There was no worse feeling in the world than that of being beholden to someone, of knowing that somebody, given power and thus the right by money, could hurt you, and you'd have no recourse against it. Aster could will the fires of hell up into her hurting heart and still, they would never be able to consume that whom she truly despised, that golem of self-righteousness before her— Neil Applegate.

She hated herself for being so weak that she depended on his power, depended on someone who was subservient to another. What self-image could remain as she watched him lazily blot his bottom lip of the mustard that had oozed from his grilled cheese, and think, this is who holds the reins? This is the arbiter of my fortunes?

"Ah, nothing really can beat this place," Neil Applegate sang in a pleased tone and looked around, drinking in the atmosphere of the worn-down diner. It was small, dimly lit, and filled with a smattering of customers who looked more dead than alive. The stench of grease hung heavy in the air and a faint skiffle tune whistled over the jukebox as Floyd looked grimly into the distance, no doubt fixing an image of the red carpet he had planned to roll out in his mind's eye.

"I hope it's no big deal, Floyd," Neil remarked, catching his thousand-yard gaze. "It's just I spend so much time in ritzy digs that even a pig-pen begins to look appealing.” He laughed. “Especially when compared to that gaudy resort you booked. Besides, I've loved coming here since I was a kid,” He smiled romantically as he glanced out the booth window. “Who says money can change everything?"

Floyd was little more conversational than a deflated balloon as he let loose some weak affirmatives while the rest of the band remained silent. Neil eyed them suspiciously as he returned to his meal. He had arrived too late to witness Aster and Sylvia's retrieval, and thus understand what was truly wrong, but this was far from the first time he'd found bands meeting him with an icy reception.

"I'm telling you, the food is covered," he said, looking over his mute audience. "Feel free to order whatever you like; it's the least we can do for our little buzz band."

The group did not respond. Even Sylvia, despite the drool pooling up within the corners of her mouth, refused to order. They would not speak to those who gave them no respect; they would not abandon any member of the band.

“Suit yourself,” Neil replied, pushing his plate aside. “Let's get down to business.” He pulled out a pocketbook encased in black leather and flipped it open. “This meeting is a courtesy call, seeing as you're still on tour. Mr. Kyrie himself wants to meet with you back in Cherryaire and we'll hash out details there, but for now, as the situation is changing so rapidly I thought it best to sketch out a rough plan to present him with.” He procured a pen from a folder beside him and began to mark absentmindedly at the page. “The facts are this: your single, although unlikely to dethrone Godiva from the top two, is climbing rapidly, the album has seen a forty percent increase in sales since the interview, and, of course, you're receiving requests from every possible press outlet you can imagine. Basically, you're on fire, and things are looking good. I've been in this business for a decade and I can personally tell you this is the first time I've ever seen anything like this.” His smile faded and his face grew long. “But— it can just as easily end here if we do nothing to sustain it. You're popular right now because you give the papers something to talk about, you give people stories to bring up to their friends. A band caused a riot that you were personally injured in? Why, that's great party fodder. Rock group caused irreparable damage to a historic ballroom? That's fantastical!”

He paused and narrowed his eyes at the group. They continued their abstention while Floyd nodded dumbly, attempting desperately to fill in their silence with flaccid affirmatives. “The bottom line is we must continue to stoke the legend around you if we really want to top the charts. We need to stand out, be drastic— we need to be flashy.” He paused, noticing the bright red flush that came over Aster's face. She was scowling and her eyes almost seemed to be glazed over with a condensation of pure fury. He checked this and surveyed the rest of the band during the half-second gaze he swept over the booth. All five were crammed into the opposite seat, the band eyeing him like a killer who had walked into a bank. It didn't bother him to be hated, but it did greatly upset him to be inconvenienced while trying to set plans into action. He bit his tongue and continued.

