Aster hesitantly raised her eyes to the man, who immediately looked back down at her. His pursed lips then burst into a sneer of delight, and he beamed. “There's my band!” he growled, devouring them with his gaze. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to have the chance to meet with you; God knows how many offers you must have received!” He approached the group, shaking the hands of Mareby-Roquefort and Floyd who were nearest to the door, before moving on to Aster. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” he said cordially, offering his hand.

She received his firm grip with a cold and limp hand, not knowing what to do or having ever given a handshake before. She frowned, became embarrassed, and said nothing. It was her utmost wish to project strength but right from the beginning she had been besieged with terrible humiliation.

Fucking idiot!

He continued on down the line, nodding his head graciously to the rest while thanking them for their attendance. Aster watched the man intently, struck by the genteel way with which he carried himself. He spoke with a smooth cadence— confident, which reflexively brought out a defensive hostility in Aster. He reminded her much of what she had seen out of her parents' friends when she was younger.

These scrupulous manners were mirrored by an appearance painstakingly freed of blemishes— she tried to spot the slightest hint of disorder upon his meticulously organized desk or the slightest wrinkle in his virgin midnight sky suit, but she found nothing.

Satisfied with introductions, Neil took a seat before the group and reclined into a comfortable position. He looked them over, scanning now to the left and then to the right, as if calculating how best to begin this meeting.

“These are exciting times,” he said at last, looking eagerly at them. “I'm not sure how aware you are of your position, but you're the talk of the town! The dogs are lapping at your heels, metaphorically.”

The group, so bowled over with excitement and in awe of this high-ranking record official, looked up at him with glittering eyes. He hadn't yet said anything of worth, but he said they were important, and that meant everything coming from him.

“That is to say, you have reached a point in your career where success is yours for the taking, but you need to move to take it. It's unfitting for a band of your talent and potential to be out there playing dingy bars and recording with has-beens,” he said confidentially, leaning in slightly.

“What are you offering?” Aster said suddenly, feeling her confidence return. Neil grinned.

“Now that's what I like to see,” he growled excitedly. “Where shall we start first?”

Floyd looked around the group with an uneasy expression. They shared his apprehension and told him with their looks to go forward.

“The producer,” he said hesitantly.

Neil Applegate smiled.

“Yes! Which of them caught your eye?” he responded enthusiastically, looking at Floyd.

“Well, erm— we'd like to go with somebody not on the list.”

Neil narrowed his gaze. “Somebody not on the list?” he repeated.

Floyd nodded, swallowing.

Neil thumbed through the contract to the handwritten page detailing the producers' names, pointing demonstrably. “These are the best producers in Cherryaire,” he said, now surveying the group. “Is there something wrong with them?”

“No, not at all! They're all wonderful!” Floyd warbled. “It's just— we have our own personal preference for somebody not on the list. We'd like to be able to work with him.”

“Hey, I never said anything about liking him!” Marion grumbled.

“Who is your choice?” Neil replied with a hint of growing irritation. He was watching Marion from the side.

“Vincent Theodora,” Floyd replied, smiling.

Neil, going silent, clasped his hands together and leaned forward, pressing his face into the prayer-like gesture he was making.

“The funny tunes guy?” he chortled.

“The esteemed comedian, yes,” replied Floyd.

His smile faded.

“Come on!” he exclaimed in a pouting tone, waving his hand across the list of names on the desk. “There's gotta be somebody else in here you'd be fine with! These are top-rate guys—these guys make hits!” he continued, gesturing yet more wildly. “They know our studios, too. I mean, you have to understand I'm not exactly eager to let an outsider work with our equipment— these are state-of-the-art facilities.”

I bet this fucker's never even been in a studio, Aster thought.

“Then we'll record at his studio,” she countered.

Neil's stern eyes turned to her, his smile as warm as the grin of coals on a snowman.

“That doesn't solve the problem, Miss! You see, we use the equipment we do because it sounds good. It isn't all the same, even though I can see how you'd think that— it's all very complicated technology.”

His smirk furrowed proudly as he congratulated himself for putting the girl in her place, though quickly faded as he noticed the entire group had gone silent. A sober look adorned their faces, and their eyes were drawn nervously to the girl with the large eyebrows sitting before him. He glanced at her, and saw a look of rage unlike any he had ever witnessed burned into her eyes.

The ferocity of the glare took him aback, and he choked while leaning forward in his seat, attempting to adopt a more reserved posture.

“I just want the best for you—”

“I know how studios work,” Aster barked.

At this point Cecil dropped his face into his hands.

