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Futuristic ᴇɢᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

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  • Cyrus gave the guitar one last absent strum,
    letting the final note hum in the crisp air. Shortly after, Kurt, his wife, and son had arrived with the kids. Cyrus sent them a welcoming wave as thanks, beaming like a politician at a rally.

    But more than the sound of string instruments and youthful chatter filled the space. True to character, Angelo made a loud, swaggering approach, bottle cap in hand. Cyrus sighed, shaking his head with a lopsided smile as the cap clinked harmlessly against the stage.

    "Well, ''ey' to you, too, Angelo," Cyrus said, rising smoothly to his feet. "You must have mistaken me for a jukebox. Usually, those take quarters." The gathered children giggled at the quip, though the reference was beyond even most adults in the group.

    Cyrus had hosted countless gatherings since his group made it to the compound—book clubs and history lessons, explorations of art, music, and the finer things of a world that now only existed in discarded media. Angelo's appearances at the recitals had initially caught Cyrus off guard. But then he recalled the countless times low-fidelity audio from a CD player had been blasted over the radio channels, and it sort of started to make sense.

    He adjusted the strap of his guitar, tilting his head as he surveyed Angelo. "Tell you what," he said, giving the strings a slow, delicate strum, "If you think you’ve got the chops to impress this crowd, be my guest." He gestured toward the rowdy band of kids, then pointed with his eyes at the various instruments scattered around the stage area.

    Cyrus turned his attention back to the audience, his fingers settling instinctively over the strings as he struck a jaunty chord to raise the energy. He stepped back theatrically, holding the guitar out as if to offer it to Angelo. The children gasped and giggled in unison, their eyes darting between the men, already entertained by the prospect of inciting a showdown.

    Cyrus let his smile linger. "Well?" he prompted, holding the guitar out a little further. He glanced past Angelo to the edge of the gathering, where Fraley and Romar stood, offering a nod as one of the children bolted in their direction.










    ♡coded by uxie♡


 



















  • “You want me to show you up at your own show, for real?”
    Angelo asked with a hearty chuckle. The liquor within him was the perfect amount to have him completely fearless and prime to embarrass himself, which Cyrus could certainly pick up on. He leaned against the piano, looking down through his eyebrows at Cyrus.

    Cyrus did a quick, showy move with the guitar, which got an excited rise from the audience. Then, what Angelo had been waiting for happened: he offered him the guitar.

    “Well?” the man asked.

    Angelo grinned over at Cyrus. “You think I can’t do it? I thought you knew my old man.”

    (If indeed Angelo was right about Cyrus knowing his old man, that knowledge would not bolster any confidence in Angelo’s playing abilities, since the only publicly seen incident of Angelo’s father interacting with a string instrument was him breaking it over his knee in anger after drunkenly failing to play some obscure folk tune.)

    Angelo grabbed the guitar with an exaggerated confidence that made the young audience before him giggle. He muttered softly to himself, fingering randomly at the fretboard to get a feel for the worn guitar in his hand. “Hell, I…let’s see…” His words were indiscernible to anyone but himself. “C Major, A minor? Or A minor, C major? F over 7…” He gave the instrument a strum, then, frowning, gave the lowest knob a twist and strummed again.

    And then, he finally began to play, and, unexpectedly, though the notes the man sang were always just slightly out of tune and the guitar had a glaringly wrong note on each strum, the haunting words of the old folk song The Unquiet Grave were clear and resonate:

    The wind doth blow today, my love,
    And a few small drops of rain;
    I never had but one true-love,
    In cold grave she was lain.    ​

    He took a few moments of creative liberty to howl, which made the kids, who had been sitting confused, burst out in a short fit of laughter.

    I’ll do as much for my true-love
    As any young man may;
    I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
    For a twelvemonth and a day.    ​

    The subject matter was in stark contrast to Angelo’s demeanor, but, strangely, the children in the audience seemed to pick up on their need to be quiet. Seemingly enchanted, they grew still and near silent as they watched Angelo strum and sway.

    The twelvemonth and a day being up,
    The dead began to speak:
    “Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
    And will not let me sleep?”    ​

    A cough, then stillness again from the audience.

