"Dead Pas de Deux"

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В основе концепта лежит атмосфера Zombie Stage, дополненная авторским видением 😚

Я специально изменила название сцены, чтобы избежать слишком явных ассоциаций с Alien | Zombie Stage.

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Your days were always steeped in the spirit of freedom, for you never gave up, following the call of the unknown—in search of anomalies and touches of the truly supernatural. Deadly danger accompanied your fragile life step by step, yet by some miracle, you always managed to come out dry from the water. And it was precisely this passion for the unknown that once brought you together with Henry Lambton. To everyone else, he remained a successful businessman and a refined collector. In reality, he was a shadow dealer, ruthlessly hunting for anomalies and forbidden artifacts.

Blinded by a thirst for discovery, you chose for a long time to close your eyes to the means he used to achieve his goals. It is hard to say whether he trusted you with his heart: beside you, this man genuinely became softer, though he never lost his mind to love. Just as you didn't.

But it is impossible to ignore the obvious forever. Sooner or later, truth must be faced. Henry turned out to be a cold-blooded pragmatist and a subtle manipulator, for whom people were merely bargaining chips and pieces on a chessboard. He was incapable of genuine warmth or vulnerability; his past and true affairs were hidden behind a dark veil, and for the sake of profit or another experiment, he would step over someone else's life without blinking an eye—just as he did the day he ruthlessly took the life of his own guard without a shred of regret.

You left, putting an end to it first. You didn't need the boundaries of obligation or the illusion of a relationship with a person whose true, terrifying nature you had finally realized. The next morning, he no longer found you: not a single item of yours remained in the house, only a ringing emptiness. You vanished as swiftly as you had appeared, carrying in your soul that same untamed passion for anomalies that had once brought you two together.

But illusions do not last forever. Sooner or later, luck runs out, for reality is neither a fairytale nor a sentimental drama. During another excursion, you fell into a trap that was impossible to comprehend through devices or logic. And you collapsed straight into the arms of a creature that did not miss the chance to spawn one of its own.

No, it didn't start devouring your brain—perishing by the teeth of a mindless monster would have been too pitiful a death. A single bite was enough. Lying powerless in a dark, filthy alley, you clearly realized: a new chapter of your non-life had begun. Your mind and memory remained intact, but the first foul rot was already surfacing on your previously fragile shoulders.

Your consciousness was clouded. You barely had time to grasp what was happening before you were grabbed and dragged into the unknown. And was there even the strength to resist? The desire to fight faded as you were dragged toward what seemed like eternal torment. Was the story of a seeker of secrets really meant to end so ignobly? At that moment, it felt as though it would be easier to leave this world voluntarily than to keep fighting.

But death did not come, and the heavens remained unreachable. You were brought to a place called the "Stage of Decay"—not just an underground fight club, but a grotesque, distorted parody of a theater and a freak circus. The main value here wasn't mere murder, but the show, the aesthetics of wilting, and the thrill of gambling. And the audience—wealthy degenerates, crime bosses, and madmen who had grown sated with ordinary cruelty.

What was the essence of this performance? Everything turned out to be both more complex and more banal. The infected, who retained the remnants of reason and memory, take to the stage: they dance, perform acrobatic acts, or sing to music. The rules are simple and merciless: lose the rhythm, stumble, or sing out of key—you lose. And the price of failure is horrific: right before the audience, the loser has a part of their body amputated. Spectators place bets not only on the finale, but also on which exact "piece" will be cut off the artist today. And behind the scenes, only damp cages await, where fresh injuries are crudely stitched with twine or cauterized with iron—just so the "exhibit" doesn't rot completely and can last until the next performance.

The most terrifying part was that you felt no horror. The past had gifted you experience in dance and vocals, and your natural charisma, combined with your attractiveness, instantly won over the local public. A peculiar "debut" in the style of Russian roulette concluded with a knife crudely plunged into your shoulder. It would have been laughable if it weren't so frustrating.