“As I've mentioned in my earlier telegrams, my suggestion is that we waste no time delivering follow-ups— we should have a second LP ready for summer break, a single out before the close of the month, and a greatest hits compilation in time for Christmas. And that's before we break a sweat— We need to make you not just the talk of the town, but of this entire damn country. You have a thing going with Willie Cooper, that's great. He's on board to do a weekly radio program with you guys. We can likely get an Apple Butter Broadcast station to follow, and they'll let you host maybe a little variety show or two. But beyond that, we need to think big— we need something wild that the papers can eat up. Perhaps you could collapse a famous church, or firebomb a museum.” He stopped, taking in their looks of rage, confusion, and horror.

“Relax,” he said with a thin chuckle. “It's a joke. But really, we do need something big. The press conference was a good way to kick off the tour, but you haven't done anything really out there since the Savoy Ballroom gig. Don't tell me you're trying to pull that stuff back?”

“The group—” Floyd began hesitantly, his voice distant and wiry as if Neil were conversing with him through a string-can phone. “—want to be known more for their music and live performances than any acts of infamy.”

Neil frowned.

“Well, that's great and all, but I wouldn't be sitting here if it weren't for those 'acts of infamy'.”

A murderous glare came into Aster's eyes.

“Is that true, band? You want to be known for your music?”

Again, there wasn't a word from the group. Floyd, his eyes darting between both sides of the table, attempted to intervene.

“I suggest—”

“Are you their ventriloquist?” Neil interrupted, his voice now clearly tense. “I was asking them, the group that we're paying, a question.” He turned and looked the band, somehow in unison, squarely in the eyes. “Or am I witnessing a miracle? The band that always has something to say can't find their tongues? Well, that's unfortunate— we have a pot of gold waiting for us at the end of this thing which you all seem content to piss in rather than talk like adults.”

Aster's knuckles went white with the desire to strangle him.

“Mr. Applegate,” Floyd groveled. “You know how it is with artists; they're temperamental. They know as little about being reasonable as they do about making money. That's why they need us to step in! Please, find it in yourself to forgive these oafs of their ignorance!”

Neil paused, considering Floyd's words. His eyes passed over the band, weighing them each in turn in his consciousness, before coming to rest on Aster.

She sneered. How she wished to scream in his face and demand he take his eyes off of her. Anything to funnel all of the pain and anger she felt into something rather than keeping it inside her like a wretched, vampiric stillborn. But that would achieve nothing. For once she found that freely venting her anger would get her nowhere and would have no result other than to make her band the victim of Neil Applegate's petty revenge, or worst yet— have them ousted from the label. No amount of screaming would cause him to relent, because it wasn't a differing opinion that she was up against, it was a profit margin— and nothing screams louder than that. And so it was with more resolve than she had ever previously gathered in her life that she held her fury inside of her and winced through the interior burns.

I will bite my tongue today so that it may savor tomorrow.

“Is this about Godiva?” Neil at last asked. The group, of course, did not answer, but their wavering grimaces responded. He glowered. “That is it, isn't it?” He half-whispered, dropping his elbows on the table. “Think,” he barked. “What happens if you're seen with her? You think the papers will gush about how nice it is that the two of you are friends? No. Suddenly the headline is how Godiva was seen with you and then nobody could give a shit about the no-name band who tagged along with her. You have fire— buzz— do you understand? You do not keep things burning by throwing a blanket over top it.

“Listen, I want to make you happy, I really do. And if you can put us on top then I will do all in my power to make sure that happens, but for now, we cannot have you fraternizing with the enemy!”

A laugh escaped from Aster.

“Enemy?”

Neil was unsure if he'd actually heard anything and screwed up his eyes as if Aster's expression would replay the words if he looked hard enough. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, on the point of an outburst, but stopped himself. He turned his eyes from her and back towards the group.

“How hard is that to understand? There are plenty of other acts out there you can go around with; dozens from our roster! Go on, have your pick! I'm not heartless! Actually, yeah, that reminds me,” and he paused to fetch a pack of Cherryaire Reds from his jacket pocket. “Vernon Roebuck's manager reached out to me— Vernon wants to meet you,” he said, taking the filter in his mouth and lighting the cigarette. “He has a happening at his place in the Holly tomorrow night. Why not pay him a visit? Hang out with him all you want! I don't care! Just don't be around Magnolia Haus!”

