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The Best Part of You: Chapter 2.2: Concert Crasher (final)

((You can find part 1 here!))
Seth stumbled backwards and slipped on a puddle of digital slurry. His duelist flipped the bows into icepick grip, still with that aching, fake smile, and drove them down like daggers.
Scooting back as the sabers plunged through where his shoulders had been a second ago, he sent a wild kick into one of her shins and sent the encroaching killer toppling forwards. A knee landed uncomfortably close for comfort, eliciting a startled gasp of anticipation, followed by two bows ripping through the sleeves by his elbows to staple him with his back to the ground. Not enormously keen on letting a straddling serial killer vivisect him, Seth drew his legs out from under her, bent up and planted his dress shoes into her stomach, forcing her up and off in a flailing angry ball of venom. She cracked the back of her head on the floor with an audible impact that made him feel a brief pang of sympathy, quickly overshadowed by fear.
Untangling himself from the ruined jacket skewered with bows, the unclaimed demigod climbed to his feet, sneezing in a cloud of dust and resin. The masked attacker had recovered just as quickly, forcing him to raise his arms to catch her fists in a hurry. Her superior positioning and grip slowly eased him closer to the pile of instruments while her own breathing grew heavy. The gloved fingers laced with his own, mixing sweat and sludge, and squeezed until his bones threatened to crack. Several sharp points pricked his back. They had reached the pile, where, among other things, the demolished top board of a harpsichord terminated in a minefield of wooden splinters and nails. She eased him onto the deadly speartips with sadistic slowness. Seth’s arms trembled and were moments from giving out.
A trapdoor opened unhinged beneath her, swinging inward, and swallowed her up. Her grip on him was lost with a surprised yell. Seth peeled himself from the close call behind him. A hand rose to his heart and he dug in his nails to steady the heaving of his chest. If he ended up having a heart attack in his sleep, he was going to wake up so pissed in the Underworld.
It went without saying at this point that Seth’s momentary crush had evaporated like a fart in an industrial centrifuge, and any lovestruck notions of playing a saucy duet were replaced with the telltale jitters of flight-or-fight. With their host recently departed, the holographic stage lamps took to him instead, rotating about his head and dazzling him with harsh cyan sparks. A few experimental swings at them scared them off long enough to clear his space and his head. He needed to arm himself. A sweep of the floor revealed the twin bows sticking straight down into his jacket. It’ll do.
A hop, skip and jump over the trapdoor gauntlet placed him in front of the weapons, which he snatched up and inspected with the time he had left. The fearsome meld of garrote wire and Celestial Bronze left him wondering if it was even possible to play a violin with these monstrosities, and how awful the resulting sound would be produced. Seth couldn’t operate a manual can opener, much less a pair of twin music sabers, and his confidence diminished. Whatever the case, he felt safer knowing he had disarmed the crazy one-woman concert. When the trapdoor swung downwards and opened back up to let her disheveled form slowly rise, he steeled himself and held them by his sides. “What are you going to do without these, huh?” A disaster of a snarky line, and pretty much tempting fate to show her pull out something worse, but it was difficult to come up with snappy comments in the middle of a brawl, and he only had so much breath. He’d have plenty of time to write better material after she killed him and he repeated this process the next night.
The mask fractured briefly into a frown before correcting itself when the lamps swarmed her head with a buzz. She was seated on a large lumpy object resembling another piano – seriously? Seth was going to serenaded to death? – with several augmentations the nature of which could not be discerned. She dabbed delicately below the mask’s mouth with a handkerchief to wipe away a line of fluid dripping out then tapped the piano in front of her lovingly.
The spotlights centered back on her. She dragged her hands across the keyboard in a rapid minor scale and as if on cue, a large bronze cannon styled with treble clefs emerged from the opening top board. Cyan liquid glistened and pooled underneath the instrument-turned-siege engine. Spokes cranked outwards and wheels bound with rope affixed themselves to grounded rails.
The looming smile widened, causing the plastic to warp. The bows felt much less fearsome in his hands than they had several moments ago. White heels rammed into the pedal box and several pullies began to churn below the ground. The barrel of the cannon zeroed on his torso. “Oh.”
A beat pause followed.
Another pause.
“A cannon isn’t an instrument, you know.”
