Playlist, Part 3
Nov. 8th, 2011 01:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Playlist, Part 3
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Electric swords and rock and roll and stuff
Warnings: Swearing, violence.
Notes: Notes after the jump. NOT FANFIC. Nothing but OCs here.
To recap: this is an original fic I found lurking on an old hard drive, and for some reason, decided to revive.
I posted Parts 1 and 2 here.
IF YOU WANNA SKIP THE WHOLE THING, please feel free.
The story so far: this is a dystopian universe where dueling had never been outlawed - on the contrary, it's become how all disputes are settled, including academic squabbles. So far we've met Emma, a college radio DJ who has been trained since childhood as a street fighter, an illegal and very high energy variant of formal dueling. Al is a fellow DJ who sometimes helps her, but often makes her life miserable. Silas is the slightly mysterious captain of the school's fencing team, who, in the last part, blackmailed Emma into teaching him some street fighting moves. His motives as yet are unclear.
And finally: this is an original deal. So, if it sucks or you personally don't like it or you would rather I get back to writing about Nathan and chips, I can live with that, but please be mindful of that when and if you leave comments? If you're really unclear, Tam and Z leave me feedback all the time, and I've never ever taken offense: stay classy, is what I mean.
Playlist, Part 3
Emma had appeared confused at first when the car pulled up. Not every college student, he supposed, had a car and driver. Silas noticed she gave Ali, his driver, her serious sword fighter look over. Something they needed to work on. One of so many things they needed to work on. Duelists of course made such assessments as a matter of course, but would scarce be so bloody obvious about it.
What Silas really would have preferred, had he been given free reign, would be to deliver over Emma to Grandmama, and have several of her more able servants strip the girl out of the sixteen layers of ridiculous clothing, toss her into a bath, and scrub off all the make up and whatever it was she was putting in her hair. Then, only then, they might determine if there was a proper young lady who might be salvaged underneath the frippery.
Unfortunately, slavery being illegal in this region of the country, Silas needed instead to watch and wait. This was acceptable. He was a patient man. And, say what you will about him, he had honor. He had promised to upgrade her status on the team, so he considered himself bound to do it, one way or another.
But for now, he had other priorities. Ali had signaled him for confirmation when Emma gave out the address, but Silas had indicated that they proceed. It wasn't the best part of town, and the address read as vacant on the maps, as this wasn't a bit of real estate the geotrackers would prioritize keeping up to date. But this was something he'd been seeking for years, and there could be no gain without some risk.
As they exited the car, in the proximity of an old factory, Emma pulled something out of a pocket and handed it to Si. He looked it over, puzzled, for a moment. It appeared to be a dog chew. She offered no further comment, so he placed it in his own pocket, and followed her. She was still being a bit … persnickety with him after their conversation regarding training. She had been honorable about fulfilling her end of the bargain, namely, some training in street fighting technique, but had of late gone out of her way to appear grudging and monosyllabic about it. Thus, he didn’t have a lot of information regarding this location, other than grunts about “legwork” and “you move like a fucking grandpa.”
He signaled Ali to remain in the car. She opened the gate on the chain link fence and let him by. The factory appeared abandoned from the outside, though he noticed there was fairly new razor wire along the top of the fence. He stopped. A large, raggedy looking dog was charging at them.
She was on her knees, arms out. “Thunder! How’s my boy?” Thunder, who had looked like he was about to snap her neck, instead gave her face a long, sloppy lick. “How’s my old boy?”
Thunder then turned his attentions to Si. Si submitted to the inspection for a couple minutes, and then, realizing, dug the chew out of his pocket and extended his hand. Thunder gave it a couple of experimental sniffs, and then had it enveloped in his mighty jaws. He raced around Si three times, seemingly in some kind of dog nirvana. Then took off to race round the entire factory.
“Hey!” And older guy was waving his cane at them. “Are you fucking with my guard dog?”
“Thunder isn’t a guard dog, he’s my pal!” grinned Emma. Si regarded her with curiosity. She had been acting warmer with the dog than he thought he had ever seen her with a human being.
“He’s a fucking guard dog, Em,” the old man muttered. He came forward a couple of steps, stopped, and, crossing his arms, looked Si up and down. It was Emma's style, very obvious, but also many times more intense. “What’s this supposed to be?” the old man asked Emma, as if Silas were some kind of weird, nonverbal object.
“Si.” She nodded to the old man. “This is Foster.”
Foster was still assessing Si. She didn’t give me a chew for him, Si thought ruefully.
“You wanna come into my house?” Foster finally asked him.
Silas inclined his head. “I would be honored to visit your facility, sir,” he said. He had deduced that this fellow was not a caretaker of some kind, but rather the headmaster, and decided to act accordingly.
Foster finally nodded. Yes, he had passed the final test. They all entered the factory.
And Silas stepped over the threshold, and into a new world.
Silas, who was not used to being surprised, and definitely not used to being so completely taken aback, actually struggled to control his breathing. Like many in his social class, he had been to an illegal street bout or two. But despite rather persistent inquiries, he had so far failed to gain any sort of information regarding a training facility.
This place.... It was like a crazy cartoon parody version of a training area. There were plenty of people exercising, and a few people sparring. But the exercises were like nothing he’d ever seen, people practicing jumping over and under furiously rotating bars, doing flips, running up and down a balance beam. And the sparring was incredible. He wasn’t quite sure how the participants weren’t breaking bones right and left.
And the colors! Formal dueling training was a staid affair, with rows of identically dressed students lined up to practice a move. Here, people seemed to have wandered in from the street dressed in whatever they had thrown on that morning. There were some in elaborate street fighter fashion, such as Emma wore, but others in grey sweats, and still others who looked dressed in formal robes for pro bouts. And there were children running around, though none were wearing what you might call a uniform. He assumed they were students too, however, as many appeared to be practicing.
Some of them were laughing. Adults too. Something he had never before heard the sound of laughter during practice.
The participants themselves lent a color to the atmosphere. As Silas would have been the first to admit, the practitioners of formal dueling were by and large Caucasians like himself. He had expected to see more individuals of Asian extraction, like Foster, but he found himself very surprised to see so many dark skinned participants. Freedmen? Or escaped slaves – there was that tradition.
He found himself lost in a kind of fascination. It was as if he had stepped into one of his family's old notebooks.
Mostly, people ignored him, but he noticed a couple of guys broke off to shout greetings at Emma. A big fellow wandered over their way, booming, “Hey, college girl!” and they embraced in a kind of macho fighter way. He wasn't limping too badly, but Silas, with his practiced eye, could tell the big man favored one side.
