Stalking Musicians [Daichi]

Ritsuko prickled at the advice. Everyone told her the same thing in similar terms. "You'll do fine!", "You'll play great!", "You have nothing to worry about!" She knew better than that. Ritz had to play nothing less than perfectly or she could end up a stain on the wall, or with a hole in her chest, or any variation of fucking dead. She cared extremely little about how other people thought she played because other people's opinions didn't matter. She knew how well she played. And frankly, she was playing like trash. But she'd get better. This was only temporary. Practice made perfect, and the forlorn musician would play until her transitions were flawless, her chords throttling at the heart with every pluck of the string, and her harmony one that would gain the ire of angels themselves.

"I told you before, I'm just pissed off," she dismissed the strange one with a bored look. "I'm better than everyone else in Endymion anyway, this is just a bad day." As much as it sounded like conceited self-confidence, Ritsuko didn't believe she was wrong. No one lived the sort of life she had. No one was forced to play an instrument from the their childhood under a real threat of physical and mental violence. No one had their soul thrown in a blender alongside a Greek Muse and had it set to puree. And most importantly, no one had to ever play an instrument in self-defense or risk being ripped in half down the middle by the supernatural. Ritsuko could easily run circles around the most talented musicians with a half-effort. At the cost of her entire life, that is. She could never make a mistake, not ever, not when it came to her music. That was certainly unacceptable. She made enough mistakes everywhere else.
"You can keep your encouragement to yourself, I don't really need it," the rude musician waved off, "It's not gonna make me play any better, I'm the only one who's in charge of that." Her voice and mannerisms remained unaggressive even if her words were less than nice. Abrasive was Ritsuko's default modus operandi, after all. She'd been conditioned through all her interactions with others to keep them away from herself, and even if she meant well she wasn't accustomed to speaking towards people in any sort of friendly terms. It was safer that way. People only wanted what they could get from you.

As Ritsuko drug her fingers across the strings she would be rocked by intense, overwhelming fear. It nearly caused her to double over in shock, the color draining from her face. She began to sweat and tremble in this new terror, and it wasn't the only thing to assault her. Shame, indignation, fury, dread, all of it gripped her in a terrible vice. And her fingers moved anyway, stalling to attempt to swim through this mental torture.

Aoide's Vindication:

NNNEVER AGAIN SHALL YOU SHOW ME SUCH BLATANT DISRESPECT!!!

G-Guuuh!

III AM MAN'S GREATEST GIFT!!! I AM BEAUTY!!! I WILL NOT BE DISREGARDED AND TOSSED ABOUT AS IF I AM ANYTHING LESS THAN A RIGHTEOUS DEITY!!! DOST THOU UNDERSTAND!!!

Nnnng! U-uh-! Uh-huh!

Hmm... Marvelous... Now... the reason you have become a miserable failure in your artwork is because you possess no emotion in it. Art is no laughing matter, one must throw one's very spirit into the craft if thou seeketh skill enough to set the heavens alight. Would you not agree, child?

Haaa... *gulp* Haa... Y... Yes...

Mmmhmmhmm! Glorious. Now put your heart into your screams. Like the tortured artist you know yourself to be~~...

Ritsuko would've agreed to anything to make her emotion hell stop. That sort of pain was unbearable. It was worse than death itself. She would've much rather be stabbed multiple times through the neck than to feel anything like that again, that agonizing torment... But she had found her fingers flying across the strings to express her newfound anguish. In a quick and turbulent rhythm she would pluck her strings flawlessly, giving herself to the music. The panic she felt, the irritation that held her tightly not moments ago, all were striking wails through her instrument. And as she played those feelings left her. They vacated her soul leaving... what? Satisfaction perhaps. Relief? Catharsis? She couldn't put a word to the name of what she experienced, but it was bliss compared to her previous emotional state. Through it all Ritsuko would wear an increasingly enraptured expression, her lips curling from tormented grimace to stupefied grin, her eyes blanking as her inner universe coated the walls with vengeful black to free it from herself. In the end she would appear very satisfied, allowing the final notes to hang on their strings.

Ritsuko was sweating again, this time in exertion instead of terror. Her anger had all but disappeared, released into the airwaves in a cacophony of tragedy. Through her furious strumming she let all of it go... Her frustration, her pain, her heartache, her weariness at the world. All of it, suppressed to nothingness as she set her soul to the strings. It was a unique kind of relief, the kind you'd only fine through screaming bloody murder after cutting your finger to the bone. She found herself panting in heavy breaths, having sweat through her blouse as if she'd ran the length of the city. Ritz let her strings sing their swan song as she ran a hand across her face to wipe her sticky hair from her eyes. Letting go of all that tension felt... good. There wasn't a better way to describe it but "good", everything else was pedantic, trite, and didn't do it justice. "Good" was fine with her.

