Jaded Artforms (SL) [nooM]

The day had been exhausting, an absolute drag of a grind. It was filled to the brim with emotion, events, and worst of all, it was filled with people. Ritsuko hadn't gotten a single moment to her damn self since she left work. No time to unwind, relax, and reset. Everyone vying for her presence, demanding her attention, assaulting her with judgments and leeching her time and peace of mind. It was incredibly draining. She felt sick and angry and defeated and bitter. Why couldn't everyone just leave her the hell alone for half a freakin' hour!? If she'd had an ounce less of self control Ritz would seriously contemplate sending her guitar through something. Buuuut... throwing a tantrum wouldn't make her feel better. Getting home and shutting herself away for a little while would.

The familiar tug of her guitar bouncing along her shoulder held a different sort of weight to it as she made her way to catch her bus back to her hotel. She felt like a blade was hanging over her head, giving her a nasty stress headache. She'd lost an argument earlier, an important one. Ritsuko hated admitting when she was wrong, she'd rather have her fingernails pulled out. She'd need to accept that it wasn't so great to bottle in her emotions, to play for herself and only herself. It wasn't good for her in any sort of sense. If people wanted to understand, she would have to show them. Screw them if they didn't want to listen, she didn't want to deal with them either but she didn't have a choice in the matter. They wouldn't get a choice either. Like it or not, listen or not, everyone would at least hear what she had to express. And so she'd decided to visit Suzy Q after all, as much as she was loathe to do it. Life was short. Might as well take the risk. If she was lucky she could jump into a small band spot, even luckier and she'd get paid. Luckier still and she'd smoke some of those showoffs at their own game.

The delinquent pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to relieve the tension in her sinus cavities. Still slightly hungover, it seemed. Her veins felt like they were pumping paint thinner and her stomach felt slightly off, although that could've been the anticipation for later that night. She felt grungy in her work clothes, having sweat through her white dress shirt some in the hot alterations shop, her slacks sticking to her uncomfortably, not to mention how her presentable shoes were beginning to bite into the backs of her heels. Ritz couldn't wait to get home and fucking recharge a little. But that wouldn't be just yet. Her bus wouldn't arrive for a bit.

Ritsuko kept a bit of distance from the crowded bus stop, not wanting to engage with any more energy leeches until she'd had have some time to herself. With time to kill, steam to blow off, practice to perform, and no respect for those who would've preferred to sit in silence, the delinquent claimed a nearby lamp post and drew her instrument from its case. The strings hummed in anticipation as she brought it to bear, breathing deep to allow the music to overtake her. There wouldn't be anything else but the music... and her. Everything and everyone else would be a figment, a ghost in this actual world she would create, this furious story she would tell. As her fingers found their rightful positions and her thumb stroked the strings in precision, she would fill the air with her soul.

Ritsuko's Song:

"I've been try-in to fiiiiiiiind a waaay out!"

So as it turned out, most (if not all) of Nebula's suspicions of how going outside would go proved to be false. Initially she thought that going outside for anything other than vital affairs (such as going to the store or reporting to her designated parole officer for her weekly check, which she'd have to comply to for another month until her sentence was officially served) would end in nothing but trouble, but fate seemed to smile upon her this day. She'd met four good people who didn't judge her, she'd manage to get three drafts done, and she had even been able to eat something in complete peace (Well, mostly in peace). However, Nebula was having an inner mental struggle of duty versus pleasure; She knew that she had to keep herself locked up in her house to keep everyone around her safe from her, but at the same time... being outside... talking to people... seeing the sources of her artistic inspiration in person instead of through a computer screen... it was all magnificent; magnificent enough to make Nebula doubt whether she truly wanted to stay at home all the time, or keep going outside and feel the closest thing to happiness that she could feel on her own without needing to borrow from the universe's own emotions.

Whatever her final decision would be, the fact remained that Nebula needed to return home for the day. She needed to put her clothes in the washing machine, make final drafts and digitalize them (which was hard to efficiently do in her sorry excuse for a drawing tablet). Normally, Nebula would've taken the metro home, as she felt that the amount of prying eyes there would've been less than in any other form of public transportation, but after the events of today... Nebula was feeling brave, so she decided that she was going to save money and take the bus instead. To her dismay, however, the bus she needed to take wouldn’t be here for a while. In light of this, Nebula decided to sit down and draw something while she waited, but what to draw...?

