♪♫ "Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead..." ♪♫
Zenkichi gestured again, sluggish and theatrical—index finger out, back arched a little too dramatically for a man of his age and spinal condition. Then, he hiccupped.
“He had it coming,” he murmured under his breath, and then blinked, realizing he’d gone off-script. “...Wait, wrong genre. Dammit.”
♪♫ "Mama, life had just begun..." ♪♫
His voice cracked—just a little, just enough to hit that weird emotional spot where it was unclear if he was acting or really feeling it. Maybe both.
♪♫" But now I've gone and thrown it all away... ♪♫"
He swayed on his feet, the song carrying him. That little mote of flame Phoenix conjured floated gently in the air like some ethereal glowstick, bobbing side to side. Zenkichi noticed it, leaned toward it with a wide-eyed stare like a cat seeing a floating dust bunny.
“Ooooh...” he breathed out. “A little will-o’-the-wisp, huh? You got rhythm...”
He followed its sway for a few bars, squinting closer—then abruptly flinched back.
“Oooh. Mic." He finds a microphone at the side and nearly walks over it. He dips down and nearly keels over as his insides whirr. "That’s a mic. False alarm.”
He patted it gently like it might forgive him for the confusion, then turned back to the screen as the vocals climbed toward their next summit.
♪♫ Mama, ooh... didn't mean to make you cry... ♪♫
He glanced offstage—half-expecting Akane to roll her eyes or record him (or both)—then sang the next part directly into the mic like he was apologizing to her.
1/3
Zenkichi gestured again, sluggish and theatrical—index finger out, back arched a little too dramatically for a man of his age and spinal condition. Then, he hiccupped.
“He had it coming,” he murmured under his breath, and then blinked, realizing he’d gone off-script. “...Wait, wrong genre. Dammit.”
♪♫ "Mama, life had just begun..." ♪♫
His voice cracked—just a little, just enough to hit that weird emotional spot where it was unclear if he was acting or really feeling it. Maybe both.
♪♫" But now I've gone and thrown it all away... ♪♫"
He swayed on his feet, the song carrying him. That little mote of flame Phoenix conjured floated gently in the air like some ethereal glowstick, bobbing side to side. Zenkichi noticed it, leaned toward it with a wide-eyed stare like a cat seeing a floating dust bunny.
“Ooooh...” he breathed out. “A little will-o’-the-wisp, huh? You got rhythm...”
He followed its sway for a few bars, squinting closer—then abruptly flinched back.
“Oooh. Mic." He finds a microphone at the side and nearly walks over it. He dips down and nearly keels over as his insides whirr. "That’s a mic. False alarm.”
He patted it gently like it might forgive him for the confusion, then turned back to the screen as the vocals climbed toward their next summit.
♪♫ Mama, ooh... didn't mean to make you cry... ♪♫
He glanced offstage—half-expecting Akane to roll her eyes or record him (or both)—then sang the next part directly into the mic like he was apologizing to her.