Aster knew that she would never be a mother. Such an existence was as distant to her as the stars were in the sky. Yet, walking with the group towards Cherry Lane Studios on that cold January morning, she couldn't help but feel she had joined their sorority in at least one way— watching the things you nurture grow up before you know it.

This was to say that to Aster, it seemed like only yesterday the band had taken its first few, innocent, wobbling steps. Awkward, fawn-like steps which for the longest time made it appear as though they would never learn to walk at all. In fact, so many times did they approach the brink of failure that Aster often questioned whether the Eden device worked at all.

And yet, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, everything had changed. Her bandmates now carried a serious air about them— at least in regards to the band's career— whereas before it only ever felt like they were helping her out of generosity and at Floyd's insistence.

Their recent practices had been filled with plans of what they would do when they were truly famous— if they could have their own movie, if they could play stadiums— all of which Aster knew were possible for a rock band. Yet, more tantalizing than even the possibility was the knowledge that they would be first.

This thought pushed Aster's heart to the brink as she fantasized about achieving all the milestones the legends of rock music past had.

As she idolized bands like the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Velvet Underground for their revolutionary tactics, so would the future children of Peppermint Plains look upon her and her bandmates with that same awe— she practically had to stop herself from drooling.

After that long night of songwriting, everything seemed possible. She and Cecil together had written what she considered some of her best work to date. She was certain that once the public heard their songs it would be like dropping a match in an ocean of gasoline— there would not be a solitary spot on the Earth where their legend did not burn.

She looked up at the small door which seemed so inconspicuous for the large studio inside. Inside awaited the naked reels of tape that would take the The Love You Forevers' scripture and change the world.

To say that she was excited that morning would be to say that Everest was grand, for not even the January cold nipping at her limbs could dissuade childlike wonder from surging throughout her body. She stood waiting in eagerness, sheet music clasped in her cold, red hands.

—

“Just one moment,” declared the voice of a young woman as Floyd depressed the intercom button.

“Now,” he said sharply, turning back to face the group. “We should consider ourselves lucky— nay— honored that we have been for even a second considered fit enough to hurl our unclean and undeserving bodies upon this hallowed ground!”

“A clown came in before us— I saw him as Sylvia was parking,” Cecil interjected.

“He was so cool!” Sylvia exclaimed, placing her hands on her cheeks in amazement.

Marion scoffed in embarrassment and drew away from the gate. “Not only do you want someone who can't handle how I rock to handle my skins, you want me to be seen with literal clowns?”

“Now, I am not going to have you—”

“I spend enough time around you as it is, Floyd!” continued Marion.

“Listen, I am not going to have you fools causing havoc in this studio!” Floyd roared, raising his cane high above his head. “That clown is a respected member of comedic society and is simply in his work uniform— same as any suit and tie you could see down the street!”

“Floyd, man, people are looking,” Cecil groaned, turning his face away from the street. Several onlookers— affluent looking, as was standard within the posh neighborhood Cherry Lane found itself in— were gawking at the beet-red man who looked as though he were assaulting a group of young people.

“I think they're calling the cops!” Sylvia said, watching as they briskly started to jog down the sloping street.

Floyd's eyes went wide and he began to strike the buzzer repeatedly.

“Miss, it's a tad cold out here!”

Cecil groaned and leaned his face against the gate, looking as though he wished he could melt through it.

However, though his reaction to Floyd's madness was par for the course, Aster could sense something was different. It could not be denied that over the past couple of days, his mood had changed. He was less combative, and the band's practices were actually becoming enjoyable for all involved.

Aster knew this had everything to do with their insane burst of songwriting, and couldn't shake the awe that they had managed it all. Just when she had all but given up hope, this world had wrought her fate back into the jet stream of the jet set.

That night of songwriting had ended with the proclamation that she and Cecil would form the Love You Forevers' songwriting core— and the agreement that all songwriting credit would be under both their names.

