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Chapter Text

When his voice started cracking, things changed.

His life was defined by solid, steady, well-worn routines, and he'd long ago accepted that things would always be that way. He was not prepared to find himself getting much taller almost overnight; for his hands and feet to get too big, his skin to break out, his face to itch; to feel gawky and ungainly and strange and uncomfortable in his own skin. He thought he knew his body - he spent almost all of his time each day practicing and honing it for that unspecified future task that Wes was so single-mindedly focused on - but all of a sudden it had other plans. It was changing with or without his say-so and he felt lost, as well as increasingly tired and moody for no reason, not that he ever let any of that show around Wes. He was smarter than that.

Duster worried that maybe something was wrong with him, but he had no idea how to ask Wes about it. He didn't really have any idea how to talk to him period because he and Wes did not talk to each other; Wes gave him orders and he tried to obey them, and Wes yelled at him when he screwed things up, and he didn't say anything. How was he supposed to ask him about something like this? Wes would probably just say he was being stupid, that it was nothing to worry about even though it only seemed to get worse with each passing day. Was he going crazy? What was happening to him?

Finally, the situation, as with so many things in his life, was taken out of his hands. One day after a training session, Wes was telling him what he needed to work on, asking him if he was paying attention, demanding at least a sentence in response so he could make sure he was listening and when Duster answered him, his voice jumped and squeaked. He'd touched his throat with wide eyes, startled, and Wes raised an eyebrow, giving him an intent, appraising look.

Training that day was put on hold, one of the few times he could ever remember that happening when he wasn't severely injured or sick. Wes took him inside, sat him down, and explained a few things as tersely as possible. His body was changing. That was normal. The next couple years would be awkward, but by the end of it he'd be an adult and it wouldn't matter. He might start growing whiskers, but he'd show him how to handle that when it happened.

He might be distracted with thoughts about girls, but the most important thing in his life, and Wes emphasized this very clearly, the most important thing was his training. That was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing he should be thinking about. The safety of the village and everyone in it depended on him learning how to be a proper thief, depended on him being ready for that unspecified future date when the unknown enemy would appear and do something, and absolutely nothing should distract him from that, or would distract him from that if he knew what was good for him.

Then he told him that he wasn't allowed to go into town anymore until this awkward period was over.

What else could he do? Duster just nodded and obeyed, as he always had, despite the thousands of questions still buzzing in his head. Even when he walked around at night by himself, itching like he wanted to burst out of his own skin and agonizingly, painfully restless to do some frustratingly unexplained thing, he stayed away from Tazmily. Wes never had to warn him about something twice. He knew the consequences of disobeying his father.

So he spent his adolescent years alone and confused. Wes hadn't explained very much to him about anything, not that that was unusual, and he was too afraid to ask him for more details. After all, Wes might end up yelling at him for making him repeat himself, or for not understanding something that was so obvious, or for being stupid enough to ask in general. He got enough of that just staying quiet and doing what he was told. He had to figure this out himself, but as Wes had told him so many times, he wasn't very good at figuring anything out. His explorations and examinations of his feelings only left him feeling more lost and confused than ever. Nothing gave him any answers.

His training at least occupied his days so he didn't have to think about any of it. All he had to do was repeat the same action over and over until Wes was satisfied, which was never, or until he physically couldn't go any further, and in that state, he wasn't going to think very hard about anything.

Still, every now and then there were intrusive thoughts he'd never had before, ones that he found puzzling and distracting. Just like Wes had said, they tended to be of the girls in town his age, vague memories of the women he'd seen back when he used to go to Tazmily. They were distant figures, dreamlike and unreal, something about them important, like he should be doing something about them, but he didn't know what it was. Wes seemed to sense when he was drifting, knew that he'd be distracted by such thoughts as he'd warned, and emphasized over and over that the only thing that mattered was his training, that he had more important things to worry about, that he had a grand responsibility that he couldn't fritter away on idle thoughts. Duster wanted to listen, he did, but sometimes it just came over him without warning, and more than once Wes had rapped him over the head to regain his attention.

Over and over, he heard the same messages repeated to him. There was an unknown enemy, somewhere, that Wes didn't know the form of, that he couldn't ever explain, but this enemy definitely existed. And if this enemy decided to move against Tazmily, which could happen at any time, it would be up to them to do something, Wes never explained what it was, to save everyone. Everyone's lives depended on him doing this properly, and of course, Duster never did things properly. He always had to try harder, he always had to get better. He had to keep training so he wouldn't fail when the day came. That was all that mattered. That was all he was good for, the entire purpose of his life. He was a tool to be used when the time was right. He had no other purpose, and shouldn't think about anything else.

Over and over this was hammered into him.

Days, weeks, months blurred by. He stopped growing, although he ended up much taller than Wes, which seemed to irritate him. That seemed unfair, since it wasn't like Duster could control that, but that hadn't stopped Wes before, so why would it now? Years of nonstop training left his body solidly muscled, yet lanky and thin compared to his father, speckled with scars from countless mishaps, his eyes constantly shadowed with fatigue. His limp never got any better, although he'd found his ways to manage the pain and perform just as well even so impaired. Well... just as well might have been generous, all Wes ever said was that he was barely adequate, but he could do what he asked of him, that was what was important.

As his body settled, so did his emotions. Finally, that restless feeling, the baseless longing quieted down to a level where he could ignore it comfortably, replace it with numb focus on the same rote patterns each day that Wes put him through. An adult, finally, Wes had said like Duster had wanted it to take that long.

He let him go back into town, and all the girls he'd known when he was a child were adults now, like himself, as much strangers to him as he was to them. They looked nothing like they used to, and apparently Duster didn't look the same either. He only tried to speak to them once or twice; Nana asked if he was the thief's son, and if so, if he could maybe leave her alone, and Brenda said she didn't talk to creepy people.

He came back home, Wes asked him why he was late, and it was like the past few years hadn't even happened. He picked up the threads of where he'd left off, reintroduced himself to everyone, carved out that awkward, misfitting notch he used to occupy in Tazmily's grand scheme, played slow catch-up with the rest of the villagers who all seemed to have families and boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives now, while he'd only become taller and bigger.

There was a feeling that maybe he'd missed something.

But it couldn't have been that important, not compared to being ready for when the enemy came, someday, and did whatever it was they were going to do. He had one purpose, after all. His training was all that mattered.

When he stumbled into Club Titiboo years later without his memory, bewildered and battered and lost, he'd never been held, he'd never been in love, and he'd never been kissed.

---

He really wasn't sure what it was that made the DCMC take pity on him. It wasn't like they had a good reason - he was just an aimless, nameless, homeless drifter begging at the club's door for answers. He couldn't have been the only one. The bouncers certainly weren't inclined to indulge him - they didn't care if he was exhausted or hungry, this wasn't a hotel. He sincerely had no idea where else he could go, he didn't know where or who he was and he felt so tired, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. For some reason it felt familiar.

The DCMC had no reason to help him, but there they were. The bouncer hit him hard enough to send him stumbling back several steps into the wall, and some part of him said that he should have been able to block that (how?) or that he needed to shake it off so he could... do what? Disoriented, dizzy, he tried to pick himself up and he could hear voices telling the bouncers to knock it off, asking his name as hands helped him to his feet.

"I don't know," he'd said, and they'd all laughed and clapped his back.

"Another one!" As they pulled him along further inside, and he didn't resist. "I guess you could call it destiny, huh?"

It all happened so quickly, it was difficult for him to take it all in. They sat him down, got him a drink, grilled him about his past life and who he was. He didn't remember anything about himself, not even what he used to do, although he had a guilty feeling that it was important and he should remember.

And against all odds, each of them laughed and told him a similar story.

"We don't know who any of us are," the one with the mohawk said. "So we just made each other up. Why not, right?"

"Maybe we knew each other before, but we're only meeting now," the one with the dreadlocks said. "Like, we were all a band before we lost our memories, and now here we are."

"A band?" Duster tilted his head. The enormous blank void of his past life could have been anything; why not a band?

"You play any instruments?"

Duster wasn't sure. But it did seem like a big coincidence that four other people also had amnesia just like his own, and that they all happened to find each other. Maybe they had known each other before. Maybe this was meant to happen.

"You should stick with us anyway until you get your memory back. Maybe it'll help if we're all together, huh?" the one with the blond pompadour said.

"If you're goin' to hang with us, you should have a name though," the one with the mutton chops said, leaning back and looking at him thoughtfully. "What kind of name do you want?"

"A name...?" Duster blinked.

The one with the mohawk smiled at him, lip piercing glinting. "Yeah, we all got new names, 'cause we don't know our old ones anymore. What'cha think, what's he look like?"

"You ask me..." The one with mutton chops pointed at his hands, and Duster looked down. They were covered with scars, and he didn't know why. What had he been doing before to get his hands like this? "You look like you're a pretty lucky guy to have come this far. How about Lucky?"

"Lucky..." He wasn't entirely sure it felt right, but something about the idea or concept resonated on some level in him. Was he lucky before, or maybe unlucky? He couldn't remember, but the more he thought about it, the more it stuck. "Alright."

---

For some reason, Lucky had a fantastic sense of rhythm.

He could keep time with anything, tap one foot along with the beat no matter how complicated it was. He felt like he was supposed to do something with it, like there was a reason he could find a beat and... hit it? Was that the word he was looking for? His old life was so hazy, he couldn't remember. The others said it was because he was a born musician, and that made sense. He just had to find the right way to express that.

