Alex's POV
"Who the hell wrote this stupid play?!"
A loud, deep scream echoed throughout the auditorium, which was already filled with tiny spark-like conversations among people.
A pin drop silence panned.
Every single person in the room turned around to follow the source of the sound, which seemed to be coming from right side of the massive hall everyone was gathered in.
The place was as wide as two full-sized football fields. About a couple hundred crimson velvet seats donned it's glory, set across in circular rows, with a stage set in the center where acts can perform. There was big-scale stage with black velvet curtains covering the front and it had a laminated wood flooring that amplified even the tiniest footsteps. A sound as loud as this would reach every corner of the hall, which it did.
But, what are we doing in a classic theatre hall?
It's because I am a part of a play troop, fulfilling my role as a playwright, along with some minor side roles. I write simple plays which are performed by a group of actors every month.
Fulfilling many side roles, today I was acting as a light engineer. Standing in the middle of the staircase, I was facing the light department opposite to the stage, to ensure the spotlights are functioning correctly. The noise compelled me to turn back.
It was none other than him, again.
I was compelled to respond, again.
"I wrote it, what problem do you have with it? Do your part and then leave!" I yelled back at him at an equal volume.
"I can't work with this weird script!" He yelled back again. "Especially the character. Give me a better one." He said, turning his face away, in a comical way.
I let out a deep sigh.
This had almost become a part of my daily routine. He didn't comply to anything. He had problems with everything.
Today, he had crossed the limit of my tolerance.
I looked away for a second, hoping it gave him time to prepare himself for what's next. I then shot a sharp glare at him as a fury rose within me. I noticed he began stealing glances.
"I don't know what to do!"
I thought to myself as I rushed down the stairs, with violent intrusive thoughts racing in the back of my mind.
'Maybe I should just stab him with the metal bars.'
'Maybe I can just smash his head against the wall.'
But alas, it would land me in legal trouble.
In a jiffy, hopped onto the stage, brushing away the brutal thoughts and stood in front of him, seeing his stupid face up close.
I puffed out a heavy breath before speaking.
"What is your problem now?" I asked him, trying to hold my demons back.
"It's the character. He's too evil. Using love as a tool to get his way and betray the person?" He said, looking up at me, square in the eyes. "That's not fair, is it? I can't act out such a pathetic character."
"You know, this is more common than you think. In fact, love is the most common tool in today's world to trap a person and make them dance to your tunes."
I couldn't really feel my tongue and thoughts synchronised at that time. Words just flowed out of my mouth without prior warning, as if it had a mind of its own.
"You shouldn't have written it like this." He said with an air of authority. "Change the character or I won't participate in the play."
You? Me? Did he just tell me my work is not good? The troop manager Margie has never told me anything like this. Neither did any of the actors no matter how veteran they were. My fellow writers always PAY to watch my plays and this third-grade actor has the audacity to comment on my work? The utter disrespect?
"Get lost."
"Suit yourself."
"We'll find someone."
... are some things you'd say to an attitude like this in your workplace. But I can't say those things. He has the Margie privilege, so if he doesn't participate, the play won't happen. I had no choice, except for the last resort.
I glared at him again, while proceeding my steps towards him.
"If you don't like it that much, you're very welcome to write your own script." I said in a mellow, sing-song type of way, he shouldn't sense any fear in the other person. I snatched the paper from his hands, holding it high so others can see it too.
"Rrrip."
I tore the paper down the center.
"Rrip... Rrip."
... and a few more times down the middle.
After all, there is a border line to someone's patience, and he had crossed the boundary long ago anyway. It was do or die now.
"I'll inform Margie we have a new writer on board." I said, as I threw the paper bits into air, which flew down like confetti around us.
"I will not write this play anymore."
I heard the crowd behind me gasp collectively. But I didn't care.
If he has the Margie privilege as an actor, I have it as the writer. Without an actor, a play can be performed but writers are the heart of the play. Without them, no one can breathe life into these lifeless characters.