They complimented each other's weaknesses, although the embarrassment of acknowledging this consumed Aster in a scalding blush every time she thought of it.

The sun was peeking over the horizon when Cecil left early that morning. Aster sat at the side of her bed and wept, loosing all the horror she felt deep inside into guttural sobs. A weight felt lifted, and her hope rose like the sun bayoneting her dismal little room.

The experience of writing with another was beyond anything she had ever dreamed— beyond even the most starry-eyed notions she had of it— and there were many starry-eyed notions.

She couldn't explain it in words, the feeling of oneness it produced in her.

She clutched the sheets of music tightly in her grip— her future felt more real when she could squeeze it.

These songs were not just good, they were the finest pieces of pop songwriting she had ever done. She had come to Peppermint Plains expecting to bask in the fantasy of being a successful musician, but had never expected to actually improve her craft. This wasn't because she was vain, though she was very confident in her skills; rather, she had not been able to expect anything more from Peppermint Plains than wish fulfillment. The concept of simulated realities was not well understood in 2066— owing to the state's suppression of the topic— and as such, theory on their usage to improve the self beyond surface-level pleasure was almost non-existent.

Aster was experiencing a psychological phenomenon not yet known to the wider world.

She shuddered.

—

The aforementioned clown could be seen in the break room as they passed, his pointed hat peeking above the newspaper he held in front of himself.

“I hate clowns, man,” Marion growled behind bared teeth.

“Don't look in the mirror, then,” Sylvia peeped, scurrying ahead of the group as Marion tried in vain to smack her upside the head.

“Sylvia, don't run!”

Floyd looked near tears trying to reign them in.

The narrow, unassuming hallway leading straight to Studio A felt as though it was paved with red carpet. Every step they took seemed to drum up the heart beat in Aster's chest, until all she could hear was her own rhythm.

It was just another session to the staff at Cherry Lane, but to Aster, it felt like all the world should care as much as she did.

The assistant smiled and opened the door for them.

There, as well dressed as she remembered, stood Vincent behind the grand piano, holding a carafe in his hand.

"Good morning," he greeted brightly upon seeing them enter. His stately manner had not changed, and the group instinctively fell into a degree of calm at seeing the authoritative man.

They said their good mornings and filed into the room with all the excitement of a group of field-tripping kids, all stunned in wonder at the large room whose novelty had not yet worn off.

"Are you excited?" he asked, producing several tea cups and their respective doilies. "Today's a big day— a 12-hour session. We don't get many of those here."

A shiver crawled up Aster's body just hearing the scale of their task.

"Of course, sir!" Sylvia saluted. Vincent smiled at the little peppermint.

"Well then, I expect you all to put forth your best today. Let's make a real fine album, shall we?"

"Of course sir, of course, you rely on them!" Floyd shouted, falling to his knees. “They deserved nothing and you've given them everything!”

He arched his back in prayer, prostrating at such an angle he was almost perpendicular to the floor.

“Please rise, Mr. Childress, I'm just doing my job—”

While Floyd erupted, Aster wandered over to where Samuel was busy at work assembling all of the equipment that was to be used today.

“Hello,” he said as he saw her approach. The bushy-browed girl's mouth was slightly agape in amazement, her eyes hungrily drinking in every facet of the room. She had given it a good look on their first visit, but it seemed like everywhere she turned there was just more to discover— countless little analog artifacts and musical treasures.

Samuel was setting a black, metallic microphone with a barrel-shaped head in front of Marion's kick drum.

“Is that an STC 4033?” Aster murmured cautiously, drawing nearer.

Samuel's eyebrows rose, a look of surprise clear on his face.

“Yeah,” he answered with curiosity. “Their bass response makes them great for capturing the thud.”

“Dynamic mics are better at omitting bleed from the other parts of the drum kit,” she said quietly, inspecting the rest of the equipment around the kit.

Samuel was now looking at her in complete perplexity.

“Yeah, but we don't have dynamics in yet— they're expensive. How do you know so much about this?”