They were patient, something that made him feel a little ill-at-ease though he didn't know why, as he tried out each option. They gave him tips, suggestions, explained how each instrument worked, let him try and see which one fit, and after a bit of trial and error, he settled on the bass. Once Baccio, as he'd eventually learned his name, laid down the beat, his sense of rhythm allowed him to follow it perfectly, and training his fingers to do the same along the bass' strings wasn't too difficult. And even when it was difficult, it was easy to put in the time practicing until he got better. Something felt natural about doing the same thing over and over and over until it was perfect, although at the same time, it always felt like something was missing. Something making sure he did it right, but it was all so vague.

Once he got comfortable following, he began to improvise, expand and add flourishes, and despite his initial missteps, he fit in with the others perfectly. More proof that the five of them were meant to be together, that they'd been a band before they'd all collectively gotten amnesia, that this was how things were supposed to be. And he certainly felt like his new name was apt; he felt very lucky to be here, with them. They were friendly and supportive and helpful and fun to be with and they made him feel happy, like he belonged. Like Lucky really was someone even without his memories, without any context. The egg still bothered him somewhere, he still had no explanation for that, but it was easy enough to ignore in favor of his new life.

They played smaller shows with him at first so he could get used to the experience, get over his first show jitters. He worried that he wouldn't fit in, that he'd make a mistake, that the DCMC didn't need a bassist after all, but just as OJ had told him, after his first performance, the fans were hooked. People began to chant his name along with the others, scream for his attention while he was playing. On one hand, it was good to know that he wasn't screwing anything up, but on the other it was... bizarre. People shouted declarations of love at him and it didn't feel real, like they were joking or they must have been thinking of someone else. The shows got bigger and bigger, their name spreading around like wildfire, and the fans showered him with affection and attention and he had no idea what to do with it. This part of the experience hadn't really occurred to him.

The others didn't seem to have any such qualms though. They might not have remembered their old lives, but the core of their being survived even without it, hinted at the lives they might have led. OJ was a charismatic leader, Baccio was smooth, cool, and mysterious, Shimmy was a natural showman with a graceful touch, Magic was excitable and a bit of a daredevil, and Lucky... Lucky was quiet, gentle, and passive. What did that say about his old life? Who he used to be? He wasn't sure. There was a feeling sometimes like he might be better off not knowing, though the curiousity still gnawed at him.

Sometimes he felt like he fit in with them perfectly, and other times he felt very lost. When they'd unwind or jam after a concert, the others would talk about the women they'd seen in the crowd that'd caught their eye, the propositions and kisses and screams from adoring fans, and they seemed so at ease with it. Like they'd always been doing this, even without their memories. Lucky never knew what to say when these conversations came up, and when pressed, he often demurred and asked them to tell more stories so he wouldn't embarrass himself. Most of the time that worked, although OJ always gave him a look when he did that.

Was there something wrong with him in that he didn't know what to do when girls flirted with him? That the entire experience was foreign and strange to him when it came so easily to the others? Why didn't he know any of this? Who was he in his past life?

He might never know. Still, it bothered him.

---

"Sometimes I wonder about you, Lucky."

Lucky looked up from the sheet music he was struggling to read. He'd never been good with any of the notation; he had better luck playing by feel, and he had a feeling the others were the same way. Still, it was better to have things written down, which was usually OJ's job. "What do you mean?"

"I just wonder who you were, you know?" OJ shrugged, pulling out another Pork Chip from the bag he was holding. "Why you act the way you do sometimes."

There was an instinctual, deep reaction from somewhere in him, a warning that he should brace for... something. Where did that come from, and why? It was faint at least, but definitely there. "Am I doing something wrong...?"

"No, no." OJ waved a hand. "That's what I'm talkin' about, you just... do this thing sometimes and... it makes me wonder, is all." He shrugged again.

"What thing?"

"You get this look..." OJ paused, then he crumpled up the bag and poised himself to throw it across the room into the wastebasket. Lucky watched it soar through the air in a tumbling graceful arc before landing on the floor just beside the basket, and OJ huffed in irritation. He looked back to him. "You get this look like... Lucky really was a good name for you, you know?" He tilted his head a little. "Like you're lucky to be with us instead of..." He didn't finish his thought.

Lucky blinked at him. "I don't understand." He said it and a chill went through him; some deep remnant, something screaming from far away don't say that, don't ever say that, when you say that and then it garbled into something indistinct. Dangerous, a dangerous thing to say, but why? He looked back at the sheet music, a little disturbed. His old self was like a shadow, a ghost that reached out and touched his heart at times and he didn't know why or what it was trying to tell him. Haunted by who he was, possessed by him in ways he didn't understand. He got the same feeling when he looked in the pouches on the belt he'd been wearing when he'd come here, all the strange objects inside that looked familiar but had something wound around them, something dark, a warning, something that made him feel small and helpless. He'd put the belt in a drawer since he'd joined the band and had tried very hard not to think about it since.

Whoever his old self was, they were gone now. He was Lucky. There was nothing he could do about that.

An arm settled around his shoulders, and he blinked, startled out of his reverie. OJ sat by him now, his arm keeping them close, trying to meet his eyes. "I just wonder about you sometimes."

He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't say anything. OJ stared at him a little longer, then smiled. "But hey, you're happy with us, aren't you?"

"Yeah..."

"Then that's what counts. So, what d'you think?" And OJ picked up some of the sheet music. It was easy to shift the focus of the conversation.

He kept his arm around his shoulders though. No one had ever done that before, and he wasn't sure why he knew that.

---

"Got something for you, Lucky!"

He looked up from his bass. OJ was holding a sheet of paper, grinning at him.

"What is it?"

"Check it yourself." Still grinning. Lucky reached out and took it, squinting at the words. He wasn't a fast reader - a thought that triggered that same faint warning, that phantom of his old self trying to say something - so it took him a little time. I know you've never met me, but I want you to know...

"A love letter...?" Was he reading it right? That didn't seem right, but that's what the words said. OJ sat down next to him, smirking.

"Yup. One of the ladies tonight gave it to me, said it was just for you. You're a real hit, you know that?"

OJ sounded pleased by the idea, as he usually was by the attention of their loving fans, but Lucky just felt... lost. What was he supposed to do with this? It wasn't meant for him, he was sure of that somewhere. Something like this wasn't for him, it was for other people. He had something more important to do, something... something else, though he didn't know what it was. But it was important though, and there was that twinge of guilt whenever that thought crossed his mind. How important could it have been if he couldn't remember what it was?

But this wasn't for him, even if he was curious. And if he was curious about something, if he wanted something, shouldn't he know what to do with it when he got it? Wouldn't that make sense? Something in him wanted this but it didn't connect to any course of action, and something in him said he shouldn't want it. Something said he had to... do something. Practice maybe?

"You got that look, Lucky." OJ was leaning forward on his knees, staring at him.

"That look?"

"Yeah, you get this look like a train's coming right for you." OJ pointed at him, still smirking. "Like you ain't ever had a girl hit on you before."

Had he? Even if he had, he wouldn't remember, right? Did it make a difference either way? But the others all seemed so at ease with it, like somewhere they still knew, and he didn't have that. Why not? Was something wrong with him, was something just missing?

"Heh, look how hard you're thinkin' about it. Guess that answers that." OJ put a hand on his shoulder. "You really never had a girl be into you before, Lucky?"

He looked down, searching the ground for an answer. "I don't remember..."

"Man, I can't remember anything either but I still know that. The others do too." OJ leaned in a bit closer to him, an eyebrow raised. "You not into girls?"

Lucky blinked. The idea had honestly never seriously occurred to him, and he didn't know what to say.

"'Cause if you're not, that's cool." OJ shrugged and leaned back with that easy smile that usually meant things were alright. That dangerous feeling was back, like there was something that Lucky was supposed to say, and if he didn't say it... what? What would happen? What was he afraid of? "I'm just wondering."

"I don't know... I've never thought about it before." Which was true and should have been harmless enough, but still, that anxious feeling lingered.

"Really?" OJ raised his eyebrows.

"...I don't remember anything about something like that." He scratched near the hairline of his wig. "I don't... think I ever thought about any of that, before? I feel like... I had something more important to do." But what?

OJ laughed a little, trying to put him at ease perhaps. Was it obvious how awkward Lucky felt? Still that feeling telling him that he shouldn't be talking about this, thinking about this. "Sure, music's important and all, but that kind of thing's important to figure out too, you know?"

"I guess..." Not interested in girls? He'd never thought about it, or other men that way. Either scenario didn't seem real to him, just distant things he was not supposed to dwell on. He was meant to do... something, something important, and it didn't involve either category. Maybe. It was so hard to tell when everything was so fuzzy. There was that vague wanting feeling in the back of his mind, like he knew he was missing out on something but he wasn't sure what it was... was that feeling it? Was that what OJ was talking about? He tried to picture a situation with a man or a woman and he was equally at a loss for what to do when given positive attention from either. Positive attention, something about that stuck out in his head.

"You really never thought about it before?"

"I don't think so..."

"Well, tell you what." OJ patted his shoulder. "You think about it, and let me know, alright?"

"Okay." He agreed automatically, something the others had teased him about before, and OJ was walking for the door before he thought to ask him something else. "Wait... why do you want to know?"

OJ paused, then shrugged and smiled at him over his shoulder. "I just wonder about you sometimes, that's all."

He left, and Lucky was left with his bass and far too many questions. In the end, it was easier to focus on practicing than it was on answering any of them.

---

"So, what do you think of Violet?"

