new way. At least that way we can be sure people will know what we’re putting on but then it had better be properly new, know what I mean?”

The fourth noise Dominic made was the first set of proper words he’d spoken that day, a coherent sentence strung together properly that other people might actually be able to make sense of. ”Why not a musical? I know some people here don’t love them” he pointedly avoided looking at Lucas ”but it would be a risk, like Art’s asking for, a risk. They’re harder to stage, take more rehearsal and would mean pushing everyone that much further. It’s a risk but… maybe it would be brilliant.” It was an unusually long speech for Dominic, like the day’s words had been saved up until then. When he was done speaking, he looked down almost subconsciously, avoiding catching anyone’s eyes.

“Or putting on a musical could be complete shit.” Ziggy scoffed, crossing her arms and tapping a discorded rhythm against her elbow. “There’s risk and there’s suicide. I think we should stick with a lesser known play rather than an original take on a bullshit play people have seen a thousand times. Plus, not everyone has the talent to sing.”

Ziggy snatched the note from Lucas, the corner crinkling with the force of her thumb. Hearing and seeing were two different things – seeing is believing and all that shebang – and the smallest spark of hope glimmered in a single chamber of her heart. If this play went right, absolutely perfect, then Ziggy might reject the job offer, may be able to afford to – afford to, a concept almost foreign in the past year. Ziggy passed the note on before it completely crumbled under her grip.

But with hope comes fear, too. The fear of disappointment was a strong one. The pessimist in Ziggy is telling her to fuck that and make plans to pack up her shit, take the next train to Charlotte Hills, Illinois. Then the stubborn, hopeful part of her wanted her to try her damned hardest. What really overrode the fear of disappointment, though, was her fear of having to act. A play as important as this one? Ziggy will be spending her days and nights in the theatre in order to at least break her phobia of public speaking.

Goddamnit.

“Besides, all the popular plays have multiple sets and I don’t have time for that and I’m assuming none of you guys do either.” Ziggy lifted her eyes and raised an eyebrow, pausing for a disagreement. It was a short pause though, hardly one short enough for an actual disagreement to be voiced – just long enough for her point to be made, especially since she did not actually care if other people disagreed. “We need to focus on a small play with a small set. I am not the best with pulling plays out of a hat, but I suggest An Inspector Calls.”

“A month? Seriously?” Noah deadpanned, flipping over the card without so much as inspecting the flowery text pressed on to it, “That's barely enough time to order anything for whatever we come up with. I don't think this'll fly, Director.” He passed on the slip of paper to the next person and drifted soundlessly towards the stage, pulling himself up with both arms pressed down in the woods. All of this seemed to come straight from a fairytale. They wouldn't have enough time to create anything long or grand and the mysterious donor may not even be real in the end. Every cell in Noah's body screamed about how awful this idea was, how he shouldn't even bother to contribute in to but...

There was something oddly thrilling about trying. Lucas already seemed set on getting the group together to perform, and by the time Noah found a comfortable spot to lean against he could hear his roommate listing off possible plays they could start developing. A small group of titles splayed passed his vision, endless plays they could probably get together in less than a few weeks if they really worked their hardest. Noah stared down at the polished stage and, for a moment, saw the paint-stained double that belonged to his old high school. Theater wasn't in his blood but he forced it into his life anyway. Noah tried to imagine his life without the stage and the lights and the sounds of thespian life and he only fond a gray landscape, blossoming with the dark colors of bruises and alcohol and abandonment.

He thought of a life without Abracadabra! and suddenly felt a pull in his chest to fight on. A show in a month, it sounded impossible but...

But where was the harm in trying?

Noah drifted back towards the front of the stage and slapped a calloused hand down onto Lucas' shoulder. "Decide on a play and I'll get the light design squared away as quickly as possible." He spoke with the casualness of a robot, straightening his posture as he tilted his head back to inspect the catwalks. Depending on the play, he would have to venture up and start adjusting some of the older fixtures to accommodate the scenes. They had no time to order anything additional like they normally would, so the Director would have to be pleased with old gels and shaky spots.

Still, he had more than enough to work with in the theater, no matter how old everything might be. Noah silently wished for a newer tech set up but found himself rather thrilled with the idea of climbing back up into the catwalk and sitting there silently all day while the actors prodded around the stage. He thought briefly of joining them on stage for the rushed show they were about to set up and instantly felt his stomach swoop with more bad-idea-anxiety. Getting into character for him was a therapeutic but long, long process. It would be ill-advised to ask for a role on such a quick play. Besides, tech suited him better mentally, even if he did enjoy getting into the mindset of another person for a few hours a night.

