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monaxjames:

Good. Mona thought. She often wished she herself could forget she was from anywhere but here. Forget it all. “Yeah, it’s pretty cruel to try to take away someone’s passion and livelihood.” But people can be cruel. 

“I think you’re right. We should be moving on. We were Katerina’s work family, but there comes a point in every grieving process where the best thing to do is move on. I think we’re at that point. I am at least.” Mona shrugged one shoulder and tapped her unlit cigarette back into her pack. There was no time for a second one. “Serial killer?” Mona’s brows jumped. “I don’t think those are as common as TV makes them out to be.”

She pushed off the building and sighed. “Ready to get back? It’s been almost ten minutes. I don’t need to get yelled at for being late from breaks any more than I already do.” Mona rolled her eyes, but gave a smile. Even for all its inconveniences, there was really nothing that Mona could see herself doing except ballet.

A pursed-lipped nod. Granted, no one had ever actively pursued stripping her off her rights in such a vile manner yet she constantly felt like someone was about to with a simple ambiguous glance thrown in her direction, mayhaps even accidentally. Never mind how quickly her parents had turned their backs on her when she hadn’t scored a main role at first try. Once again proof that we’re all better off fending for ourselves.

Doll-esque eyes were directed at her nails, an unpleasant chip in the polish making her stomach churn. Another step further from perfection. “I get that it might be harder for some than it is for us but...” Aliona shrugged. “You’re still right. The best thing we can do is stay focussed on the show and I’m sure Katerina wouldn’t want for it to fail even if she can no longer be its star. Surely it must have meant something more to her than just personal fame.” Uneasy, the brunette folded her hands together, effectively covering her nails from her line of side. “I hope so. Those shows really make them out to be the most mundane thing one has to expect in a bigger city. Talk about dramatic.”

As much as she enjoyed breaks spent with Mona, her presences making them more than merely a waste of time to a workaholic, the woman was itching to get back inside, ready to break a sweat and finally feel like she was achieving something again. “Sure, let’s go. They’re probably even more tense about tardies now. God forbid we get murdered on our smoke break,” she joked, mirroring her friend’s eye roll while making her way to the door, holding it open.

[alionachernova-blog]

Soft fingertips brushed against the keys, twitching to press down before additional movement had been approved of. It had never been her, the gifted piano player of the Chernov family, her brother always playing more exquisitely, more fluently, quicker sans notes to check, with better hand-eye-coordination. Second place had never been hers to eye and thus the instrument had been quickly abandoned, her undivided attention granted to ballet, an art form her brother would pick up with a tweezer — lucky him. In accordance, her repertoire was undeniably limited yet a strange sensation — call it nostalgia or morbidity — had brought her here, carried her into this room during the second break of the day like a gentle summer’s breeze forced a stray feather into submission, and placed her on the leather seat in front of the grand piano long forgotten beneath a layer of dust. 

A shallow breath and her fingers worked of their own accord, reproducing the only piece she had ever managed as well as her younger sibling: a classic through and through, Beethoven’s Für Elise, too simple for her parents to shed a tear of pride; and it felt like it had been only yesterday, a week ago tops, that she had last played it, cerulean eyes glued to keys in fascination, a restless mind for once fully absorbed by the music — until human steps reached her eardrums, the unexpected company prompting her to turn around in shock akin to that of a startled animal. 

“God, you really shouldn’t be sneaking around like that come tomorrow,” she panted, joking, “or the police are going to lock you up straight away for being the most suspicious of us all just judging from the way you carry yourself.”

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barbiedonne:

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Barbie said reassuringly, although whether she was reassuring Aliona or merely herself remained unclear. “Lindsey tends to be better at navigating than I am… I don’t walk home much without her.” She gave an easy smile in response, shrugging as they set off, sighing internally in relief. She had been worried about how prickly Aliona was known to be – and having not really interacted with her outside of dancing, Barbie had been nervous going into talking to her, but it wasn’t all bad.

