Take a sad song and make it better.
It had started as a fairly innocuous morning, not unlike any other. After a bit of a snuggle with Sarah Jane, Peter had made his way to the Compound for a shower and some breakfast. Some coffee and a pastry, and he had to admit, the coffee quality was much, much improved since they'd discovered the plants and started grinding their own.
There hadn't been anything especially unusual happening, just the normal traffic of sleepy people plodding in and out. But then 'Hey Jude' had come on the jukebox.
Even now, he wasn't precisely aware of singing. He just knew that he was, to the rec room at large, as if he had suddenly been possessed by Paul McCartney (Judeayjudeayjudeaywowowowwwww!)
Had he known that what he was doing was odd, he might have been embarrassed by it, but he wasn't.
There hadn't been anything especially unusual happening, just the normal traffic of sleepy people plodding in and out. But then 'Hey Jude' had come on the jukebox.
Even now, he wasn't precisely aware of singing. He just knew that he was, to the rec room at large, as if he had suddenly been possessed by Paul McCartney (Judeayjudeayjudeaywowowowwwww!)
Had he known that what he was doing was odd, he might have been embarrassed by it, but he wasn't.