Synesthesia

by Xomniac

Music and Color bring freedom and a new player to the dark streets of Brockton Bay. The Composer has arrived, and she intends to play her song for all to hear.

3. Sonata 2

Sonata 2

"Hey Dad, I'm going to hang out with some friends!" Taylor called out as she packed her bag and headed for the door.

"Woah woah woah!" Her father called out, quickly running into the room and catching her by her arm. "Wait one second. Give me the rundown one last time."

Taylor sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation with her father's overprotectiveness. "Me and a few friends are going out to hang around town and have fun. It'll probably go on late into the night, but we'll stick together."

Danny pursed his lips for a moment before nodding. "Alright. You've got your pepper spray?"

Taylor dug the canister out of her pocket and twirled it around expertly.

"And all your other friends have cellphones?"

"And I memorized the home number, and I'll make sure I'm back home before tomorrow, and we'll stay safe. Am I forgetting anything?"

Danny chuckled in embarrassment before engulfing his daughter in a hug. "No, that's everything. Have fun, and stay safe."

Taylor rolled her eyes, a smile on her lips. "I already said that."

"It bears repeating."

Finally, Taylor extricated herself from her father's grasp. "Well, I better get going. Who knows what Aisha will do if she's left on her own, am I right?"

Danny shuddered lightly. "Point taken. You'd better get going. Bye Taylor!"

"Bye Dad!" She waved as she jogged out of the house and down the street, fitting her earbuds in place as she went.

She ran down the road for about half an hour at a steady clip until she suddenly slowed to a halt. Taylor checked around for a moment, looking up and down the street. Satisfied that no one was watching, she walked up to a door in one of the buildings.

The door had an emblem spray painted on it: a cartoony skull with a pair of wiry wings poking out of the sides, a pair of railroad spikes crossed below.

Taylor jiggled the door's knob a bit and then pushed it open, slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. Locating the lightswitch, she flicked it on and gazed around appreciatively.

The room was relatively cluttered. Shelves lined the walls, cans of paint laying about in a haphazard manner upon them, and the walls were littered with doodles and drawings of varying styles and colors. Some were blocky and dark, others fluid and bright. They spoke of different emotions: frustration, exhilaration, boredom, and a myriad of others. They simply emanatedfeeling.

The paint cans were all unique in their own rights as well, each bearing a different kind of marking or emblem. Some resembled stylized skulls, others wings or limbs, while the vast majority held gears and music notes. Some were heavily detailed, while others were far more spartan and simplistic.

Taylor nodded approvingly. "Well, glad to see that Jangle is keeping this place on the up and up. Now, let's see..." She wandered over to a cardboard box lying on a table in the center of the room and rummaged through it. "Hmm..." She mused as she dug around, examining the cans that lay within. "More than a few Sound, two cans of Orchesprog, a Madchester, three Memphis Maulers, a Hip Hopper... a Patchy R & R!?" She exclaimed, staring at the can with an elephant skull in surprise before sighing and shaking her head exasperatedly. "I don't want to know..."

Satisfied with her inventory, she interweaved her fingers and popped them happily. "Alright, time to get to work!" Taylor laid her hands upon the cans, her fingers splayed amongst them. She closed her eyes and concentrated in the noise in her head, isolating parts of the cacophony. Some were baseless, untainted and unformed tones, while others had some form of definition and purpose. And others yet were long and purposeful, a far more distinct tune within them.

Slowly, pure color seeped from her fingers and flowed all along the cans, moving from cylinder to cylinder. It crawled over the etchings and engravings, flowing up over the tops and into the nozzles. The engraved designs lit up vividly in a jubilee of colors, notes and tones ringing out from them until finally they settled down.

Taylor panted tiredly, running her hand through her hair. "When I find out who used a Patchy of all things... ergh, recreation only goes so far. Ah well." She slung her backpack off her back and onto the table. "Whatever. I've got an appointment to keep. Can't be late." She unzipped the bag, removed a pair of white coveralls and a surgical mask, and slipped them on.

Then, she went to work.