I felt a little at ease.
"Stop it."
"You can't do this."
I could hear him mumble these words but didn't bother to respond.
I walked away without turning back, down the stage. I wasn't as free as him. I ran back to the light department, to carry on with my pending work.
....
If this is the first time you're meeting me, then I can assure you that first impression being the last is definitely a very wrong theory. I am not a grumpy person.
You see, the place I come from, simply wouldn't let me live had I shown this kind of behaviour. Although I claim I am a common playwright of a common troop, my origins are in reality far from normal.
But that's a story for another day.
I don't even belong to this world.
The person yelling about my work isn't even a main character.
He's not even qualified to judge my work.
I'm not even here by choice.
Every day, he crumbles my patience by the crumb, like a tower built on a weak foundation collapses over time. Today he had toppled it a little harder. Extra harder.
'He's simply a side actor I was forced to partner with. Why do I have to bear so much?'
The troop I work with are all very friendly and adaptable people. They allow frequent holidays and enough time to let the creative juices flow to ensure high-quality output is prioritised. Moreover, my ideas align with the team so much that they don't ever ask for edits when I produce a piece for them.
Ah... Life was a bliss, until he came of course.
I am about sixty-seven percent sure that he has majorly become the cause of my blood-pressure being on the higher side everyday and my hairs greying prematurely.
Something about him irks me to this day, but I can't point out a real rational reason.
Maybe it's the way he speaks in a deep voice but has shallow thoughts to spew, the way his bright eyes glitter when acting, yet having an aura of narcissism when off-stage, the way his words sound mellow yet mean and blunt, all just put me off every time, since I saw him for the first time.
It all started about three months ago during those darned auditions, if I'm jogging my memory correctly.
It was a Monday morning, I was dead tired from a party the night before. I had come to the auditorium in my all-black hoodie and pants combo, and didn't bother styling my straight black hair, leaving fringes that basically covered my glasses and partially blocked my vision.
"Alex, what is this outfit? Some new Gen-Z trend? What do you all call it? Homeless aesthetic?"
A sweet voice approached me from the behind. I turned back and shuffled my hair a little to see the person standing before me.
It was difficult to forget that voice. Margie had a honey-like compassionate voice, that could melt even the coldest of the hearts. It could make even a person drowning in sorrow see the light of hope.
She was my manager and a genuine nice person, a combination often hard to come by these days.
"It's no aesthetic, I'm just super tired," I muttered in a droopy voice, and gave her a soft smile, which emphasised my little dimples and round cheeks, hoping I'm emanating a child-like innocence.
"Rest up well, eat something and please dress up properly once you're okay," She said, stealing a glance at her watch. "Make sure you're prim and proper by 11:00 AM today."
"11 AM?" I questioned, seemingly puzzled.
"Yeah, we're having auditions for our next play." She muttered softly. "I assume you're okay with screening people?" A soft fury rose in her eyes.
"Haha... Yeah, of-of course," I responded in a hesitant manner, throwing in an awkward laughter to lighten the mood.
"Well then, see you at the auditorium!" She beamed, back to her happy self again and walked away to her other affairs.
Though it may seem nothing to her, 'audition' was a major keyword for me. It's about fifty percent of the reason I'm here.
Remember the point I said I don't belong to this world?
Yeah, it's because the world I have come from is far into the future, amongst many developed worlds created by people to survive the trials of time. Though the reasons of its existence seems gloomy, it was the only place I had ever known as home.
It was a strange world nonetheless, string theory was celebrated on news channels, newspapers, social media and media, different worlds were connected by cyber-fibre strings, multi-dimensions were real, emotions were controlled and cherished, with love being the torch bearer of the list, as it was a force to reckon with.
People had no freedom to meet other people or interact with them as they like. They all had CUBE-iDs of their own, that controlled the way their heart functioned.
There was a widespread belief there.
"a heart needs to be controlled more than the mind, as the mind can be controlled but the mind of the heart always seeks freedom."
