I fail at posting logs on time.
26 May 2007: Pirates of the Caribbean release party! (Dan (NPC by Matt), Elliott, Kitty, Lark, Matt)
31 May 2007:
Music is blaring in Beckah's apartment. The insulated walls try their best to rattle over the bizarre hybridization of music playing. "It was was twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play the game of warfare! They've been going in and out of style, but they're guaranteed to raise a smile. Now so may I introduce to you: steer and queers! Steer and queers! Where you come from just steers and queers! And you ain't got no horns boy!" Primus and the Beatles make a rather odd combination, but Beckah is mixing them together skillfully enough that it sounds seamless. It is loud and she is swaying wildly with the music.
Considering Andre happens to not be leaning on the wall between his apartment and Beckah's at the time the music begins to play, the sound waves successfully rattle said wall. But unlike his instinct with Death Star Guy's video game antics, Andre is in no rush to stop the shaking. Rather, the aseismic percussionist slips out of his computer chair and strides toward the door, grabbing his cane from its perch against the wall as he goes out into the hall. One would think he'd be telling that hooligan neighbor to turn it down if not for the huge grin on his face. He approaches Beckah's door and loudly thwhacks the cane against it several times.
Over the music comes the call of Beckah's voice. The mingling of records does not stop. "It's open, Andre!" The cane is a distinctive sound and she automatically associates it with him. She is wearing a simple white tank-top, her tattooed upper arms occupied with the records while the lower pair both work on her turntables' mixers. It makes transitions far more smooth than a normal limbed turntablish could accomplish.
Andre waits for several seconds before opening the door, perhaps expecting the shout with his name to somehow be integrated into the texture of Beckah's project. When he finally does slip into the room, he does so as quietly as he can manage, pushing the door gently shut behind him and walking slowly toward the studio section of the room. He stops at the edge of the dividers that separate living space from studio, leaning lightly on the edge and watching Beckah's hands (all four - equal opportunity) at work.
It is, perhaps, only natural for her to show off now that her significant other has arrived. She breaks off the song into a rather wild tangle of scratching, all without losing her rhythm. When she stops, she is breathing a bit hard and sweat has beaded lightly at her forehead. "Hey there," she calls to Andre and paces out from behind her equipment to meet him with a light kiss. "How was your day?" she asks him, with the genuine interest showing in her smile.
Andre applauds heartily as Beckah's wild tangle resolves and cuts off, the gesture of appreciation more visual than aural in his case. He flushes and grins at the kiss, responding with a, "Heey!" and a cheek peck of his own. "Not bad, not at all! Got to sleep late and stuff, practiced a little. Hope it wasn't too loud through the wall!" The grin turns into something toothy and mock-accusatory with the last sentence. "What about yours?"
"Are you complaining about the noise I make, Andre?" Beckah's own expression turns predatory. "You do know that I could pull the insulation down, right? I could sneak a speaker into your apartment." She giggles a little over this idea. "I'm good. I'm getting spoiled, though. I had dinner at Celia's place the other night, and now takeout seems kind of lame."
"And I could put my hand inside that speaker and keep it from vibrating its, uh. Resonating thing. Whatever makes it project, cause it's not just electronics." Andre attempts to remain predatory throughout this threat of retaliation, but his expression deflates as his argument does. There is a brief pause and he lifts the cane from where it leans against the divider wall, shaking it in the air with a, "Kids these days and their so-called-music!" The switch between imitation geezer voice and Andre's real voice is the only indicated pause before, "How's that spoil you?"
Beckah laughs and shakes her head over the geezer antics. "Dork," she says. The work has a warm tone to it though, making it more praise than insult. "She cooks /good/, man. She made vegetarian chicken cordon bleu. Eggplant instead, you know? I need to hire a personal chef or something." She eyes him, hazel eyes glittering. "You might do..."
"/I/ might do?" Andre repeats this assessment as if Beckah has proposed him to lead a government-sponsored project in portable nuclear fission heating systems rather than to cook. "I would make vegetarian black crunchy grill scunge. That's kind of the extent..." His lip curls back and he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. The grimace slips into an expression of culinary anticipation, however, as he continues, "You aught to hire /Celia/, if what you're describing's even half as good as it sounds!"
"Really? I just want you in my apartment in an apron, okay?" Beckah admits playfully, grinning as she nudges him with a shoulder in passing and heads toward her kitchen. "You want a drink?"
"The next best thing after Elizabeth Swann, huh?" Andre nudges Beckah back a little harder, then scootches several steps backward. Not quite out of range, but the gesture of escape is there, accompanied by a continued toothy grin and wide oh-so-innocent eyes. "I wouldn't mind a drink."