Suddenly, Nebula’s question would be answered in the form of a very loud guitar pang. Reflexively, Nebula let out a timid whimper as she jumped mere millimeters from her seat in surprise. Thankfully, the song that followed was… nice. Nebula took notice of the woman singing and playing the guitar as everyone awaited the arrival of their respective bus. Feeling a surge of artistic inspiration, Nebula grabbed her sketchbook and began to draw as she listened carefully to the unexpectedly moderately-volumed melody of the musician’s song, looking at her from time to time.

"...Oh my line is breaking do-ooooown! My life is dis-a-lloooooooowed!"

The tortured musician was too captivated by her own sound, speaking her own message too loudly to be concerned with what was around her. Sometimes the soul needed to scream, y'know? Ritsuko had been bottled up for the majority of the day, chained down under observation enough that her kami never gained the opportunity to sing for themselves. Her grievances needed to be aired, her pain to be shared, her willingness to smash through common decency and social convention demanded to be set loose to run through everyone's mind! Ritz cared not who listened, who took offence, who had been touched and who remained stalwart in their stubborn steadfast stance. It didn't matter! Nothing did! Nothing except this embodiment of the sorrows of life, her rough fingers flying over the strings, and her raspy voice projecting into the void.

"All this silence...! Has left me nothin' at aaaaall!

Now now, does it not feel better to speak your heartache in the universal tongue? That of purity, of raw emotion?

...yeah. I guess.

Ha ha, do not act so coy! It is liberating to release your pain unto the hearts of others! With each spirit invested in this agony, we share the burden, and craft something truly beautiful!

I don't care! I just wanna be left alone! I want everyone to stop... staring at me and looking at me like I'm in the wrong! Like I shouldn't be who I am! Like I'm a number, and an odd one, not a human-fucking-being with wants and cares and dreams!

Nor should you my child! Their minds are small, but your heart... your heart is wide and open for the world to join in your torture! It matters not if they may understand, or even can! All that matters is that you share this agony, transform it into a masterpiece to be lauded and applauded! Your coal shall press tightly and under the pressure you shall form diamonds with your spirit!

Yeah... Y-yeah, it doesn't matter if they don't get it. This is me. This is who I am, I don't give a damn if they can't accept that!

And they never will! They never can! No one will EVER be able to understand your tortured spirit through ANY medium save this glorious, universal lexicon! Hark, in your audience there may be dissenters, those who misconstrue your message, who seek to spread falsehoods on the message of your art yet fear not! You are above such limited thinking... your pure, untouched cries of anguish will not be represented, my child.

...noted. I'll deal with that in my own way, thank you.

Ritsuko would finish with her performance quite anticlimactically, tapering down on her chords until they were a soft background opposed to a strong forefront. Although her melody was weak, it was still emotional. It spoke of annoyance, discontent, antipathy, and conceit. And it was in that moment that the delinquent had spotted just what Aoide had mentioned to her. A woman, a most peculiar one at that. She looked just a bit older than herself and, somehow, almost sadder. Her eyes were equally as dull as her own, her expression just as disengaged from the pain of the world. A look that came from experience. And it was incredibly intense. Ritsuko mistook the woman's interest for malice and scoffed to herself. She was writing her info down, huh? Tch, she didn't have the patience for this shit. She was inclined to respect her elders, possibly anyone who might have a sliver of insight into her sort of personal struggle like she appeared to have had, but at the moment Ritz was sick of it. Sick and fucking tired of people glaring at her.

People are just gonna look at me all damn day, huh? ...Hmm... Fine. They think I'm a delinquent, I'll show'em a fuckin' delinquent.

"Hey you," the twisted young lady called out to the haunted woman on the bench of the bus stop, raising her voice but not in a shout, "You see somethin' ya fuckin' like or what?"

Nebula was especially proud of the idea that listening to this woman's song had struck upon her. The voracity with which the musician sang her song lead Nebula to believe that she, much like yours truly, had a lot going through her mind that she needed to lay bare to the world; nobody who wasn't personally invested in the words they spoke would speak them with such vigor and dedication, not unless they were absolute proffessional singers, and someone with singing skills of that calliber wouldn't be playing at a bus stop. Not to say that the musician's voice and melody was bad by any means, in fact, Nebula found herself slightly entranced by the fluidity of the notes and the heartfelt expressions in the lyrics.

