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The minutes directly after Elise Lefevre arrived at the train station were nerve-wracking, a tritone in every breath and no cadence within sight. She made her way to the center of the station hall, noticing that perhaps she wasn’t the only one commanded here in such a way. There were a few others looking about with various degrees of curiosity and concern, but the musician did not move to speak to them, instead keeping her hands stubbornly by her sides as she tried to still the anxious turning in her stomach.
To pass this time and occupy her mind, Elise examined the others, who she found were three young, attractive people that were probably near her own age, though the cellist was no particular ace at determining ages at a glance. Two men, two women, including herself. All young and healthy enough, but with little other clues to their purpose in this strange game. Elise wondered for a moment how these others had been coerced; she had little skill in determining much about them at this stage. There was still so little in the way of information, but plenty of motivation to keep her playing.
At 5:30, Elise felt her phone buzz again:
"Direct your attention to the center of the station hall. The man you see there, dressed primarily in black and holding coffee, is now your chiefest authority. Approach him, taking note of the three others who do. Give this man your name, your age, and your choice of degree at university. Once your identification is complete, he will present you with further instruction. Under no circumstances is he to be disobeyed.”
Elise kept her head turned down towards her phone while she collected herself. The woman was no stranger to fear; had she not been terrified of performing for years? She could master this, if only the images of her hands, bloody and broken did not keep returning over and over to her ringing head.
With a deep breath, Elise centered herself, imagining her feet pressing as firmly down into the earth with more force than it pushed up on her, finding balance. What was this, if not another performance? How many times had she performed flawlessly with a smile on her face and fear in her belly?
I can. I will.
She looked up from her phone and took six confident, even steps towards this dark haired man, her face serious but composed. He was tall and sharp, more in demeanor than appearance, in the way that Elise had found many of the most talented musicians were sharp; he seemed to notice every detail of his surroundings.
In her low, clear voice, Elise said almost casually, “Hello, My name is Elise Leone Lefevre. I am 21 years old and I have spent the last three years studying cello performance at London’s Royal Academy of Music.”
To pass this time and occupy her mind, Elise examined the others, who she found were three young, attractive people that were probably near her own age, though the cellist was no particular ace at determining ages at a glance. Two men, two women, including herself. All young and healthy enough, but with little other clues to their purpose in this strange game. Elise wondered for a moment how these others had been coerced; she had little skill in determining much about them at this stage. There was still so little in the way of information, but plenty of motivation to keep her playing.
At 5:30, Elise felt her phone buzz again:
"Direct your attention to the center of the station hall. The man you see there, dressed primarily in black and holding coffee, is now your chiefest authority. Approach him, taking note of the three others who do. Give this man your name, your age, and your choice of degree at university. Once your identification is complete, he will present you with further instruction. Under no circumstances is he to be disobeyed.”
Elise kept her head turned down towards her phone while she collected herself. The woman was no stranger to fear; had she not been terrified of performing for years? She could master this, if only the images of her hands, bloody and broken did not keep returning over and over to her ringing head.
With a deep breath, Elise centered herself, imagining her feet pressing as firmly down into the earth with more force than it pushed up on her, finding balance. What was this, if not another performance? How many times had she performed flawlessly with a smile on her face and fear in her belly?
I can. I will.
She looked up from her phone and took six confident, even steps towards this dark haired man, her face serious but composed. He was tall and sharp, more in demeanor than appearance, in the way that Elise had found many of the most talented musicians were sharp; he seemed to notice every detail of his surroundings.
In her low, clear voice, Elise said almost casually, “Hello, My name is Elise Leone Lefevre. I am 21 years old and I have spent the last three years studying cello performance at London’s Royal Academy of Music.”