“Cherry Lane Studios are using a Studer J37, what about you?”

Neil creased his brow. He looked at the rest of the group, unable to tell if this was some elaborate joke; he had no intention of laughing all the same.

“I'm not exactly sure about the model—”

“It's at least a two-track, right?” she shot back. “What about reverb patches? Chamber or plate? Stone or ceramic?”

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“Miss, I'm not an engineer, I just—”

“I can tell,” she growled.

Neil beheld the girl with bewilderment. Her face, twisted in a scowl, maintained a savage glint he seldom saw in the people who passed through his office. That she was a woman, especially one as apparently knowledgeable as she, only served to deepen his surprise.

He clenched his teeth, inhaling deeply.

“I assure you that Cherry Lane Studios cannot compare to our facilities. You are of course, free to discuss any questions you may have with our engineers— I'm sure they can put your worries to rest. As for your request, it's simply a matter of procedure. We prefer to have our artists record within our facilities.”

Aster at that moment was taken by a near blinding impulse to tell Neil to “go fuck himself,” but bit her tongue and considered the situation. She could not recall exactly how long she had been fantasizing about this moment— negotiating a record contract— but that was only because she couldn't recall a time when she hadn't. It was one of her favorite fantasies to act out in her mind; to scour the the near limitless possibilities of how it would go, and how Aster would triumph; how Aster would crush the suits and win for her band a record deal that would be the envy of all. Aster only ever envisioned that she would be strong— she would not be fucked over like those in countless accounts she had read.

Therefore, when she sensed weakness, she struck.

“I guess we'll have to see what Magnolia Haus has to offer, then,” Aster replied coldly, beginning to rise.

As expected, Neil Applegate went pale. To Kyrietone and himself, Magnolia Haus

represented the ultimate struggle, and Aster knew this. She understood that Kyrietone would be desperate to get an edge on their rival— whose roster included both Johnny Vallerie and Godiva. Floyd was beside himself, hollering for Aster to reconsider, as the rest of the band looked amongst themselves in confusion. Neil struggled to keep his composure.

“Please, please! Don't be so hasty!” Neil interjected, motioning desperately for Aster to sit back down. “We can make something work. I'll have one of our engineers come around and inspect the place— see if it's up to our standards.”

Aster sat down with a plop, folding her arms.

“Are you sure there isn't another producer you'd be interested in? Ronnie Rickets, perhaps?” he asked with a pleading tone. Marion uttered a wordless gasp at the mention of Ronnie and turned to Aster with the beseeching eyes of a child.

“Vincent Theodora, or we leave,” she said firmly.

Marion hung his head. Neil's lips pursed into a grimace, then soured fully into an expression just short of a scowl as he said:

“Okay, Vincent Theodora it is.”

Mareby-Roquefort leaned forward to record it in the contract. A happy chirp came from Sylvia, patting Aster's back while Floyd exploded in excitement.

“Thank you so much,” he groveled, falling to his knees. He bowed from Aster to Neil, and back.

Neil, shaken by the unexpected maneuvering, fell back into his seat. He tore his gaze away from Floyd's tremulating mass in disgust and set it upon Aster, who no longer avoided his, and spared no effort to mask his disdain. Aster, raking Neil on the coals of her orange eyes, did the same.

“For the next matter then,” he started, clearing his throat. “Royalties. What would you consider a fair percentage?”

Aster's forward momentum was arrested. She hadn't ever considered the financial portion of the affair. She looked about the room, and found that her bandmates had as little apparent understanding of the subject as she did.

“I don't know, a million?” Marion put in with little conviction.

“What does that even mean?” Cecil interjected, looking wildly at Marion.

“Cherry-O's sponsorship!” screamed Sylvia.

Suddenly, the rap of a cane echoed throughout the room and stole their attention.

Floyd had risen from his seat, standing resolutely before Neil's desk.

“Sixty percent of all sales.”

Neil's eyes went wide.

“You've gotta be kidding,” he stammered, lurching forward in his chair.

“I think the band has more than earned it, if their 'buzz' is anything to go by,” Floyd countered coyly.

Neil scoffed.

“I don't offer anything that high to our best selling artists! There's no way I can get approval for that!”

“Then I guess we're going,” Aster parried.

Neil grit his teeth, and looked furiously upon Aster.

“Fifty percent.”

“Fifty-five,” Aster replied.

“Fifty-two,” Neil countered.

A moment of silence separated the parties.

Aster held Neil under a watchful gaze, and noticed a bead of sweat trailing his forehead. She found a certain thrill in untidying him.