Noah was drawn from his flood of thoughts by the familiar voice of Ziggy, and his line-drawn lips actually tipped upwards for a moment at the play suggestion. An Inspector Calls was an old, three-act piece. Long enough to set off some red alarms in the back of his mind, but just small enough set and tech wise to quell the panic. "That's 'drawing room theater' at it's finest. It's three-acts long though, but I think it can work if the actors work their asses off." He droned in agreement, "Any other suggestions?"

“You’ll, uh, have to ask him yourself.” Billy replies, arching a quizzical eyebrow in response to Maddie’s question. Already, Romeo was getting more attention than they’d bargained for. Even the less enthusiastic members of the cast seemed smitten by the joyfully wriggling canine. But he decides that it’s probably best to give Romeo some room to run around, lest he get antsy. At least this way he’ll be out of their hair for the duration of the meeting. Billy just hopes that he won’t have to deal with any chewed-up curtains. In one smooth motion, he drops to a squat next to Romeo, and unclips the lead. The effect is immediate. Like a bat out of hell, Romeo zips off to the back of the theatre, newly-clipped nails tapping an erratic rhythm against the hardwood floor; and if he squinted, Billy could almost see a cartoon cloud of dust trailing behind him.

Billy is content to hover around the fringes of conversation, but turns uncharacteristically quiet when the card finally lands in his hand. He reads it once, twice, eyes scanning over the looping, purple text like it held some sort of world-changing secret. Is this the chance they’ve been waiting for? A miracle to snatch Abracadabra! back from the cold, merciless clutches of death? He barely manages to suppress an incredulous laugh, forcing it back down his lungs, and turns it into much less conspicuous cough. Billy doesn’t want to get his hopes too high up - that was just flirting with disaster - but this sounded like the real deal. There’s just one tiny problem - a month wasn’t much time to prepare a performance at all.

“A month…” He echoes, teeth worrying away at his lower lip. Everyone just had to play their part, stay focused, and if nothing went wrong, they could actually make this happen. If something did go wrong - well, there’s not much he can do about that, is there? Billy moves to lean against the stage, arms crossed loosely over his chest. They didn’t have enough time to come up with something original, but they couldn’t fall back on a tried-and-tested classic either. His thoughts shutter back to the note their mysterious benefactor had left them, to three words in particular - ‘take a risk’. But it won’t matter what they choose if they don’t manage to make this show a rip-roaring success.

Truth be told, Billy doesn’t know much about theater. He’d unfortunately spent a good part of Literature getting some shuteye. It was inevitable, really. When you had to take care of two younger siblings, work a part-time job, and go to school all at the same time, you slept whenever you could; but he remembers just enough to draw up an opinion of his own.

“I agree.” Billy starts, gesturing towards Ziggy and Noah in a wide, sweeping motion for emphasis. For a moment, he pauses, arranges his thoughts into something a little more concise. “Keep it simple - the script, the set, everything. A month’s not enough time to build something fancy, not when there’s so many other things to deal with.”

After that, he just shrugs, and cranes his neck around to look for Romeo, which is probably why he ends up sounding a tad distracted. “I’m cool with An Inspector Calls, though. If not, Deathtrap or Waiting for Godot might be good. Just my two cents.”

Dominic flicked through his copy of the script with little enthusiasm. Oh, the play was a good choice, being challenging enough to perform and politically charged enough to be considered a risk. It was just that it was a short play with only one location and so would require very little rewriting to fit the company's stage. Add on to that the lack of any music in the piece and the absence of background players and the coming weeks looked very empty for him. He'd end up sitting at the front of the stage with a copy of the script in his hand, ready to prompt anyone whose memory needed jogging while Art strode up and down amongst the players, crafting his perfect vision of the play with extravagant hand gestures a plenty.

Still, what could one expect, it wasn't as though the Abracadabra! Company could choose the productions they put on with much flexibility or pickiness. They took what they could get and were grateful for it, especially in such reduced circumstances as they were currently suffering. And besides, there were worse fates to suffer than to spend the next few weeks watching Art and the others go to work. Great thespians the group might not be but no one could fault them for lack of effort or ability to multi-task. None of them would let things go while they still felt there was room to improve, staying on long past quitting time, or doing several jobs at once to maximise rehearsal time. Memorably, Noa and Billy had once rehearsed a scene while working on an unstable part of the stage, glancing at their scripts between hammering and speaking lines without dropping the nails inadvisably held in their mouths.

