viadangelo

[viadangelo]

🌈 for a random encounter starter

A man Via's never seen before is reading some scripture. A casket lays on a mechanism above a hole in the ground. There's a gathering of black-clad, woeful, tearful people of various states of disrepair. Some stand, others sit on rickety metal chairs.

D'Angelo might rather be laying inside the coffin than stare at the drab scene any longer. She's not wearing black, nor is she there for the funeral.

Accident, in fact. She's taking the long way around the stone wall, as to avoid trekking a path through the beautiful ceremony for the much loved father, brother and friend —

There's an endless drabble. She's sure her parents had one (probably), but Via wasn't there for it. Out of state. Busy. With no business hopping the wall for a shortcut, she finds herself sticking her shoes in the mud.

And nearly steps on the foot of another body.

Not a dead one and she's not sure if she's relieved or not. Eyes skim their way up the legs, stomach, chest to finally find and admire the face — she's already asking. Inappropriate hardly exists to D'Angelo. "Did you think the speech was too much too, love?" Inconvenient to be talking over the dead whilst she wants to use the shortcut, too. Then, she notices the distance they are from the service, or anyone else. The smile breaks free. "Or couldn't you hold something calm any longer? Happens to even the most sporting of men," and all. A wink: "No shame, sugar."

@brkwingss

[viadangelo]

🎶 for lee

"Considered my proposal, amore?" That is... to saw Lee into pieces (on-stage, at least), they hadn't discussed sharp tools and bodies anywhere else, as yet. Nor, had they flirted with the idea of another kind of proposal. Neither had Via, til just then. But she's walked them through Westside, toured the man around until mahogany and private rooms were ingrained in his dreams. "We can find a box grande enough for you." Have one made, if that's what it took.

Maybe in her dreams.

She's wearing a wide smile that beams, a glimmer of mischief ever present in the light of her gaze. It wanders shamelessly over Lee, at any opportunity. He was testifying in the light, but he was heartless in prayer. Via might need to say a few by the end of the night.

It's quiet and most of the renovations had been complete; reopening day nears. Those working on the remodel were finished for that day and the theatre is ghostly quiet, bar Lee and Via haunting its walls.

"— you know, tesoro." It's light, playful. It's an opening when a hand brushes up against his arm. It's almost endearing, and they're close to each other as they walk down the corridor to the backrooms. It is towards where D'Angelo plans to make her office. "We can compromise on the proposal." A wink — and a gentle tap of her finger as it rises to his cheek. "Knees work, too."

@leemalkovich

[viadangelo]

There's that accent; soft spoken, heard from few men in his vicinity. There's a rougher, aged version in the back of her mind. But, Luke's got a pair of doe-eyes that match it which she finds too sweet to pass up.

His age however, does not dispute his actions. Via smirks, tugs the same hand he's using to hold hers and pulls him towards her. Whilst, very prince-like, she's got a better version of the European greeting. She draws him in for two soft pecks; one on each of the man's cheeks. "Are you sure you didn't procure these from a collection, sugar?" He's already told her he hasn't, but she cannot help but poke.

She doesn't care where he'd acquired them. It will look better in her collection, regardless.

They part slowly, so she can take the items. She's gracious with them, admiring the vintage like it's a memory surfaced — older than what most would say is ancient. "They're gorgeous." A collector's wet dream. Via's finding her little Luke bird quite the treat.

Waving her free hand, grinning: "We can teach you deals, cupcake. You've got time," It's aired like he truly does have time. She catches his gaze: "—eventually, you'll know what you're leaving the room with before you've entered it." Never leave without gaining what one wants. "... Pokemon card, included."

⏤ And there she is, Via. The queen. The legend. The myth. ❛ Via my love. ❜ The brit said with a charming smile stamped on his delicate features, the taller blonde took her hand, and kissed the back of it. ❛ Do you think I would travel all around, and never bring something to my favorite woman? ❜ He added. ❛ Brought you the rare deck cards. And one antique. ❜ He handed her the box with the cards he spoke about. ❛ I'm bummed the fucker didn't want to make a deal with my Pokemon card. ❜

@viadangelo

[viadangelo]

What does well mean, to a man wearing a collarino? Does that mean there has been no sinners passing by to repent — or too many to count; a revelation most already know, but continues to allude the priest — to consider that there are no innocents, or wellness, that to exist is to simply be.

