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.

5. Sonata 4

Sonata 4

-o-

The Composer rapped on the boarded-up door. Once, twice, then three times in quick succession.

At first, there was no response. Then a hidden panel popped open in the middle of the door, allowing someone to stare through the opening.

"What's the password?"

The Composer sighed tiredly, placing her hand on the door next to the opening, allowing color to flow through it and to the other side, "Open up or I'll break it down."

The panel slammed shut, followed by the sound of multiple locks opening and chains coming undone. The door swung open, showing that the boards were only there to allowing a the Reaper to eye her warily, "Yeesh, boss. What crawled up your ass and died?"

The Composer walked past him, grumbling under her breath, "A ten-foot tall game-changing dragon."

The Reaper swallowed heavily as he realized what she was talking about, "Point taken. Er, by the way! I really like your outfit, boss!"

The Composer stopped for a second, looking over her clothes. She was wearing a crimson long coat over a sleeveless red flak jacket. The coat had grey lightning bolts streaking from the center of her back. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she had a red military-style cap on her head. Her face was obscured mask by a gas mask that covered the bottom half of her head, while her eyes were hidden behind a pair of orange-tinted ski goggles. She had a military headset over the cap, grey treble clefs on the speakers and the microphone positioned in front of her mouth.

The Composer took a moment to smirk beneath her mask. 'Sometimes, there are benefits to being able to customize your costume.' She gave the Reaper a grateful nod, "Thanks. Keep up the good work."

The Reaper gave her a casual salute, "Will do! But... for the record? It's a good thing you got here so soon. Things are getting kinda... tense in there."

The parahuman stiffened visibly. "How tense?"

"Ten more minutes and Gangsta and Grunge will be painting each other black and blue?"

The Composer cursed, dashing down the hallway and into the Gallery proper.

"Well, alright then! Nice talking to you!"

The Composer emerged into a wide, open space. Above, the glass dome let in the night light where it wasn't covered by paint or cracked and broken. All around, Reaper's were gathered and talking, trading, or just hanging out on salvaged deck chairs and whatever else was on hand. Normally she would take the time to mingle, admire whatever new art had been hung up, but right now she didn't have the time.

She cut her way through the crowd, people taking one look at her and parting like the Red Sea as she made for the entrance to the showroom wing. But as she went through the doors, she took a sudden right and headed through another set marked 'employee's only'.

Or she would have, had she not taken notice of a throng of Reapers clamoring around a small podium off to the side. More specifically, a certain individual standing just on the outskirts of the crowd. She turned on her heel and began making her way towards the gathering.

The group was rather unruly, shouts and gestures flying about wildly. Directing the mayhem were Hip and Hop, grinning madly as they balanced on top of the podium.

"Do I hear three Sound for this Brit Popguin? Three Sound, three Sound, going once, twice! Three Sound and a Jungle Boomer! That's three Sound and a J-Boomer, four! Four Sound and a J-Boomer, any more? No? Going once, twice, sold! For Four Sound and a Jungle Boomer!"

"A pair of Freestyle Flappers, pair of Flappers, right here! Let's start the bidding at five Sound, five Sound for the wings, six! Six Sound for the Flappers, make that seven! Eight! Eight and a Shrew Gazer! Eight and a Gazer, going once, twice, sold!"

The Composer ignored the bidding war. Instead, she was focused on a pair standing just outside the chaos. One was a mature, elegant woman wearing a greek toga, with long sleeves and skirt, and an opera-style domino mask.

The other was a girl wearing a Victorian doll dress and a blank, porcelain mask.

"So..." The girl asked hesitantly as she watched the Reapers, "They're trading... paint cans?"

The woman in the dress nodded, an amused smile on her face. "Yes, they are. It's a common enough occurrence. Cans are reusable once the Composer refills them, but we have our fun using them as a form of... makeshift currency. There's all sorts of uses: we trade them for favors, use them to pay off debts, bet them, so on and so forth."

"Oh... and... the names? Sound? Jungle... Banger?"