She began to run her hands along the clothing, colors once again flowing across her fingertips and washing over the pure white cloth canvas. It molded and shifted, taking on different colors and textures. Finally, the colors settled.

Taylor was left wearing a black hoodie with voluminous sleeves and jeans with purple flames licking at the borders of the sleeves, coat legs, and hood. The surgical mask had shifted, and now resembled a double-sided paint mask, and her glasses were now a heavily tinted pair of aviator glasses. She had also layered paint over her earbuds, so that they resembled a black pair of DJ headphones with purple stylized treble clefs on the speakers. She dug a rubber band out of her pocket and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, sliding it beneath her hood as she pulled it up and finished the change.

She walked over a nearby mirror left for exactly this purpose, and gave herself a once over with a critical eye. Once she was satisfied, she took a moment to repack the box of spray cans and move them over to the other side of the room, grabbing a cellphone off a shelf and flicking the lights off as she headed out the door.

She flicked the phone open and thumbed a number before putting it to her ear. It rung for a bit before a rough voice with a texan accent picked up. "Hello?"

The change was smooth, practiced and natural as her posture and even tone shifted. Taylor left the building, and someone new came in.

"Hey South."

The Composer was on the stage now.

"Boss! How ya doin'? You comin' over for Gangsta's little shindig?"

"Yeah, I am, but first I have a question."

"Yeah?"

The Composer's tone turned accusatory. "I was just at Jangle's. Mind telling me for what reason someone needed to use a one-ton elephant?"

"Err..." Southern trailed off hesitantly. "Ya see... Grunge and Crunk got into a contest over a can of Fusion Shark Shanty was offering up and..."

The Composer felt her eye twitch. "There's another empty can at your place, isn't there?"

"What can I say, boss? Nothing beats an elephant-on-elephant trunk-wrestling match!"

The teenage rebel sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Those two are getting Swechno's on their faces when I next see them, I swear. Anyways, are Gangsta and the others there yet?"

The texan's voice became rife with irritation. "Oh they're here alright. How could I not notice them SCREWING AROUND WITH MY PIG JIGS!?" The last part was roared away from the phone's speaker. Laughter came over the connection in response. The Reaper grumbled irritably. "Damn brats, I was saving that stuff!"

The Composer chuckled light-heartedly. "Oh, let them have their fun South! They're just celebrating the little party we have planned is all."

"Yeah, well, you better get down here and break this party up soon, otherwise I'm letting my Butoh run rampant on their asses."

Composer just shook her head. "Alright, I'll be down soon. Make sure they load up, and don't be stingy."

The Reaper grunted, and she could hear the rustle and clang of tin and plastic. "Don't worry, I got them all kitted out boss. Even slipped in some good stuff just in case."

She nodded, more to herself than anything. "Okay, see you there. Try to keep them from wrecking the place, South."

A terse laugh came from the other side, even as she started to hang up. "Fat chance of that."

The phone beeped, and before it even finished disconnecting she had punched in another number. It didn't even finishing ringing once, before it was picked up.

"Hey…"

-o-

Radios the city over, hung from wooden shelves or perched on metal drums and rickety tables, hissed and spit static as figures danced the dial to a special spot on the numbers and waited. When clocks, watches, and phones everywhere hit nine on the dot, it started.

"~Hey there fellow brothers, sisters and sinners of all colors, it's time….time for the Reaper Review! We are on the air and in the waves~! I'm your host, the sinfully smooth master of ceremonies DJ Chiptune! To-night, we bring you the word of the street, the letters on the wall, and all that jazz. So sit tight and lay loose."

There was the sound of liquid being sucked through a straw as Chiptune took a swig of his drink.

"First on the agenda, you-know-who, our own glorious leader has descended from on high to join us for a new project. Notorious rookie raising in the ranks Gangsta is building a head of steam after our own Canto got a visit from the Bad Boys, and has decided to rally a few brave Reapers to inform the oriental dragon-reject of what exactly we think about that. Word is they got a real hot night planned out. I personally wish them a lot of luck... provided they don't get too toasty…"

The sound of laughter suddenly rang out over the airwaves.