Via will be. And she will smile as she wonders what could possibly go on in the Father's mind to say well. Medically? Everything ticks?

D'Angelo could test that, with some endurance — a show, of tricks and... she'll find a way to include the famous hot dog, if she has to.

Something peels away from his face; invisible shards crumbling to the concrete between them. Her jokes hit their mark.

"Do you think Jesus had that trouble, love, with the grapes?" So callous, as if Father Jude would have the answers lying in wait. Isn't it food of the Gods, or the like? Via's got plenty speculation of things she'd feed a God —

"—Teasing you?" Faux shock manifests as her hand comes to her chest, a mouth falls ajar, with a pink tongue slipping over the rows of her teeth. "Father, is it a cardinal sin to eat in the street?"

Maybe now she's teasing him.

To settle his concerns — or worsen then, who knows, she confesses with a smile: "No, I remember all the priests I de-frock." and with that, she tosses the remainder of the hot dog in the trash, and proceeds to wipe the aftermath from her hands with a napkin.

The question too, the way it was spoken. The deep amusement in the words. Jude shook his head, lifting a hand to brush away the concern, "No, no. I'm well." Because he was well, or physically well enough.

He began to wonder what the purpose was for this. His eyes on hers. Knowing that she still had plenty left to eat. And as he watched her, the expression changed. Less of a shift in facial muscles and more of a removal of something. A mask.

The joke had him blinking for a moment. His held tilting as he looked down at the woman in front of him. Finally he shifted himself back more towards how he would respond to things when deployed. He finally smiled very softly. "I appreciate your concern. Hot dogs and grapes are the two most choked on food items."

His eyes searched her face for some further clue to understanding why this encounter was happening. Beyond it being out of sheer need to see him squirm. "May I ask? Just out of curiosity, why you are teasing me? Have we met before somewhere?" He was almost positive that they had never met before. She seemed like the type that would leave a lasting impression. Not the type of person he would forget.

[viadangelo]

There's no helping them.

Saher's dug her teeth in, and Via's wondering if they'll soon need a stagehand to mop the newly lacquered stage.

Not even the favoured seats in the house can save them from the torture. It's likely what the quivering off-key vocalist is feeling. And it's the most interesting string of acting Via's seen all day.

So many singers, not enough variety. She doesn't remember it being quite so bland — even if it were thirty forty or so years ago since —

Well.

There's less to think about when Nayak has a surgical hand tracing along the tendons of her neck, collar and — "We could make anything sexy, cakepop." Classy; elegant, in amongst the depravity. Of course, she's referencing the dying of such mediocre talent on stage.

Mostly.

And with the thick air of silence being sharper than even Saher's tongue. Via doesn't even search to find the face of the next incoming footsteps. She's breathing in this moment, pondering her earlier ideations of making the real all that more fake; fear has to be controlled: "Shame, sugar," Out of the abyssal quiet they slip: "—that death isn't a repeat act; it's made for the one night onlys."

She wasn't sure what that meant — put her out of her misery or heal her injuries after she'd tried to experiment with the ideas given to her?

Saher only hoped it wasn't the latter, but that's who she was known for — the helper; doc, was not only something written on her starbucks cup. The redhead on stage only shivered slightly, still wide eyed and scared shitless by the word sugery, and the wicked smiles on both of the women in the audience.

Fuck, she was taking small steps back now — "Oh, don't be a pussy."

Via continued, and the idea of cutting the talentless idiot open and making swords and puppies out of her intestines did have a certain appeal right this moment.

They'd make a fortune of it too —

Saher didn't know shit about theater, but she knew cutting. Her fingers reached for Via's throat, index finger gliding over her pulse point and down to her collarbone slowly, dark eyes tracing the movement, "If you can make it look sexy —" she glanced up at the frozen woman on stage, " — dying I mean."

And she was gone.

Almost left a body shaped hole in the wall too.

"Next." voice loud, eyes back on Via.

[viadangelo]

If Via had to associate Aria with something. It would be a caterpillar; a meandering creature yet to reach its metamorphosis. Stunning, in its own curious way and yet with so much beauty still yet to come. Wings yet to grow; to fly.

