FYOP/Scenario Chamber/A Night at the Opera/0200
Darkness greets you as the door swishes open, and you walk in hesitantly, your eyes fixed on a slit of light shining some distance away. As your eyes adjust to the minimal light, you can see boxes of dust-covered but vibrantly coloured props; the complex net of ropes, counterweights, pulleys of a fly system; a labyrinth of catwalks suspended silently above; a number of mannequins dressed in various costumes,– a pied harlequin; a lady’s dress in the high fashion of the 1750s; a feathered bird-catcher; a marble state of a stern noble of the 18th century; a haughty Chinese empress; a young geisha clad in dusty silk.
As you near the slit of light, which you now can perceive as a slight gap between two enormous velvet curtains, the sounds of an orchestra begins from the other side. Suddenly, a feminine voice hisses down at you from the catwalk somewhere in the darkness behind you and a fair ways up. It is accompanied by a slightly worried whirring sound and the rustle of clothes falling to the floor next to you.
“What are you doing? Put those on quick! We’ve only got a few minutes till the overture finishes and the curtains come up!”
You pick up the clothes to find a costume not unlike that of a cavalier, albeit simplified for ease of dressing – a handsomely patterned doublet with a soft ruff; a broad hat with a white plume; a dark, knee length cloak; a belt with a thin ornamental rapier. You quickly throw on the doublet and the cloak, fasten the belt on, and pop the hat on your head, certain that you must look ridiculous.
Not a moment too soon, however. The overture finishes with a triumphant series of chords to thunderous applause, and the curtain majestically swishes open, bathing you in bright stage lights.
Blinking as your eyes adjust, you find yourself in the centre of a stage before a crowded opera house. You hear loud whirring from above as a backdrop unfurls behind you. Painted with lush but darkened trees, it is clear you are supposed to be in a forest.
Suddenly a cacophony of roaring and squealing mechanics assails you from the side as a green, jerkily writhing wyvern flops inelegantly out from one of the wings, spouting smoke,– clearly more than was intended by its designers,– from its open toothy maw. A pair of obviously ornamental wings shiver out of sync with one another, sprouting from it ridged back. Its beady red eyes glow as it takes one lumbering step towards you.
You quickly back away from the mechanical monstrosity, half in fear that it will attack, half in concern that it might explode: the noises it was making are hardly a healthy sign for any machine.
Suddenly the music starts up again, and a trio of voices from somewhere above your head causes you to take your eyes off the creature. A platform made to look like a cloud descends from above, supporting three exquisite women singing in affected but beautifully composed rage. Their elegant dresses billow like ravens’ wings in flight as they wave ebony staves at the dragon in unison. A flash of simulated lightning is briefly projected on stage as the dragon thrashes before falling limp, still smoking and twitching where it lay.
The platform reaches the ground, and the three women turn to you. Each wears a black gown layered with gauze and fabric that shimmers in the stage lights. The exposed flesh of their bared shoulders and ripe, girdle-trussed cleavage is inhumanly pale and smooth, their pretty features unnaturally symmetrical. Distinguishing them are accents of black, one whose eyes and lips are set in black mascara and ebon lipstick, another with a dark lace choker, the third with an obsidian pendant resting above the valley of her ivory breasts.
All three gaze upon you with lascivious smiles and begin to sing once more, as a flickering light flares to life in the audience as though from an antique projector, the translation of their foreign words appearing in the air before you.
“If I were to love another, it would be this man,” the projection displays as they sing. “Let us tell the Queen of the Night, he may be the one to help her!”
The three exchange looks, in silence. Finally, the one with dark makeup sings, “You two go tell her, I will watch over him!”
“No, no!” sings the one with the black lace choker, “You both go, I shall remain behind.”
“I will keep him safe,” sings the one with the obsidian pendant, “You both tell the queen!”
Their voices rise and fall in their operatic argument before a thunderclap silences them all. Gently drifting from above is a woman clad in a gown whose deep twilight purple descends into a midnight black, scattered sequins glittering like tiny stars. Her perfect alabaster skin is tinged with a glacial ice blue, shrouded in a chill, ethereal mist. The stage lights catching glimpses of purple in her hair, the colors of a fading sunset’s sky. Her song begins with a voice at that matches the commanding, gentle, and flawlessly beautiful form before you, entreating you not to fear her.
This diva, who can only be the Queen of the Night, looks at you, her face cold and imperious. The notes of her aria seem to tremble in the air long after she had ceased singing – they bear a mother's grief; a daughter stolen away by a foreign power; a charge for you to take up arms to save the princess from her kidnappers. The Queen’s eyes flash with a dark fire as she raises her head in stern challenge, a small spark momentarily flashing up her exposed throat betraying her mechanical nature.
"Will you rescue my daughter?" reads the projector, followed by words in italics – presumably to be spoken by you.
My Lady, I swear on my love that she will be returned to you, safe and sound.