“I'm the bad boy of the group?” Marion smirked, theatrically flexing his bicep as the band began setting up for that night's rehearsal.

“You're not actually on board with that stuff, are you?” asked Cecil incredulously.

“Huh, why not? Seems like fun.”

“Well, wait until you see what else they have in store for you,” he mumbled ominously, just as Sísí entered the storeroom with uniforms in hand.

“Wait, what are those?” he asked.

“Your new uniforms Marion,” she said brightly, flashing a toothy grin.

“I applied the finishing touches overnight and I'm sure you'll love them,” she added, handing the eager Aster and Sylvia their outfits.

“I'm not doing berets,” Marion replied aghast, his hand pushing Sísí away as she likewise offered them to him.

Cecil could be seen from behind quickly shuffling out of the room.

“Oh? Are you perhaps a little boy? Did we happen to disturb your playtime of fragile faux-masculinity?" she shot back, a dead look draining all amusement from her face.

“Whoa,” Sylvia exclaimed as she and Aster looked on in astonishment.

“Faux... what?” Marion could only whimper in response, placing the beret upon his slicked back hair.

Sísí turned back to Aster and Sylvia, all smiles once more, seeing the apple-head and peppermint girl adorned in their berets and ties.

“Adorable!” she cooed, fixing Sylvia's neck frill. “You two were born to win hearts! Cecil, get back in here and join your bandmates!”

“Fuck,” Cecil bemoaned, slowly shuffling back into the room with all the apprehension in the world as Sísí tossed a beret to him.

“So, where is Floyd actually? Have you guys not heard from him?” Marion inquired, affixing his cymbals to their stands.

Sylvia's face was instantly awash with woe as the rest of them turned to Sísí with looks of absolute unexpectation and approbation.

“I have regretfully lost contact with Mr. Floyd. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get through.”

“Wait, what?” Marion looked to Aster, Cecil, and Sylvia in utter confusion, as the three looked back at him with mirrored images of uncertainty.

“He's still gone?” he continued, the increasing tides of worry apparent on his face.

“He sent Sísí here, but she hasn't told us anything other than he isn't dead,” Cecil bemoaned as Sísí smirked.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Marion exclaimed, pulling out a cigarette. “I'll be back,” he said, making his way out of the storeroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Shouldn't we practice regardless? I don't think he'd be happy if he came back and we weren't ready at all for the ball,” Aster put forth quietly.

Cecil looked back at her with slight surprise. “Yeah, but—”

“He sent Sísí here for that reason, right? He has to be planning on getting out soon,” she added.

“Yeah!” Sylvia replied, a cautiously optimistic tone meant more for cradling her own worry evident. “Mr. Floyd won't let any cops keep him down! Besides, I've trained him personally,” she added, mock punching at Cecil.

“Get out of here Sylvia, go set up your cables,” he reprimanded, warming up on piano. “I'm sure he's fine. Knowing Floyd he probably just got an extra charge on whatever for fleeing out of the police car,”

Sylvia chuckled at the thought of this.

Sísí, who had been enthralled in admiring her work while they discussed Floyd, gave a deep bow to them upon a lull in their conversation.

“Sylvia, I trust you to let me know if Cecil and Marion do not find my berets up to their standards,” she warned, flashing a playful glance at the sour Cecil.

“I must take my leave at this moment. May your rehearsal be oh so wonderful,” she continued, another shallower bow seeing her out of the storeroom and subsequently the shop in quick manner.

Sylvia poked her head out, looking into the storefront as she left.

“I don't see Marion anywhere!” she yelled, turning back into their rehearsal space.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cecil exclaimed, going out into the storefront to confirm the truth of Sylvia's statement. “Goddammit Marion, we have two days 'till the ball!” he yelled, returning to his piano, head in hands.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Should we just practice as a three-piece for right now, then?” Aster suggested meekly.

“What's the point? We know the songs. What we need is to practice them as a four-piece together. Goddammit, Marion.”

—

With not much to be done, Cecil relented in silent anger to begin his warm-ups as Aster and Sylvia connected the rest of their cords and tuned up. It was not long before a whistled melody of his caught the ear of Aster, who turned her attention to it.

“What song is that?” she asked.

Cecil looked at her in embarrassment, and immediately stopped playing the tune, segueing into an instrumental motif.

“Cecil, what song was that?” she again inquired.

“Something I wrote. Doesn't really go anywhere,” he replied. The tone of the instrumental shifted into a minor key, filling the room with the unsettled timbre of a diminished chord here and there.

“The melody was nice,” Aster told him, coming up to the piano. “Play it again.”

Cecil acquiesced and went through the little bit he had written.

“There aren't any lyrics, and the melody isn't really finished at all.”

“What's wrong with it though?” Aster replied, looking off at the sheet music placed above the piano's keys.

“It just doesn't go anywhere. It feels totally plastic,” he replied. He spoke with deep irritation and scorn as Aster continued to prod about his songwriting.