    ’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
    And will not let you sleep;
    For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
    And that is all I seek.

    You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    But my breath smells earthy strong;
    If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    Your time will not be long.

    ’T is down in yonder garden green,
    Love, where we used to walk,
    The finest flower that e’re was seen
    Is withered to a stalk.

    The stalk is withered dry, my love,
    So will our hearts decay;
    So make yourself content, my love,
    Till God calls you away…    ​

    There was a single moment of silence.

    Then, naturally, one of the children demanded, “Why do you sing like that?”

    Angelo, cocky, handed the guitar back to Cyrus. “‘Cuz I trained for it, kid.”

    “Sounded really bad,” the kid said to the child beside him, but Angelo clearly didn’t hear that.

    He looked over at Cyrus. “Bet you don’t even know the name of that one,” he said proudly.










    ♡coded by uxie♡

 



















  • The wind was picking up,
    and with it the auburn leaves shed by their mother trees. Shiny grains of glass, shreds of splintered wood, all varieties of litter dusted the ground in a manner most would say was all they knew. Such was the way of October's breath, often too delicate to sweep the streets from flecks of ruin.

    Fabric was tied between the stakes scattered around the compound, old mailboxes and traffic posts repurposed into trail markers. Described affectionately by most survivors as exterior decor, these low-hanging ropes lined almost every path, including the less-traveled trail to Cyrus' stage. Otherwise, strangers to feng shui attributed the posts correctly as a means of shepherding children and newcomers across the settlement. Engineers, designers, and architects were scarce. The need for navigation was not.

    Deron had established governance, Eloise before him, building a sense of authority greater than community. These were the ways of the future. Not a neon, space-aged future, but one where law and order is afforded by the mercy of fortune. And so, to stay sane, survivors had to forge their own luxuries.

    But luxury, Cyrus would argue, could be found high and low. Exploring flooded libraries, dilapidated schools, and crumbling museums, he found his own purpose long before being absorbed by such a large group. There was an innate legitimacy to nostalgia, as well as the universe-multiplying freedom of discovery. As a young person, Cyrus knew this more than he knew isolation and loneliness. More than hunger, the cold, or anything fleeting in this hurting, healing world.

    The self-proclaimed historian stepped aside from the stage, watching Angelo's performance rapt with arms tucked behind his back. His one-man show, though inebriated and somewhat comical, meant everything. It was the reason Cyrus put on these events, the seminars, the book clubs, the dumpster dives behind abandoned department stores. Singing before him was the proof that humans, by nature, craved art and expression.

    When Angelo was done, Cyrus raised two hands, pounding them together with a resounding thunder. There were firecrackers alight, glittering in the eyes of the children and electrifying the atmosphere around the sparse audience.

    "That was impressive," said Cyrus, dusting off one of the fabric posts before taking the guitar back. "You should take a bow."

    He then found his place on the stage, listening to it creak under the shared weight of the piano and two men. "You're supposed to clap, even if you think it's bad," he addressed the children, hips lips meeting in a firm, dignified grin. "Can you believe that voice? Very well-done." At that, he locked eyes with Do-yun, sensing a chill in the wind carrying the scent of Angelo's late father: whiskey.

    Cyrus tapped the body of the guitar lightly, a thoughtful rhythm as he spoke. "You know, Angelo, you really ought to share more of those old songs with us sometime."

    He adjusted the strap of the guitar and leaned forward, addressing Angelo directly with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Though I have to say, I’m not sure I believe your ‘training,’ as you put it. Sounds more like you inherited your old man’s flair for improvisation. That was an inspired interpretation, no doubt."

    Cyrus faced the audience once more. "You see, what Angelo just gave us was a history lesson. That song, The Unquiet Grave, is hundreds of years old. Sung by people who lived and died long before any of us were even a thought. Imagine that—a melody that survived war, famine, and now, this. It’s still here because people like Angelo kept it alive. And that’s worth something."

    Cyrus let the guitar rest gently against the edge of the piano as he settled onto the bench, shooting an inviting glance at Angelo. He flexed his fingers dramatically, drawing a few chuckles from the children who were still squirming in their makeshift seats of overturned crates and scavenged lawn chairs.