Why did everyone keep asking him about her? Lucky glanced at the opposite wall that now separated their rooms, like she could somehow hear them. She might have looked cute (you think she's cute? echoed in his mind, waiting for a realization he didn't know how to make) and harmless like the other waitresses at the club, but he got the feeling that he shouldn't cross her. Her arms looked like his own, solid and thick, and her knuckles had a web of white lines; there was more to her than met the eye. "I don't know... I haven't really talked to her much." Or at all.

OJ nudged him. "'Cause she seems really into you."

He looked around, like she was about to pop out at any moment. Talking about people when they weren't there felt unfamiliar, and particularly talking about her made him feel anxious. "Is she? I didn't notice..."

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me." OJ threw an arm around his shoulders again, laughing. "You're not that observant, you know?"

That dark twinge, some deep memory burned into those parts of his old self that survived. You're not, you're not, you are, you're so, you're so... something, something that made him feel... he didn't want to think about it anymore.

"I guess..."

"So, you gonna go for her?"

"Oh, no..." He said it before he even thought about it, then paused to think it over more carefully. Why was that his first thought? "I mean... I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I don't..." He might as well be honest; it was just him and OJ after all. Hopefully. "I don't really know... how, exactly. I don't remember how."

OJ raised an eyebrow, like he wasn't sure he believed that.

"You don't know how."

Lucky looked away, his face prickling uncomfortably. "I don't remember anything... that's all." He felt like an idiot, and something about that thought struck right into his heart and he shuddered. His past self saying something, his old life hovering, repeating the word, he didn't want to hear this. He was Lucky now, he didn't want to feel like this anymore. He had no reason to.

"Nah, I get it, don't worry." Maybe OJ could sense his shift in mood, maybe not. But he was smiling at him a little more kindly now, and he still had his arm around his shoulders. "But you really don't know how, huh?" Like he was making sure.

"No... not really..." No point in lying, although it was hard to meet his eyes still. Why did he feel like this? Did he know somewhere that something was wrong with him for not knowing anything about this? Did OJ think he was an idiot? He really hoped not, just the thought of him thinking that ached way deep down in a place he couldn't identify.

"Okay, so, did you think about what I asked you before? About girls and guys?"

"A little..."

"And?"

Lucky rubbed his upper arm, looking away. Might as well be honest, it should make things simpler, but there was still a feeling of dread, like he was going to say something wrong unless he was careful. "I never really thought about it before, I guess... I don't know," he mumbled.

OJ waited for him to elaborate, and then when he didn't, leaned back with a thoughtful hum. There was silence between them for a minute or so where Lucky felt like he should say something, but couldn't find any words. He felt familiarly on edge, judged, and why was it familiar?

"You know..." OJ said eventually, slowly. "I could show you."

Lucky blinked. "...Show me what?"

OJ waved a hand. "Show you what it's like. Seems to me like you've never done anything with anyone before, even when you had your memories. And that's okay!" A quick amendment when Lucky looked down. "Sometimes that's how it goes. Not your fault, probably. But, if you want to know..." And he shrugged.

Lucky knew what he meant, some part of him must have known, but still it refused to coalesce into a solid picture, into anything real. Things not meant for him, things that were distracting. He couldn't get distracted, but OJ was asking, offering, that hadn't happened before... what was he supposed to do? Would it be easier if a girl was asking? Imagining it made his decision no more clear. "I don't know..."

"Alright, here." OJ shifted a little to face him, reached out and turned Lucky's face towards his own. Their eyes met for a second before OJ moved forward, too quickly for him to react, and gave him a quick peck on the lips. It was incredibly brief, only for a second, and still the jolt felt like he'd been stabbed. Completely alert, startled; how could something that simple make his heart beat this fast and loud? Somehow, OJ looked totally at ease, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world. "Heh, there's that train coming look again. Think about it, alright?"

OJ patted his shoulder and left, his hands in his pockets, humming, and Lucky stared after him for several seconds, blinking with his mouth open like he was waiting for some kind of explanation.

It was his first kiss, although he didn't know it at the time. He was relatively sure though that he'd never felt this way before; his heart wouldn't slow and his stomach felt tight and his face itched like his skin was prickling awake, and he couldn't stop replaying it in his head. He kissed him, OJ kissed him, he let OJ kiss him. Should he have stopped him? He was supposed to be doing something important, he knew that, and that old phantom of himself said that kisses were definitely not it, but... it only took a second, that wasn't so bad, was it? He could still focus on his work, on doing that important thing, right? It wasn't that distracting, right?

What was he supposed to do with this? There was a feeling like someone was going to yell at him, but he didn't know who it was.

---

Somehow, things continued on much as they had before. OJ didn't behave any differently than he used to; still confident, still friendly, still quick to tease and quick to support. The others didn't suspect a thing between them, just as chatty and goofy as ever. The five of them worked on their music, made fun of each other, told jokes and tussled and laughed, all very normal. Like nothing had changed, but he knew that wasn't true.

Lucky felt like he should do something, that he needed and wanted to do something, but he didn't know what it was. When he thought about that brief kiss and the sudden rush it had sent through him, there was something addictive to it - something unfamiliar and strange but not... dangerous. Or maybe he just didn't want it to be dangerous. He didn't know, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He was supposed to focus on his work, this wasn't for him. He wasn't meant to know, and he should've just let it go but he couldn't forget. Was he okay with going through his life just not knowing, just giving up on all of this and focusing on... whatever it was he was supposed to do? Was he okay with that, when he had the chance to learn more right in front of him? When someone wanted to teach him? Was he okay with staying in the dark to satisfy some ancient phantom from a life he couldn't remember?

Would it be so bad just to know? To just... find out what it was like and what it entailed and why and how it made him feel the way it did, and if he liked it. To finally satisfy a low-running curiousity, find out if it was the source of that constant quiet longing. Would it be so bad just to find out? He wasn't abandoning his responsibilities or anything, he just...

There wasn't anything wrong with it, right? Once he knew, it'd all be settled and done with, and he could just go back to what he was supposed to do instead, no harm done... right?

Something made him come to OJ's room that night, anyway. Their band leader was busy writing on several scattered sheets of paper across his desk, probably transcribing some of the songs they'd been working on earlier that day, and Lucky hovered by his door, wary and unsure.

"Hey, Lucky," OJ said, not really looking up. "What's up?"

How was he supposed to start this conversation? He should have been more prepared. He looked at the wall, tried to find some words. "I was just thinking about what you said..."

"What, tonight? I was a little off my game, could've intro'd Magic better..." Distracted, and then his pencil stopped moving. He looked up, serious now. "Or, you mean...?"

Lucky didn't want to say it, he felt embarrassed somehow. He rubbed his neck and looked at the floor. "Um... yeah, I guess... maybe..." He trailed off as OJ got up, fidgeted and looked at the wall as he came towards him, swallowed hard when he pulled him further into the room and shut the door.

"And...?" OJ kept his hand on his arm and the interest in his eyes was almost painful.

"Uh..." What was he supposed to say? It didn't seem right as words and the pressure suddenly felt overwhelming. He looked down, mumbling. "I guess... it'd be okay..."

OJ stared at him, raised an eyebrow. "You want me to show you?" He had no trouble saying it, why was it so easy for everyone else? Why was Lucky always a little behind? He wanted to answer but he couldn't string anything together in his head that could explain everything he was feeling, so he just nodded. It felt like at any minute, something terrible was going to happen to him, he was doing something terribly wrong and someone... he didn't know who but someone was going to know, they were going to be angry and...

OJ came closer to him, lifted his chin with one hand so he could look him in the eyes, and somehow, he didn't want to leave. He was afraid, nervous, that specter hovering but something kept him there, something was stronger. "You look kinda scared, Lucky," OJ said, although his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "You sure?"

He nodded again, since he didn't trust his voice.

"Alright, if you're sure..." Another opportunity for an out, and it was tempting to take it, and yet, at the same time... "Close your eyes."

Doing what he was told was easy, that at least felt familiar. When he kissed him, that same sudden jolt went through him, a tingling rush, his muscles tense, his heart pounding. This time it was longer though, he had enough time to process what was happening to him. He'd never really thought about lips before, it just wasn't important and to think, something this simple, pressing them together, could do something like this, could make him feel like this. It didn't make sense. It was just a gesture, contact between two people, something simple and yet he'd never felt so out of his depth. He should do something, shouldn't he be doing something? OJ slid an arm around his back, pulled him closer, and all he could do was hold onto him.

"You've really never done this before, huh...?" OJ breathed when they broke apart, and Lucky shook his head without thinking. He couldn't remember his old life but it felt true, and OJ laughed a little. "Just trust me."

He was so dazed; all he could manage was a faint agreeing sound as OJ drew him close again. They'd only been apart a few seconds, but still when they touched again that same shock went through him, left him weak and shivering as his fingers dug into his shoulders. His face felt warm and his skin tingled, all his nerves coming awake one by one; OJ bit his bottom lip and he whimpered a little. His bad leg was trembling, what was he going to do if it gave out? How was he supposed to deal with all of this at once? He wasn't sure he could handle this, maybe they should be taking this a little more slowly, maybe...

"Alright..." OJ pulled away from him, his voice low and rough, and it took Lucky a few seconds to open his eyes. "That's probably enough for now..."

They were both breathing hard, Lucky much more so, but now that there was space between them, things could calm down a little, he could recover his thoughts and catch his breath and figure all this out. And yet, his first reaction to OJ saying that that was enough wasn't relief but disappointment. Which didn't make any sense; already he felt overwhelmed, lost, approaching some undefined new limit and still he wanted to push himself further? Even when it was dangerous - and this had to be dangerous, what else could that fluttering nervousness mean - he still wanted to keep going? It didn't make any sense, he wasn't thinking straight at all. How could he want both things at once?