“Freddie!” she shouted. The warmth again.
“You go away and forget all about us, girl?”
“Eh, I’m doing bullshit fencing now.”
“C’mon,” he held up his sword and waved it. “We spar, maybe we mix it up?”
“I’m so fucking rusty, I’d just fall on my ass.”
“You NEVER rusty, girl, hahaha.”
She turned around to indicate Si. “Here’s something you could do for me. This is Si. He wants to mix it up.”
There was the frank sussing up stare again. Silas was used to being sized up by opponents: it was half the battle, really, in matches sometimes. But he was more familiar with the sideways glances of duelists. These people.... It seemed strange but they appeared to be trying to peer into ones soul.
“This guy duelist?” Freddie was speaking to Emma, and not to Si. Si nodded anyway.
“Yup. Stiff as a goddam board.” Freddie nodded, but still stared at Si, frowning. “You show him a couple moves?” Freddie looked at Emma, and appeared to think about it very carefully.
“Yeah, OK,” he finally said, and nodded for Si to follow him.
The old factory had a few rooms around the upper floor, accessible by rickety staircase. They overlooked what used to be the assembly line, but was now mostly a floor lined with mats.
They had never completely gutted the place. There were still a few old machines pushed up, here and there, along the walls.
One of these rooms above now served as Foster’s office. More or less. Emma stood up there now, with Foster, looking down on the various souls practicing down on the floor. And, one in particular, who was currently being knocked down, amusingly, by Fred.
“Gotta work on that footwork,” muttered Foster. He was sipping a bit of the rotgut he had just poured into a couple of old jam jars.
She took a careful sip, and tried not to choke. “Sifu…” she began.
Foster looked at her sharply. “Where did you find that boy, Emma?”
“Sifu. This guy is on the fencing team. He's the fucking captain. And he caught me using the training bot for street.” Foster said nothing, though his grey eyebrows raised a bit. “He’s blackmailing me into training him.”
Foster turned back to the floor. “No kidding?” he asked. “You can use those bots for street?”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty easy hack, actually.”
“Damn.” As they watched, Si knocked Fred over. “Fast learner, that boy,” observed Foster.
“He needs more training on the legwork than I can get away with at school.”
“Yeah, dead from the waist down, they are. And you wanna bring him here?”
“For a few lessons. Yes.”
Foster poured a bit more whiskey. She waved him off her cup, but he filled it anyway.
“I ain't no holiday camp for rich assholes. You know that. I ain't dishonoring the house,” declared Foster, downing the horible liquid like it was water.
“How do you know he's rich?” asked Emma.
“He got that look.”
“Well, maybe. Look, he's not just a random rich asshole. You can see he's got some talent. And he's really got me in a vise, Sifu.”
“So, you get in trouble, and run to Sifu for help?”
She nodded sheepishly. “Look, Sifu, I know if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be at some big college. I'd probably be turning tricks-”
“Emma.” Foster shook his head. “That boy’s got a dangerous look. Are you and he…?”
“No, no! No fucking way! We’re just … Sifu and blackmailer.” Emma looked glum.
“And, what do I get out of this?” asked Foster shrewdly.
“What?” She sighed. “OK. What do you want?”
He considered his whiskey. “One of those bots would be nice. Damn nice.”
“Fuck!”
They both winced as Si scored another hit on poor Fred. “Ouch!” said Foster. “You sure he’s not your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” Emma grumbled.
“Why not?”
“Oh, what the fuck, Foster? You just trying to get my goat now?”
“You like men. I remember that,” Foster smiled, swirling his whiskey.
“Yes. I like men,” she admitted.
“He’s rich. Good looking. You won’t do better with those ridiculous musicians you insist on hanging out with!”
Emma wanted something to die. Because she had killed it. With a sword. “Just…. OK, so you think he’s too dangerous, but then I should go out with him? He’s not interested, OK?”
“He was interested enough to blackmail you.”
“That’s different.”
“Well, you’re not likely to find another one who could keep you in line like this one.” Si had just knocked over Fred again, and this time, Fred wasn’t getting up.
“Fuck, I gotta go rescue Fred,” said Emma, casting a very dark look at Foster. She gulped the rest of her whiskey, and, with a choke, put down her jelly jar and headed towards the stairs.
“We have a deal?” asked Foster, who didn't bother getting up.
“Yeah, yeah, you get a bot. I’ll pull one out of my ass for you.”
From Silas Makepeace Taylor’s private journal.
Lunchtime salon with Wagner. Can he really be the world’s most tiresome man? Why then am I cursed to have him in my social orbit.
Gained audience at street fighting dojo overseen by a fellow named Foster. Am led to believe I may receive a certain amount of training at this facility, as per a recent agreement with E, from the fencing team. Unaccustomed to being treated with quite this level of scrutiny to my person and technique, however, the denizens appear to have a certain level of skill.
Al was chatting up a familiar looking coed when Emma whisked into the station to start programming her show, so she was somewhat surprised when he followed her into the library.
“Dude, you’ve got to get me into this,” he told her, shoving a flyer at her with his meaty hands. She wondered what kind of band Al would be unable to wheedle tickets for.
“Oh! I hadn’t heard about this!” she said in surprise.
“You get tickets, right? On the fencing team?” Al urged.
“Yeah, yeah, we get into academic duels. Wow. Dr. Forrest.” She tsked. “This ain’t gonna end well.”
“Yeah, this is gonna be over the top!” Al enthused, as if he really were talking about a new band. “You worked for Forrest, right?”
She nodded. “I graded for him. Briefly. Guy gave me the creeps.”
“You get tickets for me then?” He held up two fingers. “Two?”
“Oh, no. No, Al. Not that girl.”
Al grinned. He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I hear she likes fencing!” Emma raised her eyebrows, knowing that regardless, she would do it.
Emma had worked grading papers for Prof. Forrest for a grand total of one semester. Although most of the boys working for Forrest had been upperclassmen or graduate students, Emma had received the highest marks in his introductory class the previous term, and so was, to her great surprise, recruited to the job.
She never told Forrest that she had received high grades less because of her interest in the class topic (which was minimal) or Forrest's teaching style (which left a lot to be desired) but rather out of fear of confronting her Sifu with less than sterling marks.
