Hope is the Thing with Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

As he steps up, he thinks to himself that bar is fuller than he remembers it being for weeks. It’s a fleeting thought, and he quickly loses himself again. After a drink, he finds his personal nirvana in the rhythm of the acoustic track and the dents in the worn microphone duct-taped to its stand. Nothing matters to him now but the vibrations beating against his shoulderblades and the pressure of his toes against the worn soles of his shoes.

The hazy, clouded atmosphere in the bar with the multitudes of dimmed lights feels surreal, like the stage he’s stepped on is on the horizon of an alien planet far above the curtain of smoke and the smell of cheap alcohol. He loses focus as he doles out familiar lyrics to a tired crowd that’s both listening to and ignoring him at the same time. He’s their white noise, he knows - a pleasant static that follows them into their cars and taxis after the second and third beers, but the woozy feeling is more easily attributed to the alcohol than the singer that radiated the ambiance. It’s the same way they know who he is, but despite his constant attendance, no one could ever pick out his name from the list of the regular patrons.

All but a pair in far corner. Their large silhouettes with hat-shadowed eyes stick to him like glue, following his body as it softly sways from side to side along with the music. Though they’ve been regulars at the bar for three weeks now, it’s only today that they’re paying attention to him in a way that unsettles him. It breaks his concentration, making it impossible to enter that trance he’s normally in while singing. Suddenly he’s very aware of the imperfections in his voice being relayed back to him from the speakers standing in front of the stage.

The last few sentences feel unusually difficult to get out, but once the music starts fading out a wave of muted applause rises. His humble bow and series of thanks yous to the couple of whistles he receives turn into a satisfied departure from the stage lights, but his descent is interrupted halfway through by the doors into the bar bursting open. All heads turn at the sound, including his own.

A cloud of smoke thicker than anything the bar could possibly offer roils along the floor all the way to the barkeeper’s counter and completely obscures the stained carpeting. Everyone in the bar is paused in confusion for a moment before the first clue to who just invaded their calm night in such an obnoxious way. A seductive echo rings through the air, simultaneously erupting from all devices with speakers in the room. Even the phone in his own back pocket vibrates and joins the choir of “Oh yeeees”. Everywhere people check their phones and all find the same thing on the screens: A hot pink M .

Seconds later, after the first “what the fuck” has been muttered, an oddly familiar tune starts playing. The plume of smoke rolling through the wide open door almost vibrates with color as a spotlight turns on, highlighting an even more familiar silhouette hidden in the clouds.

A highly polished hot pink boot makes an entrance halfway up the doorframe, piercing the thick fog swirling in the doorway. Behind it, an equally reflective set of shiny black pants wrapped tightly around shapely legs appears. The leg makes a full rotation around the glittering, flashing figure as he whirls into the drab bar as if skating on air. No one can take their eyes off of him, and amidst the half-drunken spectators, a cheer goes out, and shortly the entire bar is standing and whistling.

“Mettaton!” The exclamation of his name starts an eruption of excited screams. A crowd suddenly appears around the figure now easily identified as the notorious Mettaton™. There are far more people than he ever thought possible for this place to host. It makes his head spin to think he has been on this stage in front of so many without even knowing it. It doesn’t matter now however, as everybody seems occupied with screaming at the superstar that appeared out of nowhere in mere seconds.

Mettaton doesn’t stop. When he walks into the room he keeps going, forcing the crowd around him to part and make way. They do so instinctually, like a school of fish darting out of the way of a predator.

“Someone told me about a little bird whose song can brighten even the dreariest room.” The fashionista robot is staring right at him. “And we all know who that is, hm?” The human anchovies all turn to him, mouths agape like their aquatic counterparts.

The robot breaks free of the crowd, not waiting for a response. He struts his way to the stage, hips rolling in a way that should not be possible for a machine. The singer stands paralyzed on the stage, watching his idol approach. A mix of terror and excitement bubbles through his body, making him tremble.

“Hello little bird,” Mettaton purrs. A gloved hand appears in front of him, waiting patiently for him to take. It’s smooth and warm when his own slides into it and with a light pull he’s being guided off the stage and onto the wooden floor below. Suddenly Mettaton looks impossibly larger.

“My agents will answer any questions you have and give you the details.” Mettaton looks him up and down critically before bestowing a look awash with pity. “And darling… Wear something fabulous for the audition.” He doesn’t need to ask what audition he speaks of. Everyone in the bar is aware that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. One that you do not decline.

As abruptly as he appeared, smoke trailing from the sides of his bright boots, Mettaton’s smothering presence fades until both the majority of the patrons and the charged atmosphere leave the singer for pinker pastures. His blank stare after the exiting commotion catches the two large figures from earlier moving towards him, but with their wide-brimmed hats removed, he notices a unique distinction that they and Mettaton share:

They are most definitely not human.

A series of small, pointed spikes protrude from two scaled, elongated scalps. The lizardine monsters tell him, in great detail, about the upscale location he’d soon be auditioning at - a country club called “The Shooting Star” that he passed by on the bus every week. At the end of their explanation, unintentionally in sync, they give him an apprising look before “politely” informing him that formal attire is advised.

… He doesn’t even own a suit.

For someone used to dirty pavement and an even dirtier apartment, it’s ritzier than any place he’s ever set foot in before. There are actual chandeliers dangling above the foyer, the napkins on the tables are folded so nicely and there’s a lit stone fireplace built into the corner and he…

He feels so hopelessly out of place.

He walks through hallways and past people that seem so unreal to him. It feels like he has stepped into the set of a movie. It’s like he’s watching someone else’s life from the sidelines and he’s just one of the faceless, blurred out people standing in the background of the scene to give it a touch of realism.

He is soon recognized by people he has never seen before and he’s pulled from the background into the blinding spotlight upon a stage. There are dozens of unfamiliar faces and hundreds of lights and voices swirling around him. One of them introduces him - a familiar, extravagant voice with a subtle mechanical whir - and his heart starts jackhammering in his chest in response to the music slowly starting up.

He stands on the edge of a cliff, heart pounding in his chest and blood rushing in his veins. He is the baby bird spreading its wings, ready to attempt its first ever flight. He’s terrified but excited.

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply as the first verse approaches. He sees wooden floors and a microphone duct-taped to its stand before his inner eye. The scents of cheap beer and cigarette smoke tickle his nostrils. He hears a faint hum of laughter in his ears as he loses himself. He opens his eyes.

And he sings.