Slowly but surely, he began to wake up, stirring from slumber, opening his eyes with difficulty.
He was awfully tired and his feet still hurt from walking all the way through the cave and the forest, where he had hidden the heavy, white, warm glowing and very important-looking egg he was carrying.
This was strange, he thought. Why did he have that thing with him? Where did it come from? And why did he wake up on the shore, drenched, with those weird tools in his pockets and that egg in his arms? Who was he really, anyway?
All those questions left unsanswered were quickly filling his mind, and even only trying to solve the huge jigsaw puzzle they had created made his head hurt and dizzy, and suddenly he felt like he was going to vomit, to let it all out and never think about it again.
He stood up. At least he was alive and well, and the egg was safe and sound, or at least he hoped it was.
He didn't even remember for how long he had walked and slept outside, in the woods and in the wild - even moles once gave him shelter. It might have been a month, or maybe a little less, or maybe a little more. Probably a little more.
He looked around his new room. It seemed very plain-looking, with its green and yellow striped walls and its rather recent furniture, altough it was also kind of messy, because of some clothes and the strange weapons he carried all scattered around the room. There was an old wooden bass lying against the wall in a corner. It was his now, as the others told him nicely, and he had proven himself worthy of possessing such an important instrument, even though he would still have to practise a bit, so that he could truly be a part of that band. He already had the right suit – they had lent him one of the same outfit they always wore, since they had one left. Yes, they needed a bass player. They were lucky he was there at that moment – and he was lucky they helped him when he got lost.
The red pants and the blue shirt he was wearing ever since he woke up after being washed up by the river were left alone on the drawer, and there was also this odd, red tiny ball lying on top of the clothes, that sometimes uttered some faint whimpers – almost as if it was alive! But that was stupid, he kept saying to himself, and that was probably only his imagination and his tiredness playing tricks on him.
He never dared touching it, though, fearing that it could get scared and run away, since it seemed alive.
He was a moron, he thought, for having such ideas, and finally he edged closer to the round, little thing, reaching with his fingers, trembling – he was almost there! He sweared he could hear it snoring, and he could have woken it up if only someone hadn't burst into the room at the very same moment.
"Lucky, hey! Tonda Gossa!"
OJ, the nice guy who lead the band, and who also happened to play the saxophone amazingly well, entered the room with a warm big smile on his face.
"Good morning, Lucky boy," he went on cheerfully, "I hope you had a good night rest!"
"I did, thanks," the other one answered, smiling back at the saxophonist. Surprisingly enough, that guy was always happy and lively, and he had this weird habit of suddenly appearing in people's room, spreading his own cheeriness everywhere like a disease.
"I see you're wearing the DCMC boxers we got you, that's nice! It's such an honour to see our trademark on people's junk!"
"Oh... Right," Lucky mumbled, embarassed, staring at his naked, hairy legs as he began gathering the clothes laying on the floor. At least OJ had the tact of not mentioning his left leg, that was apparently limp - he himself didn't remember it getting injured.
"Dress dapper my friend, because you're our new bass player now!" He pointed towards the salmon-coloured suit on the drawer. "We'll be playing live soon. You should come rehearsing with us once you're ready! And don't forget your wig!"
Lucky aquiesced. Of course. The wig. He agreed to wear one, because he wanted to change his style - he simply didn't want to think about the countless questions he was asking himself - and because it give him a "kinda sorta really funky look", as his friends told him. And also because he liked it.
He proceeded to don the pink tuxedo and got out of the dressing-room.
He walked, or rather limped through the corridors of the club, and arrived in the hall, which was still empty - it was closed, since it was rather early morning, and went to the vending machine to take a Big City Cola - that wasn't really a proper breakfast, he thought, but hey, he was old enough to live on his own, without anyone to boss him around. He heard Magic's guitar and Baccio's drums singing some sweet music from behind the big door, and he opened the soda can and guided it to his lips, when the floor began shaking violently – he even got some Cola spilled on his pretty suit! – and a bright yellow light accompanied by a very loud noise, a sudden bang, burst outdoors. He heard a girl voice screaming and the bouncers shouting, and as he approached the front door in order to know more, the rest of the band joined him, running, all alarmed by the crash.