At last a discernable emotion came over the group, as Sylvia, eyes wide as saucers, turned towards Cecil. Aster turned towards him, too, her heart beating a million miles a minute as the name “Vernon Roebuck” echoed in her ears. She watched Cecil fail to give any reaction and was filled with terror at the thought that he might turn down the invitation. This was to say nothing of the mammoth terror that the thought of attending a 'shindig' awoke in her, but the chance to absolve herself of the guilt that was causing Cecil to miss out on Vernon's concert was too great. She was compelled to move and call out to him, to tell him to accept it, when at last Cecil's lips parted, and the group's silence ended.

“Where in our contract does it say that you have any control over what concerts we can see?” he asked. “You're paying for our records, not our chains.”

Aster and Marion's eyes widened, Floyd's shot open. The look on Sylvia's face seemed to scream “Cecil, you don't need to!”

Aster looked on in awe, mouth parted slightly as Neil Applegate beheld Cecil with a look of astonishment. He hit his cigarette and composed himself.

“Where in yours did it say you became the one calling the shots?” he asked, taking a drag. “I explained the logic; we cannot be giving Godiva any more publicity than she already has.”

“You gave a weak argument with no evidence.”

“Cecil!” cried Floyd and Sylvia. Aster looked at him, unsure whether he had actually lost his mind.

“You have no right to be telling somebody how they should be able to consume art.”

“Listen here, okay?” Neil began, punctuating his words with a pointed cigarette towards Cecil. “The minute you took our money you took our counsel, you got that? You do not get one without the other. Now you can go on and make me look like the bad guy if that helps you live with it, but the bottom line is we invested in you, and we want a return on that investment. You understand, right? You've had to sell tickets to your gigs; it's only natural that you want to recoup what you spent. And it may not seem that way to somebody who hasn't even been in this game a whole half-year, but there are nuances to playing it that may seem distasteful to outside folk.” He ashed his cigarette, then returned to punctuating his words. “Now, your contract says we pay to make your records but not how much. So long as I give you a solitary cent my requirements have been met in the law's eyes,” and he held a hand to his chest while throwing his steely eyeballs up to the heavens of the smoke-stained diner ceiling. “Need I remind you,” he continued, his voice quieting as he leaned forward. “You chose to outsource your production to Cherry Lane Studios, not an in-house studio; you could very soon find yourself having to front the bills for that personally.”

He pushed himself back into an upright position and smiled. “Now listen to me, sounding like I'm your enemy, when all I really want is the same as you all. I just hate to see something great squandered because you're understandably fresh to how this whole thing works. You may make the music, and that's all great, but it doesn't sell itself; in fact, it's an awful commodity! Sappiness and romanticism do not make compelling business cards. You have no idea the hurdles I must cross, the burdens I must carry to get so much as a single song on the air.

“Consider that me even being here is a personal favor— this is not a perk of any recording contract. There is a line two years deep of bands wishing for me to listen to their demo, any of which could easily have what it takes to dethrone Godiva. So, when I give you a professional suggestion, I sincerely implore you to take it. I don't want to walk away from this feeling like I'm being jerked around, now.”

“Mr. Applegate,” Floyd began, his bottom lip blubbering. “All of us here understand completely what this means with a busy schedule such as yours and are absolutely grateful—”

I'll fucking kill him, echoed Aster's pride. I'll kill him right here. Her hands were shaking, her heart racing so quickly she couldn't get control over her breathing. It was not only the indignity of this man trying to control her life that brought her to the point of homicidal rage, but also the fact that Cecil had to suffer for it. Even after his sacrifice had been rendered futile he still stood up to him, only to be talked down to like a child. Her brain boiled over with furious recollections of the email that had greeted her weeks ago in which the anonymous record representative turned down her song for being 'human-made', and was certain that if hell had any evidence of existing it would be in these men.

A surge of adrenaline came forth and her mind burst with the urge to speak it.

“So that's how it is, huh?” suddenly spat Marion, arresting Aster's trembling bottom lip. “Threatening us like a regular thug?”

