Sound Tracking 1/5

[turps]

It takes two hours in a holding pattern before Bob is allowed to land.

In that time he fills in a lengthy data request and endures two conversations where he's interrogated about his reasons for a visit. If it wasn't so important, Bob would have flown away after the first half hour. He suspects that's the whole point. Steriska doesn't want people to visit, and it shows.

But, the thing is, Bob has to land.

Eventually he's given exact grid positions, and when he lands, an official of the port is waiting. He's dressed in a precise uniform of black pants and a buttoned coat, his stunner prominently displayed on his hip and his expression closed. He waits, motionless as Bob powers down his craft, and then steps outside, sealing the door.

"If you'd follow me."

Gaze directed forward, the man starts to walk toward the processing area, his boots clicking against the solid ground. When they're close he waves his hand and a door slides open, exposing a featureless room, a long counter along the side wall. There are multiple terminals set on the counter, but they're all unused, their screens blank.

The official walks to one of the terminals and presses a button, making the screen flicker to life. "Read this and fill in all required information."

Bob walks to that terminal and waits to one side until the man goes to stand close to the exit, his posture rigid and pointedly looking straight ahead. Bob suppresses a sigh, it's been years since he’s used a terminal with an actual physical keyboard and the keys feel strange under his fingers as he fills in the same information he was asked about not an hour before. He pushes back irritation as he hunches over and starts to type.

It takes almost thirty minutes to finish, and when Bob's done he looks up and the man walks close and slowly reads all the inputted information. When he's satisfied he nods once and types with a clatter of keystrokes and then turns to Bob.

"Your stay on a visiting basis has been accepted for a period of one day. If, after that period of time you haven't returned, you will be found and deported. It is accepted you have read and understood the rules of our world, the most important of which is no music of any kind. If you sing, whistle or hum a tune you will be found and the punishment will be swift. If you play music, you will be jailed. If you persist the penalty will be severe. Follow the lights out of this area and do not deviate from the marked path."

He indicates a strip of dim lights set in the floor and Bob nods once before following the trail. It leads him through a series of corridors, the walls dingy white with pockets of shadows where the lights in the floor have burned out without being replaced. Eventually the trail ends at an over-sized door that slides slowly open.

Outside, the air tastes artificial. Bob can feel it at the back of his throat, the slight dryness and chemical residue that he associates with space ports everywhere. Except this port is different in its blandness. No merchants selling food or bars set up to entice travelers.

There's nothing but a long path that leads out of the facility--a ribbon of grey cutting through dark earth. Sporadically, flowers have been planted but they're wilted, stalks bowed and petals dried. It's one of the dreariest places Bob has ever seen, and he's seen many.

Loosening the top buttons of his coat, he sets off along the path. Immediately he starts to sweat under the bright light of the twin suns and he wishes he'd left his heavy coat back at his craft, but the thing is he needs the items he's got pushed into his deep pockets. The water and food bars, and especially the miniature stunner stowed close to his hip. It bumps reassuringly as he walks, comforting in this place that feels so off.

Because this place is wrong. The beat is muted, almost non-existent, and the loss hits Bob hard. He's used to living his life in a constant thrum of sound, sensing those around him, the rhythm of the universe a constant companion, but here there's almost nothing. He can feel the sound that's been pulling him for weeks now, but little else. This place is dead, almost silent, and Bob aches with the feeling of being cast into nothingness.

Walking faster, he looks at the buildings in the distance. White towers glint in the sun, surrounded by curving sky tubes that rise in graceful arcs. It's a city of simplistic beauty, but the closer he gets, the more he wants to turn back and fly away. It's no surprise that so few outsiders visit, and Bob can't help feeling like some kind of freak as the people covertly watch him, looking away when he gets close.

Unused to the attention, Bob scowls as he enters a Skywalk that climbs steeply upwards. It's almost empty, the other walkers pressing against the side of the tube as he approaches. Which suits Bob fine. The breath-catching dry heat is enough to contend with, the suns bleaching out colours and washing everything in a blinding headache-inducing light.

Bob runs his fingers around his collar and wipes at his forehead. This is his idea of hell, trapped in these endless rat-runs with strangers, each one an empty space of nothingness, their natural rhythm stifled, or in some cases completely gone. All he wants to do is get back to The Love and Death and take off, back to the solitude of space.

He keeps walking forward, urged on by the something that had compelled him to land--an itch in his fingers, an awareness that something is wrong. It's been intensifying by the day and is driving him quietly insane.

“Watch it,” Bob snarls, glaring at the bot that barges past, its face set in the familiar non-expression. He bunches up his hands and shoves them deep in his pockets, concentrating on walking and not the lack of sound. Because if he does that he’ll end up throwing punches and he's already got a reputation; being banned from another planet won’t help that at all.

This Skywalk tube is heading toward the outskirts of the city. Bob looks down at the roofs of buildings and watches the hovercrafts that skim the ground.

“Five minutes and I turn back,” Bob mutters to himself, and his skin itches in response.

He doesn’t stop at five, or ten, or an hour. He keeps going, pulled forward by some instinct that intensifies with each step. Finally though, when his clothes are drenched through with sweat and he's walking the Skytube alone, Bob knows he’s close.

It feels like his blood is bubbling underneath his skin, and Bob digs his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the sting as he branches away from the main tube, entering one that's smaller, rougher, the sides coated with grime. He walks down, knees buckling with the increasing gravity, and when he finally steps outside, he staggers, hissing at the heat when he instinctively reaches toward the outer tube wall.

Breathing hard, he narrows his eyes and shades his face as he looks around. He's standing next to an abandoned building, its walls demolished to piles of twisted metal. At first he thinks this is where he's meant to be, but a moment forcing himself to sense the emptiness around him, and he hones in on the beat once more. The faint trail that he's been following for weeks. He sets off, past the building and onwards, to a place with no sidewalks or signs of previous life at all, just endless bare landscape and piles of jagged rocks.

His feet are throbbing from the long walk, and the suns are low in the sky when Bob finally reaches his destination. It's another abandoned building, small and tucked close to a towering cliff of purple glinting rock. While the walls are standing, they're scored with laser marks and the door hangs at an angle, shards of metal pushed deep into the ground. Bob listens and feels the beat. It travels through his feet, his legs, circling his belly and seeps into his bones. It angers him, because as much as he wants to retreat, he knows he won’t.

He can’t.

Taking a deep breath, Bob walks forward, ducking so he can enter a long hall. Plasma screens line the walls, each one smashed completely, except for one at the very end. It's stuck on an endless loop, advertising a band that Bob's never heard of. A captured image of a group of people in outdated clothes, advertising their songs to an audience of none.