Emma found the work ridiculously easy. For someone who had been raised to arise at the crack of dawn to embark on a five mile sprint, sitting at a desk marking tests seemed more slacking off than actual employment. She found the atmosphere, however, puzzling. The others in the office, all male, made a practice of going to lunch or to beers together. She was never invited along. She actually wondered if she might speak with Forrest about the matter, as she worried that she had been unknowingly violating some kind of protocol.
Somewhere around that point, Forrest had visited the office one day, trailing some visitors. He had introduced the students one by one to the visitors, oddly seeming to save Emma for last. And then he had presented her. “This is Emma. She's our little bit of STREET!”
All chuckled heartily: Forrest, the visitors, and the other students. Emma, prepared by many years of fight training, controlled her breathing. She wondered if perhaps Forrest, trying to be friendly, perhaps did not realize the depth of the insult?
She decided to wait and talk to her Sifu. He had scowled over his jam jar at her. “Emma. I'm paying a lot for that school. Don't fucking kill anybody, especially a professor,” he had told her.
After that, the boys still didn't invite her anywhere. But now they openly referred to her as, “Street.” With a hearty chuckle.
It was fall term, and so, near the end, Forrest had come to the students' office and made a great show of handing out Christmas gifts to his staff: bottles of wine, from his family vineyard. He had worked his way slowly around the office, making a great fuss and bother with each student, joking as to what kinds of women they would bed whilst consuming the wine, and how big a fool each would be when drunk off his ass.
He appeared again to be saving Emma for last. When he came before her desk, an assistant passed him a large paper grocery sack. It didn't appear to hold a bottle of wine.
“And since Emma is from the STREET, she won't appreciate fine wine, so I've gotten her THIS instead,” Forrest announced, whipping out a six pack of beer.
He chuckled heartily.
All his boys chuckled heartily.
Emma accepted the beer in silence.
Later that night, she brought the six pack out to a vacant lot, where she tossed up each can, high in the air, and sliced neatly through it, pretending as she did that it was some person's neck.
When she received word shortly afterwards that a late night/early morning slot had opened up on the college radio station, she submitted her resignation to Prof. Forrest's secretary.
On the night of the duel, Emma ended up escorting a veritable posse from the radio station, including Al and the leggy girl (who she gathered was named Gloria), a couple of the other DJs, and her faithful engineer. Never underestimate the public’s appetite for blood, she thought.
The demand for tickets had overrun the capacity of the usual fencing venue, so the administration had moved the duel to the hockey stadium. They had rolled the flooring over the ice, and draped the banners for the Department of Psychology over the school colors.
As Emma was on the fencing team, but not highly ranked, her group was seated up in the nosebleed seats, at around the center of the field. She pulled out her field glasses and peered around. The stadium was completely full. The field was still empty, so she scrutinized other members of the audience. Right down in front were some ceremonial seats, containing school officials, other professors, members of the Department of Psychology, and of course the families. Si, who was of course none of the above, was down there too, in seats near the rink, accompanied by whoever was the girl of the moment. It was very quiet and still down there. There was some polite chatter, but that was all. The audience seemed to think they were here for a lecture. Some of the older professors actually appeared to be dozing off.
The balcony, by contrast, was roiling. The night was cold, so when the flask came by, Emma took a good swig. She noticed a section mostly dressed in green and waving green banners over by the goal line – presumably, for Forrest. It may have been his graduate students. His opponent, Swift, appeared to have his own cheering section more or less opposite of where Emma’s group was seated. Their colors were red and orange.
She had heard the story from her engineer, who’d heard it from his roommate, who worked in the Department of Psychology. Scuttlebutt said that Swift was up for tenure, but Forrest had been blackballing him for the past few years. Swift finally called out Forrest at a department meeting. Nobody was sure exactly what was said, but Forrest demanded satisfaction, with blades.
A roar went up. The opponents, dressed in their academic gowns, their seconds, and the officials had entered the field of play.
“Faculty, students, and distinguished guests. We have assembled here for a duel of honor between professors Forrest and Swift, both of the University Department of Psychology. Dr. Forrest has asked for satisfaction, by blades. We would like request that, due to the grave seriousness of this matter, those assembled in the audience maintain a respectful silence while this matter is concluded.” In response, there was some yelling and general popcorn-tossing from the nosebleeds, all passively ignored by those below.
“The participants have agreed to draw to three. Point total to win.”
There followed a general hubhub in the audience, much louder up in the balconies. The radio station staff turned to Emma with a lot of “what the fuck, Em?”
“It’s fucking weird is what it is,” Emma told them. “Normally, these guys will do one, to first blood. Usually, that’s not literal blood – “
“I want my money back!” screamed Al, to much boisterous laughing.
“But to whoever gets the first point. Draw to three is real old school. Means they do three separate matches, and whoever adds up the most points, wins.”
“Sounds kinda boring,” one of the engineers remarked.
“Well, it’s a weird choice for Forrest, he’s so fucking old,” said Emma. “I thought he’d be worn out after just one, what with carting around all those fancy academic gowns and shit.”
Emma actually had a thought as to why. But, no. It didn’t seem like, evil as he was, Forrest was quite that evil.
They started the first match. Forrest’s call. He called out, “FOUR!” Parry, parry.
“Point, Swift,” yelled the official.
“Forrest gonna get his ass kicked,” said Beau, one of the DJs. The audience rumbled again while the parties set up once again.
The men got into their starting positions. It was going to be Swift’s call. Officially, he could call any setting, but he really needed to ramp it up at least one or, basically, look like a pussy.
“SIX!” This one may have lasted another stroke, and then, “Point, Swift.”
Emma dug out her field glasses, and scoped the audience again. She noticed a couple of the old professors had never woken up. And Silas was staring intently at the two parties now.
They lined up one last time.
Forrest’s call.
“TEN!”
The audience gasped. Emma was already on her feet.
Swift swung and missed. Badly. Forrest’s blade connected, for the first time. It sliced cleanly through Swift’s neck. There was a torrent of blood spewing out of the neck as his body fell. The rest of the crowd was now on their feet. There was a roar. Emma grabbed her glasses once again. There was general panic in the box with Swift’s family. A man was hurrying to get one of the women away, off the field. She looked at Swift’s body, still pumping blood, uselessly, out onto the mat.
The official needlessly called, “Point, Forrest,” but no one was listening.
Emma aimed her glasses back to where she’d seen Si sitting. Unlike a lot of the audience, he was still seated. The woman he was with had thrown herself against him, apparently sobbing or in shock. But, he wasn’t looking at the woman. He wasn’t looking at the field. He was looking up. He seemed to be looking at Emma.