A little stilted, but conversation nevertheless.

Aliona did, however, light up at the mention of dance and she was happy to note that and file that small piece of information away. “I’m glad to be back, I think. Better to be dancing and working rather than wasting away at home,” she agreed. “I didn’t know Katerina all too well. I hope her friends and family are holding up alright.” She worried at her bottom lip, scuffing her heel on the sidewalk, not sure where to take the conversation after expending their one commonality: passion for dance.

“That’s probably for the best then,” Aliona found herself observing in a low voice, a thought spoken aloud that had meant to remain contained, quickly to be made up for with a more or less generous offer — that’s what social norms expected of her, wasn’t it? “And, I mean, before you run risk of getting lost alone in the dark, I have a half decent couch at least?” Not that anyone but her brother had ever slept on it long enough to confirm if it served said purpose bearably for the duration of an entire night. 

If she was to put up with an unexpected overnight guest, however, they seemed to have some common ground. 

“It’s definitely the best option. Not getting to work almost had me feel caged in, in all honesty, and that’s precisely how you develop paranoia regarding potential serial killers being after you. The sooner we can go back to normal, the sooner we’ll feel safe again I reckon,” she stated with determination, nodding at her own words. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think there was no more thread for any of them with Katerina gone but, alas, could she adjust her beliefs merely to seem a little more reasonable? “Oh yeah, me neither. I guess Daphne was her closest friend and she seems to be doing... well, uh...” A frown. Moving on. “Maybe having a funeral will help us all feel more at ease. It’s kind of strange to think she’s just kind of in this in between state now I guess? Dead but kept alive by countless people trying to figure out how it happened? She should get the rest she deserves now.”

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monaxjames:

Mona smirked around the butt between her lips. It was true, Millicent was all about creative liberty when it came to the ballets they performed, and many of the more traditional audiences found fault in that. Mostly, it was just a pain in the ass to Mona because she undoubtedly ran into on at McMahon’s, or the grocery store, or anywhere really, and they always had something to say about some decision Millicent had made. That was the sole reason she cared about the classics at all - because it was inconveniencing her when Millicent trampled on them. Mona couldn’t deny, however, that the ideas the woman had did add a bit of zeal that other companies sometimes lacked.

“That scandal is still talked about in America. I grew up hearing about it as the prime example of sabotage within competitive sports.” Mona shrugged. She flicked her cigarette, sending the last bits of ash down onto the pavement, and rubbed it out on the wall behind her. There was a trashcan a bit away, which Mona tossed the cigarette into. She pulled out another, but didn’t light it. They didn’t have much time for more. 

She hummed in thought. “Katerina was beautiful, talented, and she knew it. I’d bet anyone in her life was jealous of her, not just the dancers. You don’t think that show-goers aren’t lusting after her talent from the seats?” Mona’s eyes were squinted in thought. “It really could have been anyone, for any reason. I’m just trying not to stress about that when I should be stressing about learning all of our steps.”

“Right. Sometimes I completely forget you’re not from here.” Says the girl with the all too evident Russian roots. Alas, perhaps being born and raised British was her greatest disadvantage, the invisible weight on slender shoulders figuratively pushing her back onto her soles when exquisitely en pointe. “That truly was vile, though. If something like this happened to me, I don’t know just what I would do.” Without exaggeration. For wasn’t ballet her life, as cheesy as it sounded? Her sole reason to get up in the morning, the purpose for her entire existence. If this was to be ripped from her clasp, she might just be ready to kill — what was there to lose? 

Another drag, smoke drawn in deep thought, cigarette put out at the filthy edge of the nearest dumpster, checked for last signs of life and recklessly tossed into its cluttered grave. “That’s a very valid point.” She nodded, lips pursed. All she had ever yearned for was to be desired by the audience, admired, their faces twitching with awe — and Katerina had received just that, hadn’t she? Revelling in other people’s misfortunes was a thing one should never do, especially if said misfortunes were of such cruel fate, yet she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of satisfaction. At least she had paid the price for possessing what should be hers, even just by birthright. 

