Record Breaker

Feel The Rhythm: Record Breaker

Coyote was, by his own standards, a simple person.
He didn't need much; some good liquor, a warm bed, and some quality entertainment were all he needed to feel right at home, no matter where he traveled.

What he did need, however, was a hobby. It wasn't uncommon, per se; a lot of other gods had one or two hobbies that they turned to while they passed the time. Some decided to go into politics. Other, more sensible ones, turned to art; a few of the less, ah, 'restrained' ones were still wreaking havoc out there, last he checked.

None of those really appealed to him; sure, he could lie like a dog when it suited him, and sculpting was practically second nature to him, but none of those really struck his fancy as something he could see himself DOING.
So he turned to music instead. It started simple; he'd made his first fiddle out of cedar and deer sinew. It sounded horrible, to say the least, but not moreso than the average viola.

And from there, it snowballed. If he were a poet, he would've described it as such: "Words alone can change a mind, but music can change the world." Except he wasn't a poet, so his reasoning more or less amounted to "I like the sound it makes when I pluck the strings like THIS."
Needless to say, he was a hit with the ladies back then.
Now, though, all he had was nostalgia for the finer days; he'd been all over the place, really. He'd been a roadie for a few good bands in the past; played in a handful, too. Never sang, though. He'd made sure of that.

Today, though, was different. He had a job to do. The same job he'd been doing every weekday for the past couple of months he'd been in Anima City.
He worked a music store. Not the kind that sold instruments, or sheet music, or taught lessons on how to play anything that wasn't fucking Wonderwall; no, this was better than that.

He sold records. Vinyls, CDs, Cassettes, the occasional wax cylinder; all of which he had collected over the years. Some were pretty well-known; the Beatles White Album (He'd gotten it signed by the band a few days after the record released), ABBA's Hova Vitne (He couldn't remember how many people he'd had to... 'service' to get that record. Worth it, though.); all of these, and more, were for sale. Or, to be more precise, rent. Mari would see to it that all of the rarer albums would eventually find their way back to him, one way or another; she still owed him for that business with East India, after all, and it was only fair that she lend him a hand every so often...

But the real prize of his collection, however, was not one that you could find online. No, it was more... personal, than that.

"An Elegy in Scarlet". The first, and only, time that he'd sung in a band. It was the only surviving copy of the album; the rest of the band, himself included, ordered the rest to be destroyed, and production halted, once they'd seen what it could do.
They let him keep the only copy, of course. 'Someone has to do it,' his bassist had said. 'Shit like this doesn't like to stay down, y'know?'

And it was missing. Stolen, to be exact, the traps he'd set around it untouched and ready to ensnare and/or maim whatever unfortunate sap attempted to take it from him.
There was no scent; no marks, nothing. It was as if the intruder was never there, the only evidence towards their involvement being the absence of that damned record.

He'd need help getting it back. There were rules about this kind of thing; old rules, ones that he wasn't exactly willing to break.
Who could he trust, though? Michiru would probably spill the beans to the wrong person as soon as she agreed to help, and Nazuna... she'd been through enough lately. Best to let the poor lass sleep.

That just left a few others. Rose wouldn't help; or rather, she wouldn't be able to help... Shirou? No, too risky, might break one of the Rules...

Fuck it. He'd have to do this the old fashioned way.