She dropped the glasses and looked away.
“Maybe, 10,000 people?” Emma was telling a disbelieving Freddie the next day.
Although she hadn't really scheduled anything for today, she had sensed a dismal mood on the campus, so had ditched her afternoon classes, and dragged Silas (who as it turned out, was quite willing) to an impromptu practice session at the dojo.
“Good crowd, man,” said Freddie. “Like a match.”
“Never seen anything like.”
“You think that guy knew he was gonna crank Teslas to 10?” Freddie asked.
She shook her head. “I dunno. I mean, I suspected something was up when they drew to three. But, you know, I don’t think Swift had a fucking clue.”
“Fucking waste,” sighed Freddie.
“Yeah. Fucking waste.”
Si was, theoretically at least, practicing nearby, under Freddie's supervision. But one thing he had observed, during his few visits to the dojo, was that one needed to allot at least twice the required time for any procedure. It wasn't that the individuals didn't work, for they did. But there was rather a lot of pausing, for gossip, joking, gambling, a smoke. It was not his to judge: Grandmama warned sternly against getting too judgmental regarding the less fortunate. It should have tried his patience, as Silas was an efficient man. But against his inclination, he found himself, almost immediately, drawn into the strange rhythms of this place.
He now snapped off his blade. “I’m curious,” he told them. “Why do you say that was a waste?”
Emma and Freddie exchanged confused glances. “Man, you just see a 360 head pop, and you wonder?” Freddie asked disbelievingly.
“That guy, Swift, he ain’t gonna be doing any professing anymore,” said Emma. “Not without a head!”
“You two, you’ve seen men killed before, no?” asked Silas.
“Yeah, but that was just, you know…” Freddie trailed off.
“It’s just idiots,” Emma said. “You know. People mixing it up. Swift was a professor.”
“Professors can still be idiots,” said Si. “You said yourself, he was basically goaded into a dangerous fight.” Si’s lenses were glinting at her.
“He had a family….” Emma protested.
“And the men you’ve seen killed?”
“Si! Nobody will give a shit if people like us,” she indicated Freddie, “get our heads dislocated.”
Si was tilting his head. “You’re really certain about that?”
“Yes, I am really certain about that,” Emma mocked.
“So,” said Silas with a wry smile, “somebody kills your friend, Freddie…?”
She immediately turned to Freddie. “I find them, I kill them, eat their hearts.” Freddie grinned.
“You my girl,” Freddie said, punching her affectionately. But Freddie had a thoughtful look on his face. He turned back to Si. “What you say man, dueling, it all a waste?”
Si considered, and then nodded thoughtfully. “Quite possibly,” he said. He turned back to battering a practice bag.
Freddie and Emma exchanged glances. Freddie tapped his temple with an index finger, as if to say, touched in the head, that boy.
Emma was surprised at how many people were hanging around at the radio station when she finally pulled in for her shift. Given how things went at Foster's place, Silas' practice session had ended up running later than she had planned. Silas had surprised her. She wasn't at all taken aback to find out he was rather good at street fighting techniques: but she had pegged him for someone who would dislike the chaotic atmosphere out there. Oddly enough, he appeared to adapt almost instantly. And she had never been able to spot him tapping a foot, or checking a watch, or any sign of impatience.
She had started to wonder again why someone like Silas even wanted to learn street fighting. She had told herself not to bother about it. College people were strange.
Speaking of which... Al was at the station when she arrived, of course, but where the hell else would he go? It actually looked like the entire crew from last night was there, plus maybe a few friends and hangers on.
It wasn’t the large crowd that caught her notice, really, it was the fact that they all looked so fucking pathetic. She jumped up on a chair and reached up to turn on the speaker that usually piped through the broadcast. Good lord. She had never in her life heard such terrible music.
“Al, what the fuck?” she asked, turning around.
Al was sitting, feet up on a table, not even bothering to smoke out the window. “Since last night, you know, the duel, we’ve been given word, quiet and tasteful.”
“Quiet and tasteful?”
“Yeah, you know, for a while?”
She scowled. She turned and carried her sword and her stack of 45s into the booth. The previous DJ, Beau, handed off the headphones, and wandered out to smoke with Al.
Al grinned and handed him the joint. “Check this,” he said quietly, motioning his head back towards the booth. Beau flopped into the ancient couch and watched Emma get ready. She thoughtfully placed her sword on the counter, then flipped through the stack of 45s, and, one by one, flinging them aside. She finally flipped through the entire stack, tore off the headphones, and slammed out of the booth. A minute or two later, she was back, with a few more disks. She slapped one down on the turntable, and signaled the engineer. He slotted the intro, and everyone tried their best to keep watch on the booth without looking like they were paying any interest.
She grabbed the mike. “You’re on college radio, left of the dial. Are you all feeling quiet and tasteful tonight, my dears? Here’s someone else who’s feeling quiet and tasteful: Elvis.”
“Lord Almighty, feel my temperature rising...”
And she was dancing. Al had jumped to his feet threw the both door open and grabbed her and danced with her, and they sang along,“Your kisses lift me higher, like the sweet song of a choir, light my morning sky, burning love.” And Beau howled with laughter and threw down the joint and grabbed his own girl and started dancing, and everybody else was either dancing or singing along with the bits and the words they knew.
Around campus, radios that had been set to low were getting turned up, and roommates were getting annoyed.
Emma followed with Suspicious Minds, and everyone except Emma and Al (who of course knew every single Elvis lyric) kept quiet for what seemed like an impossibly long and horrible period of time (even though it was only 39 seconds) to belt out the chorus. Then she set up The Bashers’ “Riot,” to which only the chorus of “Wanna riot wanna rave wanna riot wanna rave” was intelligible anyway.
Somewhere, and administrator was being called and wakened.
Silas was in his private dormitory room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The pretty girl who had been with him at the duel was sitting at a vanity mirror to the side, reassembling her makeup. Si flicked on the radio, and listened. A smile grew on his face.
“You really ought to turn down that racket,” the girl scolded him. “It's disrespectful.”
Si turned it up.
For once in his miserable life, Al proved useful. The official explanation given to the administrators the next day was that an intern had programmed the station that night, when nobody was around. It was 2 am, so who would possibly be hanging around a radio station, after all?
No one ever seemed to question the fact that they didn’t even have interns.