"You want alcohol or soda?" She asks, with a crooked little grin lingering at his escape and the conjuring of the name of Elizabeth Swann. Beckah heads behind the counter and start rummaging for drinks to dispense.
"I'm thinking maybe caffeine," Andre requests, daring to approach the kitchen again after his escape. "I don't have to get up early, so why make myself sleepier?"
"Caffeine it is." Beckah retrieves a delicacy. A pair of brown bottles of Henry Weinhard's Cream Soda. She offers one of the bottles out to Andre, with a little grin on her face. "Ever had this stuff before?"
Andre takes the bottle with both hands, one around the neck and one supporting the base. He looks at the label analytically, rolling the bottle in his hands to get the full view. "Not this brand." He looks back up at Beckah, blinking harder at her grin. "I take it it's good stuff?"
"Try it," she chimes. She has the sort of a smile on her face that is commonplace when one is giving someone else a gift. Evidently, the Beckah thinks incredibly highly of the brand of soda she is sharing with Andre.
Andre tilts the bottle back upright, now scrutinizing the nature of the cap. He tries twisting it off, to no avail, then reaches one arm around to attempt to scope a bottle opener out of Beckah's kitchen drawer. "Getting there!" He rummages. "So, I may also be able to come bug you at work more now."
"Yeah?" Beckah asks, perking up brightly. A lower hand moves out to open a drawer and supply Andre with a bottle opener.
Upon feeling the bottle opener pressed into his hand, Andre's fingers flex in an attempt to give Beckah's hand a thank you squeeze. "Ayup! Main season's over, so I have more free mornings, which means more staying up late and bugging you at work." He lifts the opener and applies it to the bottlecap, which pops off and lands on the counter with a metallic clatter. He then offers the opener back to Beckah.
The squeeze is reciprocated once Beckah has the opener back. She pops her own bottle open and takes a slow, reverent sip from it. Her smile is brighter when she replies, "That's awesome! Maybe we could do something really cool, like have you set up some drums and play with me!"
"That would be pretty much the best thing ever!" Andre's voice, smile, and eyes positively sparkle with this assessment. He raises the bottle of soda in a toast to the air, then takes a slow sip, mimicking Beckah's. He swishes the liquid around in his mouth, then swallows, expression unchanged from his reaction to the musical suggestion. "And /this/ is also pretty much the best thing ever."
"I was also going to ask you... I have studio time in the next couple of weeks, to record an EP. I wanted you to play drums on a track for me, instead of using the machine. Think you could handle some lame, but catchy Amen Break action in a studio?" Beckah grins like the cheshire cat over this offer.
Andre's next sip of the soda is cut short by this suggestion; a small amount trickles back out of his mouth and into the bottle again. He swallows what does stay in his mouth, then lowers the bottle so that he grips it at roughly thigh level. "Studio time?! Holy crap, Beckah!" He reaches his free arm up and around her shoulders. "Congratulations! And /heck yes/." There is about a twenty year difference between Andre's actual age and the inflection his voice is giving off right now. "Can 'lame and catchy' go on the liner notes, too?"
Beckah lets out a laugh and wraps two left arms around Andre, smiling broadly. "Yeah. It's not a guarantee, it's more to put a few tracks down and see if the producer really likes it and all. But it's something, right? And if they don't like it, I can put it out independantly."
Andre gestures dramatically toward the studio area of the apartment. "How could they not like that?" He sets his jaw emphatically, then lifts the soda and takes a swig, swallowing with an audible gulp. "/How/ could they not like that?" He isn't even exaggerating reaction as much as he might in other cases. "Though, well, producers did put out stuff like the Backstreet Boys....but if they think /that's/ good enough, they aught to see /real/ talent easily in comparison. They'd be dumb to not release it."
Beckah lets out a laugh, "I'm just not counting any chickens before they're hatched," she explains. "I would rather plan for what happens if it doesn't work out and be happy, then expect it to work and be disappointed, you know? I'm being pragmatic. Keeping my head out of the clouds."
Andre breathes heavily and nods, then brushes his hair away from his forehead. "Yeah, I know. You're being smart about it, but I'm also saying the producer would be being very unsmart about it to not realize how incredible what you do is." He moves both hands, one still holding the bottle, in a terrible approximation of scratching. "Show him the Vivaldi!" Andre may have a personal favorite.
