102 Chapter 102: Aim

It was a tie….

And it had been hours since then. Ororo and W'Kabi had business elsewhere. Wanda and Piotr returned to Krakoa after a brief goodbye.

Brontë had his sights aimed elsewhere since— even during, their race.

He laid in his bed, thinking himself into a gray lifeless paste that blended in with his sheets.

"Be charismatic enough to make all the Mutants team up. Don't choose anyone that'll make the others tweak out. Don't let Gabbie go to Krakoa..." Bronte said his focus points aloud.

"Perhaps WE should write a speech! HAHA…. I have many ideas. I've been listening to snl monologues during the night. WE can make them laugh…. Mend their rivalries through comedy!" Mend said.

"You want me to pull up to the most important Mutant meet up…. With a comedy sketch?"

"Do not say it like that, Unc. You make it sound terrible….."

"My bad." Bronte pulled out his phone just as Ilyana texted him.

"Hey, you're going to the Mutant Summit, right?"

Brontë replied to her text, "Yea. Why?"

"I'm going too. Sam just asked me to join with the rest of the New Mutants."

"...Don't ask, Unc." Mend spoke into the silence.

"Ok, cool." Bronte texted his reply.

"Do you know who you're bringing?" Ilyana asked.

"Working on it."

"I'll ask my brother who else is coming to help you. Even if that's cheating kind of…. Hopefully he knows something."

"Thanks, Magik."

Bronte turned off his phone and returned back to square one.

A very unpleasant place to be when you were just told the world rests somewhere around your shoulders.

"Ou! I have an idea!" Mend yelled and caused Bronte's arm to rise and point.

"What's up?"

"Bronte you are a creative….. a musician. You must think in melodies…. Tempos and harmonies!"

"I don't know about all that…"

"Unc…. Stop thinking about the world ending. Think about music. If it's how you see your family…. Maybe it can also be how you see your allies for this Mutant Summit! Haha….. I am smart. WE are smart."

Bronte sat up. Mend— in the shape of his arm, still pointed over to his producer set up with a fiendish urgency that failed to match how the rest of him presented.

"Ok…. Alright, I'll try that." Bronte approached his producer set up.

His social media accounts, email and unfinished beats were pulled up on the three monitors.

He was still gaining fifty-thousand followers a week. Part of him hoped to hit a million followers on all platforms before the war.

Another part of him just wanted to focus on the music.

Like instruments from vastly different genres, his work and passions were blending to create their own sound.

He let it guide him as he closed all his tabs and took the drumsticks out of his desk.

It was always nice to get things started with a simple beat. A steady tempo. A backbone to the whole body of music.

But this wasn't a simple beat. It couldn't be— it wouldn't fit the situation. The stakes. They were mountainous. He needed something big. Something powerful that made a statement. Something….

Bronte put his drumsticks back and picked up his Stratocaster electric guitar. He tilted his mic down to the instrument in his lap, pressed record, and let off a riff. Not the classic extreme and grunge tune electric guitars were known for.

Something more hopeful. Something equally as powerful, but positive. It felt like a sunrise in New York. A second wind filling the lungs of enduring people.

He ended the recording and let it play on his producing app. Let it simmer in his brain.

"More strings. More connects…" Bronte mumbled before getting up and digging into his closet.

He came out with an acoustic guitar and played alongside the other riff. Letting it work around the preexisting tune. Again, and again with violin samples. Something colder and more open— more clear.

The stringed instruments all played on the beat making app.

Connected and pulled taught.

Like a spider-web. Or a snowflake.

But it wasn't finished. He couldn't see them.

Brontë sat in the beat, tapping his feet and moving his fingers like piano keys rested beneath them.

It needed to be unique. But fitting. Dark but optimistic. Conflicting as a whole but bound nonetheless.

He sifted through his beat packs and samples until he found himself settling on jazz. Trumpets, clarinet and drums. The spirit of New Orleans rose to the occasion.

The horned instrument stood out on the track like a sore thumb. But still worked as it rose with the electric guitar riff before fading to black.

By the time he was finished, three hours had passed by in a blur. It felt no longer than five minutes. His shirt was soaked in sweat. His calves were pumped for all the heel bouncing. But, the beat was done.

His team stood around him…. In the music. In the notes— the drumbeats, and riffs, and southern Afro beats samples.

The beat didn't stink. It wasn't painful or difficult to listen to.

It was functional. New to him— refreshing. But not so unique that he didn't have a feel for it. His dogs sat listening behind him as it rained from a clear sky.

"This is a ….. BANGER!" Mend shouted.

"Word. I think I'll post it." Bronte replied.

"Haha! What will you name this…. this collection of noises?"

Bronte typed it out and turned off his computer, looking out his window just as someone swung by on a web.

"Black Widow on Ice."