"Unless you want to keep going?" OJ must have seen the look in his eyes, and he smirked at him. Something tightened in his stomach at the thought, radiating outwards in pinpricks across his face, something that instantly made his decision for him before he could think about it.

"If..." Lucky swallowed. "If... you want to..."

OJ stared at him a few moments longer before shaking his head a little and sighing. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, paused, then apparently changed his mind. Lucky didn't have much time to wonder about it before OJ's grip around him tightened, and that cleared his mind immediately. "Then, open your mouth and follow my lead."

Listening was the easy part, that didn't require any thought. When he felt his tongue in his mouth, he was too startled at first to react, much less try to mimic him. It was all he could do to stay standing. OJ was patient though, or maybe the soft noises Lucky made were enough of a reward for him. Vaguely through the haze, he knew that he'd been told to do something, that he was told to follow his lead, and he knew that involved more than just letting OJ do as he pleased, as nice as that was. He struggled out from underneath the intensity of it all, tried to claw his way to some kind of coherency, to action. He was hesitant reaching out with his own tongue, afraid of doing something wrong, that feeling very familiar amidst all the new ones coursing through him. But it was what he was told to do, and he couldn't think of anything else in his current state. His reward was a faint appreciative sound from OJ when he assumed he was doing it right, and he shuddered at the sound, at the thought. There was nothing like someone telling him, one way or another, that he was doing something right.

When they finally broke apart, he took in a shaky, weak breath, weaving slightly back and forth, and he rested his head against OJ's shoulder, overwhelmed. He was glad for his support, his arms around his back solid and real when he felt so lightheaded and dizzy.

"You alright?" With a slight laugh again, and OJ patted his back. His left knee was shaking hard, sending tremors through his whole body, aching rivulets of sensation now coming through the warm fog of his thoughts. Was he leaning on it wrong the whole time? When OJ had started kissing him he couldn't think of anything else.

"Uh huh."

"Not so bad, huh?" He could hear the grin in his voice. As usual, nothing fazed OJ. In a way he envied that, but at the moment he was thankful for it - it helped keep him grounded, told him things were alright.

"No, it was... it was nice..." Still trying to catch his breath, speak over his heartbeat. It had only happened seconds ago but already felt like a dream. Things like this didn't happen to him. He knew that somewhere.

"Nice? That's all I get?"

"No, it was... it was really nice, I'm sorry..." He shut his eyes.

"Ah, I'm just teasin', it's fine." OJ patted his back again. He held him close, firmly like he was trying to stop his shaking. "So, answer your question about bein' into guys?"

Lucky hadn't thought that exact question was on the table, but in his current state of mind he couldn't really argue with him. "I guess..."

"Heh, I had a feeling." He moved away from him a little. "Alright, I still got -"

When their balance shifted, his leg gave out. OJ tried to catch him, but he wasn't any more prepared for it than Lucky was, and the two of them ended up kneeling on the floor. "Woah woah, you okay there?"

"Nh, yeah..." Embarrassment now overrode all his previous good feelings, familiar frustration at his own body. Why did he even have this limp? What had his past self even done to get it? It always seemed to kick in at the worst times. "Just my leg, it's nothing..."

"Right, the limp, sorry." OJ pushed himself back up to his feet, holding out his hand for Lucky. "Should do this sitting down next time, huh?"

He hadn't thought about a next time. Lucky looked up at him for a few seconds before taking his hand.

"...Yeah..."

He pulled him back up.

---

He didn't feel comfortable calling what they did 'lessons'; there was something dark about that word that didn't fit to him. Lessons weren't something to be looked forward to, and he looked forward to the time he spent with OJ very much. The spare moments the two of them could find to spend together were often the highlight of his day. Sometimes they just chatted, sometimes OJ teased him or asked him questions about the next show or wanted his input on a song they were working on, but most of the time Lucky ended up learning.

And as usual when presented with something he was supposed to learn, he tried to apply himself. He never felt quite at ease asking questions, although he always had some, so instead he tried his best to mimic the things that OJ did, to follow his lead. While he couldn't practice this as regularly as he could with something like the bass, he felt motivated in an unfamiliar way to get better at it as quickly as he could, to do it whenever he got the chance. OJ certainly didn't complain, and in fact seemed rather pleased whenever Lucky got particularly determined, met and matched him and at times went beyond what he had started.

When he couldn't practice physically, he found himself practicing mentally, and sometimes when he didn't intend to. The more time the two of them spent together, the more he found himself distracted by daydreams and memories when he was alone. Even when he wasn't doing anything particularly suggestive, sometimes the thoughts just snuck up on him. Was that why doing this was dangerous? Because being distracted like this could affect his performance? He never anticipated something like this occupying his thoughts so often.

A little experience went such a long way. Suddenly the stories his bandmates told about the girls they'd known made a lot more sense. All the boasting and joking now had context that had been missing before, and if they asked him, he could come up with a story that would sound believable, although he wasn't about to tell them what was going on between him and OJ. That was personal and it didn't really seem like his place to say anything about it anyway. Still, he felt much less lost now that he had an idea of what it was like for seemingly everyone else.

There were moments, though, that reminded him that he wasn't supposed to be here, that there was something strange about him, something wrong, holes in his story that he never knew how to fill. The blank void of his life shouldn't have been so disruptive; how could nothing do so much?

They were sitting together in OJ's room, he was kissing him and he could feel him unbuttoning his shirt - he hadn't done that before, but he trusted him.

"Man, Lucky, you are ripped," OJ said, laughing a little as they broke apart and he ran his hands underneath the now open fabric. Any doubts or fears Lucky might have had were wiped away instantly at his touch, replaced with a jangling intensity that made it impossible to think of anything else. He let out a fluttering breath, faintly colored with something, then OJ's hands stopped, and his smile faded.

"What is it?" Lucky said. He thought at first it was a temporary lapse but OJ's expression didn't change, he didn't move and Lucky sat up a little, emotions shifting too easily to worry and anxiousness. He looked down at his body to try and see what was wrong; OJ's hands framed a ragged patch of white skin that traveled across his side below his ribcage.

"Where'd this come from...?" Like he wasn't actually talking to him, and his fingers kept moving along the white jagged lines that crisscrossed the planes of his stomach, the small round wounds that looked like he'd been punctured with something. "Where'd you get all these?"

Lucky didn't spend much time looking in the mirror or looking at himself - he was always looking at a stranger and it made him uncomfortable, like he was dreaming. He knew the marks were there, but he'd never given it much thought as to what they actually meant. Where they might have come from.

"I don't know..." he said softly. "I don't remember."

OJ left his hand on his stomach, watched it rise and fall, and his skin was even and smooth over all of Lucky's mismatched scars. There were no white scratches permanently peeking from the edge of his shirt, ancient claws didn't leave trails across his chest. His hands, his body, were normal.

"I don't know what you did before we found you..." OJ spoke quietly, still staring down at Lucky's chest, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. "But I don't think it was with us."

As much as he might have suspected that, that didn't mean he wanted to hear it. Lucky lowered his eyes and reached for the edges of his shirt to pull it closed again. "I guess..."

"You know, you say that a lot." OJ reached out and took his hand, stopping him, and he looked up and met his eyes. "You alright?"

Lucky looked back down at their hands, and his knuckles were large in comparison to OJ's, his skin broken in dozens of places. He felt very heavy all of a sudden, very alone. "I want to have been one of you," he mumbled, without looking up. "I want to be normal."

"Lucky, Lucky, come on. Look at me." Lightly admonishing, and he touched his cheek. "You're one of us now, alright? It doesn't matter what happened to you before, you're Lucky now. Got it?"

He couldn't meet his eyes. "If I wasn't one of you, then who was I?"

"You start thinking like that, you're gonna go crazy." OJ lifted his chin so he had to look at him. "We'll figure it out someday, but until then, you're Lucky, I'm OJ, and we're both members of the greatest band the Nowhere Islands has ever seen." He smiled at him. "Right?"

He was so confident, like this never bothered him at all. OJ had amnesia just like he did, his life was an unsettling blank void just like his own, but it never seemed to weigh on him like it did with Lucky. The ghost of his past didn't keep interrupting OJ's life, didn't leave a strange history of wounds across him that should have meant something.

OJ smiled at him, warm and reassuring and he could see in his eyes what he was saying, what he wanted him to believe. It's alright. Trust me. Believe me.

Maybe he wasn't a part of them before this had happened to him. Maybe it was just a coincidence that he'd lost his memory and so had they, and that they happened to find each other. Maybe it was a coincidence that they came to his rescue, that they took him in, that he fit so well with all of them, that they liked him so much.

Maybe it was all just a coincidence.

Maybe he was just lucky.

"Right," he said, and OJ's smile widened.

"There we go! Now, where were we..."

---

He was heading back to his room after leaving rehearsal early, and someone behind him was looking for someone. They kept calling a name, but it didn't seem like the person they were looking for was around because they weren't responding. Come to think of it, only staff should have been allowed back here, so who-

"Duster!" Someone grabbed his wrist and spun him around. "Come on, didn't you hear me?"

It was her, Violet. Her hair was slightly in disarray, make-up a bit smeared, but it was definitely her. She had a fire behind her eyes that he didn't see with anyone else at the club.

"Are you talking to me?" Lucky said, and he tried to pull his hand free but she refused to let go.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, duh!" She put a hand on her hip, frowning. "Didn't you hear me?"

He scratched along his jaw line. "I don't think so. Are you sure I'm who you're looking for?"