Bob runs his finger over a burn mark on the wall. He feels dizzy after chasing this for so long, and being in this place doesn't help. He can feel the echoes of hundreds of past songs, their melodies abruptly cut off, leaving impressions of terror in their place. A background to the one beat that remains. It's louder now. Slower. More. It washes over Bob, making him grit his teeth against the vibrations that shudder through his body.

Hand resting on the stunner tucked against his hip, Bob forces himself to move, pushing through the throbbing sound, past the broken terminals and dusty couches that line the walls. He steps over an abandoned shoe to push open another door – nails dragging along a rusty floor – and finally, he knows he’s arrived.

The room is cavernous, empty space with two bars at either side, a stage at the far end. Bottles lie on their sides, liquid spilled in dried pools and the air holds the faint scent of alcohol, sickly sweetness mixed with underlying decay.

Feet sticking to the floor, Bob slowly walks forward, cringing against the sound that fills the room, feeling and hearing it at the same time. Bob freezes in place when he sees something move -- a shift in the shadows on the stage.

Immediately Bob draws his stunner, holding it easily as he inches forward, never looking away from those moving shadows. He's half way across the room when he realises it's a humanoid. One curled forward on its knees, back bowed and hair falling to the floor.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bob says, projecting calm, even as his own heart is racing.

The humanoid – the man – looks up then, and for an instant hope is apparent in the curve of his smile, the way he straightens. Then his shoulders slump, misery apparent as he looks at Bob and says, slowly, “shoot me, I don’t care.”

His voice is little more than a rasp, blood flecking his lips with each word. Bob drops his hand.

“I don’t think so.” He stops at the front of the stage and watches as the man moves back to his previous position, looking toward the ground as if Bob isn't here at all. “Can’t you stop that sound?”

“No.” The man looks up through his hair, his eyes gleaming and ringed with red. “It’s guiding them back.”

Which makes sense, because something has pulled Bob here, to this place, this man. Despite his instincts screaming flee, he places his stunner back in its holster and says, “Who?”

The man pushes back his hair, and his lips are nothing but a thin line speckled with blood. It's obvious each word hurts, but he stares at Bob, reaches out before dropping his hand. “They took them. The police. We used to sing and they came and took them away. My brother. My band.”

Remember the strict laws of this planet, Bob has to wonder how this one escaped.

“I was pulled into the crowd, they saved me.” The man coughs and blood drips between his crooked fingers as he says, savagely. “I hate them for that.”

Bob can understand.

“So you stayed here and sent out a signal?” Bob rubs under his eyes. His head is aching and that's after mere minutes. “How long?”

At first Bob thinks the question hadn’t been understood, then the man pushes himself up and crawls toward a portable terminal. He presses a button, and in a whine of noise, a curtain of light shimmers across the back of the stage, scored over and over with black lines.

“Each one is a day.” The man drops the terminal and looks back at Bob. “The sound, it’s theirs. Mikey’s bass, Matt’s drums, Frank and Ray’s guitars. I fixed it all, mixed it together, they’ll know, they’ll follow it home.”

Bob looks at the light, made horrific with countless dark lines, and hates himself before he even says the words. “Do you really think they’ll come back? It’s been almost a year.”

“They’re my band.” The man glares and pulls himself to his feet. He looks proud, sure. “When my voice comes back I’ll sing. They’ll hear.”

In that moment Bob can almost believe. Except he’s seen too much, survived too often, and knows the only miracles are the ones you engineer for yourself. Which is why he takes that final step forward, knowing why he's here.

“I think you need to come with me. The police could come back any time. I'm surprised they've left you alone so long.”

“They think they killed everyone that tried to escape.” Voice faltering, the man looks at Bob. “I have to stay, because my band's coming back, I know they are.”

"You've been lucky so far, why push that?" Bob holds out his hand, making the decision that was inevitable from the moment he first felt the beat emanating from this long-dead planet. “I’m Bob. I’ve a small craft and a lot of free time. I think we need to go find your band."

The man hesitates. Then, suspicious, says, “Gerard, and why should I trust you? You could chop off my hand as soon as I turn my back.”

It's a valid point, and Bob can't help feeling relieved that Gerard's not so far gone that he'll trust anyone. Still, he needs to convince him, and fast. "If I was going to chop off your hand why would I wait until you turned away? I'd do it face to face. Anyway, you only lose a hand for playing an instrument, I'd vaporise your vocal chords for singing."

"And that's supposed to be reassuring?"

"No, that's me being truthful. I could have killed you multiple times by now. I still might if you don't come with." Immediately, Gerard takes a step back, and Bob wants to kick himself for being so impatient. He sighs, taking a moment to center himself. It's not Gerard's fault that Bob hates this place, but the longer Bob remains, the more he's reminded that a vital part of his existence is missing. And that's without the very real fear of being discovered here. The last thing he needs is to be thrown in jail or terminated for being found in an illegal club.

"Sorry. It's just, if I don't leave on time I'm in trouble."

"This is my home," Gerard says, and Bob knows he's talking about something bigger than this immediate area. "At least it used to be. It stopped being that a long time ago."

"So why stay?" Bob says. "If you do you'll die."

"And what if that's what I want?"

"It's not," Bob says, sure. "If it was you'd have given in long ago. Now, are you coming or not?"

Gerard looks around. At the smashed equipment and stained stage, the bars with their empty shelves and cracked mirrors. "I can't pay."

Bob sighs, already suspecting as much. The loner Bob Bryar, picking up strays and going off to find more, sometimes he can’t believe that this is his life. He touches Gerard's arm and inclines his head toward the exit.

They walk out into the darkness, and Bob says nothing, following when Gerard heads to the back of the club. There's the wreckage of a hover cart and a line of crude wooden crosses pushed into the dirt back there. Bob can guess why they’re there; he’s seen too many make-shift graves on too many planets and his hands itch in remembrance of digging into alien soil.