She's so caught in the transient vision that her gaze is travelling the length of her limbs, and the dip in her throat — the jutting of a collarbone framing a face so deceptively innocent, Via only wants to touch it and see how it burns.

The second revelation to come and split her attention, is how disinterested she has grown in the cat wails on stage, and the entirely left-footed entourage. The magician has instead chosen to busy herself with the most ravishing thing in sight.

"Gossip," Via muses, tongue skirts along the lipstick staining her mouth. Not quite. "Ah," a beat; striking gold. Via leans forward, with a lowered voice — like a secret about to be shared. "So if I reupholster the seats with those wasting our time today..." It's mostly a joke. Gorgeous women, seated in horrific scenery... "Would you enjoy this more, love?" This, being the stolen pair of lips that Aria's determined to tease her with.

A better act, than any they'd seen today.

Aria doesn't even notice that Via's attention has been turned to her - nor that she's been marked as something to admire. It's not obliviousness, Aria knows that she's pretty (despite self-esteem issues and anxiety). But rather, she's just got other things on her mind.

When Via speaks again, Aria's gaze flits back to her with widening eyes. There are options here, she realizes. It also feels like Via is digging for something, which makes her wonder how much of her personal life has been on display or how much it's been talked about. The obvious conclusion is probably not much at all, considering that her attention and admiration is focused on someone that likes her privacy.

The blush on her cheeks makes her feel warm, and she clears her throat. "I feel like you're rooting around for gossip." It's said with a laugh, as if to brush off the notion. "Gorgeous women, horrific scenery." As in movies. Art. "Why? What about you?"

[viadangelo]

In these moments, often one must seize it. Not stammer, or jabber and hesitate when Via D'Angelo offers you herself, the theatre, and a night weekly — monthly, could be a compromise. Too much, too little; not enough. Certainly, is lacking; it's in the wavering gaze of Lux, and the confidence seen five minutes ago is a sheer that flutters to ash right before Via's eyes —

She's never liked to repeat herself. Not even for her favourites.

Patience, for a young bloom to see the sun and face it; chase it. And finally, after the lengthened pause. Via's heart begins to crack —

Tempting.

A dagger to the chest. She's not sure if she's infuriated, or about to smother the woman for the idea that it's more than.

Hypothetically.

The knife is twisted. D'Angelo's smile is an amusing shift of deliverance to disappointed to wry until it settles on transactional.

Lux will learn business, too. It's perhaps a younger reflection of herself, perhaps a softness leaning on fondness for Beaufort. To see her without the glamour of Lux, is quite a sight. "Think on it, sugar." As in: think about what terms you expect. Via's got a budget, and it's vast for the right acts. "—And never let on you're... new to this — you'll get ripped off, love." Fact. A woman. Even in a more accepting climate. Via's never liked to bow, unless it's at the end of her own enticement. An acts end.

She's so much like a sweet thing plucked off the street, that she forgives the Mrs, at the front of her name.

God. Imagine. Via reaches out to Lux, fingers run down the woman's shoulder. Somehow, it's almost motherly. A bird drawn beneath a wing. "Put together an act, like that." Eyes trail to the stage, and then back to where they are now. "And I'll fill the seats; all eyes on you, amore. Name it Luxury, if you must. And then we'll talk a schedule." and costs, and performer fees — and the contract.

⏤ She stepped away from Via to give a certain personal space for the brunette the last thing she wanted was to deal with somebody else who freaked out that she invaded the personal space. The Aussie blonde studied her reaction, her gaze dropped to the other's lips when she licked her lips, and Lux embraced herself, since now she was in her scanty outfit ( nearly bikini ) , in her high heels. ⏤ Elizabeth didn't think she'd get the role… For starters, she almost gave up on auditioning, and she thought maybe she showed 'too porn' , but on the other hand, Via specifically said she wanted 'wet and wanting', and to finish the last days with clients at the club that declined her… It makes her wonder if she isn't good enough because she always feels like she isn't good enough. Part of her was waiting for the brunette to say ' you're great but…', always the damned 'buts' . That was surprisingly not the case.

