Floyd's excitement in waiting for that evening's broadcast of Willie Cooper's show was so great that, by the time the group had arrived at the station that evening, he had scarcely even remarked on the complete state of ruin in which Mareby-Roquefort had left the shop.

“It's absolutely trashed!” Cecil yelled as they departed from Sylvia's van, agitated at Floyd's apparent lack of concern. “God knows how much they stole!”

“Even the Johnny Vallerie cutouts!” Sylvia added with a chuckle.

This fact pleased Aster.

“It doesn't matter, Cecil,” Floyd said calmly, stopping to look him dead in the eye. “It doesn't matter. It's only a store. This—” he gestured to the station before them, “—This is what counts. Do you see that antenna? Do you see that tower above our heads?”

Cecil looked at him in confusion, before glancing up and then nodding.

“You all have been echoing from the top of that little red light all day. And soon—”

He theatrically brandished the test acetate in his hand.

“Soon you will be the only thing playing from all the towers in Cherryaire!”

Floyd grinned, his smile growing into a devilish, wide-eyed look.

“You've been spending too much time around Sísí,” Cecil retorted, opening the doors to the station.

The receptionist frowned darkly upon seeing them.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked curtly.

“No, but I don't believe we need one! Would you mind paging Mr. Cooper?” Floyd said gleefully, approaching the desk.

“He's in the middle of a show, sir,” she replied, short and sour.

“I do believe he won't mind.”

“I do believe you should leave, if you do not have a scheduled appearance.”

Floyd pursed his lips and gave the woman a look of consternation.

“Well, what now?” Marion remarked.

Floyd looked at him but said nothing, then gazed suspiciously back at the receptionist.

Cecil was about to interject that they should just return some other time, when Floyd suddenly took it upon himself to walk past the receptionist into the hall, at which point she arose.

“Sir!” she let loose in a shrill yell. “Get back here!”

The rest of the band, bewildered at Floyd's brazenness, followed in tow.

The receptionist was now screeching incomprehensible threats, chasing after them as they overtook her.

“Floyd, what the fuck are you doing? Do you want to go back to jail?!” exclaimed Cecil, stunned.

“Leave it to me, Cecil!” Floyd responded, keeping his eyes fixed dead ahead as they rushed along.

Sylvia's face lit up with excitement as she and Aster scurried behind Marion, who joined Cecil in exclamations of complete confusion.

As they reached the end of the hall, that golden record loomed into view, and suddenly they had arrived.

“Oh dear,” Floyd said, looking into the room.

“What?” Cecil asked with great apprehension, leaning forward to see for himself.

He went pale.

There, through the glass, sat the Cherubs.

“We can't go in there,” Aster said immediately, withdrawing.

Scarcely twelve hours had elapsed since the Cherubs' humiliation, and yet already Aster could see in March's face that the confident way with which he had always carried himself had faded.

This change was all the more striking when placed amongst his bandmates, whose affable, charming smiles emphasized the distant, desolate look in his eyes with terrible efficacy.

Those eyes seemed to wander the room unfixed upon any one thing, as though he were deeply lost in thought.

Aster knew that barging in upon them, while they were likely advertising their new single, was unforgivable.

Her stomach writhed in anxious pain at the thought of it.

Yet, Floyd persisted.

“Miss Aster,” he implored, “we have to strike while the iron is hot— it'll only be a second! We'll enter, Willie Cooper will be overjoyed, and we will leave with scarcely any interruption! Think of it—” he said, again brandishing the test acetate. “This will immediately flood the airwaves. If you don't do it now and the news blows over by tomorrow, how will you live with yourself?!”

Aster's heart sank at his words. Her mouth opened to counter with some response, but her voice choked.

“Floyd,” Cecil interjected tersely. “Don't be like that. She's right— it's beyond awful to just barge in.”

He looked Floyd firmly in the eye.

Although he was truly morally opposed to it, what Cecil wished more than anything was to avoid a personal meeting with the Cherubs, especially one as combative as this was sure to be.

“But the iron!”

“I think we should do it,” put in Marion. “The music business is a cutthroat game, and the Cherubs know it. They're the top of the top in the local scene! They'd do the same to us,” he argued.