For just a moment, everything melted away. Ritsuko was a happy little girl, proud of what she created for the world, beaming at her creative spirit. But it that purity wouldn't last but more than a standstill in the annals of time. Soon more complex emotions crept into herself. Self-awareness, embarrassment, and narcissism to name a few.
"I-It's nothing, I... I got shocked by my guitar..." Ritz lied. She knew it was a thing that happened, but never to her. Aoide was the perfect instrument. No amps necessary, no broken strings, barely any tuning, and never a chip on her apoxied surface. She'd never been shocked, but had heard stories of it happening to other musicians. Her face grew flush as she turned away from the strange young lady. That is, until she started receiving praise. Still caught up in her own performance, the musician's ego got the better of her.

"Hmm hmm! I told you I was the best!" she sang with a sly grin and coy chuckle. Her scarlet, smug, smirking expression dared bare itself to the odd newcomer. Ritsuko didn't feel the need to let her embarrassment outshine her own sense of pride in this moment. She leaned back on the bench, tenderly setting her guitar to stand valiantly upright beside herself as she reached for her pack of cowboy killers. She didn't need one, but it'd feel damn relaxing right about now. Everything about her posture was relaxed, commanding even. There was no better guitarist than Ritz and she was damn well aware of it.
"Frankly, no one's skill in this city even measures up to mine..." she cooed with a self-righteous smile as she proceeded to get a flame going on her cancer stick. Maybe her ego was a little too big at this precise point in time... In any case, she couldn't have felt bad if she wanted to. The endorphins flooding her brain made that next to impossible. It was temporary, she knew that, but this is what Ritz lived for. The music. The moment. Everything else was a means to those ends. She would never feel as good as she did now until the next time, whenever that was. The past was misery, the future would never come, but the present? The present was either Hell or Paradise. And everyone wanted Paradise.

High on good vibrations, the tortured soul made a fatal mistake. Reaching out to someone. Ritsuko chuckled to herself at the idea that she was in a completely new ballgame than the "professionals" and lolled her head to the odd girl. Why did she dress like that...?
"So I'm Ritz. And I'm the best fucking artist you'll ever hear. You are...?" she inquired in an approachable voice, opening her hand and extending it slightly toward her new fan.

The musician's countenance cooled just a little bit at the odd woman's praise. Overboard was overboard. It was beginning to sound insincere.
"Alright, enough already. You're starting to sound like a kiss-ass," she warned. Ritz was good, maybe she was even the best guitarist in Endymion. But a miraculous? That was kinda pushin' things. The delinquent rockstar would bob her foot on her knee lazily as she leaned into the bench, taking another drag of her cigarette. She wore a bored, analytic expression as she awaited a reaction from her new acquaintance. She was still in good spirits, of course, but was more used to frowning than smiling when she didn't feel like it. Resting bitch face was... well... a bitch.

Her eyebrow twitched at the newcomer's name. This chick was so damn weird. She looked like she jumped straight out of a silent film or one of those lame costume conventions were nerds dressed up like other nerd shit. Except, y'know, without the stupid goggles. She was an interior designer soooo... maybe that was her aesthetic? That'd make some sense. Aesthetic was pretty important in artwork, though Ritsuko herself didn't dress the way she did because she wanted to seem grunge. She chose to look like a punk because she didn't want to be associated with other "normal" people even at a glance. The delinquent wanted nothing to do with them, being lumped into the same group with them on looks alone was an insult in and of itself. It had the additional perk of appearing unapproachable though. No one wanted to have idle chit-chat with the thug smoking a cigarette sporting facial piercings. That was just fine with her.

Pfff, there's no fuckin' way that's a real name. I'm not fuckin' stupid. Whatever, I'll call her on her bullshit, see if she gives it up. Might be fun.

"Interior decorator, huh? I guess that'd explain why you're dolled up all in glad rags, yeah?" she joked with a lame accent. A terrible joke at that. Ritz probably knew more about World War II than anyone should be proud of, including the slang, but it was one of the few things they'd actually focused on teaching her during her childhood. Also some of the only movies she was shown, documentaries of course. Still, she had a preference for the classics that way. She didn't speak it aloud, but the musician didn't consider interior decoration art in any sort of sense. It didn't have a soul. It was pleasing to look at, someone could turn an empty room into a cozy living arrangement, sure. That didn't change the fact that no emotion, no struggle, no blood was poured into a piece that spoke volumes more than language ever could. But she'd keep that to herself for the moment. If she weren't in such a good mood things might've been said that can't be unheard.

"Sooo... like, what's your real name?" Ritsuko would ask after blowing smoke through her nose.

Holy shit lady, quit callin' me that, I'm not your damned kid.

Ritsuko rubbed the back of her head with a pained grimace. She was like, what, twenty five? Maybe it was the clothes. Anyways, not old enough to call her kid. She might've been Japanese, but seriously? Did she look that much like a little girl? Most people didn't make that assumption from the nose stud and stench of tobacco. Ritz was nobody's kid. Nobody alive, in any case. Well... she was pretty sure. She never really tried looking and honestly she didn't care. Only one of her caretakers was any kind of Asian and the delinquent was sure she was Korean, not Japanese, so she figured it wasn't any of them. They were all dead anyway. Probably. That was kind of why Ritsuko was in Endymion in the first place.