"That really got you, didn't it?" She asks, beaming. She takes a sip of her soda and paces out from behind the counter to roam out into the living room corner of the apartment. "I'm pretty sure that will be one of the tracks I try to use. It's unique, you know? But familiar enough that it should get attention."
"The Four Seasons is one of the most horrendously overplayed pieces in the entire classical repertoire." Andre's tone is flat as he trails Beckah into the living room, but it animates again to assess, "You made it freaking awesome again. I think it could be a huge point of interest, seriously. Pull in people who might not know the genre already."
"Hey, if there's one thing I'm good about, it's overplayed." She lets out a little laugh, "You /did/ hear me playing with 'Sgt. Pepper's' earlier, didn't you?"
Andre points at Beckah and raises one eyebrow. "Sgt. Pepper will /never/ get old."
Beckah reaches a hand out to Andre to lightly touch him on his shoulder. "I hate to break it to you, honey, but with a few notable exceptions, the Beatles are the most overrated musicians in the history of... history." She smiles as she says it too.
Andre looks down at the hand, then up towards Beckah's face, eyebrows twitching up and lips twitching down, though hovering somewhere between entirely genuine and exaggerated - wholly uncertain. "Uh. Well, I just said that about Vivaldi and other people think he's the greatest so, uhm. Allowed!" He ultimately manages to invert the frown for Beckah's benefit.
Beckah leans in and whispers in his ear, "Fastest way ever to make a Beatles fan make a funny face," she breathes. Then, with an immature grin on her face, she goes bolting for the other side of the room, holding her soda bottle up above her head to keep from sloshing it as she goes.
Andre's face becomes funnier with Beckah's whisper, his nostrils slightly flaring, his brows lifting and causing little wrinkles in his forehead, his lower lip pulling down to expose teeth. And he just bliiiinks at her as she scoots. He even takes a slow sip of his soda, gaze piercing across the expanse of the room. "Indeed." He means this to sound like a Liverpool accent. It does not work.
There is a blink back at him from across the room. "Indeed what?"
Andre attempts to pull his face back into a neutral expression. He manages to at least abandon the funny face, but he can't quite curb the smirk that follows. And he just shrugs.
"Dinner?" Beckah suddenly asks. She takes advantage of where she is standing to grab her wallet up and slip it into her back pocket. "I got a nasty craving for something spicy."
Andre takes another long sip of the soda before breaking into soft but genuine laughter, his shoulders twitching as if to magnify the sound. His head lowers, then pulls up again, at which point he sticks his tongue out at Beckah. "You win, you win!" The laugh continues, carrying his words. "You know I'm not one to turn down food!"
Talk of talent and record deals. Andre-in-my-head says, "How dare Beckah imply that the Beatles are overrated!"
5 June 2007: Andre rains on Beckah and Magneto's parade. Inadvertently. Oops.
There was an aftermath scene in which Andre kept going GAH WUT and Beckah stood up for Mags and Godwinned about it, too, but both of us forgot to log. Fail.
5 July 2007: Andre meets up with Jackson after many months of not having seen him.
6 July 2007:
The term 'convenience store' may not be entirely accurate. Generally, the reason anyone finds oneself in such a place is because something inconvenient has come up at a terrible time, requiring that individual to take extra time to go out of the way to find something. Hardly convenient, really, but there are worse options. Andre is clearly the type to opt for inconvenience over the alternative - he currently strolls down one aisle of the store, gait favoring his left leg, though still balanced, with a nine-roll pack of toilet paper.
Far below the standards of retail outlets that she would normally patronize, Monet St. Croix walks through the aisles of this particular convenience-hole with a little frown on her pretty face. She has recovered mostly from her adventure in the South Pacific. The only signs of it are hidden beneath the white Rolling Stones t-shirt. Her favorite was destroyed in the plane crash, but she has replaced it. Her own target is of a slightly less embarassing nature than toilet paper - a bottle of headache pills.
Andre's Stop Plate Tectonics shirt probably should have been replaced long ago, even without gaping wounds to sully it, but he does not appear in the least fazed by his fashion statement, or particularly embarrassed by his purchase. It's tucked as much under one arm as he can manage, with the other arm reached across his chest to support the side of the package, but due to the size of the plentiful treasure of the Charmin bears, that doesn't keep it from sticking out the back. And potentially bumping into protruding elbows or shopping baskets of other customers.
It seems to be poor Monet's fate. Wherever she goes, there is some clod walking around just asking to be bumped into. When her arm hits the toilet paper rolls that stick out past Andre's back, there is a disconcerting level of force to it, enough to potentially rip the plastic. The first curses are in French, but she quickly switches to snap, "Is everyone in this city determined to run something into me today?"