At last, Floyd stuck out his arm, offering a handshake.

“Fifty-two,” he repeated, shaking Neil's arm.

The band lit up at this and embraced, though they could scarcely comprehend what the financial significance of the deal they had just made was.

A tiny notion of what it might entail shot through each of their brains, as the idea of financial security and perhaps even riches twinkled in a teasing fashion like murky diamonds in the distance, but the concept of their music making any sort of profit was still far out of their minds.

Floyd and Mareby-Roquefort however were rejoicing, red in the face with excitement. Floyd warbled and screamed as the two men clasped hands together in celebration and embraced.

Neil Applegate watched the entire scene with a look of total disgust only just barely masked by a paper thin smile which attempted to filter his hatred into an expression of happiness for them.

Yet, he held the smile for all he was worth, for his stomach tickled with excitement in what lay at the end of his pain.

Swatting through their mist of happiness, he was quick to discuss the next several points, which included various topics such as ownership of master tapes, percent of merchandise profits, tax havens, and creative control, all of which were won in Aster's favor, before at last— holding himself by the final strands of his restraint— he presented before the group the final contract.

The terms had been notated by Mareby-Roquefort, and now sat with its blank signatory section, awaiting the names of all.

Aster reached for a pen and felt her fingers tremble as she grabbed it.

She raised it above that object which represented the blossoming of all her goals.

That sheet of paper, despite its infinitely mundane and dull form, represented a hitherto impossible, brilliant and shining hope.

As her hand drew nearer, she felt her nerve endings buzz in pure bliss. Her hair stood on end as the teasing dance between hand and paper influenced every idea of happiness within her to its fever pitch.

Her pen hit the paper, and she wrote.

A genuine smile once more returned to Neil's lips.

“I would like to personally welcome you to Kyrietone Records,” he congratulated, extending his hand out to Aster.

Aster received it, and grasped firmly.

Neil's eyes watched her, his smile seeming to grow the more he held her in his gaze.

She scowled and let go.

“Now, shall we get started with a release plan?” he said with great joy, returning to his seat. “There's not a second to waste.”

The band looked amongst each other, and then nodded.

“Good! I assume you have other songs written, correct?”

Aster nodded.

“Spectacular! The first album is coming out next month.”

The band stared at him blankly.

“Next... month?” Cecil said disbelievingly.

“Yes, next month,” Neil repeated matter-of-factly. “Your hype is at its peak right now, and we need to capitalize on it accordingly.”

“That's not enough time at all!” Aster exclaimed, in disbelief at the utter stupidity of his demands. “I want a proper ad campaign.”

“Don't worry yourself about particulars like that. You'll be fine if you just keep making headlines. You know, do your funny stuff.”

Aster's eyes sparkled with fury

“We need more time!” she growled.

Neil shook his head.

“No. We need it on shelves by Valentine's Day. Any longer and we risk losing momentum to Godiva.”

“Valentine's Day?” Marion groaned.

“Yes, you are the Love You Forevers, are you not? We can't just pass up a tie-in like that.”

Marion, mouth agape, began to rise.

“Just think of it,” Neil interjected, motioning him down. “It's perfect. Chocolate tie-ins, valentine cards with the album. And of course, you'll need to make sure they're all love songs.”

“You gotta be kidding me!” Marion replied. “I'm not doing an album of love songs! I mean, ballads? My men are gonna be listening, man!”

“How are you even going to get the album produced that quickly?” Cecil argued, watching as Marion slouched over in his seat.

“We can rush the presses,” Neil answered simply. “Take a day to record it and we can get it done in no time.”

“A day?” Cecil exclaimed, wide-eyed. “There's no way, man! It's not happening.”

“It will happen— next week. What was the place you mentioned? Cherry Lane Studios? I'll have a session booked for next Monday.”

“I have classes starting!” Sylvia peeped in worry.

Amidst the chorus of objections from her bandmates, a sentiment arose within Aster's mind— a sadistic excitement, aroused by the tantalizing thought of being the class of songwriter who could handle such a seemingly impossible hurdle. The very prospect of it hummed within her, and she salivated at the chance to walk within the footsteps of her idols.

"We can do it," Aster blurted out, drawing Cecil's dumbfounded eyes and the surprise of everyone around her. Neil turned to her, and looked like he had set his eyes upon the sun, so brightly did he radiate in joy at her answer.

“That's what I want to hear!” he exclaimed electrically. “It can be done! It will be done! If we pull together as a team—”

He rose before his desk, triumphantly snatching the contract.

“—There's no limit to what we can do.”