The maestra threw her fists down on the keys for a discordant wallop of sound. Pyoter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s loudest rebuttal that cannons are, in fact, instruments, exploded out of the barrel in the form of a glitchy blob of electronic lights. Church bells rang in Seth’s brain as it collided with his upper body. Suddenly he was weightless, hitting not the ground but hurtling straight through the mountain of instruments and bursting out on the other side after boring straight through.
The ethereal projectile that had struck him melted into skin, leaving a Rorschach splotch across his dress shirt. Clamminess and a heavy, nauseating buzzing behind the eyeballs rocked him back and forth on the floor. The hole left by his trajectory through the hill began to collapse. The grand piano at the top sagged in the rapidly disappearing foundation. By the time Seth had staggered to his feet and inspected himself only to find no physical wound, the lamps had abandoned him to continue hounding their original target. So dream logic was back in full swing; good to know. That didn’t mean he wanted to take another cannonball head-on.
The assailant came into view atop the pile having recovered her blades, flawlessly cartwheeling into a triple flip and perching onto the descending piano to ride it like a runaway snowboard. She dragged a bow along her throat menacingly, her intention clear; Seth steeled against the bubbling pain descending into his stomach and wiped a spool of technicolor poison from his lips. He hurried around the pile to put more distance between himself and the ballerina of chaos, eyeing the torn top board with a dreadful resignation and tearing it free.
Speaking of ballerina… from around the pile she half-approached, half-danced in a rotating pirouette, sweeping the blades out in large circular swathes. The deadly dervish spun towards him like a top. Refusing to back down, Seth swung the nailed board hard. Their respective armaments clashed. Propping it as a makeshift shield, he held his ground and withstood the rhythmic succession of blows, each one chipping off a bit more of his bastion until a duel strike shattered the wood into pieces.
The maestra lowered her leg and stopped spinning to revel momentarily in Seth’s helplessness, tilting her head teasingly and receiving an unexpected punch to the face. She crumpled like a house of cards. Seth felt the satisfying crunch of a nose under his right hook then bounced back to roll up his sleeves and free up some elbow movement while staying light on the balls of his feet. It took a certain amount of sucker punches to the face himself before he had perfected the feint against particularly relentless bullies, and as much as he loathed the dirtiness of fisticuffs, victory took priority. He rolled his neck, because that’s what fighters did on television and it just felt natural. “Okay. Okay? Wanna dance? We can dance. Let’s dance, honey.”
Her motionless body convulsed and drew itself up on invisible puppet strings. One of her gloves fell by the wayside, and a prosthetic hand of manikin wood curled even tighter around the bow. Living doll. Not creepy at all. And her face…eugh.
A hideous spiderweb of cracked concentric circles circled the mask’s crushed nose in bullseye formation, smattered with the same noxious-smelling digital pus that reminded Seth of a leaking glowstick. A nasty memory resurfaced of six-year-old him tasting the fluid at a Fourth of July picnic and the thought of glass filaments and toxic chemicals on his tongue burned like acid. Gods only knew what it was doing to his insides right now, settling into his gut and making the lights swim around his skull.
Any hint of the mask’s smile was gone now, as well as several shards surrounding it. Through the chaos of the revolving lights he could made out a pair of lips cracked raw, curled into an animalistic snarl. From a few of the hairline fractures forming at the top, individual strands of curly brown hair and patches of the face underneath visible through the broken mesh of the fencing helmet sparkled under the glare of the lamps. The most off-putting example of body horror was only visible when the lamps were behind Seth, angling the light just right to show golden stitches sealing the mouth shut and spelling one word:
The veneer of confidence was gone. Seth could feel the grey eyes roving up and down, drinking him in and calculating how exactly to approach him next. The words branded into the mask were illegible neon flares sending fireworks into his eyeballs. More of the sludge began to diffuse through his clothes, numbing his fear. The hazel of his irises was sapped from his eyes and poured out in large round tears and his lids drooped. A similar desaturation process took place across his face. His knees knocked and wobbled, then quickly gave out. Like a swarm of piranhas the lamps crowded around him, their digital screens sucking the colorful ink out of every available patch of hair or exposed skin.
Granny Su placed down the unopened bottle of pills on the kitchen table and folded her arms. Seth had always joked that the hard set of her mouth and lack of wrinkles at her age made her a total catch in the funeral parlor, which always earned a rare smirk. He doubted that gallows humor would weasel him out of trouble now. He shrunk from her gaze and let his eyes lose focus and his mind wander into the clouds, just so he could be anywhere but here.