The plastic does indeed rip a little, but you-break-it-you-bought-it is not a real concern with this particular product. Non-English language is also of more intrigue to Andre than exposed white paper, and he turns to face the snapping Monet with a sheepish half-smile. "Sorry about that!" The apology intones upward with surprise, though has no backdrop of snark. His register levels more as he continues. "If everyone's determined, though, it's definitely not a /concerted/ effort."
"No," Monet agrees. "It's simply my fate to be blungeoned by paper that you intend to clean your butt with." Her tone is sour and she makes a terrible face at that thought, like she just bit into a lemon.
"Nng." The sound comes from the back of Andre's thought, an inarticulate concurrence with the disgust factor of Monet's statement, further accentuated with a wrinkle of his nose. "Well. Um. At least it's only covered with /intent/ now. And plastic wrap."
"You do have a point," she conceedes. With a sigh, she pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment. The drama of the sigh is lent to her gesture toward the counter. "You do plan on buying your weapon, don't you? I'm going to end up arrested for shoplifting if I open this bottle in here."
Andre switches the package from one arm or the other, taking particular care not to bludgeon any more people or to incite a cleanup in aisle five. "This isn't the kind of thing you haul around for show," he explains, voice lightening toward his usual casual tenor. "But if your migraine's going to get you on the news if you don't beat it, you're welcome to go ahead of me. It's not, uh. Urgent."
Monet narrows her eyes for just a moment. "I've had more than enough of the news for a very long time," she says. Her tone is less snarky than exhasperated. This does not, however, stop her from sidestepping Andre to get to the man behind the cash reigster. She is curt and quick and steps to the side to free two of the pills as soon as her transaction is done.
Andre is content to let Monet slip in front, though his attention toward the young woman becomes more analytical after her exasperated sentence. He takes a few steps forward once the register is cleared, but he stops short, remarking as soon as she's taken her pills, "Waitaminnit. You don't mind me saying, yours /does/ look like a face I've seen on TV."
Her eyes close for a long moment once she has swallowed the pair of little pills, as if she were trying to will them to begin working immediately. "Yes, I have been on TV quite a lot lately. Plane crash, island, all of that." Monet does not seem very enthused to tell the story again, but she is also not going to deny it.
Then Monet should be glad that a look of immediate recollection lights Andre's eyes, raises his brows, and cracks his mouth open a little as she mentions the plane crash and island. No danger of his needing a recap! "Right!" His free hand flicks briefly toward the surveillance TV above the counter, as if it too contains news. "It is /really/ the most incredible thing that you all got back here. Even if being here means getting smacked by toilet paper in a cheap corner store."
Monet laughs awkwardly. "Really," she notes. "It's a lot more incredible that we had a doctor and at least one useful mutant among the survivors to keep ourselves alive." She looks down at the bottle of pills for a moment, then shrugs to herself and tucks them into one pocket.
"That is some crazy luck," Andre agrees, bobbing his head and shifting the rolls of paper slightly underneath his arm. "I mean, not that you were lucky to be in that situation in general, but compared to the negative alternative..." He laughs quietly and shakes his head now. "I'm sure I'm just blathering things you already know."
"Yes," Monet says flatly. "You are." She plucks a stray hair off of her shirt and tosses it aside, looking about as interested as she would be in the international paint drying competition. "Please don't tell me you are one of those creepy people who think that my 'Real Life Survivor' story is sexy and that you'll be following me to my cab."
A shallow furrow wrinkles between Andre's raising brows, and he shakes his head emphatically, bangs falling across his eyes. He brushes them back as he assures, "I'm not, I promise! If I thought that, I would've done something altogether more endearing than sic the Charmin bears on you to get your attention." He laughs quietly. "I won't push the topic, though. Hope your head feels better."
There is a tiny moment where Monet's irritation parts enough that she smiles slightly at the comment about the Charmin bears. She shakes her head and disengages herself with more of her charming banter, "Do have a lovely time with your paper."
Andre takes note of the smile and responds with raised brows and a smile of his own. "I'm sure I will, for things would be much grimmer without it." Endearing, indeed. With this, he actually approaches the counter and deposits his parcel there.
Andre bludgeons Monet with a large package of toilet paper.
8 July 2007: More professional musician talk with Lark and Andre!
16 July 2007: Havok worked with Andre's mom at Berkeley! This is more than cause for a lunch meeting now that Alex is in Manhattan. Havok tells Andre scary things about seismic mutants.