In return, Al begged Emma to promise not to kill anybody, or do anything else that would bring attention to herself, for at least a month.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Electric swords and rock and roll and stuff
Warnings: Swearing, violence.
Notes: Notes after the jump. NOT FANFIC. Nothing but OCs here.
To recap: this is an original fic I found lurking on an old hard drive, and for some reason, decided to revive.
I posted Parts 1 and 2 here.
IF YOU WANNA SKIP THE WHOLE THING, please feel free.
The story so far: this is a dystopian universe where dueling had never been outlawed - on the contrary, it's become how all disputes are settled, including academic squabbles. So far we've met Emma, a college radio DJ who has been trained since childhood as a street fighter, an illegal and very high energy variant of formal dueling. Al is a fellow DJ who sometimes helps her, but often makes her life miserable. Silas is the slightly mysterious captain of the school's fencing team, who, in the last part, blackmailed Emma into teaching him some street fighting moves. His motives as yet are unclear.
And finally: this is an original deal. So, if it sucks or you personally don't like it or you would rather I get back to writing about Nathan and chips, I can live with that, but please be mindful of that when and if you leave comments? If you're really unclear, Tam and Z leave me feedback all the time, and I've never ever taken offense: stay classy, is what I mean.
Playlist, Part 3
Emma had appeared confused at first when the car pulled up. Not every college student, he supposed, had a car and driver. Silas noticed she gave Ali, his driver, her serious sword fighter look over. Something they needed to work on. One of so many things they needed to work on. Duelists of course made such assessments as a matter of course, but would scarce be so bloody obvious about it.
What Silas really would have preferred, had he been given free reign, would be to deliver over Emma to Grandmama, and have several of her more able servants strip the girl out of the sixteen layers of ridiculous clothing, toss her into a bath, and scrub off all the make up and whatever it was she was putting in her hair. Then, only then, they might determine if there was a proper young lady who might be salvaged underneath the frippery.
Unfortunately, slavery being illegal in this region of the country, Silas needed instead to watch and wait. This was acceptable. He was a patient man. And, say what you will about him, he had honor. He had promised to upgrade her status on the team, so he considered himself bound to do it, one way or another.
But for now, he had other priorities. Ali had signaled him for confirmation when Emma gave out the address, but Silas had indicated that they proceed. It wasn't the best part of town, and the address read as vacant on the maps, as this wasn't a bit of real estate the geotrackers would prioritize keeping up to date. But this was something he'd been seeking for years, and there could be no gain without some risk.
As they exited the car, in the proximity of an old factory, Emma pulled something out of a pocket and handed it to Si. He looked it over, puzzled, for a moment. It appeared to be a dog chew. She offered no further comment, so he placed it in his own pocket, and followed her. She was still being a bit … persnickety with him after their conversation regarding training. She had been honorable about fulfilling her end of the bargain, namely, some training in street fighting technique, but had of late gone out of her way to appear grudging and monosyllabic about it. Thus, he didn’t have a lot of information regarding this location, other than grunts about “legwork” and “you move like a fucking grandpa.”
He signaled Ali to remain in the car. She opened the gate on the chain link fence and let him by. The factory appeared abandoned from the outside, though he noticed there was fairly new razor wire along the top of the fence. He stopped. A large, raggedy looking dog was charging at them.
She was on her knees, arms out. “Thunder! How’s my boy?” Thunder, who had looked like he was about to snap her neck, instead gave her face a long, sloppy lick. “How’s my old boy?”
Thunder then turned his attentions to Si. Si submitted to the inspection for a couple minutes, and then, realizing, dug the chew out of his pocket and extended his hand. Thunder gave it a couple of experimental sniffs, and then had it enveloped in his mighty jaws. He raced around Si three times, seemingly in some kind of dog nirvana. Then took off to race round the entire factory.
“Hey!” And older guy was waving his cane at them. “Are you fucking with my guard dog?”
“Thunder isn’t a guard dog, he’s my pal!” grinned Emma. Si regarded her with curiosity. She had been acting warmer with the dog than he thought he had ever seen her with a human being.
“He’s a fucking guard dog, Em,” the old man muttered. He came forward a couple of steps, stopped, and, crossing his arms, looked Si up and down. It was Emma's style, very obvious, but also many times more intense. “What’s this supposed to be?” the old man asked Emma, as if Silas were some kind of weird, nonverbal object.
“Si.” She nodded to the old man. “This is Foster.”
Foster was still assessing Si. She didn’t give me a chew for him, Si thought ruefully.
“You wanna come into my house?” Foster finally asked him.
Silas inclined his head. “I would be honored to visit your facility, sir,” he said. He had deduced that this fellow was not a caretaker of some kind, but rather the headmaster, and decided to act accordingly.
Foster finally nodded. Yes, he had passed the final test. They all entered the factory.
And Silas stepped over the threshold, and into a new world.
Silas, who was not used to being surprised, and definitely not used to being so completely taken aback, actually struggled to control his breathing. Like many in his social class, he had been to an illegal street bout or two. But despite rather persistent inquiries, he had so far failed to gain any sort of information regarding a training facility.
This place.... It was like a crazy cartoon parody version of a training area. There were plenty of people exercising, and a few people sparring. But the exercises were like nothing he’d ever seen, people practicing jumping over and under furiously rotating bars, doing flips, running up and down a balance beam. And the sparring was incredible. He wasn’t quite sure how the participants weren’t breaking bones right and left.
And the colors! Formal dueling training was a staid affair, with rows of identically dressed students lined up to practice a move. Here, people seemed to have wandered in from the street dressed in whatever they had thrown on that morning. There were some in elaborate street fighter fashion, such as Emma wore, but others in grey sweats, and still others who looked dressed in formal robes for pro bouts. And there were children running around, though none were wearing what you might call a uniform. He assumed they were students too, however, as many appeared to be practicing.
Some of them were laughing. Adults too. Something he had never before heard the sound of laughter during practice.
The participants themselves lent a color to the atmosphere. As Silas would have been the first to admit, the practitioners of formal dueling were by and large Caucasians like himself. He had expected to see more individuals of Asian extraction, like Foster, but he found himself very surprised to see so many dark skinned participants. Freedmen? Or escaped slaves – there was that tradition.
He found himself lost in a kind of fascination. It was as if he had stepped into one of his family's old notebooks.
Mostly, people ignored him, but he noticed a couple of guys broke off to shout greetings at Emma. A big fellow wandered over their way, booming, “Hey, college girl!” and they embraced in a kind of macho fighter way. He wasn't limping too badly, but Silas, with his practiced eye, could tell the big man favored one side.