“So help me God, Marion!” screeched Floyd, but a flickering lividity had already made its way into Marion's eyes. “You know, I used to look up to you business types when I was a kid,” he rasped, catching Neil in the eyes. “They seemed like they had it all figured out, livin' in their big houses and drivin' their fancy cars. It seemed a whole lot better than kickin' in the street, I thought. But look at you— you ain't any different from the low-lives in Aspartame, are you? You just smell cleaner. Well, let me tell you, bucko, I don't take too well to low-lives.

“And this girl here,” he continued, placing a hand on Sylvia's shoulder. “Does not take well to people making this girl,” he gestured to Aster, “cry.”

Sylvia bared her teeth and pumped her bicep.

The actions of diner-folk hummed in the background as a silence came over the table. It was a short pause, no longer than several seconds, but the acrimony of battlefields was contained within that interval as Neil Applegate looked over the group as if before a quivering mirage. Never in his years had he ever faced more push-back than a limpid 'fuck you', and as such could almost not believe that this was happening. His brain tremored in indignant rage as he tried to remind himself of what was on the line; to control himself before it was too late.

He at last smiled to the group's surprise. “You really do have some fucking nerve on you, don't you?” he remarked coldly to the group. “I can't say I'm not impressed but my patience is at an end.” And he crushed his half-ash cigarette into the tray. “Don't get it confused— I took the time out of my day to come and meet with you! To try and lift your ungrateful asses up the ladder. I did not come here to be lectured on how the world works by a group of kids and their fucking chaperone!

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“No, wait— please, let me continue,” he said disparagingly, splaying a palm towards the group whose faces were contorting in disgust. “Let me tell you how it does— how this world works. You see, there is this item— this mythical element called 'cash'— and it is as vital to human survival as water. It does not care about race, gender, age, caste— anybody's money is good! It informs all policy, it marries all couples, and it sows all good and bad here on Earth. And I am a dousing rod sent to find and it spread it across this Earth, so until I see it pouring out of your mouths, I do not want to hear another word out of them! Do you understand?! I will not hesitate to yank this leash so hard you'll be bent backward for the rest of your life, thinking, 'What was that?' And I'll have to whisper in your ear and tell you— all about the worst mistake you ever made.”

—

The real evil. These types of people didn't die out in the future— they're the only ones left.

Aster awoke from her half-slumber to the sounds of clandestine argument outside the van.

“I'll bungee Marvin to the top of the car is what I'll do!” she heard Marion shout. Working through the fog of sleep she rose and brought her head towards the window for a better ear.

“Marion, can you be quiet? You're gonna wake up Aster and then I'm gonna kick your butt!” Sylvia whined.

“He just disappeared on you?” asked Cecil.

Mareby-Roquefort's snoring crept down the aisle in somnolent waves.

“Yes!” crowed Floyd, the sound of his cane against pavement echoing into the night. “Just like that, he was gone! And left all the planning for Mr. Applegate's arrival to me!”

“He knew about your plans?” Cecil followed.

“Of course! He's the press officer, why would he not be informed about rolling out the red carpet to the man who can break us in half?! But I see maybe perhaps I should replace him with a mule until Sisi can resume the role!”

“I told you we couldn't trust that goon,” Marion commented, his voice thick with distaste. “I mean, the way he brought Aster and Sylvia back like they were regular prisoners.”

An anxious mewling escaped Sylvia upon recalling. “You should've seen how sad Aster looked,” she bemoaned, her voice quavering.

And Aster saw once again the streets of the city race back in a reverse of their triumphant procession like a prisoner's convoy to the gallows and tried to scatter from her mind the nauseous image of Sylvia's distraught, sad face as the pair became aware that defeat had befallen them, and knew that Sylvia was contending with these same images of her at that very moment.

“Sylvia, now's not the time to cry,” reprimanded Cecil. “We need to ask what he'd even be doing outside a Godiva show.”

“I would think espionage,” mused Floyd, cooling slightly.

“Like spies?!” asked Sylvia excitedly.