“I had to. Some of the audience and they started to rot.” Gerard is biting at his lip; fingers blanched white against his thighs. “It was the least I could do, and I had time.” He looks at Bob, as if expecting condemnation, but Bob just looks back levelly until Gerard nods slightly and bows his head, whispers something Bob can't hear, but he doesn't need to. The beat that surrounds Gerard says it all, a mournful sound that hangs heavy in the air, and while Bob doesn't knows these people, he mourns too.

~~~~

There’s space between Bob and Gerard, enough that Bob feels comfortable as they slowly walk into the tube. It's taken a long time to get back and Bob's all too aware of the passing time, but he knows Gerard can't walk faster, already he's pushing himself as fast as he can go.

They’re silent, just the sound of Gerard’s harsh breathing and their footsteps, and while Bob doesn’t need to talk, he can sense the words that Gerard needs to say, the way his hands twitch as he looks around. Bob says, “Tell me about them.”

Gerard bites at his bottom lip and it splits in yet another place, a small dribble of blood oozing down his chin. Using the back of his hand, Gerard swipes it away with hands that have ragged black-painted nails and are coated with dirt and dried blood.

“They’re fantastic.” Gerard lights up when he talks, despite the obvious effort it takes to force out each word. “Ray’s been my friend for years. We met at one of the education centres, before they decided they were too risky.” Gerard coughs and wipes more specks of blood from his chin with his hand. “He fucking shreds like a crazy person.” Gerard smiles, obviously lost in some memory and Bob is content to wait, shortening his strides as they reach the join to the main tube.

“He’s a good guy.” Gerard moves toward the side of the tube. He presses his hands against the plastic, fingers splayed as he looks down at the ground. “Matt’s our drummer, he’s good, but I think he wanted to move on. He knew it was impossible, but he kept talking about going off-planet, like it was something he'd be allowed to do. Sometimes….sometimes I tell myself he’s off traveling somewhere. They all are.”

Bob takes a bag of water from one of his pockets. He hands it to Gerard who unscrews the spout and takes a shallow drink, hardly enough to wet his mouth.

“Drink some more, I’ve enough,” Bob says, and leans back against the wall, arms crossed as Gerard takes another small drink.

“I drank through all the bottles first.” Gerard licks his lips and looks back in the direction of the club. “Just me, a pile of rotting bodies and an endless supply of alcohol. I did it to forget.”

“Did it work?”

“At first.” Gerard takes another drink, then carefully seals the bag. “I kept waking up.”

“That happens,” Bob says, and takes the bag. Stowing it back in his pocket he briefly rests his hand on Gerard’s arm. “You were telling me about Matt.”

“Oh, yeah.” Gerard starts to walk again, and his voice is worsening, rough and destroyed, but still he talks. “He lived in level four, away from the main city, we all did. Frank too, but he didn’t go to the same education centre. His parents wanted to be city dwellers one day so they paid extra for a better center.”

Bob nods, hearing the smile in Gerard’s voice.

“He plays the guitar, him and Ray together are phenomenal but he’s a crazy bastard, he brought an anti-grav unit once. We all ended up playing on the ceiling, well, except for Matt. His drums wouldn’t stay together. He was a little pissed off. His kit cost almost a year’s wages and he had to buy it bit by bit through the tradeline.”

Bob sucks in a breath, picturing his old drums floating through space. “I can imagine.”

“Yeah, right? But the show fucking rocked that night.” Hands waving in the air, Gerard turns so he’s walking backwards, more easily able to see Bob. “The kids loved it; we were on fire, even Mikey spoke.”

“Mikey?” Bob asks, and wishes he hadn’t when Gerard’s smile fades. He turns back around, looking anywhere but at Bob.

“Mikey’s my baby brother.”

It’s all he says, and Bob bites back an apology, because there’s nothing to apologise for. He looks away from the slump of Gerard’s shoulders, the way his footsteps have slowed even further.

“He plays bass and is so damn talented.” Gerard runs his hand through his hair, presses his fingers against his thigh. “That night, when the police came, I… I tried to get to him, but people were running and they were firing at the kids and then the crowd grabbed me and I couldn’t… I should have tried harder. We should have had a plan. We played and thought we'd never be found out." There's a long moment when Bob thinks Gerard is done talking. Gerard shakes his head, though, rasping, "We were stupid.”

“Maybe you didn't think it through, but what could you have done in the raid? Let yourself be captured too? Fought them all off yourself?” Bob ignores the startled look of hurt he gets in return, because he’s been there, survived that, has the survivor's guilt space-suit and the fact is it sucks. But nothing can be gained by if only and I wish.

~~~~

The suns are starting to rise by the time they approach the port. Bob’s tired and he’s almost carrying Gerard, dragging him relentlessly forward. Knowing there's no way he'll get Gerard through security; Bob lowers him on the edge of a clearing in a park near the port. He's hidden by a spiked bush but as a hiding place it sucks. Still, Bob's desperate, and once it's fully light his chances of getting Gerard off world will be non-existent.

"Stay here, I'll be back for you," Bob says.

“Wait,” Gerard says, and he grabs hold of Bob’s ankle. “They could still be here.”

“They could be,” Bob says. “But we can’t stay right now. I’ll find out where they were taken, and if they’re here, we’ll come back. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Gerard says, more unconscious than awake now, and he slumps to the ground, curling up small. Leaving him is one of the hardest things Bob has ever done. It feels wrong, and the low thrum of Gerard's beat is a constant reminder of what he could lose as Bob runs out of the park and steps onto the path that leads to the port. A quick walk and the door slides open at his approach. The same dim strip of lights leading Bob back to the same room with the same official standing close to the door, as if he’s awaiting Bob’s return.

Bob hates him. For the way he says nothing as he documents Bob's return, but mostly how he feels so empty, a living breathing person with no connection to the beat at all; an all too physical reminder of this place where the rules are unjust and the punishment harsh.

The official escorts Bob to the Love and Death. She's docked near the end of the row, small and battered, one craft in an area built to house many. Tension bleeds from Bob’s shoulders as he trails his fingers along her hull and opens the door without saying a word.

Inside he strides to the conn. He sinks down into his seat, fitting perfectly into the dips and creases made from years of use. A touch of a button and the visor slips down over his eyes. Bob blinks as the world shimmers and readjusts, numbers appearing in his vision, slides and dials that are invisible to the naked eye. Reaching out a hand he moves a switch to the right, uses his other hand to manipulate beams. Bob excels at finding the rhythm of these crafts. He’s at one with the Love and Death, and he trusts her implicitly.

Concentration thrown outwards, he feels the throb of the engines, the counter-whine of moving parts and gathering power. He controls it easily, teases a line, manipulates numbers until the engines are primed and ready, because while Bob doesn’t expect to be stopped, there's always that chance.

“Let’s do this,” Bob says, quietly. He takes a deep breath and opens a comm channel. “This is the Love and Death requesting permission to take-off.”

Static fills the cabin, and Bob can feel sweat prickle against his hairline as he waits. He flexes his fingers and runs his tongue against the ring in his lip, forcing himself to remain still.

“Love and Death, ready yourself.”

Take off is second nature to Bob, he moves his hand and he feels the tingle against his skin, energy building as the thrusters flare into life. The Love and Death is poised and ready to spring.

“Permission to depart in three…two…one…go.”

The initial blast is always painful, bones compressed and skin stretched and Bob feels burning heat and sound in an exhilarating burst. He loves this part, the adrenalin rush of being at one with his craft, speed and distance and he feels like he’s a jumbled mess of atoms, dispersed and formless until they break atmosphere and he can finally breathe.