    His fingers brushed the keys, testing their tuning with a few soft, cascading notes. The piano groaned under his touch, but the sound it produced was colorful and rich. "This one," he said, pressing the keys slowly, "is called Let Me Call You Sweetheart. My grandmother used to hum it, very long ago. Said it reminded her of the days when her world felt whole."

    Cyrus began to sing, his baritone voice steadily gaining in power and volume:

    Let me call you sweetheart
    I'm in love with you
    Let me hear you whisper
    That you love me too

    His voice carried into the area, weaving through the fabric posts like the autumn wind. Some of the children leaned forward, entranced, while others swayed in time to the music. Others yawned, tugging at the Marks' shirts to head home for breakfast.

    Keep the love light glowing
    In your eyes so true
    Let me call you sweetheart
    I'm in love with you

    Do-yun, from the outskirts of the gathering, watched the stage with something wistful and nostalgic, though his eyes remained fixed on Angelo.

    Keep the love light glowing
    In your eyes so true
    Let me call you sweetheart
    I'm in love with you

    Cyrus allowed the final chord to linger. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant creak of a swaying signpost. He stood up and faced the crowd again, his lips curling into a gentle smile. "And so, even in a world as broken as ours, love songs survive. Isn't that nice?"










    ♡coded by uxie♡


 



















  • Inflating the ego of the egoist was a dangerous thing to do.
    At the opportunity to have a moment more of spotlight, Angelo gave a dramatic bow, then grinned over at Cyrus. “I have several I could—“

    Cyrus addressed the audience again and started to lecture, and Angelo, feeling a bit scorned by Cyrus’ stopping of the compliments, rolled his eyes and sort of walked over to the side to stand beside the Kirks for the duration of the song. Kurt spared him a sidelong glance but returned his attention back to the squirming audience before him.

    The song Cyrus began was a sappy one. Lots of pet names and the word love more times than he could count on one hand. Having gotten his taste of the spotlight and deciding that he knew how to savor it much more than the man who currently sat at the piano, Angelo gave an exaggerated yawn at the end of the first verse.

    But, in spite of himself, Angelo’s ear caught an interesting melodic line Cyrus tinkled on the piano, and he frowned slightly with interest. And the moment he inclined his head to listen closer, the next verse began.

    And, though the words were so clearly aimed at a sweetheart, a love, and the guy who Angelo had in mind was sure as hell neither of those things to him, Angelo couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Lionel. Because, ya know, it was reaching the several days past when you were supposed to be back mark, and that starts to do things to the mind of the people who…

    Keep the love light glowing​

    Angelo wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew that supplies were running low for the crew. Desperately low. But Lionel was smart. A genius. He was trusted for a reason. He could rig any invention up they needed out of whatever he saw near—leaves, sticks, concrete, metal, and shards of glass were made into freak creations like blankets, water filters, fishing traps…

    In your eyes so true​

    Lionel was crazy as hell, too. He’d be keeping the team on their toes, for sure. Though he could’a killed the guy back when he first met him for all of the crazy shit he pulled, Angelo enjoyed that fact about him now. Angelo just hoped he didn’t hit one of his spells of stripping down and trying to make a break for it on the trip. He didn’t do it super often, and Angelo never reported it to Deron when it happened, but it did happen. That, or Lionel would get this super distant look in his eyes and be really unresponsive for a day or so, not really respond to anything, just sort of look ahead and stare, like he was trapped in his own body. (Again, not important things for Angelo to report, so he never did.) When that happened, there was no way to wake him up—he just sort of would, and he would refuse to say what had happened until Angelo and him started drinking…

