They bid goodbye to Charles Dreadful and Geoff Calloway by the door to the theatre proper before finding their seats with ease. Their seats are in the front row of the mezzanine, in a small side section of ten or so people. Rather nice view – especially for seats obtained quite literally in a dark alley from a disreputable contact.

Next to Nemesis, Callie sits silently, while Theory looks anywhere but the stage. He observes the others in their section. A tall and wiry, somewhat underdressed and remarkably pale red-haired man with comically small spectacles perched on his nose sits beside a black-haired man with light tan skin in a spectacularly expensive-looking black suit. Beside him, a teenage boy with light skin and unkempt brown hair who doesn’t look like he wants to be there scowls to himself. A pale woman with brown hair in a bun at the top of her head sits in the very last row, and beside her is a girl who looks around college-aged, with dark skin and braided hair.

The rest of the seats are empty. They must be expensive enough that even the elite can’t afford them. Alternatively, perhaps the people who bought them just haven’t bothered to show up. Nemesis isn’t going to question extra space.

Centuries pass of murmuring and milling and the orchestra’s warming up. It feels overwhelming – unsettling. Nemesis wishes he could stand up and stretch his legs. Instead he waits, trying to tune out the quiet voices and buzzing strings that seem to merge into one entity swirling around his head.

Finally, the noise settles. The stage lamps rise. The theatre quiets with a collective sigh as the red velvet curtains brush aside.

On the stage is a simple setup - a false courtyard, a false garden, a false balcony, and in the distance an artificial lamp floats near the top of the set, a convincing image of a false moon. Amidst the grass, a road of rocks leads to a small pool, in which dancing lights give the illusion of colorful fish mingling among the water. The set might be simplistic, but it’s well-made, and the special effects are gorgeous. He begrudgingly approves.

In the center of it, a tall man stands – a man Nemesis is familiar with, even though he’s never met him. He looks just like his daughter: the same black hair, shaggy and shoulder-length; A thin goatee, immaculately maintained; The same red eyes, soulless and without pupils; The same unnervingly pale skin, through which the veins are practically visible, even at this distance.

He’s too far away to see it properly, but Nemesis knows exactly what’s inside his mouth before he even opens it: sharp canines, and a charming smile that, even at this distance, sends a cold chill down his spine.

As always, Tobias Fitzroy is dressed handsomely in black and red. He leans heavily on the ornate cane he always carries with him. Nemesis can practically smell his perfume from where he sat – as the rumors go, Fitzroy is known for his distinctive scent, a blend of oud wood and pomegranate. The crowd bursts into thunderous applause as Fitzroy gracefully removes a microphone from his coat pocket and begins to speak in a voice low and accented Luciellite.

“Ladies and gentlemen and all variations thereof, distinguished guests, associates, those who are not, children of all ages, our most beloved patrons.” His voice is smooth. Nemesis would liken it to milk - something which some people greatly enjoy, but he finds unpleasant and slimy. “We have gathered here to celebrate the work of our actors and crew here at this hallowed theatre, in a performance of my own daughter – Morgana’s – latest and greatest work: The Tragedy of Edward and Lucia.”

He pauses, allowing for the claps and whistles he knows will come, before continuing. “But, perhaps more somberly, we are also gathered to celebrate the life of the late Frederick Vigenere, Lord of the Semper Barony, who has recently and tragically passed away.”

A hush falls over the crowd.

“Frederick was a great friend of mine. He was beloved by all, a tireless force for the betterment of our fair city and fair nation, and a treasure to the world. He was a patron of the arts and sciences, and a notorious provider for those deserving and in need. It is because of him, and his generous contributions and patronage, that our own Theatre Obscura has reached the pinnacle of success that it has today. His loss shall be deeply felt by our community for many a year to come, and his memory should not, can not, and will not be allowed to fade. For the time being, in his honor, if I may, I now request a moment of silence.”

Nemesis leans back in his seat tiredly, trying not to groan audibly as the entire theatre is washed over by a dead silence. For a minute, it becomes difficult to identify that there is anything living in that hall. The patrons, in their gold and red velvet seats, seem afraid to even move for fear of disturbing the silence. Even Theory and Callie sit stone-still and silent on either side of Nemesis. It feels, briefly, as though he must be the only person in this hall still breathing.