“Love and Death has achieved orbit.” Bob shuts off the comm and after a moment reverses his direction and speeds back toward the port. He ignores the protests in his ear, the order to depart, concentrating only on a quick landing in the small space, something that's possible, but also something he tries not to do. It takes all of Bob's skill to keep the Love and Death on the correct path. She swoops down, landing with a thump. Sirens are blaring as Bob scrambles out of his seat, pulls off his visor, blinking away the disorientation that always occurs with this transition as he runs to unseal the door. Bob breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Gerard, wobbly but upright.

"Gerard, come on!"

Bob jumps outside and grabs Gerard. All too aware of the approaching security, he pulls him inside. Gerard's skin is over-heated, dry like fragile tissue paper and Bob can’t help wonder if he’s bought himself more time with an inevitable corpse.

“I need to take off, stay here.” Gerard’s not listening, is nothing but a dead weight as Bob pulls him along and drops him onto Bob's own bunk. Gerard sprawls out, eye-lashes a dark line against the bruised sockets of his eyes. He looks more dead than alive but Bob can only spare a moment to haul Gerard’s legs onto the bunk and tug out the restraints hidden between the mattress and wall. Swearing when one sticks after years of un-use, Bob tugs hard until the strap pulls free and he can click it into place. Assured that Gerard’s as safe as he’s going to get, Bob runs back to the conn, where he thumps down into his seat and pulls on his visor, feeling sick at the abrupt change.

Throwing his attention outwards he takes off once again and engages the phavol drive as soon as they break orbit. The rush of escape adds to Bob’s elation as he becomes one with the universe once more, the Love and Death one note in an ever evolving complex melody as she skims waves and plunges through space, nothing more than a vibration of sound. Finally, when he's calmed by the familiar sense of belonging, and the threats of Steriska have been left behind, he stops accelerating and inputs directions to the Axis Cluster. It’s a place he visits often, hiding a tiny planet under banks of dark cloud and thundering storms. It’s also a place where many travelers gather, and someplace he knows he can find the answers he needs.

First though, he needs to deal with Gerard, because there’s no point finding answers when there’s no one to ask the questions.

Bob slips off his visor and rides out the dizzying seconds as controls disappear and the reality of vision clicks into place. He rubs his hands against his eyes. It’s been a long day and he’s hungry and tired. Normally he’d snack on dried rations and tumble into his bunk to sleep. Today he pushes himself to his feet and stumbles toward the alcove where he keeps the medical supplies.

There's a varied selection, because Bob has an unfortunate habit of getting into situations that go against him, and he’s used to tending his own wounds. Of course, it was worse before, when he seemed to spend hours splinting broken bones and stitching cuts as Bert lay on the floor, grinning through his tangle of hair.

Indulging himself, Bob allows himself to remember nights when they’d set the Love and Death on auto and sprawl in the bunk room, holo cards in hand and dusty bottles of Jervakian ale at their feet. Or hanging out in the hold, listening to his crew play. Too many people crowded into too small a space, and always feeling right.

Except, as always, those memories inevitably bleed into broken bodies and blood-stained hands and the aching reminder that the rhythm of the craft is gone, each vibrant unique line replaced with one lonely beat.

“Gauze, water, scanner,” Bob recites firmly, focusing only on supplies. Gathering up the scanner and gauze, Bob kneels on the floor beside Gerard. He hasn’t moved, is lying spread out and unconscious, and Bob’s stomach twists as he’s reminded of what he’s taken on. Aware that his hands are trembling slightly, he presses them against his thighs and moves to fill a bowl. As the water trickles downwards, Bob taps the tank and frowns as he reads the dial. Half-full, which is fine for now, but he’ll have to refill soon, especially if… As it now needs to supply two.

Carefully, he takes the bowl and sets it on the floor before perching at the edge of the bunk. He’s sitting at an angle, his thigh against Gerard’s and Bob briefly rests his hand against Gerard’s chest.

“Hey, Gerard. I’m going to scan you.” Bob feels unsettled as he unfastens the restraints then bends forward and scoops up the scanner. Gerard is so still, defenseless, and Bob feels like he's taking liberties as he switches on the unit and slowly passes it over Gerard’s body. It’s no surprise when the reading shows that he’s dehydrated, his throat scarred and bleeding, and his fingers made crooked by multiple badly healed breaks.

Bob sighs, there’s nothing excessively major, but all the minor ailments add up. He sets the scanner down, swapping it for a handful of gauze. “I need to clean you up some, sorry if it’s cold.”

Soaking the gauze in the water, Bob squeezes it out and then gently starts to clean Gerard’s face. Methodically he passes over sharp cheekbones and Gerard’s cracked lips, wipes carefully under his eyes and over his brow and with each swipe he rinses the gauze, until the water is dark with dirt and blood.

Gerard never stirs and Bob slips into clinical detachment as he gently eases Gerard’s head to the side. Quickly he wipes under his ears and over his jaw-line, then down the line of his neck. Bob’s extra careful there, aware of hidden shallow cuts; he probes them carefully and the gauze is pink with fresh blood when he pulls it away, exposing a word--Failure--cut into Gerard’s neck.

Stomach sour, Bob drops the gauze in the bowl and picks up the antiseptic. He sprays it in a steady burst, coating each letter before changing the water and picking up the gauze once more.

It takes almost an hour before Gerard’s clean. His clothes are in a pile on the floor and Bob pushes them to one side to jettison later. For now he’s left Gerard naked, a blanket spread up to his chest. He looks deathly pale, patches of skin glistening with antiseptic or dark with bruises. There’s nothing Bob can do for the finger bones that have healed wrong and Gerard’s throat which is a raw mess. That level of healing is beyond anything that’s on board.

Worried about the dry heat of Gerard’s skin, Bob takes a bottle from the refridge unit and kneels at the side of the bunk. Slipping an arm under Gerard’s lax shoulders he lifts him up and carefully pours a small amount of water.

“Drink this,” Bob says, and waits patiently as the liquid slips through Gerard’s lips. He grimaces when the water hits his throat and Bob sympathizes, but he still pours out more, repeating the action until he's happy that Gerard's taken in some fluid at least, even if it's nowhere near enough.

After taking a long drink himself, Bob eases his arm from under Gerard's body and stands. He sways and reaches out, pressing his palm flat against the wall. For a long moment he feels the rhythm of the craft, letting it wash over him in calming waves. Then he startles and pulls his hand back when he encounters something new: a faint thrum, so soft it's barely there. It's something that's needed, because Bob was never meant to go solo, but he can't help feeling resentful, regretting that he ever gave into the feeling that pulled him toward Gerard. Because Bob's not ready to let go of his friends, not when the echo of their song remains behind, a ghost of former melody.