“We shouldn’t give it much thought, though, you’re right. I just wish the others would consider shutting up about it already. It’s not like we can change it — and I highly doubt this wasn’t personal. Surely there’s no serial killer after the rest of us, right?”

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daphne-visvardi:

You see, Daphne thinks, this is why I never cared for Aliona. So tactless, and yet is her reputation disintegrating slowly about her? No. Daphne’s no crueler than any other ambitious ballerina, yet somehow everyone  has her painted as a villain. She’s only sad. Only mourning the loss of a friend. Only mourning the end of a career.

She’s no Carabosse. The thought of all that violence against someone she’d once called friend, sister, even, pricked at her eyes with stinging salt tears. She takes a long, cool sip from her glass to numb her lips from the harsh words clinging to them. “I’ll thank you not to remind me of the violence,” She says tartly, eyes narrowed at the bar top before them. “Don’t romanticise this. Don’t speak so poetically about this. It was vulgar and despicable.”

Brow furrowed, widened pupils giving away her surprise, her words not expected to be received in this way. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. It was meant as a compliment to her, not as an homage to whichever sick bastard did this,” Aliona clarified clumsily, taking an eager sip from her drink to hinder herself from saying more she might soon regret. A clear plus point of only rarely engaging in social interactions (unless it cannot be avoided) was undoubtedly that one had far less possibilities to embarrass oneself.

“I really just meant that she was so famously exquisite she probably attracted such a psycho in the first place. Which is bound to be a shame, right? I mean, what have we come to if we can’t be superb at what we do anymore without living in fear if that makes sense?” Most likely: it didn’t, word vomit extraordinaire.

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monaxjames:

Mona snorted rather pessimistically at Aliona’s comment. From personal experience, anyone remotely close to a victim of an attack could come out of the wood work, milking tragedy. Neighbors that Mona hadn’t seen since she was five started coming to visit her father after he was hurt. There were memorials, there were candlelit vigils in honor of such a prominent and respected man of the community, and he didn’t even die.

Which is why there was no surprise in Mona’s expression when she learned about the memorial number. “Would this be a number that everyone was involved in? Or just the main ensemble?” Mona quirked a brow and took a drag, then let it out slowly. “I’d prefer your idea. I don’t want to get involved in a memorial dance. You know how the classicists are, and they’re at every show. They’d rip us apart.” 

She listened quietly to Aliona’s speculation with a blank expression. It was highly likely that Katerina knew her attacker, Mona agreed. That whole boogey-man-stranger-in-the-night thing is less common than people think. But when Aliona suggested that they might know the murderer, Mona’s mouth got all watery like it would before vomiting. She cleared her throat and let silence fall between them while she took a few deep hits from her cigarette. It was shortening into a butt all-too soon. “Jealousy…” Mona sighed eventually. “Isn’t that always what happens when beautiful, talented people are taken down? It’s always jealousy. Like with Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding.”

“Who knows, if they go wild enough they might just reel all of us in. Let’s all hope they see your reasoning and think of the classicists.” A small nod, frown well-concealed. “They aren’t exactly fond of us anyway thanks to Millicent. The shock from the 80s must still sit too deep.” Not to mention they were still this close to starting a petition against casting a female Carabosse again, or at least so she had heard through word of mouth. In all honesty, she herself was a just a bit of a classicist, a trait inherited from her grandmother’s legacy who might have dramatically fainted to display her outrage had she had to dance in a production akin to theirs.

