Black Swan | Ghost & König [I] ✓

chapter 18

You were in fact not ready.

You tugged on the uncomfortable white tights that were so constrictive they probably took you down a pant size, and you shimmied in your tight corset, trying to make it as breathable as possible. You exhaled for a long time. It's been far too long since I've last done this.

You were nervous, to say the least. Your palms were clammy, you kept gnawing on your lips, and constantly scratched itches all over your body that weren't really there, a product of your new onslaught of anxiety. Your stomach churned.

Yet, you walked through the bustling backstage with ease, earning a couple of smiles and nods your direction, greeting the famous prima ballerina Clara Angermeier. You didn't have to be in the crowd to be aware that the Hofmann Theatre was packed full tonight, all excited to see the infamous Swan Lake ballet.

You don't know if you could bear over an hour of dancing while you knew König was sitting right and the crowd with terrorist, much less stomach the idea of Ghost going down to disarm a missile — the possibilities are endless; the Task Force has no idea what obstacles await them below the stage.

You swallowed dryly, raising an awkward hand to greet a fellow ballerina. You were never like this. You carried yourself with haughtiness and a fervent attitude of superiority amongst others, yet here you are, shaking like a leaf.

Were you losing your mind?

It made everything worse that your nerves were only intensified by the fact that people you actually cared for could be in danger. Yuck. You scowled at the warm feeling that plagued the inside of your chest.

"What's with the face, Clara?"

You almost leaped out of your skin, even managing to accidentally bump into a man covered in synthetic leaves. You furrowed your brows as he walked on, muttered a, "watch it, Clara," and you whipped your head around to the man that just spoke to you.

"N-Nothing," you replied. Did I seriously just stutter?

He quirked a brow. "Nothing?" The man was rather short, appeared to be a producer or some sort judging by the wires he had around his neck and the headphones with a mic he had on his head. His nose was abnormally large and his face was wrinkled to bits. His hair was thin. He scrutinized you, and then added, "You appear rather... nervous."

The two of you were conversing in German, the language feeling oddly foreign on your tongue. It is your second language, but you know it so well it might as well be your first.

"I'm not!" you said quickly. Noticing your outburst, you shrunk. "I-I mean... I just have a lot on my mind, that's all."

"You look... different," he nagged on. "Did you dye your hair?"

"I darkened it," you said. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit bitch cunt fucking fucker, I'm done for. He's caught me.

"You shouldn't do that so close before a show," he said. "I just saw you this morning. Did you do it in the afternoon?"

"Of course I did," you hissed. You shut your mouth after that. "Sorry, that was so rude. I'm really stressed out." I wouldn't have apologized if I wasn't pretending to be this Clara chick. This guy is dumb as a rock.

"Hmph," he huffed. He gave you a pat on the shoulder. "Well, Miss Clara, I am certain you're extremely busy. Your makeup isn't even done yet. I'll see you later."

You pursed your lips and nodded. "Yep... Bye."

You dashed off before he could reply.

Christ, that was close. You could feel sweat dripping down your forehead. This was nerve-wracking as it is having to go on stage in front of a thousand people to perform a ballet you haven't in years, but to go undercover as somebody else? That made everything a million times worse.