Bob needs food, sleep, jugs of ale. He needs his fucking friends. Instead he pulls down one of the other bunks. It creaks as he does so, the blanket unrolls to expose a battered holo card unit and a faded grey t-shirt screwed up into a ball. With one quick movement Bob pulls the blanket off the bed and throws it on the pile of Gerard's clothes. When nothing is left but the thin mattress he lies down, curling up as he tries to sleep.

~~~

When he wakes, Bob's eyes feel gummy and his mouth is dry. Groaning, he starts to uncurl, then notices that Gerard is awake. He's got the blanket tugged up to his neck, the material scrunched up where he's got it fisted in both hands.

"Hey," Bob says.

Gerard's eyes widen in response. "You're alive." Gerard's voice is little more than a raspy whisper and Bob swallows, trying to get moisture back in his own mouth. "At first, when I woke up, I expected them to do the same."

It's not a conversation Bob wants right now. It's not one he wants ever. It's all too easy to remember the stench of the club, the stains on the floor and imagine Gerard waking to an audience of corpses. Swallowing, Bob swings himself upright and sits on the edge of the bunk, feet against the floor and hands against the edge of the mattress. Feeling the rhythm of the Love and Death and his own beat so distinct, and again, the sense of something new. It makes Bob feel disoriented and he stands, pushing himself up. "You shouldn't talk."

Gerard shrugs, exposing a bony shoulder. "Talking's what I do." He coughs then, a harsh grating sound and when he moves his hand his palm is smeared with flecks of blood.

Bob frowns. "Well you need to stop. It has to hurt."

"Like a fucking bitch," Gerard says, and he gently rests his fingers against his own throat. He looks at Bob, his expression dark. "You talk back."

"Sometimes." Bob steps over the pile of clothes and blanket, and the holo card unit skitters across the floor, propelled by the toe of his boot. It clatters against the hull, a dull thumping sound and everything feels wrong. Bob's used to silence and his own company and he's all too aware of the sound of Gerard breathing, the careful way he's looking away as Bob gathers his thoughts.

"You need to drink more, eat, too, if I can find something that won't hurt your throat." Bob takes a bottle out of the refridge unit and his back prickles with awareness of Gerard watching him as he moves around the small galley, pulling out two cans of self-heating soup. Popping the tabs, he leaves them to heat while he takes the water to Gerard. He's pushing himself up now, arms trembling as he inches up the bunk. Bob thinks about offering to help, but Gerard seems determined to do it himself, making small pained noises until he's finally propped against the wall, the blanket tucked under his arms so it covers his chest.

Bob holds out the water. "I've pain patches."

"And you didn't offer them before because?" Gerard reaches for the bottle, mouth twisted down.

"Because I like to see you suffer." Bob rolls his eyes and goes to rummage in the medical supplies until he finds a pain patch that's the right strength, because the last thing he needs is Gerard ODing on some black market medicine Quinn picked up years before. "Shoulder or hip?"

Gerard winces as he turns to the side. "As much as I'd love to show you my legs; shoulder."

"You kind of already have." Bob peels off the backing of the patch and carefully smoothes it over Gerard's upper arm.

Gerard glances at Bob and then drops his gaze. "Right, when you cleaned me up. You didn't have to."

"No, I really did. You were kinda rank."

As soon as the patch is in place, Gerard pulls the blanket up until it's nestled against his chin and Bob starts to kick the pile of clothes toward the galley. Each kick disturbs clouds of dust and stench and Bob tries not to breathe until he's pushed them into the ejection hatch.

"Are you washing my clothes?" Gerard asks. He's shifted to the very edge of the bunk and Bob's relieved to see the lines of pain have loosened slightly around his eyes and mouth.

"No," Bob says, and hits the button of the ejection hatch. "I'm jettisoning them."

"You can't waste resources like that," Gerard protests. "A good wash and they'd have been good as new."

"Those things were so ingrained with alcohol they'd have blown up my ship if they'd met a heat source," Bob says, and picks up the two cans of soup. "And didn't I tell you not to talk?"

"My throat's feeling better."

"Because of the drugs." Bob reminds him, and holds out one of the cans, waiting until Gerard uncovers one of his hands. "It's still fucked up."

"I'm used to it." Gerard shrugs and takes a hesitant sip. He winces immediately and Bob knows even with the cushion of drugs it must be agony to drink. Gerard takes another sip anyway.

Bob settles down on the bare bunk. Taking a drink he enjoys the taste of vegetable soup. Not that he knows what kind of vegetables it actually contains, and in fact he would be surprised if the little cubes were naturally grown at all. Still, they taste good and that's good enough for him. Biting through a spongy chunk, Bob watches as Gerard slowly drinks. He looks rapturous, nose close to the open area of the can and eyes closed, like it's the first real food he's had for a long time.

"This is good. I didn't think spaceships would have kitchens, I thought you'd all survive on vac packs."

"Vac packs taste rank," Bob says, and he can't helping thinking about the club, feeling nauseated as he remembers the lines of empty shelves. Because Gerard had to eat something. Despite being unsure he wants to know the answer, he asks. "Before, what did you eat?"

"The corpses. Human flesh tastes like chicken." Gerard stares at Bob for a long moment, then his mouth quirks into a smile. "You're so easy. There was a store room out back. I must have eaten fifty fucking crates of chips and protein spheres."

"Tasty," Bob says, and pushes aside the residual queasy mental image of Gerard tearing into an arm.

"Yeah." Gerard coughs, and curls around the can. His shoulders are tense and soon he's panting for breath between each cough. Bob reaches for some water, waits until Gerard leans back against the pillows, his face waxy white and blood staining his lips. "This fucking sucks."

"You need to shut the fuck up." Taking the can from Gerard, Bob holds the bottle against his lips. Patiently he waits until Gerard drinks, then takes the bottle away and grabs more gauze. Wetting it he blots at the streaks of blood, scowling each time it looks like Gerard is about to talk. When he's clean, Bob gathers up the cans and medical supplies, tidying up and always aware that Gerard's watching, his nervousness transmitting itself in a jarring sense of rhythm.

"We're going to find my band." Gerard's eyes are nothing but slits, sleep finally catching up, but he moves his head so he can look at Bob.

"We're going somewhere I can find answers. To talk to someone I think can help."

Gerard's eyes close fully. He says, quietly, "Good."

~~~~
"Are you sure we don't need disguises? I'd look bitching in a mask and robe."

Bob adds more dried flubel fish to his bag and resists the urge to stuff one down Gerard's throat, because, seriously. "I told you, we don't need them."

"But we're going to be infiltrating a den of iniquity, if we need to find this Pete we need to blend in."

"You look like the walking dead. You'll blend in," Bob says, and adds a selection of tradable medication to his supplies.

"I prefer the description zombie-chic myself."

The description fits. Gerard still looks like little more than a walking corpse, and listening to him talk remains painful. In an ideal world he'd stay in the Love and Death while Bob searched for answers, but Bob knows how to pick his battles, and this is one he'd never win.