"Ah, just kidding. But still, good luck Gangsta. If anyone wants to lend them a hand, stop by Southern's before eleven sharp. Show 'em that we won't take this lying down! Now then, in other news, Jangle's still taking volunteers to plan out a little shindig at the old rink, and Acid is chilling after getting busted by the PR-pigs near their HQ and almost getting her ass iced when someone put a stun-baggie through her can. Still, Grunge was kind enough to finish her work, so it's all good! Gotta say, I think the new front looks sweet! But hey, that's just me, and you all know how reliable I am, am I right?"

More laughter erupted for a second before finally dying with a sigh.

"Well, we've only got a little time left before the PRT finds this frequency and starts hunting my sorry hide, so let's wrap this up! Time for some phone calls from the lucky few who got our number! Okay, hang on a second..."

There was a beeping sound on the transmission.

"Alright, caller, you're on the Review!"

"Um... hi?"

"Well as I live and breath! I'd recognize that voice anywhere! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a celebrity on our transmission tonight! The lovely missy with the magic fingers, Panacea! What brings someone so prim and proper like you to this cesspool of villainous rebellion?"

"I... wanted to ask you a question. Two weeks ago, you guys came to the hospital-"

"HAHAHAHA! Oh man, I was there for that! I did the waiting room!"

"Right... anyways, you guys came in, sprayed the entire place with washable anti-microbial gloss paint, and..."

"Aw, wait, hang on a sec! You don't like it? Please don't tell me you don't like it! We put so much work into planning it and Mariachi whined like a bitch for a whole week 'bout the beatdown your sister put on him and-!"

"NO! I-n-no. I-I do, I really do, it's... god, it's beautiful. The colors, the way they flow and look like they move..."

"Sooo... what's the problem?"

"Just... why? Why did you do this? All of this?"

"Well, for you of course!"

"Me?"

"Sure! See, back then, another one of our guys, Cajun? He was doing a nice little set downtown, one of those pieces some of the guys do to redeem the Norse figures the E88 capes like to pervert. Unfortunately, their goons took offense to that. Grabbed him before he could bounce and fucked him up something fierce. Lucky thing Franco was nearby and was able to save his sorry ass. He then took him to the hospital, and well, the rest is history!"

"... so... you did it because I helped your friend?"

"Well, not just him!"

"Huh?"

"See, Cajun stuck around the hospital for a bit, 'cuz you skedaddled before he could thank you properly. He saw that the entire time, you were running around willy-nilly, healing left and right, with just about no breaks! Hell, the last time I heard about dedication like that, it was when the boss nearly got nabbed trying to make her way to reach the Protectorate HQ and give the city something to really admire. So anyways, Cajun brought it up with the boss, boss brought it up with us, and we all agreed to give you a big thank you gift for all the amazing work you do! That's an entire lifetime's worth of good karma, earned for us, paid out to you, just like that! Bam!"

Silence reigned over the transmission.

"Hello? Helloooo? Anyone home?"

Another voice came on the line, filled with gratitude.

"Amy... she can't talk right now. But I think that if she could she'd say thank you. And... tell Mariachi I'm sorry."

There was a click followed by a long minute of silence.

"Weeeell... that was a thing. Okay, seeing how long that took, we got time for one more caller, and then you'll have hop over to my good friend DJ Synth's station for the compositions he and his crew have for us! So here we go, last caller of the night!"

Another click.

"Hey there, Chiptune!"

"Ey, that's DJ Chiptune! Come on, Clockblocker, you oughta know that by now! So man, how've things been? Shadow Stalker enjoying the paint job?"

"Er, no. In fact, she's spitting mad. But, uh well, you see..."

"What's up, Clockie? You got a problem?"

"Kinda... Look, DJ Chip, I'm really sorry about this but he found out and- hey!"

There was the sound of a slight scuffle before a far older voice came over the line.

"Attention all Reapers listening, do not mess with Lung, do you hear me? He is a very powerful Parahuman who-!"

"WOAH! Sorry, Army, but it looks like that's all the time we've got, going to have to cut you off, okay, buh-bye, kiss kiss!"

"Don't you-!" CLICK!

