Power Trio

Since dropping below the poverty line, Evan has placed himself on the Rotisserie Chicken standard.

For every expenditure, the first thing he considers is how many rotisserie chickens he could buy instead. Rotisserie chickens are the only gift he gives himself anymore. Cheap, hot, tasty protein, the kind of food that actually fills you, and enough for an entire day, maybe two if you can borrow space in some sympathetic refrigeration. Rotisserie chicken is the gold bullion of the beggar class.

He used to borrow a guitar from a crustpunk for a few hours a day to busk for change; a fifty-fifty split was the deal. On the best days, he’d earn four chickens, and then they’d all vanish into various cheaper eats and non-chicken essentials.

A tube of toothpaste is half a chicken. New shoes, a good pair: that’s about a dozen. New bass strings are 3 chickens, but you can do a buy-one-get-one if you catch the right sale.

The amp head and speaker he’s playing through right now: 200 chickens.

He sips from a bottle of ginger ale (one fifth of a chicken) as he doodles aimless bass grooves, feeling the sympathetic vibrations through the floor. A downfall of the instrument is that, unlike a guitar, you really can’t play the thing unplugged in any reasonably audible way. You get a little, enough to hear your note in a quiet room, but he has run out of quiet rooms. He still clacks out acoustic hums to himself, imagining the full tone, to stay in practice and still the occasional panic attack, but his chances to jack in and play amplified have grown vanishingly rare.

The fairfolk outside might be debating how to let him down easy. He will extract every second of happiness from this encounter that he can.

He cuts the volume as Sion strolls past his peripheral vision. He didn’t hear the ash elf come in.

“Hello again, Evan H,” Sion says. “A non-alcoholic option. Interesting. I am updating my mental profile.”

“Your mental profile has me cracking a beer at noon?”

“You’re here at noon, aren’t you? On a weekday. Do you have a job, Evan H?”

“No. Uh, not at the moment.”

“Well, some people drink early when they don’t have a job. And some people don’t have a job because they drink early. Pardon me, Neko-Chan.” Sion rummages around in the body pillow fridge. “I don’t have a job either, for much more pathetic and nepotistic reasons. And yet: a cold one at barely past noon is the great glittering bridge that spans our societal gulf.” He picks out a lager and pops the cap off with a chrome lighter. “Let this sacrament replace the mimosa I missed because of your audition. You passed, by the way.”

“Sion, you cock.” Kell hurries in, Thekla bouncing on her shoulder like a sack of flour. “You couldn’t wait five seconds for us all to get in here?”

“Oopsie daisy.” Sion slides into his plastic chair. “Anyway, congratulations, Evan.”

“Probationally,” Thekla’s little legs are flailing. “We said it was probational. Oh my God, Kell put me down. My glasses are slipping.” The beaming orc deposits her onto her feet and she shakes her head woozily as her blood redistributes itself. “I can’t be the hardass with my butt in the air,” she grumbles.

Kell spreads her arms. “Evan Human, you bring it in right fucking now. Welcome to the dream team.”

A million emotions war through Evan’s mind, the chiefest combatants gratitude and sheer relief. He isn’t sure he can take a step toward Kell—his knees are weak.

It’s just a garage band, dipshit. You haven’t solved anything, not yet. But it’s hard to coach himself down as Kell crosses to him and sweeps him into a very forward hug.

Her biceps draw tight as she tugs him against her chest. He turns his head at the last second so that he doesn’t get a face full of sweaty, crocus-colored cleavage. He hears her quickened heartbeat instead, beating at a rock & roll 120 bpm. He offers a silent prayer of thanks for inattentive YMCA employees and free facility shampoo.

Kell rests her chin on top of his head. She smells like jasmine. It’s doing something to him. Fortunately, he didn’t have time to take his bass off, and there’s a barrier between their waists.

And her belly button ring, a treacherous corner of him whispers.

“Get in here, Thekla.” The vocal chords in her neck vibrate like a heavy pluck of a thick string. “Or I’mma pick you up again.”

“This is a probational hug,” Thekla clarifies. She inflicts an awkward little side-hug on them, her hand hesitant on his opposite hip.

“Sion,” Kell says.

“Don’t,” Sion says.

“I won’t, but just know that my aura is. I know you feel it.” One of Kell’s arms leaves off its enveloping embrace. “Pass me a brewski.”

“Let the poor man breathe,” Thekla says.

“Before Sion blew up our spot, Evan, we were going to take you to lunch somewhere,” says Kell, as Sion puts a Mordsteel Light into her outstretched mitt. “Our treat.”

“Guys. Guys.” Thekla pulls out of the huddle. “He hasn’t even said yes yet.”

Kell draws back, one hand still on his shoulder. She balances her drink on the opposite, and the cool surface kissing his clavicle makes Evan aware of how warm his face is.

He hasn’t said it, has he? His mind is somewhere else, racing ahead into the coming months, into earsplitting basement shows and sunset-drenched festival stages. He's been playing for a while, but he has never played with this kind of chemistry, hour one. This morning he was scraping coffee grounds off his dumpster breakfast. Now a cheerful purple wrecking ball is smashing through the rotting wall erected around his future. Inviting him to rebuild it with these people. With her.

“What do you think, Evan?” Thekla prompts. “You want to rock with us?”

“Yes,” he says. “Absolutely yes. Fuck yes.”

Kell squeals with delight and clasps him right back against her, her beer bottle knocking lightly against the neck of his p-bass.

Evan is too slow with the boob-dodge this time, and ends up pressed right up against the soft, warm consequences. Whatever. Not his fault this is happening.

“Just one quick question,” he remembers. “What’s the name of the band?”

“Herculean Strength,” Kell says.

“Dog Collar Match,” Thekla says.

“Craftworld,” Sion says.

“I see,” Evan says.