    Let me call you sweetheart​

    The things that Lionel admitted to Angelo at 2, 3 in the morning were things that Angelo would never repeat to another soul, living or dead. Lionel would say really psycho shit a lot—not psycho as in kill other people but psycho as in I have dreams about monsters. Shapeshifters, skin walkers, aliens, metamorphosed and deformed beasts…lots of yellow, lots of crystals, lots of death—some real psycho visions. Dreams, Lionel said they were, but Angelo almost thought that Lionel thought they were real. At first, Angelo thought Lionel was faking not remembering his past, but the more that he dug, the more Angelo discovered it to be the truth: he really couldn’t remember jack shit. But strangely, Lionel still seemed to remember scientific facts. The sun, the moon, the stars, the planets’ alignment. Drunk and laying on their backs on the grass out back of Angelo’s little hut, Angelo would ask Lionel to tell him more, and that would be the only time the curly-haired freak would smile…

    I’m in love with you​

    Who did Lionel have with him now who understood him? No one. Angelo should have insisted on going on the mission. The only missions he’d been on in the past were short-distance ones, since he needed to be around to work the radio system (which was a glorified walkie-talkie system). But he was sure he could handle it. Lionel didn’t have anyone who knew him like Angelo did…—

    Cyrus’ speaking broke Angelo’s deep thought: “And so, even in a world as broken as ours, love songs survive. Isn't that nice?"

    Drawn back to the present and his current indignation, Angelo scoffed. Brashly, he took a swagger forward, back toward where he had been. “You ever been in love, Cyrus? Or you just peddling something you don’t know to the tikes ‘cuz they don’t know any better?”










    ♡coded by uxie♡

 



















  • For one of his concerts, this was the most noise Cyrus had heard in a long time.
    His performances usually followed a familiar rhythm: a set of songs, a heartfelt lesson, and a little Q&A for the kids. Unless it was one of the evening events, where moonshine and dancing were involved enough to rouse the adults from their incessant worrying. Jazz and swing were crowd favorites at those times, a tradition Cyrus was happy to carry on.

    Before he could move on to the next ballad, before the tambourine and the recorder and the big encore was to ensue, Angelo's idea was to twist the interactive element in his own way. He re-entered the vicinity of stage right, the scent of liquor trailing behind. Cyrus made an intrigued step toward the radio operator, pleased by his own performance. He held his thoughts behind a cool composure, awaiting his due flowers.

    Angelo faced him head-on, nothing to hold back, and he spoke:

    “You ever been in love, Cyrus? Or you just peddling something you don’t know to the tikes ‘cuz they don’t know any better?”

    All it took was a beat to gut the area's energy. It poured from Cyrus' face like a bleeding wound, a gunshot by the trigger of Angelo's glass half-empty. He faltered, only for a moment, then raised his chin upward to peer down at Angelo. He straightened, his gaze settling on Angelo, cool and cautious like a fox sizing up a threat.

    "No," was his frank answer, "I have not."

    There had always been cracks in Cyrus' armor, and while he hoped they were not so distracting, putting on a persona is a very cumbersome task. The leadership did it well, and it wasn't until the legendary Ellie Frazier's cognitive decline that anyone had any idea at all the toll it took to play the steely strategist. But Cyrus had never claimed to be a strategist.

    His expression shifted, and the muscles in his face let go.

    “But I had a family,” he continued, his voice as melodic as when he’d been at the piano. “A mom, a dad, brothers, and a sister. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Cats, dogs—even a snake.” He lowered himself to the edge of the stage, folding a knee into his arms.

    "How many of you have been in love?" Cyrus asked the audience, scanning between each and every individual, even the children. "How many of you think you've seen it? Was it your parents? Your neighbors? Your best friend and their friend and, so on..."

    Cyrus spared another glance downward. Angelo was young, he was brash, bitter in the way only youth could be, but no more hardened by unfairness than anyone else in the compound. Over the last week, it was like the beating heart of the compound had stopped completely, albeit slowly and quietly. Everyone was feeling the absences among their ranks. You could hear it in the silence, more so from those left behind than the unaccounted.

    "Have you seen what love looks like, Mr. Capelli?" he asked Angelo directly, devoid of hostility. "Your pappy sure loved a lot of ladies." Laughter rippled throughout the crowd, finding itself in Cyrus too through the form of a smirk.

    "I can share my past with you, if you wish," he said, his tone sincere. The offer was real. It was written on his face, even with the cracks and the faults and the armor intact. "Is that what counts as credentials? Knowing what it must be like to love?"