“Freddie!” she shouted. The warmth again.
“You go away and forget all about us, girl?”
“Eh, I’m doing bullshit fencing now.”
“C’mon,” he held up his sword and waved it. “We spar, maybe we mix it up?”
“I’m so fucking rusty, I’d just fall on my ass.”
“You NEVER rusty, girl, hahaha.”
She turned around to indicate Si. “Here’s something you could do for me. This is Si. He wants to mix it up.”
There was the frank sussing up stare again. Silas was used to being sized up by opponents: it was half the battle, really, in matches sometimes. But he was more familiar with the sideways glances of duelists. These people.... It seemed strange but they appeared to be trying to peer into ones soul.
“This guy duelist?” Freddie was speaking to Emma, and not to Si. Si nodded anyway.
“Yup. Stiff as a goddam board.” Freddie nodded, but still stared at Si, frowning. “You show him a couple moves?” Freddie looked at Emma, and appeared to think about it very carefully.
“Yeah, OK,” he finally said, and nodded for Si to follow him.
The old factory had a few rooms around the upper floor, accessible by rickety staircase. They overlooked what used to be the assembly line, but was now mostly a floor lined with mats.
They had never completely gutted the place. There were still a few old machines pushed up, here and there, along the walls.
One of these rooms above now served as Foster’s office. More or less. Emma stood up there now, with Foster, looking down on the various souls practicing down on the floor. And, one in particular, who was currently being knocked down, amusingly, by Fred.
“Gotta work on that footwork,” muttered Foster. He was sipping a bit of the rotgut he had just poured into a couple of old jam jars.
She took a careful sip, and tried not to choke. “Sifu…” she began.
Foster looked at her sharply. “Where did you find that boy, Emma?”
“Sifu. This guy is on the fencing team. He's the fucking captain. And he caught me using the training bot for street.” Foster said nothing, though his grey eyebrows raised a bit. “He’s blackmailing me into training him.”
Foster turned back to the floor. “No kidding?” he asked. “You can use those bots for street?”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty easy hack, actually.”
“Damn.” As they watched, Si knocked Fred over. “Fast learner, that boy,” observed Foster.
“He needs more training on the legwork than I can get away with at school.”
“Yeah, dead from the waist down, they are. And you wanna bring him here?”
“For a few lessons. Yes.”
Foster poured a bit more whiskey. She waved him off her cup, but he filled it anyway.
“I ain't no holiday camp for rich assholes. You know that. I ain't dishonoring the house,” declared Foster, downing the horible liquid like it was water.
“How do you know he's rich?” asked Emma.
“He got that look.”
“Well, maybe. Look, he's not just a random rich asshole. You can see he's got some talent. And he's really got me in a vise, Sifu.”
“So, you get in trouble, and run to Sifu for help?”
She nodded sheepishly. “Look, Sifu, I know if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be at some big college. I'd probably be turning tricks-”
“Emma.” Foster shook his head. “That boy’s got a dangerous look. Are you and he…?”
“No, no! No fucking way! We’re just … Sifu and blackmailer.” Emma looked glum.
“And, what do I get out of this?” asked Foster shrewdly.
“What?” She sighed. “OK. What do you want?”
He considered his whiskey. “One of those bots would be nice. Damn nice.”
“Fuck!”
They both winced as Si scored another hit on poor Fred. “Ouch!” said Foster. “You sure he’s not your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” Emma grumbled.
“Why not?”
“Oh, what the fuck, Foster? You just trying to get my goat now?”
“You like men. I remember that,” Foster smiled, swirling his whiskey.
“Yes. I like men,” she admitted.
“He’s rich. Good looking. You won’t do better with those ridiculous musicians you insist on hanging out with!”
Emma wanted something to die. Because she had killed it. With a sword. “Just…. OK, so you think he’s too dangerous, but then I should go out with him? He’s not interested, OK?”
“He was interested enough to blackmail you.”
“That’s different.”
“Well, you’re not likely to find another one who could keep you in line like this one.” Si had just knocked over Fred again, and this time, Fred wasn’t getting up.
“Fuck, I gotta go rescue Fred,” said Emma, casting a very dark look at Foster. She gulped the rest of her whiskey, and, with a choke, put down her jelly jar and headed towards the stairs.
“We have a deal?” asked Foster, who didn't bother getting up.
“Yeah, yeah, you get a bot. I’ll pull one out of my ass for you.”
From Silas Makepeace Taylor’s private journal.
Lunchtime salon with Wagner. Can he really be the world’s most tiresome man? Why then am I cursed to have him in my social orbit.
Gained audience at street fighting dojo overseen by a fellow named Foster. Am led to believe I may receive a certain amount of training at this facility, as per a recent agreement with E, from the fencing team. Unaccustomed to being treated with quite this level of scrutiny to my person and technique, however, the denizens appear to have a certain level of skill.
Al was chatting up a familiar looking coed when Emma whisked into the station to start programming her show, so she was somewhat surprised when he followed her into the library.
“Dude, you’ve got to get me into this,” he told her, shoving a flyer at her with his meaty hands. She wondered what kind of band Al would be unable to wheedle tickets for.
“Oh! I hadn’t heard about this!” she said in surprise.
“You get tickets, right? On the fencing team?” Al urged.
“Yeah, yeah, we get into academic duels. Wow. Dr. Forrest.” She tsked. “This ain’t gonna end well.”
“Yeah, this is gonna be over the top!” Al enthused, as if he really were talking about a new band. “You worked for Forrest, right?”
She nodded. “I graded for him. Briefly. Guy gave me the creeps.”
“You get tickets for me then?” He held up two fingers. “Two?”
“Oh, no. No, Al. Not that girl.”
Al grinned. He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I hear she likes fencing!” Emma raised her eyebrows, knowing that regardless, she would do it.
Emma had worked grading papers for Prof. Forrest for a grand total of one semester. Although most of the boys working for Forrest had been upperclassmen or graduate students, Emma had received the highest marks in his introductory class the previous term, and so was, to her great surprise, recruited to the job.
She never told Forrest that she had received high grades less because of her interest in the class topic (which was minimal) or Forrest's teaching style (which left a lot to be desired) but rather out of fear of confronting her Sifu with less than sterling marks.
