aaaaaaaaaaaa (that's me yelling)

School is...agony.

So the next chapter of Roman Holidays is turning out a lot longer than I anticipated, mostly because I decided to add new characters and shift some of the events around - though overall, I would say these changes are for the better. I can't wait to write the epilogue, if it doesn't lead to my execution.

Oh well, I'll try to get chapter 2 out as soon as possible.

In the meantime, here's a little preview:

The first person to reach out to Adagio again is, of course, Sonata (who must have finally found the drawer in which Aria hides her snack cakes, now undoubtedly pulling double duty to make sure the blue-skinned girl can’t ruin the illusion that Fine, We Never Needed You Anyway). Two am, a buzz breaking through the loop of stock chimes and slow drum machine. A second buzz, a third.

Adagio looks with a heavy sigh, sees Sonata grinning up into the camera with tired, dark-ringed eyes, the arm pulling a stunned Aria into the frame looking as ready to choke as hug her. Atop their heads are those Alice bands the Rainbooms’ keyguitarist had been shilling-- which, by some dark Equestrian magic, still manage to look several fathoms tackier than the overpriced, rhinestoned cat ears at the mall.

Not that she’s bitter or anything.
Ha.

‘We’re gonna burn them without you'
‘and you can’t come so don’t ask!!!’

Adagio rolls her eyes. ‘Neato.’ Sent, phone put on silent. Attention returned to her laptop and painfully generic, Baby’s First pop song. They’d been a fairly-smooth production team, all things considered: Adagio had handled the lyrics, while Sonata and Aria had produced beats with surprising competency, along with a surprising lack of blood and hair to clean up afterwards. Thank God that the advent of the internet had given them plenty of decent music programs to torrent in one hand, right as the other had taken away face-to-face contact with producers.

Oh well. She might not have as much time now, but she sure has a fire under her ass to learn. When she finally manages to wrestle the four chords of pop into a semi-tolerable ringtone, she checks her phone again: Sonata’s sent a rather long video.

They’re out on the balcony, watching three headbands burn to ash and warped plastic in the kitchen wastebasket, the only sounds that of the crickets, the interstate highway, and the dark whispers of the fire.