"Yeah, I'm sure! Sheesh." She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Duster, playtime's over. We gotta get out of here before they figure out who we are."

He stared at her for a long moment. "...Who's Duster?"

"You're Duster!" she said, blinking at him in disbelief. "Who else would I be talking to?"

"You must have made a mistake..." He pulled at his hand again. Violet obviously thought he was someone else, and the look on her face made him think it was going to end badly for him once she figured that out. How could he get out of this? "My name's Lucky, I'm a bassist..."

She gave him a piercing look. "Lucky?" Like it was a joke.

"Yeah, I'm Lucky... the bassist, I don't know anything about any Duster." He wished he did though, if only to calm her down. Why wasn't she letting him go? He really would've liked her to let him go. "I can help you look for him, if you want..."

It was like he'd insulted her, said something totally outrageous and that wasn't at all what he'd been expecting or hoping. She yanked on his arm to bring him down a little to her height, and he didn't think to resist. "You're Duster," she stated, squeezing his wrist for emphasis. "Remember?"

"No, I don't." It would have been really great if someone could walk by and intervene. Where were the bouncers? Wasn't this their job? "I don't remember anything, I have amnesia." Maybe that would help her realize she'd made a mistake.

Violet blinked at him, her mouth open for a few seconds, then she began pulling him down the hallway towards his- their rooms, he realized. "Oh cut the crap, Duster! You don't have amnesia! We don't have time for this!"

"I'm not- I'm telling the truth, I really don't remember." He stumbled after her, still trying to break free. Her grip was like iron. "I'm sorry, but I don't know who this Duster person is-"

"Then what about that, huh?" She turned around and pointed at his left leg. "What's that about?"

He blinked at her, although he was grateful at least that they'd stopped. It wasn't like he had the easiest time walking as it was - getting dragged by the hand by an angry woman definitely didn't help. "What?"

"Your leg, Duster! You're telling me you just happen to have a limp?"

Lucky tilted his head at her; was he dreaming? Was this a dream, was that why nothing made any sense? "I... don't know what you mean? I've always had a limp."

"Yeah-" And she stopped, sighed, pressed a hand to her face. There was an awkward moment of silence. "Okay. Are you seriously tellin' me you have amnesia?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "All of us in the DCMC do."

She still had her hand pressed over her face. "Okay. Great. This is just great. Are you sure?"

"...Yeah, I'm pretty sure." He felt a little put out. She obviously wanted something from him and seemed irritated that he wasn't giving it to her, but he didn't know what it was. Something about this felt both unfair and familiar, and it bothered him deep down somewhere. "I'm sorry, miss, but I really think you have the wrong person..."

"No, I'm pretty sure I have the right one." She let out a long sigh. "Crap. This is the last thing we need."

Another awkward silence, and he tugged at his wrist. "Look, I'm sorry I'm not who you're looking for, but I really have to go..."

Without warning, she reached out and grabbed his tie, pulling him forward with a short gasp. She stared directly into his eyes, intense, frowning. "Your name is Duster. Got it?"

He waited a few seconds to catch his breath (How did she move so quickly?) before shaking his head. "Why Duster?"

"What?"

"Why Duster? That's sort of a weird name, don't you think?" He raised a hand to try and untangle her grip. "I mean... why not Ben, or Edgar, or Lance, or something?"

"Are you kidding me with this?!" She began stalking down the hallway again, this time dragging him by his tie which was much worse than his wrist, and he struggled to keep up with her without tripping. "I'm not playing with you, Duster!"

Couldn't she slow down just a little? "I'm not- my name is Lucky-"

"Shut up!" She threw open the door to the room beside his own and pulled him inside. "This is serious, Duster!"

"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about!" He held up his hands, trying to placate her. She let him go so she could slam the door behind them, giving him a few seconds to straighten up and try to regain his balance. All of this was happening entirely too fast; what did she even want from him? What was she planning? What should he do? Should he call for help? This entire thing already felt completely out of his control. Something about her attitude, the frustration in her voice, the potential for anger if provoked, left him feeling powerless and small. Some ancient pattern written into his memory, be quiet, be obedient, endure.

His tie was tight around his neck and it was a little difficult to breathe, but he didn't have much of a chance to loosen it before Violet started pushing him from behind towards her bed. His sense of balance was already shot just being dragged along the hallway, and this did him no favors. She knew he had a limp; couldn't she have been a little gentler about all this? Lucky weaved, stumbled once but he felt her fingers twist in his shirt and she refused to let him fall.

At no point did it occur to him to try and break away from her to escape, or that that was even an option.

When they got close enough to the bed, she whirled him around and sat him down before he could fall over, her hands locked onto his shoulders. She stared directly into his eyes as he tried to reorient himself.

"Duster."

At least he was sitting down now. "That's not my-"

"Duster. It's me. It's Kumatora."

Like that was supposed to mean something to him? Hadn't anyone noticed he was gone, or seen what happened? Where were those bouncers already? "I'm sorry, I don't know you... isn't your name Violet?"

She frowned, but kept staring at him. She had a burning gaze, something behind it that prickled, like she was looking straight into his mind. "Kumatora, the princess? The princess of Osohe Castle? You know, the girl you were supposed to escort? None of that rings a bell?"

He stared at her blankly.

"Do you really not remember that at all?" She leaned back, burying a hand in her hair. Her fingers brushed against one of the pins holding it back, apparently reminding her that it was there, and she grunted in irritation. She always moved so quickly - in seconds she'd pulled out the pins and turned away from him, shaking her hair free. It was longer than he thought it would be, and he'd never seen hair that color before. Was it natural? He got the sudden urge to touch it, which he immediately tamped down (What was wrong with him? Did he want to make her angrier? Why would he want to do that?). "Ugh, so annoying. Okay, there's no way you can't remember everything. There's gotta be a way to get through to you."

Lucky wasn't sure what to say to that, so he stayed quiet instead. The others had warned him, when their fanbase was growing and screams of I love you Lucky!! from the crowd became more and more frequent, that some people might claim that they knew him before he lost his memory just to try and get close to him. It had happened to the others - people who told them stories about who they must have been, only for them to find out later that some of their things had been stolen, that they wanted to get their friends backstage.

It wasn't that someone from his old life finding him again was impossible but just... that he should be careful, and skeptical. The DCMC were all in the same boat, after all, and it left them all similarly vulnerable to manipulation if they didn't watch out for it.

Obviously, this girl thought she knew him, but nothing about her seemed familiar to him at all, and nothing she said made any sense. Sure, it could have been true, but it just as likely could have been a lie. Be cautious.

"Man, what'll make you remember... oh, I know!" She dug into the front of her outfit and pulled out a blue necklace. She quickly lifted it over her head and held it out to him. "Remember this? You got to remember this, right?"

He stared at it for a moment, not moving, until she shook it with an annoyed huff, and he took the hint and pulled it from her hands. It was pretty, sure, and it sparkled with what seemed like an inner light, but it was jewelry, nothing more.

"It's a pretty necklace," he said, since she was getting obviously impatient waiting for him to say something.

"Yeah, it's mine. Remember? You stole it."

He jumped and nearly dropped it on the floor. "What?! I never- I wouldn't do that! I'm not a thief!"

"Yes you are!" She held her hands out to him, exasperated. "That's exactly what you are, you're a thief!"

"No I'm not!" Like he'd do something like that? He'd never stolen anything from anyone! "This is- I'm sorry I'm not who you think I am but really, I should go -"

"You're not goin' anywhere." She planted a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the bed. She held up the necklace with her other hand. "You don't remember stealing this from me?"

"No- You must have me confused with someone else." This was rapidly spiraling out of control - what else would she accuse him of? Was that it, did she want to blackmail him with crimes he didn't remember committing? The others would vouch for him, wouldn't they? "I'm a bassist, I just play music, that's all I do."

"Come on, you really don't remember this?" She waved the necklace back and forth. "I got stuck in that trap, and you and your dad came and got me out, and I saw you had my necklace, remember? And I asked you to be my escort?"

What was she talking about? He stared at her and shook his head. "I don't remember anything like that, miss, I swear. I just play music. I really should go-"

She leaned away from him, and for once her fiery gaze dampened a little. Almost as if she was disappointed. "Huh. And I thought for sure you'd remember that, it was the first time we met and everything." She frowned, then shrugged and tucked the necklace in her pocket. "Hmph, well. Whatever. There's gotta be somethin' that'll make you remember."

Silence as she pressed a knuckle to her mouth in apparent thought, her hand still on his shoulder keeping him from getting up. What was he supposed to do at this point? He didn't think Violet was crazy exactly, but he was getting more and more uncomfortable around her. She was... unpredictable.

"Really, I should be going..." He might as well try.

"I got it." She snapped her fingers. "I know something you'll remember for sure."

He gave her a look, but didn't move. Violet leaned back in close to him, hands on his shoulders, completely serious and she stared deep into his eyes. Again there was that prickling feeling behind her gaze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Her eyes were vibrant, not the same color as her hair but just as bright. Unreal, in a way, like she wasn't human; intense, like she could see right through him, pull what she wanted out of him.

"Wes."

They stared at each other for a few seconds more as she waited for the epiphany she was sure would come.

"...Like, north, south, east, west...?" Lucky ventured.

"No." She shook him a little. "Like your dad, Wes."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowed in thought. "...I have a dad?"

"Yes!" She leaned back, throwing her arms up. "Your dad, Wes! The old geezer! The guy who sprung me from that trap! Who kept callin' you a moron all the time! Your dad, remember?"

He kept staring at her, eyes tight in focus, and he shook his head. "...None of that sounds right."

