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louisetaylor · 2 months ago

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Hadestown fanfic idea that lives in my brain

Eurydice somehow finds out that Mr. Hermes has been singing the song, retelling their story, for a very long time.

"How long? How long? How long?!"

"Don't ask where, brother, don't ask when." And every time, it ends up being a tragedy.

"Every time you sing the song, you rely on Orpheus to save us all?" she asks Mr. Hermes. "You play the game by Hades' rules and wait for us to fail again?"

"It's a test," he tells her. "It's a trial."

"And I fail the test by doubting that we could survive the winter alone? I fail by selling my life to Hades to survive? Orpheus fails by doubting that I'd follow him out of hell? We all fail by not having enough hope?"

"Yes," says Mr. Hermes. "The dog you've really gotta dread is the one that howls inside your head. It's him whose howling drives men mad and a mind to its undoing. I sing those lines to warn him every time."

"So we're damned by being afraid of starving? Afraid of being alone? Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Hades, but we can't all be gods. You don't understand what it's like to be human. To need another chance."

"I fail every time I sing the song," Hermes says quietly. "Every time."

"Give me another chance," she tells him. "Let me tell the story this time. Just once. Wait for me."

"I will."

You see, unlike Orpheus, Eurydice could stand to be alone. She was no stranger to the cold, no stranger to the dark. Orpheus once made her see how the world could be, in spite of the way that it is.

She still has plenty of spite.

After Hermes' song ends, the workers gather in Persephone's speakeasy deep in the concrete heart of Hadestown and pour one out for Orpheus, wherever he is now. Eurydice finds her broken voice and says, in a voice cracked from crying, "Anybody got a match?"

Flick. The flame scrapes roughly into life in her hand, lighting her face from below and flickering in her eyes. Her face is young but set into the hard lines of someone old before their time. Her black eyes catch the flame like coals. The others are drawn to her. Orpheus could make you see how the world could be, but Eurydice knows how it is. And she's not going to put up with it anymore.

She hates being nameless on the assembly line, but...she likes Hadestown. She likes the bright lights, the heat, the smell of smoke. She'd like to keep it. They all have to go back to work on the wall tomorrow, but there's a hammer in her hand...

...and there's a crack in the wall.

#hadestown #idk something about it makes me mad #the tragedy thing where people are doomed for being human #for having any weakness at all #mr hermes #eurydice #orpheus and eurydice #almost feels like the story wants you to meet some standard #and if you fail to meet it then you're damned #it's not fair #hadestown headcanons #speakeasy #revolution #rebellion

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nichenarratives · 1 year ago

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Asymmetrical Atrocity

An Obscure Oneshot

Inspiration Art by Tracy J Butler

Mordecai Heller has done a lot of dastardly things in his line of work. He murdered the competition, tortured information from the mouths of gangsters and threw numerous bodies into both rivers surrounding Saint Louis, all at the behest of his savior turned employer. Atlas May is a discerning man of many accomplishments, one who knows when to conduct a business intervention to protect his investments, and when a massacre is the only way to send a message, which is what Mordecai manages alongside Viktor, his cohort.

The tom tuxedo appreciates swift, decisive action as much as the entrepreneur who owns the Lackadaisy Speakeasy. As such, he rarely finds grievance with expectation, carrying out every assignment with extreme prejudice and efficiency. Alongside Viktor's sheer strength and bulk, they form a formidable partnership that's seen the underground liquor spring swell in popularity, creating quite the business for the ever-ambitious Atlas May.

This is work Mordecai excels at, even prefers despite the moral ambiguity most would consider troubling. What he doesn't enjoy are the languid, supposedly quiet stretches of time between jobs, where he is forced to attend Mrs May's exhaustingly raucous parties. Sometimes, he can convince Atlas to let him work instead and buries his nose in the Little Daisy Cafe's books, changing expenses and stock to hide their underground extracurriculars.

But not tonight.

