“They're not real.” These words ricocheted through Aster's furious mind, inciting greater and greater degrees of anger the more she thought upon them, until at last she was filled with nothing but pure, muddled rage.

She looked about the group sitting around her— her bandmates, Floyd, and Mareby-Roquefort. She was more keen than ever that morning on observing every facet of them, as if to disprove whatever notion of doubt Nancy could have seeded within her mind by observing their obvious sentience. She gripped the leather arms of the exquisitely upholstered chair in which she sat in her fit of rage, trying to put Nancy's ignorance out of mind for even a minute.

Off to the side, the group were deep in discussion, their commotion bringing Aster back into the present. Her fuzzy eyebrows twitched as Mareby-Roquefort's words rattled through her brain.

"Our lawyer?" Cecil asked incredulously, looking with absolute confusion at Mareby-Roquefort. Mareby-Roquefort returned this expression with a look of juvenile innocence, as though what he'd said had been the most matter of fact thing in the world.

"Why yes, of course. I've had no reason to tell you up until this moment, but I am a certified legal representative!"

"No actual lawyer describes themselves like that," Cecil groaned, throwing his head back.

Marion, upon hearing the word “lawyer,” snapped his head in the direction of Mareby-Roquefort and narrowed his eyes. "You're with the fuzz, eh? Makes a lot more sense now," he said with suspicion, inching his chair further away.

Sylvia, her interest raised by seeing Mareby-Roquefort's toothy grin, looked down the row at the increasingly nervous man. “Mareby,” she peeped, causing him to jostle in his seat. He looked up at her awaiting her question. "Can you sue Marion for me?" she quipped, feigning an innocent curiosity.

Marion, taken aback by this, audibly sputtered.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" he shouted, turning towards Sylvia.

"It means I want him to sue you for always eating the peppermints by the register! Those are for the customers!" Sylvia screamed, swatting at his chair.

"Can you four behave?!" Floyd interjected from the far side of the desk. Like a schoolmaster he rose, cane in hand, delivering a stern gaze of “try me” upon them. "The A&R representative will be in any minute! If he sees you like this—!" he exclaimed, looking back nervously at an ornate wood door some feet beside the desk.

"We can't have Mareby looking over legal documents!" Cecil protested. “Are you really going to mess around with something that serious?”

"Cecil, he was the cheapest— I mean, the most suitable candidate I could find. You know he's shipshape! Don't you worry!"

Cecil hunched over, dropping his face into his hands. “I don't know that!” Marion grew equally as concerned now that the amusement had worn off.

“Wait, you're serious?” he said, looking side to side for the other's reactions. “Floyd, I know carnies I would trust more as lawyers!” he argued as Floyd moved towards him with his cane, shouting threats.

Aster, at the furthest end of the chairs, couldn't help but liven a little in face of the madness. Though they were bickering, and although the worries of her future and of her mother's fate still hung over her like an ever-present black cloud, so strong was the monumental occasion of that morning and of the comfort she felt in this group, that even those horrors could be rendered just a trifle, if only for a little bit.

She smiled faintly, and as the group chattered on with animation, Aster let her eyes wander about the large, stately office. It was a large room, paneled on all sides with faux-wood, which met a burnt orange shag carpet which itself led up to the stately oak desk before which the band, Mareby-Roquefort, and Floyd were now seated.

A bead of tepid, cold sweat ran down Aster's forehead, speeding past her eye as she swallowed her nerves. Unbeknownst to her, her hand was gripping the leather armrest of the chair, trembling ever so slightly.

The conversation was moving towards who would be their producer, and Aster had yet to break the news to them that she had decided they would go with Vincent Theodora.

The band was pouring over the prodigious list of names the record label had provided, discussing each as though they had won the lottery.

"Ronnie Rickets!" Marion shouted excitedly, referencing a seminal Peppermint Plains skiffle producer he likened as his rockabilly hero.

Aster turned a side-eye towards the group, watching as they huddled over the paper, and tried her best to shut out her thoughts.

"Uh, actually," she began, her heart thrashing as her quiet, mousy voice enunciated those two words with extraordinary difficulty.

The group looked up at her in minor surprise, their expressions of which caused Aster to shrivel under their gaze.

Her throat went dry and her limbs felt as though they had turned to stone.

"Yeah, Aster?" Sylvia asked cheerfully in response to Aster's silence.

Marion was observing her curiously, as if he had any chance in the world of reading the panicked girl's face.

“She probably wants to tell you to cool it,” he gave jokingly.

"No, she obviously wants to tell you off, Marion!" Sylvia shot back.

"No—" Aster finally uttered.

Again, all eyes turned to her.

"The producer—"

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Ronnie Rickets, right?" Marion said excitedly.

"—We should go with Vincent Theodora."

Cecil and Marion, as though someone had placed their hands over the fire lighting their brains, went blank.

"...Vincent Theodora?" Cecil repeated weakly, returning to life. “I thought you hated him.”

Floyd was behind Cecil, a picture perfect opposite, radiating in an expression of pure delight at Aster's words. He began to giggle joyfully, clasping his hands to mouth to mask his joy as a tide of red made its way across Marion's face.

"Over my dead body!" he exclaimed, rising. "There's no way I'm working with that jerk-off!” he continued, looking at the others.”

Mareby-Roquefort instantly avoided his eyes, not wishing to be involved, while opposite the row of chairs a blanket of terror had deformed Aster into a shivering, jittering wreck of nerves.

“Gonna tell me how to drum," he huffed.

Aster had expected retaliation, but she had not expected to encounter it so early and with such push back, and so was instantly kneecapped by the searing hot anxiety that only confrontation can bring as Marion rose to defy her. She trembled, forcing herself to bring her eyes to his, and found herself instantly moved to near tears. The implicit knowledge that the others were watching this altercation, which put Aster dead on the stage of social battle with no sword, filled her with a near unbearable mortification.