"Come on, he's your dad! How can you not remember him? He's a big-time thief, he used to hang out with me when I was a kid, you know. He's like this high?" She held her hand near her waist. "Got a poof of hair up here?" Gestured at the top of her head. "White old man beard?" Drawing her fingers around her mouth. "Really? Nothing?"

He stared at her.

"You seriously can't even remember your own dad?" She seemed to deflate a little, her arms falling to her sides. She looked at him with a strange mixture of emotion now, something like disappointment and maybe pity. "Come on."

He shook his head, staring at the floor. Something about that expression made him feel uncomfortable, like it wasn't meant for him. "I don't remember anything, I told you."

She waited a few seconds, frowning in thought, caught somewhere between concern and hesitance. For the first time, he got the impression that she was carefully considering her words, weighing her options, deciding whether or not it was something she should actually say.

"Moron."

He flinched even though it wasn't that harsh an insult, an instinctual urge to withdraw and brace himself with no source. Why would she say something like that to him? He hadn't been anything but polite to her. Why was she treating him like this? It wasn't like he deserved it, and something about that panged deep down, a faint echo from far away that made him feel tense and helpless and uncomfortably exposed, like she'd reached into him, through him, was collaborating with the ghost of his past that was constantly tormenting him. Why was she doing this to him? Why was she looking at him like that? Why did he feel like this?

"I should go." He stood, finally moved to his own action and she was back by his side, although she didn't push him back down this time. She hung near his arm, touching him.

"I saw that, you remember! You remember somewhere still, I know it. Your dad used to call you that."

"No he didn't." He turned away from her, he just wanted to get away from her. He didn't want to deal with any of this anymore, he didn't want to feel like this, what difference would it make anyway? He wasn't that person anymore, and no matter how she might make him feel, it didn't bring any of his memories back. Ghosts were still ghosts.

"He did, I even told him to knock it off-"

"If I have a dad, why didn't he come find me then?" Lucky looked back at her, more emotion than he'd expected in his words. "Why isn't he here?"

For the first time, he caught her off-guard. Violet blinked, wide-eyed and she looked around the room for an answer. "I don't know, maybe he doesn't know you're here..."

He waited for more than that, but she had nothing else to offer him. Be skeptical, ask questions. Don't make it easy.

"You know who I really am, right?" Lucky said. She looked a little taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor.

"Yeah, we were all tryin' to-"

"Then where do I live?"

She stared at him for a few seconds before burying a hand in her hair, biting her lip. "Uh... the village? What was that place's name... Tazmily? I think you lived there, somewhere."

Lucky raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

"Well, not really, I mean..."

"Okay, then how old am I?"

That same awkward look. "Uh... I'm not really sure, actually..."

"Who were my friends? Or my family? Who's my mom?"

She searched the ground for a few seconds, then looked back at him and shrugged. "The only one I met was your dad..."

"Do you know where I got any of these?" He held up his hands, indicated the scars marking their way across them. Her eyes widened.

"Holy crap, I never got a good look at those before. Jeez."

They stared at each other.

"I'm not lying to you, Duster. I promise. This is too important for that."

"Do you really know anything about me?"

A few seconds of silence, and Violet rubbed the back of her neck. "Okay, we really... well, we really only met for a few hours, so I didn't get your life story, okay? But I know who you really are."

"A few hours...?" Skeptical.

"But I know you're you! I know it! There's got to be some way to make you remember..." She paced back and forth. "What about your thief tools, do you still have those?"

"I'm not a thief." He turned for the door. "Why would I need tools?"

"You are a thief- ugh. You should have had them! They were all in these pouches on your belt, like... there was this swingy thing, and a mask, and all these smoke bombs..."

That same dark feeling he got when he'd seen them at first, when he'd run his hands over them. Something warning him away.

"I need to go."

"Do you remember any of those? Or the egg, do you remember the egg? This is really important, Duster, if the Pigmasks get it, we're goin' to be in REAL big trouble."

He stopped, an unfamiliar chill rippling through him like someone had walked over his grave. There was no way... how did she know about the egg? He'd been alone when he woke up and alone when he'd hidden it, he was sure of it. How could she know? She had to be lying, nothing she said made any sense or sounded right at all, but how did she know? Who was she anyway?

Be careful. He could hear Shimmy's voice in his head. Be careful, be careful.

"What are you talking about?"

"The egg! The Hummingbird Egg! Remember? The Pigmasks were tryin' to get it, and we were tryin' to steal it before they could grab it, remember?"

"Why would the Pigmasks want an egg?" The idea was ridiculous, and it probably showed in his voice.

"Just... because, okay?" And something about that justification was familiar, rang a chord faintly somewhere, and he felt increasingly frustrated. He was tired of hearing that. "It's complicated, I don't want to talk about it too much right now 'cause it's not safe, but it's really important. Do you remember what happened to it? Do you still have it?"

No, this wasn't right. This wasn't right, none of this was right. None of this added up at all. If there was one thing he knew, it was that the egg was important and had to be protected. She could tell him all the fairy tales she wanted about who she thought he was, but he wasn't about to forget what was important. She wanted the egg, and it was his job to protect it. He couldn't trust her - how could he?

But how did she know?

He'd had enough, he felt all twisted up inside and frustrated and confused and he'd had enough. He turned around and faced her, holding up a hand. "Look, I'm not who you think I am. I'm Lucky now, that's all. You've got the wrong guy."

"Duster-"

"I'm Lucky." And he headed for the door. "Good luck with finding who you're looking for."

He thought she'd try and stop him, but strangely she let him go. He wasn't about to question it; he'd had enough of this entire thing. He made his way to his own room, shut the door, sat on his bed, and his eyes were drawn to the drawer where he'd hidden his belt when he'd come here.

Castles, eggs, princesses, it all sounded like nonsense. None of the other stories the others had warned him about were nearly as ridiculous. Did she think he was that stupid, to believe something like that?

How did she know about the egg, or his belt? That couldn't have been who he was... could it? A thief, like the ones who stole from the vendors outside the club, or the ones that populated the streets of the big city he heard so much about, beating and robbing their victims? Was that why he had all these scars, from getting caught stealing from innocent people? Hurting people?

Was he capable of that? Who was he, anyway? Did that blank nothingness that cloaked his old life hide a monster, a cruel person that didn't care about anything but their own gain? Was he someone who could threaten someone at knifepoint, take what wasn't his by force? Was that dark side just lying dormant, waiting for his memories to return before rising again?

No, he wasn't a thief. He was a bass player. He was good at it. People loved him, the DCMC loved him, he was happy here. All he wanted to do was play music, he didn't want to hurt anyone. He just wanted to live his life quietly and in peace.

How did she know about the egg? Who was she? Who was he?

He didn't want to think about this anymore, who or what was hiding behind the nothingness. He stood up and went over to his bass, forced himself to tune and strum out a few songs. Nothing else, nothing else. He was no one else. He was Lucky now, that was all. That was all.

He kept telling himself that as he plucked out the same few notes over and over.

---

"Who do you think you were before you lost your memories?"

The five of them were sitting at an isolated booth in the club, unwinding after a long day of practicing. OJ sat next to him on his right, his arm pressed against his own in a constant reminder that he was there, and Shimmy sat by his other side, long fingers poised around the rim of his glass.

"Man, who knows?" Magic shrugged and leaned back against the cushions. "I think I must've been playing guitar before, 'cause it didn't take me any time to pick it up again. Just bam!" He snapped his fingers. "Like I'd always been doing it, you know?"

"I think I'm the same way," Shimmy said. "When I touched the keys, I just knew, you dig?" A small flourish with one hand. His gestures were always so theatrical. "I must've had it in me somewhere."

"What if..." Lucky toyed with his own drink. "What if you did something... what if you weren't a good person, before?"

The others stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Like..." It was hard to speak but he had to ask, it was driving him crazy. He couldn't get what Violet said out of his head. "What if you hurt someone, or stole something, or were a criminal or a thief or something before all this happened, and you just don't remember doing it?"

Baccio leaned forward on his elbows, adjusting his sunglasses. "Lucky, did someone tell you that's what you did?"

He blinked - he didn't think he'd be that transparent. The others, as always, were quick to rally around him.

"Is that it, did someone pull the ol' 'hey remember me' line on you?"

"Man, we told you not to listen to junk like that! Some people got no class, they'll say anything just to be famous for a few seconds."

"What'd they say you did?"

"Well-"

"It doesn't matter what they said he did, our Lucky's a great guy, we all know that." OJ threw an arm around his shoulders, and Shimmy raised a glass. "Am I right?"

They all raised their glasses, a loud chorus of "Yeah! Tondagossa!" that made Lucky feel a little silly for even bringing it up, though he couldn't help smiling.

"There's no way you'd do anything like that, Lucky." Baccio crossed his arms and nodded his head, case closed.

"Yeah, you don't got a bad bone in your body." Magic grinned at him. "You wouldn't even smack a mosquito for biting you!"

They laughed, all so close to him, and this felt right, this felt like it was supposed to be this way. Would he feel like this if he'd really been a thief? Wouldn't he be tempted to steal from them, if that's who he used to be? He wouldn't have fit in with the rest of them if he'd been someone like that, right?

They wouldn't love him so much if he was someone like that... right?

"Awww, check it out, Lucky the criminal's blushing! That's how you know he's got a real black heart, huh?" Shimmy nudged him, and he looked down at his drink, smiling in spite of himself.

"I am not."

"What do you guys think, you scared of him yet?" OJ ruffled his wig, knocking it askew a little, and Lucky pushed him away with one hand, laughing.