Aliona’s head tilted to the side, icy eyes fixed on her friend, her cigarette burning down unattended to a point where it burned out for fire safety reasons, not one she usually reached as an avid chainsmoker. “Wow, you sure know a lot about ice skating? How did that come about?” A soft chuckle, quickly suppressed as she reconsidered her friend’s words. “Jealousy is highly motivational I’m sure but... are you implying that if she — and we — knew the killer that... perhaps it might actually be one of the dancers?” She swallowed, fumbling for her cigarette pack to find her lighter. “That would be a tough bone to gnaw on I guess, even though we probably wouldn’t be likely targets with our roles.”

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 monaxjames:

Hours had passed since Mona had arrived and tumbled into Barbie, and she was feeling a bit more in the rhythm so-to-speak. It helped that Aliona had taken up rehearsing next to her. They’d be in the same ensemble at the end of the play, among other fairy tale characters and actual fairies, like Aliona’s. When they called for a ten minute break, Mona sighed. She was only just getting into the swing of things and managing to tune out all of the discomfort surrounding the ballet.

She confirmed simply with her eyes what Aliona inquired with her own, and they were out in the hall, headed outside in no time. “I mean… I think everyone loves a tragedy, just a little bit. A lot of people seem to latch onto bad things that happen when they don’t know the person, so the fact that everyone did know Katerina is just fueling the fire.” Mona replied, matter-of-factly. 

The air outside was fresh and light compared to the musty stench that accompanied any room, however large it may be, when a lot of freaked out athletes are moving. That freshness wouldn’t last long, as Mona was already lighting the tip of her cigarette. She leaned against the wall and held out her lighter for Aliona. “Yeah, I agree, though. Then again, maybe Katerina would have liked to be memorialized and praised for forever.” She shrugged a shoulder and took a drag. The normal anxieties that came with discussing a murder for Mona were absent around Aliona, mostly because they never really pry into each other’s lives, so Mona feels safe enough to just discuss something like this without fear of slipping up.

“What happened that night, do you think?” Mona asked quietly, her gaze far away, mind on a different night entirely.

“As long as no one takes to proudly proclaiming ‘I knew a girl that got killed’, perhaps on the news soon enough.” Icy irises rolled in their sockets as the two women settled outside at their usual spot, everything being exactly like it always was, a routine that offered the brunette greater comfort than she could ever possibly admit. The corners of her lips curled in a suppressed grin, the cigarette between them gladly helping her on her mission to not become completely tasteless as she reached for the lighter, sparks igniting moments after, taking a deep drag before passing it back to her friend. 

“Highly highly likely. Did you hear Millicent and the others are discussing a potential memorial number for her? Just a little sequence slipped into the performance somewhere, as if tempering with a classic like this too much shouldn’t be taken seriously,” Aliona scoffed, evidently displeased. “No offence but there’s only so much we should do. They could just print a page for her and put it in the playbills and project her face onto the stage at the end or something.” Her words making her appear more hostile towards the deceased as she truly happened to be, gaze lowering.

Thus far, she had liked to claim she hadn’t really thought of it but alas, her time at home had to be passed somehow and a small but considerable portion of it had been taken up by assumptions regarding said night, without any set conclusions sparking from it, her knowledge roughly equalling that of the police. “I don’t know but I suppose there are two options.” A shrug. “Either someone sneaked into the opera house and caught her off guard which somehow doesn’t seem plausible to me? Like...” She paused, taking another drag. 

“I just don’t think someone would just come in here after hours and hope to find some random victim still there? So what I reckon has to be the case is that she knew the killer. Maybe they were even supposed to meet up or something. However,” a deep exhale, smoke swirling, descending into nothingness, “that might mean we also know, you know... them.” Again, she paused, brow furrowed, gaze glazed before it was directed at Mona. “What do you think, though?”

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barbiedonne:

“Ladywood’s fine! I’m around that direction… I think,” she enthused, voice trailing off slightly towards the end, hedged by uncertainty. “I’m a bit directionally challenged,” she explained, blood rushing to her cheeks easily in the light of her embarrassment. Barbie tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, opening the door and stepping out, holding it. “Well, I’ll find my way somehow; let’s get going?” She laughed a little, unable to help it – it was more self-comfort than it was actual mirth.