"Boomer. The name signifies what the can contains. Some cans have something...special… which in turn is labeled with a name to help Reaper's know what they are handling. Sound signifies a more common type of paint that's used."

"You mean the one that shifts and moves?"

"Exactly! You see, all Reaper paints, be it Sound or otherwise, are somewhat... alive to to speak. They responds to our whims, our feelings, taking on the forms we direct them to. As a Reaper learns, they can better express themselves and in turn their creations become more...exotic I suppose you can say. The more in touch with themselves, the better the paint reacts. A Reaper must believe and feel what they want to paint, and if they do, the paint reacts appropriately."

"They also..." The Composer intoned darkly, drawing attention to herself. "Need to check with me first before using some of the more advanced paint cans. Just in case. You know, a precaution."

The toga-wearing woman swallowed heavily, plastering a nervous grin on her face, "C-Composer! What a wonderful surprise!" She gestured at the nervous girl standing next to her, "I-I'd like to introduce-"

"Parian. I know."

"Oh! S-so you've already met?"

"I've heard of her. But what I haven't heard was that we would be having guests. But then again, this is the Gallery. We always have new faces showing up unexpectedly. I might be getting old or something, because I could swear that there was something concerning that, but again, it just might be me."

The temperature had dropped several degrees during the conversation, and the domino-masked women was visibly trying to compose herself while her eyes darted away from the Composer's piercing gaze.

Eventually it ended, as the Composer looked and nodded at Parian.

"Either way, welcome to the Gallery. Feel free to have a look around, and enjoy some of our work. I happen to know that a lot of us happen to admire your own creations. Just have your friend show you around, and she'll make sure you have a fun time. But please, be discreet with whatever information she passes to you? Trade secrets and all that."

She turned away, and started back to the door before pausing and looking back.

"Oh, Chanson! That reminds me. Southern wanted me to pass on a message to you: there was an... issue with the cans you asked from him. They'll be a bit late, but I'm sure you can make do, hmm?"

Chanson visibly deflated, even as she nodded morosely, "Y-yes. That's fine."

"Good. Now then, if you'll excuse me..." The Composer walked through the doors, heading for the main stage.

Parian looked worriedly at her friend. "Um, Cla-?"

"Please, call me Chanson. Codenames help us keep our Reaper selves and casual selves separate."

"R-right. Chanson. What was that all about? She sounded…mad."

The woman sighed tiredly, running a hand over her face. "The Composer doesn't get mad. She gets... disappointed, which, in a way, is worse. You see... I may or may not have broken a few rules bringing you here. I just wanted to impress you a bit, show you what we do, which is all perfectly fine... so long as we clear it with a senior Reaper first. And now, because of my misstep, it looks like I'll be running short on paints for awhile..."

Parian swallowed heavily. "O-oh my. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any trouble!"

Chanson laughed sadly, shaking her head, "Oh don't be. It was my fault. And besides..." A mischievous grin played over her face, "If I can't get paint from the usual providers..." She fished a heavily detailed can from the folds of her dress, "I'll just have to search elsewhere!" She held the can above her head, displaying it for all to see.

"A Classi Corehog going for ten Sound!"

And thus the bidding war commenced.

The Composer grumbled under as she walked through the door. She could feel the beginnings of a migraine forming, and what she saw before her only accentuated that feeling.

The main storage area of the Gallery featured a large, circular stage that jutted above the crowd. Arrays of lights and speakers hung from the ceiling like metal and plastic stalactites mixed in with the old rails for helping move the statues that would come in to the Gallery when it was still an actual art gallery, before the state of affairs in Brockton Bay took a nose-dive. The capabilities for flight really simplified installing electronics at high altitudes.

A good chunk of the Reapers were surrounding the stage, eagerly watching the spectacle going on before them.

Namely, two Reapers facing off on the stage.

On one side was Gangsta, in all her indignant, teenage glory.

And on the other side was a massive bear of a man. He was wearing an old, beat up pair of coveralls, with oil stains and singes. The toolbelt that was strung diagonally across his chest and around his waist was laden with a myriad of paint cans. His mouth was covered by a bandana, his eyes hidden behind a pair of welding goggles, and his head covered by an engineer's cap.