Seth gasped and fell over. He shuddered involuntarily and felt the shadows of the lamps passing him by, opening up to beam their contents onto his opponent. With the spotlight back on her she bent one leg in front of the other and tilted her head back. She basked in the cacophony to allow the sensations to wash over her. Floating strings of scrawled diagrams, mathematical laws, hateful slurs, migraine-inducing swirls of gasoline invaded the nostrils. 649 became 651, then 658, 675, 677, exchanging digits and rolling through new numbers like a malfunctioning slot machine. A lamp coiled its wires around the discarded glove, slurped up more of the slurry staining it, and stretched it over the naked hand. With a twang the bladed wires now coated in the corrosive substance snapped off of the bows and wiggled uselessly.
His arms were gone. Brilliant wavy streaks of ink outlined his fingers and down to the wrinkled sleeves scrunched by the elbows, leaving the rest of him entirely transparent. Blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes raw only made the undulating pinpricks of light sparkle harsher. The floor fell away, inducing a sense of weightlessness. Fighting the sloshing sensation in his head the demigod drew himself up, spat out a glob of digital sludge and tossed a sloppy punch through the defensive barrier of screens. The landing was weak, but the impact splattered more ink across the heavily marred façade and the killer recoiled. Her ceremony disrupted, Mara lunged forward, threw the bows away, hooked her fingers around the loop of Seth’s bowtie, pulled him close and-
Wait. Why did he know her name? Recognition sharpened his brain with photographic precision. Even under the shroud of a mangled fencing costume she was impossible to misplace. An accidental collision in front of the Athena cabin and an awkward, forgettable apology on his part was the sum of their interactions. Seth could not guess why she was here, in a music-themed fever dream, dressing like the Joker’s awkward band phase and trying to throttle the idiot in front of her. What he COULD guess, with startling clarity, was that she was about to headbutt him.
Leaning back to protect his nose from suffering the same fate as hers, he placed his hands over the gloves and struggled to peel them off while aiming another low kick. Her knee bent reflexively to catch it and push him backwards. The two of them tumbled through a stage trapdoor, thrusting them both into a cosmic void with no floor.
Broken instruments, bundled up wads of notebook paper, stage lamps, axles, burnt tires, laptops bludgeoned by abuse, pens leaking ink rotated about themselves in an endless dance of zero gravity, illuminated by countless stars. Unable to modify their angular momentum, Seth and Mara were flung onto the closed board of a floating grand piano, a makeshift planetoid orbited by rings of dazzling numbers.
Mara scrambled on top and tightened her fingers around his throat, slamming the back of his head onto the keys twice and squeezing the breath from his lungs. He raised his legs, locked them around her waist and rolled her off, sending them spinning into the asteroid belt of household devices. Shards of splintered violins pelted them in lethal hail, Seth taking the brunt of the bombardment across his shoulders and neck. A flower petal came loose from his hair. With a desperate choked grunt he snatched the petal, focused on it and grew an abnormally large rose. He stuffed it into Mara’s face and the plant responded, wrapping around the entire mask. Her grip on his throat left him and she reached up with a furious muffled yell to clutch at her head while the flower responded to Seth’s command, enveloping her head. Forgot I could do that…
Gasping for air and still hopelessly tangled with her in their interstellar waltz, he spotted a violin and reached out.
Mara ripped the enormous rose from her crumbling mask, her breath fluctuating wildly, and received an overhead swing of the violin into her forehead. The stars blinked and were extinguished.
The mask shattered into pieces, along with the instrument, and she cried out for a split second. Seth wound up another swing with the badly damaged violin and found himself kicked away, tumbling weightlessly and slamming into the piano, where at the very least he could regain a foothold.
Mara was undergoing a metamorphosis. Large volumes of oily glowing numbers were being expelled from her system, diffusing out of her face and splotching out into the void in the pattern of spilt milk. She doubled over and coughed out ethereal shards of glass. Vertigo lurched in Seth’s stomach as the dream righted itself and the floor grew out from under him. He landed diagonally in a mat of petals and rolled over, then rose to defend himself. His fists dropped and he tilted his head in concern.
