[Team Three] Cramped Quarters
In which Hypnosis Quest is turned into a 2.5d production with the characters playing their Hypnosis Quest selves. Samatoki is not overly impressed. Hypnosis Mic, T, 500w.
"Everyone out!" Samatoki bellowed as he crashed into the dressing room. "If you're ready, get out!"
A half dozen bodies scrambled for the door as an equal number rushed in. The opening notes of the interlude floated in through the door to the stairs. Three minutes, twenty-eight seconds and counting. He was going to murder the choreographer, or maybe it was the director? Whoever the hell had decided a full third of the cast could pull off complete costume changes in under four minutes.
He fumbled with his shirt buttons as he shoved his way across the room to the costume racks. He grabbed his new costume from its hanger, stripped off his old one to leave in its place, and sneezed when a stray feather tickled his nose. He was going to kill the costume designer too. He'd been tracking stray feathers, sequins, and bits of fur into his apartment for the past week, and his costume didn't even have any sequins or feathers. And don't even think about the glitter on Sasara's jester props. Samatoki swore the stuff could be summoned by a stray thought, and it was even more difficult to get rid of than dried blood.
He bit back another sneeze with a curse. If this kept up, he was going to smudge his eyes, and then he'd definitely be late. Or the director would make a note on her ever-present notepad and send him off to remedial makeup review or something before the next show.
The music floating down the stairs swelled to its first crescendo. Two minutes. He elbowed his way to his corner of the mirror. "Move over," he grunted. "That's my spot."
"But I'm using it," Ramuda whined from somewhere in the bowels of an overstuffed green dragon.
"You have a spot over there. Go use it."
"My tail's too big," Ramuda said. "I can't fit around the wardrobe racks."
Samatoki added the architect who designed the theatre to his hit list. Whoever had decided that eighteen people could fit comfortably in a single large dressing room plus a glorified closet had been sorely mistaken. "If you get in my way, I'm kicking you out," he grumbled.
Ramuda turned around and wiggled his tail. "If you zip this for me, I'll get out of your way. It's a little tricky without fingers."
"Fine. Come here," Samatoki said, and he added designing costumes with stupid mittens to his running list of crimes committed by the costume designer.
The zipper jammed, of course, and then he zipped his own finger when the damn thing finally unstuck. By the time he finally shoved Ramuda out the door, he was down to under a minute to fight the excessive number of buckles on his own costume.
He was still adjusting the last of them as he sprinted back up the stairs to the sound of applause. He burst into the wings just as the audience quieted and the opening notes of the next scene played.
Jakurai nodded at him as he slipped into place. "It's show time."
Ziskandra is up next!
"Everyone out!" Samatoki bellowed as he crashed into the dressing room. "If you're ready, get out!"
A half dozen bodies scrambled for the door as an equal number rushed in. The opening notes of the interlude floated in through the door to the stairs. Three minutes, twenty-eight seconds and counting. He was going to murder the choreographer, or maybe it was the director? Whoever the hell had decided a full third of the cast could pull off complete costume changes in under four minutes.
He fumbled with his shirt buttons as he shoved his way across the room to the costume racks. He grabbed his new costume from its hanger, stripped off his old one to leave in its place, and sneezed when a stray feather tickled his nose. He was going to kill the costume designer too. He'd been tracking stray feathers, sequins, and bits of fur into his apartment for the past week, and his costume didn't even have any sequins or feathers. And don't even think about the glitter on Sasara's jester props. Samatoki swore the stuff could be summoned by a stray thought, and it was even more difficult to get rid of than dried blood.
He bit back another sneeze with a curse. If this kept up, he was going to smudge his eyes, and then he'd definitely be late. Or the director would make a note on her ever-present notepad and send him off to remedial makeup review or something before the next show.
The music floating down the stairs swelled to its first crescendo. Two minutes. He elbowed his way to his corner of the mirror. "Move over," he grunted. "That's my spot."
"But I'm using it," Ramuda whined from somewhere in the bowels of an overstuffed green dragon.
"You have a spot over there. Go use it."
"My tail's too big," Ramuda said. "I can't fit around the wardrobe racks."
Samatoki added the architect who designed the theatre to his hit list. Whoever had decided that eighteen people could fit comfortably in a single large dressing room plus a glorified closet had been sorely mistaken. "If you get in my way, I'm kicking you out," he grumbled.
Ramuda turned around and wiggled his tail. "If you zip this for me, I'll get out of your way. It's a little tricky without fingers."
"Fine. Come here," Samatoki said, and he added designing costumes with stupid mittens to his running list of crimes committed by the costume designer.
The zipper jammed, of course, and then he zipped his own finger when the damn thing finally unstuck. By the time he finally shoved Ramuda out the door, he was down to under a minute to fight the excessive number of buckles on his own costume.
He was still adjusting the last of them as he sprinted back up the stairs to the sound of applause. He burst into the wings just as the audience quieted and the opening notes of the next scene played.
Jakurai nodded at him as he slipped into place. "It's show time."
Ziskandra is up next!