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   There he was, embarrassed, perched against the bar and dressed in some gaudy blazer he was told by Micky would certainly not make him blend in with the locals. Paisley print, all yellow, gold, black and orange. But with that thick head of curls he could “pull anything off”, told by their rehab-incarcerated drummer, Linus, and with those curls he could get anything he wanted. Was he coming onto him? Highly likely. Elmo might have believed him, carried himself around with his chin high and an air of confidence if it weren’t for tonight...wallet lost at an English pub. He’d came out to do some research ( RESEARCH, we’ll call it, not an excuse to get drunk ) and familiarize himself with the area. Listen to some local British bands. Ogle over pretty British women. See what the area’s nightlife had to offer. But now he’s patting his pockets, all of em—jeans, blazer, the unconventionally small pocket on the breast of his t-shirt hidden beneath. “Always check the shoe”, another wise sentiment from their late drummer, but after digging into those laced up, beat-up combat boots of his, all he found were socks and hairy ankles. No sign of a wallet...not that he’d consider putting it in there, anyway. The bartender had been giving him a particularly hard time over it, sneering, granting him the dirtiest of looks as he twisted a rag inside of an empty beer pitcher. If it were a female bartender, all he’d have to do is bat his eyelashes. That’s what Micky did. He’d ring up Micky for help if it weren’t for that bartender’s watchful eye. “Oi, don’t think you’re moving 'til you pay for this drink, mate.” His elbows were glued to the bar. There’s the distressed rubbing of his thumb and forefinger over his beard as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. The twisting of his soul patch as dark eyes scan the bar for a solution, for help. He didn’t want to have to do this, but he saw no other choice. Leaning over to the stranger with their back facing him, he gently asks over the shitty drumming of the opening gig, very non-British,

He wanted to stay outside of small theater until the film began: alas!, he was not allowed. No one would be allowed into the theater from the moment the presenter began his speech to the moment the credits finally ran. That was part of the agreement for screening it as they are, free to the public, late into the night. He sits in the back row instead, frown hidden behind his face mask except for where it furrows his brow. The presenter drones on and on about the purity of early cinema, the last of the universal languages, and while Terzo appreciates the sentiment...if it was delivered any more dryly, he would have to walk out of the theater in protest.

Thankfully, then, the presenter turns her attention to the biographical. "As for the film itself...not much is known. Most of the team went uncredited, or used pseudonyms, likely inspiring or inspired by the rumors surrounding contemporaries such as 'Nosferatu' star Max Schreck being an actual vampire acting under a false name." A vague, polite chuckle ripples through the room. She gives a tight smile, waiting impatiently for the audience to simmer back down. Once it does, she adds: "Tonight's presentation actually pre-dates 'Nosferatu' by a few years, and its mysterious star is believed to be the 'real' version of that rumor. Although Max Schreck went on to do several films before and after 'Nosferatu,' tonight's feature film is the one and only piece of media credited to its star, Luca di Beneditto. Whereas Schreck's rumor is about a vampire staring in a film about himself, Beneditto's is that his performance as a vampire was so well-liked, he was turned into one.

"Ladies and gentleman, esteemed guests and colleagues, it is my pleasure to present to you--for the first time in over a hundred years--'Appartenere alle Ombre',. 'Belonging in the Shadows'!"

There's applause. Even Terzo claps, slow and sardonic, unnoticed. Then: the lights dim to black, and in that blackness, the world seems once again to hold its breath. There's the sound of whirring behind him, and then the projection starts, and the world exhales. Terzo sinks back into his seat and watches the memories of over a hundred years ago wash over the screen in black-and-white. The others in the theater enjoy the story for what it is, watching the film before them unfold: Terzo enjoys it for what it was, seeing instead the memories behind the film, everything that went into making it. Everything that came after. The credits roll, and only when the last name has been wiped from the screen does the projector stop its whirring, the lights coming back up and on. Terzo wipes away a tear he hadn't noticed from under his right eye--green beneath the contact, his "human" eye--and shuffles his way into the lobby with all the others, the small throng of humanity that witnessed his first and final act among them.

He's distracted by his own melancholy when his body collides with another, hard. Reflex acts before he can stop it, slightly too fast to be strictly human: he grabs the other by the arm to act as anchor before anyone falls. Isn't sure whose fault the collision is and doesn't quite care regardless.

He was far from the type to attend events like these, but his twin had begged that he attended. Surely enough he got himself dressed and made the way down to his throne, canes tapping on the marbled floor.

Hands are tight over his ears since no one is around.

he waited until the dog hopped out the car to close the door as he would head to the bar, miracle trotting along right by his side. as he moved to unlock the door, the dog would come to heel and sit by his feet.

miracle would perk up at someone now giving him attention, a small bark as if to alert dean that someone was trying to ask if he could be petted.

“Oh my God, why did I wake up with my heart pounding like this, and I’m shaking, am I dying?!” Luigi in mid panic finally realizes something, and lets out a slow breath.