The Metropolis Series #2: Quinn Beyond Bounds

FOR A WHILE, things were going well.

I wasn’t even bothered by the funny looks Rachael gave me when I stepped out of the girl’s bathroom in a Deus Ex Machina shirt. It was probably because Bree immediately boasted that she had it made for me and that she did the calligraphy and doodles herself. (Honestly, where did she find the time?) Rachael seemed annoyed by Bree’s extra efforts, while Curtis said that it looked good on me.

I smiled.

I tagged behind Deus Ex Machina as they carried their instruments and hopped on a bus to The Red Herring. The rush hour was in our midst, so we stood among the crowd of commuters sitting restlessly with their bags on their laps.

Despite the traffic, the trip wasn’t as long as I thought it’d be. Deus Ex Machina and I entered The Red Herring, which looked like one of those semi-fancy places to have dinner with extended relatives. The place smelled of grilled fish—in a good way. It made me hungry even if I just had dinner. There was an aquarium at the entrance filled with carp, potted plants and paintings decorated the interior, and folded napkins and polished silverware adorned the tables. There was a pretty good turn up, too; I saw some people I recognized from St. John’s who I had briefly met when I gave them flyers for the gig. Most of them were on their phones in front of half-eaten meals. I was even able to find Derek and his group of friends in one table. I was glad to see that they had come.

Then, someone with a tie and a golden nameplate fussed over Deus Ex Machina. He kept glancing at his watch and the crowd in the restaurant before turning to speak to them.

“You’re Deus Ex Machina, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” all band members muttered, nodding.

“Come with me,” said the nameplate guy. “The show’s about to begin. People are waiting.”

As they moved along, I trailed awkwardly behind them. Was I supposed to go with them? I was just their manager, after all, but a rather familiar face had saved me from my indecisiveness.

He had called my name. “Hey, Quinn!” And his eyes peeked from the colossal novel he had in his hands.

I squinted my eyes. “Takahiro?”

Indeed, it was Takahiro; I almost didn’t recognize him out of his MacGuffin uniform.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Takahiro smiled. “I’m Ekuma’s fan.”

“Ekuma?”

“It’s what Yuki—Harumi called Deus Ex Machina in her journal. Ekuma. It’s easier to write in katakana.”

I nodded blankly. I barely remembered the brief lessons Harumi had given me about writing in Japanese.

Also, the mention of Harumi made me sad.

“How did you find out about the gig?” I decided to ask.

“Ah.” Takahiro pulled a folded piece of paper out of his bag. “Julio said he found this lying around St. John’s grounds.”

He didn’t need to explain any further. It was a flyer to Deus Ex Machina’s gig, its creases suggesting that it had been folded into a paper airplane. There was also a note hastily scribbled on its corner.

Once again, I simply nodded. Had a student lost it by accident? What if one of the teachers found it instead?

“Hey, may you do me a favor?” Takahiro then asked. “Can you ask Bree Leonard for an autograph?”

I blinked. “What?”

At that, the lights went dim, and the curtains at the far end of The Red Herring began to draw open.

“It’s starting,” Takahiro exclaimed.

Lights shone on the stage where Deus Ex Machina stood. Their instruments gleamed in the spotlight as they were surrounded by applause.

“Hello everyone,” Rachael said, waving to the audience. “We’re Deus Ex Machina!”

The crowd replied with a cheer.

“First of all, thank you for coming today,” she continued. “It is such an honor to be performing for you guys. We would like to introduce ourselves—if you don’t know who we are—that’s Curtis on the drums, Philip on lead guitar, Bree on bass and secondary vocals—”

Takahiro cheered particularly louder than anyone else.

“—and I, Rachael, your front woman and rhythm guitarist for tonight.”

It was at that moment I spotted Julio in the crowd, standing with his hands in his pockets in a dark corner of the restaurant. He, too, noticed me and waved as I approached him.

“Hey,” I said. “You made it.”

“It’s my duty,” he replied. “Everyone’s already got their post. Besides…” His voice began to trail off as he gazed at the stage. “I get to see her perform again.”

At that, my mind brought me back to when Julio bumped into Rachael in the halls of St. John’s. He said nothing and walked the other way.

“Earlier,” I began, “you wanted to talk to her, didn’t you?”

“Badly,” he sighed. “But what could I say?”

Our conversation was cut when the crowd cheered once more. Rachael just mentioned the title of their first song.

“Sing along if you know the words,” she called, and by the beat of Curtis’ drums, Deus Ex Machina’s sound filled The Red Herring.

At this point, you can imagine them playing any song you like. It could be your favorite song or that guilty pleasure track you don’t want anyone to know about—it doesn’t matter. I suppose that is the best I can do to compensate for you not being able to hear what Deus Ex Machina sounded like.

At least you can all enjoy them in your own way.

Even Julio decided to sing along; he tried to do so discretely by keeping his voice low, but there was no denying that his lips were moving the entire time. I for one decided to pull out my phone and record the performance instead. I wasn’t much of a singer.

As expected, the song was met with a warm round of applause. Rachael gasped for breath, holding on to the mic stand as she smiled at the crowd.

“This next song is dedicated to all hopeless romantics out there,” Rachael said, “to those in love, and perhaps to those who have crushes that don’t even notice them.”

That statement received roars of approval.

(She said that last part in Tagalog, which sounded so much better. The English language doesn’t do it justice.)

“This song’s an original. I hope you guys enjoy.”

At the progression of the first few notes, I should have noticed the way the expression on Julio’s face changed, the sheer amount of shock that crept into his eyes. But alas, The Red Herring was too dark. It was only when Rachael sang the chorus of her original song that I realized that something was off.

You make my head spin,

My heart flip,

My soul sing,

Everything.

These words… where have I heard them before? Why didn’t they ring a bell during rehearsals?

Julio tapped me on the shoulder, and it was only then that I saw his face. His lips quivered, and his eyes were wide.

“Quinn,” he began. “I said those words to Rachael before… on the night we got together.”

I wasn’t sure I heard it right, but my memory began to serve me. I dreamt about their first kiss when I had fallen asleep in the Spanish House—not that I was trying to pry into their private lives. For some reason, I had begun seeing visions and having dreams of Julio and Rachael’s relationship, and I was trying to understand why.

But I understood why Julio was concerned. How did his words, things he had said to Rachael when they were together, end up in Deus Ex Machina’s song when he was from another timeline?

“It must be a coincidence,” I reasoned out. “Maybe the Author used your words again and—”

“No,” Julio said firmly. “It can’t be. The Author has never written a full-length song for Deus Ex Machina. Ever. He’s that lazy.”

She, I wanted to correct. But it wasn’t the time for that. I wasn’t even sure if Cassandra was telling the truth about the Author’s gender.

And up here under a perfect sky

I shouldn’t be afraid of

Falling—

“Falling,” Julio murmured. “That’s the title.”

I didn’t like where this was going. If my suspicions were correct, I was sure things would lead to utter chaos and confusion.

Julio breathed heavily, alarmed by the epiphany he was having.

“Quinn,” he said. “I wrote this song…”