Aster blushed.

“Uhm—”

Holy shit, you idiot.

“Miss,” Vincent called suddenly, causing Aster to whirl around.

Sylvia was stuffing a granola cracker into her mouth, while Cecil sipped from one of the cups reservedly. Floyd was still prostrate on the ground and Marion was eyeing his kit which he thought Samuel was getting too close to.

“Why don't we have tea first, before getting to work?” he asked, waving his hand over the tea and crackers atop the piano.

Aster, although happy for the opportunity to escape, was beyond eager to start.

“Nothing happens until I have my tea,” he said, seeing this. “Besides, we need to discuss some particulars before the session, anyway.”

Aster relented and made her way over to the piano where Sylvia was now washing down the cracker with tea in one gulp.

“Coffee or tea?” he offered.

“Do you have water?” Marion asked.

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Aster took nothing, crossing her arms with a pout as she put herself in the middle of the group.

"Now, I wanted to discuss a few points before we started the session," Vincent began once he had corralled the group around the piano.

"Firstly, I want to reiterate that this is my studio, and as such you will abide by my rules. I like to keep things orderly and I like to run a clean shop."

"Oh!" cried Sylvia as her cookie broke apart in her hand.

"Secondly, this is a day-long session, so we will need to be extra diligent in adhering to our schedule. Your manager—"

Floyd gasped.

"—has informed me that your recording experience is limited, so please note that we will likely need many takes of each song, and will probably struggle to fit in everything before the end of the session.”

Aster snarled, taking great offense at the insinuation that her knowledge of the studio was anything but encyclopedic.

"We can handle it!" Sylvia exclaimed, showing off the callouses on her fingers with a little, wave-like motion.

"Yes, I can see that. But a lot of people don't realize how tiring it can be until they're in the reeds.”

“Look,” Marion said, puffing out his chest slightly. “You can have us record all night— we can take it!”

Cecil turned to Marion.

“No, don't say that,” he said, shaking his head.

Vincent smiled at his enthusiasm. The studio was only ever frequented by seasoned— that is, aged— musicians and conductors, and so being around such youthful vigor was surprisingly infectious. It didn't allay the great anxiety it also produced via the ever-present threat of the destruction of his studio, but it was a pleasant feeling.

“I'm glad to hear it. I hope you're all well rested, in any case.”

The band, who had scarcely slept more than a cumulative ten hours over the past two days in their hurried practice, nodded weakly in unison.

“So, what material do you have?” Vincent asked, bringing his cup to his lips.

Aster, whose hands had not let go of the music, lit up at this.

“Yes,” she answered proudly. “Fourteen originals,” she said, emphasizing originals because of how unorthodox a band providing its own material in the early sixties was— a point hammered home especially hard by Cecil, who during their writing marathon had expressed to Aster that there was “no way in hell” Kyrietone would accept an album from a fledgling band that did not have at least one song the general public would recognize.

Aster replied haughtily that they knew of “Johnny Vallerie's” song, and this, combined with the scorched Earth looks she could throw upon anyone, proved effective enough to cause Cecil to withdraw from the argument.

Aster was not foolish enough to be ignorant of the sway the band held over Kyrietone, even at this early stage of their career. She had leveraged it successfully to place the band in this very studio, and knew despite Vincent's protests that such a record would be "un-sellable", Kyrietone would sell it anyway. If it really was a disaster, she would deal with that problem as it came.

Vincent, however, did not see it in the same light.

“All originals?” he repeated, as though he had misheard. “What about covers?”

“We're not doing them,” Aster replied matter-of-factly, having already expected Vincent to push back on the point.

“You have to hear them!” Sylvia added in defense, slapping her hands against her knees for emphasis. “They're really good!”

She drew her hands wide open as she said this, as if detailing the sheer size of just how good they were.

Aster blushed.

A firm look came across Vincent. Floyd's beady eyes were wavering, his pupils knocked about by anxiety like a popular pinball game as he surveyed each face in the group.