As the moment concludes, Fitzroy lowers his head. “Thank you. In honor of my late friend, this showing is dedicated to him. In fact, he had the opportunity to sit in on a rehearsal, and had been thrilled at the prospect of seeing the finished product. In his place, I would like to introduce tonight’s guest of honor – his only son and successor, Lucian Vigenere!”

Fitzroy gestures to the balcony section in the center of the theatre. Nemesis has to crane his head to see Lucian Vigenere, but he can, indeed, spot him. Lucian looks barely older than he does, with pale skin, large circular glasses, and black hair neatly tied into a ponytail over his right shoulder. From all the pictures of him he’s seen, Nemesis knows just how ordinary he looks. Somewhat large green eyes, freckles, and, despite the fact that he’s the heir to an entire barony, his clothing is plain enough that he surely wouldn’t look out of place among the crowds of students he supposedly frequents.

Behind him sit other guests of honor. His section has only three seats, and the other two are occupied by a woman with very tall, poofy hair and a bright purple coat and a woman dressed in a teal suit, with dark skin and long hair in a ponytail. He doesn’t recognize either of them. Are they here on society connections, or are they the sort of reticent artist who is famous but impossible to recognize on the street?

Lucian Vigenere doesn’t respond to Fitzroy’s gesture, but the theatre explodes with applause again. This time, it takes a solid minute to quiet down, until Fitzroy finally clears his throat, silencing the audience.

“And now, the story of a tragic love fated for tragedy… In which I shall be playing the part of Mortimer, a father, who has to work hard to make ends meet after the untimely death of his wife. His daughter, Lucia, is a beautiful girl, coming into her own, but her life feels empty, for she has never felt… Love.”

A morose piano melody begins to play, and even with everything else happening, Nemesis can’t help but smile. Elias is amazingly talented, and the music reminds him of those nights when they would sneak out of the dormitories into the music room, and he would sit there and listen to Elias play. He can almost see it in his mind’s eye – him leaning against the wall, a light smile on his tired face, eyes locked on Elias as he plays. Not that it was him, he supposes.

A soft twanging of strings joins in with the piano. That must be Jing. For all his dislike of their personality, he has to admit they’re a very a skilled musician, their sanxian blending gorgeously with the piano, crafting an eerie atmosphere into the hall. They are joined by a quiet tremolo from what Nemesis can only assume is a violin.

The lights lower.

Lusitania Renwick is radiant, approaching Fitzroy with the look of melancholy on her face. “Father,” she says, in a voice quiet and unlike the Lusitania Nemesis had met backstage, “Anna and I have received invitations to Cai Fang’s annual ball. I know we do not have the money to travel, but I will work hard, if it means this small amount of excitement in my average life.”

He has to stop himself from laughing. That Tobias Fitzroy in his silk cravat, and Lusitania Renwick with her pearl dress, could ever lack the money to travel is completely absurd. On either side of him, Theory looks mildly amused while Callie looks baffled, glancing at Nemesis for an explanation that he can’t give without bringing the attention of the nearby viewers directly to himself.

And yet the theatre takes this at face value. Of course they do. Few in the audience have Fitzroy’s or Lusitania’s wealth, but none of them are poor, or even middle class. They want a heartwarming story of poverty laid out on a backdrop of excess and opulence. Their own lavish struggle, to watch over their caviar and champagne.

It sickens him.

“My beloved daughter,” Fitzroy says, voice filled with an insincere thoughtfulness. “Though we have little in the way of money, I cannot stand to turn you down. My heart could simply not take it. You may have my blessing but I am afraid I cannot pay for your travels.”

“Thank you, Father. I will not force us further into poverty for the sake of this. I’ll tell Anna I can’t go.” Lusitania wilts, morosely making her way downstage, as Evelyn Chase enters from stage right.

“My dear friend, Anna!” Lusitania exclaims. “Forgive me, for I cannot attend the ball with you! For father and I do not have the money required to travel, nor could we afford a beautiful gown!”

Like the one you’re wearing right now, Nemesis has to fight saying out loud.

“How unconscionable! That a girl as beautiful as you – the most beautiful girl in the town - would be prevented from going to the season’s hottest social event!” As the two exchange unnaturally-written sentences, mostly praising Lucia wildly, Nemesis is beginning to question all the positive things people had said about Morgana’s writing. This is truly drier than an Al-Mushrite summer.