19 July 2007: Lark and Andre go for a jog. It is a slow jog, even though Andre has been caneless for a while now. They discuss how to handle relationship problems.
31 May 2007:
Music is blaring in Beckah's apartment. The insulated walls try their best to rattle over the bizarre hybridization of music playing. "It was was twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play the game of warfare! They've been going in and out of style, but they're guaranteed to raise a smile. Now so may I introduce to you: steer and queers! Steer and queers! Where you come from just steers and queers! And you ain't got no horns boy!" Primus and the Beatles make a rather odd combination, but Beckah is mixing them together skillfully enough that it sounds seamless. It is loud and she is swaying wildly with the music.
Considering Andre happens to not be leaning on the wall between his apartment and Beckah's at the time the music begins to play, the sound waves successfully rattle said wall. But unlike his instinct with Death Star Guy's video game antics, Andre is in no rush to stop the shaking. Rather, the aseismic percussionist slips out of his computer chair and strides toward the door, grabbing his cane from its perch against the wall as he goes out into the hall. One would think he'd be telling that hooligan neighbor to turn it down if not for the huge grin on his face. He approaches Beckah's door and loudly thwhacks the cane against it several times.
Over the music comes the call of Beckah's voice. The mingling of records does not stop. "It's open, Andre!" The cane is a distinctive sound and she automatically associates it with him. She is wearing a simple white tank-top, her tattooed upper arms occupied with the records while the lower pair both work on her turntables' mixers. It makes transitions far more smooth than a normal limbed turntablish could accomplish.
Andre waits for several seconds before opening the door, perhaps expecting the shout with his name to somehow be integrated into the texture of Beckah's project. When he finally does slip into the room, he does so as quietly as he can manage, pushing the door gently shut behind him and walking slowly toward the studio section of the room. He stops at the edge of the dividers that separate living space from studio, leaning lightly on the edge and watching Beckah's hands (all four - equal opportunity) at work.
It is, perhaps, only natural for her to show off now that her significant other has arrived. She breaks off the song into a rather wild tangle of scratching, all without losing her rhythm. When she stops, she is breathing a bit hard and sweat has beaded lightly at her forehead. "Hey there," she calls to Andre and paces out from behind her equipment to meet him with a light kiss. "How was your day?" she asks him, with the genuine interest showing in her smile.
Andre applauds heartily as Beckah's wild tangle resolves and cuts off, the gesture of appreciation more visual than aural in his case. He flushes and grins at the kiss, responding with a, "Heey!" and a cheek peck of his own. "Not bad, not at all! Got to sleep late and stuff, practiced a little. Hope it wasn't too loud through the wall!" The grin turns into something toothy and mock-accusatory with the last sentence. "What about yours?"
"Are you complaining about the noise I make, Andre?" Beckah's own expression turns predatory. "You do know that I could pull the insulation down, right? I could sneak a speaker into your apartment." She giggles a little over this idea. "I'm good. I'm getting spoiled, though. I had dinner at Celia's place the other night, and now takeout seems kind of lame."
"And I could put my hand inside that speaker and keep it from vibrating its, uh. Resonating thing. Whatever makes it project, cause it's not just electronics." Andre attempts to remain predatory throughout this threat of retaliation, but his expression deflates as his argument does. There is a brief pause and he lifts the cane from where it leans against the divider wall, shaking it in the air with a, "Kids these days and their so-called-music!" The switch between imitation geezer voice and Andre's real voice is the only indicated pause before, "How's that spoil you?"
Beckah laughs and shakes her head over the geezer antics. "Dork," she says. The work has a warm tone to it though, making it more praise than insult. "She cooks /good/, man. She made vegetarian chicken cordon bleu. Eggplant instead, you know? I need to hire a personal chef or something." She eyes him, hazel eyes glittering. "You might do..."
"/I/ might do?" Andre repeats this assessment as if Beckah has proposed him to lead a government-sponsored project in portable nuclear fission heating systems rather than to cook. "I would make vegetarian black crunchy grill scunge. That's kind of the extent..." His lip curls back and he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. The grimace slips into an expression of culinary anticipation, however, as he continues, "You aught to hire /Celia/, if what you're describing's even half as good as it sounds!"
"Really? I just want you in my apartment in an apron, okay?" Beckah admits playfully, grinning as she nudges him with a shoulder in passing and heads toward her kitchen. "You want a drink?"
"The next best thing after Elizabeth Swann, huh?" Andre nudges Beckah back a little harder, then scootches several steps backward. Not quite out of range, but the gesture of escape is there, accompanied by a continued toothy grin and wide oh-so-innocent eyes. "I wouldn't mind a drink."
