And then, the synth! Cod, the synth was impeccable! It flowed into the chorus like a third voice, its wet, warbly, sometimes even buzzy feeling truly bringing its Inkling-produced peers together into a solid, unstoppable force of music as it oscillated about. As the chorus ended, and the steady bass of the group pulled the song around to enter its second verse, Octavio swiftly began to type up little miscellaneous notes on the song’s design.
This process would repeat for a good chunk of the first audio log’s length. A match would begin, a new song would play, and Octavio would listen intently.
He got a few repeats here and there, but those hardly mattered. All the better reason to listen even closer to the inner workings of the songs he’d heard before!
This first, electronic-rock styled band that Octavio listened to seemed to be quite popular. That, or they simply got lucky and got lots of their music played over the span of the first recording. He wasn’t quite sure how the music industry in Inkopolis functioned, after all.
(Didn’t Callie mention something about it needing to be licensed? Or did he just dream that part up?)
Speaking of Callie, that same band she showed him once played a few times! Specifically, that same song that Marie would keep replaying over and over and over again in whatever mobile game she was playing. Despite how the sharp, chiptune intro grated on his ears, Octavio did still find it fun.
The same could be said for two other bands, whose sounds were quite unique from one another. Octavio’s ears were frequently graced by the sounds of a striking, fast-paced jazz band, as well as a heavy, almost belligerent at times, sounding Celtic punk band.
Actually, frequently was quite the understatement. At one point, one of the punk band’s songs ended up playing back to back!
Not that it wasn’t a great listen, of course! Just… jeez.
By the time he was hearing one of the jazz band’s songs for a second time as well, Octavio checked the communicator channels.
As he went to type a small thank-you to Amary and the rest of the girls, another audio file had popped up! Not just one, two!
He typed his sentence, but not before eagerly downloading and queueing turfsportsounds2.mp8 and orangesportsounds.mp8 up to play after the file he was on finished.
And, thus, the process began.
Octavio would listen to the files he was sent, take notes on what he heard, and confirm with the team that he was receiving their data.
Then, he would listen.
He would listen, listen, take notes, listen some more.
Time became nothing more than a societal construct, used to measure how long the little squids and octopi on the other side of the microphone had until their fun sport ended.
Attendants would bring a meal. Octavio would thank them distantly, but request that they leave him be.
He was busy with work. Lots of work.
Eventually, the sounds of the battles blended into the songs themselves. Pops and shouts and whooshes of special canisters activating weaved into fading trumpets and echoing vocals and steady, steady drum beats. Organically crafting a new piece of music, a new story, for each listen.
That wasn’t to say that it sometimes grew grating, of course. The amount of times that that punk song that began with the chants, or the jazz song with the stupid kazoo would play, only to be followed by 5 minutes of sounds that Octavio swore sounded like the charged shots of that golden weapon Agent 4 used to knock his lights out, was unacceptably high.