All these pent up opinions and emotions that she felt coming from the musician were exactly what Nebula needed for her next smile. This time around she would go for a minimalist yet, like the rest of her drawings, morbid design, focusing all of the disturbance she needed to portray in a single piece of the picture instead of spreading it throughout. After a few minutes of making her pencil dance across the stage that was her sketchbook, the picture was complete.


A woman taking off the clothing that concealed the pain inside was what Nebula had concocted. In a way, it was the perfect metaphor for expressing one's emotions through any form of art. The woman in the picture could've just as well been the musician or Nebula. Nevertheless, the young artist felt a pang of guilt at having borrowed inspiration from the musician, but having nothing to give her as thanks in return; she could've tipped her, but she didn't seem like she was playing for money, and Nebula didn't have any more money on her anyway... it was then that an idea struck Nebula: She'd give the drawing to the musician as thanks, and thusly she gently and carefully ripped the drawing out of her sketchbook.

Before she could do so, however, the musician caught her undivided atention once again, but this time not in the possitive manner at all. Nebula caught her own breath. Had she somehow offended the musician in any way? Of course she had! Every single place she went she had to ruin somebody's day without even knowing it! Every single time!


In her state of panic, tears began to form in her eyes and her elbow accidentally collided against the side of her sketchbook, sending the drawing slowly fluttering through the air, after which it landed at the musician's feet.

It wasn't all too far-fetched that Nebula had been inspired by the delinquent musician's vitriol given life through sound. In her guitar inhabited a Greek Muse, still eager to grant her gift of inspiration to man even from inside her pine prison of strings. She would constantly beg, plead, and manipulate her unfortunate host into accomplishing this task. Whether she liked it or not. And Ritz sure as hell didn't like the attention it gave her.

"You wanted to what?" Ritsuko antagonized, glowering at the flighty woman, "You wanted to write me up, did you? You were jotting down every little detail to turn into a complaint without the fucking nerve to even talk to me first, huh?" She knew something was up. No one gets that flustered if they weren't up to something that called for it. Ritz had dealt with those types before. Some nobody in a crowd that couldn't handle hearing something they didn't like, so they grabbed a cop, y'know, people who didn't have anything better to do, and got them to hand her a $50 ticket. Her room payment was due. It was the last thing she needed right now. Not that asking her to quiet down outright would've ended any differently. Ritsuko was tired, sore, drained, exhausted, weary, and every synonym in the book. Someone, sometime, was going to feel her bitchy wrath, it was only a matter of time. The time had come for this melancholic artist regardless of her intent.

The abrasive delinquent paid no mind to the other onlookers, some gawking with amused expressions, some pretending not to pay attention and avoid joining the bristling engagement, most looking at her with scorn, it didn't matter to her. They weren't the ones trying to narc her out for playing a tune on her instrument. She allowed her guitar to dangle from her neck by its strap as she quickly snatched up the drifting page, sending a self-satisfied smirk to her horrifying onlooker. Vindication was a helluva drug. Even if she could always write up another one, tearing her notes to shreds right before her would certainly make the antisocial musician feel a lot better in the short-term. She continued to send the artist a smug grin as she lifted the note before her, gripping the paper by the top in both hands to rip it straight down the middle and... her face fell. And then turned several shades of scarlet.

...O-oh. Sh... Sh-she did like what she saw, h...h-huh...

Ritsuko was greeted by an impressively stunning sketch of herself in a-a... an a-artistic... It was good. Good drawing right there. Yep. She wasn't sure exactly how she felt about it aside from unfiltered chagrin. It was magnificently done and expressive for sure, and it gave her a little hope that someone actually "got" her message... a-and it was d... definitely flattering a-and... erotic. Which caused her to squirm at the prospect. Ritz's heart jumped to her throat and hung there, pounding like a timpani as her skin grew more flush. But at the same time it was downright creepy! Who was this lady!? Was she drawing lewd portraits of strangers like some sort of fetishist, did she wanna wear her skin...?! She nearly involuntarily ripped the page in half through her tenseness of grip. The paper shuddered along with her, of course.

She...! ...she should know better than to judge art like that. It was an inglorious statement, it didn't matter whether it was positive or negative. It was nice to be thought of in such a breathtakingly creative way. She guessed she was still a little gun shy from her experience not 20 minutes ago. It's just gotta be a freaky coincidence... right? She would approach the woman with a scowl scrawled across her lips, breathing heavily, before thrusting her portrait back to her. She refused to look at her out of embarrassment and conflicted feelings she couldn't quite wrap up in words. She didn't believe herself capable of it without breaking into a panic anyway.
"Here. You dropped this," she said sternly, "...Y...You shouldn't sketch people without their permission! They might not appreciate it l-like others would!" Of course, Ritz would conveniently leave out that she would be one of those people.