Atlas is out of town collecting his goddaughter - why anyone would want responsibility for a child that isn't even theirs is beyond Mordecai - and taken Viktor with him, meaning other than the band and Horatio, everyone to step foot inside the Lackadaisy that evening would be a potential threat to his wife's life. Atlas has specifically ordered his sharpshooter to stay close to her all evening, so there is no escaping it.

Tonight, he's Mitzi May's bodyguard.

While he never needs an excuse to dress properly, the tom had taken time to dress correctly for tonight; a black three piece suit over a crisp, white shirt, his trademark blood red tie pressed and carefully secured about his neck before it's tucked into his waistcoat and secured with a silver pin, a holster on each shoulder each containing loaded pistols (obscured under his jacket, for security), a knife in each garter beneath his slacks and of course, the piece de resistance - a pocket square matching his tie.

His wayward hair carefully smoothed down and pince-nez shined to perfection, he'd reported to Mrs May's rooms at precisely six, as requested. He at least feels at home dressed up - poor Viktor always looks ridiculously uncomfortable in a suit - even if he's dreading the actual party. He takes a moment to check his pocket square is properly placed before rapping his knuckles on her door.

"Come in, door's open."

The reply is immediate, but Mordecai hesitates on the threshold, hand still curled and raised uselessly in the air. He assumed she'd be ready on time. As such, the possibility of entering her room was not considered. He hangs in purgatory for a long moment, trapped between refusal and potential repercussions should anything happen to her in the next few seconds, then sighs and pushes the door open.

"Good evening, Mrs May," he greets upon entry, closing the door behind him before surveying the room. Not one to keep a clean house but hardly a slob either, Mitzi's room is clean but in general disarray; her bed isn't made, the closet hangs open, and her vanity table is cluttered with numerous vials, pots, lipsticks and more he doesn't care to identify. "It's time to welcome your esteemed guests into the Lackadaisy Speakeasy."

Mitzi sits at her vanity, leaning close to finish her makeup. She doesn't look over when Mordecai walks in, but an eye does track his reflection. "Of course," she says, pausing to dab her finest brush into the liquid eyeliner bottle. Satisfied it's sufficiently soaked, she raises it back to her face and returns her gaze to the ceiling. "I'm just finishing up, sweetie. Take a seat if you like."

Pale lips curl into a grimace. "No, thank you," he refuses, as politely as he can manage. Mordecai has no idea when she last changed the sheets - he prefers to change his weekly, when possible - nor if she's ever dusted. He doesn't intend to find out by coating his pristine suit in dust. His tail flicks slightly in agitation as he stays by the door. "I'll wait here."

"Suit yourself," Mitzi responds, accustomed to the odd tom after years of his service. She once tried to loosen the man up by asking about his family, but that only seemed to make him more distant. Since then, she's left Mordecai to his own devices, allowing Atlas to handle his peculiarities. Her own interactions with the tuxedo cat are more for entertainment than friendship now. "Are you going to dance tonight? I've invited plenty of young ladies who'd love to-"

"I'd rather not be in attendance," Mordecai answers flatly, his chin lifted very slightly as he grimaces. Mitzi suppresses a sigh as she sits back and studies her eyeliner. Makeup is such a chore sometimes, but a necessity when you have an image to keep. Satisfied, she screws the cap back on the bottle and wipes the brush off on cotton wool, an ear turned to her bodyguard as he continues. "However, Mr May has requested my attendance, therefore it is unavoidable."

The dolled-up feline hums in agreement; Mordecai isn't an enthralling party guest, unless you wish to listen to a man describe the main differences between monocotyledons and dicotyledons in excruciating detail, all in a flat monotone. If she had a choice, she'd have kept Viktor. At least could be loosened up with a drink or ten. "Well, I'm ready. Why don't we take our delightful conversation down to the-"

Glancing at Mordecai's reflection, she sees his eyes narrow, and Mitzi releases a tired huff. "What?" She asks as she turns around to face the pedantic accountant. An ear twitch and a deeper frown is the only response she gets, to which Mitzi glares right back. Atlas might enjoy his nonverbal communication, but she finds it irritating. "Come on, spit it out, Mordecai. The guests aren't getting any younger."

