Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"

[Kaigen]

Her feet stomped as she moved forward, arm out to physically grab and turn Dane around if she had to. "You don't get to break up with a person then be so fucked to make it their fault. That's on you Dane. You're not the victim here." Well, that might not be entirely true. But Dane was the victim for completely different reasons related to demonic Hungers. Not breakups. "Its not my fault you fucked up your relationship."

Naomi does, in fact, have to physically turn Dane around, something Dane clearly isn't too pleased about. "Oh come on, Brooks. You mean to tell me every person you've broken up with you've done the whole 'it's not you, it's me' routine, and meant it? Bullshit." She pulls her arm out of Naomi's grip. "And who said anything about it being your fault? Fuck off. Enjoy noodling with your new bandmate. I'm done caring what happens to her. She and her mind games aren't my problem anymore."

[Sophie Michaud]

"Oh the same old sad sack sob story," she says, momentarily stopped but still glancing towards an exit. "No ideas, no talent, no prospects." Stepping to the side, she motioned towards the door. "You looked like you had something worth working on, so I'll get out of your way."

Sophie can't help wincing. How many times has she heard those words? Not often directed at her, but enough that they always hurt. And words like that hurt even when Sophie was just standing on the sidelines, hearing them hurled towards the other members of the band - especially people who had gotten cut from the band.

The old band, she reminds herself. Not her band anymore.

The thought unwinds one of the little knots inside her, bringing relief - and surprise at the relief, and enough composure that she can offer a few more words to the pianist. "I know that feeling," she says, low and quiet. "But don't let them tell you that." There had to be a them, for the pianist to feel that way. Maybe not the same as Sophie's, but, there was always them. "Whatever you're working on…it will get there."

She offers something almost like a smile, and steps aside, clearing the hallway for the other pianist. "Take care, okay?"

[Naomi Brooks]

Naomi does, in fact, have to physically turn Dane around, something Dane clearly isn't too pleased about. "Oh come on, Brooks. You mean to tell me every person you've broken up with you've done the whole 'it's not you, it's me' routine, and meant it? Bullshit." She pulls her arm out of Naomi's grip. "And who said anything about it being your fault? Fuck off. Enjoy noodling with your new bandmate. I'm done caring what happens to her. She and her mind games aren't my problem anymore."

Naomi's eyes narrowed like she was trying to will them to fire lasers straight through Dane's skull. She had to be careful, of course. She was pretty sure that wasn't something she could do. But still, she didn't want to find that out randomly on the first day of classes. Dane couldn't possibly know the pile of shit she had just stepped in, how these kinds of accusations had a way of triggering a child of divorce that had to listen to her parents argue through the walls.

So yeah, all of this is to say that Naomi wasn't practicing the same kind of restraint as she normally would with bullshit conversations. Her hand balled into a fist, crumpling the pack of cigarettes while she was at it. "I don't make assumptions. And I sure as hell don't just straight up decide that the only reason my girlfriend would leave me is because she's fucking someone in another band. Or whatever it is you think is going on. Either way, you're wrong, you righteous ass!"

Naomi lifted the crumpled pack of cigarettes up, digging a nail into the opening until a stick of structurally dubious integrity pulled free. She looked as the flick of a cheap lighter made the her mocha cheeks glint with warm firelight. That first inhale was a mix of pleasure, defeat, and a small bit of disgust at the artificial taste of the menthol hitting all at once. Then she threw the rest of the pack right back at Dane's face. "So fuck your feelings. You don't come at me calling my band amateurs when you shit's so artificial even pop-punk bands think you're posers. Go sob to some Sunset Doctrine. And if you want to see Sophie, buy a ticket."

She made a point to press down hard on the volume button on her phone just as the tenor sax and trumpets really started to take control of Harry Whitaker's Magic Ritual, drowning out whatever further excuse Dane might have as she put the cups of her headphones back over her ears. Because fuck Dane. Then she flipped to her messages. The last thing she'd gotten from Sophie had been a few days ago. Some random bantering about new ideas and some concerns over Vic's latest band name suggestions. The last response was simply an emoji from Naomi of her rolling her eyes.

Naomi: You good?

[Kaigen]

She made a point to press down hard on the volume button on her phone just as the tenor sax and trumpets really started to take control of Harry Whitaker's Magic Ritual, drowning out whatever further excuse Dane might have as she put the cups of her headphones back over her ears. Because fuck Dane. Then she flipped to her messages. The last thing she'd gotten from Sophie had been a few days ago. Some random bantering about new ideas and some concerns over Vic's latest band name suggestions. The last response was simply an emoji from Naomi of her rolling her eyes.

Naomi: You good?

Whatever Dane says is lost to Naomi thanks to her headphones, reducing her to a pantomime of throwing up hands in disgust and resignation before turning to leave. Then a cold tugging sensation hooks into Naomi's gut, like a current she didn't realize was there until she tried to swim against it. Whitewater flowing full tilt into a yawning cavern that will never stop drinking.