“Yes, quite so. I don't think it's far-fetched to assume that Mr. Applegate himself had John on the lookout for anything that could give us an advantage; a new promotional stratagem, “ Aster brought her eye to the window. Floyd had his defined chin cupped in a thoughtful hand and was nodding vigorously as he worked a safer worldview for himself like clay in real-time. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. I'm obviously too well known to be of any good for a covert mission like that.”

“We could get you a codename!” suggested Sylvia.

“You're probably right,” conceded Cecil, but Marion groaned.

“Nah, that doesn't fly with me. Why would he not tell you anything about that, Floyd?”

“It's hard to understand the higher workings of elite businessmen, Marion,” Floyd countered.

“Huh? What are you trying to say?”

“You compartmentalize— you don't reveal any more of your plan than necessary. Remember that what we're dealing with here is the world's two largest record labels coming head-to-head! It's unprecedented; you will find the people behind it using tactics fit for battlefields.”

“That's not a good excuse for him perp walkin' the girls, man.”

“Rest assured, Marion. I will see to it that John graciously takes up the writing of your letters for the remainder of this trip. After all, we're going to be quite busy following this tour.”

“You mean it?!”

“What is exactly after this?” Cecil asked, folding his arms. “Neil was going on about a lot of stuff and none of it sounded realistic to me.”

“Then get your ears checked,” Floyd snapped. “Because if Mr. Applegate was right about one thing, it's that now is the time to push on full steam ahead. Just look at the headlines—”

“Aster already has, don't worry—”

“I'm serious, you cad! We need to take advantage of this! We need to capitalize on the momentum; get our names up in lights!”

“I like the sound of that!” Marion concurred with a gleam in his eye. “Then, okay; what's the biggest thing we could do? Like, bigger than Willie Cooper.”

“Ted Tennenbaum!” Sylvia peepishly suggested.

“Fat chance,” quipped Cecil.

“What do you mean?!” Sylvia asked irritably.

“He famously does not book rock acts,” answered Floyd.

“Well, he hasn't heard us,” put in Marion.

“The point is 'somewhat famously',” said Cecil, who began to walk aimlessly around his small section of the curb. “He hasn't been shy about how he thinks rock music is just played by dead-beats.”

“That so, huh? Well, I think all TV shows are hosted by dead-beats.”

“I doubt he cares.”

“I think we can do it!” sang Sylvia.

Marion rolled his eyes. “What are we gonna do, have Floyd camp outside his house for a month?”

“One more word and I'll have you buried so deep in letters—”

“Tennenbaum is not Theodora; he'd be arrested in a second.” Cecil continued.

“Then what else should we do?” asked Sylvia.

Marion wrinkled his brow. “Beats me. Tennenbaum is the top of the top. Maybe play on the moon?”

“Don't even say that, Marion! Mr. Floyd would get abducted!”

“We'd need at least several number-one hits or some act of God to even have a hope of getting on there,” Cecil mused. “Like, sure, we've sold a few records, but that's nothing compared to the acts who show up on there.”

“He had a talking donkey on last week, man,” Marion interjected.

“And he was so cute!” squealed Sylvia, smooshing her blushing cheeks starry-eyed.

Marion whinged and spat. “Just can't go through life without getting scammed one way or the other, huh? I mean, look at us; look at how wild the fans are going when we show up. They're yanking on our clothes, man! And what did you say, Floyd— how many copies of the single have we sold?”

“Fifteen-thousand; that data does not account for the publicity from the press conference.”

“That's so many!”

“And yet here we are, being talked down to by a guy who uses more Brylcreem than my entire gang, and being bossed around like he's the leader of it. Just because we're fresh they think they can pull one over on us. Well, I got news for them— I ain't no stranger to being fucked over!”

For once Cecil agreed.

“What even are we if we let them think they can get away with something like that?” he said, looking back at Marion with a look of alliance. “Just let her go to the show, Floyd. Tell Mareby to mind his own business and worry about being a better lawyer rather than over what one girl wants to do.”

Floyd's face clouded and a sheepish embarrassment overcame him.

“Cecil, believe me, I really do want to intervene,” he warbled, rubbing the back of his head.