As soon as the musician began screaming at her, Nebula simply shielded herself behind her arms and her sketchbook, completely shelling herself off from the outside world. The sound of her own internal whimpering drowned out the voice of the shouting musician, the sketchbook blocked out the sight of the people around her, and the tears flowing down her face replaced her short-term memory with pure and simple absence. She was not at the bus station waiting for her ride home, she was not being yelled at by a musician whom she just wanted to thank, she was not being stared at by a group of other people that did nothing to help her, she was... inside of her own safe space. Her shell. Her shield.

Nebula would remain like this for a while, clutching herself behind her shell in unrelenting cowardice and fear of the harsh conditions of the outside world. She didn't care what the woman was going to do, she just didn't want to be aware of it when it happened. She could handle physical pain, but she could not handle being scorned again and again and again as she always was, and the effect would've certainly been heightened if she was being scorned by somebody she was just trying to do a nice thing for.

And then, silence. Nebula took a while to notice that her "shell" wasn't undergoing any "damage" from which to shield her. Slowly, Nebula would undo her barriers and peek into the outside world once more. She would look at the woman holding out her drawing for a few seconds before taking her drawing back with more than a few ounces of fear present in her lethargy and hesitation. The crimson tone of the musician's skin did not go unnoticed by the artist. "I... I didn't mean... that wasn't what I was trying to portray..." Nebula expained herself as she gently grabbed the drawing and placed it back in her sketchbook (unattached, of course). "I-I just saw you expressing a lot of emotions in your music, and I-I applied symbolism... I wanted to give it to you as thanks for... w-well, for inspiring me. I could've re-drawn it anyway."

"Inspiring". Most people would beam at such a compliment. Ritsuko was not one of them. Being "inspiring" was her own twisted curse, her handsome visage of Narcissus. She could not help but inspire, her Muse saw to that, but the sound of her guitar was all she had in this world. As she would play she would draw forth attention, evoke emotion, become a beacon of beauty, attracting wandering hearts on the most basic of levels. Like Echo, she was doomed to be misinterpreted at every turn. Music was her language, and people would find her frustrated cries "lovely" and "moving". They would feel a spring's drizzle of her pain and think it an ocean, act as if they understood. No one could ever come close.

Her violet-nailed fingers drummed impatiently on her crossed arm for the eternity it took for the shy one to take her drawing back. The delinquent rocker loathed apologizing. Not because she couldn't admit that she was wrong, of course. Everyone can be wrong sometimes. She simply didn't care to show anyone any weakness. If you didn't stick to your guns you'd be eaten alive, taken advantage of. People would worm their way in and nibble at your soul until you felt rotten to the core. Used, abused, betrayed. Ritsuko was tired of being stabbed in the back, there weren't any places to fit a blade there anymore. Of course, the first step of being betrayed was trusting, something she learned to stop doing. Not to mention it was an admission of guilt, as if it was her fault she was so fucked up. The World could own up to that one. She'd hold it to that.

Ritsuko would hold her nose up at the tortured artist to find her face wet. Her gaze averted, face as flush as it had been before. She'd take her sunglasses out of her front pocket so at least she needn't look her in the eye. Her shaky, trembling voice was painful to listen to. It made her feel... something. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was a strange, stirring concoction of embarrassment, grief, and dread. She had half a mind to leave the bus stop and walk the rest of the way, abandoning the situation with a dismissive insult rather than to face this scary emotion but... she'd done this morning already. And it felt like losing. And Ritz was sick of fucking losing. Her chest quavered with shallow, hesitant breaths, but it was unclear if she was still reeling from anger or something else entirely.

Stop. Think. Reset. You're in control. You play the music, everyone else dances to the beat. So keep your distance and stay a quarter-note ahead.


"Tch. Don't act like you know me. You're just gonna get disappointed," she stated in a more even tone, brushing some strands of her messy hair behind her ear. A bitter, condescending tone, but an even one. She turned her back toward the blonde, cupping a soon-to-be flaming nicotine stick between her palms. Her throat burned as she inhaled the uncomfortable incense. She'd already smoked so much today. One day it'd kill her, but for the moment it made her a little calmer and that was all that mattered. Ritsuko sauntered to her claimed light post in deliberate steps, her port in the sea of insufferable people.

