The campfire raged and lit up the faces of the newly-formed band of adventurers, faces dour as they wander around the small patch of light carving its way through the dark. No plans have been made, no ideas had. All avenues of escape, seemingly barred shut. Hours of planning, bickering, fighting have left the team drained and destitute.
The man in purple, previously lost in thought sat atop his backpack, grabs it and plants it in front of the campfire.
"Alright, alright. Enough sulking. We need a plan, but you wanna know what we need more? Something to lift the spirits!"
The imp speaks up in an indecipherable collection of noises, and the woman sat next to it translates.
"I SUSPECT THIS PLAN WILL FARE AS WELL AS THE LAST. AS WILL ANY PUT FORTH BY THE... I'm not going to share what it just called you."
"Nah, you gotta trust me. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's to cheer people up with my music!
A grunt of doubt is heard from outside the campfire's light. The man in green, from his watch post, glares back towards the light.
"C'mon, E.C.O.! We've been through this whole song and dance before, you remember that job in Andromeda? The guards loved the show before you uh... killed them all while they were distracted."
"Goobo want to hear song! Papa play me all kinds of music in speshimem tube!
...and firteen want everyone to "shudda hell up"
"That's...half the spirit! I'll take it. C'mon, pop a squat and lemme do my magic! I call this one 'Fugitives'"
The man excitedly produces a ukulele, and plugs it up to the amplifier.
Standing on the edge of the purple
Like the sun has gone bed
And the campfire has gone cold now
No more rations and the embers are dead
Whispers in the air tell the tales
of the heroes sprung
Desolation, devastation
What a mess we made, when we broke out huh?
WE'RE FUGITIIIIIIIIIVES
WE'RE WIIIIIIIIIIILD
WE'RE BREAKING OUT TONIIIIIIIIIIGHT
A WORLD OF ENDLESS DARK
CONFINED
DEEP INSIDE
WE CONTINUE TO FIIIIIGH-
His song is cut short by a blade to his throat. The man in green has left his post to put an end to the performance.
"I'll let you keep making all that racket you call 'music'; but if you sing again, I will kill you."
"I thought the mood was already dead, but you went and killed it again just to be sure.
Goobo liked it!"
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