Buckling the bag, he looks at Gerard. "I should put something on your neck."

Gerard reaches up, fingertips beneath the scabbed 'F'. "I thought that gunk you've been spraying on was antiseptic?"

"It is," Bob says. He stands, rubbing at his right knee when it cracks. "I thought maybe you'd want it covered."

Carefully, Gerard presses his fingers over the word, then drops his hand. When he does, his hair falls back into place, and while the letters are partially covered it's still easy to see what's been written. Not that anyone will care planet-side, but Bob can't imagine displaying your issues for all to see.

"If it doesn't need covering, leave it." Gerard eases himself up, hand braced against the wall.

"Fine." Bob drops the bag on his bunk. "You should lie down; I'm going to land soon."

"Can I sit up front?"

Gerard has spent the majority of the last two days either in his bunk, or thoroughly investigating every part of the living area of the Love and Death. He's also devoured Bob's supplies of data pads, transferring every topic from comic books to the politics of the Aquatian home world then reading while listening to music, each new song delighting him, even the ones he hates. But he's never mentioned going forward, even when Bob disappeared to check their course and status of the craft. Him asking now is unexpected, and Bob's immediate reaction is to say no. Only crew are allowed forward and Gerard isn't crew, he can't be, because if he is, it means Bob is replacing those that have gone before, and he's not ready to do that.

Except, it's been years and Bob's life can't stay in a holding pattern forever.

"Come on."

Gerard looks surprised and immediately moves forward, like he wants to get there before Bob realises what he's said.

The door to the bridge opens and Gerard steps inside, then freezes in place. It's darker here, the artificial lights dimmed to better display the curved lines of the conn and the fact that the very front of the Love and Death is transparent. It's like standing on your own tiny part of reality, looking into deep space and Bob can feel the connection, the tendrils of melody that slide against his skin.

Enthralled, Gerard looks straight ahead, his eyes wide as he looks from the cloud-covered planet Vanatrous to the stars that shine in the distance. "It's beautiful."

It is beautiful, Bob has thought so since he was a child and his instinctive connection to the beat was picked up. Even now he can remember his first day on a craft, the sense of belonging and the realization that his connection to the rhythms of the universe could be harnessed and used.

Bob points at the chair set behind the pilot's seat. "Sit there."

Gerard does, and looks away from the vast expanse of space. He reaches out and touches Bob's arm. "Thank you."

Bob's skin tingles at the touch and he frowns as he sits. Twisting his seat he looks at Gerard. "Have you ever traveled in one of these?"

"You saw my planet, what do you think?"

"I think you're going to have the ride of your life," Bob says. "Okay. Some things you need to know. Once I've put on the visor, don't touch me. You can talk, but no touching. Same with moving, if you have to, go backwards, never forwards. If you barf, you clean it up yourself."

"Got it," Gerard says, and he looks up at the visor that's held above Bob's chair. "You use that to drive?"

"Fly," Bob corrects. "But yeah." Cutting off more questions, he turns and settles back in his chair. "We're nearly there. Sit tight."

The visor slides down, and everything changes. Bob can see the familiar controls and feel the Love and Death surrounding him, the faint background throb that's the touch of millions of lives and closer, an awareness that the melody of his own life has changed; something that was cruelly destroyed is rebuilding. He can feel Gerard, their sound twisting together, harmonizing. Bob resists, pushes against this new addition, hating the way it reminds him how to feel. He concentrates on flying instead, routine preferable to dealing with his own emotions. "Port Vanatrous, this is the Love and Death, requesting permission to land."

"Welcome Love and Death, proceed to grid eleven, port twelve A."

Bob reaches out his hands, caresses lighted lines and skims switches. He's breathing alongside his craft, following the ripples that pulse from the planet below. In these moments he feels alive. He engages thrusters and feels reality explode in a frantic painful burst as they hurtle forward in a blur of motion and speed. Exhilarated, Bob guides the Love and Death, skimming the atmosphere of the planet and plunging through the black clouds until she's close to the port. He slows then, easing back on the speed, his heart thundering as he becomes himself once more. He always feels lost in these moments, small and insignificant against the space he'd occupied only seconds before, but this time he's aware of Gerard, the steady pulse of him so uncomfortably close. Distracted, Bob engages landing procedures, and the Love and Death settles with a thump.

"Fuck."

Bob takes off the visor, blinking hard as he turns to look at Gerard, who's got his hands pressed against his stomach, and looks faintly green. "I mean it, you puke and you clean it."

Gerard breathes in deep then exhales. He swallows hard and looks at Bob. "That was fucking intense."

"It usually is," Bob says, grinning. Through an outside made hazy by the swirling dust, he can see the lines of other crafts. They're all shapes and sizes, conditions ranging from a shining top of the line Star Skimmer to an old Trantrum Five, which seems to be held together with rivets and a patchwork of body-parts. There are no bots to be seen, just shadows and dim lights that line the main walkway to the arrival gate. It's how things are on Vanatrous; dark corners and shadows and everything available -- for a price.

Gerard stands and moves so he can look outside. Quietly, he asks, "Do you think this Pete will know where they are?"

“If he doesn’t one of his contacts will.”

“And then we’ll go and rescue them,” Gerard says, sounding hopeful.

“If they’re still alive, yeah.”

Gerard looks directly at Bob and says, "They are, I know it."