Her mesmerizing grey-bluish hues met her gaze. ❛ I … Uh… It's… ❜ God! To make a decision… The thing about the club, it is a certainty, that she cannot work somewhere where today is okay and tomorrow she doesn't have anything. Maybe if she was all alone and childless, she could consider living the life crazily. ⏤ She had toddlers and they depended on her, and not to mention, she helped her father… Because there is always a phase he is unable to take care of himself, and financially her whole mini-family depends on her. ❛ The offer is tempting… But I still have to work on the club. Hypothetically if I accept, how is this going to be? ❜ Hypothetically, this means there is a high hope that she might take the offer, but only if the green is big. Declining or accepting she wants to know how this job will work, and how she will serve them. ❛ I never did all this kind of stuff, Mrs. D'Angelo. ❜ Her cheeks blushed even more as she admitted sheepishly.

[viadangelo]

Via's wide smile is just as bright as the sparkle in her gaze. Laure's truly a saint for encouraging the intestinal ride. The gears of D'Angelo's mind work a little overtime to envision a sculpture on stage; a live show.

"Give the bohemians a chance, love. One might be great." In this case, Laure is right; the vision hadn't been met, and the advertisement has drawn in every grifter from the street on the stage as a hopeful. Woeful, is clearly the misprint.

A leg crosses over the other, and Via reaches around the chair so she's leaning towards Laure. Stage, forgotten. Or at least, the person upon it has already be marked for death (or dead). "We can always have them be the martyr for fine art, if nothing else."

Unhinged an image, if they were different people.

It's only at Laure's half-hearted, and faux cry that Via is reminded there's still half a dozen hopefuls still yet to grace them with their presences. D'Angelo's mind has already diverted off course: "We could find a valet to sit and watch, act the part of interested, cupcake... have I given you a tour, yet?" It hangs there, a martini comes to mind but — "At least of the bar."

Laure meets Via's eyes straight on. "I think you might actually find an audience for such work, unlike whatever abomination we're being treated to right now," she shrugs, wholly ignoring the girl singing on stage. She can hear her voice falter, wavering when she notices that they're not paying attention but Laure doesn't care. The sooner they could be done with this.

"Your first mistake was hiring someone who was unable to construe your vision." It's a mild criticism, and one that Via can hardly be blamed for. Desperation tends to be a trait that the city has no shortage of and the auditorium reeks of it now.

"But I'm sure we could find no shortage of people interested in working on such a piece, or buying one." Especially with the clientele they have access to. "We know how to appreciate proper art."

The music on stage cuts off abruptly and the woman auditioning storms off, apparently unable to take the indignity of having her time all but ignored. "No, wait come back," Laure says half-heartedly, not nearly loud enough to be heard by anyone outside of their immediate proximity. "How many more on that list of yours?"

[viadangelo]

A brightening smile that travels all the way up, until the corners of Via's eyes crease in delight.

The priest's eyes shift away, fall down to his own feet —

A throat clears loudly. Via's faux concern falls quickly over the jovialness of her features — she's still playing:

"You're not choking, are you, father —?" The hotdog in the man's hands is finished, but that isn't to say D'Angelo needs there to be a prop in hand. Just the notion itself. It's self-entertainment, for a figure advocating for a voice, and cause she's outwardly dismissive of.

She manages to snare his gaze again, it's more timid — subtle thing, this time. She's finished her bite, and she knows he's glad for that.

There's plenty more hotdog, yet. The mirage of worry washes away in the next curve of painted lips:

"You had me worried for a second, amore. Suffocation by sausage?" There's a titter on her lips, "Terrible."

The question about magical hotdogs and Jude smiled, looking down at the last few bites of his own lunch. "I don't know about magical. But delicious either way."

When she steps into the line he went back to finishing his own food. Small encounters this were not uncommon. He assumed that would be the end of the small encounter. Until she came back over. The clerical collar was meant to make him approachable. Even if it also made him a target. He was a Priest first and a human second. A stand in for the totality of the Catholic Church. His brown eyes watched her, the feeling of the encounter shifting as she gave him a very thorough appraisal. He opened his mouth to explain it was a personal recommendation not a religious one but then she began to eat... It had been a long time since a complete stranger had done something quite so deliberately provocative to him.

