In a small thatched hut in the Southern Pacific, a vast array of ancient vacuum tubes flickers to life, greedily drinking power from a regiment of old car batteries stacked against one wall. A mug of black coffee sits on a rough wooden desk, steaming. It isn't the stuff you buy at the store in small colorful packages and drip water through. This is a thick black, bitter drink, steeped for hours to extract every last milligram of caffeine from the beans.
This coffee could beat Folgers' up and take its Milk Money. Of course it has no use for Milk Money, so it'd probably spend the money on some booze and a couple of hookers instead. There is no milk or sugar added. Milk and sugar are for pussies, this is the primordial brew. The idea is not so much to wake you up as it is to so thoroughly abuse the lining of one gastrointestinal tract that all thought of sleep is replaced with throbbing pain. Whole civilizations have evolved from lesser brews.
People who drink this sort of coffee are more prone to describe it in terms of texture. They don't want to even think about how it tastes. A hand grabs its mug, poor bastard. Hopefully it won't strip too much of the lining from his throat. At the desk sits a man, probably in his mid thirties, wearing a hat woven from palm leaves, ragged shorts, a faded t-shirt advertising Coca-Cola, and crude sandals made from driftwood and vines. He raises the mug to his lips and takes a long draught.
"Christ…" he mutters. "I really, really, need to find a better way of waking up." An old clock hanging on the wall reads 5:59 AM. He silently counts down the seconds as he has done many times before: 6:00AM.
5...4...3...2..1--It's Go Time.
"Good Morning Earth! This is Radio Free Earth, coming to you from an undisclosed, yet deliciously sunny island in the South Pacific." Continents away, thousands of people flip on receiver sets.
"I'm your host Gabe Hunter, the Raving Bushman." He pauses, taking a breath. "Today we've got some good stuff for you. First in our morning music lineup is a new smash hit by the Yellow Dancer, the sexy rising star of the South Americas. Then we'll have some Tchaikovsky, I managed to buy some the other day with only twelve Breadfruit."
There is a tentative pause. "You know…somehow that feels almost, cheapening. Tchaikovsky is easily worth at least sixteen."
He flips another switch and the mellow tones of 'Lonely Soldier Boy' echoed across the airwaves. It wasn't that he found himself able to relate to the song. He'd been a soldier once, an infantry grunt. But that had long since changed since the Invid conquest of Earth. The nation he had once held allegiance to no longer existed, except as a dream. He now spent his days as the 'Last Disc Jockey', spreading the gift of music about the world.
Long before the Invid, before the Robotech Masters, and before the Zentraedi--it had been a glorious age of music, or so the thousands of compact discs in his archive suggested. Gabe had been given the collection by his father, who had been an officer on one of the few ARMD destroyers that survived the Zentraedi Holocaust.It spanned nearly eight hundred years, and every continent. And Gabe played it all for free over his short-wave radio transmitter as a labor of love. In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but think that somewhere, some Music Industry Executive was rolling in their grave at the prospect of not being paid royalties--to Hell with them!
One of his more notable, and more recent acquisitions, had been a Lynn Minmei album. Although the singer had long since departed with the REF, her songs were still some of the more popular "oldies." It was a tragedy, but nowadays, dedicated musicians were rare—and the few that existed literally lived hand-to-mouth, performance to performance, much like in the Middle Ages. Gabe would play as much of the newer music that he as he could, doing his part to support the often starving musicians and singers, but the sad fact was that humanity nowadays could ill afford to support many artists.
Lonely Soldier boy ends and Gabe flips on the microphone.
"This is Radio Free Earth and you were just listening to 'Lonely Soldier Boy' by Yellow Dancer, the rising Star of the Americas. Up next we have some Tchaikovsky, followed by a spot of Minmei--speaking of Lynn Minmei, did I ever tell you about the time I punched out her agent?"
He pauses again. Let the audience chew on that, all six hundred of them. Unbeknownst to him, about sixty seven thousand worldwide were "chewing on that."
"You see...most girls can make a man blush just by showing some skin. The really good looking ones can do it without showing skin. Minmei...could infatuate an entire army by walking down the street dressed in armor plating. You ever hear of Helen of Troy? It was said that her face launched a thousand ships. Minmei's songs launched a thousand of thousands...Literally."
He coughs and then continued "...but the cute face and irresistible body of Lynn Minmei don't have -anything- to do why yours' truly punched out her agent."
Gabe thinks back to that day. He had followed Minmei and Lynn Kaifunn, in hopes of getting an autograph. Staying a reasonable distance behind the pair, he had followed them to the edge of the town. They must have been waiting for a hover car or something. But that was near the end of the story, and nowhere near the beginning.
"I went to one of her concerts in 2014--a few years after the Rain. I was seventeen at the time--and like many a red-blooded young man, hopelessly infatuated with one Lynn Minmei."
A hot breeze blows through the town. Of course that could hardly have disturbed the concert attendees. Near the stage sat a young man. A worn pair of glasses frames his thin, almost vulpine face. Like many of the concert goers, he could have been working at the farms surrounding the. But today was a different day. -Minmei- was here...
Gabe laughs into the microphone. "Damn hormonal overload...I sat through most of the show just watching her dance."
Years away a youth sits in rapt wonder at the Chinese girl as she danced. She was cute--any red-blooded male could see that. There was something else though...
I always think of you
Dream of you late at night
What do you do?
When I turn out the light?
No matter who I touch
It is you I still see
It's touch and go
But no one touches me
Hunter pauses. "...There's this thing called charisma. Whatever it was, she had it in spades. And a good voice too."