The thought unwinds one of the little knots inside her, bringing relief - and surprise at the relief, and enough composure that she can offer a few more words to the pianist. "I know that feeling," she says, low and quiet. "But don't let them tell you that." There had to be a them, for the pianist to feel that way. Maybe not the same as Sophie's, but, there was always them. "Whatever you're working on…it will get there."

She offers something almost like a smile, and steps aside, clearing the hallway for the other pianist. "Take care, okay?"

"Sure," she says noncommittally, rushing away through the opening left by Sophie in a swirl of skirts and tangled hair. The practice room is now empty, mirroring the empty space in Sophie's head where the elusive rhythm should be. Mirroring the wake of a third emptiness that she hadn't recognized immediately. Something's eating away at that girl.

A crumpled sheet of music lies on the floor. It must have fallen out of her bag. Even aside from the crumpling, it shows signs of vigorous erasing and scribbling out of lines, wearing holes in the staff. A signature can just be made out in the corner: "Callista Roberts."

[Nico Rivera-Park]

It doesn't seem like Priyah is watching Nico, but as Dandeloosha drops like a stone through the wet paper bag of Nico's moment of calm, her lips twist into a satisfied smile. It isn't until his hands close over hers that she actually cuts her eyes toward him. "That isn't in your work contract, Rivera-Park." As if on cue, her stomach makes a mournful noise. She looks back at the screen. "Two conditions: You send me a copy of the receipt so I can reimburse you, and you put a stake through that burrito's heart."

As Dandeloosha spins to a close, Priyah jumps back in. "You're listening to KKAW, bringing you all the shinies we found on the sidewalk. Up next, HEALTH, ft. Nine Inch Nails: Isn't Everyone...is the title of the song, not a commentary on Trent Reznor's career."

Nico pretended to consider the terms very seriously before stepping back, fist slapping against an upturned palm.

"You drive a hard bargain. I accept." Smirking, he reached up and freed his neck of loose cords, dropping them into a milk crate half full of random equipment by the doorway. Taking a final moment to enjoy Priyah's signature brand of DJ magic, he waited for her to go off-mic before tugging the door open. Giving Priyah a quick departing salute, Nico stepped backward out of the room, letting the door swing shut.

Nico really wasn't looking forward to Sherlocking his way through multiple floors, half a dozen potential points of failure, rude-ass contractors, and the last 72 hours of blurred activity in pursuit of a solution to the signal issue... but this was his element. Much as he liked to tease Priyah for never wanting to delegate, Nico never felt right leaving a problem to someone else when he was there to handle it right now.

First though, breakfast burritos. He was getting avocado salsa on his. Avocado salsa with a side of avocado salsa.

[Kaigen]

Nico really wasn't looking forward to Sherlocking his way through multiple floors, half a dozen potential points of failure, rude-ass contractors, and the last 72 hours of blurred activity in pursuit of a solution to the signal issue... but this was his element. Much as he liked to tease Priyah for never wanting to delegate, Nico never felt right leaving a problem to someone else when he was there to handle it right now.

First though, breakfast burritos. He was getting avocado salsa on his. Avocado salsa with a side of avocado salsa.

Searching for a mechanical point of failure turns out to be not only tedious, but also fruitless. Every element he tests turns out to be fine. Every replaced part fails to make an impact. After a while it starts to feel personal.

And then, after a few hours of checking, things are suddenly fine. Nico didn't even change anything, the connection just suddenly bounced back, all sunshine and roses. A check through the network traffic reveals this isn't the first time it's happened—over the summer strange sporadic problems cropped up out of nowhere and vanished just as suddenly. There's no rhyme or reason until Nico checks the shift records that he realizes that every batch of gremlins coincides with Priyah's presence in the station. It's what just happened, he realizes. Priyah finally stepped out to let Alex get on with his Country Crow show (currently playing: "Good Luck" by Charlie Mtn.) and just as she left the connection recovered.

That's the weirdest thing: it's not like she has time to do anything. The moment she arrives, before she even has a chance to touch anything, the connection throws a shit fit. It's been happening without fail for weeks now.

[Nico Rivera-Park]

The good news was that they wouldn't need to put in any requisitions with Facilities. Trying to get them to shell out for "unnecessary" equipment replacement was like pulling teeth. Nico was well versed in the three b's at this point (bribery, begging, and bureaucracy), but it was still a pain in the ass.

The bad news was... well. Weird. Really weird.

"Huh... that's definitely not right." Priya's presence during the outages seemed a remarkable coincidence... the first two or three times. The further back Nico looked though, the more and more he couldn't deny that there had to be a connection. That seemed to be the only consistent variable across each incident. He briefly considered shooting her a text asking if she was stress-eating magnets, but thought better of it. If it was something physical it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what. If it wasn't...

... well, there were obviously other, more insidious possibilities rattling around in the shadows that could have something to do with it. That seemed both better and worse: it meant that Priyah might be in danger. Nico had to play it safe. Turning to his phone, Nico's eyes flicked back over to the monitor to confirm when the bizarre interference had begun happening, opening up a few tabs as he did to begin cross-checking local news outlets and the campus update board.