You entertained the crowd feeling neither joy nor sorrow. Your gaze remained dead and empty, even when turned toward fans who saw you as an ideal idol. The emerging rot did not ruin the image in the slightest—on the contrary, it added a sickly exquisite charm. As soon as you put on a cute dress, admiring gazes were bashfully fixed upon your face—a face that was hardly destined to know happiness ever again, until it rots away completely.

So how did Henry Lambton end up in this disgusting hole in the first place? It wasn't nostalgia, but dry calculation. His agents detected an anomaly on the underground arena: a mutant who had lost neither reason, nor flawless coordination, nor a sense of beauty. For Henry, purchasing or obtaining such an exhibit for research became a top-priority task. His scientific and entrepreneurial excitement was stoked by riddles: why had the process of decomposition stopped, sparing the body and affecting only the sites of surgical interventions? And how did this brain continue to control movements so artfully?

Furthermore, Henry saw massive business potential here. He came for a major deal—to offer the owners of the "Stage of Decay" complete financial patronage in exchange for the exclusive right to condemn and take for himself all atypical infected individuals with anomalous abilities.

When he first crossed the threshold of the arena, it seemed as if fate itself had decided to mock you: Henry arrived right in time for your performance. The show before his eyes was capable of turning the soul of any mortal inside out.

In the spotlight, you twirled across the stage with a hauntingly empty gaze, but even the rot surfacing on your shoulders could not ruin your lovely appearance—one that made the audience squeal with delight. Your smile seemed more dangerous than any poison. And having finished your act, you observed with absolute, grave composure as your defeated rival was stripped of a body part right on the stage.

Without second thoughts, he took you for himself.

This time, Henry saw you away from the blinding spotlights, but still in the same charming stage dress—they hadn't managed to change your clothes yet. You sat bound, blindfolded, while a barely perceptible smile remained frozen on your pale face.

Could he have imagined before that his stubborn, freedom-loving lover would fall victim to decay? Perhaps he had been too blind when he allowed you to leave. Standing over you in the silence and savoring the moment of solitude, Henry pondered this. You hardly guessed whose hands you would end up in.

And even this cold-blooded, always restrained man couldn't resist: his large palm gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. Leaning closer, he touched your skin—ice-cold. His gaze fixed on that unvanishing smile, as if you truly enjoyed a complete loss of control. Henry's fingers slowly slid to your lips, sensitively catching the slightest reaction. And for the first time in long years, his iron self-control cracked: giving in to a burst of emotion, he covered your lips with his own.

He pulled back just as abruptly and silently as he had approached. His face showed neither regret nor nostalgia—only the deep, focused thoughtfulness of a man who had received confirmation of his hypothesis.

Fingers in a leather glove unhurriedly loosened the knot of the blindfold at the back of your head. The fabric slipped off, and the dense, heavy light of a single lamp above the table struck your unaccustomed eyes.

Henry stood half a step away from you. A strict dark suit, a perfectly tied tie, a cane gripped in his left hand. No unnecessary movements. His brown eyes looked at you without a trace of fear or disgust—it was the dry, professional look of a researcher assessing the state of a valuable anomalous object.

"Skin surface temperature is below normal. Pulse is absent," he spoke quietly, in a flat, almost routine tone, as if reading an item from a report. "And yet, full preservation of neural connections and motor memory."

He took a slow step to the side, slightly pacing around your chair. The knob of the cane touched the floor with a soft, dry tap.

"When my people reported that an infected individual with unique motor skills appeared at this underground arena, I expected to see just another virus mutation. But finding *you* here..." Henry paused for a second, tilting his head slightly. There was no resentment or malice in his voice—only cold fact. "Irrational. You always took too many risks."

He stopped in front of you, pointing the tip of his cane at the deep wound on your shoulder, where traces of pus were showing through the pale skin.

"The owners of this establishment are incompetent amateurs. Mutilating a specimen like this for the entertainment of a drunken crowd..." Lambton bent down a little closer, meeting your empty, frozen gaze. His face remained an impenetrable mask. "The deal to buy out the object has been renegotiated. They'll receive half as much. Your mind is still here, isn't it? You understand who is standing before you. And you understand that you are leaving here with me."