He hid behind them as they opened the door, and there was this young girl standing there, in a dirty blue dress, with rather remarkable, dishevelled pink hair. Neckbeard and Skinhead, lying on the floor, barely hurt, but still stunned. Smoke floating away from where the lightning struck. A slightly curvy hole on the ground, coloured black. They stared at the girl – she didn't seem to have suffered. Did she just do that?
"I can explain that!" she began. She had a strong, somewhat aggressive tone. "I just wanted to get in there, but those two jerks wouldn't let me come in!"
"Did you just do that?" Shimmy Zmizz asked, with mouth agape.
"Uh, yeah... About that... Don't ask, alright? I'm not sure how either."
"S-she just," Skinhead stammered, his eyes fixed on the gap created by the thunder,"She just tried to kill us with some freaking lightning!"
"Hey, I wasn't trying to kill you, you asshats! I just got a little angry, that's all!"
"They're right, though," OJ exclaimed, "you're too young to get in that club, aren't you? How old are you exactly?"
"I... I'm twenty-one, obviously!"
"Are you sure you're that old?"
"I'm not too young, you're the one who's too old! Just let me get in! Jeez, I'm not gunna blow up your dumb club, ya know!"
"Well, you were pretty close."
Obviously, she didn't like to hear what she was being told, and very childishly, she started to mumble, and decided to change the subject of the conversation. She shot a glare at the rock band, pouting, and as her eyes met his, her expression changed drastically and her eyes widened.
"D...Duster? Duster, is that you?" she exclaimed, running towards him, "Duster! Duster! I-I can't believe I found you! Hey, what's with the wig?"
She smiled. He remained silent and confused, staring at the girl as if she was speaking another language.
"Duster?" she repeated, again and again. She stopped smiling. "Are you okay?"
"You think you know Lucky?" Baccio inquired. "Or are you faking just so you can get in there?"
The girl turned to the drummer, offering him her scariest frown, her teeth grinding - they feared she might want to punch him in the face or make him turn into dust with her freaky thunder powers. Lucky kept looking at her, still quiet, so very quiet that it made the pink-haired girl mad. She cried that name again – "Duster! It's me! Kumatora!" but it didn't ring a bell. She tried to reach out and grab his shoulders and shake him, but Shimmy and Baccio prevented her from doing so, grasping her arms. She shrieked. It made his ears hurt. He didn't understand.
He rubbed his forehead pensively. What the hell just happened? Who was that girl? Why on Earth did she seem to know about him? Why did she call him – what was it again? Oh, right – "Duster" when his real name was Lucky? He'd always been Lucky. The Lucky guy. Everyone called him that. So why did she call him differently? What was her deal?
Could it be that she knew more about his past? And about the egg?
He stood up and looked at his bass laying against the wall. Practising would be a good thing to do right now. He just wanted to stop thinking about all this. He let his fingers run on the strings, and the melody echoed throughout his room and his mind, calming him down. It was somewhat chaotic, not very sweet to his ears - he tried to focus and played some bass lines he was starting to know by heart now. He made some mistakes now and then and that was kind of frustrating but he kept playing. He frowned. He kept thinking about that girl. He kept hearing her voice too, but that was because she was arguing with the club's boss because she still wanted to come in. He heard the word "waitress" repeatedly. They were shouting.
The club was starting to fill up, and workers and soldiers multiplied. He completely forgot that time still existed. But the concert would start soon, and he'd have to be ready - disappointing OJ and the others was the least thing he wanted to do. And on the other hand, he didn't feel like getting out of his room. What if he met that crazy girl again? He stood there waiting, holding his bass, when Shimmy Zmizz, renowned pianist and wonderful keyboardist, called his name and knocked a few times before coming in and greeting the bassist with a wide, gentle smile.
"Lucky! Tonda Gossa!"
"Shimmy, Tonda Gossa." he replied calmy, letting the bass rest against the wall.
"I'm just here to remind you we're gonna go live very soon."
He stopped for a moment, waiting for an answer, but there was none. Only a blank stare.
"O-oh, and hey! Did you know? That pink-haired lady who almost zapped our two bouncers? She's gonna work here!"
