Hey man, you ever listened to the Doobie Brothers?

[Batdude]

Whooooosh!

Marty was making great time! All the way from Montpelier and back without stopping for a slurpee. Of course, the small baggie in his pocket was worth the trip. Upstate was borrrrrrring, and it was tough to find dank nugs anywhere near the institute. Flying had a way of opening up the market, which was always good. Marty knew a couple of fifty-something hippies in Vermont who didn't mind if their company was black, white, human, or mutant. They had only a few rules. One, you took your shoes off before coming inside, two, you had to like pancakes, and three, you had to paint something on the mural before you left.

Marty was an accomodating customer, and soon discovered that they also managed to grow incredible organic marijuana, Paul Newman style. He made sure to keep giving them his business.

A slight flap of wings, and Marty deftly maneuvered out of the way as a small Cessna crossed his path. He grinned, wondering if they even saw him on scopes. He slipped off radar easier than a greased up deaf guy, and there was always a perverse fantasy of severely goosing Washington DC airspace. That, however, he wasn't quite crazy enough to do yet. Homeland Security types were anal enough as it is when they were worrying about al Qaeda or whoever. Mutants buzzing the White House would probably cause zip codes to disappear.

Marty made it back to upstate, and gave the perimeter a swoop before coming in to perch at the roof adjacent to his window.

"Paydirt."

Marty chirped about to echolocate any trouble nearby, before tucking into his dorm.

[RiffWrath]

As Marty chirped, his hearing would've very easily picked up the sounds of an acoustic guitar, playing through a song that perhaps someone who appreciated drug culture might know. It was the intro to the bluesy Little Wings. It was a song that, if someone ever played it or created it beforehand, became property of Jimi Hendrix the moment his skilled hands began strumming and plucking at the strings.

A few doors down from Marty's room, Mel sat on his bed, slowly playing his acoustic. It was his first guitar, some off-brand instrument. But any musician would know, the first guitar you played on would always have a place in your heart. Playing was something that Mel hadn't done in a few days, maybe even a week and a half, and for the former guitarist of Riff Throttle, that had seemed like an eternity. But during that eternity, he simply couldn't pick it up. Every time he tried, he found his mind flooded with memories of the concert gone horribly wrong. His hands could scarcely touch the body or the frets before Mel found himself chilled to the bone. He had to wash his hands every time for that week or so. He felt...dirty, soiled.

But today, something simply felt different. For once, he had been able to pick up the guitar, and began to play, starting with one of his personal favorites, eyes closed as he enjoyed the flow.

[Ghost]

"You took your time, didn't you?"

In the corner of Marty's room sat Chris, hunched double on a tiny Ghostbusters beanbag looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Not that Marty could tell, he looked somewhat disorientated and made a clicking sound with his mouth to get his bearings. Chris stood and approached him.

"Hope you don't mind. I let myself in. Christ, the air is close in here! Is that you?"

[Batdude]

"Dude!"

Marty started, flinching at the sound of his voice.

"You gotta let me know when you're gonna do that, man!"

He would've been pissed, but the guitar kid a few doors down was working on something that was sounding good.

"I'm chill, just don't get any spirit boogers on my stuff."

Chris was usually mindful of his, uh, plasma, so Marty didn't worry about it.

"Did you get it?"

It referred to an item, no, an artifact of 1990's video gaming. One Sega Genesis console, complete with a copy of Mortal Kombat II. Retro as hell, and a find Chris had spotted on E-bay a week ago for $15.

[Ghost]

"Oh, that and more. It arrived today along with..."

Chris retreated to the corner of the room where there was a box and a rather bulky plastic bag. He rummaged inside and pulled out a series of boxes in sequence.

"Sonic 2, Streets of Rage 2, Golden Axe, Desert Strike, and Road Rash. I got an email from speed_angel12 yesterday, apologising for the delivery delay and compensated by throwing in a few extra classics."

He dropped the assortment of games back into the bag and carried the box to the centre of the room. His eyes fell on Marty expectantly.

"Do you want me to roll?"

[Batdude]

"Hang on, I'm all over that."

Marty lifted up a couch cushion, rummaged for a bit, and came up with two baggies.

"We've got zig zags, and some crap I picked up in Jersey that looks like Bazooka Joe wrappers."

He paused, and averted his eyes.

"Of course, there's always Underbong, but we're going to be operating heavy machinery tonight, and it might cause static."

Underbong, of course, referred to the acrylic-painted glass pipe in the shape of the famous canine superhero of old.

[RiffWrath]

Mel continued Little Wings, until after about a minute, he sighed. He then thought, and decided to play a little more, starting into the acoustic and live version of the Eagle's Hotel California, barely managing to control the intensity of the little riff that he held out, playing the run several times back and forth. The vibrations went outward, causing the glass of his open window to crack slightly. Upon hearing the clink of the glass as it slowly split, Mel snapped out of it, and looked down at his hands, and the guitar with sadness. Still needed more control. He sighed, and slowly put the guitar away.

He needed to get out for a bit. Mel pulled on a shirt, covering the tattoos across his chest, before quickly brushing his black, long hair, and opening the door, walkin' down the hallway. He remembered that three doors down from him was a kid with incredible hearing. He had hoped that he didn't hurt the kid by playing.