Finally, Walter enters stage left. He grins charmingly at the two girls. “Why, forgive me! I couldn’t help but notice such a gorgeous woman!” He grabs both of Lusitania's hands, and Nemesis rolls his eyes to himself. Yet another story based around superficial attraction at first sight. A handsome boy sees a beautiful girl, and they fall in love. If only that was how it was.

He doesn’t know much about love, but he knows it isn’t that.

“Well…” Lusitania looks up at Walter. Nemesis observes with a amusement that when they had been backstage, Lusitania had actually looked taller than Walter. He supposes he must be wearing platform shoes, to preserve the fantasy. “You’re forgiven. But I think you might be overestimating my beauty…”

“By all means, no! You are the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on! All the world’s beauties could not compare to the one in front of me!” His brow furrows in concern. If nothing else, Nemesis thinks, Walter is quite a good actor. He plays the role of the dashing, handsome idiot quite well. No matter what, Nemesis can’t help but be a little endeared by him. It’s probably the freckles.

“Well…” Lusitania glances away, sheepish. She, too, is quite the actress, but – perhaps due to prior bias, and perhaps due to his line of work – Nemesis can’t see her as anything but grossly insincere. “Coming from someone such as you, I can’t help but be flattered.”

Evelyn’s character, no longer seemingly relevant to the scene, stands awkwardly, smiling a soulless smile as Lusitania and Walter flirt, achingly saccharine. Nemesis can’t help but pity her. She’s, by his assessment, the best actress on the stage at the moment, but of course she would be sidelined for the young lovers. For a brief moment, he finds himself wishing Lucia and Anna would discover their true feelings for each other. The writing is bland, yes, but a relationship between best friends is far more interesting than love at first sight.

Next to him, Theory is drumming her fingers against her seat. If he knows her at all, she’s probably thinking the same thing he is. Callie, on the other hand, looks as though she has never witnessed flirting before in her life, and isn’t sure she likes it. Which, upon second thought, is more than likely the case.

And then Walter exits, and Nemesis realizes he’s completely stopped paying attention. No huge loss, he supposes. It’s horribly soulless – in his opinion, it really is a wonder he’s still awake at all.

“Oh my goodness!” Evelyn exclaims, finally freed from her prison of irrelevance by the exit of the main romantic interest. “Do you not realize what just happened? That was Edward, the most handsome and eligible bachelor in town! And he’s invited you to the ball with him!”

“I didn’t know he was that important…” To Nemesis, angeringly enough, she doesn’t sound particularly enamored. Here she is, living her own love story, and she barely seems to care, accepting it with an elegant nonchalance.

And here he is, he supposes, being mad at a fictional character he perceives as ungrateful. But still, he can’t help but feel his hand tighten on the arm of the seat.

“But of course he’s that important. After all, he’s betrothed to Fang – the one who is hosting the ball!”

Lusitania’s face tightens with feigned anger. “He didn’t tell me he was engaged.”

“It’s okay, Lucia.” Evelyn puts her hand on her in-character friend’s shoulder, somehow acting out an incredibly convincing facsimile of sympathy. “He’s simply another rascal. He’s not good for you, and he doesn’t care. I’m sure any boy worth your love would immediately find himself attracted to you.”

Nemesis doesn’t think that’s how it works, but maybe he doesn’t share the experiences of a rich and beautiful woman who wears a ball gown to meet her friend in town.

“But I love him. I know we’ve only just met, but there was something in our touch… something electric, something beautiful. I can’t live without him!” Lusitania insists.

And Evelyn’s expression hardens as she scoffs. “That’s actually ridiculous. You can’t fall in love with someone you’ve just met.”

“But I have! And I shall die if I can’t be with him!”

She rolls her eyes at the audience. “Lucia, you always get like this. There will be another boy. You’re pretty, it’s fine.”

“But how shall I function without my true love?”

She places a tired hand on her shoulder. “We should skip the ball, on second thought. We can just spend some time together. Would you like to get dinner?"

“No!” Lusitania pulls away from her. “We must go to the ball. Because… I love him and he loves me! And Fang won’t stand between us!”

“I don’t think this is very healthy. Perhaps we should just relax? I’ll buy you a new dress, and we can go to a bar in town.”

Nemesis can’t believe it. This play… is turning into something reasonable.

