The Immortal Deviator: Theater of Trapped Angels

Chapter 1

The theater supervisors haven't settled problems for the show's plot. All playwrights were there, even Chief Art Director Samirah Winston, head of Theater Nine and it's set department, figuring out what was best for this year's limelight.

I stood aside the dispute, my body centered onstage, hammering noises whelming the set. Pain started flaring from my ears after which I withdrew to the velvet drapes, far away from the chaos.

My name is Nigel Featherston, the scarred prince of great theatricals and the honored son of Theater Nine.

Everyone knew their family or what they looked like, something which I haven't ventured since I was sent in here. They've been telling me I had a big one waiting outside the walls after leaving me out on limb. Insolently, none of them appeared to watch my performances. Not my parents, not my brothers, not even my sisters.

I guess I was meant to be alone in this fierce universe. No one wants to be alone.

Sometimes, I'm perplexed about being free from this theater. If no one bothered looking for me, my only choice was to stay. They ought me than anyone else, and it was considerably a fact.

Then I had to remember it was everyone's direction to get out of Rondoure, and I know I needed to pursue the same. I'm just going to find out soon if my family was actually out there looking for me.

Since beginning my crusade in Theater Nine, I've never felt the kindred souls of one another. Not everyone cared for the masses.

We talk to each other sporadically gaining less than three acquaintances between years, some of us growing up as introverts and choose to walk away from the survival legions. It meant stirring away from conflict rather than lifting themselves from crimson.

Everyone had done it for a fraction of their life anyway. So had I.

No more than a week since I last treaded out the theater. I couldn't get out. We were strictly quarantined inside the theater thinking that it was safer inside.

It's an injunction mandated to us all. Nevertheless, the policy disregarded us young adults. Cargo would always be the lone reason for us to walk out the gates of Theater Nine. We needed the help we could get anyway.

To survive.

At the backstage, men lifted up monstrous props as I angled to the left corridor and recoiled from the drudgery. I found my way to the building's edge where a large doorway bordered the main theater from the East Wing, the set department's headquarters.

"Should I?" I thought to myself, clutching onto the railings gripped on the cold walls. It knocked sense into me that it word be dangerous, rather turning away from the doors.

"Or maybe I should..." Two out of three voices in my head nodded to the decision, luring me inside even if access was heavily restricted. It turned out I was easily convinced.

I entered the seminar room separating the two buildings. All the supervisors were out, and there were no surveillance systems installed anyway. The doors to the East Wing were wide open and it was absurd for anyone to catch me slipping in.

So I went inside at last.

The sounds of hammering and fiat died while treading this gypsum-clad hallway. If only I could shut the gates, the set department would make an ideal setting for a soundproof retreat. Nonetheless, my feet never stopped tramping around the unpainted cavern.

Before setting course, wind flushed into the seminar room and gushed beneath me. It whispered senses of trespass, the swift air talking to me while my feet crept faster. I was already deep inside the corridor.