"Okay everybody, looks like we're done here. See you all tomorrow, same time, new station! From me to you, this is DJ Chiptune with the Reaper Review! Peace out!"

And the transmission devolved into static.

-o-

The room went silent as the double doors slid open and she strode in. Her shades caught the shine of the christmas lights someone had strung up as her wide sleeves caught the breeze from the battered A/C that hung over the bar and billowed out.

Then the silence ended and everyone roared in approval. A heavy-set and tanned man manning the bar wound up and pitched a drink at her while everyone walked up for shakes and high-fives.

It was friendly, it was lively. Everyone was smiling or talking or joking with someone else. It waselectric. Thriving even. It didn't matter that the building was an old shipping building and was probably older than anyone in it by a good number, or that it was held together with rust and paint. People of all ages, races and genders were here, playing pool in the corner, sitting at tables playing cards, arm wrestling, comparing sketches and a dozen other things scattered around. An old platform was now a stage where a trio of men plucked smoothly at guitars while two girls hung around a battered old fridge near the generator sipping drinks.

This was Southern's. One of many places Reaper's called a second home, if not their first.

Because that was what it was intended to be. It was made to be a home, where they could be themselves, be accepted, no matter what.

"Hey boss!"

"How's it hanging?"

The Composer turned, looked down and smiled. A pair of kids, a boy and a girl, only about thirteen or so, were smiling up at her. They were wearing red and black hoodies with mirrored tribal designs and reversed colors whose sleeves were way too long .

"Hip, Hop, nice to see you two." She greeted. "I'm fine, thanks. So, are you going out with Gangsta and I?"

The twins nodded eagerly.

"Yup!" The boy said.

"It's going to be a blast" His sister agreed.

She smiled back at them, although they probably couldn't see it. Instead, she nodded and ruffled both of their hair.

"Good. Just remember to back off if something happens, alright?"

The pair sighed simultaneously as they rolled their eyes.

"Don't worry!"

"We'll be fine!"

"Besides..."

They grinned mischievously as they each displayed a spray paint can with mirrored tornado designs on them.

"If things get too rough,"

"We've got backup!"

The Composer tilted her head for a second before sighing and nodding. "Alright then. So be it. Just stay safe."

Both nodded, and as they slipped past and headed off somewhere into the building she could see the other spray cans hanging heavily off the back of their belts. Satisfied with that, she turned and started to make her way to the bar, stopping for a quick chat or a high-five as she went. But as she did make her way, she kept peeled for Ais-Gangsta and the others.

They didn't immediately stand-out, so she hazarded a guess that they were probably in one of the backrooms still getting ready. Or annoying Southern.

"SQUEE!"

Suddenly, a sky blue pig with tribal markings and features ran straight by Taylor until it was hit with a flying tackle from a laughing girl.

Or she could be screwing around with a can of Pig Jigs.

Gangsta crowed gleefully as she clutched the struggling swine in her arms and stood up. "Hey guys, found the real one! Pay up!"

A chorus of groans and cheers rang out through the crowd as money and paint cans exchanged hands.

Gangsta chuckled to herself as she looked around the crowd. "What do you folks say, huh?" She held the surprisingly light pig above her head. "One more round?"

"Actually..."

Gangsta was surprised by a hand reaching above her and tagging the pig. The creature gave a final squeal before dissolving into static and flowing into the Composer's hand.

"I'd say that's enough of that."

There was a moment of awkward silence as Gangsta stood there with her arms up in the air, blinking slowly. Then she gave her boss a flat look. "Was that necessary?"

"Considering how I was about ready to tie you up and strap you to one of my hogs?"

Gangsta looked over the bar and huffed at the guy wearing a cowboy vest and stetson who was grinning at her.

"I'd reckon it was."

Gangsta blew a raspberry at him from beneath her bandana.

The Composer chuckled lightheartedly, holding her hands up in a placating manner. "Okay, okay, that's enough of that. Now, before we go..." She tilted her glasses down a bit to give Southern a flat look. "Where are Grunge and Crunk?"

Southern began acting shifty, refusing to meet her gaze. "Ah, now see, that's a funny story. Way I reckon, they must have gotten wind somehow or-!"

