Andy Mientus - The Backstagers and the Final Blackout

PUBLISHERS NOTE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHORS IMAGINATION OR USED FICTITIOUSLY, AND ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR AND MAY BE OBTAINED FROM THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.

ISBN 978-1-4197-3865-4
eISBN 978-1-68335-637-0

TEXT AND ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT 2019 BOOM! STUDIOS
BOOK DESIGN BY CHAD W. BECKERMAN

THE BACKSTAGERS CREATED BY RIAN SYGH & JAMES TYNION IV.
THE BACKSTAGERS AND RIAN SYGH & JAMES TYNION IV.

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FOR THE COMMUNITY THAT KEEPS ME LOVING THEATER, EVEN WHEN IT DOESNT FEEL LIKE IT LOVES ME BACK. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

When you go to the bookstore or the library, find the Drama section (if they still have one anymore), and pull a title off the shelf, you may think youre holding a play. Thats understandable. The title on the front cover is the same title as a famous play. The playwright listed below is also the writer of that famous play. It may even have pictures from one of the plays productions on the cover or printed inside. It contains all of the dialogue, characters, and action of the play. But still, it isnt a play.

Nonsense, you say, but think about it: The bound paper you hold in your hands is merely instructions on how to perform the play, like a recipe or a user manual. Or maybe a book of spells is more like it. For, much like a book of spells, the words certainly contain magic, but not as they lay there, lifeless, on the printed page. For the magic to take place, you must assemble the necessary materials, prepare the space, dim the lights, and speak those words aloud with great feeling and intention. Only then do you really have a play, and only then do you begin to access the real magic that lies hidden deep within the ancient art we call theater. It is as old as anything we know in this world and is discovered and rediscovered, again and again, by each new generation as they pick up one of those books of spells, take it to a bare stage, and begin to manifest the play into reality.

There was a time though, very very long ago, when that magic wasnt hidden behind velvet curtains and masks of tragedy, when it was newly dreamed up, as most magical things are, by a young and curious mind.

The boys breath burned in his chest as he ran across the grassy lawn, away from the jagged black cliff, toward the white clay house where his mother was hanging linen out to dry in the perfect spring sunshine.

He shouted, Mother, mother! Come quickly! I have to show you!

The boys mother looked up from her work, smiling at her son, so easily delighted. What would it be this time? A particularly colorful beetle? Maybe a birds nest hanging in an olive tree? Her smile faded ever so slightly when she noticed for the first time how quickly he was growing. But she was warmed by the knowledge that as long as he still came bounding up to her, eyes glinting with excitement to share some beautiful thing with her, hed still be her little boy.

My darling, can it wait? Im almost finished with the washing.

I worked so hard! And Im finally done! He wasnt so much whining as he was singing with excitement.

Well, if your work is done, then, my goodness, Im sure mine can wait, she said, chuckling.

The boy beamed just the way the sun rose over the sea below their little cliffside home. He took his mothers hand and practically swept her off her feet as he charged back toward the cliff.

Careful, my son, the rocks! You dont want to send us both tumbling down toward Poseidon! She laughed, though the cliff did hang a serious distance above the churning, frothy sea.

Im not afraid of that old barnacle, the boy roared into the salty air. Hes going to be afraid of me, now!

Lets not boast, dear, she said, before mouthing a silent apology toward the dark water on the horizon.

The boy led his mother, not as carefully as shed like, down some stairs that wrapped along the side of the cliff, and soon they reached a landing. Mercifully, the mother thought.

Where the flat landing met the steep side of the cliff, there was a shallow rectangular outcropping that housed the mouth of a cave. The mother didnt love that her son had chosen this precarious spot as his secret hideout, but then, she was looking to hide him from the world as long as she could and a cave like this seemed as good a hiding spot as any.

Wait HERE! he commanded, darting into the cave, leaving her a blessed moment of quiet to catch her breath. He will be very hard to keep up with in a few years, she thought.

The boy emerged from the cave at a fraction of the speed with which hed entered it, because now his arms were overflowing with strange objects. His mothers brow furrowed a bit as she watched him lay out each item before him with a care she had never seen from her usually careless or carefree son.

Ive been working on them for weeks, he said. I didnt want to show you until they were finished. And now they are FINISHED! He waved his hand toward the array, inviting her to take a look.

His mother didnt quite know what she was looking at, even though her eyes were pointing in the right direction. A rod of metal with a glass ball at the tip. A piece of oblong stone with some symbols carved into the sides. A brick of wood with a groove cut into its center. A leather belt. A wooden box. And two curious scrolls.

Her confused eyes met his expectant ones. She didnt know what to say.

Theyre... theyre beautiful! I love that you are being creative. Maybe you can bring some of that energy to the kitchen; I think its time for lunch!

She turned to head back up the steep stairs when the boy cried, But you have to see what they DO!

Maybe after lunch, my dar

And suddenly the boys mother couldnt speak, because the sun had fallen out of the sky and their perfect spring afternoon was now a moonless night.

She turned back to the boy, terrified. He held the wooden block, his finger at the very bottom of the groove cut down its center.