"I'm not saying that your material isn't great— it's wonderful that a band is taking the initiative. But I am saying that Kyrietone will not accept an album of all originals by somebody who is not well established.”

Aster frowned. “If they're all good what does it matter?”

Vincent seemed to sour at this.

“Well, you can't really be sure of your own songs like that, can you?”

Cecil wanted to say he didn't know Aster.

“Anyways, it matters because they can't market what people don't know— regardless of how good something is.”

Aster was unphased by his argument.

“Yes, they can, they just have to play us on the radio enough,” she grumbled.

Vincent shook his head.

“They're not going to do that.”

He creased his brow, trying to read Aster. “What is wrong with covers, anyways?” he asked, visibly confused. “They're a standard part of making an album.”

The rest of the group, though on Aster's side, held similar looks of confusion. Peppermint Plains' recording industry had not yet experienced the age of the self-sufficient pop unit— musicians who could play and write their own material— and thus placed absolutely no trust in artists themselves to be fully responsible for their catalog.

This, however, was in direct opposition to Aster's insistence that an album stood as a cohesive body of work, the same as any painting and the palette that composed it. She had to hold firm, she thought, for her vision would be hers alone.

“Nothing. I just want our sound to be completely our own— our catalog to be a standalone work of original art.”

Art? thought Vincent.

“You're making a pop album,” Vincent quipped, though not out of any sincere nastiness but true, actual confusion. He fundamentally could not see pop music as the art form which Aster did.

Aster knew this, and yet still scowled at hearing him speak. A million 'fucking idiot's sparkled in her head like a million fireworks as his words echoed throughout the fire of her mind.

Aster dug in her heels, and what ensued was a nearly twenty-minute debate— fifteen minutes after the first session had been scheduled to start— in which an increasingly irritated Aster and Vincent tried their best to subdue the other.

The rest of the group found themselves uncharacteristically at a standstill, as not one person had heart enough to try and talk Aster down from her demands. Even Floyd, for all his admiration of Vincent— which was perhaps trumped by his desire for self-preservation— stayed squirming at the sidelines, making a face all the while that looked as though he were chewing broken glass.

At long last, however, Vincent requested a sheet of paper and pen, upon which he scrawled the titles of several songs.

“Here,” Vincent said, pushing the paper out for the group. “Since you don't want to make the decision I've drawn up several songs I think might work with a rock 'n' roll sound.”

The room, cocooned by its soundproofing, became absolutely dead as Aster looked over the paper.

She tore her gaze away, folded her arms, and walked over to plug in her bass.

“Let's get started, shall we?" he concluded, this being a cue for Samuel to finish his adjustments on the equipment and ascend into the control room.

Vincent then started from the piano and up the stairs to the control room, Floyd following in tow.

“I'm so sorry Mr. Theodora. We've trampled all over your great expressions of leniency and goodness—”

Marion raised his brows, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked on over to his kit.

“Jesus, that wasn't a good start,” he quipped.

Sylvia gave him a sharp glance which said, “Aster can hear you, idiot!”

They filed around their instruments and began preparing, the celebratory mood which carried them in having now faded, as Samuel finished and returned to the control room.

Static ushered forth from the intercom.

“We will be starting with a warm-up,” Vincent announced. “Feel free to play for five minutes, then we'll move on to take one of 'All That's Mine Is Yours'.”

The band responded by sounding a few stray notes as they began to tune their instruments. The studio gradually came to life as clanging, quiet chatter, and chromatic pitchings of the guitars filled the uncomfortable silence.

Cecil's eyes were all the while fixed with suspicion upon Aster as he began his warm-ups. Her sullen look had deepened into one of simmering fury.

Sylvia had come up beside Aster, bearing an apologetic expression that wore the message "I'm sorry," plainly across her knitted, stubby eyebrows.

Aster had no fury for Sylvia, and her wrathful scowl relaxed as her friend drew near.

