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

[Sophie Michaud]

Of course, Naomi's face could have expressed that understanding a bit better. Instead, her eyes narrowed like a cat before it sank its fangs into an offered hand, regardless of how well intentioned that hand had been. The glare was sharp, but not angry, and she looked back down at the drums to avoid letting it linger too long or let it affect the beat.

So instead, with a little flourish across the hi-hats, Naomi sank into it.

Sophie can understand Naomi's music; she can't read her expressions yet. An eighth-note falls out of place as her fingers briefly falter at the scowl, and her shoulders briefly tense, bracing against….something

But it turns out that the scowl is just Naomi, and Sophie can tell when her new bandmate's expression softens.

Her lip quirked a bit, a muscle twinging just shy of possibly giving a smile. The skeleton of what Sophie was working on was good. There was something in there too. Frustration..regret..hope? It was meant to be hope for something. Something that was buried in stress and anxiety and fear that was clouding the rest of the sound. Just hammer it all out until we get back to the joy then. Her ears perked as Sophie joined in, catching up to her tempo, taking it and running with it instead of trying to slow her down to the original measure.

But it wasn't just her melody to play. Naomi could have ideas too. Now that Sophie was in tune, or getting there, Naomi could switch it up, draw in a different emotion underneath whatever Sophie was projecting. Where Sophie was taking her time, Naomi would move a bit faster. Where she was being delicate, Naomi would be more aggressive. Not to fight what Sophie was doing, but to add herself to the mix, so that when they started to come together the sound would explode all at once.

Ok so maybe she was smiling a bit as the sounds started to sync. It felt good. Better than she'd felt all morning...

The drums' rhythm picks up - faster, more changeable, notes adding and subtracting and multiplying as Naomi experiments her way towards figuring out what the line wants to be. No matter how erratic the sounds are, though, they're always in step with the beat, and always in step with Sophie.

Then Naomi's drumsticks hit a steady pattern, and it chimes within Sophie the way the counter-melody had. Yes; it works. The universe feels better, like there had been an itch in Sophie's mind that is now fading away.

As a smile floats up to Sophie's face, her left hand keeps going, picking up the melody an octave lower. The top notes drop out as her right hand picks up her pencil, swiftly scribbling down the notation for Naomi's rhythm, a narrow line between the double-staffs of Sophie's piano score, trying to capture the moment of sound before it's gone.

But it needed more. Needed Jess. Needed Vic. Naomi knew when something was still sounding messy. The others could make it cleaner. Naomi was there to knock out cobwebs and get the energy up. Sophie had people she could collaborate with now. Not just play in a band with. Work with to make something. She didn't have to do it alone.

The percussion climbs towards a climax, and Sophie knows she should stay focused; knows she should be writing down every little bit - but she just can't keep her fingers curled around her pencil, not when there's music in her head clamoring to twine around the patter of the drum.

The dry clatter of the pencil skittering off the piano down to the floor as Sophie drops it would be out of sync with the beat if it could be heard at all under the rising music. Both hands free now to fill out the harmony, Sophie plunges fully into the music, matching Naomi's pace, lifting her line up with the notes in the same way that Sophie felt Naomi's line lifting her up.

Naomi let the cymbals crash, let the brass hiss in an echo as she rolled her shoulders and neck, setting down her sticks. Swinging one leg over the stool, she stepped around the kit and came back to the keyboard to see if she'd actually been any help. "You should show this to Jess next. She's got a better sense of the technical stuff. Be sure you write down what you want the song's lyrics to convey before you show Vic though or she'll turn this into another screamo experiment."

The crash-hisssss of the cymbals lingers at the end - and so does Sophie's smile. "Thank you," she says quietly.

Then she lets out her breath, moving back from the music into the real world. "Okay. I've only got a few words in my mind, but I'll try to put them together into something."

Only after it's out does Sophie realize what she has said. She's admitted incompleteness! It's not anything Sophie would have said to anyone in her former band. But somehow, despite Naomi's scowls, Sophie feels entirely safe saying it to her.