“Then why don't you, man?” snapped Marion.

Sylvia stepped forward and looked up into his face full of resolve. “Who's gonna know?!”

“It's just— let's say they find out! What will we do if we lose them? We'll be back to square one!”

“That's your concern?!” sighed Cecil, frowning. “What happened to you? It's not a joke, man; this is more important than life to her. You said it yourself when you met her— 'she breathes music'— and now you're just going to not let her see her favorite artist? I've never met anyone in my life who loves music more than she does, even myself! This isn't just about sales, Floyd, it's about somebody's soul. How can you expect us to follow a manager who sells us out like that? What happened to being better than Eugene?”

Aster's heart went still. The world, in accordance with it, fell to a dead silence. She strained all her powers of comprehension upon the tremulous cavities of her tinnitus-ears, in wait of even the smallest sound to come next.

“I'm weak, Cecil,” Floyd at last croaked. “I'm no good at this job.”

Cries of protest came from Sylvia and Marion.

“Hey man, that's not true,” Marion said, and the shuffling of gravel followed. “You may be nuts, but we only got this far because of you!”

“You're the best manager ever, Mr. Floyd!”

Aster could hear Sylvia choking on tears.

“But it is!” he objected, his thin voice crying out into the night. “How can I see people like Arlo Kyrie, Neil Applegate, or even Mareby, and not realize I am nothing in comparison? I am just playing pretend; they are the ones actually capable of success.”

“Mary isn't capable of tying his shoes, Floyd,” Marion refuted.

Aster crept up and brought her eyes to the slits in the window shade. Sylvia was puffy-eyed and holding onto Floyd while Marion talked loudly at him. Cecil was kicking his shoe aimlessly at the dirt.

“Everyone is weak,” Cecil said. “Why do you think Neil Applegate yelled so much after we stood up to him? It wasn't because he likes yelling.” He raised his eyes to Floyd. “What's more important, record sales or the best musician to ever walk through your doors?”

“That's not the question to ask, Cecil!” Sylvia chuckled through her tears.

There was a silence where all the group including Aster watched as Floyd looked on toward the ground. A second passed, and then his great silver locks quivered and he raised his head. “I am Albion Floyd Childress!” he bellowed. The group panicked and looked toward the tour bus, causing Aster to need to duck.

“Dude, you're gonna wake them up!”

“I will not anybody, least of all a businessman, control my group!” he continued, craning his neck towards the sky like a demented rooster. “Sylvia, when is the next opportunity Miss Aster has to see Miss Godiva?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Floyd, sir!” she answered with a salute. “The next opportunity to see her will be in the Holly; we only have one afternoon show that day!”

“The Holly, huh?” chimed in Marion. “Isn't that where that Vernon guy's party is gonna be?”

Aster's heart jumped. She brought her face back up to the window.

“Yeah, it is,” Cecil answered.

“I got it! Why don't you go to that party and me and Aster will go see Godiva?!” suggested Sylvia, but Cecil shook his head.

“It's not in the Holly. I looked up the address he gave us; it's an hour out of town. There's no way we can be in both places and be back on the road in time to make the next stop.”

No! thought Aster, shaking her head. You can't make me feel any guiltier than I already am!

“Figures; rich folk can't so much as yank their heads out of their butts let alone be in the same neighborhood as us regular people.”

“Vernon isn't like that,” disputed Cecil.

“You haven't even met the guy!”

“And it'll probably stay that way. I'm not going to the party, okay? Let's just settle on a date and get her to the show.”

The refusals kept winding themselves through Aster's brain. She found herself rising from her bed, sheened in a nervous sweat as her dark silhouette passed unnoticed over the bus' windows. She was not going to let him pass up this opportunity when he had gone, and still was going, to such great lengths to ensure her own happiness. She wasn't sure what, as Sylvia suggested, his ulterior motives were, and she had never known him to be anyone who ventured outside of his comfort zone, but Aster, for as bitter and reserved as she was, was not so callous that she couldn't appreciate the sacrifice. It was just that nobody in her life, outside of her father and Sylvia, had ever truly done anything for her, and so she had never had the chance to show gratefulness. This wasn't to denigrate the dubious charity of Floyd giving her free board or the other compassions she had been shown in her time here, but those weren't visceral, complete acts of sacrifice.