Despite the similarities in their roles as fairies in the dance, Barbie didn’t work all that extensively with Aliona – spending most of her time with Daphne or Lindsey and Francisco – and it left her unsure of what to expect from the dancer beside her, be it vitriol or kind words or simply blank neutrality. There wasn’t any apparent bad blood between her and Lindsey, but that was just it: bad blood rarely tended to be apparent. “So,” she started, glancing over for a brief moment. “How has the week been treating you? Happy to get back to dancing?”

Aliona’s head tilted ever so slightly, interest slowly but surely captured. She could certainly see why Barbie preferred not to walk home along — perhaps she wouldn’t even find it in the first place, should she be serious about being ‘directionally challenged’. Crude thoughts quickly swapped away by an odd sensation, an inexplicable need to exhibit kindness for whatever reason she couldn’t currently fathom. “Oh well, Ladywood’s in the same direction as many other neighbourhoods I guess so the odds might be in our favour? Somehow we’ll get you home I’m sure,” the brunette found herself agreeing, mustering a fleeting smile as the two set themselves in motion.

As little as she cared to fear the night and the creatures it might conceal in its veil of darkness, as little had she cared to get to know Barbara which should, by no means, be taken personally, social relations never having been her forte. Naturally, she was aware of how important of a role she had scored, the fairy she would have much preferred to play yet it was much harder to harbour spite against the redhead than it was to do so against any other member of the company. Another phenomenon Ali struggled to make sense of, albeit the explanation was so simple a kindergartener might have pieced it together before her. Lesson number one: it’s always harder to hate nice people.

“Oh, you bet,” she was quick to confirm, features momentarily lighting up. “I didn’t even know what to do with myself anymore.” A saying often abused but nothing but the truth in her case. “And, I don’t know, I think just getting back to work is for the best. Leaves you less time to think and fret, you know? Or would you rather still be home for a while?”

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@monaxjames

It was a long-awaited day, circled with red marker in her agenda — the first day of rehearsal after a week devoid of meaning, wasted away in the depth of nothingness. An icy glare glued to the ceiling, languid stretching of unstimulated muscles, controlled breathing.

                                                     In and out. In and out again.

She had missed this with every beat of her heart, the adrenaline set free by physical activity that paid her living flooding her nervous system in exquisite synchronisation with endorphins, all cruelty of this world she lived in forgotten — until she was made to stop, along with all the others who seemingly craved a rest, undeserving flock of chattering seagulls. Ten minute break, the bane of her existence, only made bearable by nicotine, hydration and the company of someone as uninterested in maintaining elite social circles within the company as her.

“Isn’t it weird that they’re still talking about it as much?” Light steps echoed from the halls, backstage not solely made of marble for the rich spectator’s eye was the only one required to be catered to with such mundane flattery. Holding the steel door open for her friend trailing along behind her, Aliona turned ever so slightly, unlit cigarette already placed between chapped lips. Her flow of words was uncharacteristically enduring and undisturbed, the topic what kind of ordeal their fellow danseurs and danseuses had turned Katerina’s death into. “I mean, sure, it’s the first time we’re all back together and all but it’s not like it’s still news? Shouldn’t we lay the girl to rest already?”

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daphne-visvardi:

     Vodka is for rage, whisky a potent balm for friendliness. Gin: like the cold glass before her, beaded in glittering condensation, is for melancholy. Daphne flatters herself that she has more melancholy than most. That Katerina’s death burns hottest in her heart. Sitting in McMahon’s after a particularly arduous rehearsal, she has been scrolling through her phone, and all of the pictures and videos of her it contained. 

Stuck on one clip in particular, of Katerina rehearsing as Kitri many months ago, Daphne becomes slowly aware of the person perched on the bar stool beside hers, watching. “Exquisite, wasn’t she?”  Daphne sighs, and it seemed almost as though that sigh contained a thousand smaller ones. A sigh of heartbreak and loss of a woman once regarded as sister, a sigh of rich, cool envy at the ease of her limbs, a sigh of sorrow.