She takes the pages, now filled with pencil-marks recording their shared effort, and hands them to Naomi. "Take a look?"

Then she reaches back into the bag of donuts for that chocolate one.

[Naomi Brooks]

The crash-hisssss of the cymbals lingers at the end - and so does Sophie's smile. "Thank you," she says quietly.

Then she lets out her breath, moving back from the music into the real world. "Okay. I've only got a few words in my mind, but I'll try to put them together into something."

Only after it's out does Sophie realize what she has said. She's admitted incompleteness! It's not anything Sophie would have said to anyone in her former band. But somehow, despite Naomi's scowls, Sophie feels entirely safe saying it to her.

She takes the pages, now filled with pencil-marks recording their shared effort, and hands them to Naomi. "Take a look?"

Then she reaches back into the bag of donuts for that chocolate one.

"Hm?" Naomi hummed absently, as if the whispered appreciation had been completely missed. That wouldn't be too shocking - tinnitus may as well be a genetic condition in her family - but the way her eyes traveled from the notes Sophie had been scribbling to Sophie's face seemed more like she just didn't see the need to thank her for anything. This was what bandmates did. They worked together, built songs off riffs and threads one person left for another to pick up.

It was fun. Music was supposed to be fun.

Standing up to her full height, Naomi stretched out with her arms up over her head, the cropped hem of her shirt lifting up just a bit to show the barest hint of mid-drift before her arms settled back down to take the pages. Her brow furrows a bit. The words didn't look like lyrics so much as random phrases. Words wanting to say something, but just what still remained to be seen. "I'm not very good with words.." Naomi admitted earnestly, without a single hint of irony in her voice. "But they look good. To start I mean. Might be a good way to get on Vic's good side if you asked her about it." Naomi paused and thought through how that conversation might go, sighing heavily in response to a completely made up scenario that somehow she knew would be reality. "And if she gets to full of herself about it just hit her with a drumstick. That usually brings her down a peg."

There was a hint of a smile on Naomi's lips at the suggestion, but it wasn't entirely clear if it was because the suggestion of violence was a joke..or because she was a sadist.

Not willing to dwell on her lack of abilities where lyrics were concerned, Naomi cleared her throat a bit as she handed the notes back to Sophie and rubbed the back of her head. Her eyes drifted off toward the phone resting on the piano nearby. Her lip twisted staring at it. She could just take it. Sophie seemed like the type that would use face recognition to unlock her phone...maybe? Maybe not. Either way that would look bad. And Naomi was trying to be trusting. "So uh.." she started speaking, sinking down to sit on the piano bench and minimize how her height might make it seem like she was looming. "Anyone..thing..else bugging you? Besides your mom and the song I mean?"

'Smooth..' She could hear Curtis laughing at her in the back of her mind. 'The fucker'

Which of course caused the scowl to return.

[Sophie Michaud]

Standing up to her full height, Naomi stretched out with her arms up over her head, the cropped hem of her shirt lifting up just a bit to show the barest hint of mid-drift before her arms settled back down to take the pages. Her brow furrows a bit. The words didn't look like lyrics so much as random phrases. Words wanting to say something, but just what still remained to be seen.

Sophie's eyes couldn't help being drawn to that flash of dark skin at Naomi's waist as the drummer stretched. But she did not have the luxury of a complexion like Naomi's: Sophie's pale cheeks showed pink as her dark gaze skittered hastily away, back to the music.

She was just looking at the pages. That's all.

When Naomi took the papers, Sophie didn't even have that to focus on instead. Her fingers fluttered briefly in anxious aimlessness, seeking some sort of distraction. They landed on the black velvet choker that circled her slim neck, one fingertip running delicately under it before she folded her hands in her lap again.

"I'm not very good with words.." Naomi admitted earnestly, without a single hint of irony in her voice.