    ♡coded by uxie♡


 



















  • Angelo did most things without thinking.
    Especially speaking. There was no reason to put thought into what he did; life tended to go fine when he went ahead and did, no thinking involved. It cut down on the time he wasted, too.

    Speaking out and asking a question that he himself couldn’t answer affirmatively to a guy who acted like he knew everything was…well, not exactly a bright thing to do. And from what it sounded like, Cyrus had experienced more love in his life than Angelo ever would in his, which didn’t help Angelo’s indignant mood.

    Cyrus had dogs and cats…a waste of good resources, and virtually an impossibility. Angelo stayed mostly on the grounds—in fact, he’d only ever been out once or twice—but he knew that there wasn’t anything good out there anymore. Rotting wood. Swamps filled with rusting cars half-sunken into foul-smelling sludge. Life that came in the gates from out there—human or otherwise—was always half-mad…or, like Lionel, full-mad: rabbits with screws loose; venomous snakes that attacked without mercy; tuberculosis-infested possums that always killed at least 5 people with their disease if they weren’t dealt with properly; raccoons with a strange human glint to their eyes that had to be killed on the spot; ticks, mites, locusts. Angelo wasn’t an imaginative guy, so, though he heard stories of nonhumans and humans living in companionship, beyond someone keeping a bird or a toad in a cage for a bit like a lot of the kids did here and there (and, admittedly, as he did sometimes, too), he couldn’t picture it being something that happened with animals like cats and dogs, whose descendants now, at least in this area, made for horror stories.

    “How many of you have been in love?” Cyrus asked the audience. “How many of you think you’ve seen it? Was it your parents? Your neighbors? Your best friend and their friend and, so on…”

    Angelo liked people a lot, sure. He enjoyed their company. But love? That really was the biggest illusion there was. Lionel was mad, but love was madder. Hysteria swept the incomers like the plague, but love was more hysterical. Angelo was too smart for something like that—and he was a (well, he’d admit it just once) dumbass, so that was saying something.

    “Have you seen what loves look like, Mr. Capelli?”

    Angelo’s eyes flicked to meet Cyrus’ and locked in on his gaze. Angelo narrowed his eyes, his brows flinching down. Had Angelo seen love? He’d seen idiocy, hell yeah. Self-sacrifice when saving your own ass would benefit everyone more. Young couples in the throes of passion making more hungry mouths and lessening everyone else’s rations—and then, one by one, dying off and pissing away so those hungry mouths became someone else’s responsibility. Things that people called love. But love?

    “Your pappy sure loved a lot of ladies,” Cyrus said, and the crowd laughed.

    Angelo’s face betrayed his irritation.

    Yeah, Angelo himself had been a hungry mouth who’d been passed around here and there. His mom had died, his dad said, but a lot of people told him that she really left—and that she left because his dad had told her to. Angelo didn’t buy the village’s stories, really; he trusted his dad more.

    But he knew his dad really did like the ladies. Angelo knew of at least two half-siblings he had in the community, but the only other people who knew about that kid’s blood-relation to him were the mothers and Lionel. His father generally had a bottle in one hand and a lady on the other arm, and that was just the truth of the matter. There were few women in the village who hadn’t been approached by his father—though most turned him away with an insult or a slap. Those who took him up…well, their reputations never quite recovered.

    But he didn’t love the ladies. Angelo’s father was his idol. Angelo knew that his father would never stoop low enough to love anyone, or anything. It just wasn’t in his nature.

    “i can share my past with you, if you wish,” Cyrus said. “Is that what counts as credentials? Knowing what it must be like to love?”

    Angelo exhaled in a sharp breath. “I’m not asking for cred. All I asked was if you’d been in love before. ’N since you ain’t, and you ain’t never…well, you don’t know jack about anything you just sang. I think I know more about it, an’ I ain’t had any dogs or cats or big happy family. But I can sing about it, ‘cuz I at least know what it’s really about.” He gestured to the kids. “And you—“

    He laughed, and then patted the piano. “You know what, sure. Tell your whole story. Mr. Dog-and-Cat. American dream in the ‘pocalypse.”










    ♡coded by uxie♡


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