Emma found the work ridiculously easy. For someone who had been raised to arise at the crack of dawn to embark on a five mile sprint, sitting at a desk marking tests seemed more slacking off than actual employment. She found the atmosphere, however, puzzling. The others in the office, all male, made a practice of going to lunch or to beers together. She was never invited along. She actually wondered if she might speak with Forrest about the matter, as she worried that she had been unknowingly violating some kind of protocol.
Somewhere around that point, Forrest had visited the office one day, trailing some visitors. He had introduced the students one by one to the visitors, oddly seeming to save Emma for last. And then he had presented her. “This is Emma. She's our little bit of STREET!”
All chuckled heartily: Forrest, the visitors, and the other students. Emma, prepared by many years of fight training, controlled her breathing. She wondered if perhaps Forrest, trying to be friendly, perhaps did not realize the depth of the insult?
She decided to wait and talk to her Sifu. He had scowled over his jam jar at her. “Emma. I'm paying a lot for that school. Don't fucking kill anybody, especially a professor,” he had told her.
After that, the boys still didn't invite her anywhere. But now they openly referred to her as, “Street.” With a hearty chuckle.
It was fall term, and so, near the end, Forrest had come to the students' office and made a great show of handing out Christmas gifts to his staff: bottles of wine, from his family vineyard. He had worked his way slowly around the office, making a great fuss and bother with each student, joking as to what kinds of women they would bed whilst consuming the wine, and how big a fool each would be when drunk off his ass.
He appeared again to be saving Emma for last. When he came before her desk, an assistant passed him a large paper grocery sack. It didn't appear to hold a bottle of wine.
“And since Emma is from the STREET, she won't appreciate fine wine, so I've gotten her THIS instead,” Forrest announced, whipping out a six pack of beer.
He chuckled heartily.
All his boys chuckled heartily.
Emma accepted the beer in silence.
Later that night, she brought the six pack out to a vacant lot, where she tossed up each can, high in the air, and sliced neatly through it, pretending as she did that it was some person's neck.
When she received word shortly afterwards that a late night/early morning slot had opened up on the college radio station, she submitted her resignation to Prof. Forrest's secretary.
On the night of the duel, Emma ended up escorting a veritable posse from the radio station, including Al and the leggy girl (who she gathered was named Gloria), a couple of the other DJs, and her faithful engineer. Never underestimate the public’s appetite for blood, she thought.
The demand for tickets had overrun the capacity of the usual fencing venue, so the administration had moved the duel to the hockey stadium. They had rolled the flooring over the ice, and draped the banners for the Department of Psychology over the school colors.
As Emma was on the fencing team, but not highly ranked, her group was seated up in the nosebleed seats, at around the center of the field. She pulled out her field glasses and peered around. The stadium was completely full. The field was still empty, so she scrutinized other members of the audience. Right down in front were some ceremonial seats, containing school officials, other professors, members of the Department of Psychology, and of course the families. Si, who was of course none of the above, was down there too, in seats near the rink, accompanied by whoever was the girl of the moment. It was very quiet and still down there. There was some polite chatter, but that was all. The audience seemed to think they were here for a lecture. Some of the older professors actually appeared to be dozing off.
The balcony, by contrast, was roiling. The night was cold, so when the flask came by, Emma took a good swig. She noticed a section mostly dressed in green and waving green banners over by the goal line – presumably, for Forrest. It may have been his graduate students. His opponent, Swift, appeared to have his own cheering section more or less opposite of where Emma’s group was seated. Their colors were red and orange.
She had heard the story from her engineer, who’d heard it from his roommate, who worked in the Department of Psychology. Scuttlebutt said that Swift was up for tenure, but Forrest had been blackballing him for the past few years. Swift finally called out Forrest at a department meeting. Nobody was sure exactly what was said, but Forrest demanded satisfaction, with blades.
A roar went up. The opponents, dressed in their academic gowns, their seconds, and the officials had entered the field of play.
“Faculty, students, and distinguished guests. We have assembled here for a duel of honor between professors Forrest and Swift, both of the University Department of Psychology. Dr. Forrest has asked for satisfaction, by blades. We would like request that, due to the grave seriousness of this matter, those assembled in the audience maintain a respectful silence while this matter is concluded.” In response, there was some yelling and general popcorn-tossing from the nosebleeds, all passively ignored by those below.
“The participants have agreed to draw to three. Point total to win.”
There followed a general hubhub in the audience, much louder up in the balconies. The radio station staff turned to Emma with a lot of “what the fuck, Em?”
“It’s fucking weird is what it is,” Emma told them. “Normally, these guys will do one, to first blood. Usually, that’s not literal blood – “
“I want my money back!” screamed Al, to much boisterous laughing.
“But to whoever gets the first point. Draw to three is real old school. Means they do three separate matches, and whoever adds up the most points, wins.”
“Sounds kinda boring,” one of the engineers remarked.
“Well, it’s a weird choice for Forrest, he’s so fucking old,” said Emma. “I thought he’d be worn out after just one, what with carting around all those fancy academic gowns and shit.”
Emma actually had a thought as to why. But, no. It didn’t seem like, evil as he was, Forrest was quite that evil.
They started the first match. Forrest’s call. He called out, “FOUR!” Parry, parry.
“Point, Swift,” yelled the official.
“Forrest gonna get his ass kicked,” said Beau, one of the DJs. The audience rumbled again while the parties set up once again.
The men got into their starting positions. It was going to be Swift’s call. Officially, he could call any setting, but he really needed to ramp it up at least one or, basically, look like a pussy.
“SIX!” This one may have lasted another stroke, and then, “Point, Swift.”
Emma dug out her field glasses, and scoped the audience again. She noticed a couple of the old professors had never woken up. And Silas was staring intently at the two parties now.
They lined up one last time.
Forrest’s call.
“TEN!”
The audience gasped. Emma was already on her feet.
Swift swung and missed. Badly. Forrest’s blade connected, for the first time. It sliced cleanly through Swift’s neck. There was a torrent of blood spewing out of the neck as his body fell. The rest of the crowd was now on their feet. There was a roar. Emma grabbed her glasses once again. There was general panic in the box with Swift’s family. A man was hurrying to get one of the women away, off the field. She looked at Swift’s body, still pumping blood, uselessly, out onto the mat.
The official needlessly called, “Point, Forrest,” but no one was listening.
Emma aimed her glasses back to where she’d seen Si sitting. Unlike a lot of the audience, he was still seated. The woman he was with had thrown herself against him, apparently sobbing or in shock. But, he wasn’t looking at the woman. He wasn’t looking at the field. He was looking up. He seemed to be looking at Emma.