It's you I miss
It's you who's on my mind
It's you I cannot leave behind
It's me whose lost
The me who lost her heart
To you who tore my heart apart
"That...and her songs had, and still have...You could say some of them have...a bittersweet feel. That's why she was so loved; her singing gave us survivors of the Zentraedi Holocaust hope and soothed many wounded hears. The world may have gone to hell, but Minmei was...our angel. That day there was hardly a dry eye."
Years ago, the youth rubs his watery eyes.
If you still think of me,
How did we come to this?
Wish that I knew,
It is me that you miss
Wish that I knew,
It is me that you miss.
The song ends, and a sigh ripples through the crowd. A few songs follow.
"It was a good concert." Gabe taps his desk, years later. "Unfortunately...the problem was that with our city in such a poor shape, the city leaders could hardly afford to give Minmei anything--much to the chagrin of her manager. You ever hear of a fellow called Jesus feeding 5,000 people with five loaves and two fish?"
Gabe spits. "Well, that's just about what the city leaders gave her, some worthless trinkets and a bit of food. And her manager Lynn Kaifunn was no Savior if you get my drift."
A young Gabe Hunter, no relation to the famous Rick Hunter, runs home as fast as his legs could carry him. How could they have given her so little? She's an entertainer--worth what people would pay, but he had seen what they had given Minmei, it was a pitiable. And it felt wrong--no, it was disgraceful to give her so little. He dashes through the front door of his small apartment, walked over to behind a couch, and scrabbles at the floor. An Angel is worth her due.
Raising a floorboard, he reaches beneath and pulls up a heavy leather pouch. There is still time. He opens the pouch, revealing a substantial pile of large silver coins--American silver coins, all older than the United Nations itself, and quite valuable. The boy holds one up to the light. Although the coins are tarnished with age he can easily make out an Eagle, the national symbol of a former superpower. The bird's wings are folded and it sits on a rock holding an olive branch. Along the lower edge of the coin he can make out letters. P...C...A...C...E. He looked at the coin again. It glitters. Peace, he has mistaken an E for a C.
Peace. She will like that, he tells himself.
Gabe pockets five of them, and hides the rest back underneath the floorboards.
He runs back to the arena, the coins jangling in his pocket. Most of the people have left now, save for a few still standing around, as well as two or three Zentraedi.
Walking over to one of the Zentraedi, the young man calls upwards. "Excuse me, but have you seen Minmei?"
The Zentraedi--a thirty foot redheaded woman, looks downward, puzzled. "Micronian...I think Minmei went that way." She points west, towards the edge of town.
Gabe nods, utters a brief "Thank you" and then runs off as fast as his legs can carry him. Zentraedi of course, are big people. That is a falsehood Gabe thinks. The word "big" fails to describe them. "Gi-normous" comes to mind. Of course, Gabe has momentarily forgotten this aspect of Zentraedi, and simply addressed the giant woman like any other human. The Zentraedi wonders why the human had not seemed the least bit cowed. She is bemused. He had obviously had other, more important things on his mind.
Walking of course is slower than running, and so by walking Gabe might not have caught up to the two. But he does. And that is what matters. What matters more though is that he catches snippets of Lynn Minmei having -words- with her manager. They aren't nice words.
"...Must you always drink?" Not wanting to pry, his ears only catch snippets as he had decided that it would be best to remain out of sight for now. Starlets are people too.
He waits a bit. His ears prick up at the sound of -Words-. They aren't for him, so Gabe ignores them. Her personal problems aren't his cross. The argument dies down after a while, and Gabe counts.
One, two, three...he walks into sight of the two. Minmei is on the ground, crying. Her face is bruised. Kaifunn is standing in silence, a few meters away. Gabe walks over to the Chinese man and taps him on the shoulder.
"What is it, asshole?" Lynn Kaifunn turns around. His cheeks are rosy and there is the smell of alcohol on his breath. Gabe is silent. The conclusion is obvious. Kaifunn had struck Minmei.
"Well, wha—ooof!" Gabe strikes Lynn Kaifunn in the kidneys. There is a thud. And this isnt just any thud, it's a bit like the thud you'd expect to get if youbeat a dead cow with a sledgehammer. Only replace the dead cow with one Lynn Kaifunn, and the sledgehammer with the fists of one pissed off Gabe Hunter. The inebriated man folds neatly in half, falling to the ground. Gabe prods him with a foot, and then walks over to Minmei.
He kneels down next to the teary-eyed woman. "Here...I thought you might need these." He hands the delicate singer the jangling bag.
She seems a bit confused. He offers a smile "…Thank you."
"For what?"
"For giving me hope" Gabe replies. As abruptly as he had entered he had entered, Gabe leaves the scene, leaving behind a substantially wealthier and slightly confused Lynn Minmei. Damn...that had felt good, especially the bit where he punched Lynn Kaifunn in the kidneys. Maybe he could do it again sometimes.
Years later Gabe Hunter reaches to turn off the microphone. "...And that, listeners, is how I punched out Lynn Kaifunn. If you're asking me, the stupid bastard deserved it." He reaches to scratch his neck. Damn flies. "Now here's that Tchaikovsky I promised you: the first movement from his Manfred symphony."
Tchaikovsky begins and Gabe looks through his collection. What to play next?
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Author note: Reviews are appreciated, but if you do write one, I'd love it if you'd suggest a song or two, or an artist that you'd maybelike to see me incorporate into the next chapter. Think of Robotech when you do suggest one This won't be a song fic, centering a bit of music around a few character actions. If I can come up with more ideas for more chapters, I'll write them.
-SteelBlade
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