The Dying Swan

Chapter 1

So I just labeled this fan-fiction! I hope you enjoy anyway! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 2, 2042 

(9:00 p.m) 

Alina did her bourrees off the stage after the end of the second act of Swan Lake. She went back down onto her feet for a rest, her ankles were swollen but she didn't much care, all she wanted to do was get ready for the next act. She hated to admit it but she was sick of dancing. 

This feeling came over her ever so often when she does the same old, cliche, dead, ballet that has been done so many times that she couldn't begin to count. Swan Lake was more than likely in the billions of times performed over the past 150 something years. 

The backstage area was filled with girls in swan costumes whispering to each other in English. Alina could hardly understand what they were saying but what she could tell was not very good. 

Alina hated it when the company went on tour and she had to come along. She didn't mind Japan or some other European nation, however, the America was not one of her favorites. The company decided to tour for the month of June all over North America, which meant that she, along with many other dancers, had to go to audiences filled with people who could never pronounce their names. 

She honestly didn't care what anyone said about her, if they were too afraid they could just shut up. Critics as well, all they did was tell her that she was perfect and just needed to worry about staying at the top. 

The crew did what they had to with their ropes while stage hands cleared the set for Act three. She couldn't wait for the ballet itself to be over with. She wasn't tired, but rather homesick. She missed her mother and she knew that the sooner she got through the next month the better. 

"Miss Pavlova?" A stage hand came up to her interrupting her thoughts on the way to the hallway. 

The stagehand had a headset and a microphone on to make sure he could keep in contact with everyone. He seemed like the average American man, clean shaven, rather big around the mid section, and as always that soupy smell she kept getting a whiff of. 

"Yes," She asked in her best English. 

"A man wants to talk to you, he says he is here to offer you a role," He replied. 

"Is he a director?" Alina asked with a new sense of interest. 

"Yes," Was all the stagehand responded. 

"Where is he?" She asked a second after the words slipped out of his mouth. 

"He said something about you're dressing room." He said. 

She wasn't sure how to respond so she just thanked the man and went through the metal exit door. The black door led to a gray and dull hallway, she hated this area, it makes the place look like a prison. Perhaps color? Or perhaps paintings of dancers and instrument's painted onto the wall? 

A few dozen people lined the hallways chitchatting about how dreadfully they danced. While Alina ignored these dancers, mostly focusing on how on earth a director ended up in her dressing room. How did this man, if it is a man, ended up back here in the first place. Was there not anything else for this person to do? Other than bother her while she tried to get ready for Act three. 

She jiggled the knob on the door to find it thankfully unlocked. As she opened the door she found the lights on in her small dressing room.

Alina walked into her small, semi-dark dressing room to find a man sitting in her table. He seemed like a director, a cold type judging by his face, he seemed to be at least in his mid-30s. He'd probably been around all over the world directing ballets by the looks of his wrinkles, stress.