His eyebrows went up and Jude redirected his gaze down to his shoes. Clearing his throat softly. Incredibly uncomfortable at the display but not wanting to be impolite or draw further attention to this exchange. When she spoke again he risked a glance back up to her face, hoping that if she was talking it would be safe to look. He nodded, "I'm glad you agree..."

[viadangelo]

As they're in agreement, Via nods — eyes alight as they skim over Aria; the almost nervous way in which she moves. It's clear in D'Angelo's tone, that she's no longer talking about the sub-par performer.

"No, it never hurts to have something to admire," And then, the magician's gaze slips away from raking over the woman beside her, to waver the stagehands to do something with the pigsqealer. Whilst Via's waiting for the next act, she opens the floor to Boughton, absently.

Smirking, suggestive — all the s's —

"— What do you like to admire, sugar?"

Aria glances to Via, understanding what she's asking her to imagine - and to help her conjure those images in her mind, she looks back to the woman on the stage. Her voice.. sucks. But she's beautiful. She brings her thumb to her lips, chewing on the flesh for just a moment while she thinks.

It's an easy decision, really. And she believes she's on the same page as Via. "I think that might be for the best." Beat, breath. "A little eye candy never hurts, really."

[viadangelo]

Via — as with most of the times she's seen Lux perform, is enamoured in the show. The desire, the chaos with each carefully executed flutter of lashes; eye contact; a strategically placed hand to partner the distraction. It draws the audience to watch exactly where Lux intends for them to, nowhere else.

D'Angelo sinks into it, as she would expect any audience to.

All that jazz. There's a sexuality to the role — Broadway meets the Rosse Buurt with everything Lux is. Clothes begin to become scanty, hands finds positions to draw Via's gaze. Her panel, either side of her, infatuated with the bold display.

Perhaps Via might need to buy a bit of Lux — for all intents and purposes; a Friday night regular fixture, could be —

Beaufort's on her hands and knees, and tendrils of blonde obscure a provocation wore so clearly on Lux's face. Via's almost still, legs shifting on the seats in front of her; the performance is tantalising.

She finds herself envious of the person across from her — to be straddled, so close; touching distance, yet, detatched.

Of course — wet and wanting, had been the task. Assignment, understood.

Too far still.

But finally — all that jazz, had led her to a crass smile and a woman on her lap that she's plenty comfortable with. The kiss — too short, too long — all over in a flash.

A magic trick. Lux has played her at her own games, and she's revelling in it. Via's readjusting in her seat, eying Lux as if they'd only been fleeting ships in the night.

"You had all that hidden away, sugar." she muses, tongue wets her lips. "Get out of that dive of a place you spend your evenings at. You can have a show. Give me that, each week — shake the crowd; spoil them." a beat, "Like you spoiled me, amore?"

Via doesn't need to repeat herself, but she's pleased there's someone who had been worth opening another day of auditions for.

⏤ Elizabeth was close to giving up, despite all this waiting but the voice of Via's staff yelled a 'next' it was louder even for her own ears, it was too late, the Aussie made her way to the center of the stage, her hands dove inside of her black coat. Much to her surprise, it was Via. ❛ Hi ya mate. ❜ She waves her hand timidly greeting the woman.

❛ Wet and wanting? Got it. ❜ That's something she is very familiar with. She tried to think about which music to sing, and then she decided All that jazz - Chicago. ❛ C'mon babe, why don't we paint the town? And all that jazz… ❜ She started to sing beautifully, it wasn't like anyone ever knew this side of her. People are used to seeing her 'dance'. ❛ I'm gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down… ❜ She starts unbuttoning her black coat, winking flirty to Via, caressing her own covered knees in her hold-up stockings. ❛ Start the car, I know a whoopee spot, where the gin is cold but the piano's hot, it's just a noisy hall, where there's a nightly braw…And all that jazz… ❜ She dances in good sync with the beats of the music, removing her coat and throwing it elsewhere at the same time she says the word 'all that jazz'.

❛ Slick your hair and wear your buckle shoes… ❜ She looses her silky, long, platinum blonde hair, falling over her shoulders, like curtains, while dancing, and crawling to the edge of the stage. ❛ I hear that Father Dip is gonna blow the blues… ❜ She made a quick gesture with her hand and her mouth of a 'blowjob', and a wink to a person that was near her. ❛ Hold on hon, we're gonna bunny-hug… ❜ She hops off the stage, and goes to the person near to her on the seat, sitting in their lap, wrapping their arm around her thin waist, but keeping her beautiful singing voice, then she stood up walking slowly towards Via but still far from her.

