The joy of new faces came with a cost. A cost I am more than willing to pay.
Storyville has never been so popular. It took four years to see a turnout like this. Progress is what it tells me. I knew putting a Jazz club near the town line would attract people from all over, even after the investors told me to centralize for a better turnout.
The crowd is mixed: African American, Caucasian, Asian, Mexican, all types, and then you have the Formaden race, the double-conscious race humans don’t know exists. They could be anyone depending on their pairing—consciousness with Parasite duties muscling out the consciousness of the host brain, scattered about in secrecy blending in with the Storyville locals.
Bodies bob to the bass guitar at play. I’m looking for the uncoordinated movements of dancers. I was this way once, but I beat the curse; not every one of my kind can do that. The movements will tell me what direction they will take in their transformation. All directions are not good, some could even be deadly. There are no collapsing knees on the verge of turning inward. No eyeballs rolling into the back of their lids. No chest clutching. Just the joy of new faces.
I feel the anticipation as the female performer sways to the microphone, her cocktail dress showing off her many curves. I’m intrigued. She finds the rhythm of the bass and drums with her eyes closed. Communication fills my head, forcing me to touch my ears, saving the memory to the network. My insides tremble for a moment, the muscle memory of my synthetic organs keeping the explosion at bay. I move over to a column to get a clear view. I brace myself.
Her voice emanates throughout the club, belting out a high note she holds for what feels like ten seconds. Gasps are heard around the club. Vibrations shake my synthetic organs making them scream for mercy. My hand shoots to my ear, instinctively slapping it multiple times saving this intense feeling to the network. Bent over I see many others doing the same, some fall from their seats onto the floor.
Luckily, I no longer share the conscious network of the Formaden, as a deserter of my race, I communicate amongst a private network with whom I decide to communicate with. I can only imagine the telepathic traffic invading their network.
I regain my composure, raising myself upright with my hand at my ear on the ready.
The Bass guitar buckles my knees, which is weird–I’ve built up a resistance a long time ago to its sound. Her voice must have weakened me. My eyes fall on a flyer on the table: TOYA RICHARDSON AND THE SOUL SOUND BAND.
Getting up, I hear a moan from a chubby woman next to me sitting on a barstool, her smile is broad, blood tearing down both eyes–her host consciousness is fighting back to take over the parasitic link to the Formaden’s consciousness.
It’s so beautiful, she communicates through the network with her mouth remaining motionless.
She will be dead before morning.
‘Our network has been shut,’ Detmer said scurrying over helping me to my feet. ‘All conscious thought is Formaden now.’
‘We use the radios from here on out.’ I say with my attention to the stage, pushing him away until he gets the hint and attends to those who truly need help.
My body suffers, but I can’t take my eyes off of her. Her braids flow embossing her caramel-coated face as it rises to the sky, allowing them to fall further down her back. I stand mesmerized by the music. I can’t escape her voice–It weakens me.
Ignoring the reserved sign occupying an empty table, I drop myself into the red arch back booth.
I soak her in as she belts out another high note, closing my eyes I see, feel, hear. This is music at its finest. The bass guitar has a face. The piano has a face. The drums have a face. All becoming a single living organism–Toya Richardson. She is music.
I open my eyes–pain sits balanced over my body. Scanning the audience, I realize time has passed. Toya strolls by me, heading into the wardrobe with her band members following close behind. I want more. I rhythmically clap my hands, screaming her name, setting up the encore for another song. They enter the wardrobe and immediately come out, setting up on stage to perform another song.
‘This is a song on our new album so make sure you buy it.’ Toya speaks into the microphone. ‘Only $12.99.’
Here are some related Storyville connection posts. How to know if you have a pancake addiction and No need to compare.