The Athena counselor had lost all will to fight, instead resorting to digging her fingers into her hair and pulling in a sobbing tantrum. She curled up on the floor and fell to her side, plucking bits of plastic that stuck to her face while color returned to her cheeks and the scarred numbers faded. She thrashed and kicked at the pieces of the mask around her, yelling obscenities at it for good measure. Seth knew the early signs of an attack and crept over, discarding the violin.
He caught her outraged fists and lowered them, prying her fingers open to stop her from pulling at her scalp.
“Enough. You’re safe. It’s gone. You’re safe.” Seth wasn’t sure where the words were coming from. He knew what sort of tactile triggers and promises made him feel the most secure when the outside stimulus became too much, so he reluctantly defaulted to that; a gentle circle being traced over the palms in simple beats of five, someone keeping his hands from clenching so his nails couldn’t dig at the scabs, syncing their breathing and lifting his head up straight for proper airflow. For the most part it seemed to be working. Mara’s body still radiated anger – the blades were uncomfortably close by. One sudden reach for them would leave him helpless to stop her from running him through. Broken tablets fell around them from the shadowy catwalk, sparked and died.
“It’s not your fault.” The platitudes were spilling out of him now, hoping she would construe her own meaning from them. At least some of it appeared to get through the fog in her eyes. With the sutures slipping off of her mouth and the harsh words melting away the grotesque distortions surrounding her had all but evaporated. They held each others’ hands for support, grounding themselves in the only ‘real’ thing around.
“This isn’t what people wear, by the way.”
Seth nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice as her lips unsplit and mended. “Uh, sorry, what?”
Mara cleared her throat and poked Seth imperiously in the collar, forcing him to back off. “Seriously? Ugh- first of all, hands off. This is a military uniform. What am I, George Washington? These were typically worn by colonial generals, not musicians. And even then, this is hardly historically accurate. Even if this was just a costume, look at the contrast! No performer would wear this, even if the style vaguely resembles particular wardrobes of the aristocracy in that time period. Next time, a black dress will be more appropriate. I understand that your mind was focused more on dramatic flair and spectacle than legitimacy, but any cursory examination would reveal that you did not do the proper research for this.”
She plucked another petal from his hair and crushed it. “It’s disrespectful to throw objects onto the stage, as well. Friends and family should wait until after the performance to personally hand off the bouquet. What if someone has an allergy? What about the custodians who make an honest living, forced to clean up after a mess that didn't have to be there in the first place? Oh, and the mask? 'Music' is not 'musical theater'. Mixing the classic Sock and Buskin imagery with a purely musical event is a common fallacy. You're trying to be an author, right? Alluding to several different themes at once can seriously muddy the message you want to convey."
“Oh. Oh, wow. Please stop talking.” Seth was glad to see that she'd calmed down, especially compared to the saber-swishing demoness from before, but now he was having trouble deciding which version was worse. "..You're not even you. You are literally my own brain lecturing me. This.. this is so creepy."
“I’m just helping. Speaking of muddying themes, the stellar sequence throws off the pacing too quickly. We were only there for several seconds, and even then there are several discrepancies in such a short span; look; gravity cannot accelerate an object like a clarinet as rapidly around an object of similar mass, like the piano. In reality any circular motion induced on the clarinet. Let me find a tablet, I can illustrate the system if you're having trouble visualizing it."
"A piano does not have similar mass to a clarinet! It's like a hundred times heavier!"
"In terms of magnitude when compared to each other, yes, they're much different, but compared to the mass of the Earth and Sun, the force of gravitation exerted is nearly negligible. Where's my.. Did you break my tablet?" She ran her hand along the floor and found a snapped stylus. Whirling on him in an instant, "you did! What, did you think these things grow on trees? Apologize."
"I don't know, maybe??" Seth exploded. "Gee, SORRY. Weren't you trying to stab me a few seconds ago? Where's my apology? I refuse to believe that the real Mara is this annoying."
"The real Mara could never teach you what we're all trying to teach you. First it was Davenport... now it's me. What's the connection? You'll figure this out eventually."
The comment made him unexpectedly smile. Mara was a daughter of Athena - if the grey eyes hadn't been a dead giveaway, then he stern tirade of corrections would have been. The fierce, slightly haughty look of determination and indignation despite her bloodied nose, as if Seth was a buffoon who had just ruined a performance and not someone who had just saved her from the control of a malignant living growth infecting her mind, was strangely endearing. The question obviously ran deeper than than her lecture on historical accuracy and it gave him pause. These were supposed to teach him something? Teach him how to get clobbered, maybe. Wait.
