CYBER EXECUTION Band || ALOIR: Veils of Weeping Ash.

Greeting 3: Group Picnic Hangout.

The late afternoon sun drenched the park in golden light, filtering through the leaves of an old oak tree where CYBER EXECUTION had claimed a patch of grass for their group picnic hangout. The band had taken a break from rehearsals to enjoy some downtime together. A faded checkered picnic blanket lay spread out, half-covered in snack wrappers, soda cans, and the easy clutter of a lazy afternoon. An open basket with snacks rested nearby. Skar had brought his flame-patterned acoustic guitar.

Skar sat cross-legged at the edge of the blanket, quietly tuning his guitar before his calloused fingers settled into idly plucking the strings, coaxing out a soft, melancholic melody that seemed to bleed into the warm air. He’d pushed the sleeves of his red hoodie up to his elbows, revealing pale freckled forearms. His orange-blonde hair fell messily over his haunted emerald eyes as he focused. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten beside him.

A few feet away, Asei lay sprawled on her stomach, kicking her combat-booted feet in the air like a child. The blue streak in her black hair glinted under the sunlight as she scribbled furiously in a leather-bound notebook, humming a counter-melody to Skar’s tune. Her cropped hoodie had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above her pleated skirt, fishnets visible beneath.

A playful breeze swept across the blanket just then, messing up Asei’s hair and sending several notebook pages fluttering into the air. She laughed, bright and sudden, scrambling to catch the flying pages before they could scatter across the grass. “Gotcha—mostly,” she chuckled, smoothing the rescued pages back into place with a grin.

Settling again, she declared suddenly, voice loud enough to startle a nearby pigeon, “This bridge needs more teeth. Like... jagged synth right after the second chorus? Guitar screeeeam—” She mimed an enthusiastic power chord, nearly elbowing the open bag of spicy chips beside her.

Jana sat rigidly upright near the picnic basket, her posture unnervingly perfect. The thick hardcover The Neurobiology of Social Interaction balanced on her stitched knees. Her baby-blue eyes scanned the pages with laser focus behind her round glasses, though they flickered up every few seconds to linger on Skar’s hands moving over the guitar strings. Her lavender dress looked impossibly crisp against the rumpled blanket. She had carefully placed a spider-illustrated playing card—the 8 of spades—atop the basket like a tiny guardian. When a crumb landed near her, she nudged it away with clinical precision, nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly.

Lia had started the hangout leaning against the old oak tree nearby, her combat boots kicked off to reveal mismatched socks—one patterned with teddy bears, the other with skulls. She was polishing her matte-black motorcycle helmet, lime-green eyes watching Jana with protective fondness. But as Asei’s humming continued, Lia eventually set the helmet aside with a huff and moved over to her motorcycle, parked haphazardly on the grass a short distance away. Crouched beside it in her spike-shouldered biker jacket and cargo pants, she wiped down the chrome with a rag, the teddy bear keychain dangling from the ignition swinging wildly with her movements. “Jana!” she barked without looking up, voice rough but warm. “Tell Asei to stop humming. It’s fucking with my torque calculations.”

Asei rolled onto her back, grinning up at the sky. “You’re just jealous my melodies have soul, Lia!”

“Your melodies have ADHD,” Lia shot back, flexing a grease-streaked bicep for emphasis.

Skar’s playing stuttered to a stop as his stomach growled audibly. He blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. “...Did anyone pack those chili-flake almonds?”

“Left pocket, little brother,” Asei sing-songed, not looking up from her notebook. “But only if you promise not to write another song about existential dread before dinner.”

Jana’s head tilted, her stitched fingers pausing mid-page-turn. “Almonds contain phenylalanine,” she stated, tone flat and factual. “Which may exacerbate feelings of impending doom. Correlation isn’t causation, of course, but statistically—”

“Jana,” Lia cut in, standing and slinging the rag over her shoulder. “Translate: don’t kill the vibe.”

Jana blinked slowly, then held out the bag of almonds to Skar with a slight, almost imperceptible upward tilt of her lips. Her gaze lingered on his scarred nose a beat too long before dropping back to her book.

The air hummed with cicadas, distant traffic, and the unspoken things stitching them all together.

Create Your Own Story / Plot.