❛ Find a flask, we're playin' fast and loose… ❜ She tapped the pocket of a person in the seat, picked up the flask, took a small sip from it handed it back to them, pouring the liquid in their mouth and continuously danced, swirling, going towards the brunette. ❛ Right up here is where I store the juice… ❜ Elizabeth opens her own corset, now staying in only a sparkling bra, and her matching knickers, throwing her corset in the face of the person next to Via, and she pulls a panty strap that hits against her own skin.

The blonde went towards Via dancing, singing…❛ …And all that jazz That jazz! ❜ By the final words, of the music, she sat on Via's lap, put the brunette's both hands on her hips, and gave a quick peck on her lips, ending her act. Then she pulled away from her, getting off from her lap. ❛ I hope this wasn't that bad. ❜ She refers to her performance and her perfect singing voice.

[viadangelo]

She cannot help herself, there is something delightful about seeing a God-fearing man outside of the church. It's practically unethical — as if one is expected to live, breathe and die there in one entire lifetime. Via suddenly desires grease, bread and lashings of mustard, and ketchup. She's stopped — and preacher has noticed.

Of course, he likely notices all that oppose; like a tricky little radar of hellspawn that pass by the light — this holiness, probably came with just as much grilled onion, and listeriosis as the rest of the customers.

"Why is that — are they magical?" The hot dogs, wieners; is that what makes them better; meat? Or the vegetables, the sauce...

Via steps into the queue — procures a meat dog for herself, and returns bearing the gift of diabetes, and indigestion. She considers wiping a streak of red sauce down the neat collarino of the priest before she shoves aside the intrusive thought. Who knows what might occur later?

Via licks her lips, engaging with the man again. "Not often do I trust a..." she openly gives him another once over, searching for the word: "— religious opinion, especially about meat but — " she's not in a rush, and she makes it abundantly clear when she lifts the hot dog to her mouth and slowly, teasingly runs a tongue over the end of it.

Catches the running sauce in her mouth as she draws it in inch by inch, before a sharp chomp that cuts of the sight. Via's shameless, even in the most fleeting of moments. Everything's a show, with an audience. She carefully, delicately wipes away the spillage either side of her lips. smiling through her chews.

Via swallows.

"— You may possibly be right, it might be perfect thing for a little bite, sugar."

Where: Hot Dog Cart in East Manhattan

When: day time

Who: @viadangelo

The sound of car horns and people. That ever present, unending hum of humanity. Jude liked it. Grown up with it. Missed it when he had been gone. The white noise of the city was something he needed, something that helped keep him out of his own head. He stood waiting in line at his favorite hot dog stand after visiting a family to perform communion. His bag slung around his shoulder, his black shirt and clerical collar advertising who he was. He'd already had to tell two people that he was fine waiting his turn. Talking to a few parishioners that had also been in line. Finally giving his order and standing to the side so he could eat before he finished walking back to the church. He didn't think anything of what he was doing beyond having lunch. He looked up as he felt someone come close. Seeing the woman and feeling a little self-conscious for some reason, he pushed the napkin across his lips and said, "If you are debating to get one or not. I think they are one of the best in the city."

[viadangelo]

"Perhaps you should help her with that," Via muses, tipping her head to see if there is something to witness if she turns her head at another angle. Tricks were sometimes, all about the angles. D'Angelo isn't scoring down for things she does herself.

But Saher is — not for the first time — entirely correct that the most wanting thing here, is very much some tragic accident to occur. Saher encourages the acts to do better... in her own way.

Via smiles, and encourages them to listen to the idea to do better.

It works. For the most part. So it's only half a real suggestion, as she swivels head head and twists in her seat to face the woman sat beside her: "Live surgery, now that would be quite a show." But maybe, not original.

Via's done the vanishing forever act, once.

"Making the real, fake. It's certainly an idea, amore." She's never participated in the grotesque potential to cut a being open on a stage — and then put them back together, with everything being real. Even the selbit is a trick, despite how gruesome it could be protrayed to be. She'll have to figure out the trick to Saher, and her demented input eventually.