"Keep it," she dismissed, resting her shoulders against the post,
"I didn't ask for anything and I don't want anything either. I don't do this shit for anyone but me." Her abrasive words were coated in an analytical sort of callousness, lacking the shakiness she held earlier. Her face even began to grow paler, her breathing beginning to steady. A few moments to think was always what it took to quell her anxiety, if even slightly.

Aux difference to the way most people might have reacted, Nebula took no offence to the musician's condescending tone. Though it hurt her and wounded her spirits, Nebula had always been acutely aware that she deserved every single insult she got. The only thing that really scared her or made her break down or cry was being yelled at or being insulted by somebody she'd already managed to befriend. The latter because friends were an extremeley rare commodity for her, and she didn't want to lose them, and the former... because she was a sensitive flower. "I-I don't claim to know you... but I did hear your song... and though I don't know what feelings were in there, I did hear the feelings... I j-just wanted to let you know you were being loud and clear..." Nebula stopped and considered how that might've been misinterpreted. "N-not that I minded the volume! T-that's not what I meant! I-I... you know what I meant, right?"

"A-Are you sure?" Nebula hesitated for a little bit. "O...Okay then..." It appeared she'd be keeping the drawing after all.

Ritsuko cocked her head slightly. At least the meek woman wasn't a pretender like everyone else. People just loved to try to find the meaning behind her music, and it was a slap in the face. So sad, so aggressive! We feel your pain! Tch. What a load of shit. The worst thing any normal people had happen to them was a bad breakup or maybe their parents died. They didn't know what it was like to give up your life from the start, to have no chance straight out of the gate. Fakes like that had no idea what true pain was. Sixteen years of physical and mental abuse with a gory, scarring consolation prize. Aoide was the only one that kept her together through it all, whispering encouragement, protecting her from their assaults and tribulations, saving her life time and time again. Without her she was worse than dead. A puppet. A weapon. So yes, she was a little miffed when someone tried to understand. Try telling a cancer patient you felt their pain because you had the flu last week, see how much they fuckin' empathize. She wasn't a shallow sheep or a disillusioned bleeding heart, and Ritz could respect that. She didn't like her any better, but she was a step above the filth at the bottom of the barrel.

...she turned her thoughts away from the Eternal Divide. It wasn't pleasant to think about.

"I don't really care," the delinquent dismissed with a sigh. It wasn't really an insult, more like a statement of fact. Of course she could feel the emotion in her song, everyone could. Aoide just did that to people. It didn't mean that she appreciated it, though. It was easier to keep her distance from everyone than to attempt to have them break through the decades of brick walls she'd put up. Her tone had shifted from hostile to neutral now that she had gained ground and control of herself. Honestly, she could be a pretty chill person under the right conditions, if a little rough, but quite a few things set her off enough so that no one ever really saw it that much.

"..."

"I mean, you're pretty good. It's a pretty malcontented sketch. But seriously, you still need to be careful, some people are gonna think you're, fricken, stalking them or something." Ritsuko would run a hand through her disheveled hair, feeling suddenly somewhat pacified. Maybe it was the threat of being reported by someone else for this misunderstanding, maybe it was how she realized how much of a bitch she was being toward someone who shared her toolkit in a way. In any case, the anger disappeared. Though she was still coarse, she decided to drop the attitude down a few notches.

"Y-you really think so?" Nebula looked at the musician with eyes that displayed both surprise and... relief. Her art had been praised before, and she was always glad (though confused) to see that her art brought happiness to somebody somehwere, but for her art to be praised by a fellow artist, and such a talented one at that... she was practically beet red. "O-Okay, I-I won't do it ag-g-gain... Sorry..." Was she coming off as creepy or unsettling? Well, whatever; the musician had already implied that she didn't think she was stalking her, and that was more than Nebula could ask for.

"U-Umm..." Nebula's shy and demure reaction to being praised by somebody she admired might've been easily mistaken for slight interest of the romantic kind, as both shared multiple symptoms. Flushed face, flustered speech, and a sickeningly sweet gaze born from awe. "I-If you don't mind... would you mind telling me y-your name?"