The Composer groaned, running her hand over her face, "Damn it, Grunge!" She muttered to herself.

The two Reapers were carrying out a heated argument.

"Are you even listening to me, you little punk!?" Grunge demanded. "I'm telling you that we have to back down! We can't keep doing this!"

"Or what?" Gangsta asked mockingly, splaying her arms wide, "Your buddies in the PRT are going to throw a hissy fit?"

"Yeah! Them, and Bakuda, and the rest of the ABB!" Grunge growled in frustration, starting to walk around the border of the platform, "You just don't understand! These guys, they aren't some sort of joke! I was on duty when Bakuda triggered, I was there when she blew up a whole wing of her university! You haven't heard her ranting like a loon! Her temper is about as hair-trigger and violent as one of her own bombs, and it's only gotten worse! It's only a matter of time before she takes it out on us!"

"Then let her!" Gangsta growled. All of a sudden, her back lit up in light and static. She zipped up to Grunge, hovering so that she was eye to eye with him on her wings. "Let her get pissed! Let her get mad! We can take it! She won't even be able to touch us! We've gotten a strong start, why the hell should we stop?!"

The grease-stained man growled as he held up a finger, "Because we got freaking lucky! The fact that you managed to take down Lung was a miracle, possible only because Armsmaster saved your sorry asses! That monster survived Kyushu of all things, he fought Leviathan, Leviathan to a stand-still! We got lucky because we bounced him across the neighbourhood for twenty minutes before Army showed his chrome-dome ass and stuck him. If he hadn't you'd all be deep-fried and crispy by a twenty-foot metal plated freak!"

Aisha scoffed, flapping a foot away from him as she crossed her arms, "First time Army's ever been good for something. And meanwhile, the PRT sits on their asses and twiddles their thumbs. No surprise there."

Grunge stiffened visibly, his stance becoming very aggressive, "Repeat that." He demanded quietly.

Gangsta leaned in closer to him, "You heard me."

In a moment, Grunge's arms lit up with light and static, morphing into a powerful pair of bony bear arms. Simultaneously, his back lit up as well. Beneath his feet, a pair of stylized bear-skull logos materialized on the stage floor. A flash of static later and he was flanked by a scowling pair of the bone-grey, skeleton-armed bears commonly known as Circle Pit Grizzlies.

Grunge shook with fury as he stared at the girl. "Take. That. Back."

Gangsta flew in until she was nose-to-nose with the man. "Make me."

Grunge's claws clenched violently, the Grizzlies next to him drawing back their hackles as they growled predatorily. "Gladly."

But before they could come to blows...

"Hey Grunge!"

The two Reapers snapped their heads towards the sound of the voice.

"Bo-MMPH!?" That was all the bear-like man could get out before a light-pink jellyfish with blue tentacles slapped into his face, wrapping its tentacles around his head. He stumbled backwards, his flailing arms clipping his ursine posse as they tried to help him and sending them reeling.

The Composer dusted her hands off as she climbed onto the stage. "That's for wasting a can of Patchy."

Gangsta had fallen from the air, too occupied with laughing to uproariously to keep aloft."HAHAHA! A J-J-JELLY S-S-SWECHNO! IN HIS F-FACE! HAHAHAHAAAAA!" She flipped on her stomach and pounded on the stage helplessly.

Finally, Grunge managed to get a grip on the jellyfish, ripping the aquatic Noise off his face and crushing it into static. He gasped for air as he stared at the Composer. "B-B-Boss!"

"Hello Grunge," She greeted in a cordial tone that masked an underlying hint of menace. "Tell me... when I called a recital to discuss what occurred yesterday, what were the exact thoughts that ran through your head when you decided it would be a good idea to start a fight, hmm?"

The large Reaper swallowed heavily before casting a glare past her at the still cackling Gangsta. "I was thinking something along the lines of teaching a certain snot-nosed rookie why not to insult the guys who face Para-nutjobs for a living, despite the risks it poses."

Aisha's attention was regained almost immediately. "Hey, screw you man, I-!"