Fortunately, she could find some genuine distraction in what Naomi was saying - and genuine surprise, too, making her dark eyes widen. Naomi just…said it. She just said what she wasn't good at. Like it was nothing.

"But they look good. To start I mean. Might be a good way to get on Vic's good side if you asked her about it." Naomi paused and thought through how that conversation might go, sighing heavily in response to a completely made up scenario that somehow she knew would be reality.

And she offered advice, too, which made Sophie perk up. "Oh, really?" She was never sure how to act around Vic. Vic seemed slower to accept her - and the prickles seemed genuine more of the time than they were with Naomi. But if Naomi said that this was how to open up communication with Vic, then Sophie would absolutely do what she said.

"And if she gets to full of herself about it just hit her with a drumstick. That usually brings her down a peg." There was a hint of a smile on Naomi's lips at the suggestion, but it wasn't entirely clear if it was because the suggestion of violence was a joke..or because she was a sadist.

A hesitant little laugh rippled out of Sophie. She was pretty sure that was a joke. Wasn't it?

Not willing to dwell on her lack of abilities where lyrics were concerned, Naomi cleared her throat a bit as she handed the notes back to Sophie and rubbed the back of her head. Her eyes drifted off toward the phone resting on the piano nearby. Her lip twisted staring at it. She could just take it. Sophie seemed like the type that would use face recognition to unlock her phone...maybe? Maybe not. Either way that would look bad. And Naomi was trying to be trusting. "So uh.." she started speaking, sinking down to sit on the piano bench and minimize how her height might make it seem like she was looming. "Anyone..thing..else bugging you? Besides your mom and the song I mean?"

'Smooth..' She could hear Curtis laughing at her in the back of her mind. 'The fucker'

Sophie reached for her phone, and hit stop on the recording that was still running as she scootched over slightly to make room for Naomi on the bench next to her. There was only so far she could go - their shoulders were still nearly touching.

Sophie looked quickly down, eyes focusing on her phone again.

"Actually…" She wavered - should she ask? - then let out a breath as she decided, "Yeah. I…got a text from Dane this morning. I, um." Her fingers fidgeted again, tapping amorphous rhythms on the side of her phone as she confessed, "I haven't had the guts to look at it. So could you, um." She wanted to look up at Naomi, but didn't dare take her eyes off of the phone. "Could you stay while I do?" Sophie asked in a very small voice.

[Veronica Tucker]

Nico stood, hand carefully holding the final box in place as he slowly closed his fingers around the back door. In one quick motion, he pulled his hand away, slamming it shut before the box could tumble free. As the boy fell just shy of successfully concealing how out of breath he now was, he pumped his fist triumphantly into the air.

”Phase one… complete. To the Batcave!”

Vic looks up just in time to see Nico's fist in the air, and practically throw the notebook over her head mirroring him with both fists. "WOO!" she cries. She waves goodbye to the employees who are already sick of this and heading back inside to cool off before climbing into the passenger seat of the van.

* * * * *

Vic is, of course, chattering about everything and nothing as they drive to the hideout over in the industrial quarter. But Nico actually listens. That's one of the things she really likes about him. Even when she's talking just to talk, he treats everything she says as equally important. At least as far she can ell.

She's a happy bundle of energy by the time they pull up to the old, red-brick warehouse they've rented as their practice space. The chipped yellow paint and big googly eyes of the baluster that marks their designated parking spot greets them, and Vic is the first out to greet it back. She bows ridiculously, hands in front of her.

"Domo Origato, Mister Balust-o," she intones seriously before snorting and patting it like a dog. For her part, she does actually help Nico get boxes up the elevator, but she purposeful sticks with the small boxes. The only exception is one obscenely large box that she shoos Nico away from to drag inside herself, making suspiciously sandy noises whenever the weight shifts.