She dropped the glasses and looked away.
“Maybe, 10,000 people?” Emma was telling a disbelieving Freddie the next day.
Although she hadn't really scheduled anything for today, she had sensed a dismal mood on the campus, so had ditched her afternoon classes, and dragged Silas (who as it turned out, was quite willing) to an impromptu practice session at the dojo.
“Good crowd, man,” said Freddie. “Like a match.”
“Never seen anything like.”
“You think that guy knew he was gonna crank Teslas to 10?” Freddie asked.
She shook her head. “I dunno. I mean, I suspected something was up when they drew to three. But, you know, I don’t think Swift had a fucking clue.”
“Fucking waste,” sighed Freddie.
“Yeah. Fucking waste.”
Si was, theoretically at least, practicing nearby, under Freddie's supervision. But one thing he had observed, during his few visits to the dojo, was that one needed to allot at least twice the required time for any procedure. It wasn't that the individuals didn't work, for they did. But there was rather a lot of pausing, for gossip, joking, gambling, a smoke. It was not his to judge: Grandmama warned sternly against getting too judgmental regarding the less fortunate. It should have tried his patience, as Silas was an efficient man. But against his inclination, he found himself, almost immediately, drawn into the strange rhythms of this place.
He now snapped off his blade. “I’m curious,” he told them. “Why do you say that was a waste?”
Emma and Freddie exchanged confused glances. “Man, you just see a 360 head pop, and you wonder?” Freddie asked disbelievingly.
“That guy, Swift, he ain’t gonna be doing any professing anymore,” said Emma. “Not without a head!”
“You two, you’ve seen men killed before, no?” asked Silas.
“Yeah, but that was just, you know…” Freddie trailed off.
“It’s just idiots,” Emma said. “You know. People mixing it up. Swift was a professor.”
“Professors can still be idiots,” said Si. “You said yourself, he was basically goaded into a dangerous fight.” Si’s lenses were glinting at her.
“He had a family….” Emma protested.
“And the men you’ve seen killed?”
“Si! Nobody will give a shit if people like us,” she indicated Freddie, “get our heads dislocated.”
Si was tilting his head. “You’re really certain about that?”
“Yes, I am really certain about that,” Emma mocked.
“So,” said Silas with a wry smile, “somebody kills your friend, Freddie…?”
She immediately turned to Freddie. “I find them, I kill them, eat their hearts.” Freddie grinned.
“You my girl,” Freddie said, punching her affectionately. But Freddie had a thoughtful look on his face. He turned back to Si. “What you say man, dueling, it all a waste?”
Si considered, and then nodded thoughtfully. “Quite possibly,” he said. He turned back to battering a practice bag.
Freddie and Emma exchanged glances. Freddie tapped his temple with an index finger, as if to say, touched in the head, that boy.
Emma was surprised at how many people were hanging around at the radio station when she finally pulled in for her shift. Given how things went at Foster's place, Silas' practice session had ended up running later than she had planned. Silas had surprised her. She wasn't at all taken aback to find out he was rather good at street fighting techniques: but she had pegged him for someone who would dislike the chaotic atmosphere out there. Oddly enough, he appeared to adapt almost instantly. And she had never been able to spot him tapping a foot, or checking a watch, or any sign of impatience.
She had started to wonder again why someone like Silas even wanted to learn street fighting. She had told herself not to bother about it. College people were strange.
Speaking of which... Al was at the station when she arrived, of course, but where the hell else would he go? It actually looked like the entire crew from last night was there, plus maybe a few friends and hangers on.
It wasn’t the large crowd that caught her notice, really, it was the fact that they all looked so fucking pathetic. She jumped up on a chair and reached up to turn on the speaker that usually piped through the broadcast. Good lord. She had never in her life heard such terrible music.
“Al, what the fuck?” she asked, turning around.
Al was sitting, feet up on a table, not even bothering to smoke out the window. “Since last night, you know, the duel, we’ve been given word, quiet and tasteful.”
“Quiet and tasteful?”
“Yeah, you know, for a while?”
She scowled. She turned and carried her sword and her stack of 45s into the booth. The previous DJ, Beau, handed off the headphones, and wandered out to smoke with Al.
Al grinned and handed him the joint. “Check this,” he said quietly, motioning his head back towards the booth. Beau flopped into the ancient couch and watched Emma get ready. She thoughtfully placed her sword on the counter, then flipped through the stack of 45s, and, one by one, flinging them aside. She finally flipped through the entire stack, tore off the headphones, and slammed out of the booth. A minute or two later, she was back, with a few more disks. She slapped one down on the turntable, and signaled the engineer. He slotted the intro, and everyone tried their best to keep watch on the booth without looking like they were paying any interest.
She grabbed the mike. “You’re on college radio, left of the dial. Are you all feeling quiet and tasteful tonight, my dears? Here’s someone else who’s feeling quiet and tasteful: Elvis.”
“Lord Almighty, feel my temperature rising...”
And she was dancing. Al had jumped to his feet threw the both door open and grabbed her and danced with her, and they sang along,“Your kisses lift me higher, like the sweet song of a choir, light my morning sky, burning love.” And Beau howled with laughter and threw down the joint and grabbed his own girl and started dancing, and everybody else was either dancing or singing along with the bits and the words they knew.
Around campus, radios that had been set to low were getting turned up, and roommates were getting annoyed.
Emma followed with Suspicious Minds, and everyone except Emma and Al (who of course knew every single Elvis lyric) kept quiet for what seemed like an impossibly long and horrible period of time (even though it was only 39 seconds) to belt out the chorus. Then she set up The Bashers’ “Riot,” to which only the chorus of “Wanna riot wanna rave wanna riot wanna rave” was intelligible anyway.
Somewhere, and administrator was being called and wakened.
Silas was in his private dormitory room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The pretty girl who had been with him at the duel was sitting at a vanity mirror to the side, reassembling her makeup. Si flicked on the radio, and listened. A smile grew on his face.
“You really ought to turn down that racket,” the girl scolded him. “It's disrespectful.”
Si turned it up.
For once in his miserable life, Al proved useful. The official explanation given to the administrators the next day was that an intern had programmed the station that night, when nobody was around. It was 2 am, so who would possibly be hanging around a radio station, after all?
No one ever seemed to question the fact that they didn’t even have interns.
In return, Al begged Emma to promise not to kill anybody, or do anything else that would bring attention to herself, for at least a month.