"Really? Okay."
His lack of reaction made Shimmy lose motivation, and as he left the dressing-room with another radiant smile, he exclaimed "Twenty minutes left!".
The bassist sighed and scowled a little, glaring at his feet, and he stood up. He started to limp towards the boisterous, brimming main room, where he would play the bass and let all his worries fly away.
And as he quickly swang his bass he closed his eyes so that he wouldn't see anyone; especially not her, because he guessed - he knew, he feared - that she was watching him.
Slowly, the room grew less and less noisy, and as the last pig masked soldiers walked out the door and the blinding lights that had lit the place disappeared, he sat on the edge of the stage, breathing slowly. His forehead was sweaty and his afro itched a bit, but he refused to take it off, even when OJ suggested that he should – and he always listened to OJ's advice. The others walked out and left him alone. What a night, he thought, and he deeply hoped no one had noticed the countless mistakes he had made, and that time he almost inadvertently let his instrument slip out of his hands. But seeing how the crowd cheered and screamed and asked for more, it probably went better than he thought it would.
"Hey?" the voice asked. Whose voice was it? He was way too focused on his feelings about the concert and his itchy forehead and he did not mind the voice that called him, again, and again.
"Yo, are you listening to me? Duster!" She slapped him on his left cheek.
"Ouch," he muttered, looking up, "that hurt." The pink-haired girl had donned a rather surprisingly cute, girly maid outfit, resembling those of the other waitresses that worked at the club.
"It was meant to." She sat next to him. "Or, maybe not. Bah! Enough of this bullshit!"
She paused and fixed him very intensely. Perhaps a bit too intensely.
"What's wrong?" he inquired, frowning and staring back at her. "Have I got something on my face?"
"Yes, that dumb-looking afro!" she exclaimed as she attempted to lay her hand on it to take it off.
"Wow there!" he counter-attacked and caught her wrist, not too roughly so that he would not made the dangerous mistake of hurting her. "No touching of the afro, please, miss. And besides, it's on my head, not on my face."
"That's the same," she sighed, with a slightly annoyed tone.
"Not exactly."
They remained silencious.
"Duster." she called. No answer.
"Dusty, do ya hear when people talk to you?"
"My name is not Duster," he replied rather calmly. A vague smile came upon his face. "My name is Lucky."
Her eyes widened.
"No, it isn't! Your name is not Lucky! Jeez! Duster, what's gotten into you?"
"But it is," he retorted, raising his voice, "My name actually is Lucky. And I think I'm well placed to know that. You're just wrong, that's all."
"But it isn't," she snapped, "And you're supposed to remember your own name, but the thing is, ya don't!" She stood up. "Your name is Duster! Dus-ter!"
And, since she finally could; she grabbed his shoulders, her glare penetrating his dumbfounded eyes, and repeated the name again, spelling it out.
But he would not listen, he would not hear, he would only ogle and blink vacantly.
She stopped trying, and she let him go; and looked at him wanly before closing her eyes, because they got watery. Perhaps a bit too watery.
"Oh no, Duster, no," she whispered. She started sobbing and shook her head slowly. "No, no no..." she went on, and she embraced him gently.
He did not make a move, and he let her cling to his clothes, as he heard her sniffling and smothering another sob with great difficulty.
"I thought I had finally found you," she murmured, "I thought I was gonna bring you back to Tazmily and..."
But the rest did not come out. He risked to rest a hand on her back and slightly - hesitatingly caressed it, pacing back and forth, breathing serenely.
How long did all this last? He briefly wondered, his eyes shut.
It was the girl's turn to let go of him, and she rubbed her eyes, biting her lips, before shooting a somewhat sullen glance at him.
"Are you-"
"It's okay. I'm okay." she cut him short, wiping out the last tears. "I don't know if you're ignoring me... Or if you're really amnesic or some shit, but..." She paused, and flashed a smile. "Ya know what? I'm gonna keep on calling ya Duster."
He gulped. Her voice grew stronger.
"I'm gonna keep on calling you your name, because one day, you'll remember it."
He smiled back, rather shyly.
"You'll see I wasn't wrong, Duster."
Duster. Duster.
It had quite a nice ring to it, he thought.