"You want alcohol or soda?" She asks, with a crooked little grin lingering at his escape and the conjuring of the name of Elizabeth Swann. Beckah heads behind the counter and start rummaging for drinks to dispense.
"I'm thinking maybe caffeine," Andre requests, daring to approach the kitchen again after his escape. "I don't have to get up early, so why make myself sleepier?"
"Caffeine it is." Beckah retrieves a delicacy. A pair of brown bottles of Henry Weinhard's Cream Soda. She offers one of the bottles out to Andre, with a little grin on her face. "Ever had this stuff before?"
Andre takes the bottle with both hands, one around the neck and one supporting the base. He looks at the label analytically, rolling the bottle in his hands to get the full view. "Not this brand." He looks back up at Beckah, blinking harder at her grin. "I take it it's good stuff?"
"Try it," she chimes. She has the sort of a smile on her face that is commonplace when one is giving someone else a gift. Evidently, the Beckah thinks incredibly highly of the brand of soda she is sharing with Andre.
Andre tilts the bottle back upright, now scrutinizing the nature of the cap. He tries twisting it off, to no avail, then reaches one arm around to attempt to scope a bottle opener out of Beckah's kitchen drawer. "Getting there!" He rummages. "So, I may also be able to come bug you at work more now."
"Yeah?" Beckah asks, perking up brightly. A lower hand moves out to open a drawer and supply Andre with a bottle opener.
Upon feeling the bottle opener pressed into his hand, Andre's fingers flex in an attempt to give Beckah's hand a thank you squeeze. "Ayup! Main season's over, so I have more free mornings, which means more staying up late and bugging you at work." He lifts the opener and applies it to the bottlecap, which pops off and lands on the counter with a metallic clatter. He then offers the opener back to Beckah.
The squeeze is reciprocated once Beckah has the opener back. She pops her own bottle open and takes a slow, reverent sip from it. Her smile is brighter when she replies, "That's awesome! Maybe we could do something really cool, like have you set up some drums and play with me!"
"That would be pretty much the best thing ever!" Andre's voice, smile, and eyes positively sparkle with this assessment. He raises the bottle of soda in a toast to the air, then takes a slow sip, mimicking Beckah's. He swishes the liquid around in his mouth, then swallows, expression unchanged from his reaction to the musical suggestion. "And /this/ is also pretty much the best thing ever."
"I was also going to ask you... I have studio time in the next couple of weeks, to record an EP. I wanted you to play drums on a track for me, instead of using the machine. Think you could handle some lame, but catchy Amen Break action in a studio?" Beckah grins like the cheshire cat over this offer.
Andre's next sip of the soda is cut short by this suggestion; a small amount trickles back out of his mouth and into the bottle again. He swallows what does stay in his mouth, then lowers the bottle so that he grips it at roughly thigh level. "Studio time?! Holy crap, Beckah!" He reaches his free arm up and around her shoulders. "Congratulations! And /heck yes/." There is about a twenty year difference between Andre's actual age and the inflection his voice is giving off right now. "Can 'lame and catchy' go on the liner notes, too?"
Beckah lets out a laugh and wraps two left arms around Andre, smiling broadly. "Yeah. It's not a guarantee, it's more to put a few tracks down and see if the producer really likes it and all. But it's something, right? And if they don't like it, I can put it out independantly."
Andre gestures dramatically toward the studio area of the apartment. "How could they not like that?" He sets his jaw emphatically, then lifts the soda and takes a swig, swallowing with an audible gulp. "/How/ could they not like that?" He isn't even exaggerating reaction as much as he might in other cases. "Though, well, producers did put out stuff like the Backstreet Boys....but if they think /that's/ good enough, they aught to see /real/ talent easily in comparison. They'd be dumb to not release it."
Beckah lets out a laugh, "I'm just not counting any chickens before they're hatched," she explains. "I would rather plan for what happens if it doesn't work out and be happy, then expect it to work and be disappointed, you know? I'm being pragmatic. Keeping my head out of the clouds."
Andre breathes heavily and nods, then brushes his hair away from his forehead. "Yeah, I know. You're being smart about it, but I'm also saying the producer would be being very unsmart about it to not realize how incredible what you do is." He moves both hands, one still holding the bottle, in a terrible approximation of scratching. "Show him the Vivaldi!" Andre may have a personal favorite.
"That really got you, didn't it?" She asks, beaming. She takes a sip of her soda and paces out from behind the counter to roam out into the living room corner of the apartment. "I'm pretty sure that will be one of the tracks I try to use. It's unique, you know? But familiar enough that it should get attention."