"South." She cut him off. "I can see the Pit Grizzly and Minimal Rhino behind your bar."

The texan swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "What can I say? Capitalism, am I right?"

Before she could respond, there was the sound of crashing and something falling over, before a door could be distantly heard slamming as the cadence of running feet sounded. Instead, she renewed her flat look at the man.

He stared at her wide-eyed, searching for something to say before sighing and hanging his head. "Yeah, I got nothin'."

The Composer just shook her head as she instead made her way to the stage, the three players surrendering it with a nod as she snatched the mic from it's stand.

"Night folks. How's it going?

There was a resounding cheer to answer her, and even a few drinks in the air.

"Hate to break up a bit of the fun, but I need a headcount of who's heading out with us tonight."

"YEAH!" Gangsta shouted, jumping up on stage and yanking the mike from her boss's hand. "Who's ready to stick it to some AB-bastards!?"

Another cheer went up as about half the crowd stood up and waved their hands or saluted.

The Composer snatched the mike back from Gangsta, giving her a bemused look before running a quick count through her head. "Alright, so that's about twenty or so. Geeze, almost a third of us. Alright, so..." She turned back to the teenage girl. "This is your piece, Gangsta. I'm assuming you have a plan?"

The tagger nodded eagerly. "Heck yeah! Just a sec!" She darted off the stage, running up to a knapsack lying against a wall. She fished through it for a second before withdrawing a roll of paper and running back on stage. "Here, check it out!"

She unrolled the paper and began outlining her plan to the crowd.

Everyone listened intently, grinning as they watched her scheme unfurl.

The Composer nodded along happily, a smile hidden beneath her mask, but radiated by her stance.

-o-

They were filing out the doors when she reached out and grabbed Gangsta as she passed. It was sudden, unannounced, and and the dark-skinned girl quite literally squealed when she felt a strong hand on her shoulder pulling her to the side. After she gave Gangsta a moment to take in her surroundings, she nodded.

"We need to talk."

The rookie Reaper audibly gulped and was visually suppressed a shiver as she responded.

"T-talk?"

The Composer nodded again.

"Talk. I've been chatting with Acoustic, and she's told me a few things about you."

Gangsta blinked dumbly for a moment, before realization struck.

"Ta-I mean Acoustic?"

"Yes. She's brought a few things to my attention, and I think it's time to address them."

Gangsta swallowed heavily, rubbing the back of her neck. "Um... alright... what is it?"

"Well... from what Acoustic tells me, you're quite the admirable young woman."

"It's not my fault, I was framed! I never even touched those noo-! Wait, what?"

The Composer chuckled lightly. "Well, according to her, you're trustworthy, ambitious, loyal... all very impressive."

All Gangsta could do was stare at her boss in shock, helplessly working her jaw. "I... th-thanks. So... what does this mean?"

"What it means," the Composer knelt down a bit and put her hand on Gangsta's shoulder. "Is that I wanted to tell you that I'm considering giving you an extension to your tattoos."

Gangsta perked up instantly. "Seriously!? Sweet! 'Cause, I was thinking that maybe I could upgrade a bit. Cans are useful and all, but having Decadravens on hand-!"

"Actually!" The Composer cut her off with a raised hand. "I've already decided the kind of Noise you'll receive."

The tagger blinked in surprise. "Huh? But... doesn't the person getting the paint choose what it is?"

The Composer nodded in agreement. "That they do. Unless..." She looked at Gangsta over her glasses. "It's a Cornix Canor."

The teenager worked her jaw, trying to process what she had just heard. "A... a Canor!?" She stuttered. "Y-y-you're going to give me a fucking Canor!?"

The Composer shook her head. "Maybe. All I'm saying is that I'm considering it. Acoustic put in the good word. But I need more than words, Gangsta. Show me there is weight in her words and that you deserve it like she thinks you do. I'm putting you in front of the door. Opening it is up to you."

Gangsta nodded numbly for a second before nodding her head with even more fervor. "Y-yeah! You've got it! I'll show you! I promise, I'll definitely earn it!" She grabbed the Composer's hands and shook them fervently. "Thank you, boss, thank you so much!" And with that, the teenager turned around and began running off.

