well, this is a mess. she can feel it, the way that something’s wrong; just as people know when something broken in them, a bone poking through the skin or a cough so persistent the throat becomes raw, layla knows about the missed connections in a piece of tech. she knows when a part is frazzled, overused, misused. it screams to her, and she wants to lay healing hands on it, let the circuit reform, the motherboard settle down, and for it to be itself. this is calling out to her.
no boast in her tone; she’s good at this. she knows it. she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t, because nightclubs are not her scene. too loud. too full of people. too bloody loud.
❝ um, can you help me up there? ❞
That look sparks guilt
and Riley glances down at the stray wiring in her hand. Almost like she’s apologizing to it. Like she’s been apologizing to everything else.
And it wasn’t as if she’d done anything to the mixer. Sound checks earlier in the morning had provided an ample amount of feedback she couldn’t place, and then the sound had stopped altogther.
Of course, that was after Jacks had had his way with it.
She’d done the best she could. Consulted the internet. Stabbed herself with stray pieces more than once. Gotten frustrated. Gone out for a smoke. Heard the name Layla from one of the more sympathetic of the club’s staff members.
And then she’d gone looking.
However, the expression on the girl’s face is almost enough to make her wish she hadn’t.
‘Oh, of course,’ she says, stepping down from the platform and hesitating before the girl in the chair.