Within her twitching, little, anxious brain grew an ember of rage— a hot gem of pure, total fury at the fact Marion would dare make it this difficult for her, itching for her herself to rise to her feet and defend her position— but it was smothered to death by the blanket of her humiliation.

“We're all in agreement— no Vincent, right?!” Marion asked, surveying the group. “Right? I thought we already agreed to this!”

“Yeah, why are you just bringing this up now? You seemed completely on board just yesterday,” Cecil added.

Aster, seeing the ranks of dissension grow, was now barely holding back her tears.

Sylvia moved to confront them, when Aster suddenly began to speak.

“Do you really want a suit to get to choose who records you?” she said under her breath.

Marion was caught off guard by this consideration, and faltered.

“No, but—”

“You think he cares about our music? He only cares if it makes him money. You said it yourself— the record industry is a cutthroat business,” Aster again said meekly.

Her heart galloped as she spoke, avoiding eye contact with Marion.

Though she could not see their expressions, she could sense by the silence of the rest of the group that they were watching the two of them with a weighty anticipation and curiosity. The thought of this flushed Aster's cheeks pink.

“Vincent was trying to tell me how to drum!” Marion put forward reluctantly, suddenly less sure in his argument.

“He's not completely wrong— you do slew a little sometimes,” Cecil suddenly interjected.

Aster suddenly looked up. He had taken the words out of her mouth.

Marion turned around, sneering.

“Slewing? I'm playing with passion, man! Sometimes you get sloppy, so what?”

“You just need to be a little tighter when we make records is all we're saying,” Cecil replied.

“Did the recording not turn out okay in the end?” Floyd interjected, seeing his opening.

“Well, yeah, but—”

Marion was now looking at everyone looking up at him.

Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes and fell back into his seat, crossing his arms in defeat.

“Fine! When we're in the streets, don't come talking to me about how we should have got Ronnie Rickets,” he grumbled.

A feeling of disbelief came upon Aster at seeing Marion fold.

She looked up at Cecil, who had just a minute earlier been vocally against the decision.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked, looking at Aster.

Aster, feeling the spotlight on her again, began once more to tremble.

Her brain scattered under their purview and struggled to formulate her argument.

“Well, like I said, anyone who the label picks isn't going to care about us. They're not going to give us the proper attention,” she sputtered out with great pains.

“Vincent cared about us? He gave us to his intern and took a lunch break,” Cecil argued.

“He stayed though, didn't he? His intern did nothing,” Aster replied.

“He records comedians, Aster. We have a real chance for something big here and you want to bet it on a no-name label? I mean sure, involvement with a major is always going to mean selling out, but do you really want to fumble the chance? It's honestly a miracle we're even here.”

Aster narrowed her brows at this remark.

“We're here because we're good, not lucky— didn't we decide that? What happens if we go with their pick and they force us to release an album a month, or record lame covers, or ruin the mixes of our songs?”

Cecil looked confusedly at her.

“What? Who says they're going to do that? None of us have had a producer before, we can't say that's how badly it'll go.”

Aster bit her tongue.

“Do you want to take a chance on that? Do you want to waste our opportunity on trusting a major label?”

Cecil furled his brow.

“You can't just make the decision anyways, Aster. We had all decided to not go with Vincent before this. We're a group, the decision must be made as one.

“Then let's vote on it!” Sylvia peeped in.

Cecil looked back at her, then to Aster.

“Fine, okay.”

A vote for the label's choices was called.

Marion and Cecil raised their hands.

They looked at Aster and Sylvia, realizing it was a tie.

A vote was called for Vincent for formality.

Aster and Sylvia raised their hands.

“What do we do with a tie?” babbled Floyd, looking around.

The group looked at him, then each other nervously as an awkward silence began to fill the room.

Mareby-Roquefort continued to sit at the far side of the desk, terrified.

This scene went on for some dozen, uncomfortable seconds, when at last, Cecil raised his head.

“I'll go with Vincent,” he murmured, drawing the immediate looks of the rest.

Marion again rose. “What?! I thought you were on my side, man!”

“I don't want to be produced by a suit! Aster's right. Imagine if we didn't even get Ronnie Rickets? Nearly all the people on there are doo-wop producers. How is that a good fit for us?”

“The votes have it!” Floyd shouted, leaping from his seat.

Marion sank into his, folding his arms in a pout.

“I can't tell you how happy I am that you saw the good in him, Miss Aster! If he's given a chance I know he can do wonderful things! Simply wonderful things!” he screamed, pacing back and forth.

Sylvia, seeing that the smoke had cleared, bent forward in her chair, looking brightly at the others.

“You can't go wrong with the man who soundtracked Zorgs!” she beamed, closing her eyes in an expression of content warmness.

“You're a Zorg, you freakin' alien!” Marion exclaimed, reaching over in jest at Sylvia who blew raspberries back at him.

Cecil, frowning in annoyance, placed his hand on each of their shoulders as he tried to keep them apart.

Aster, reeling from her rollercoaster ride of emotions, sighed as an immense feeling of relief and warmth suddenly washed over her.

Her primary fear had been defeated, leaving uncovered the treasure trove of bliss which was now the moment before them.

She looked up at the gold records hanging on the wall behind the desk, and read the inscriptions which denoted the bands and artists who were so fortunate to have earned them.

She focused, trying her hardest to envision “The Love You Forevers” etched upon all of them— her proof of existence as canyons of gold.

Her vision was suddenly obscured and her eyes focused on a dark black suit before her.

She had not heard the door open, nor realized that everyone else had risen.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the suit said.

“Neil Applegate, pleasure to meet you.”