Bob hopes that he’s right.

~~~~

It's been a while since Bob's been to Vanatrous, but nothing has changed. The travelators still jerk when you step onto them and the buildings are still crowded together, their walls dull and the windows protected by forcefields that flicker and hum. Head down, Bob looks through the strands of his hair and hunches inside his coat. It's a quick ride to the center of town, passing empty streets. The few people who do walk past look away. Bob's tired, itchy from the dust that thickens the air and from having someone so close. He's been on his own for so long now, to have Gerard in his space is distracting. Bob can feel him always, bone deep, and it aches.

Of course, Bob could easily tell Gerard to leave. Except he knows he won't, which is the problem, because as much as Bob wants Gerard to stay he doesn't want him here either. At least, that's what he tells himself, when he tries to remember his old crew, and feels treacherous at the fading memories; when he realises he can't remember the pitch of Bert's giggle, or the exact colour of Jepha's hair.

"Bob." Gerard looks back over his shoulder. He's standing in front of Bob, within easy reach in case of falls, and his hair is a tangled mess, already coated with red dust. "Thank you."

Bob pushes back his own hair and shrugs. "Not like I was doing anything else."

Gerard twists around completely, his expression earnest. "I know, but, you didn't have to."

"Turn the fuck around before you fall." Hand against Gerard's shoulder, Bob pushes and Gerard doesn't resist, his muscles tight under Bob's touch. Bob keeps his hand in place, his fingers against Gerard's neck.

They step off and Bob's knees twinge as he stumbles forward, still protesting the heavier gravity. It's something he's used to, but he can tell Gerard's suffering, wincing as he walks.

"It gets easier." Bob pulls up the collar of his coat, chin down and eyes half-closed. Gerard's doing the same, and he's a stark contrast of dusty black hair and clothes against the metal walls.

"Where first?" Hand shielding his eyes, Gerard looks at Bob, waiting, and Bob can't help the bite of anger. Because how's he supposed to know? Pete goes where he wants, when he wants. Except, when he allows himself to feel, to cast aside the physical and now, Bob knows Pete is here. He can sense him, someone that's not the usual, not crew or friend or foe, but two steps removed.

Bob tries to concentrate, to hone in on this new beat, but all he can feel is Gerard. He's too real, too alive, too there, and the fusion is jarring, getting worse the harder Bob tries to keep Gerard away.

"Bob." Tentatively, Gerard moves close. Bob's head is aching as he reaches out, grabbing Gerard's hand, fully embracing his beat.

It's better then, easier when Bob gives in; he curls his fingers around Gerard's as he listens. "There."

Gerard holds on as they walk. His fingers are rough, his grip tight, and when he stumbles Bob steadies him, standing still until Gerard smiles a small thanks. They keep walking and finally stop next to one of the bars. The door is closed and the forcefield over the window flickers, sparks of light jumping from frame to frame. Knowing this is the place, Bob shoulders the door open, sneezing when the sonic cleaner pulls the dust from his body. Inside he’s faced by a Maltavanian hanging from the roof, its scales rippling with colour as it dips its tongue into a glass full of something green. In the corner a group play ariel flamjacks, the ball whipping around their heads as they stare upwards, their heads covered with dark hoods.

"They've got no legs, awesome." Gerard's staring, his eyes wide as he looks around at all the different groups. "Does that thing have feathers??"

"Don't stare, it's rude," Bob says automatically, but his attention is pulled toward the back of the room, where an empty table is surrounded by pushed out chairs.

"This way." He's still holding onto Gerard's hand and they hurry through the room, the beat stronger now, and Bob's got his hand on the back door when someone moves to block his way.
"Sorry, man. Employees only."

Bob holds up his free hand and steps back. He'd try and push past, but the stunner in the guy's hand is a big deterrent, even if he's holding it pointed at the floor.

"I thought I saw someone I knew," Bob says, frustrated because he knows he's in the right place.

"You saw wrong." The guy slips the stunner into a holster and indicates a nearby table. There's a bowl set in the middle, steam wisping from the crystals in the centre. "Come and sit down, take in some vapour, maybe your friend will come along later."

"We should go." Gerard unlaces their fingers and steps away from Bob, in the direction of the main door. "Look somewhere else."

"We'll stay," Bob says simply, noticing how confused Gerard looks as he's ushered into a seat. He sits, but shakes his head when the bowl is pushed his way. "I don't. Not now."

An obvious story is behind the denial, but Bob's not asking, not yet. He settles in his own chair and takes off his coat, letting it fall back.

"Bob," Gerard hisses. "We should keep looking, he’s not here."

He's looking toward outside, and Bob wishes there was a way to let him know that they need to be here. But the guy with the stunner is sitting, and despite the way he cups his hands over the crystals, inhaling deeply, his gaze is still sharp as he settles back and looks from Bob to Gerard.

"Joe. I work here."

"So I see," Bob says. He glances at Gerard before leaning forward, inhaling deeply. The hit is immediate, a familiar warmth, and the edges of Bob's world blur, the shock of what's missing becoming less harsh. "It must be hard being a professional vapor taker."

"It's not my shift," Joe says, casually, and he waves a hand toward the bar keeper who flaps a ragged red cloth at him in return. "So, your friend. What's he called? I might know him."

Making a snap decision, Bob says, "He's not a friend as such." He sits forward and looks directly at Joe, who looks right back, showing no evidence of the hit at all. "I'm looking for Pete Wentz."

"Isn't everyone?" Joe laughs and reaches behind him, snagging a bottle from the bar. "He's not here."

"Maybe not now." Bob doesn't blink, trusting that it was Pete he was being pulled toward. He keeps looking as Joe takes a long drink. "He was, the same way he was last time I saw him. You all need to stop with the subterfuge shit already."

Wiping his hand across his mouth, Joe sets down the bottle and pushes it toward Bob. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," Bob says, "But it's Bob. Bob Bryar. This is Gerard Way."

The words seem to carry some significance, and Joe's looking directly at Gerard, his initial surprise quickly hidden. Abruptly Joe stands. "I need to get ready for my shift. Andy will look after you; he does a mean marliveian cocktail." Joe leaves then, glancing back before he pushes open the back door.

Gerard leans across the table, his head turned away from the bowl. "Bob, we need to go. He said this Pete guy's not here."

"No he's not," Bob admits. "But he's close." He moves chairs so he's sitting next to Gerard, turns so their knees are touching. "I can feel him."

"You can....what?"

"Feel him," Bob says. "Your band, you could feel them right? Not physically, but inside. Like a background melody that was always there."

"I could feel Mikey I guess." Gerard says. He's chewing on his lip and runs his hand through his hair. "The others.... Matt always knew where we were, Mikey too, but they never said anything about feeling. Well, Mikey got drunk one night and told me we were connected with some kind of shifting bridge. I thought he'd been hitting the space dust again."

The admission makes Bob feel sick. He can't imagine not being tapped into the currents that surround him, and Gerard should be able to feel.

"He was telling the truth, everyone has their own beat, and the closer you are to someone, the easier it is to feel." It's basic stuff, facts that Bob learned when he was a child, the difference being he was expected to explore and be one with the universe, not isolated like Gerard on a small planet.

"I thought he was bullshitting," Gerard says again, faintly. He pushes the bowl of crystals to the side of the table and wipes his fingers against his sleeve. "So, you can hear Pete? Like some kind of … bat?"

Trying to condense years worth of teaching into one short conversation is impossible, but Bob tries. "I can sense him. At least I assume it's him. It feels the same as last time, anyway."