Once everything is up, the montage commences. Which, of course, means Vic blasts Party Party Party by Andrew W.K. while Nico opens all of the boxes and hands stuff to her to decorate with because Veronica Tucker should never be trusted with sharp objects. A veritable onslaught of fake plants, fluffy rugs in various bright colors and an end table that would actually be tasteful if it wasn't the staging ground for various figurines that Vic just had to have now fill the space making it look surprisingly livable. Though Naomi would probably say it looked like a Carebear threw up in the place.

But the primary focus of the room, in which Vic spent the most time getting everything right, is a circle of five pieces of odd furniture that have nothing to do with each other. A hanging wicker egg chair with colorful throw pillows with sunflowers. A wide, plush, circular ottoman. An executive office chair with a recliner and lumbar support. A massive pink bean bag shaped like a teddy bear that was clearly the culprit for all the sand noises. And, oddly, a single, uncomfortable-looking bar stool with an orange clearance sticker stuck haphazardly to one of the legs.

"Welcome to the command center!" Vic announces proudly, striking a dramatic pose with her hands on her hips as she grins at Nico.

[Nico Rivera-Park]

Vic is, of course, chattering about everything and nothing as they drive to the hideout over in the industrial quarter. But Nico actually listens. That's one of the things she really likes about him. Even when she's talking just to talk, he treats everything she says as equally important. At least as far she can tell.

The van’s air conditioner wheezed spiritedly against the afternoon heat, producing a volume of noise wildly disproportionate to the amount of cooling it accomplished. Nico drove with one hand loose on the wheel and the other resting near the gearshift, listening as Vic pinballed between subjects with the tireless momentum of someone whose train of thought had no stations; only increasingly ambitious ramps. Not that he was merely nodding along. Nico was used to this from the front-woman of their intrepid little group.

When she circled back to something she’d mentioned ten minutes and four conversational detours ago, he generally remembered where she had left off. He asked follow-up questions, at one point offering a thoughtful “That’s fair, actually” to an argument whose opening premise had involved record-label politics and whose conclusion had somehow become a ranking of breakfast cereals by combat effectiveness.

At a red light, he glanced over at her.

“I still think Cap’n Crunch has reach, but terrible defense. One solid hit to the roof of his mouth and he’s finished.”

The light changed. Nico returned his attention to the road, signaling a turn while Vic continued. Loading everything up, his shoulders had begun protesting somewhere around the third furniture box, and every stop gave his lower back a fresh opportunity to submit a formal grievance. None of it showed beyond an occasional adjustment in his seat and the way he rolled one shoulder whenever Vic happened to be looking out the window.

By the time they reached the warehouse, he had learned several things of varying importance and at least one thing that was almost certainly supposed to have remained confidential. He filed them all away with equal care.

She's a happy bundle of energy by the time they pull up to the old, red-brick warehouse they've rented as their practice space. The chipped yellow paint and big googly eyes of the baluster that marks their designated parking spot greets them, and Vic is the first out to greet it back. She bows ridiculously, hands in front of her.

"Domo Origato, Mister Balust-o," she intones seriously before snorting and patting it like a dog.

Vic’s solemn greeting to Mister Balust-o earned her a respectful pause from Nico as he climbed out of the van. Rounding the back, he poked his head out to address the bizarre little totem himself.

“Your humble attendant begs permission to enter, honored guardian.” Offering a bow of his own, Nico turned his attention to the back of the van.

Moment of truth. Letting out a long exhale, Nico mentally prepared... and then pulled open the back door. Boxes immediately shifted toward him with murderous intent.

“Treachery,” he muttered, catching the nearest one against his chest.

For her part, she does actually help Nico get boxes up the elevator, but she purposeful sticks with the small boxes. The only exception is one obscenely large box that she shoos Nico away from to drag inside herself, making suspiciously sandy noises whenever the weight shifts.

Unloading went faster with Vic’s help, even if she exhibited a conspicuous preference for boxes that could be carried without engaging more than one major muscle group. Nico elected not to comment. He was halfway through maneuvering another load toward the elevator when she claimed the enormous box for herself and shooed him away.