"...I'm not gonna call you Wandering Parlor Ghost~~" the coarse musician mocked in a false spooky upswing, "...soooo you've got one more chance to give me a name before I just start calling you whatever the fuck I want." It was dismissive, a little confrontational, but she said it like the statement of fact it was as she turned to zip her guitar into its protective polymer case. Lotta good that did ten minutes ago. She didn't really give a shit either way, but she was above filling her mouth with such a stupid combination of words to describe a person. Was it some sort of pseudonym? For an interior decorator? That was fuckin' weird all by itself. Ooh, my flower arrangements are so becoming, I must protect my identity lest it draw ravenous crowds of fellow artistes! Psshya, right. This chick had to be schizo or something, not that Ritz judged much. She was probably more fucked up than all of the strange lady's personalities combined.

The sweet tea in Ritsuko's hand made a sharp, gurgling hiss as she made an attempt to siphon the dregs of melted ice from the bottom of the cup. Such a shitty drink. Well, it was good, but there wasn't nearly enough of it. Should be such shitty people making such a fucking addictive drink. Bastards. Gawd, what an obnoxious laugh. It reminded her of Kiri. Such a bitch. This chick wasn't a bitch though. Just... really strange. Definitely a few chords short of a solo. At least the clothes were kind of explained. Still kinda odd, but there was a reason for it. Ritz ended up making a good bit of what she wore on a regular basis. Go-en made pretty cool low-cost jewelry, some of her shirts and her skirt she sewed herself, a couple jackets, pretty much everything but her jeans, boots, and work clothes. And some of the band shirts she had, but she didn't pay for some of those. A couple of them were gifts and prizes, a few of them from being part of some of the more excitable startups. None of them made it big, though. Except for Union Fall. She was kicking herself for not sticking around for them to get big. She'd be set for fuckin' life.

Hmm... She doesn't look like my size... I mean, I shop in the kid's section, so I'm not fuckin' surprised. If I had to wear that stuff everyday I'd slit my wrists so I could get a hospital gown or something.

"Y'know, like, I sew 'n shit. I could get you a real shirt or something if you wanted..." she offered sheepishly. Ritsuko wasn't particularly generous or helpful, but it was difficult to know that someone was walking around in their grandparent's clothes because they couldn't afford a damn blouse. Not even she was that dead broke. Interior decorating probably wasn't rolling in business in Endymion.

At least it's better than Travelling Mansion Mummy or something stupid like that.[/color]

She didn't know what this chick was on, but Ritz decided she didn't want any. Year was a strange name alright, but not totally unbelievable. No wonder she wanted to go by an alias. It was like that girl with the shitty parents that named her Apple.  Not unheard of... just weird. It was beginning to become a running theme. Well, whatever. Ritsuko didn't mind that much as long as she didn't want a locke of her hair or went off on some conspiracy on how fruitbats were ruining the economy. Frankly it was pleasant to have a non-psycho name to tie to a face. And clothing. With a little work Year would fit the Lolita-dress crowd. Or the nerd crowd with some goggles. It got her thinking...

Goddamnit... what have I done...? Fuck, now I owe someone something...

The Japanese woman tried to keep a straight face while speaking to her more eccentric acquaintance through the horrifying realization that she totally put herself out there. Things were gonna get awkward if they ran into each other again and Ritz didn't have a shirt for her. Well, whatever. What're the odds of that happening, huh? Right... right outside the burger joint... that she always goes to...

Ssssssssshit! I'm gonna have to make a shirt, aren't I...!?

Ritz could feel herself beginning to tighten up with the implication, to sweat under the weight of responsibility smothering her like a pillow. Her chest began to tense up with anxiety and her breathing began to quicken. Soon, rash decisions would be made. She'd been here before, it was inevitable. Well... it didn't matter! It's not as if they'd run into each other again anyway! And if Ritsuko didn't have a shirt by then, well... she'd say work was rough and she couldn't do it! Yeah, that's it! Tough luck honey, the world was a cruel, cruel bitch filled with empty promises and broken dreams. No one got what they wanted and everyone was out to screw you over. Ritsuko was just playing by the rules of the game.

After it became obvious that the delinquent was going to paint herself into a corner and that her sweet tea was gone and never coming back, she thought it the best time to leave.
"Well... I gotta get goin'!" she announced sheepishly, praying to whatever god would listen that they wouldn't meet again. "I need to get out of my work clothes and into something that doesn't make me look like a tool." Ritsuko hefted her guitar in one hand, leaving her empty sweet tea cup to be some other poor sap's problem where it was.
"You'll see me around, I play everywhere," she reassured. Ritz made a mental note to not come back to that particular MorBurger at the same time ever again to avoid keeping the false promise she accidentally made. Beginning to fall into the grips of panic, guitar in hand, face beginning to blush from embarrassment, the delinquent quickly fled the scene walking with purpose. She had nowhere to be but home, but anywhere to be than this.

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