Cerulean orbs narrowed on the screen, observing the spectacle it reproduced in vivid detail with mixed emotions, envy easily outweighing them all. Aliona had never particularly cared for Katerina, never cared to get to know her in any way that differed from strict professionalism, the impulse to study her movements in order to compare them to her own to perhaps find room for improvement eternally irresistible. Alas, and then there were the darker facets of an ambitious mind, the times she had wished for her to simply disappear, to vaporise into thin air and make room for her at the top.

Well, that hadn’t worked out as expected, now, had it? Frowning softly, the brunette took a sip of her abandoned liquor, the burning sensation clearing her throat enough to enable her to speak. “Undeniably,” she couldn’t help but admin, lips pursing, gaze drowning at the bottom of her glass. “It’s always the exquisite ones destruction craves the most, unfortunately. Truly a shame; such a cruel demise.”

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barbiedonne:

Barbie tied her hair up mechanically, wrapping a light scarf around her neck to protect against the late summer night chill. It had been a trying week, for sure, with so little known about Katerina’s death, and their production of Sleeping Beauty still going on, despite the lead dancer, well, eternally put to rest. It seemed oddly pointless, continuing the production as if nothing had happened, when all the dancers felt Katerina’s absence like cement blocks bound to their ankles.

In fact, it was simultaneously odd and unsurprising, the number of people associated with Queen Victoria Ballet that were frequenting the bar tonight, her included. She pushed out the door, before hesitating, fear eliciting a small cough and a brief moment of terror. Turning a panic-laden smile to the nearest person, uncaring who it was, wholly concerned with the walk home now, she called lightly. “Hey, I’m really sorry, but Lindsey’s not here right now, and they advised that we don’t walk alone. Do you mind? Um, walking me home? I mean, if you’re going the same way,” she added hastily, fidgeting with her hands.

She hadn’t given any thought to how she would get home, as little as she had consciously stepped into McMahon’s earlier in the night. A frail leaf drifting to and fro in the night’s gloomy abyss, somehow always reaching its destination by narrowly avoiding impending doom. Aliona’s regard for everything that happened outside the ballet, outside working hours, or, more fittingly, the absence of it, bordered on self destructive, a fact that would easily stand out to therapist and layman alike yet she herself was blind to it. She simply wouldn’t have strayed from whatever it was she was usually doing — which was walking home alone, without a doubt, human company merely messing with her concentration.

Icy eyes formerly trained on her cigarette looked up at the speaker in surprise, a swirl of smoke swallowed and exhaled again as she assessed the situation, double-checking if she had indeed been the addressed. “Sure.” The word was drawn out insecurely, pupils drifting, briefly settling on the scattered ash twirling in the nocturnal summer breeze. “I’m headed toward Ladywood? I’m fine with a detour, though.” After all, perhaps a good deed wouldn’t do her any harm.

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WHEN THE CURTAIN DROPS…

Your grandmother’s fingerprints have left their mark on you, imprinted you to the bone, poisoned your blood with her legacy. Few of the fleeting moments you were granted with your babushka you can still recall, an elderly woman succumbing to death’s claws too soon for her little darling to get to know her, but the desire to make her proud this has only fueled. Perfection on pointy toes; what she used to be and what you are now. Without the ballet, you aren’t you, you cease to exist. With your shoes untied, you’re catapulted into a Schrödingerian state, a shell of yourself for the duration of your spare time, the few occasions when you couldn’t say no to socialisation being periods of quiet isolation amidst a crowd. Your whole life revolves around the craft, an antsy little swan with bitter determination, twirling her way to the throne. It’s all that matters to you, to them, all you can bring yourself to care about. Having fun is a pastime for the second best, not the rising star, the weight of your name enough to reel in the spectators and make them break out into starry-eyed cheer. A real Chernova in Birmingham, what an unexpected delight…