He set the script down upon the piano, sat carefully down next to it and gave the battered old thing a gentle pat. When he noticed Art regarding him quizzically, he gave a subtle shrug and a small nod. The two had been working together for a fair few years now and the director knew that Dominic was more apt to suffer silently than allow his concerns to see the light of day. He was in the habit of checking on the other man, peeking behind the poker face, to make sure he was in on board with whatever the plan was. And, in almost all cases, Dominic was. As much as he liked to play the piano and to train the others through musical numbers, he trusted Art's judgement more than enough to go through a few tuneless weeks if the director decided it was the right path.


Noa, meanwhile, looked up from his copy towards Art with a smile. Having not been much of a student of the arts in his youth and having been on the road for a long while, he couldn't rival the repertoire of scripts some of the others knew. It didn't make him feel useless though, just excited to see what would appear next. Behind his warm eyes, his mind was already running away with plans and calculations, what needed doing and how to do it. There were still those planks on the stage right that creaked and wobbled ominously when walked over, they'd need fixing. And a better lighting setup, the current one was on its last legs. And a matching set table of chairs would be nice for An Inspector Calls, to conjure up that look of the average family dining room. First things first, however...

"Looks good big man, though probably not as good as you in a dress. Just one question;" and he turned to face the other figure towering over the company, Billy Halford. "Are you going to let me have the part of the inspector or do I have to thumbwrestle you for it?"

Billy thumbs through the script a little gingerly, as if he’s afraid the pages might fall apart at any moment. Indeed, the very first page has been haphazardly taped-slash-stapled together, much like Frankenstein’s monster; and there’s a mysterious brown stain in the shape of Australia adorning the lower right corner. It looks like coffee, though he can’t be 100% sure, and he really doesn’t want to chance a sniff. Instead, he tries to focus on what’s really important - the contents of the script itself. An Inspector Calls isn’t something he remembers very well, and like Art said, he must’ve absorbed every last shred of knowledge about the play through head-to-page contact with his textbooks. But he looks up just in time to catch the look Art throws towards him, freezing like a deer in headlights. Uh-oh.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe in his own abilities. He’s had his fair share of acting gigs - both with Abracadabra! and even before it - but bit parts are what he usually gets, maybe a supporting role if he’s lucky. For God’s sake, the most screen time he ever got was in a infomercial for a rip-off of the Shamwow!. When it’s something this big, a make or break opportunity for the company, he isn’t sure he’s the right man for the job. They needed someone with experience, someone who could deliver a stellar performance without a shadow of a doubt to make diamonds out of coal. One wrong move, they could say goodbye to their funding, and Abracadabra! would finally be a sunken ship instead of a sinking one.

…Wait. Maybe he’s being a little too negative. Hell, there might as well have been a storm cloud hanging above his head, pelting him with hail. Everything has went okay so far, so there really isn’t any reason to panic, right? If worse comes to worst, he could just let someone else take the role. After a long moment, Billy finally manages to stop gawping at Art, and turns his attention back to the script clutched in his hands. Inspector Goole was a character who commanded respect, solid and unwavering in his purpose. There’s something about how the Inspector questions each member of the Birling family, too. It’s clear he knows more than he lets on, but Inspector Goole’s true identity never truly comes to light. Was he an actual inspector? A physical manifestation of the Birlings’ guilt? Or a supernatural, omniscient herald of what was to come? But this sudden bout of introspection is quickly put to a halt by an effortlessly booming voice that could only belong to one Mr. Wilson.

Now, Billy isn’t an expert, but he knows a performer when he sees one. What Noa lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm, a seemingly endless supply of charm, and an incredible set of eyebrows. Of course, he’s just as likeable on stage as he is in real life. The role of the Inspector, however, isn’t really about that, though he had no doubt that Noa could pull it off if he really wanted to.

“If you think you can handle it.” Billy counters, raising an eyebrow, but a second later, the corners of his lips turn up into a lopsided smirk to show that he bears no ill will. For a brief moment, he pauses, appears to be considering something. “But if you don’t mind me saying, you strike me as more of a Mr. Birling. I mean, you already have the whole loud, blustering shtick down pat. Though if the Inspector’s what you’re really after…”

He leaves the statement hanging, and punctuates it with a shrug. At the end of the day, Billy’s fine with whatever role they give him. He just hopes that they can get everything done in time.