Mel lightly tapped on the door, hoping that he hadn't somehow injured someone else, pullin' his hat down.

[Ghost]

"Save Underbong for later and stick with the zig zags, I don't want any-"

There was a knock on the door, Marty returned the two bags to their original hiding place and set the cushion right. Chris waited until the incriminating evidence had been safely hidden then turned to the door and opened it a quarter of the way. His head tilted and he peered outside. Stood before him was a man he'd never seen.

"Oi oi! What can I do you for?"

[RiffWrath]

Mel smiled.

"Hey. I was, uh, playin' guitar, and cracked my window. I know you got good hearing, with your room sound-proofed and all. I hope I didn't injure you any, man."

His hand, covered in fingerless gloves, shot out to the other guy at the door.

"I'm Mel."

[Ghost]

"I'm Chris," he said, shaking his hand, "and I'm not Batdude."

He nudged the door further open with his foot so that Marty became visible and grinned.

"That's him. He also blind-as-a-bat so come in."

[RiffWrath]

Mel, upon seeing the perched, batlike human, blinked. He was stunned. He had seen some mutants, but few had physical mutations. None near as extreme as that. But then again, Batdude seemed pretty well laid back. No blood coming from the ears, or anything. No harm, no foul. Mel stepped into the room and held out a hand to him.

"Oh, gotya. Sorry, hope I wasn't too loud. I'm sure you probably heard me, but I'm Mel."

Mel took a quick sniff in the air, before smiling. He knew that smell all too well.

"So, just how much weed did you guys smoke in here? I'd suggest Febreeze. Less likely to fail a room search."

Mel smiled. Hopefully they wouldn't think he'd narc on them.

"You guys got any beer?"

[Batdude]

"Bee Why Oh Bee. Nigga don't set trip, da Chronic ain't free."

Marty's spectacled eyes shifted left and right.

"Chris, be a dear and get the door."

Once they were awash in silence and in the relative darkness of the room, Marty grinned conspiratorily, eyeing the thick foam padding on the walls and ceiling.

"Check the insulation. Keep your library voices in here, but I don't mind what you do outside. Nice riffs, by the way."

Marty looked over at Chris, shrugging in his inverted position.

"Got room for three? He seems alright."

[Ghost]

"Welcome aboard, sah!" he said to Mel, giving him a stiff salute.

Chris kicked off his shoes exposing a pair of white socks sporting all over a pattern of red lipstick marks. He crossed the room and turned on a lava lamp next to Marty's perch, it bathed the room in a dull orange glow.

"That's the stuff. Mel, fancy helping me get this beautiful bit of hardware up and running while Marty makes himself useful and works his magic?"

He hefted the Sega Genesis box aloft and presented it ceremoniously to him.

[RiffWrath]

Mel, already somewhat quiet when speaking, took special care to do so, for Marty's sake. Must be crazy being able to hear so well. But I bet it has it's uses, Mel thought to himself.

"Wow. Haven't seen one of these in a long time. Maybe one day I'll get all my stuff outta the van, and bring up my gamin' gear."

Mel took the Genesis, and looked it over.

"In great condition, too. Either you got this just recently and previous owners took real good care of it, or you took especially good care of it."

He knelt behind the television, and began the relatively easy process of hooking up the RFU switch.

"Ah, I don't need much to have a good time. Hell, this Sega'll do. You guys got Golden Axe? I used to love that game."

[Batdude]

Marty exercised extreme Zen, setting a zig zag on his loft, on an inverted side bench near his laptop. He unrolled the bag and set it to the side, gingerly prying a few errant strands of the glorious green merrymaker from the mass within the bag. He measured it out the way that a samurai might prune a bonsai tree, and then with a flourish, rolled the entire contraption up into a thin white oblong with gingerly-pointed ends.

"Houston, the eagle is on the pad. Begin ignition sequence."

[Ghost]

From the plastic bag, Chris lifted a box marked Golden Axe for Mel to see, it swayed rythmically in his hands and he gave him his best come-to-bed eyes.

"Ooh, you love it, you filthy bitch."

The dancing game case descended back into the bag and Chris bounded across the room to Marty and his completed doobie. From his pocket he revealed a zippo lighter emblazoned with the Union Jack. He flicked it open, took the joint delicately between two fingers and turned away from Marty to protect his eyes from the naked flame. There was a click and he was sillouetted with a golden aura, he raised the lighter and as he ignited the tip of the slim joint there was a faint crack. Once his patriotic lighter was stashed away, he turned and popped the cigarette into Marty's upside down mouth.

"In Okinawa, all Miyagi know two things: spliff and karate."

He folded his hands and bowed.

[RiffWrath]

Mel laughed at Chris. These guys seemed cool to hang out with. He probably wouldn't participate in the toking, but he would at least enjoy their company. Mel pulls up his box pack of Marlboros, and slides one out, cupping his hands around the flame. A similar, though shorter blaze of light appeared, before Mel took a drag of the cigarette, and inhaled the smoke, releasing it into the air. He made his way to the game bag, and sorts through it.

"What to play first, boys?"