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[center]The first time Lucie heard herself on the radio was a monumental day in her life, not only because she was surprised that people still listened to the radio rather than curated playlists or the same five or six songs on an endless loop, but because her parents were with her at the time. It's a memory clear as day in her mind. There she was in the back seat, coming home, or rather being driven home, after a day in Paris which only sounds exciting for people who hadn't been to Paris before; her father behind the wheel, her mother in the passenger seat and waiting to see if it was worth engaging with her husband after the comment about smoking in the car struck a nerve. But of course, her father was right. Mother did have a bad habit of smoking in the car. She smoked a lot, in the car, at home, in the garden, never in the kitchen as that was father's sacred ground, but never at work. Lucie thought it was funny how someone could care so much about what children thought of her but couldn't care less about the opinions of her spouse. It was probably because she liked being a teacher more than she did being a wife, though back then Lucie couldn't see the cracks. How could she? She was in the backseat. 

The radio station had been louder, not because Lucie expected to hear herself, but because music made it easy to ignore conversation. The programme in question had a single host who, near the end of her broadcast, had a section where she spoke about her new obsessions. It was here where the host would often throw in an ad read inbetween mentions of a book or hobby or something that filled time. But on this particular early evening the host seemed genuinely excited to mention a video she saw on the internet, a cover song that had barely managed to cross twenty thousand views. Lucie had her head looking out of the window, watching the familiar sights blurring together, thoughts lingering on a classmate before Lucie quite knew what that meant about herself. It was only a brief snippet, but the voice on the radio went silent and Lucie's own voice spoke to her from the front seat. A dreamy, youthful take on a baroque pop song, [i]Walk Away Renée[/i], with Lucie really hitting the pronunciation of Renée. Her eyes widened. Her scream was unexpected. So, too, was the swerve of the car. She didn't expect her father to react so strongly, jerking the wheel and grinding the side of the car against the traffic railing. How could she? She was in the backseat.

[color=orange][i]That's not how it happened.[/i][/color] [color=00FFAE][i]Yes it was. I remember it.[/i][/color] [i][color=pink]I don't.[/color] [color=00FFAE]You weren't born yet.[/color] [color=orange]Yes I was[/color] [color=9966cc]Not you[/color] [color=pink]Who was first?[/color] [color=9966cc]The chicken[/color][color=orange]The egg[/color] [color=00FFAE]That's not funny[/color] [color=orange]It's not meant to be[/color] [color=9966cc]Yes it is. A little bit.[/color] [color=pink]Who was first?[/color] [color=00FFAE]I was[/color] [color=orange]Were you?[/color] [color=00FFAE]I think-[/color] [color=9966cc]therefore we are?[/color] [color=orange]Now that's funny[/color] [color=pink]I don't get it[/color] [color=9966cc]Yes you do[/color] [color=00FFAE]I'd like to stop now[/color] [color=orange]Okay, but it didn't happen like that[/color] [color=00FFAE]Yes it did. Didn't it?[/color] [color=pink]Our dad never got into an accident.[/color] [color=00FFAE]My dad[/color] [color=9966cc]What's yours is ours[/color] [color=orange]What's ours isn't yours[/color] [color=00FFAE]Why am I remembering this?[/color] [color=orange]You're not. It wasn't in the back of a car.[/color] [color=9966cc]Well it WAS but that was a very different first time[/color] [color=pink]Why were you in the backseat then?[/color] [color=orange]You mean who? Who was in the backseat then?[/color] [color=00FFAE]I was[/color] [color=orange]Were you?[/color] [color=00FFAE]I'd like to stop now[/color] [color=9966cc]I could use a nap anyway. Now wake up.[/color][/i]

Lucie Giroux opened her mouth and gasped like she had forgotten how to breathe. Air came rushing into her lungs and if she had access to a mirror in this moment she would have looked remarkably like a freshly caught fish on the deck of a boat. Eyes glassy, mouth gaped and gasping, unsure where she was only that it wasn't the comfort of the water. Lucie blinked. Then she shut her eyes hard enough that it started to hurt and when she opened them everything was out of focus for just a fraction too long. But at least the voices were quiet again. Why had she let them speak? As her vision came back that question remained in the back of her mind, though the answer was painfully obvious if only she cared to admit it. Why else would someone talk to themselves? Sure, Lucie was [i]special[/i] with the fact that when she talked to herself, she talked back, but that didn't change the reality of her situation. Lucie had no one else to talk to.