The pair were silenced by the Composer's raised hands. "Alright, alright, that's enough. If you want to fight, do it later. For now, we're getting away from tonight's topic: yesterday's events, and what it means for the Reapers. Understood?"

The Reapers both gave a mumbled "Yes Boss." Then Grunge spoke up. "But, for the record... that's what we were talking about."

"I know, I heard." The Composer said in an amused voice. "But if we're going to be debating... let's do it with a larger audience, shall we?" And with that, she tapped a button on her headset. A second later, a sharp crackle of static came over the speakers, not just hanging above her, but set up throughout the Gallery as well. A small gift courtesy of DJs Chiptune and Synth. She spoke into her headset, and her voice was repeated throughout the building. "Attention everyone: put down what you're doing and come to the stage. It's time for the main event!"

The sound of stomping feet and opening doors rang throughout the Gallery as Reapers streamed into the hall. Some materialized wings af flew up to observe from the eaves, while others like Hip and Hop climbed on the shoulders of others. More than a few mutterings and ran throughout the crowd and no less than half a dozen cans exchanged hands before the crowd finally settled.

The Composer just watched silently, arms crossed in front of her and waiting as the flood of persons coming in slowed to a trickle, and eventually ended as the doors closed. She noted with interest that Parian and Chanson were present, watching at the back of the crowd. With a nod, she fingered her mic again and stepped up to the front of the stage.

"Alright folks..." she said as she started to pace back and forth. "...most of you probably already heard about what happened last night and why. Canton got a visit from some recruiters, and turned them down thanks to him having a few friends along. Now, it's a fact. Hell, it's a freaking creed we've taken up that we look out for our own. And having the ABB just walk up and try to take one us? Well, that doesn't roll. So Gangsta, in true Reaper spirit, decided to do as we typically do and make a message. We got together, went out, had fun, and painted our words like we always do."

She stopped for a moment, looking out over the silent crowd before continuing. "Then things went south. Apparently Lung was gathering guns for an attack on some kids. And there came the problem: We Reapers haven't fought the gangs. Not ever, not in a way that matters. We'll stick up for ourselves, not back down when some punk tries to mess with us because he has fresh colors and feels larger than life. But we haven't done anything to challenge them. It's how we have survived like we have. We're artists, free thinkers. Those that don't want to fit in a box, or who didn't feel like living in the mold of society or the gangs. There are some who couldn't even if they wanted to here. We lay low, keep separate. What we do is try to spread our word, our belief through our actions instead of what we say. We are Reapers. We won't be handed our freedom, we'll reap it for ourselves. Do you know what that means?"

The silence was deafening.

Finally, Grunge spoke up. "We won't accept whatever fate is decided for us by anyone else." He rumbled.

Gangsta nodded in solemn agreement. "We carve our own path in life, and we paint it and decorate it and walk it as we see fit."

The Composer nodded. "Yes. Our freedom. Not the freedom given to us by other people. Not the people who say one thing is right and one thing is wrong, not by the gangs or anyone. Our freedom. Not any one elses. But we also have a second goal!" She crossed her arms definitively. "Our goal is to protect, not just our freedom, but that of anyone else that finds they don't have it. Reapers will reap, not just for themselves but for others. It doesn't show, but it's there. In or out, normal or not, we will do our best to help someone who needs it. Alot of us didn't even start out as artists, or taggers, or dancers or musicians or whatever else. They started out as someone who didn't have much of anything, someone who felt like they were missing something, but didn't know what. Until a single Reaper came along, and showed them the little ways they could discover what they never had, truly had."

"As such, we got some of the best humans imaginable here all in one room. All ages, genders, races, and everything else anyone has ever been labeled with. We got people who used to be rancher's till they lost the farm, fishermen till they lost their boats, mechanics and everything from every single walk of life. We have brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, and those that don't have any of that anymore, or never truly did. We made more than a gang, a group, or a movement. We made a family. People who will stick up for each other no matter what, and will stick out their necks for someone they don't know just because it's the right thing to do. That is what the Reapers stand for. As such, it was why we decided to face Lung, face him and his men, and defend those that he threatened. Didn't matter afterwards that they were a gang of teenage parahumans. They had never wronged us, but still. We stuck out our necks for them, because it was the right thing to do, because they had the right to live, just as much as you or I."

