#fitzcobb

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There aren't a lot of radio stations in Rapture, all things considered. There's the Public Service Broadcast, which drones Rapture Reminders, advertisements and Ryan's own speeches on a loop. There's Rapture Radio, which plays both classics and new hits as suits the operator, Ronny Sterling, and his excellent tastes. And that's about it.

Unless, of course, you're in the know - in which case there's a bonus channel near the end of the dial. An island adrift in an ocean of static. Silas Cobb's private channel, which plays music smuggled from the surface, raw samples of whatever record is being produced there, or live impromptu performances. Whatever suits the owner of Fort Frolic's branch of Rapture Records.

It's not even a consistent channel, so seldom - if ever - do people tune in. None outside of Fort Frolic. The audience, therefore, is usually limited to whoever Silas gives the heads up to before he decides to broadcast some exclusive content, which is slowly becoming more and more contraband.

Specifically, Anna Culpepper's work.

Silas's justification is that, regardless of censorship or Ryan's approval, good music is good music. And that could certainly be true, but the fact also remains that Silas is a completely spiteful and deliberate bastard who gets off on pushing Cohen's buttons. Therefore, when the mood suits him, Silas'll slip some of his friends the notice that he'll spend a few hours playing contraband melodies.

Last night, he'd played some of Culpepper's older tunes along with one of his own, but it was a more polished cover than Kyle remembered hearing on a precious few occasions. And it's this curiosity that drives the aspiring pianist to visit Rapture Records that afternoon, after a long practice session with Cohen that has left his spine stiff and aching.

Kyle hisses as he climbs the stairs in Poseidon Plaza, brightly patterned tiles spinning and smearing into music notes before he rubs the palm of his hand across his eyes. He hurts and he can't wait to stumble home, but he has to know.

He's barely inside the door before he's storming to the counter, ignoring the fact that there's a customer checking something out. "That song last night - If I Didn't Care - how did you do that?"

Silas flicks a glance Kyle's way that's disarmingly calm as he counts out the customer's change. "Get in line, Fitzy. I'm a busy man."

Kyle crosses his arms, winces, and just leans against the wall nearest the register counter. He's about to insist on his information when Silas slips his free hand under the counter and extends a middle finger in Kyle's general direction. And normally that wouldn't phase him, it's almost Silas' way of flirting and more an invitation than a threat; but the digit is on fire this time.

Kyle shuts his trap.

Once the customer has gone, with only a guarded glance thrown Kyle's way, Silas turns on him all smouldering irritation.

"Mind tellin' me what's got you all bunched up, sugar?"

"Sorry," he prefaces, seeing as there's still a little flicker of flame across Silas' knuckles, "I was just-- how did you do that, last night? You were singing and playing guitar and piano, and maybe a trumpet, and I know you're good but you can't be that good-- not to play all of that at once."

"You think I'm good?"

Figures that he'd fixate on that - Silas doesn't even have the decency to look surprised, or even pleased. He just looks smug, lets the flames on his hands die out. Kyle scowls and rubs the tender muscles of his shoulder.

"Not at piano, no. Look, will you just--"

"Y'know, for a so-called prodigy, y' ain't that bright. I own a records store, kitten. Means I buy and sell records. Know what else it means?"

Kyle waits, lets the silence settle between them until he's sure that it's not a rhetorical question. Takes the bait and prays the hook isn't too sharp. "What does it mean."

"I can make the records, too, sugar. Record 'em, mix 'em."

"Wait, you-- you make the records you sell here?"

"Not all of 'em," Silas confesses, rolling up the sleeve on one arm. Kyle catches sight of a myriad of dotted scabs and scars in the crook of his elbow. "But most of 'em, yeah. The ones I played last night."

"That's--"

Flexing his arm, the older musician gives Kyle a sideways glance. "Incredible?"

He'd rather eat glass than compliment Silas twice in one conversation. Kyle bites the inside of his lip, imagining the pull of a metal hook and regrets asking. "I suppose it's your job, so..."

"You wanna record somethin' sometime?"

Silas pulls out an Eve hypo from under the counter, turns away slightly and injects himself with a smooth, sure movement. He tosses the empty syringe into a little box around the same place, slapping a bandage over the wound and leaning on the counter in that casual, sinuous way of his. "Not that I'd take the risk of sellin' it, of course. But I'd be fine playin' with you a bit after hours."

"Seriously?"

"I'm always serious, kitten," Silas drawls, giving Kyle a smirk.

It irks him to know that he's probably playing into some scheme of Silas' - and they're never good ideas, but more often than not he finds himself going along with them anyway. Today is no different.

"If you're serious, then... Yes. When would you want me here?"

His companion hums, tapping a finger on the counter. "Five before closing tomorrow, if you can make it. I know Cohen likes to keep his rabbit caged up."

"I'm not his rabbit."