"Man, who could even look at you and think 'wow, that guy's trouble' anyway?" Magic crossed his arms, one pierced eyebrow raised, still smiling. "Like 'yeah, that's the guy who'll cut your throat!'"

"I bet it's the hands." Shimmy nodded sagely, and OJ rolled his eyes. "You can tell a lot about a guy from his hands."

"Aw yeah you can." And OJ and Magic high-fived, and another burst of laughter broke up the conversation.

"So what, a guy gets his hands slashed up, that makes 'em a master criminal?" Baccio held out his own hands and, like OJ's, there were no pale lines or cuts across his skin. Normal, like the others. "There's lots of ways to get your hands cut up."

"Maybe Lucky used to be a chef and was just bad with knives." Magic leaned back, his hands behind his head. "Or maybe he used to be a blacksmith or have a bunch of cats or something. See? No problem. You're totally normal, dude, one hundred percent."

"If he was a chef, he must have been REALLY bad at knives." Shimmy smirked. "Didn't get your hand confused for a steak, didja, Lucky?"

"What, both hands? That takes talent, dude! Maybe he was a great chef who pioneered cutting up both your hands at the same time!" Magic sighed melodramatically. "You were so ahead of your time, Lucky, no one understood your methods."

"What kind of restaurants do you go to?"

"Think about it this way, Lucky," OJ said, as usual getting them back on course. He gestured at the others sitting around the table. "We spend a lot of time together, right?"

"That's for sure," Baccio said.

"So we've had a lot of time to get to know you pretty well, right?"

"Yeah..." Lucky said, taking a drink.

"So, if you really had the heart of a thief or somethin', we'd probably know, right?"

"You definitely don't." Magic shook his head. "I'm telling you."

"How well did the chick who told you that know you, anyway?" Shimmy leaned on one hand. "It was a chick, wasn't it? I bet it was."

"Well... yeah." And the others all groaned in unison.

"There's your problem!"

"Did she even have any proof?"

"You can't just roll over for a pretty face, Lucky."

"No, she didn't have any proof, exactly." He toyed with his glass a little. "It just got me wondering... there's so much I don't remember. I could've done anything before I came here..."

"Well, yeah, but so could any of us, right?" Magic held out his hands. "Maybe we're all thieves and criminals, maybe we were super-rich princes, maybe we were all scientists or had magic powers or whatever!" He slapped the table. "It's all a bunch of maybes, right?"

"Magic's got a point..." Baccio looked at Lucky and shrugged. "You can fill up a lot of nothing with whatever you want. Why make it something bad?"

"Until you remember it all yourself, you'll never know, right?" Shimmy traced a pattern into the table with a fingertip. "If you're gonna do some improv with your life, you might as well make it fun."

"We're all right here, right now, and we all got each other." OJ rested a hand on his shoulder. "When it comes down to it, that's all that matters."

"Right." Baccio held up his glass.

"Right..." Lucky said, a little more softly.

"Don't worry, Lucky." OJ raised a hand to order another drink. "We got your back, no matter what. Whatever happens, happens."

"Destiny brought you to us, after all, and we're pretty amazing." Shimmy smiled at him. "So you couldn't'a been doing anything too bad, right?"

Another round of drinks came and the conversation meandered off-topic, and it was easy enough to forget he'd even started it. They all had complete faith in him, even though they didn't know anything about him. He could have been anyone, he could have been a monster, a murderer, but all they cared about was who he was right now.

They trusted him to be who he was. That his behavior told the truth of who he'd been. And if all four of them could trust him so completely, believe in him so thoroughly, then how could he doubt himself?

He was Lucky. He had to be.

---

"It was Violet, wasn't it?"

He jerked his head up, a bit startled, and the book he was reading slipped out of his hands onto the floor. "Huh?"

OJ stood by his door, his arms crossed with his usual easy smile. "Heh, there's that look again. It was Violet who said you were a criminal, right?"

Lucky glanced at the wall separating his room from hers, and he reached down to pick the book back up. "...She said I was a thief, actually."

"A thief? You?" OJ tilted his head, an eyebrow raised. "She sure she has the right guy?"

"She seemed sure..."

"'Cause I've never seen you take anything. Hell, you're always the last person to take any when we get a veggie plate or something. She really thinks you'll believe that?"

"Well..." He set the book down on his bed, but didn't turn back around to face the doorway. A few moments of silence passed, then he heard OJ come further into the room.

"What is it?" He sounded a little more serious now.

"She knew some things about me... things from before I came here that I still remember." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "But none of what she said makes any sense."

A moment of thought, and OJ sat beside him on the bed. "What kind of things?"

"She... knew what I came here with." He didn't feel comfortable talking about it somehow, like that'd make what she'd said true, and he didn't want to be a thief. He didn't want that be what his life was. Who he was. "What I had with me."

OJ was quiet for a few seconds. "Do you still have that stuff with you?"

"Yeah, I keep it in a drawer... I didn't tell anyone about it."

Another few seconds, and OJ leaned back on his hands, looking up towards the ceiling. "Doesn't mean she might not have found it anyway while you weren't here."

He hadn't thought of that. If she'd been poking in his room while he was gone, then she could've found his belt that way. That still didn't explain the egg, but at least it was something.

"...That's true..."

"Do you think she really knows who you were?"

"I don't know... she didn't know a lot about me, really, just a few things, but I can't stop thinking about them. It wasn't a lot but... maybe she did know me."

"Maybe, maybe. There we go again." OJ waved a hand. "Look, maybe she did know you, maybe she didn't. You can't know one way or another until you get your memory back. What did she want?"

It was his job to protect the egg... and even if he didn't think for a minute that OJ would ever do anything with it, or even have any interest in it, it was important enough for him to be careful anyway. "She said there was a job we hadn't finished... she wanted me to come with her so we could get it done."

"Come with her?" Confused, maybe a little annoyed. "To where? To do what?"

"I don't know, she didn't say. But..."

Silence between them.

"Are you thinking about going with her?"

Lucky looked down at his feet against the carpet. Like his hands, they bore age-old evidence of damage. What had he done in his old life? Why was he like this? "...I just wish I knew what was going on."

A moment, then OJ moved closer to him, put his hands around his shoulders in a sideways embrace. There was a sincerity to his voice that he wasn't used to, a seriousness entirely unfamiliar. "Lucky, listen. You do this thing where just 'cause someone tells you to do something, you think you gotta do it, and honestly, sometimes that makes me worry about you a little."

He turned to look at him, completely at a loss for how to respond to that, and true to his word, OJ looked openly concerned for him. For him. He wasn't prepared for that at all, and for some reason it made him feel terrible.

"Just 'cause she wants you to go with her somewhere doesn't mean you have to, or that you should, even," OJ said, still speaking softly, and Lucky couldn't take his eyes away from his. There was something gentle there he'd never seen before in someone - something for him, because of him, that he didn't understand. Something deep. "What do you want to do?"

He knew the answer, and even though there was some faint specter of his past telling him it was selfish, telling him that he couldn't just ignore this, that she still knew about the egg and that meant something, that he wasn't one of them and he knew it, he had to know it, it felt like he was lying to say anything else.

"I want to stay with you."

OJ's eyes softened, and he touched his cheek. "Then stay with us. If that's what you want, then stay."

"But..." He couldn't look away from him. He couldn't remember anyone looking at him like that before and he didn't want him to stop.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, alright? No one's gonna make you do anything, me and the guys'll make sure of it. And if you change your mind, something comes up, you remember yourself... then we'll figure something out when it happens. But right now... what do you want?"

He knew what he should do, he knew there was something he was ignoring, he knew there was some kind of responsibility that egg had entailed that he hadn't shaken yet. A life that someday he'd be held accountable for, whatever it was that he'd done. This wouldn't last forever. He wasn't like them. This wasn't for him, he must have known that somewhere, the ghost of his old life constantly reminding him in thousands of little ways.

That wasn't the question though.

I want to be happy. And his eyes stung a little. I just want to be happy.

"I want to stay."

OJ stroked his cheek with his thumb. "Then that's what you're gonna do. We're with you all the way."

---

It was late and they were tired, and their impromptu jam session had slipped off the rails a while ago. It started when they were trying out a new number Baccio had come up with, a swing song with a lot of energy, and Magic's fingers slipped and he hit the wrong chord. Normally they were able to roll with that kind of thing, improvise around it, but at this time of night, it was hard to think clearly.

They all dwindled off, looking over to him and Magic burst out laughing. He hit the same terrible chord again, louder this time, and Lucky couldn't help a smile.

"I'm on to something, guys!" That same wrong chord, and OJ took a few steps towards him, grinning.

"Knock it off, you're throwing everyone off!"

"No way, this is the best!" Every time he hit the chord, it somehow got funnier, and the two of them mock wrestled for the guitar.

"Stop that, it's awful, you're the worst-"

"Let go, like you know anything about music-"

And the two of them were interrupted by Shimmy playing that exact same terrible chord on the keyboard, smirking at them both.

"Ah, see! Shimmy's on my side!"

"You're both crazy!" OJ backed up and let him go, a bit breathless, and waved an arm at Baccio. "Baccio, back me up on this!"

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful hand to his chin, trying hard not to smile. "I dunno..."

Lucky was already laughing to begin with, but then Shimmy and Magic tried to play at the same time, clashing so badly that they both grimaced and it was hard not to wince. They waited a few seconds for the sound to fade, then started at it in earnest, both of them playing as badly as possible. It was a ridiculous noisy mess that only got sillier and sillier while OJ waved his arms, trying to get them to stop.