"And now..." She spread her arms out wide. "We all stand at a crossroads. We stood up. We weren't a mash-up patchwork bunch of artists anymore. We stood up, and we became a threat. So now we have to make a choice. What do we do? Our strength was our invisibility. We looked weak, we acted it. We would run rather than fight. So everyone didn't pay us mind. To the gangs, we were just a thorn. Sure, we were annoying, but we were small enough to not be worth removing. To the PRT, we weren't a gang. We were just vandals, unruly teenagers at best with some loose organization. Not worth the manpower to stamp out. To the public, we weren't much better then the gangs. Just another bunch of thugs waiting to happen. But this won't be the case for much longer…"

"So here and now, we discuss our future. Do we step past that boundary, push further? Push harder? Or do we lay low? Do we make this a unique occurrence, and let this storm blow over? Talk is that what isn't caged up of Lung's gang is going to gun for us. Going to gun for anyone that calls themselves a Reaper and isn't going to really care who they hurt in the process. Talk is, the Empire is looking at things now like a buffet, waiting for the chance to pounce and tear the city up for their little doctrine. PRT is looking at us like a new gang, and is gearing up to take us down if we make a move. Hell if I know what everyone else is thinking, or if they even are thinking. So now we choose. We step up? It's war. We step down? Can we live with ourselves? It'll be the classic saying of running away to fight another day, but will it? That is the question."

The Composer gestured back at Gangsta and Grunge. "These two have their own arguments on the matter. Grunge is a senior, He has been with me since the beginning, despite his ties with the PRT, despite the risk posed to him. His loyalty is unquestionable. Gangsta, on the other hand, is new, but she has shown zeal and drive beyond herself, showing a dedication to what we stand for that rivals even my own. Will any others choose to step up and speak their mind?"

Silence reigned over the crowd. Then...

"I will."

The Composer turned and watched as South climbed up onto the stage, his Stetson firmly on his head and his face obscured by a cowboy bandana. He nodded at her. "Might as well speak my part, whatever it may be."

The Composer nodded right back. "Southern, who's been here almost as long as Grunge, and provided shelter and support for our own with his bar. A helping hand and an ever-ready ear. All around, a good friend."

Mutters of agreement ran throughout the crowd, until finally...

"Ah screw it." A red-hooded Reaper sighed tiredly as he climbed on the stage. "Suppose there's no reason not to."

The original Reaper nodded at him as well. "Chicago Blues. Silent and quiet, but ever vigilant. Always with his ear to the ground, and always with the right piece of information. The voice of the masses."

The Composer moved to the back of the stage, even as she picked up a spare mic from a stool and tossed it towards Southern.

"Either way, good or bad, we sort this tonight. We don't have the luxury of time or resources. We have what we have here tonight, and what each and every one of you can bring to the table."

The four Reapers on stage nodded, and the Composer stepped off the stage, moving to take a seat to the rear of the room, near the back of the of the crowd with Chanson and Parian.

She nodded at the two as she sat down. "So, enjoying your time?" She asked the Parahuman.

The seamstress nodded shyly. "Y-yes ma'am. I really liked your speech. It was... motivational."

The Composer waved her hand dismissively. "Please, 'ma'am' is what they call Piggot in the PRT. Just call me Composer."

"A-alright..." Parian trailed off uncertainly.

The Composer gave her a searching look. "Do you have something you want to ask? Don't be afraid, I won't bite." She smiled teasingly beneath her mask. "I've got my Noise for that."

Parian must have picked up on her tone because she giggled shyly. "W-well... shouldn't you still be back up on stage?"

The Reaper shook her head in denial. "No matter what anyone else says, I don't lead the Reapers. We lead ourselves. Whatever path we choose tonight..."

She pointed up at the stage.

"Will be outlined by them. From there... well now, we'll just have to wait see, won't we?"