"The Four Seasons is one of the most horrendously overplayed pieces in the entire classical repertoire." Andre's tone is flat as he trails Beckah into the living room, but it animates again to assess, "You made it freaking awesome again. I think it could be a huge point of interest, seriously. Pull in people who might not know the genre already."
"Hey, if there's one thing I'm good about, it's overplayed." She lets out a little laugh, "You /did/ hear me playing with 'Sgt. Pepper's' earlier, didn't you?"
Andre points at Beckah and raises one eyebrow. "Sgt. Pepper will /never/ get old."
Beckah reaches a hand out to Andre to lightly touch him on his shoulder. "I hate to break it to you, honey, but with a few notable exceptions, the Beatles are the most overrated musicians in the history of... history." She smiles as she says it too.
Andre looks down at the hand, then up towards Beckah's face, eyebrows twitching up and lips twitching down, though hovering somewhere between entirely genuine and exaggerated - wholly uncertain. "Uh. Well, I just said that about Vivaldi and other people think he's the greatest so, uhm. Allowed!" He ultimately manages to invert the frown for Beckah's benefit.
Beckah leans in and whispers in his ear, "Fastest way ever to make a Beatles fan make a funny face," she breathes. Then, with an immature grin on her face, she goes bolting for the other side of the room, holding her soda bottle up above her head to keep from sloshing it as she goes.
Andre's face becomes funnier with Beckah's whisper, his nostrils slightly flaring, his brows lifting and causing little wrinkles in his forehead, his lower lip pulling down to expose teeth. And he just bliiiinks at her as she scoots. He even takes a slow sip of his soda, gaze piercing across the expanse of the room. "Indeed." He means this to sound like a Liverpool accent. It does not work.
There is a blink back at him from across the room. "Indeed what?"
Andre attempts to pull his face back into a neutral expression. He manages to at least abandon the funny face, but he can't quite curb the smirk that follows. And he just shrugs.
"Dinner?" Beckah suddenly asks. She takes advantage of where she is standing to grab her wallet up and slip it into her back pocket. "I got a nasty craving for something spicy."
Andre takes another long sip of the soda before breaking into soft but genuine laughter, his shoulders twitching as if to magnify the sound. His head lowers, then pulls up again, at which point he sticks his tongue out at Beckah. "You win, you win!" The laugh continues, carrying his words. "You know I'm not one to turn down food!"
Talk of talent and record deals. Andre-in-my-head says, "How dare Beckah imply that the Beatles are overrated!"
5 June 2007: Andre rains on Beckah and Magneto's parade. Inadvertently. Oops.
There was an aftermath scene in which Andre kept going GAH WUT and Beckah stood up for Mags and Godwinned about it, too, but both of us forgot to log. Fail.
5 July 2007: Andre meets up with Jackson after many months of not having seen him.
6 July 2007:
The term 'convenience store' may not be entirely accurate. Generally, the reason anyone finds oneself in such a place is because something inconvenient has come up at a terrible time, requiring that individual to take extra time to go out of the way to find something. Hardly convenient, really, but there are worse options. Andre is clearly the type to opt for inconvenience over the alternative - he currently strolls down one aisle of the store, gait favoring his left leg, though still balanced, with a nine-roll pack of toilet paper.
Far below the standards of retail outlets that she would normally patronize, Monet St. Croix walks through the aisles of this particular convenience-hole with a little frown on her pretty face. She has recovered mostly from her adventure in the South Pacific. The only signs of it are hidden beneath the white Rolling Stones t-shirt. Her favorite was destroyed in the plane crash, but she has replaced it. Her own target is of a slightly less embarassing nature than toilet paper - a bottle of headache pills.
Andre's Stop Plate Tectonics shirt probably should have been replaced long ago, even without gaping wounds to sully it, but he does not appear in the least fazed by his fashion statement, or particularly embarrassed by his purchase. It's tucked as much under one arm as he can manage, with the other arm reached across his chest to support the side of the package, but due to the size of the plentiful treasure of the Charmin bears, that doesn't keep it from sticking out the back. And potentially bumping into protruding elbows or shopping baskets of other customers.
It seems to be poor Monet's fate. Wherever she goes, there is some clod walking around just asking to be bumped into. When her arm hits the toilet paper rolls that stick out past Andre's back, there is a disconcerting level of force to it, enough to potentially rip the plastic. The first curses are in French, but she quickly switches to snap, "Is everyone in this city determined to run something into me today?"