What the fuck was that? The tone deaf Barbie edition?

Definitelly not sugarpop.

She was ruining the whole shebang ⏤ emphasis on bang. Because Saher was already itching to pull out her gun and put an end to everyone's misery.

Her legs crossed over one another, right foot swinging left and right in anticipation.

"Do a backflip. Break your neck. Snap your spine. It'd be far more entertaining." all suggestions that were met with a wide eyed gaze. This bitch must be joking, was probably want went through the dying cat's brain ⏤ it was certainly written all over her face.

It wasn't her call to make, and she didn't really care for the theater or all the circus freaks residing there, but Via was fun ⏤ clever and sexy, especially in the role of a sociopathic musical director.

[viadangelo]

Via's never been so glad for this faux intermission. A break in the endless stream of almosts that have her in the first half — but become a travesty in the second. She's called for a pause, for ushers, and stagehands to gather tea or blow, or whatever they needed to not drive Westside into the ground, before it had even flourished.

Asa's one of those cherubs that appear when one's not entirely lucid; a light in the dark of the deranged. His arms flex across set pieces, splattered with paint, and colour.

She's got too much pride in her charisma as she hops over the front row of seats and trails up to the stage — lights dim a degree as theatre staff make fair use of a tea break. Via's waving a hand over the eccentric works Asa has created.

"When wood and dust have more flair than the faces, I begin to worry, love." She's referring to the finely crafted pieces Asa's making into masterpieces. More exciting than the people. "Are you desiring to be my wizard in this — what, Emerald City?" she's teasing, arms lean on the side of the stage as she glances up at him perched on the edge of it.

"— Ah, a car chase. What? Cupcake, you're not telling me you're a cliche, don't break my heart. I've seen your album de porn, it's far more exhilarating than the fear that I dread to think you're just predictable." she laughs — an airy sound. "Only if the chase is Wilder, Houdini and Blaine; I want to see what they can do with their engines..." A beat, a knowing grin on painted lips: "No? Mio bellisimo diavolino. "

Asa is used to her antics by now - sugarpop is a nickname he still doesn't fully understand, but it's just like any word you hear long enough that it becomes engrained into your vocabulary.

He's not there for the judging and auditioning or... interviewing? He's still not sure the process. But the medic had offered painting assistance for set pieces - can't have a good show without some 'slam-bang background sets', as Asa had said. He'd brought the paint, his own brushes, a tarp so he doesn't make a mess on the stage.

Sitting on the side of it while she talks to an usher about making the crowd 'wet and wanting'... Asa chuckles, and swings a leg in old denim over the side of the stage. He's sat comfortably near where all the footlights are, in an old undershirt with his shirt thrown off to keep paint off it. The giant stage piece looks very... Wizard of Oz. The front gates. He's painting things to look like gold embellishments - like they're shining like a piece of jewelry. Baubles and gems, Emerald.

"I think you'd be alright with your ushers not being too dramatic, darling." The confidence from Asa that drifts from him is newer, and he swings a leg almost casually as he dips his brush into a pale yellow. "Unless you want a full-on car chase to overshadow your big opening night."

[viadangelo]

Via likes Audra for her own quiet sass. A refreshing opinion that had the playing card that's appeared in Via's hand, rolling between her fingers. Backside, front; queen of hearts, blank, queen — vanishing, appearing, flicking through the air absently as a comfort tool. A close-up trick that kept the mind alive, and active.

They needed to have something, considering the display on stage. Via isn't looking at the card, or the easy movements of her fingers when she glances Audra's way. Her lip draws up in the corner — her suggestions are quite the honest deliverance.

"We can do better, sugarcake." And both the woman, surely knew that. When Audra drew up the papers, D'Angelo notes the name — "Hm," If Via knows it, she's not wet on the idea of it. But, Audra appears quietly confident. Eyes slid upwards, and the playing card ceases in its back and forth motion. Pinches it between a thumb, and forefinger —

The magician uses it to flick Audra's chin, draws the plastic card down the length of the woman's throat. It's obvious that Via's attention has gone entirely elsewhere.

Mime, ventriloquism — didn't sound so dull now.

