Andromeda's Mother (1/27)

This was inspired by putting on CASIOPEA and just grooving when I wrote. There were three songs that were playing that I was really vibing with. As I got less invested in the songs in the background, so to did the scene pivot away from the musicians,

Still having fun writing in this Cyberpunk world. YankeeFive is another character that's formed from previous freewrites. I don't know a thing about her, but I'm enjoying learning more about her and Ben through the process, rather than prep and pre-writing.  The spontaneity of piecing the characters together in process is very enjoyable

            The musicians on stage eased their way into the groove, sliding into like they were crawling into bed with a lover. Lights dimmed, a pink wash on stage, a woman in a blue suit and dark shades stepped forward, blowing on a saxophone. Patrons bobbed their heads, the musician taking the prime real estate center stage. Her outfit was old school, a thin black tie buttressing a crisp white button-up.

The groove got going, the saxophonist being joined by keyboard and drums, the smooth synth tones gliding through air that was thick as honey with smoke. The music was slow and sensual, causing hands to reach for others under their tables. Optic implants glittered like constellations in the crowd. Recording video, snapping RealPics, sending salacious messages to other patrons who they were hoping would respond in kind. The room thrummed with the electricity of a storm cloud before discharging thunder.

The saxophonist began her solo, shades slipping down the bridge of her nose. Hungry eye contact with the audience. Every one of them believing the sensual glare was for them and them alone. The bassist cut in, sending out the challenge for a duel. The saxophonist was all too eager to comply.

The bassist smiled coyly beneath a thin black mustache, hair slicked back in a short ponytail. Round shades, the color of an autumn sunset, reflected the saxophonist’s virtuosic performance back at her. The bassist’s hands flew over his instrument, nano-LSDs in the neck glowing in response to every held string. The rainbow scene danced and whirled with each  hammer on, his right hand flying over strings that sang like lightning. The two matched each other, advancing and retreating over the small stage. Ankles hung over open air, the drop a mere few feet below onto the tables seeming an eternal descent into the abyss. The saxophonist wailed, the whole of her weight on the balls of her feet to keep from tumbling back.

The time signature changed, the thunder clapped, and the whole of the band leapt into the fray. Wild melodies and harmonies formed out of thin air, pulled together and woven into a musical tapestry by deft hands. The keyboard whined high, local dogs surely aware of it, as the lights began to rise. The lurid magenta gave way to warm amber, the musicians engaged totally with each other, entirely ignorant of the crowd around them. They locked eyes and traded glances, each note imparting perfect meaning to the preceding and following notes’ existence.

The crowd was rising from seats, glittering dresses and soft synthetic silk flashing in the rising lights. They pulled up friends, lovers, complete strangers. As long as there was someone to dance with, any body that was warm and moving would suffice. The saxophonist faced front again, the band behind her falling into lockstep. They sent their music to the back of the room, the drums thumping a time signature that seemed to change by the measure. Their identical blue suits drank deep of the rich light, seeming almost black. Comets of white light danced across the band and audience. The guitarist took center stage, the body of his instrument an ancient CRT that buzzed in his hands.

The band continued to jam as the throng danced between the tables. At the bar, the mood wasn’t so quite taken with the bacchanal below. Separated by a simple iron railing, the bar was situated near the rear of the club, some 6 feet higher than the main seating area and stage. A woman at the bar pulled down her mask, downing the last of her drink.

“Real cranberry juice, sure,” she scowled, pulling the black fabric back over her face. She lay the glass down on the bar, pressure sensors beneath detecting she was in need of a refill. She surveyed the crowd. An eclectic mix. Low level corpos, contractors, a few well to do rusters. For a moment the crowds mingled, danced with each other, held one another close. The song had to end eventually, though the band showed no inclination of slowing. The woman brushed teal hair out of her face, watching the keyboard’s holographic projectors send dancing ribbons of light over a delighted crowd.

“Another one, miss?” the tanned bartender asked, the white stubble of her undercut glowing in the refracting lights of the performance. She blew casually on the longer piece that draped over her eye. YankeeFive turned back to the bartender. She had an important meeting with a potential client, one that required a delicate diplomatic hand. She had to be fully focused, factory frickin’ new.

“Of course,” she grinned at the bartender. Fiber optic threads, barely larger than the fibers of the mask, animated the cartoonish facsimile of a razor toothed mouth. The bartender swept the old glass away, mixing up another Corpopolitan. YankeeFive needed this job to go through. The bartender placed the drink down, and the bottom left corner of Yankee’s vision lit up as the cost of it was withdrawn from her account. She swallowed dryly at the number. She really needed this job to go through.

She glanced at her optic readout. The client was late. The agreement had been 10:23. A quirk YankeeFive had picked up after too many close calls. Everything is always at nice round times, increments of 30 minutes. On the hour or half hour. Because everyone clings to this axiom, it becomes exceptionally easy to get caught in an obvious meeting. No one will buy that the suit coming into the bar precisely at 9:30 is just looking for a drink when he takes the shadiest table at the back wall. It raises eyebrows, particularly from other corpos. She’d seen it before, some corporate headhunter looking to make an easy bounty on anyone looking to sell corporate secrets or hire some less than factory new contractors. They didn’t even have to be looking for anyone specific, they’d just wait for those nice half hour increments and wait and see if anyone in their corporate database happened to walk in looking a little more nervous than usual.

It was a trap YankeeFive had no interest in walking into for a fifth time. While the third time had turned out to be a very good story by the end, she wasn’t keen on rolling those particular dice again anytime soon.