The plastic does indeed rip a little, but you-break-it-you-bought-it is not a real concern with this particular product. Non-English language is also of more intrigue to Andre than exposed white paper, and he turns to face the snapping Monet with a sheepish half-smile. "Sorry about that!" The apology intones upward with surprise, though has no backdrop of snark. His register levels more as he continues. "If everyone's determined, though, it's definitely not a /concerted/ effort."
"No," Monet agrees. "It's simply my fate to be blungeoned by paper that you intend to clean your butt with." Her tone is sour and she makes a terrible face at that thought, like she just bit into a lemon.
"Nng." The sound comes from the back of Andre's thought, an inarticulate concurrence with the disgust factor of Monet's statement, further accentuated with a wrinkle of his nose. "Well. Um. At least it's only covered with /intent/ now. And plastic wrap."
"You do have a point," she conceedes. With a sigh, she pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment. The drama of the sigh is lent to her gesture toward the counter. "You do plan on buying your weapon, don't you? I'm going to end up arrested for shoplifting if I open this bottle in here."
Andre switches the package from one arm or the other, taking particular care not to bludgeon any more people or to incite a cleanup in aisle five. "This isn't the kind of thing you haul around for show," he explains, voice lightening toward his usual casual tenor. "But if your migraine's going to get you on the news if you don't beat it, you're welcome to go ahead of me. It's not, uh. Urgent."
Monet narrows her eyes for just a moment. "I've had more than enough of the news for a very long time," she says. Her tone is less snarky than exhasperated. This does not, however, stop her from sidestepping Andre to get to the man behind the cash reigster. She is curt and quick and steps to the side to free two of the pills as soon as her transaction is done.
Andre is content to let Monet slip in front, though his attention toward the young woman becomes more analytical after her exasperated sentence. He takes a few steps forward once the register is cleared, but he stops short, remarking as soon as she's taken her pills, "Waitaminnit. You don't mind me saying, yours /does/ look like a face I've seen on TV."
Her eyes close for a long moment once she has swallowed the pair of little pills, as if she were trying to will them to begin working immediately. "Yes, I have been on TV quite a lot lately. Plane crash, island, all of that." Monet does not seem very enthused to tell the story again, but she is also not going to deny it.
Then Monet should be glad that a look of immediate recollection lights Andre's eyes, raises his brows, and cracks his mouth open a little as she mentions the plane crash and island. No danger of his needing a recap! "Right!" His free hand flicks briefly toward the surveillance TV above the counter, as if it too contains news. "It is /really/ the most incredible thing that you all got back here. Even if being here means getting smacked by toilet paper in a cheap corner store."
Monet laughs awkwardly. "Really," she notes. "It's a lot more incredible that we had a doctor and at least one useful mutant among the survivors to keep ourselves alive." She looks down at the bottle of pills for a moment, then shrugs to herself and tucks them into one pocket.
"That is some crazy luck," Andre agrees, bobbing his head and shifting the rolls of paper slightly underneath his arm. "I mean, not that you were lucky to be in that situation in general, but compared to the negative alternative..." He laughs quietly and shakes his head now. "I'm sure I'm just blathering things you already know."
"Yes," Monet says flatly. "You are." She plucks a stray hair off of her shirt and tosses it aside, looking about as interested as she would be in the international paint drying competition. "Please don't tell me you are one of those creepy people who think that my 'Real Life Survivor' story is sexy and that you'll be following me to my cab."
A shallow furrow wrinkles between Andre's raising brows, and he shakes his head emphatically, bangs falling across his eyes. He brushes them back as he assures, "I'm not, I promise! If I thought that, I would've done something altogether more endearing than sic the Charmin bears on you to get your attention." He laughs quietly. "I won't push the topic, though. Hope your head feels better."
There is a tiny moment where Monet's irritation parts enough that she smiles slightly at the comment about the Charmin bears. She shakes her head and disengages herself with more of her charming banter, "Do have a lovely time with your paper."
Andre takes note of the smile and responds with raised brows and a smile of his own. "I'm sure I will, for things would be much grimmer without it." Endearing, indeed. With this, he actually approaches the counter and deposits his parcel there.
Andre bludgeons Monet with a large package of toilet paper.
8 July 2007: More professional musician talk with Lark and Andre!
16 July 2007: Havok worked with Andre's mom at Berkeley! This is more than cause for a lunch meeting now that Alex is in Manhattan. Havok tells Andre scary things about seismic mutants.
19 July 2007: Lark and Andre go for a jog. It is a slow jog, even though Andre has been caneless for a while now. They discuss how to handle relationship problems.