“Then be better than them, man!” Cecil replied.

Sylvia then turned to Aster with a relaxed look in her eyes, seemingly less concerned by the situation than she was basking in the excitement of it. “Aster knows what's best,” she said, closing her eyes in a soft smile.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Aster looked upon all of them and then tore her eyes away in embarrassment. Her heart twisted within her chest to such a degree that she could detail every aspect of the pain it brought. She began to shake, and swallowed back her tears in fear that letting them loose would open her up to a full-fledged panic attack.

Once again, that wretched, shining golden record shimmered from outside her peripheral. Like the overbearing, eyesore of a summer sun it taunted her attention, and drew her towards it.

“Miss Aster?” Floyd asked nervously as she wandered over to it.

She did not respond, captured in quiet observation. Her thoughts ceased.

The group fell silent, leaving only the receptionist's screeches and reprimands blathering behind them.

Aster, after a few moments of thought, suddenly broke from the record and started for the studio door.

“Aster!” Cecil cried out as she did.

Without acknowledging his protest, she gripped the handle and entered.

Willie Cooper was in the middle of speaking.

“That was March from the Cherubs, and— well I'll be!” he erupted in delight and great surprise, receiving the group with a huge smile.

“You'll never believe this folks!“ he continued, lifting his microphone off the table. “The Love You Forevers— the very group whom I revealed this morning as being the authors of Johnny Vallerie's great hit— have just unexpectedly walked into the studio!”

The rest of the band had now timidly followed her inside, while Floyd moved ahead, receiving Willie Cooper's bantering like that of an old friend's.

Willie Cooper at once pulled aside the neighboring seats, and desperately motioned for the band to take a seat.

Cecil entered last, and he did so with seemingly all the reluctance in the world. His eyes cast over the Cherubs who were staring daggers at the Love You Forevers, and silently took his seat.

Aster herself could barely find it within her to acknowledge the looks of approbation being heaped upon her. Only through that white-hot, almost psychic feeling one gets when being observed were Aster's timid eyes finally urged to look up at the group, and then focus on March— who Aster noticed had seemingly lost all the color in face.

Her heart shivered.

“What have you got here?!” yelled Willie Cooper, snatching the acetate from Floyd. Floyd leaned into his ear and whispered, at which point Willie Cooper beamed.

“A new single?!” he bellowed, rising. “Quick, somebody— throw this record on! Now!” he exclaimed, gesturing madly to his staff, who ran inside the room to take the acetate from him.

“What the fuck, man?!” finally exclaimed Cortier, covering his mic. “We're here to play our single!”

Willie Cooper turned to Cortier and bled all look of amusement from his face.

“Take care not to swear on my program, or you can count on never featuring on it again. Secondly, I'm beholden to what my viewers want— and what they want is this wonderful band,” he said, motioning to the five who sat sheepish and ashamed around him.

Cortier turned livid at the response. March appeared even more-so, becoming empurpled in his rage.

Willie Cooper noticed this, and signaled to his staff to segue into a commercial break and cut the microphones.

“Are you actually going to let this fucking happen?!” March shouted, rising.

Arthur grabbed at his arm and attempted to sit him back down, but March tore his arm away and looked fixedly upon Willie Cooper with violent eyes.

“It doesn't matter how great their song is!” he yelled in a faltering voice. “It doesn't give anyone the fucking right to disregard everything else because of it!”

His face twisted in anger, yet his eyes held a mournful quality— like two fat drops of dew waiting to be perforated and burst forth in their streams.

Aster withdrew her eyes from him in horror. Every word he screamed felt like nails raking her flesh, its grip tightening as he increased in frenzy and volume.

She worried above all that the more she witnessed this, the less she would be able to live with herself.

March then looked to Eugene, who was sitting in the corner of the room, watching the situation with dread. It had been obvious he was biting his tongue out of fear of adding fuel to the fire, but at last he broke his silence.

“Excuse his language, Willie, but their anger is completely justified,” he began with a tone of irritated contempt. “What stock should a performer, or really any 'guest', place in appearing on your program if this is how you treat them? These— again, excuse my language— 'buffoons' waltz in here during a broadcast and you reward them with airtime?”