She pulled Sylvia close and whispered to her, causing a large, mischievous grin to form across the latter's face.

Cecil, spider-webbing his fingers across the keys as he did his stretches, noted this with great interest.

He played, half his mind on actually preparing for the session, and half on Aster who seemed to move about with purpose. She was evidently furious— Cecil had become adept at spotting her rage the second any ember of it took light— but here he could see that she hadn't been hindered by it— in fact, she was moving with greater volition because of it.

This terrified him.

It continued to terrify him as the hum of Aster's bass signaled the start of a motif— a jam she was leading the band into.

—

The room appeared almost pitch-black, save for the ghostly pallor of a translucent VR screen spilling light into it.

A bushy-haired teenage girl sat before the screen, her eyes bloodshot. She was picking at an antique electric guitar, the un-amplified strings sounding quietly into the dark room like little songbird murmurs.

Aster looked upon this sight with a heavy heart, as though she were watching a funeral procession. It hurt her deeply to watch the small girl wince into the portal of light, peering into it as one does a fortune teller's ball.

Yet, it had no future to show her— not that she could see. It just displayed a complicated interface of esoteric buttons and meters that somehow related to audio production. The girl had forgone fancy AI production, which could mix and master songs to professional quality in mere seconds, because she had grown disinterested with the deluge of perfect tunes made to order, and wished to labor over her songs herself. She had through difficult means acquired this ancient software and now that she had finally gotten it to run on her cloud computer, was trying to teach herself how to use it.

The age of nothingness, Aster lamented, thinking on the several-year period where Aster honed her musical skills with an obsessive, near ascetic dedication.

It was during this time that the darkness fell upon her, the darkness which separated young Aster from the jaded, bitter girl who escaped into Peppermint Plains.

It was here in the confines of her room, little by little, that ease of living was stripped like paint off walls as she slowly realized her dreams were impossible. The world, in general, had moved on from human expression, and fallen before the feet of the impossibly blinding brilliance of super-intelligence.

She read up on philosophy, and taught herself the most modern schools of thought on the topics of artificial intelligence and simulated consciousness. She considered the arguments that human creativity hadn't been left behind, but had rather evolved into a form beyond the individual— in which rather than using brushstrokes, people used the entire canon of human creative history, distilled into A.I. models, to craft the visions within their heart.

Aster didn't necessarily see anything wrong with this argument. The problem she had was with the masses of drooling intellectual dead who now, in their expectation for untold quality on demand, had lost all nuance in appreciation for art.

It was like a toothless person chomping at mouthfuls of sugar— a society that had reached the zenith in demand for stimulation.

There was no lack of AI companions who would listen to her music, but owing to government regulations they didn't embody the humanity of those found within the Eden device, and this left a certain wanting in Aster's heart. Human musicians also existed, but Aster's social anxiety was too extreme to ever truly believe in that wish.

Thus, it seemed as though she would never be seen.

As if to spite the sad, lonely feelings welling up within her, Aster toiled away, album after album, as though she had lost all other purpose in life. She withdrew into the little worlds she constructed around her albums, giving little bits of her life and personality to each one and keeping them fed and full with her hopes and ideals, colored with the dye she wrung from her soul with her bare hands.

It killed her to think that her children— yes, she thought of them as children— would never find the appreciation she so believed they deserved.

This was it, it occurred to her one day after a violent fit of existential panic. She existed for the sole purpose of breathing her life into these gems.

Years passed. Aster's adolescence was soundtracked by this desperate, spiteful struggle, her musicianship improving rapidly as she continued on.

Her father, unbeknownst to her, would pass by her bedroom door every so often and smile, eavesdropping on her practice.

The crash of Marion's cymbal hit washed into the room, splitting it into shreds which fell away into Studio A.

Her hand was chugging a steady, eighth-note rhythm, while Marion locked into the groove. Sylvia bared her teeth as she eye-smiled back at her friend.

