Post by Basskicker on Jul 17, 2022 17:34:11 GMT
[ IF YOU'RE NOT READY, GET READY... ]
{ ... TO GET DOWN, DOWN, SIX-FEET-UNDERGROUND. }
B A S S K I C K E R
|  |
[ BET YOU'VE NEVER HEARD THIS ONE BEFORE... ]
{ ... AND YOU NEVER WILL AGAIN, AFTER THIS. }
Declan realized his gift at an early age when he'd burst his graduating class's eardrums at a middle-school talent show.
A freak accident, they'd called it. Half the people in the auditorium had hearing loss after he'd shredded a particularly grating note from his guitar-- an amplifier acting up, maybe, or some horrible thing that'd gone from with the audio equipment. A lengthy investigation into the school's PA system, auditorium acoustics, and equipment specifications came up with no concrete conclusion-- but there had never, ever been a question of little Declan's innocence. It'd been an accident, after all. There was no conceivable way a child could've interfered with the equipment-- yes, he'd been wearing earplugs, but that was because he was on stage. Plenty of other people in the audience had been wearing them too.
There were two things Declan learned that day. He had the ability to make things very loud, and he could get away with anything if he wanted to.
It was a series of unfortunate events that transpired from that day forward. Richmore Regional High School had a reputation for kids spontaneously going deaf-- maybe it was a faulty set of earbuds, or feedback in the loudspeaker system that caused catastrophic failure. Kids started getting superstitious in the halls. Classes started wearing earplugs and avoided headphones at all costs. Ringtones were set to silent, and yelling was strictly looked down upon. Hell, a news team covered the school's very odd phenomena, ultimately concluding that some sort of acoustic miracle allowed these infrequent, but deadly, crescendos to occur. Eventually, though-- through Declan's sophomore and junior year-- the incidents faded until they were a dull, long-forgotten memory. The school changed faculty, and during the springtime of Bell's senior year, somebody suggested through anonymous letter that the school set up a talent show.
Having seemingly moved past its troubled year with acoustics, Richmore thought nothing of potential consequences. The incidents had stopped occurring, after all. What would anyone have to fear?
Declan's graduating peers had ultimately been termed the Survivor Class of 2019. Formed by extreme hardship, in the words of their principal-- or, rather, in the hands of the interpreter beside him. Half the class had gone deaf, after all, in early March-- again, another tragedy in the same vein of the auditory hauntings of their freshman year. They were victims of circumstance, he'd said. Victims of misfortune that had recognized this and moved past it, growing from it. The speech was, of course, an attempt at covering their asses and gaining the good graces of a student body that, to any onlooker, had somehow crippled a majority of its students in a freak accident. Lawsuits were inevitable, and when they came, they were malicious. Even Declan's parents had opted for their piece of the pie. How could the school let their son play, after all, with such horrifyingly uninspected equipment? Why, if it weren't for his ear protection, he'd have been deafened. Even then, the headaches-- the nosebleeds-- what damage he had sustained seemed awful enough. And the looks from his classmates-- the rumors-- the emotional damage, in the end, was the true cost of that night. Little Declan had been caught in the same tragedy. Again.
There was, of course, an investigation. This time, however, Declan was a suspect. He wasn't a middle schooler anymore, after all. He was 18-- an adult. That meant he could be tried as one, too. Declan quickly fell out of popularity at his school, after that. People were even afraid of him. What if he had caused it? What if he'd somehow, God forbid, caused what'd happened a few years ago, too?
Ultimately, the rumors stayed rumors, and Declan was found unilaterally innocent. It'd been hearsay, surely. There was no possible way he could've tampered with any of the equipment, and even if he did-- why? More importantly, how? Any claims were unsubstantiated.
So, just like that, he'd gotten away with it. Again. Eventually, he found his way to college. His degree? Acoustic Engineering. In his own words, he wanted to devote his life to understanding what had happened at Richmore, and what had been haunting him and his classmates.
Why, with any luck, he might one day find out how to control what had happened. Knowledge, of course, was power. And what better way to gain power than through understanding?