“Okay,” she relents. “Fine. We can do that.”

Evelyn slings an arm around her shoulder. “I knew you’d come around. Come on. You’ll feel better in no time.”

The scene transitions. Evelyn exits, as a wall - one that looks not too different from that of the Theatre Obscura - shifts halfway across the stage. Lusitania glances up at it from by the pond, a determined look on her face.

“I don’t care what she says. We’re meant for each other.” And she begins to climb the side of the wall.

The scene shifts again. Inside, extras in beautiful clothing dance, swirling in enticing patterns. Near the back of the room, Shuai is in a beautiful gown, an arm linked with Walter’s, watching the ball unfold in front of her with a calm, satisfied expression. Lusitania, somehow, manages to enter the room without bringing attention to herself. Nemesis supposes he will have to stretch his disbelief pretty far. He admits, if he does, the scene is impressive.

So is the scene that follows, Lusitania finding her way across the dancefloor, caught up in the dancing and struggling to find her path. It’s a distinctive scene, beautifully choreographed and, in his opinion, full of hidden meaning. It’s the sort of thing he can use as inspiration. Perhaps in the near future, there’ll be a poem in his notebook about this.

Lusitania passes from arm to arm, crossing the floor like a leaf tossed by the wind. She finds herself locking arms with handsome male actors, but she perseveres – not to be deterred in her search for the man she’s convinced must be her soulmate. Finally, she finds herself face to face with the man she came there for.

Walter – Edward – looks shocked to see her, holding her hands as the violin swells and the piano rises to a quick, ear-straining crescendo. He can almost see Elias in his mind’s eye, hammering away at the keys with that passion that makes him seem not quite human, equal parts force of nature and marionette, with that blank stare in his eyes.

But this isn’t about Elias. Elias isn’t here, Elias is down in the orchestra pit, why is he thinking about Elias? It could be any pianist, really; anyone of sufficient skill could play the same notes and he wouldn’t be able to tell the damn difference. There is no reason to think about Elias, and the serene look he always has on his face when he’s left alone with the piano. Does he have that look now, when he’s anything but left alone? Nemesis feels his hands tighten on the arm of his chair again, feels the searing pain in his knuckles resurface, sees Callie looking over at him in what must be confusion because it can’t possibly be concern.

“Edward,” Lucia says, and Nemesis realizes with alarm that he’s just thought of her as ‘Lucia’.

“I didn’t think you’d be here.” Edward looks from Lucia to Fang, then back at her. “This makes things so much more complicated. I feel like maybe, just maybe, I might be a terrible person, and that’s not the sort of thing I like to confront at parties.”

“I don’t care if you are. I love you.” She leans close, into his chest. And Nemesis has to look away. He can only imagine how warm that feels, how secure. He feels an overwhelming urge to punch the nearest person, and to hope to the stars they would punch back, and punch back hard, and leave him bleeding on the floor.

But even though he isn’t looking, he can hear their voices, loud and clear. “That’s a very noble attitude for you to have,” Edward replies, “And it sort of makes me worry for your health in general. It doesn’t matter. I’m engaged. I can’t do anything about that, even if she’s not the love of my life. I don’t have any choice in the matter, but I’m not miserable about it. She’s enough. The marriage benefits both of our families. You have to find your own person. Someone out there will love you far better than I ever could.”

“No, I can’t, I can’t, I love you, it has to be you –”

“There’s no easy way to say this, but it can’t be me. As much as I want it to be. It simply can’t happen, even if it hurts to hear.”

He tunes it out, because he has to, because otherwise the tremor in his hand might become something more, and he has to struggle to disconnect. It’s just fiction, just a play. It shouldn’t be making you angry. It definitely shouldn’t be making you sad. Time must have passed, but Nemesis isn’t aware of it. All he’s aware of is the strange, uncontrollable concoction of feelings swirling around in his chest.

When he manages to look back at the stage, Shuai is confronting Lusitania. They both draw swords, and what follows is another scene, gorgeous in its execution. The two gracefully step and bob and weave through the crowd, still dancing, as Walter frantically attempts to get between them. For some reason, both have obtained swords somewhere. He supposes this is the swordfight Percy had mentioned.

It’s rather decent, as far as swordfights go.