To enforce this principle, the CUBE-iDs were created. The CUBE-iDs were tiny cube shaped colored chips installed at birth of every individual. One of their main functions was to lock the part of the heart, that has the ability to think, Cube-Links, to direct the population to think more with their minds.
It was what your world would call as a dystopia.
Our organisation is set up on this principle, called Re-Connect. It is responsible for matching pairs and getting them together, based on the glowing CUBE-iDs inside of them. The CUBE-iDs are programmed in such a way that if a pair with the set cubes are matched, the locks on their hearts would unlock, and they'd be able to feel for the first time. As for us agents, we can identity them by checking the sync in the CUBE-iDs, if they are synced, there's a glow only we can see. The color of the glow depends on the type of relationship they are fated to share.
We were tasked with the responsibility of finding matches for each individuals, offering them a second chance at rendezvous.
Second chance at rendezvous?
Yes, we are a group of cyber-fairies who basically go through a million rows of data, looking for people who are connected by their CUBE-iDs in the past, and went through some trial of fate, causing the Cube-Links to break.
How is it done? Well, the auditions help here!
I'm sent to a scenario-like world where all people to be linked all have to take part in acting for a play, and I have to write a story of their rendezvous again, hoping they meet their purpose at the end of the process. It's simple, but effective.
Didn't understand much? Neither do I. I'm just saying things I heard from other people.
...
While getting lost in my thoughts, suddenly my phone rang. It was the alarm I had set for the screening. I jolted back to my senses and got up, remembering I had. to get ready for the auditions.
I walked to the backstage vanity room, and stood in front of the mirror surrounded by soft-yellow light bulbs. I picked up a hairbrush from the dresser and tried brushing my hair upwards.
"Darn this straight hair of mine!" I shouted, throwing the hairbrush on the table. "How do I even fix this?" I pinched my hair upwards, only for them to become flat. I started looking around frantically for a solution, till my gaze landed on something.
"Aha, there we go!" I beamed when I saw a hair gel on the couch. I picked up a wad of hair gel. "This will do." I said, fixing my hair backwards in a slicked manner.
I could see my face a little better. My dark brown eyes hidden behind large glasses, bright complexion with a tan glow and dark rose colored lips that were turned upwards into a smile.
"This should be okay," I said, pulling up my sleeves to reveal my watch. "I think I look intimidating enough."
I hopped to the auditorium as promised, sharp at 11, proceeds were about to begin and I quickly grabbed a seat in the judges' panel besides Margie. Lights were dimmed like a winter night and a spotlight switched on facing the stage, as I fixated my gaze on the stage with hopes that I'll find someone seeking to have a rendezvous again.
The first contestants appearance didn't fit the character description. The second one didn't have a confident voice. The third one couldn't memorise the dialogue. I was slowly giving up.
"Margie, where did you find these people? Did you even read the description?" I looked at her, shooting sharp glances.
"This is an open audition, usually the best talents are found here." She said, slightly tilting towards me. "Keep looking."
"Ugh... Fine." I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stage, with a frown showing on my face.
After a series of ten failed auditions, someone appeared from behind the stage, walking in and standing in the middle.
"I have high hopes from you, don't disappoint me," I muttered to myself.
"My name is Ben and I have come here for the role of Robert." He said in a confident tone of voice. "No one has ever rejected me, ever and I bet you judges won't, or shall I say, can't? "
I don't know whether it was the frustration built up in the last hour or it was the way he spoke, but he irked me really bad. He's come here for the first time and has no humility to spare? His talking simply gave me the icks, causing me to interrupt.
"He has too much attitude, doesn't he?" I turned to Margie, who seemed to be lost in his charm. "Margie!" I whispered loudly, causing her to jolt in her seat.
"What!"
She exclaimed, stealing a quick glance at me.
"He doesn't seem like a fit."
"He's acting very well though." She turned away, back to his performance.
But something kept telling me that we were inviting trouble.