…YOU SHOW YOUR TRUE COLOURS

…but why, oh why, is she not the one in the limelight? Countless times you have heard them whisper it in confusion and by far more often you have heard them think it, read it in their pitiful stare as they unsuccessfully attempt to suppress their disappointment on time for you not to sense it. Alas, they aren’t the only ones let down by you, your biggest critic none other than yourself, your inner voice awfully reminiscent of how you recall your late grandmother’s whenever it finds it in its figurative heart to scold you for your shortcomings. Not good enough — never has been, never will be. A toxic mantra coursing through weakened veins, times of innocence in which you had not yet internalised it too distant to be recollected, the only hope you cling to being the questionable creditability of ‘never’. One day, perchance, as long as you keep your discipline, your easiest task. Cigarette after cigarette, pill after pill, skipped meal after skipped meal — bitter determination and ethereal dedication guide you through it, lulling you in with ambiguous promises of the glory you will be soon to reap. This is the last time, you whisper in hushed agony, the last time in the shadows, the last time you’re not taking centre stage. Next season will be your season, next season you’ll show them all. Keep holding on, never falter, and your potential will be realised, belatedly but for the remainder of your career. My, oh my, darling, perhaps it would be wiser to brace yourself for your next life.

VICTIM OR CULPRIT?

Close but not close enough — only the Diamond Fairy offers you a chance to shine this season, a role you’ve accepted with a brave smile on strained lips, teeth set to disrupt the flesh’s integrity in distress the moment you were out of sight. While many gush about you being the spitting image of your late grandmother, people unfamiliar with the Chernova name, be it Aliona Chernova or any other, have a tendency of comparing your beauty to that of Alexandra Daddario. Looks are a fickle thing not to be relied upon, as fleeting as a danseuse’s career span, the number twenty-seven threatening to become another obstacle on your way to the top you struggle to eliminate regardless of your discipline.

IN RELATION TO

ELIJAH GRANVILLE: Not a soul in the company appears to be much of a fan of the man and, oh, you cannot blame them no matter how little you tend to be in agreement with the masses. Arrogance as blatant as his is not easily overlooked, an attribute initially sparking your disdain until you found him with your back to you, Russian curses about the burden of his chores reaching unauthorised eardrums. Your response was curt, your accent vastly succeeding his but his dumbfounded astonishment you couldn’t match in your wildest dreams. And just like that you’ve come to bear a powerful man’s secret, an unlikely bond sprouting from dissimilarity in perfect sync with inexplicable, presumably culturally motivated familiarity. RINA KINLEY: The grand majority of your fellow danseurs and danseuses you hardly deem worthy of their positions but no one has handed you reasons for wariness on a silver platter quite like they have. They are hardly the most unskilled at their art, this much you have to enviously confess, albeit the hierarchy should put you further above them, its failing to do so you believe to be perfectly explained by the way they so infamously like to socialise with colleagues and higher-ups alike should the opportunity arise. Pointing a finger is hardly your style but spite fills your throat at the thought of advancement by some potentially being gained with a quick spread of their legs. DESDEMONA JAMES: Out of all the other dancers, the entire staff of the opera house, no one irks you as little as her, her company a refreshing change in routine for she would never urge you to be ‘more of a human’ as the most extroverted souls have so often before. Silence of the comfortable kind is a welcome companion among the two of you and should shared smoke breaks be filled with conversation, it’s never as unpleasant, never so numbingly senseless as most other exchanges social conventions force you to take part in turn out to be in nine out of ten cases. At the very least, taking a break with her feels a little less like a waste of time, a sensation soothing enough for you to consider her a friend.

WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW

Chances of Survival: Average Applicant must be open to portraying mild drug use, eating disorder Faceclaim is non-negotiable

Starring: Nicola as Aliona Chernova

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Budapest, 2016

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