The first strange, sandy rush from inside made him stop. He regarded the box. Then Vic. Then the box again. It was probably some kind of soft furniture or conversation piece; maybe a beanbag? Maybe one of those gigantic Squishmallows? Maybe the cremated remains of several enemies sealed in a cartoonishly large hourglass? Another granular shhhhhh answered him as the weight shifted.

“Nope. Don’t tell me. I enjoy the mystery.”

Once everything is up, the montage commences. Which, of course, means Vic blasts Party Party Party by Andrew W.K. while Nico opens all of the boxes and hands stuff to her to decorate with because Veronica Tucker should never be trusted with sharp objects. A veritable onslaught of fake plants, fluffy rugs in various bright colors and an end table that would actually be tasteful if it wasn't the staging ground for various figurines that Vic just had to have now fill the space making it look surprisingly livable. Though Naomi would probably say it looked like a Carebear threw up in the place.

But the primary focus of the room, in which Vic spent the most time getting everything right, is a circle of five pieces of odd furniture that have nothing to do with each other. A hanging wicker egg chair with colorful throw pillows with sunflowers. A wide, plush, circular ottoman. An executive office chair with a recliner and lumbar support. A massive pink bean bag shaped like a teddy bear that was clearly the culprit for all the sand noises. And, oddly, a single, uncomfortable-looking bar stool with an orange clearance sticker stuck haphazardly to one of the legs.

Once upstairs, Nico settled naturally into the role of quartermaster for the decorating offensive. He opened boxes, broke down cardboard, disentangled lights, and passed each new treasure to Vic for placement. Whenever she reconsidered where something belonged, he relocated it without complaint; even when its new home was approximately six inches from its old one. Vic had a vision. She always did... and even though that vision had a tendency to change more frequently than the seasons, it was best to let her see it through to completion. The end result was typically, if nothing else, certainly remarkable.

He also retained sole custody of the box cutter.

This was not discussed. It did not need to be.

As the room transformed around them, Nico stepped back periodically to assess Vic’s work with the solemn attention of a gallery curator. He didn’t tease her about the excess. Not much, anyway. The warehouse had started the day as a cold brick room with decent acoustics and all the emotional warmth of a loading dock. Now it looked unmistakably inhabited. More importantly, it looked like somewhere the others might eventually begin leaving pieces of themselves.

He noticed the five seats before Vic finished arranging them. Five... not four. His gaze traveled around the circle, taking in the sunflower pillows, the plush ottoman, the aggressively supportive office chair, and the enormous pink teddy-bear beanbag whose earlier noises were no longer the stuff of sinister speculation. Finally, his eyes came to rest on the solitary bar stool, complete with its crooked orange clearance sticker.

For just a moment, his smile softened. The furniture was mismatched, ridiculous, and selected according to a logic he couldn’t entirely follow. But the circle had five places in it. Despite their friendship, Nico knew he wasn't a central member of the group. He wasn't in the band, and when it came to the dangerous stuff, he didn't have any of the amazing abilities the others did... but Vic had counted him all the same.

"Welcome to the command center!" Vic announces proudly, striking a dramatic pose with her hands on her hips as she grins at Nico.

Nico looked around once more, adopting the grave expression of an officer inspecting a vital military installation.

“Excellent work. Strong sight lines. Excellent morale potential. Minimal respect for any known school of interior design.” He approached the bar stool and peeled at one corner of the clearance sticker, only succeeding in tearing off a tiny orange triangle. “And I see the procurement committee spared no expense on my tactical command throne.” With exaggerated ceremony, he mounted the stool and immediately discovered that one leg was shorter than the others. It rocked beneath him with a sharp clack. Nico froze, one hand raised for balance, then carefully planted both feet on the floor. “Built-in threat-detection system,” he concluded. “Keeps me alert.”

Nico's grin widened as he looked back at Vic.

“Seriously, though? This is good Vic. It's starting to feel like ours now.”