MUSICIANS & GODS

Why would you be helping me? You're part of Villengard now. As I told you a very long time ago, I will not let you down, sir.

@ghostories / @mixtapc said:

mixtapc's arora / « Charlie? I do not understand Deckard. He claims his songs to be better than mine, but this is simply incorrect. His songs lack the element of: earworm. Mine, instead, keep playing in my listeners' heads for days after hearing them. It has been proved in many polls. Don't you agree, Charlie? I did hear you mutter my song before, after all. You are: proof! »

“ You got me there. ” The whole day over and over, just that line and the pop melody rolling in his head. “ It’s called a hook. Every song has one and a really successful one stays in your mind for a lifetime. Dex can think he’s above it all but don’t tell him Echolocator slipped into mainstream. Got lots singing the chorus just walking down the block. ”

The whole debate on ‘good’, ‘bad’ and the what else was pompous and arbitrary. Probably as old as music itself.

“ So long as someone enjoys it, it’s ‘good’ music. As simple as that. Make it as avante garde or as catchy as you’d like.” On sudden realization a smile lifted on his face. “I was writing the music for Dead as Disco when we were together. But after hearing what you and everyone’s cooked up from the last ten years I think I don’t have too anymore. ”

“ Wow. Talk about real improvement, Rori. ” He’s practically beaming. “ Just took being murdered for everyone to come out with some great diss tracks. ”

« Deckard music can indeed be considered “good” music, yes. » she wonders out loud, her cheery tone quite out of place. « I am glad for him! But mine is definitely: better. I think Deckard is simply delusional! Perhaps the best course of action would be to tell him the truth, before the realization makes him shortcircuit. »

❝ oooh, BIG STRONG MAN, puttin' me in my place. ❞ strelitzia smiles from the bar, already preparing a concotion of strong PAINKILLERS from the herbs she still has with her. she mixes the powdered spices in a glass of water, the color of which looked anything but APPETIZING. she makes her way to the couch like someone who knows they're going to get away with it. i mean, he can't exactly move, and he's too tired to pretend.

❝ last I checked, OLD MAN STIX OWNS THE PLACE. ❞ the cold glass is pressed lightly against the drummer's forehead, that she lets go once he does her the grace of holding it up on his own. ❝ plus, i've been here, what ... TWO HOURS ? i think that earns SQUATTERS RIGHTS. ❞

right, and he gets an obnoxious roommate for a night too. that's just great.

His words lose volume and get lost in the rhythm coming from the jukebox, his eyes closing, once again one step from fainting. Not even talking to another person seems to be able to keep him fully awake, a full repertoire of witty answers completely useless as he keeps fading to black; the cold glass though does the trick much better. Feeling the cool sensation on his forehead wakes him back up with a weary jolt, forcing his eyes open once again. It takes him a solid second or two to focus the object, and another few to manage to move a hand to take it, muttering a broken « Th'nks... ».

Sitting up is a much harder movement than he anticipated, but he eventually manages to despite the Encore spinning all around him. He leans back on the sofa, feeling the drops of blood running down his cheek way too good for comfort, and drinks without even daring to look at what's inside. ... well, tries to drink. The hand holding the glass can get up to a certain point, then the second one has to join in to help get the medicine to his lips. He grimaces at the taste, but keeps pouring it down his throat as much as he can. His arms give up when the glass has still a quarter of the medicine, and he manages to rest it on his lap instead of making it fall.

❝ i assure you, there's MORE where those came from. ❞ truth is, if she held her hands so tight behind her back, IT WAS FOR HER OWN SAKE. she knew this was a fight that she could start, but never finish. he could have let go of his kindness, and she'd be ground meat on the pavement. but if she held herself back, truly, IT WAS FOR RESPECT.

❝ HAD TO. ❞ the path back to the commune she had ran away from had been long, but TIME HAD GONE BY SO QUICK through her rage. she remembers the sandstorm sticking to her tears, grinding on her skin. and even now, as she hears the gentle rumble in his voice ( a faraway thunderstorm heard from the security of a warm bedroom, a distant car engine ), something in her WAVERS.

❝ drop the cuteness. I'M NOT YOUR CHILD. ❞ not anymore. not the same kid he had found, hands black in grime oil around a stolen tire. an old model, she was told after. collection piece. they don't make tires anymore.

« Am I the type for cuteness? » he asks with a half amused smile, shaking his head; then his tone drops, to a yet gentle, but serious one. « You are my child, Strelitzia. You will always be. Even if you do not care about the family anymore, it doesn't matter - I will always care for you. » It is not meant as an imposition or with hatred: his tone is gentle, genuine love in his words, the tone low as if that is something just for the two of them. Prophet never leaves anyone behind. No matter how far they might strive: if they look for a hand to help them, to stop their fall, he'll always rush to catch them. All of them.

The first drop of rain goes almost unnoticed. He's way too used to it, to really give it much importance - certainly not more than her and her words. Words that, despite their meaning, make his smile a little wider, a little brighter. Not his child anymore, and yet... here she is, warning him.

« So, I'm the next? ». His words come... simple. Almost weary, just a bit. « Alright. I knew he'd come, sooner or later. » He turns, taking a long look at the graffiti on the wall he just finished to work on. All roads that bring lost souls back to home. And if Charlie isn't one of them... His smile weavers, only for a moment. « Don't worry. I'm waiting for him. He'll find me ready. »