Fuck. Again. From the top.
Mental count.
One two three one two three one two three.
One.
Two.
Three.
I start again, beads of sweat dripping off my forehead and down my face and down onto my drums.
Toms, cymbals, hihats, snare, bass. Noise crashing against my ears, reverberating in my chest, my heart racing.
I swallow back a wave of frustration at the way my hands refuse to keep up with my muscle memory and keep playing. I'm too slow, dragging my arms across the set, dragging the tempo.
I hit the crash and stop.
Fuck. Am I ever gonna get this right?
My ears are ringing. I'm panting like a dog, sweat dripping down my brow.
I've been at it for a month now, after the drum set finally arrived at the shop. I hastily set up the little room behind the checkout counter, soundproofing it, turning into a dimly lit enclosure for my music.
To say it's sparse would be an understatement. There's a single lightbulb swinging from the ceiling, casting a dramatic light on the only impressive thing in here, my set.
The whole place smells like sweat and dust. I really couldn't be bothered to take my time in making the room nice. I've never felt comfortable playing in nice rooms.
I spin my sticks around my fingers.
Still, nothing about this feels comfortable. My arms are too short, my fingers too stubby. I'm too uncoordinated. I used to have this shit on lock, but now it feels like I'm pushing up against an invisible wall tagged 'the limitations of a child's body'.
Getting used to it has been slow, I'm more talented at fighting than at playing music, but I'm getting there. I can play a few drum lines without fucking up.
It's only then, when my hands move on instinct, when I forget to count the tempo in my head, that I disappear. I sink in it. I feel the tempo as I would my own heartbeat. I live inside it, all other senses dulled as if underwater.
Reiko's work has been picking up as the last few weeks of winter bleed into the first weeks of spring. I've been seeing less of her this past March.
I breathe in and start from the top. Sticks on drums. One, two, three.
I think of my conversation with Lady Nagant often these days. Like an unwanted Christmas present I can't quite get rid of, an itch at the back of my mind.
She knows Reiko better than anyone else, including me. She said Reiko doesn't smile, which I found weird, because Reiko does smile, and how would the woman she calls her sister not know that? Reiko does smile, and she smiles more often now.
I first saw it when I cleared her little test, but now I see it everywhere. When I get stronger, when she cuts my hair, when I cook dinner.
Is she normally not like this?
I fuck up the hihats and stop, panting.
I tried to think about it, but it led me nowhere. It only reminds me of how little I still know about her.
She doesn't cut me apart anymore. Hasn't in a while. I long since stopped worrying about it.
I start again, my sticks flying across the drumset.
I don't understand why Reiko keeps taking assassination missions. Or whatever it is she does. We have money now. Clean money from the shop. Enough to where neither of us ever has to worry about money ever again.
She tells me it's what she does, but every time she goes out, I think about how it might be the last. That she'll die somewhere far away from here.
I don't want that. She owes me for all she did. She owes me. She can't die that easily.
I freeze, the small room suddenly quiet, empty when I'm not playing.
The bell at the checkout counter rings, making me remember where I am. Right, I'm still on my own self imposed shift. Mondays are usually slow days, meaning I can play my drums as much as I want between the occasional customers.
I wipe myself down with a towel, throw it around my neck, and walk out of the music cage.
I don't recognize the man waiting in front of the counter. Must be a new customer, and by the looks of it, he'll be coming back. His hair is a long, dyed blonde, or maybe it's natural? But he looks Japanese. Anyway, definitely a dad rock sort of guy. Probably really into Seattle Sound.
Looks familiar too, can't really put my finger on it, though.
He looks me up and down as I throw my drum sticks on the checkout desk. "You work here?"
I shrug, lending out my hand to take the records he's holding. "I don't believe in labour laws. Gonna be a problem?"
"Isn't that illegal? Who owns this place?"
"If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it or watch it fall, does it really fall?" I ask. "Same logic, dude, same logic."
He frowns but reluctantly hands over one of the records.
I look at it for a moment. Alice in Chains. Dirt. Quintessential grunge record. I look up at him and chuckle, satisfied with my prediction earlier. "Just now buying this?" I ask. "I expected a guy like you to own three deluxe versions at the very least. What's this for? Background tracks for a middle age crisis?"
While it fits his profile, Dirt is kind of a newbie record to be buying. I'd expect it from a fifteen year old getting into grunge for the first time without even owning a record player, not some middle aged dude.
He pauses, looking at me as if I've grown a second head, then he laughs. "Am I getting pranked? Is this one of those reality TV things? Real funny, kid."