"And that's enough?"

"It led me to you, didn't it?" Bob says. Which admittedly, is a mixture of both negative and positive right now.

"If you found me, why can't you find the rest?"

"Because it's not that easy. I don't even know how I found you. It's only supposed to work if you know the other person." Bob holds onto his irritation, remembers back to the questions he asked when he was a young child sitting at his desk, wide-eyed and awed as his teacher shared the wonders of the universe. "I can't control it like that. I wish I could."

"So, it's like you've got mutant powers and they're amplifying. Cool." Gerard settles back in his chair, looking lost in thought. Then he looks up at Bob. "What do I sound like?"

"Fucking annoying."

Gerard shrugs off the reply. "No, seriously."

Seriously, Gerard's voice still hurts to hear, more rasp than actual smooth sounds, but Bob knows it isn't what he's asking. "You sound good, rich, but… ” Bob hesitates, then says, "You could be better. It's obvious something is missing." Bob doesn't mention that Gerard's sound is merging with Bob's own beat. It's too early for that, and just thinking of the joined sounds makes him feel uncomfortable, resentful.

Gerard nods and stares across the table. His forehead wrinkling and eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to sense you."

"Right." Bob suspects Gerard will end up with nothing but a headache and a slight feeling of something. Picking out individual rhythms from the currents that surround them takes practice, and it doesn't help that in terms of tone, Gerard and Bob are as far apart as it's possible to be. Still, it means Bob is left in silence to look around, casting his own senses outwards.

He does so, and presses his hand against the table top; an anchor in the swirling eddies of sound that exist just above normal hearing range. The jagged lines of the Maltavanian or the comfortable easily sensed beat of the bartender who's busy passing glasses through a particle cleaner, his long hair glinting with reflected light with each pass. Then, further out, quieter, the bass lines that Bob knows is Pete.

It's a compelling combination of sound, but Bob stops listening when he realizes that Gerard is staring.

"What?"

"You said I could sound better, that something is missing. Are you missing something too?"

It has to be an instinctive guess, that’s all, there’s no way that Gerard can know about Bob’s old crew. Still, it’s something Bob’s not prepared to discuss, even in the most generalized of ways.

"So, how did you end up playing at an illegal club anyway?"

"I guess it started with my grandma," Gerard says, accepting the distraction, and while he's looking in Bob's direction, it's obvious he's not seeing him at all. "She would have loved learning about the universe's beat; she lived with us and thought the laws about music were stupid. She used to wash the dishes and sing in defiance, songs her own mom sang to her. Only after checking for patrols though--she wasn't stupid."

"She sounds like a fantastic lady."

"She was," Gerard agrees. "She taught me and Mikey the songs and we used to sing them together, laughing when she pulled faces. She always told us to hush when we got too loud. One day... One day I didn't listen and was overheard. She told them it was her singing."

It's only been days since Bob was forced to read the rules of Steriska, and the punishments for being caught singing are all too vivid in his mind. Dreading the answer, he still has to ask. "Did they...."

"The police dragged her away. Mikey was crying but Helena just told him to be brave and for me to look after him. The last time I saw her she was being bundled into a hover-van." Gerard stops talking, wiping savagely at his eyes. "Mom tried to say she was in prison, but I knew what went on. Even then I'd seen the people who couldn't talk, or had lost a hand. And she wouldn't have gone quietly. Never stop fighting, Gerard, she'd say. And she wouldn't have, whatever the cost."

"I'm sorry," Bob says, regretting his question.

"I'm not." Gerard looks at Bob, his gaze direct. "She taught us not to blindly follow rules, and because of that we found others who thought like us. People who saw how stupid it was to ban music, and eventually we formed the band. We sucked at first, but we practiced in secret and eventually started to play at the Club."

"You don't regret it?"

"I regret how it ended. That I didn't fight harder. But the rest? No. Everything happens for a reason."

To Bob it's a simplistic way of thinking, but he can't help a pang of envy as his own memories crowd uncomfortably close.

"Bob." Gerard says suddenly, pointing across the room. "Look."

It's not exactly subtle; still, no one seems to be looking their way, even Joe, who's just reappeared from the back. He's gone to talk to Andy, their heads together as they look at a data pad. Bob tries to hear what they're saying, but it's too loud, and he contents himself with leaning back in his chair and kicking Gerard's ankle when it looks like he's going to talk.

Some last whispered words, and Joe is heading back to their table. Sitting, he places the data pad down, and Bob sees the entwined bodies of a Grifsplurk and a Humanoid, the logo of one of the entertainment sub space channels.

"I bumped into Pete."

"No shit," Bob says, because even if he's forced to play by their rules right now, there's no reason to hide the fact he's doing so.

"He's busy right now, but he can see you later. I suggest you get something to eat."

"Good," Gerard leans forward and clasps Joe's arm. "Because we think he can help us."

"Yeah," Joe says. He's looking at Gerard's hand, but doesn't shrug him off, just smiles briefly, momentarily by-passing the professional grin and jovial manner. "He'll try his best."

Joe stands then, heading for the table in the corner where he pushes himself into the crowd, joking and talking all the while.

"Wait, you've forgot..."

"Quiet," Bob says, taking the data pad from Gerard. "I doubt he left it by accident."

He runs his thumb over the screen, displaying one of Pete's many word-streams. Bob's read them before, it's impossible not to in this sector where Pete has close to celebrity status, and seems to think nothing of posting about his latest possession or his many friends over an insane amount of the sub space channels. But Gerard hadn't discovered gossip word-streams yet, so Bob scrolls down and tilts the pad toward Gerard. "Pete."

"Is he wearing a bovine hat?" Gerard says. He looks closer. "Sweet."

Personally Bob thinks that Pete looks a little insane with his perfect smile and hat pulled low. His words aren't much better, meaningless chatter about the price of his Super Skater Sneaks and the insane little mall in the Hawford area he bought them from.

Gerard, as he's reading, asks doubtfully. "Are you sure he can help? Because it's not like I've lost my shoe or something."

"He’s helped before." Bob pushes the data pad toward Gerard. "I'm going to get something to eat. What kind of soup do you want?"

"The kind that looks like a steak and fries."

Bob stands, says, "Carrobush root it is."

Part 2
Master Post

Comments

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

Terri! So MUCH GLEEEEEE!
*flails*
*goes to read the rest*

[turps33.livejournal.com]

*beams*

I hope you like it :)

[turloughishere.livejournal.com]

I LOVE IT!! The visor and the way Bob steers the ship is wonderful and everything about the sound/beat is AWESOME! It's such a unique concept and it fits so well with these characters.

Gerard is such an innocent despite his experiences :-)

PS
I found a couple of places where you'd missed the collapsing paragraph breaks and there are also some curly quotes instead of straight ones in the second one (and a quotation mark too much).

Trying to condense years worth of teaching into one short conversation is impossible, but Bob tries. "I can sense him. At least I assume it's him. It feels the same as last time, anyway."
"And that's enough?"

“You said I could sound better, that something is missing. Are you missing something too?”
“It has to be an instinctive guess, that’s all, there’s no way that Gerard can know about Bob’s old crew. Still, it’s something Bob’s not prepared to discuss, even in the most generalized of ways.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad! I was worried it would get too angsty for you, which would be sad.

Gerard very much is an innocent. But he'll change that :)

Thanks for the mistake pick ups. The code collapse really did a number on the story...sigh.