And Aster, above all, did not believe she deserved it. She saw no reason why a foul-mouthed, combative, jealous creature such as herself should be the recipient of such a gift; sacrifice would taint any alm. So she would fight back by denying the gift, and in the process save the band, for she knew that such rebellion after Neil Applegate's ultimatum would, if not oust them from the label, relegate them to the dust-bins of Kyrietone where they'd be lucky to wind-up on an anonymous greatest hits collection forty-years down the road.

That's not to say she didn't lust for it. There was nothing she wanted more in the world at that moment than to be so successful that Kyrietone worked for her. But that moment had to wait, wait until the label could catapult the Love You Forevers into legendary status, whence then she would claim the simple, sweet allure of tipping the balance of power right before Neil Applegate's eyes. To show him, after all the pain and suffering he had wrought, how small he was in comparison, and understand that he had no choice but to understand her superiority; that revenge really is one of life's base pleasures.

—

The door to the bus opened with a jarring screech which wrenched the heads of the outside group in its direction. Their faces straightened.

“Why did you say something to him?!” Aster asked, her voice hysterical. She was walking quickly towards them, her eyes wild and already attempting to catch her breath. Cecil was taken aback by the fierce look that had taken her under its wing; the night had cast an ink-black curtain between her bangs and eyes which made it appear more like some predator's eyes peering out through a cave than any human's.

Sylvia whimpered her name.

“Why didn't you just stay quiet?!” Aster followed.

"Because I wanted to hear him reason it for himself,” Cecil answered, not flinching. “I wanted to hear him justify it in his own words.”

“And what if he just sacked the band right there, huh?!” she asked, her voice growing ever louder. “How would we finish the tour? How would we press any more of our records; record any new ones?!”

Cecil was now frowning deeply. Marion and Sylvia were eager to intervene but Floyd kept them back.

“Is it even worth it if that's who you're taking money from?!” he shouted. “Why would you want something so precious to you to be tainted with such dirty fucking money?!”

Mareby-Roquefort was now awake and peering out the window. He attempted to exit the bus but was penned in by Marion.

Cecil continued. The sight of Aster's purple-red face beginning to tear up caused him to chameleon. “Since when have you ever been someone to let anyone— especially a suit— step all over you?! Why don't you fight back? Why don't you tell him to go fuck himself?! Do you have any idea how bad it feels to watch you be kicked around without putting up a fight?!"

Aster at last exploded in tears. "Because this is my band!” she screeched, clawing at the very night with her pain. “I don't want to fucking lose it because I couldn't keep my mouth shut! I don't want to lose our shot! I won't ever have another one again!” Thoughts of home; of her mother, father, Nancy, Marienne, and Dahlia all came flooding in at once. “You think it's easy for me?!” she continued, shaking. Cecil was now looking away. “Sitting here and having to accept everything that fucking bastard does?! I want to kill him! I want to dig my fucking thumbs into both his eyes and feel how deep the sockets go! But more than that— I want to succeed! I understand how shitty the music business is, so I can take it— so long as I can one day stand above him— I can take it!"

She began to howl and Sylvia took her into her arms. Floyd and Marion gave their space as Cecil lowered his guard and wandered off a few feet, head swimming in thought.

She buried her face in the crook of Sylvia's arm, desperately trying to keep what was left of her hope and self-esteem from spilling out into it. "Why can't we even have our first tour go right?!" she howled in broken utterances, her body trembling.

Sylvia smiled. "What are you saying, silly? Despite everything, we've had a lot of fun so far! You got to see what a diner was like, used a payphone, got your first fan mail, and have had karaoke in the van with me every night! Sure, it looks like this is a pretty big rain cloud above us, but you're lightning— people like you don't happen twice! It's Neil Applegate who should be shaking in his boots, because he isn't a tenth as strong as you, and has nowhere near the friends!”