“When I get stuck on a melody, I find it's because I don't personally like the melody, but force myself to go through with it.”

“Yeah, but you don't really seem to have that problem much at all, do you?”

Aster's brows furled inward at this suggestion.

“What do you know? You've only ever heard the songs I thought were good—”

“Cecil, why don't we help you finish the song?” Sylvia cheerfully interjected, having overheard the earlier part of the conversation.

Cecil looked begrudgingly at the ivory his hands laid upon, biting his lip.

“Fine. Let's give it a shot.”

Sylvia smiled, turning her amp on. “Well come on, give us the chords!”

Cecil, visibly anxious and hesitant as he looked towards the two of them, proceeded to run through the song for Aster and Sylvia— a quick, mellow jazz piece— which his talented audience, true to their merits, picked the chords up to right away.

"It's a jam Cecil!" said Sylvia enthusiastically.

Aster nodded in agreement.

“The problem is it doesn't sound dramatic enough though,” Cecil lamented, playing through the ending motif of the chorus. “It just sounds sad for sadness' sake and goes nowhere with it.”

“Well, if you want dramatic, then why not use a borrowed major third to add tension right before the chorus?” Aster suggested, playing a new version of the chord progression to Cecil.

Cecil mimed the progression, singing his melody over top.

“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” he said, removing his hands from the piano, clearly disgruntled. “Why couldn't I figure that out? There are so many standards that use that and I couldn't even think of trying it.”

"Sometimes you just get stuck," Aster mumbled.

"We could also add a bridge so the chorus doesn't become too repetitive," she mused, figuring out the chords to what a hypothetical bridge could be.

Cecil was now seated fully away from the piano, casting an increasingly frustrated and dejected look at the floor as Aster began writing.

"I think it's good as is," Sylvia reiterated. "We could put it on our first album I think!"

"Really? You think so?" Cecil lifted his head, turning back to face the two.

"Forreal!" Sylvia replied, looking back at Aster. "It's super groovy!"

Aster however, felt a weight drop into her stomach at Sylvia's suggestion. Her expression shared none of the excitement nor good will that the other two shared, and it was quite apparent.

"Something wrong, Aster?" Sylvia questioned, noticing this.

"Uh, I just think I already have the track list figured out mostly," she gave with little conviction or firmness, her voice breaking as she pulled her eyes away from the two of them.

Cecil, without saying a word, rose from the piano, finally throwing on his coat and hat.

“Cecil? You're leaving already? We haven't even practiced yet!” Sylvia called after him.

She was met with no response. He simply tossed Sísí's beret to the floor and made his exit outside.

Sylvia rose, heading out of the storeroom.

“What's got into him?” she frowned, looking out into the empty shop.

Aster had a very good assumption of what it may have been, and a mixture of anger directed at both Cecil and her own social inadequacy bubbled forth.

“He's just being a child,” she mumbled with a streak of intense embarrassment.

"Is it true though Aster? Do we have all the songs already?" Sylvia asked, face flushed with uncertainty.

"Yeah, I think we have enough," Aster mumbled in reply.

To Aster's credit, she was not lying. Years of songwriting had left her practiced and filled to the brim with ideas and pieces to use. Consequently, writing new ones appropriate to the time period took her no time at all, and she was of no wish nor mind to include other's works in what she considered her statement of art.

It was far from the truth that she even disliked Cecil's song. She was truly, honestly surprised at its quality. Aster however, as much as she wished to not subjugate another's attempt at creative expression— knowing full well her own struggles with the immense unsatisfactory tint it gave to ones belief in one's self-confidence or the heavy bouts of depression it could ensnare its creator in, could not bring it to stand next to her own work in her mind, and the intense displeasure of knowing she'd have to likely fend off his creative ambitions in the future filled her with severe anxiety.

Isn't this a simulation of my wildest dreams? she thought to herself in great irritation. She glanced out into the front of the shop to see Sylvia, face and hands against the window watching the snow fall silently onto the deserted streets of Peppermint Plains.

"You're not walking home in this, are you?" Aster mumbled, coming out to watch with her.

"I'll sleep on the couch. It's comfy," Sylvia said, giving her best attempt at a grin in the moment, before looking back out at the snowfall.

The sensation and sentimentality of this scene was not lost on Aster, who marveled on how a moment fit for a postcard such as this was being arbitrarily summoned by some algorithm.

It's all in my mind, she'd often think— especially when met with an occasion that rendered great care and excitement out of her. The electricity of living elicited by that which technically did not exist terrified her in its inherent impermanence.

She dwelt long and hard on it in the moments she had to herself, or moments like the one she was sharing with Sylvia right now.

But who gets to say it isn't real? she mused as Sylvia opened the door to Father Winter as she ventured out to play in the snow drifts that piled up against the shop windows.

The chill of the wind rippled through her skin, which she could see rising in goosebumps.

She reached out and felt every ridge.

If it appears no less real than actuality, then what does it matter? Isn't reality only what the subjective mind experiences?