Reckless Harmony

News

"Ian! Mickey's calling my phone, you know what that's about?" Fiona calls out to Ian from across the locker room at Patsy's, interrupting his break.

Ian, who had been dozing off, jolts awake and replies with a hint of curiosity, "Oh, yeah, he's probably been trying to reach me since my phone's out of battery."

Fiona nods understandingly and hands him the phone. Ian quickly puts it to his ear.

"Hey babe... How's it going?... That's great, what's up with you?... Oh wow, a record deal? That's amazing, Mick!... Huh?"

As Ian listens to Mickey's news, his expression shifts from excitement to concern. He furrows his brows as he asks with a mix of surprise and worry, "Half a year?"

He continues the conversation, his voice still wavering, "...That's a long time to be away. No, I'm fine... I gotta go, I'll call you. Love you."

Fiona, who has been watching Ian closely during the conversation, immediately picks up on his concern. She walks over to him, her voice filled with genuine care as she asks, "Everything okay?"

Ian nods slowly, still processing the information. "Yeah, it's just... Mickey got this record deal, but it means he'll be away for six months," he explains, his tone reflecting a blend of acceptance and concern.

"That's a long time," she remarks sympathetically, echoing Ian's thoughts.

"Yeah, it is," Ian agrees, his gaze shifting to the phone screen as if searching for answers.

Fiona offers him a reassuring smile and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, try not to think too much about it. You guys will figure it out."

She can't offer much more than words of encouragement. Just try not to dwell on how long Mickey will be away; it's all Ian really can do for now. And keep in touch through calls, shit like that. She smiles sadly as Ian's break comes to an end, and he resumes his shift with a sigh.

***

Lugging around his equipment and pausing for selfies with fans wasn't the most challenging aspect of Mickey's day. No, the toughest part was breaking the news to Ian.

Even now, he can vividly recall the concern in Ian's voice, almost as if he can see the sadness in his eyes. Mickey had wanted to hug him through the fucking screen.

"So, you guys have about eight songs in your repertoire, and none of them have been published?" Hank, the contract dealer, queries as they sit in his cramped office. He's a middle-aged man with his grey hair in a bun and his beard untrimmed. He's also tatted as fuck, probably an old rocker.

"That's the gist of it," Max replies casually.

A gleam of excitement lights up Hank's face. "Well, well, well. With your material, you could easily put together an album." Hank leans forward, a spark of enthusiasm in his eyes. "Let's talk about your sound. What's your vision for this album?"

Max shifts in his seat, gathering his thoughts. "Uhh, well. We don't really- We haven't thought about that."

Hank's excitement doesn't waver as he leans back in his chair, intrigued. "Interesting. So you've got a collection of songs, but you haven't quite defined your sound yet. That's a blank canvas, my friends. A canvas we can paint with the colors of your creativity."

Max nods slowly, pondering Hank's words. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. We've been focused on writing songs that feel right, you know? The sound sort of evolves with each song."

Hank strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Evolution... I like that. It means your music has depth, layers waiting to be uncovered. But for an album, we need a cohesive thread that ties everything together. Something that makes listeners say, 'Ah, that's a Riot City song.'"

Hank's words resonate with Max, prompting him to scratch the back of his head as he looks over at Mickey and Eddie, seeking some form of agreement or input.

"I mean... We're all about giving cosmic 'fuck you's' to the pretentious douchebags, you know?" Max adds, his uncertainty evident in his tone. He may not have a clear idea of what he's talking about, but his passion is fucking evident. "We want that gritty, raw vibe. None of that overproduced, polished shit. If my voice cracks or something, keep that in there. That shit's real."

Mickey was waiting to chip in, but Max just said everything he was going to say. He keeps quiet.

Hank listens intently, nodding along with a smile. "I like your spirit. Let's talk about production."

As Hank delves into the technicalities of music production, Mickey's mind drifts. He's only half-listening, eager to get out of there and call Ian again. He had already broken the news to Ian about the record deal, but the weight of the situation still lingers in his mind. The thought of being away from Ian for half a year gnaws at him, and he can feel the anxiety creeping in.