[color=00FFAE][i]"Putain de merde..."[/i][/color]

The question of where was answered easily enough even before she got a look around to answer that specifically. Her penthouse in midtown, which unfortunately meant most of the people around the neighborhood were college students which no doubt explained why the billboard of her on a roof across the way had the penis graffiti in the first place; only a college student would care enough to do something so inoffensively bland in this day and age. Perhaps it was a prank for the Greeks. Lucie wanted to move, to count herself amongst the city elite in the upper echelons, to move from her ivory tower to one of pure gold, but there was not much room at the top for a celebrity whose most recent single couldn't even stay at the top of the chart for longer than a month. Her concerts still sold out, at least, and she wasn't quite at the point in her career where she was judging or, worse, hosting some dogshit reality competition show. [color=orange]Like father.[/color] [color=00FFAE]Yes. Like father.[/color] If that day ever came she would just as soon fade into obscurity and retire back to Lagny-sur-Marne where at least she wouldn't have to deal with traffic and constant chatter about vigilantes or other crusaders trying to make the city a better place. 

Probably because it was easier to convince themselves it was working if they focused on the city and not the world. 

So the where of it was easy enough. Lucie didn't get out into Calder City much unless it was for her own benefit. Concerts. Interviews. Paid appearances. Somewhere where she could be photographed and not have to worry about negative publicity or having to field silly rumors about her dating life; which, in Lucie's case, was more of a sex life than anything as remotely intimate as dating. It would've been a depressing reality, confined to an empty [color=pink]Not technically empty[/color] penthouse and swimming in the deep end of creative black holes, were it not for the simple fact that the fact that she had a penthouse and an agent and appearances and over 50 million listens. With those tidbits, it was only slightly sad that she didn't have anyone to share anything with. A selfie on socials could get hundreds of likes in a heartbeat but try as she could to deny it, it couldn't substitute for genuine connection. Fame was a burden but it was one she was willing to bear because what else was there? Why had she been given the power if not to do something that truly mattered? What mattered more than giving people music? Entertainment? Something to aspire towards? All without having to throw a punch or worry about winding up just another name at Memorial Park. 

The question that was harder to answer was why. Why had she suddenly had a memory [color=orange]Not a memory[/color] of hearing herself on the radio? Of being in the backseat in France? She hadn't been drinking, not today anyway and not [i]her[/i] and she wasn't one of those musical artists that thrived on a mountain of cocaine and other illicit substances. So why? Why that memory - [color=00FFAE]I know[/color] - and why now? There was hardly any novelty in being heard anymore and it didn't seem like a particularly happy mem...experience. Lucie ran a hand over her forehead, bringing index, middle, and ring to meet thumb in the middle before combining them and dragging towards her chin. The picture was coming into focus. She wasn't in the living room or bedroom but rather the room she called her 'study' but was more accurately the room where she was supposed to work. The walls had soundproofing panels, there were instruments along the walls and Lucie herself was seated at a piano that had been carried to the place by some polite Gray using their strength to work for a moving company. Scattered around the piano and around her stool were balls of paper, ripped sheets, and staring back at her was a post-it note addressed to her but she hadn't even remembered writing it. [b]NUMBER ONE OR NOTHING.[/b]

A memory exercise. That was the why. Lucie needed, wanted, whichever, a new song, a new anything. With a new song she could maybe start to conceive of a new album which would facilitate a new tour and another round of being in the spotlight again. It hadn't been that long since her last release but the only impact that song had made was that it came out. Lucie wanted another undeniable hit. Something that would be like hearing herself get play for the first time. But judging by the paper shredder that was her immediate surroundings, that was too much to ask for. How difficult could this be? She could sing. She could play multiple instruments [color=pink][i]You[/i] can?[/color] and she'd gone to awards shows. Performed at them, even. How many more synthpop, dreampop, baroquepop, etheral dance pop songs about romance or metaphors could she come up with? None, apparently. Which was why she wanted to think of a happy memory, an inspiring one, but all that got her was nearly suffocating as if she had forgotten how to breathe. 

Lucie flexed her fingers and hovered them over the piano keys, left hand near the middle C, right down by the high octaves. There was a melody. A major. I IV V. C#6. E. B. A. It was there, her fingers were playing it. She could hear it but...a droning sound as her fingers hit multiple keys at once and the melody was lost. It hadn't even been there at all. Maybe not for her, anyway. [color=orange]Don't look at me, I'm on drums[/color]. What a waste. Of time. Of talent. Lucie stood from her piano bench, more annoyed than angry, and headed for the exit, back to the comfort of isolation. She couldn't be creative here. What she needed was, above all, a spark. But where was she supposed to find that here of all places? She wasn't. The only thing anyone could find within these walls was cold comforts. 

[color=00FFAE]"I've got to get out of this place..."[/color]
[color=orange][i]We've gotta get out of this place[/i][/color]
[color=pink][i]If it's the last thing we ever do?[/i][/color]
[color=9966cc]That one's taken. But I like where your head's at.[/color]
[color=orange]Our heads[/color]
[color=9966cc]Right[/color]
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