[Sophie Michaud]

As she watches the pianist go, the empty silence rings in Sophie's head even louder than her song had, echoing deeper and deeper until she can feel the bottomlessness of it. A shudder runs through her, but she pushes it away as she slowly bends to pick up the page that the other woman had dropped.

With a care the pianist hadn't used, Sophie carefully smooths out the page. She registers the name, of course, but her eyes only skip across that for a brief moment before coming to rest on the notes. What is Callista writing? Is it any good?

Then, finally, finally Sophie sits down at the piano herself, and pulls out her sheaf of staff-lined paper and pencil case. She knows she can't recapture the full magic of that song that danced through her head earlier that morning…but she has to try.

Scrolling hastily past those still-taunting missed calls and texts, she finds the recording she made earlier on her phone, and hits play. Her voice sounds thin and tinny as it sings the melody back at her - but it is there.

In a flash, the melody floods back into her mind, and Sophie plunges into it, fingers flying over the keyboard in endlessly iterating patterns. Her left hand feels its way towards the chords while her right hand scribbles down notation on the page; and she sings along under her breath, feeling the way the melody falls into place. Each harmony is a little ringing bit of rightness in her mind, as if she were straightening a picture that had gone crooked on the wall.

And yet….it's still not enough.

Sophie can feel the emptiness where that rhythm was, the counterpoint, everything that made the song pull at her. The melody is there, and now a few chords, too, and she will have to accept that that's all she can achieve right now. But she wants more

Her fingers keep going after the melody has emptied her out. Scales, exercises, etudes, familiar patterns that soothe her and steady her.

Only after those can she work up the courage to really look at her phone, and to think about other things.

Still ignoring those unread and unheard messages, she searches instead for information on Callista. Does she talk about her work? What kind of person is she?

As she's scrolling through the pianist's social media, a new text comes in, mercifully replacing the one from Dane as her most recent:


Instinctively, she starts to type 'yes!' with a string of cheery emojis. But somewhere between the star and the sparkly heart her fingers hesitate, pause…and backspace.

She breathes out, feeling the shakiness in it, and types something else, much more slowly:

[Kaigen]

With a care the pianist hadn't used, Sophie carefully smooths out the page. She registers the name, of course, but her eyes only skip across that for a brief moment before coming to rest on the notes. What is Callista writing? Is it any good?

As Sophie smooths out the page, what she sees isn't very good, but that's mostly on account of how little is there. Over and over, she started writing something, got a few bars in, and then scrapped the whole thing and started over. The fact that each attempt features a pair of melodic lines is reminiscent of exercises in writing counterpoint that Sophie is familiar with, but it's impossible to tell if this is merely a homework exercise or the first halting steps towards something more complex. It is in line with the conventional principles of counterpoint but never manages to move beyond that.

Still ignoring those unread and unheard messages, she searches instead for information on Callista. Does she talk about her work? What kind of person is she?

Callista seems to be more of a lurker than a poster on social media. She rarely posts selfies, though there are enough photos of the curly-haired girl, usually in oversized sweatshirts and jeans, that Sophie is at least confident she has the right Callista. When she does post, she's almost always talking in a cheerful tone about performing, though there are some vague posts that could be about composing, if Sophie reads between the lines. There are virtually no posts that reference a social life outside of music.

Early in the summer, Callista had posted excitement about the prospect of playing with the university orchestra. That excitement gave way to more and more frequent expressions of nerves as auditions approached. And then nothing for the past two weeks. It's not an unusual gap for Callista, but the fact that she never mentions the outcome of her audition speaks volumes.

[Jessica Callaghan]

Jessica Callaghan is not a big human being. When taking this into consideration alongside the amount of energy she expends just on enthusiasm, well, it’s a miracle the biology department hasn’t turned her into a research subject yet. What it does mean in practical terms is that she has to replenish that energy on a regular schedule. Normally, she’d have a bag of trail mix in her backpack, or a protein bar, a great big travel mug of coffee (extensively decorated with stickers, not all of them from Vic) or something of the sort. But this being the first day of school, Jess’s excitement overcame her practical side and she finds herself, mid-morning and unsnacked, with her stomach trying to eat itself just so it’ll have something to do.

After her encounters with Energy Drink Man and Campus Security Man, not to mention her text conversations with Claire and at least three other potential second- or third-besties, J looks up from her phone and realizes she’s not at all close to her first class. What she is close to is food truck row, a side street at the edge of campus where the local trucks park, since Coldwater’s exclusive food service contract with FoodSysCorp prevents them from actually being on campus. Clearly her nose was paying attention to her stomach while she was not.

A dozen aromas mingle and entice, but one truck in particular catches her eye. There’s a beanie at the burrito truck that she knows.

Look, she’s not stealthy. Even if it weren’t for her masses of jingling bracelets, the fact that she can’t stop herself from giggling as she tries to sneak up on Nico totally gives her away.

”Good morning!” she says as she comes up behind him. ”How did you know I needed a breakfast burrito?”

She’s already vibrating with delight at finding Nico on campus whether or not she actually surprises him. She’s literally vibrating. Back and forth between feet, bouncing on her tip toes, shoulders shaking to some tune only she can hear.