The Rite of Spring [nixie/tchaiana][89th]

tchaiana .

"Adoration of the Earth"

Chandelier light twinkles gently off the heavy velvet curtain. The orchestra in their pet tunes their instrument, a cacophony of rumbling and trilling. The great concert hall of the Red Swans basks in a low, gold, dusky light. Only a select few of the small velvet chairs are occupied.

Behind the curtain, the set is ready. False palm trees bend themselves across a verdant landscape. In the background, the imitation of a volcano puffs smoke, and a dinosaur peers off into the foggy distance. A platform meant to look like a grassy hillock rises up-center-stage.

In the wings, the dancers gather. It is almost as dark as midnight; most of the light emanates from the house, though there is a little tin lamp clipped onto the quick-change wardrobes. The corps de ballet practices one of their numbers, whispering the counts to themselves. They tread carefully across creaky floorboards. While sometimes they dance barefoot, they all must wear shoes backstage, in case they step on a nail. Some of the dancers goof around, make ridiculous poses together in a mirror, murmur on about how school or training was; drink tea or water; check the prop table; polish their weapons; they stretch their bodies, shake their limbs to loosen up.

Tchaiana Adolphina perches her ankle atop a ballet bar and leans her forehead onto her knee, reaching for her pointed toes.

A boy strides up to her, a swagger to his slippered step, a cocky grin elastically spread between his ears.

“I'm busy, Dmitry,” she grunts.

“She's here.”

Tchai glances up at him.

“That was the idea.”

Yet a bolt of electricity shudders down her spine, into her veins. Nixie Summers, in the flesh, sitting in their very own concert hall...She's sure Madame Papillon is already schmoozing, trying to convince the victor of the benefits of a ballet- or dance-oriented career training regimen. Describing, ad nausea, the natural grace and athleticism of a Red Swan, not to mention the added aestheticism that's sure to please an increasingly choosy audience. Tchaiana's heard the marketing a thousand times before, whenever she helps Papillon canvas for new recruits-- “If the typical career is a truck, then a Red Swan is a sports car. As powerful as they are beautiful.”

This was the Red Swan's most important performance since its inaugural last year. The first time a victor showed interest in them – even in passing. If they could get Nixie's blessing, then they would receive more funding. More funding, more performances; more performances, more notoriety; more notoriety, the more the Capitol wants to see a Red Swan in the Games. Then maybe a reaping could be rigged, a volunteer strategically placed...And if a Red Swan should win, or at least get far in the Games, or at the very least be a crowd-pleaser, then the opportunities for the troupe are astronomical!

So, of course, the dance must be an adaptation of the Eighty-ninth Hunger Games. A tribute to Nixie Summers for her inspirational confidence, daring, and sacrifice.

Dmitry leans closer, his grin growing wider. “Guess who she's coming to see after the show.”

Tchaiana lowers her foot, stretches out the other leg. “The Madame?”

“I'll give you a hint: it's that chick playing Nixie.”

Her knuckles whiten around her foot.

Chuckling, Dmitry jabs his finger into her exposed ribs as he strides away.

A tremor goes down her other leg as she tries to root that foot to the floor. She sweeps her other foot off the ballet bar before she loses balance. Delicate, porcelain hands cling to the bar. Her breathing sounds like oceanic tides – in through nose, out through the mouth, again, again.

She closes her eyes, swallows.

Goes to the weapon's rack to get her machete.

The orchestra begins the prelude. All the lights fade; the only light is the little lamps in the orchestra pit. Mysterious, rather like the howl of a distant wolf, edging the audience into the ancient danger that awaits them behind the curtain. (Behind it, the dancers flutter into position.) It rises, and so do the stage-lights. The dancers are arranged in a circle, curled up into balls that unfurl, much like flowers blossoming out of buds, twirling as they unfurl. The weapons in their hands glitter. A beat of the drum – they step. Another beat – step. Beat – step. Then the drum rat-a-tat-tats, the weapons raise, they clash! Older dancers, including Tchaiana, are brought downstage, improvising their duels to show off combat technique; younger ones focus on choreography. Eventually, the dancers sweep themselves up in a long curve that winds its way offstage, until only four are left, all dancing together – Tchaiana (Nixie), Dmitry (Whiskey), and the girls playing Sinead and Tsara. So concludes the Bloodbath.

Sinead and Tsara wear white, and their motions are flowing, graceful, mincing, with a sense of martyrdom to them. Whiskey is heavier, the lines of his body drawing attention to Dmitry's masculinity. He wears black and red. Meanwhile, Tchaiana flies through the air, stretching her long body to its fullest as she flings herself from one side of the stage to the other. She wears navy blue with a pink flame motif. The costumes are meant to be metaphorical, not representative. And, of course, she wears a crown atop her head. It's not even the first act, but it's good for the audience to know who's the victor from the start.

There is a scene for every one of Nixie's fights. A moment for every kill and death. Nylon Gingham is given a brief cameo, chasing after Dmitry/Whiskey. A moment as Tchaiana dips Tsara's dancer in her arms, gazing mournfully into the spotlight, to represent the little girl's death. The music is slow in that scene, with a mournful oboe and violin harmonizing together. The corps de ballet prance onto the stage in fiery red leotards, their motions meant to convey the flickering of fire, as Bastian Fray dies. The mournful oboe wavers, lonely, as Tchaina/Nixie finds herself alone onstage, eyes wide, staring out into the darkness of the house--

She's watching.
Does she like it?
Where is she sitting?

Briefly, she searches, but it's too dark to see.

A music cue. “Cedric” prances onto the stage, machete aloft, a swagger in his hips. Tchai turns to meet him; their machetes clash as the orchestra's cymbals clash. On the surface, “Cedric” looks larger than Tchai. Her body is more length than anything, yet there's still a subtle power in the elegance. She holds her own. Another music cue, to remind them both that Tchaiana – Nixie – always wins. “Cedric”curves his body as he falls to the ground, and Tchaiana bounds offstage.

This is the first time “Nixie” is removed from the stage, but all for a purpose. A pas de deux between “Sinead” and “Zane” is necessary in the story. While “Cedric” was swaggering and “Zane” is slithering, Sinead is light and graceful, like snowflakes twirling down from the sky – only to melt as “Zane” cuts her down, her hand reaching up for the sky, chest heaving one final time before she collapses. “Nixie” appears atop a platform, spotlighted. Urgently, she rushes down as though to protect her friend. The fight between her and “Zane” is choreographed to be intense, hard-hitting, truly a climactic moment of vengeance as the music sweeps dramatically.

As “Zane” staggers off the stage, the music dims. All that is heard is a slow, solemn flute. On the platform ascends “Whiskey Finch,” now dressed all in black. Tchai turns, peers up at him. With the ominous flute, the audio from the Eighty-ninth's finale fades through the speakers. They dance in time with the dialogue. The strikes. The sounds of fire and screaming, as the fiery corps de ballet sweep onto the stage. The movements of the original fighters are adapted for ballet's typical flair – but, at its heart, it is meant to be a replica of Nixie's greatest victory. And, as the fiery corps de ballet close in around “Nixie,” she stands over Whiskey's corpse, holding her machete high over the “flames,” the thrill of victory plastered over Tchaiana's face. Drums roll. Tchaina holds her arms out to the sky, as the curtains and lights go down.

Panting, trembling, all the dancers gather for bows. Tchaiana stands beside Dmitry/Whiskey.

“Think she liked it?” she whispers to him.

The curtains open again before he can reply.

The dancers take their bows.