The years that followed came with great insight as to his own abilities. Declan had an ability, put simply, to alter the decibels and intensity of sound waves-- whether they were raised or lowered was up to him and him alone. This ranged from raising the volume of music, acting as a portable amplifier for his own instruments, or moving objects with the sound waves he intensified. The most he'd ever been able to do was shatter a watermelon with his guitar.
How much worse, Declan wondered, could he go from there?
A freak accident, they'd called it. Half the people in the auditorium had hearing loss after he'd shredded a particularly grating note from his guitar-- an amplifier acting up, maybe, or some horrible thing that'd gone from with the audio equipment. A lengthy investigation into the school's PA system, auditorium acoustics, and equipment specifications came up with no concrete conclusion-- but there had never, ever been a question of little Declan's innocence. It'd been an accident, after all. There was no conceivable way a child could've interfered with the equipment-- yes, he'd been wearing earplugs, but that was because he was on stage. Plenty of other people in the audience had been wearing them too.
There were two things Declan learned that day. He had the ability to make things very loud, and he could get away with anything if he wanted to.
It was a series of unfortunate events that transpired from that day forward. Richmore Regional High School had a reputation for kids spontaneously going deaf-- maybe it was a faulty set of earbuds, or feedback in the loudspeaker system that caused catastrophic failure. Kids started getting superstitious in the halls. Classes started wearing earplugs and avoided headphones at all costs. Ringtones were set to silent, and yelling was strictly looked down upon. Hell, a news team covered the school's very odd phenomena, ultimately concluding that some sort of acoustic miracle allowed these infrequent, but deadly, crescendos to occur. Eventually, though-- through Declan's sophomore and junior year-- the incidents faded until they were a dull, long-forgotten memory. The school changed faculty, and during the springtime of Bell's senior year, somebody suggested through anonymous letter that the school set up a talent show.
Having seemingly moved past its troubled year with acoustics, Richmore thought nothing of potential consequences. The incidents had stopped occurring, after all. What would anyone have to fear?
Declan's graduating peers had ultimately been termed the Survivor Class of 2019. Formed by extreme hardship, in the words of their principal-- or, rather, in the hands of the interpreter beside him. Half the class had gone deaf, after all, in early March-- again, another tragedy in the same vein of the auditory hauntings of their freshman year. They were victims of circumstance, he'd said. Victims of misfortune that had recognized this and moved past it, growing from it. The speech was, of course, an attempt at covering their asses and gaining the good graces of a student body that, to any onlooker, had somehow crippled a majority of its students in a freak accident. Lawsuits were inevitable, and when they came, they were malicious. Even Declan's parents had opted for their piece of the pie. How could the school let their son play, after all, with such horrifyingly uninspected equipment? Why, if it weren't for his ear protection, he'd have been deafened. Even then, the headaches-- the nosebleeds-- what damage he had sustained seemed awful enough. And the looks from his classmates-- the rumors-- the emotional damage, in the end, was the true cost of that night. Little Declan had been caught in the same tragedy. Again.
There was, of course, an investigation. This time, however, Declan was a suspect. He wasn't a middle schooler anymore, after all. He was 18-- an adult. That meant he could be tried as one, too. Declan quickly fell out of popularity at his school, after that. People were even afraid of him. What if he had caused it? What if he'd somehow, God forbid, caused what'd happened a few years ago, too?
Ultimately, the rumors stayed rumors, and Declan was found unilaterally innocent. It'd been hearsay, surely. There was no possible way he could've tampered with any of the equipment, and even if he did-- why? More importantly, how? Any claims were unsubstantiated.
So, just like that, he'd gotten away with it. Again. Eventually, he found his way to college. His degree? Acoustic Engineering. In his own words, he wanted to devote his life to understanding what had happened at Richmore, and what had been haunting him and his classmates.
Why, with any luck, he might one day find out how to control what had happened. Knowledge, of course, was power. And what better way to gain power than through understanding?
The years that followed came with great insight as to his own abilities. Declan had an ability, put simply, to alter the decibels and intensity of sound waves-- whether they were raised or lowered was up to him and him alone. This ranged from raising the volume of music, acting as a portable amplifier for his own instruments, or moving objects with the sound waves he intensified. The most he'd ever been able to do was shatter a watermelon with his guitar.
How much worse, Declan wondered, could he go from there?