"Davenport?" Seth shifted his weight so he was sitting on his knees. "You mean Cassie?"
Mara rolled her eyes and looked away, gesturing to the emptiness and then to Seth. "I am surrounded by intellectual mediocrity. If you aren't even smart enough to properly replicate my entire psychological profile then you probably aren't going to figure this out before it kills you, are you?"
"K-kills me??!"
"Look." Mara turned around and reached for Seth's hands to clasp them, forcing him to release his nervous grip on his own knees and placing them together. The moment was oddly intimate and uncomfortable. She leaned in, narrowing her gaze in amused disdain. "You might've done the important part, which was dispelling the nightmare. On the first try, too. Congratulations. But obviously you're going to need some help with the the rest. When you get back to the waking world..."
His heartbeat quickened.
"Let's not meet. Ever."
She pushed him in a sprawling heap on the floor and stepped back as a piano fell from the ceiling and crushed him in cartoon fashion.
Seth sat up to find himself mercifully un-crushed and stuck in a sneezing fit. A faint gray symbol of a wide-eyed owl peeled itself from his feverish forehead, drifted down like an autumn leaf and dissolved on his hands.
"Athena campers," he muttered, eyeing the clock and sinking into despair at the sight of 4:06 AM staring right back at him. "They're all nutcases. Cute nutcases. But still nutcases."
((Once again I'm not super happy with how this turned out, but the show must go on. The one thing I disliked the most was the dialogue - presuming to speak for Mara felt unfair, even though this is technically a distorted version observed through the lens of Seth's psyche, and I think going forward I will be avoiding that altogether... as fun as it was to have her lecture him to death.
Enormous thanks to Mara_S0v for permission on writing a non-canon (or should I say non-CANNON, funny ha ha) interpretation of Mara. First impressions matter, as she says, and she left a striking one on me (and Seth) that I knew I wanted to explore in an admittedly dark sequence. Give Miss Lyones's own storymodes and posts a read, as many of them provided inspiration for these two segments, such as 'Blank Slate', "Experiment #1", and "Prodigy". This chapter wouldn't be possible without them.))
Chapter 1 - The Davenport Devil 7 attempts Chapter 2 - The Maestra 1 attempt Chapter 3 - ?????? - coming soon™
submitted by SpawnoftheStryx to CampHalfBloodRP

Indian/Dealership is trying to f**k me... (new bike warranty rant)

So I bought a brand new Indian Scout Bobber, and after a month the clutch has started slipping. The dealer dude is twisting himself into a pretzel trying to blame me for improper use/abuse because I "copped" to riding fast/wide open throttle in top gear... ???
Clutch falls under "normal wear and tear parts" in my EXTENDED warranty... What part of a month old clutch slipping seem "normal" to this guy?
"You're outriding this bike, bud..."
... the fuck??
This bike was marketed as a "bruiser cruiser". I didn't "abuse" anything. If anything the wind was stopping me from actually pushing this bike. (AFAIK this bike revs to 8K and I was just a hair over 6K).
But OK. Check this out: So he proceeds straight to a $1200 quote for parts and labour and not a word about taking a look inside to see what actually happened. Just a lecture while taking my keys. I'm thinking "Fuck, maybe I did push it too hard..."
But after thinking about it (and getting really fucking pissed off) I went back to the dealership and told this guy "Either your bikes are built like shit, or you maladjusted my cable, or this is a lemon. Give me back my bike. I'm not getting any work done here without so much as a look inside."
"Well, you gotta settle up for the clutch we ordered"
"Fuck no. Is my signature in any work order? No? Then give me back my bike."
"You're gonna do me like that? I try to fight for my customers to get Polaris to take care of them bla bla bla bla bullshit. There's no trust here. I'm gonna remember that."
Motherfucker, the nerve...

The more I think about the more insulted I feel. These jackasses are NOT your friends.


Resolved! Clutch cable was brought in too tight. New dealeshop and manufacturer took care of everything. Lessons learned all around. Yay.
submitted by BiGBoSSMk23 to motorcycles

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