I scoff, leaning forward with a grin. "Wooow, got your feelings hurt, gramps? A kid can't call you out on being a poser?"
"P-poser?" His face drains of color. He stammers, more offended by being called a poser than by being called a grandpa. "W-who are you calling a poser?"
I laugh. Wow, this guy folds like wet tissue paper.
"I'm just saying," I say. "If you want a record to play while you're going through a divorce, you should really be going for Ten by Pearl Jam. Make sure you give Black a listen, amazing song."
I really can't help myself. I consciously recognize that I probably shouldn't be doing this, but I also consciously can't bring myself to care.
I've worked retail for a good chunk of my life. Dreary environments. I felt like a clerk in hell. If I'm rude to even one of the literal demons, I get thrown back into a pit of financial instability. And you'd think people are actual demons after working in retail. Like the sole reason these people exist in the first place is to bring as much pain onto minimum wage employees as possible. Probably a quota for demons. Oh the horrors I had to put up with.
Now, though, because I'm technically the boss around here, and because I don't actually need to turn a profit, I can just say whatever I want. As long as it doesn't go too far.
Oh how freeing it is. Behind blowing shit up and playing the drums, this is my third favorite hobby.
The man breathes in, then breathes out. "Sorry kid," he says. He's oddly calm now. Easy going. I guess I just scared him, or maybe he realized he's letting a kid get under his skin. His eyes are surprisingly bright. "I didn't know you were tapped in. Still, I haven't been called a poser in over thirty years."
"It's never too late," I say with a smirk, finally scanning the record.
His eyes linger on my drum sticks. "You play?"
"Why? Wanna start a band?"
"I'm just happy to see that young people still like this sort of stuff," he says. "It's all heroes and technology nowadays."
"Oldhead," I whisper under my breath. He lets it slide. Maybe the goddess was right, maybe I just like being an asshole. "Yea, thanks. I'm still fucking it up constantly though."
"Come on, you're what? Eight? I could barely play scales when I was your age." He seems proud of himself. Well, I guess he does think he's encouraging a little kid right now. "You know, I have a daughter your age. I'm teaching her guitar. If I could talk to your parents, maybe you guys can play together."
Yea, good luck talking to Reiko. Does Reiko even talk to people?
"I'm guessing this is for her?" I say, giving him the sealed record. "A bit early to get into Alice in Chains, no?"
He chuckles. "Didn't seem to stop you."
I hate being a kid sometimes. Actually, all the time. I don't reply. I can't come up with anything funny to say. I am a stupid little kid.
"We have a point card system," I say. "If you visit often enough to where I learn your name, you get free coffee and a free Record."
"That doesn't sound like a points system. Also, are you sure that's good for business?"
Because it isn't, and no it's not. Nothing I do matters here, really. "Yeah, it's actually surprisingly effective. So, wanna sign up?"
"Do I need to sign something?"
I scoff. "Do I need to sign something," I say mockingly. "Just tell me your name."
"Punk ass kid," he mutters, then pauses, as if realizing something. "Actually, that's sort of punk."
"Punk is dead," I deadpan. Punk hasn't been punk since before I was born. A shame. Means nothing now. "Name?"
"Punk is no-" he cuts himself off. He just sighs. "Jiro Kyotoku."
"Kyotoku… Jir-"
Ah. So that's why he seemed familiar. Right. Well, alright, fine, whatever.
I slam my head against the checkout desk. Kyotoku jumps back.
Oh my gooooooood. Oh my god! Just hand me the rope so I can fucking hang myself! Get away from me! I hate everything.
I don't know why, but I'm reminded of that Vonnegut quote: 'everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt'. It's wrong!
Everything is horrible, and everything hurts!
Lady Nagant wasn't enough, so naturally, the world must tighten the noose and make me walk the gallows by throwing Jiro Kyouka's dad at me. I promised not to fuck with characters I know. Woefully late for that.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I'm living in Musutafu, so running into the main cast shouldn't come as a shock to me. Still, I can't help the way the promise of being reincarnated as a frog makes my heart race with genuine fear.
The notion is scarier than Reiko herself. Torture in the mortal plane is tolerable, torture in the afterlife is a horrifying notion.
I give Mr Jiro a cracked smile. "N-nice meeting you, sir. Have a wonderful day."
I leave him there with a puzzled look on his face and sprint to the bathroom to throw my guts out until nothing of the noodles I ate for lunch remains.
I hate this so much.
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A/N: We're still aiming for 400 powerstones this week since I've decided to be generous and not set the goal at 10 million this time.
Anyway, more canon characters! Rejoice!