"I suppose we'll find out, won't we? I did see a speed artist apply, I thought you'd be more excited for that. Perhaps they need a muse."

Audra is mostly here because she's good at keeping a straight face. Good at neutrality - if only in look. Her shirt is buttoned up to the neck, her hair pinned back. She's a stark contrast to Via - and she's meant to be. Where the other woman's sprawled out across the seats, Audra sits with her ankles crossed, hands in her lap. She doesn't take notes (an oddity, for her) but simply watches.

It maybe isn't as unnerving as it's meant to be, but it's a fun act to play. She doesn't want to be mean to the poor soprano, but she equally, if not more, wants Westside to succeed. For the Syndicate, for Via too. "Do you, perhaps, have another talent? Mime. Ventriloquism?" Quieter acts. Or, at least, acts that would require some semblance of character.

As she says this, she takes the top sheet of paper from the lap next to her and circles a name. "I think she performed at a club last month. Did she apply?"

[viadangelo]

This has to be a break in Aria's circle of life. The last time they had shared a space — whilst Via had taken moments to consider the martini's — eyes had traversed a beautiful figure. She'd also recounted the differing ideas the woman had of wondrous.

On this, right now, they shared the same thought.

"Yes." she murmurs, tapping a foot on the row of seats she's resting them on. When the performer restarts, Via's quick to cut in: "No, stop." A swift shake of her head, a hand in the air, high to silence the individual. Via's waiting — wondering, with a curious mind. Her head swivels to the woman on her right. "What do you think, Aria, love, picture them, less fabric —" Via does herself, and she glances across Aria's person — lashes flutter, as if side tracked. Then, she's back: "— carrying champagne, quiet; a delightfully pretty face, kept tirelessly busy?" They could find something for them, then.

She'd come on a fucking whim, and now with every shrill note cracking through, Aria's regretting it. It is nice being here - Westside is gorgeous and she can't wait to come here when it's more than fully operational. The person on stage seems to be floundering so Aria leans towards Via.

"They might be able to perform better if they take it a notch, uh .. lower." Not as ear-splitting for one. The previous audition had been pretty good, but Aria doesn't have the ear for something as delicate as this - her advice is more than likely shit, and she's only here out of.. well, obligation and making a last minute decision. Thanks, Laure.

The song starts once more and Aria lets out a sigh, shaking her head. No saving it. "Does she have any other qualifications?"

[viadangelo]

Via too, is wondering what has been misconstrued on the advertisement to be met with such dire talent. The valets have more personality, and vies than the musical hopefuls. She isn't just looking for Broadway; but she'll certainly enjoy the ease of contracting a monthly run of one. She'll craft a Wednesday night, for the depravity of the right act, she's certain of it.

Have Cabaret acts on a Friday — whatever she thinks works, for that moment; to catch her in a kind, eager mood to give a chance to someone that's pissing away some degree in STEM to do this. She resonates with those types; the unsuspecting.

Laure however, is making a fair, and noted point.

"I might auction the artist that designed it." she muses — tilting her head to Stephens. "You take sculptures in the house of yours, sugar? I'll call it: Intestini de cena." Because she would, gut the person and wrap their entrails around said body; stick it on a pole and go voila.

"Now that would be a show."

Via's latest endeavor has apparently gotten the necessary approvals, and Laure has to commend her for her verve. Others might have crumpled under the pressure, but it's clear to her that Via is right in her element. It's not outright strange for her to be here. Even though her professional pursuits lie in a different artistic domain, the Rothschilds have always been noted patrons of the arts. And if there's a connection to another aspect of her life, well Laure is simply being efficient.

Of course, it being New York City, the talent that drags itself through the doors range from angelic to downright awful, and every combination in between. Everyone is eager for a slice of the pie and their desperation reeks throughout the main auditorium.

The girl on stage looks exactly the same as three others they've seen, and Laure isn't entirely convinced this woman didn't just style her hair differently and provide a fake ID. (Though if that were the case, it would make her far more interesting than she currently is).

She turns her head to meet Via's eyes, with a distinct look that screams "you owe me wine for this." The music begins its playback once more, and they are again treated to a boring rendition of some Broadway number. In the middle of the performance, Laure leans over to whisper in her colleague's ear. "What exactly did you put on that advertisement of yours?"