"Your eyeliner," the tom responds flatly. Mrs May turns back to the mirror and scrutinizes her reflection closely, checking for drips and smudges, or misplaced drops on her otherwise flawless skin and outfit. She's practically going insane trying to find the problem when Mordecai finally finished speaking. "Is asymmetrical."

She almost groans. Almost. Why does the man have to be so peculiar? "Is that all?" She asks, waving off his concern to instead fluff up her hair some more, running fingers through the freshly washed waves. They slide effortlessly from root to tip, as perfect as Mitzi planned. "No one will care if it's a little crooked once they taste the liquor, sweetie. My darling Atlas secured the best from Canada in our last shipment. They won't be sober long enough to notice."

"I've noticed," Mordecai asserts, finally stepping away from the door to approach his employer's wife. "Respectfully, should I spend the majority of your precious event distracted by symmetrical sacrilege, my efficacy will be compromised."

Mitzi turns in her seat and regards her employee tiredly, only to shrug a moment later. "Eyeliner is a fine art, sweetie. It could take hours to get it entirely even on both sides. We can't leave our guests waiting that long, can we?" Thinking she has him dead to rights, the feline woman opens both eyes and smirks at her husband's golden boy confidently. "Unless you can fix them in five minutes, it'll have to do."

If she's expecting some kind of emotional reaction, Mitzi is sorely mistaken. Mordecai glances at the discarded brush on the vanity, then the uneven lines framing her upper lids. He's fairly sure a child could do better, but for once, the tom decides to keep that thought to himself and instead looks around the room. Locating a small chaise, he pulls it over to the vanity - much to Mitzi's dismay. "What are you-"

Turning over the seat cushion before sitting down to avoid the dust, he then raises his hands, palms open expectantly. "Your brush and face paint," he requests with his expression set seriously, flexing his fingers for emphasis. "And erase your attempts of both eyes entirely. I prefer a blank canvas."

For the next seven minutes, Mordecai leans towards the other feline, coaching her which eye to close, where to look and sometimes, informing minor technique corrections he suggests for the future. Mitzi stays quiet and complies with his requests, mostly from pure curiosity if he'll be able to paint eyeliner as cleanly as he aims a pistol. She's not met a man who can frame an eye right yet, so she might even forgive his arrogance if he does a good enough job.

The few times she does look at Mordecai directly, his gaze is intense and focused, fine lips pressed into a finer line in the depths of focus. Mitzi isn't sure he's ever been so close before - even when she was having him tailored for fresh, tidy suits and had to measure his neck ad-hoc for the collar. It's honestly disconcerting and she quickly looks away.

"There," he finally states after what feels like a year. Entirely uninvited, Mordecai takes a gentle hold of her chin and turns her head from side to side to inspect his handiwork. Taken by surprise, Mitzi allows him to do so until he hums in approval and releases her, only to grimace at the powder residue now on his fingers. "I will never understand the need to slather your face in chemicals, but it is now symmetrical, at least. I'll wash my hands, then we can go."

Taking the brush and pot when they're offered, Mitzi turns to the mirror to inspect his work and is pleasantly surprised to find he's framed her eyes beautifully. He even added a small whisper of eyeliner off the lid and extended it slightly to her cheek, giving the impression of fuller lashes when her eyes are open. Mrs May blinks, tilting her head from side to side, marveling at how fine it is and indeed, how symmetrical the quiet sharpshooter has managed to make them.

"Let's get this over with," Mordecai mutters as he re-enters the room, adjusting the cufflinks beneath his suit jacket. His eyes land on Mitzi, once again staring in the mirror, and an irritated murr slips through pursed lips. "Mrs May, while I admire your devotion to setting an immaculate visage in your husband's absence, there is only so much superficial modification careful artistry can achieve. Let's go."

It was in that moment, as Mordecai stalked for the door to hold it open like the gentlemanly type he certainly had not just spoken like, Mitzi decided she'd convinced the girls that dancing with her reclusatory bodyguard was the pinnacle of high society.

Insert the ficus comic here…

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