[center][h2]Wailin’ Youth[/h2][/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/7qXohQ1.jpg[/img][/center] Thanks to Youtuber Davie504 for character inspiration. Khao Yai at night was kinda nice. Even the rundown end ‘o’ Port Street Abby’s traipsin’ had a comfortable feel to it. Hadn’t taken ‘er no time tah scrounge up a couple five gallon buckets tossed out from a job site. They’s all splotched with dried paint, but she didn’t conjure them mouses would care a whit, long’s tha smell ‘o’ food’s bringin’ ‘em in. Her own supper done jest that. Rich aroma of curry floatin’ down the street made the girl follow ‘er nose to a family run food stand. Two credits later, she’s sittin’ on tha curb, eatin’ like a queen outta a little paper carton. Two - three workin’ folk perched alongside ‘er, an’ while nobody said nothin’, all them slurps, grunts, an’ belches they shared put ‘em all in fine humor tahgether. [i]Is this what it’s like?[/i] she pondered, [i]bein’ from some place?[/i] That’d take some ruminatin’, seein’s how all she ever ‘membered was livin’ on a Firefly. [i]Mariposa[/i] was ‘er home place, she supposed…but far’s she knew, that boat weren’t around no more. This was Pen’s home place. Mayhaps she’d ask ‘er ‘bout how it should be feelin’. Once she’d et, her next stop weren’t but a couple blocks away. [b]WORLD OF BASS[/b] read a sign what weren’t lit up. She thought tha shop mighta been closed, ‘cept fer lights on inside an’ a fella sittin’ behind tha counter. When she let ‘erself in, Abby’s surprised at just what a narrow little place it was. One wall was hung with bunches ‘o’ long necked bass guitars. She conjured them black boxes all heaped underneath was amplifiers. T’other wall was full ‘o’ shelves, lotso little boxes an’ widgets, tiny bags with somethin’ she took fer guitar strings. They’s bins full’o’ picks, polishin’ cloths, instrument cases…an’ all of it sittin’ under a powerful coat ‘o’ dust. And right there, amongst all that chaos, she spied what it was brung her inta tha shop. [center][b]WEYLAND-YUTANI PROMIX Professional Grade Headphones CM-88B [/b][/center] Since she come in, the fella never paid ‘er no mind. He’s wearin’ a pair ‘o’ them “Weyland-Yutes” what Isaac called ‘em, an’ playing one ‘o’ them bass guitars with no sound comin’ out. Abby moved intah line ‘o’ sight, give ‘im a quick wave. Fella stopped playin’, looked ‘er up an’ down an made hisself sound all kindsa annoyed as he said “What?” “Beg pardon,” she set ‘er buckets down. “I come here lookin’ fer some…” “No banjos here,” the fella’s nose turnt up at her twang. “Mountain Music, Seventh and Long. Go now.” Most times she’d come back hard on that kinda putdown, but tonight? She din’ know. Mayhaps it’s tha good food, or walkin’ about put her tah rights, but this fella’s ‘tude suddenly struck ‘er all devilish an’ such. “Well, shucky-durn,” Abby poured it on thick as hotcake syrup, “Ah ain’t never been tah no place what’s called “World of Bass” ‘thout seein’ a single fish. Where ye keep ‘em, mister? Gotta tank out back ‘er sumthin’?” Fella’s lip curled. “Bumpkin,” he spat the word. “Bass. Bass. Long A sound.” “Yew mean them guitars?” She gaped, wide eyed, at the instruments. “They’s right purty. But not what Ah’m lookin’ fer.” “Good. Leave.” She pointed at them headphones. “I want them…Wailin’ Youths.” His eyes trailed her finger, then slid back upon her. “Weyland Yutani,” the fella huffed. “You can’t even say it. Why would you need?” “Uh…music?” she played at bein’ all genuine wide eyed an’ such. “Tah use when I’m workin’?” He sneered, lookin’ all over her legs an’ tha “front end alignment” tee shirt she’s wearin’. “What work?” Not tha first time a man conjured her fer whorin’, but tha distaste wrote all over his face made this time sorta funny. “Deckhand,” she answered plain. “On a space goin’ boat.” Abby held out ‘er hand. “Care tah count calluses?” That’n made a crack, she seen of the humor spark ticklin’ his eyes. “Name’s Abby. Friend ‘o’ mine tole me Wailin’ Youths is tha way tah go fer good sound won’t slip off my head whilst I’m workin’...movin’ boxes about, moppin’ decks, scrubbin’ toilets an’ such.” “Toilets,” he said all offended. “You want these for scrubbing toilets. Just leave,” fella pointed toward tha door. “Did yer daddy set yew up in this business?” she teased. “I see yer wearin’ a pair fer yer work.” He laid the box on ‘is counter. “I don’t ‘scrub’ things.” “Don’t gotta tell me,” she couldn’t help ‘erself as she commenced tah writin’ ‘er name in tha dust. “A…B…B…” until he snatched the box away. “Price is sixty.” “Sixty?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Cortex says I can git ‘em all day fer forty.” “Cortex also says there are hot women just waiting to meet me. You pay extra…price of stupid. How long before you drop them into a toilet?” “I reckon that’s fair.” Abby come around tha counter, eyes set upon another small box. He’s watchin’ ‘er as she blowed a cloud ‘o’ dust off tah read. [center][b]WEYLAND-YUTANI FIELD PRO Waterproof Earbuds CM-72E [/b][/center] “I’ll give yah fifty fer both,” tha girl offered, throwin’ a hand up tah stop ‘im runnin’ ‘is pie hole. “An’ I’ll clean yer shop.” “Shop doesn’t need cleaning,” he sniffed. Abby laughed. “Mister, only place don’t need cleanin’ in here’s where yer [i]pi gu[/i] been polishin’ that stool.” She looked about. “Got a broom? Rags an’ such?” “In the back,” he surrendered. “Somewhere.” She give ‘im a smile as she nudged ‘er head toward tha bass on ‘is knee. “Y’any good?” “Why?” Abby looked over all them guitars on tha wall. “World ‘o’ bass,” she grinned as she said it proper. “I’ll show yew mine if yah show me your’n.” His stone face cracked a smile. “Let me plug in.” [center][hider=Davie 504 Bass Jam] [youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0FrnzXejwQ[/youtube] [/hider][/center] He was good. Real good. Laid down music kept her movin, sometimes coaxin’ her tah laugh the way he’d make the beat match her stroke with a rag or a vacuum. Cleanin’ things was somethin’ come natural. She could let’er mind just float while her body took care ‘o’ business. An’ this…cleanin’ out a dusty old music shop…was becomin’ way more fun than she ever conjured. Proper cleanin' took 'er near three hours, but felt like jest a few minutes. She's almost sad when the job was done. “Gotcher back room tidied up,” Abby offered. “Took out all yer trash. Found these under a pile ‘o’ boxes,” she lifted a thin sleeve held a pair ‘o’ dark wooden drumsticks. “Where they belong?” “In the trash,” he answered. “No drums here.” Her brow furrowed. “Yew sure? Ain’t never been opened.” The fella shrugged. “Left over from when this was my father’s shop.” “Can I have ‘em? I know a drummer,” she said. He give a thin smile. “Do you clean apartments?” Abby crooked a smile ‘o’ her own. “That’ll cost yah one ‘o’ them guitars.”