But it has to end, just like anything else. And when it ends, Lucia screams as Edward is run through, collapsing to the ground in her arms.

“You saved my life,” she cries. “I have to get you to the hospital –”

“No,” Fang says, cold. It’s quite the departure from Shuai’s normal demeanor. As an actress, Nemesis can’t say she isn’t gifted. “If you stay here, he will die, and you will be responsible. But if you leave, I will save him. I am not cruel.”

“But –” Lucia sobs. “Surely someone will –”

The dancers around her continue their dance, silent and opulent, caught in their elaborate whirls and their rhythm. The piano continues its upbeat tune, careless. They won’t interrupt themselves for anyone.

And Lucia realizes what she has to do. She runs from the building, jumping down into the courtyard below, as Fang scoops Walter into her arms. With Lucia out of the way, she has incentive to save him, just like she promised. And Lucia keeps running and running, until she reaches her home, and she shuts the door. The music cut.

Of course, the play has ‘tragedy’ in the title. Nemesis has known from the start there could only be one way for this to end. Mortimer and Anna open the door to her room, and from the top of the stage a rope swings. Lucia, hair covering her face, dangles from a noose, surely of her own making. Dead silence. A momentary, agonizing pause. And there is a stillness on the stage, before the lights cut out and fade to black.

The bows begin. The audience provides a thunderous veil of applause. And still, Lucia’s prop corpse dangles there, an unsettling reminder of the play’s conclusion. Nemesis can’t help but think this had all been quite overrated. It had seemed disjointed and unsure, not precisely a masterwork. Lucia did not, at any point in the production, behave even remotely as a real person might. Nor did anyone else, save perhaps Anna. Though most of the acting was good, and the music and set were phenomenal, the script was a mess, and the main role was the weakest one by far. He would give it two stars at best. He wonders if this would be a worthwhile message to pass on to Percival Chase, or if he would merely come off as a killjoy.

The applause continues past any reasonable span of time. If anything, it feels as though it’s getting louder, making his eardrums cry for help. And that prop is damn unsettling. It looks so realistic, so limp and pallid and flesh-like, but of course, Lusitania is standing right there on the stage, smiling widely as she drapes an arm around Elias’ shoulder. Elias is offering her a painfully soft smile in return, though Nemesis isn’t sure if the pain is on his part or Elias’s.

The audience begins to slowly trickle out of the theatre. There’s to be an after-party in the foyer, as Nemesis remembers it, and they likely want to get there before all the food is gone. They probably want to ask the Fitzroys questions, too. After all, it seems as though they’ve enjoyed themselves. Was the play truly good? Is his hatred of the Fitzroys clouding his mind that much?

That damn prop keeps swinging back and forth, maintaining a tiny bit of momentum long after it should have fallen still.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he tells an exhausted-looking Theory, and motions for Callie to follow him. They both seem bewildered, but Theory leaves, and Callie follows Nemesis down the stairs and up through the aisles, to the stage.

After the entire theatre is emptied of people, another figure joins them. Percy looks at Nemesis with an expression he can only describe as deep dread. “... You had the same thought as me, huh?”

“What thought?” Callie asks, glancing frantically between the two of them.

Nemesis doesn’t respond to her, instead glancing to Percy. “You’ve lived here longer than I have. What are we supposed to do about it?”

“Make sure it’s real, I think. And then… We can’t just report him to the constables, obviously. But we can retreat. Work out a plan.”

“A plan for what?” Callie asks. Perhaps it’s understandable, how freaked out and terrified she is. The things he and Percy are saying must be alarming without context, or even with it. Nemesis supposes it’s definitely understandable, but he can’t respond, he doesn't have the energy or the words to make this any easier on her.

Instead, he grabs the nearest chair, setting it up on the stage with almost robotic movements. With his natural height – not extremely tall, but certainly not short – he can just about reach it if he stands on the very tips of his toes. He stretches his arms out towards it, carefully turning it around and removing its veil, gentle, so as to not harm it, nor disturb it more than he needs to.

Its skin is pale and clammy, tinted a nasty shade of thistle. With hands that struggle not to shake, he reaches across and gingerly brushes its sandy blonde hair out of its face – and its eyes, olive, washed-out, wide-open and terrified, as if permanently trapped in a waking nightmare, meet his own.

What he’s staring at is a woman. A human woman. An undeniably dead human woman.