"You guys are gonna ruin our reputation!" OJ tried to sound serious but couldn't help himself, he was laughing just as hard as they were.

"You're standing in the way of progress, man!"

"This is Grade-A stuff, OJ! Open your mind!"

Then Magic found the first few notes of King P's theme and promptly mangled them almost beyond recognition, off-key and warbling, and Lucky almost couldn't breathe, tears in his eyes.

"Agh, stop! Stop!"

"Excuse me!"

The five of them turned their attention to the front of the stage, laughter slowly dying down.

"Oh hey, didn't think anyone was out there." OJ ran a hand through his hair, still catching his breath. "You need somethin' from the greatest band in the world, babe?"

Magic played a single off-key note and OJ smacked his shoulder.

"I was just wondering if I could borrow Lucky for a few seconds," Violet said, giggling. It took him a few seconds to recognize her - she was so completely different when other people were around. Her posture, her voice, her attitude...

OJ looked over to him. "You cool with that, Lucky?" He said it casually, but he kept eye contact.

The others were still smiling, and Lucky still felt a bit euphoric from laughter, and he didn't think as much about it as perhaps he should have. "As long as it doesn't take too long." And he grinned at Magic and Shimmy. "We were just working on a new song."

"Aw yeah, Lucky's on my side! Tondagossa!" Magic pumped a fist and OJ groaned in exaggerated exasperation. Lucky set his bass to one side, still smiling, and made his way to the edge of the stage. When he passed by OJ, he slapped Lucky's back, and he glanced back at him to see him giving a thumbs-up.

"Don't go too far, alright?" OJ said, and in spite of the light mood, Lucky caught his meaning. Don't worry, we'll be right here.

He sat down on the edge of the stage, and Violet tittered and held her hand out. "Oh, that's no good! C'mon, just a little farther! It won't take a second!"

The others catcalled at him, not that that surprised him, and he made a show of not paying attention. It'd only encourage them. He took her hand and she led him a short distance away, enough so that they wouldn't easily be overheard, but were still in sight. This time, she walked slowly enough so that it was easy for him to keep up, which he appreciated. Was it part of her act around the others, or had she realized how hard it was for him when she dragged him around? Her hand felt worn in his own, her fingers were rough like his.

"You remember anything, Duster?" Her voice changed completely, much lower and more even, the constant rise at the end of each sentence gone. This was the Violet he knew.

"Not a thing, sorry." It was still hard to shake off his good mood, and he smiled at her apologetically.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." She sighed, but she didn't seem as irritated as the last time they'd spoken. Maybe his good mood was contagious; he could have sworn he almost saw her smile, genuinely. She raised a thin eyebrow at him. "Least you're having fun, huh?"

Lucky shrugged, feeling too light to think too hard about any of this. "I guess." Well, he had been before she interrupted them all.

They stood there for a second, and he could faintly hear his bandmates still bickering and messing around a little while away. He hoped he wasn't missing anything good.

"You know..." he said. "If you knew me before I came here, why did you wait so long to tell me anything?"

"I couldn't get you alone." Violet looked at the stage, and this time she was definitely, sincerely smiling. It was a fond smile, something gentler and more complicated than he'd expected from her. He liked it - something about it made him feel at ease. "You were always with those bozos over there."

He followed her line of sight, and OJ and Magic were fighting over the guitar again with Baccio goading them on, and Shimmy was improvising a soundtrack for them all, and he found himself smiling in much the same way as she was.

"Yeah..." he said. "We spend a lot of time together."

"Yeah, you do," she said, with a faint sigh. She looked back to him. "I never seen you laugh like that before."

"Huh?"

"Up there, with them." She gestured back at the stage. A moment, and her eyes softened with a realization, a tinge of pity along the edges but mostly something else as she looked at him. "Actually, I dunno if I ever heard you laugh before at all."

That was a sobering thing to say, and he wasn't really sure how to respond at first. Was that true? That couldn't be right...

"But I guess I didn't know you for very long, so." She shrugged, forcing a bit of lightness back into her tone. "You don't remember anything at all?"

He shook his head.

"What about the egg?" And her voice dropped on the last word. "Anything about that?"

He wasn't sure what to say, and he looked back at the stage. They all looked like they were having so much fun. He wanted to be back up there.

"Can you at least tell me it's safe?" She leaned in close to him, nearing a whisper, and he found himself wanting to lean in closer to her in response. Where did that come from?

"It's safe," he said, matching her tone.

"Good." She breathed a sigh of relief. "You're sure?"

"Yeah." He was pretty sure.

The two of them looked at the stage, watched the other members of the DCMC goof around.

"You don't remember where it is? Just that it's safe?"

He did remember where it was. He remembered exactly where it was. He also remembered what OJ had told him, and that it was his job to protect it.

She was still a stranger to him. He couldn't risk it for a stranger. The egg was too important, even if he didn't know why.

"Yeah."

"Well..." And Violet huffed. She turned around and looked at him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Looks like I'll have to stick around until you remember, huh?"

She grinned at him, like it was a game, and it was hard not to return it.

"Guess so."

"Lucky, you done over there? Come on!" Magic called to him from across the theater. He shrugged.

"Looks like my time's up."

"Right." She crossed her arms, still smiling at him. "Have fun."

He left her to go rejoin his friends, all of whom were buzzing with questions about what they'd talked about which he waved off, and eventually they settled down enough to get a little practice in, although most of the night was taken up with exhausted silliness and joking and laughter.

He did notice on occasion when he looked up from his bass that Violet hadn't left. She sat near the back of the theater, watching him with that faint fond smile.

---

Free time was becoming an increasingly rare commodity.

When he wasn't practicing with the DCMC, or entangled with OJ, Violet took up the rest of his time. She often watched the band rehearse, standing in the back of the theater smiling or on occasion clapping when they were particularly on their game, giggling disarmingly when some of the others flirted with her. When she wasn't watching him play, she'd run into him coming out of his room, bump into him while he was walking around, happen to be there when he was going to get something to eat. Without fail, she'd ask him if he'd remembered anything, and he always had to tell her that he hadn't. Over time it became routine, the deeper meanings and implications of it lost, almost a joke. Their replacement greeting - Do you remember? Nope.

The others teased him about her, calling her his number one fan, his latest girlfriend, his favorite groupie, but he expected that from them and it didn't bother him. In a way, it helped him feel more like he fit in - they'd never had a chance to tease him about a specific girl before, and they treated him just like they would have treated each other. Another gap in experience filled.

He and Violet were often too busy to spend too much time together, so their conversations, when they could have them, were short. Violet always asked him questions, trying to find the right one that would unlock the vault of his memories with no success. As for him, he didn't have many questions of his own, except for one.

They were sitting on the edge of the stage, a brief break between her next shift and his concert, and she was telling him stories about the adventures they'd gone on together. Outrageous, unbelievable things about giant snakes and ghosts and magic brooms. He didn't believe a word of it, but she had a flair for storytelling, so he liked to listen anyway.

"None of that rings a bell?" Eternally hopeful that something she'd say would bring the man she knew back.

"No, sorry." His usual response, and he looked back at the stage. "...Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, sure."

"...Was I a good person?"

"What?" She looked baffled.

"You said I was a thief before..."

"Yeah, so?" Still baffled, and she stood up and put her hands on her hips, frowning. "Of course you're a good person! Why would you even ask me that?"

"If I was a thief-"

"Yeah, you were a thief but like... a good one. A thief of justice, or somethin' like that." She rolled her eyes, exasperated by the very question. "C'mon Duster, you think I'd even be here if you weren't?"

"Violet, come on! I'm not covering for you again!" From across the theater, and as always it was bookended with a false giggle. Lucky really didn't know why all the waitresses here did that. Violet heaved a huge sigh, paused, and leaned her head back, her hands on her temples. When she straightened up, she'd taken on her other persona - her eyes, her stance, her voice all completely different.

"Back to the salt mines," she said, her hand near her mouth as she laughed. "Don't worry about it, okay? Anyone can see that a sweetheart like you's a good person, Lucky! Hee hee!"

And she was off, one hand held up primly by her side, her feet close together on an invisible line that made her sway as she walked. How did she balance in those heels? He was so used to dragging his foot that her grace was captivating. Or at least, that was a logical reason why he could never look away from her when she walked away from him, why he studied how her hips moved like a complicated book.

Other than that, he didn't ask too many questions about his old life, who he used to be. Questions made her stories more real, more believable, and he couldn't do that. She had no proof of who he was except her word and the egg, and while he couldn't explain away one of them, he didn't have to believe the other.

The others warned him when Violet began hanging around him, and consequently them, more often, that the more he got to know her, the more he might start to believe the stories she told about him. Just because he liked her didn't mean she was telling the truth.

"She wants something from you," Magic said, "and you can't trust a chick who wants something from you."

So he was careful. The stories she told him about Duster were just that, just stories. Just strange, fantastical stories about a man he didn't, and probably would never, know. Why should he believe any of it? The further he distanced himself from this Duster guy, the less reason he had to think about what his old life could have been.

Things went on in much the same way for a while. Lucky played music, performed at concert after concert, brainstormed new songs with the others, honed and refined his talent. When he had the opportunity, he sought out OJ - sometimes they spent hours together, Lucky consumed with a fierce hunger for him and his touch that he couldn't explain, and other times they only had a few brief moments, a brush of the fingers or a lingering glance. And when he wasn't coming undone under OJ's hands, he was being led around by Violet, asked the same questions over and over again, told the same strange stories.

He might have gone on this way forever, but like so many things, it was taken out of his hands.