The Composer tilted her head inquisitively, as if she was wondering about the statement. "We'll see Gangsta." She mused.

"We'll see."

-o-

Gangsta cackled happily as she put the finishing touches on the piece of the wall she was working on. "Oh yeah, this is what I'm talking about!" She stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Yessiree, this feels right!"

Another broad stroke, and bright, lively colors flowed onto the wall in surreal swirls and streaks. Emerald greens and cherry reds along with a bit of pearly white found homes on the brickwork as the hiss of pressurized air filled the night. Running up and along the wall was the depiction of a long dragon, arching across the wall. Portraits of knives, arrows, and varying other pieces of weaponry transected the beast as it flowed across the 2D space.

And it was long. It didn't just stretch across the building, it went from the road to another building and spiralling across the rooftops, encompassing the whole of the city block in it's cartoony yet stunningly real depiction. And it still went further, transitioning from cartoony to a more blocky, geometric form as it went down an alleyway.

The Composer nodded approvingly as she watched. "Congratulations, Gangsta, you've outdone yourself."

The teen tagger laughed in response, nodding ecstatically. "They're going to spend weeks trying to clean this stuff up! Once and for all: screwing with the Reapers is a no-no!" She twisted around and raised an eyebrow at her boss. "You'd think the whole city would know that after what we did to Armsmaster's ride when he tried to cuff Hip and Hop."

She tilted her head back, admiring the scenery.

"We look after our own. We don't ask questions, as long as they don't make them. Anyone is welcome, as long as they got something they want to make. Even those two have something they want to do, and we'll help them do it. We'll look out for them, just like we look out for everyone that takes up with us or our liberty and freedom. We sow and we reap. That's our way." She turned around and raised an eyebrow. "Right boss?"

The Composer was silent, staring at Gangsta quietly before tilting her head. "Those words were beautiful and accurate, but sucking up isn't getting you any closer to that Canor."

"Oh come on!"

"Sorry."

Gangsta pouted in response before sighing and looking back at her piece. "Well, either way... I'd say we're about done. And without a hitch too!"

"BOSS!"

"Me and my big mouth..."

The two turned and watched as a teenager in a red hoodie with a green ballcap and camo bag jogged up to them, doubling over and panting heavily as he reached them.

The Composer frowned and walked up to him hurriedly, helping him up. "Chicago, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

Chicago nodded hastily, still trying to reclaim his breath. "Y-yeah, I'm fine, but boss, there's a problem!"

"Well, what is it!?" Gangsta demanded. "Spit it out man!"

Chicago swallowed as he steadied his nerve. "I was heading back after I finished my piece and... I ran into Lung. And the ABB. A lot of the ABB."

"You what!?"

"Well..." He hastily amended. "I didn't actually run into them, I just almost walked in on them meeting together in the middle of a street, so I stayed in the alley. They were talking about attacking somewhere, shooting kids... seriously scary stuff. I got the hell out of there when I had the chance."

Both the Composer's and Gangsta's eyes widened.

"Holy crap..." The tagger breathed.

"This is not good." The Composer agreed.

Chicago nodded definitively. "Yeah. We gotta get out of here. I'll ring Bluegrass, Gangsta, you get-!"

SMACK!

"OUCH!"

The Composer blinked in shock, processing what had just happened. Specifically, the fact that Gangsta had punched Chicago square in the jaw, laying him flat on the ground.

The hooded teen groaned in pain, rubbing his jaw as he picked himself up. "What the hell is wrong with you, Gangsta?!"

"What's wrong with me?!" She demanded indignantly. "What's wrong with you!? We don't run, we help! That scaly jackass is threatening kids! We became Reapers to defend freedom, what kind of bitches would we be if we let that overgrown freak step on them, if we let him get his way just because he's stronger!? You say you're a Reaper? Then act like a Reaper!" She grabbed him by the front of his jacket and yanked him up so that they were face to face, repeating herself forcefully. "Fucking act like it!"

Time stood still as they stared at each other, breathing heavily.

Finally, Chicago spoke. "So..." He asked evenly. "What do you think we should do?"