Aster broke from the pulse and played a psychedelic-sounding lick. Cecil retorted by augmenting the 7th into a 9th chord, allowing them more room to improvise.

Their eyes— all four sets— locked as the melody traipsed across the studio like a dancer who knew their worth. The electric sensation of true, unmitigated pride in one's work was now creeping steadily up their spines as they read each other's gazes and directed the rhythm and dynamic of the other. They now finally played hand in hand.

Everybody was around her, ready to support her dreams.

“That's it!” Floyd screamed from the intercom. “That's exactly it!”

With a wallop, the jam came to an end. The ring of Marion's cymbals shimmered in the air.

The next several hours seemed to pass in an instant, the passage of time lubricating their adrenaline. They performed three originals, a dozen or so takes of each, and came to the end of the third exhausted, yet satisfied.

“Yeah!” Marion screamed. He took a towel and vigorously wiped his face.

Cecil looked up at Aster. His stomach writhed.

“Okay, next is the Arthur Millicent number— 'Dreamers,'”

Cecil pressed down the Gm7 chord and led in the characteristic opening piano motif. However, the chord sounded ghastly.

He stopped, confused. Marion looked at him.

“Take two,” Vincent announced.

He played the Gm7. Again it sounded disgusting.

He looked over at Aster and Sylvia, who were still playing.

“Take three,” Vincent again announced.

Yet, Aster and Sylvia did not stop.

Cecil panicked, and wasn't sure what to do, when the pitter-patter of Marion's hi-hat caused him to reel around. Marion fell into the beat, and Cecil suddenly found himself reaching for the chords to “Juniper”, the fourth song they themselves had chosen.

Aster sang every take of this song as though she was making a case to some force far greater than the four men sitting in the control room beyond them. She screamed at times, giving it her all. Cecil couldn't even think of reprimanding her, he just automatically fell behind her lead while he gazed on in wonder at the sheer audacity.

—

At 12:30 the session broke off for lunch. Vincent had said nothing about Aster's insubordination— which was even worse than being reprimanded— and continued with the session as though nothing had happened. Floyd had not come down to reprimand her, and it was not until they adjourned that he was seen again, being pulled along by the ear, red-faced, into the lobby by Samuel as Vincent wordlessly followed behind.

Samuel returned a minute later.

“Are you guys joining?” he asked, noticing the band still around their instruments. Aster, trying her best to fight off tears, looked at the ground and shook her head vigorously. “You better hurry, Vincent does not like to miss the bar's specials.”

“No, we're gonna practice some more!” Sylvia said, attempting her best to sound cheerful.

Samuel looked perplexed but bade them good luck and told them to help themselves to the studio kitchen if they grew hungry.

The silence that followed the studio door shutting seemed to exist solely to make Aster cry.

It rang in her ears like a siren bard spinning a story about how someone in vain, threw their best opportunity into the fire.

"Come on, from the top," she choked, playing the intro to their first song.

She looked at Sylvia, who did not follow her lead.

Sylvia adopted a pout— a tough face.

"Don't cry!" she cried. "Today is our big day! We're going to make an album that'll knock the socks off the world, so don't you let old, stuffy Vincent rain on your parade! They'll have no covers and they're gonna like it!"

"Yeah, if he can't hear the beautiful tone of these skins I'm not gonna trust him to judge our songs," Marion added with a grin.

Aster's breath caught, and she met her bandmates with her swollen eyes.

Why was it so hard for her to just create and be happy? Why did it seem as though the universe had some unspoken law about allowing artists to live in peace?

"If Kyrietone doesn't want this album, then they can go fuck themselves," Cecil added, looking embarrassed in his attempt to add something motivational.

Aster tried to stutter something in her shock, but static bled forth from her mouth as she opened it.

The rest of the band were now looking beyond her, up at the control room.

"Huh?" Marion murmured, squinting.

"Well, there's no time to waste, is there? We have an album to make," said Vincent.

There he stood in the control room window, holding a sandwich in one hand which he a took bite from.