Ritsuko was taken aback slightly, and her face began to show it in soft pink tones. The shrinking artist had breezed by the walls she'd erected, cast off the scorn in her voice, and had taken her praise sans all of the vileness she had laced it with. Her blushing was contagious, it seemed. It made her feel vulnerable. She was forlorn yet cozy behind the walls she threw up, a fortress to keep people out. But she saw through everything. Ritz didn't like that. She was aware of what lied beyond the walls. Bitterness. Frustration. Anguish. A tortured soul on a self-igniting stake. A weak, pathetic creature languishing in sorrowful cries. And she didn't want anyone to know that. Ritsuko couldn't stand to let anyone know she was as vulnerable as she actually was. The constant harassment protected her from intruders that would learn the truth, her moats of flaming pitch and ballistic volleys against the lone wanderers that would tear through her defenses. The only clues she'd give were hidden in coded messages, agitated songs with jaded lyrics that no one could comprehend. But to this sketch artist it may have well been a first language. Ritsuko couldn't hide from her behind her walls. She was already walking around inside them. And it made her frightened.

I-I...! This...! This is stupid! What the hell a-am I doing!? I'm... I-I'm not...! N-Nobody gets me! Th-they can't, they don't understand what I've been through!

Not even lying to herself could shield herself from how she actually felt. She could reason it one way or another or anyway that she wanted, but the shy woman knew. She knew what it was like to take heartache and loss and speak in sounds of shattered glass and bloodstains. The natural tongue of Pain, the oldest human lexicon. And from it tortured screams and overwhelming dread could be translated to Splendor. Ritz never wanted to be understood. She felt safer speaking in beautiful coded cryptograms. She was numb, jaded, her nerves were shredded through her skin and organs leaving a skeletal husk with one weakpoint left at the center. One that she couldn't allow to be touched.

The delinquent found herself fortunate in her current time and place as her chest began to heave and her expression grew to scarlet. She hoped the fiery tones the sun would paint could camouflage her embarrassment and terror, that her wild raven hair could shade her away from prying eyes.

Her eyes were... gorgeous. Beautifully tortured. It was a magnificent sadness, pure and undisturbed in its radiance. They were dark, dim, but it made the light behind them brighter when they shone. They held a softness no doubt beaten into them from an eternity of disappointment. Just like hers. Her eyes were dull like slate, but full of life. They held a sad hope within the tears that clung to them. Ritsuko wanted her eyes. Her own eyes were jealous and greedy. They held no more light, they didn't reflect hope. Only bitterness and anger. Ritz had given up hope a long time ago. The tortured soul found her own eyes begin to water at the melancholic blonde's solemn stare.

I-I... I can't get hurt again...! I won't, I can't!

She stood for a moment, stunned. Awestruck. And the world brought eased her back in slowly. The slight warmth of her cigarette's flame near her knuckles, the dancing of shadows along the street, the rush of cars. Her own panicked heartbeat. Ritsuko shook off her self-consciousness and took a moment to take a drag from her coffin nail to collect herself. The panic was still present, but letting it show was unacceptable. She expelled her smoke in a shuddering breath. She couldn't live long like this. It would destroy her from the inside out. No one could be this close. It was dangerous to her well being. Ritsuko opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come, only a slight nervous rasp.

Drop it. Let it go. You don't owe anyone anything, they don't owe you. No strings attached. No rope to hang you with.


Shaking through the anxiety she had to undergo to spit those four words out in the open, Ritsuko stooped down to heft her guitar case into her waiting hand. There was always a next bus. There was always walking, or the train. But she needed to leave before she got hurt.

"...I'll see you around, maybe..." spoke Ritz solemnly as she glided past the blonde artist.

She'd push past the exhaustion in her body, the pain in her soles, and the tenseness in her arms. Her hotel wasn't very far away. Once more would the lonely musician melt back into the crowd, her eyes scanning the pavement as she walked, stooped shoulders sliding through bodies, until she disappeared... proving she was just as she said she was. Nobody important.

Nebula would simply keep her gaze of awe on the musician as she walked away and eventually dissappeared from her line of sight. She looked at the drawing in her hands, the musician in it revealing her pain for all to see, before placing the drawing back in its proper place inside of her sketchbook, and hugging the aforementioned drawing tool close to her chest. Pain was an incredible tool for making art, but the cost was never quite worth it, now was it? At that moment Nebula's bus arrived, and she boarded it without a second thought. Home was the safest place she had, though she knew exactly what she'd be forced to think of as soon as she crossed her doorframe.