Gangsta let him go and stepped back, her arms crossed. "The only thing we can. We fight."

Chicago was silent before turning to look at the Composer, who had been silent the entire time. "And you?"

The Composer shrugged indifferently. "You all might have decided to call me your boss, but not once have I ever said I was. A friend, a companion, maybe a teacher, but never your superior. Whatever choice you make, it's your call. I'll support it either way."

The teen stared at her for a second before sighing heavily and climbing to his feet, dusting his pants off. "Well, guess there's only one answer to that." He dug his phone out of his pocket and punched the speed-dial, hiding it to his ear. "Industrial? Yeah, it's me. Get the others and meet us at Park and Third. Be ready for one hell of a throw done. Uh-huh. Got it. Later." He snapped his phone shut.

Gangsta nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Chicago."

The Reaper gave a noncommittal grunt. "Don't thank me yet. This is still stupid. At best, I'm doing this so that I don't have to wait for visiting hours in the burn ward to say I told you so."

"Heh, fuck you too, man."

"Not even if I was drunk and stoned." He gave the Composer an appraising look. "So, what now?"

The hooded girl pointed down the alleyway. "Go meet up with the others and come up with a game plan, I need a moment with Gangsta."

Chicago nodded, turned around and jogging out of the alley.

Gangsta swallowed heavily as she looked at the Composer worriedly. "Look, if this is about me punching him, I wish I could say I was sorry, but honestly!"

"Turn around, kneel down, and take your shirt off."

She blinked in surprise. "Huh?"

"You heard me." The Composer repeated. "You just stood up for every last thing the Reapers represent without prompt as a knee-jerk reaction. So turn around and take your shirt off."

Gangsta blinked in shock for a second before realization hit her at a million miles an hour. "You- I- sweet!" She span around, got on her knees, and all but ripped her jacket off, working her shirt over her head.

On her back was a tattoo of a pair of wings, originating between her shoulderblades and running down her arms till they very tips ended on the back of her hands. The resulting image was elaborate and stunning, skeletal and colorful wings that would stretch and flex with every movement.

The Composer reached out, only to stop just short of touching her shoulders. She looked at Gangsta inquiringly. "Are you sure of this? This isn't like the Noise. I can rescind the offer, but I doubt I can ever take this back. Once I do this, it's part of you."

Gangsta twisted around to give her a bemused look. "Hey, do I need to punch you next?

She smiled. "Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you. Offhand, I'm told this hurts. Alot."

Gangsta shrugged indifferently as she rolled her shoulders. "Eh, these things stung like a bitch when Grunge sprayed 'em on, how bad can it be?"

"This bad."

The Composer laid her hand on the teen's shoulders, paint flowing from her hands intoGangsta's skin.

The tagger hissed, biting her lip to keep from screaming. "Y-yeah, that's p-pretty ba-a-a-A!" The gasp and grinding of teeth that escaped the Reaper as the paint etched itself into her muscles was sharp and short as she went from biting her lip to outright tearing into a wad of her shirt.

"There there," The Composer soothed, "Almost through, almost..."

The paint shifted and writhed, flowing into and along the tattoos. Slowly, a shape began to take form that fleshed out more of the skeleton wings and reached up and down her back.

At last, it was done. The Composer let Gangsta's shoulders go and took a step back, her shoulders shaking as she breathed heavily.

Meanwhile, Gangsta fell forwards, falling forwards to lean on her hands as her chest heaved violently.

On her back, the tattoo had shifted so that instead of wings, she had the full-blown skeleton of a bird, stretching from the screeching beak at the nape of her neck to the grasping talons at the small of her back.

"You okay?" The Composer asked worriedly.

Gangsta was silent for a second before nodding shakily. "Y-yeah... just sore. Still though..." She held her hand up before her face, clenching it and unclenching it experimentally.

She gave the Composer a feral, electric smile.

"I feel better then ever!"

The Composer smiled beneath her mask.

"Good enough to kick some yakuza-wannabe ass?"

Gangsta's smile widened even further. Slowly, she drew herself up to her feet, turned around, and slammed her fist into her palm.

"Hell yes."