March turned his wild, excited eyes at Willie Cooper, as if this reprimand represented the final blow.

Willie Cooper frowned.

“Listen, I get it. I really do,” he replied insincerely. “However, that's how it is, Eugene. You and I know that. We know that numbers are what matter.”

He brandished the test acetate as he spoke.

“Their numbers speak volumes over yours.”

As he said this, Aster turned her eyes back to March, cautiously. She anticipated that he would explode, and frantically thought over a multitude of horrific scenarios that might now erupt, but to her surprise, he simply sat back down.

Eugene looked as if he were trying to think of a proper response, but Willie Cooper preempted his follow-up.

“We'll get to your single right after this, don't worry! You're still gonna be the lead-in to the late night block,” he said in a tone of plastic consolation one offers to a child who did not get their way.

A moment of tense silence passed, and March lowered his head.

“Get him out of here,” he suddenly whispered.

“Excuse me?” asked Willie Cooper in confusion.

“Him!” he shouted, growing louder and pointing directly at Cecil. “He's fucking eyeing me with that smug look of his!”

Cecil's face twisted in angered surprise.

“What?! I'm not looking at shit, man,” he said, raising his voice.

“Cecil...” Sylvia put forth weakly.

March shot up from his seat, causing his bandmates to once again restrain him.

“Yeah, you fuckin' are! You're looking so pretty, just because you lucked out and ended up in a band with talent!”

“Hey man, watch your mouth before I knock your head in!” shouted Marion, himself rising.

Willie Cooper, although irritated, had half a mind to resume the show as he watched the argument unfold.

“I'd like to see you fuckin' try, you beret-wearing loser,” interjected Cortier.

Marion's eyes went wide. “I'll fucking kill you!” he screamed, lunging across the table.

“Marion! Marion get back!” Floyd screamed, grabbing hold of his waist and attempting to pull him back with all the power in him.

Sylvia was herself attempting to cross the table, forcing Aster with great hesitance and awkwardness to restrain her as well.

“Let me at 'em! I'll give 'em a kick!” she yelled, reflexively swinging her short leg at the air.

At that moment, the red “on air” sign once again lit up, and the entire party went silent. They all stared up at it cautiously as Willie Cooper reached towards his microphone.

“Welcome back, sorry to keep you all waiting. As promised, here's the latest single from the Love You Forevers— featuring their version of Johnny Vallerie's latest hit.”

Despite Willie Cooper's desperate pleas for them to remain, the Love You Forevers quickly endeavored to leave the room as soon as their song began to play. Cecil was beside himself in anger, and rushed beyond them down the hall.

Seeing their departure, the receptionist immediately resumed her tirade and began to follow the rest of the band as they raced towards the entrance.

As Aster approached the door, she noticed that Cecil had stopped.

He was staring out the expansive windows of the station at a crowd of some dozens, who were screaming hysterically.

Wild exclamations of Floyd soon followed, joined by Marion and Sylvia as they too noticed the sight before them.

Cecil looked darkly upon the sight, evidently more concerned with escaping the station then admiring their success which displayed itself so obsequiously outside the glass doors.

“What do we do?” he spat with irritation.

“We become rich!” Floyd hollered, marveling out the window at the crowd which erupted in furor at seeing the group.

As the group huddled around Floyd in discussion of how to escape, Aster approached the window.

The exclamations from outside only grew louder as she did, and she felt her heart race.

The sight brought to mind the first time she had ever visited this station, when the group had witnessed a similar showing for the Cherubs.

She remembered clearly with just how much jealousy and longing she had looked upon their wild, devoted throng, imagining that her own cultivation of such fanaticism would surely represent the highest degree of happiness.

Her ear caught the excited murmurs of the group sans Cecil, and knew that she was not alone.

To gaze upon the proof of burgeoning success, like viewing the crest of a tidal wave poised to destroy all in its path, cast Aster's body over a cloud of nirvana.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, scouring over their homemade signs, and took notice of one in particular— “We love the Love You Forevers!”

She imagined what it would be like to exit those glass doors and give herself up to the crowd— to let them have her limb by limb for the price of a cavalcade of compliments.

There seemed no finer end.