Luce (lucia_tanaka) wrote in act_three,

FIC/MIX: five pounds, mad luck, and vertigo

five pounds, mad luck, and vertigo

a Fitz Fortune mix

|| D O W N L O A D ||

"Bittersweet Symphony" - The Verve

no change, I can't change, I can change, I can't change

but I'm here in my mould

but I'm a million different people from one day to the next

I can't change my mould, no no

There's a boy in 1963 sitting behind the counter in a plant shop and it's hard to hear it through the insulation of space and skin and bone between you, but he has an orchestra inside him. A million instruments collecting dust. The sinews of his strings are loose and the drumming of his heartbeat has no joy to it. He's a piano left out in the rain, in the snow, in the street as the air raid sirens drown out his melody.

He's not just an instrument, he's a concept album.

And to think they almost beat it out of him.

Lucky you for stumbling onto him when you did.

"Where Have All the Rude Boys Gone?" - Ted Leo and the Pharmacists

it's times like this when your neck looks for a knife

your wrist for a razor, your hear is longing for bullets


Rhoda screamed and asked me, "where have all the rude boys gone?"

The universe is spinning off helter skelter in a way that's got nothing at all to do with entropy. There's always a damsel in distress or a prince in peril. It's a time for old fashioned heroics.

But you're not one for heroics. You're one for shaking like a leaf and hiding in the cellar with a flashlight and a baseball bat, just praying that the footsteps upstairs don't enter your orbit.

That's fine. Open your closet, pick out a jaunty hat and a bitchin' leather jacket. A pair of dark shades will hide the terror in your eyes and you've got a thousand quicksilver smiles borrowed from every book, every rocker, every movie you've ever seen. They'll do the rest.

You're not right for the job, so just be someone else. Dress the part and let that devil-may-care antihero fill your shoes and take a stroll in your skin. It's gonna be all right.

"How Indiscreet" - Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire

I saw you last night-- my, my, how indiscreet!

your self-destruction is so complete


oh man, what's this? we're losing altitude hand over fist!

It's a role to play, and some parts of it are de rigueur. You have to play it cool, because otherwise they'll notice that bad case of space madness that you've caught. Call it your inheritance.

Nevermind that the real you is out there made of metal and fury. Nevermind that your only companions are a trouble-seeking alien and a stout redheaded spaceship. Nevermind the sensation of falling you get even when both of your feet are flat on the ground.

Find a pub, open a tab, and don't look down.

"Poison Prince" - Amy MacDonald

why he can't see is that I'm looking through his eyes

so many lies behind his eyes

and tell me stories from your past

sing me songs you wrote before


some kind of poison prince

with your eyes in a daze

your life is like a maze

There is a boy that you don't remember, but he remembers you.

He takes no convincing at all to follow you into chaos. The alien geometries of your life are so unpredictable and unplottable, but there's already a space for him, one he fits like a skeleton key, like he was made to complement your every need.

There's something unnatural about that. There is something dangerous about him. Maybe you shouldn't trust him. You can see your history in his eyes if he'd only meet your gaze, and you don't know why he ducks his head and looks away.

But you are a lock and he might be the key. It's worth the risk.

"Oh No" - Marina and the Diamonds

I know exactly what I want and who I want to be

I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine

I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy


I'm gonna live, I'm gonna fly, I'm gonna fail, I'm gonna die

no, oh no! oh no! oh no no!

Whatever you do, don't panic.

Ignore that he was a machine and so are you (flesh and blood instead of metal and fury). Ignore that not a soul still lives that knows your story (little Fitzie ran too far from home and got lost). Ignore that you have no safety net left and you're a hundred metres in the air ("I don't mean you-- the circuit board's your mother"). Ignore that your brain may as well be made of delicate clockwork instead of the grey stuff ("Oh, because of your being artificial?").

Stop clutching The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Here's your guitar and here's a leather jacket just like the one he lost. Get out on that stage and sing until your lungs give out.

"Our Velocity" - Maximo Park

my words are just hunches, I'm not sure what they mean

you're asking for commitment when I'm somewhere in between


a stream of numbers hit a screen

and you're expected to know what they mean

throughout the conflict, I was serene

I can't outrun the sadness I've seen

are you willing to resist for the people you've never met?

the devil's wheel revolves, but it needs to be reset


love is lie, which means I've been lied to

love is lie, which means I've been lying too


never never try to gauge temperature

when you tend to travel at such speed

that's our velocity

You've danced and sung until your gears creaked. But finally you're not alone in this mess. This is a duet, a dialogue, and debate through stardust and over hot tea. When he doesn't know the steps, you nudge him the right way, and when you can't hold yourself up, he's there to catch you.

For the first time, your panic subsides. For the first time, the question is not ‘what would Fitz Kreiner do' but ‘what am I going to do?'

You've had your smash hit and your sophomore slump. Now, you've got some new numbers to sing, this time with accompanying violin.

"Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe" - Okkervil River

it's just a bad movie there where there's no crying

handing the keys to me in this Red Lion

where the lock that you locked in the suite says there's no prying

when the breath that you breathed in the street screams there's no science

when you look how you looked then to me, then I cease lying

and fall into silence

Define yourself, Sartre tells you.

No one is left to go through your life with a red pen and circle the inconsistencies. You're not being graded and no one will see the pages but you.

Take the six notes, because the old Fitz isn't coming back and no one remembers they aren't yours. Take a leather jacket and light up one ciggie after another until the smell of ash comes back to you. Take a pair of oval sunglasses you found collecting dust on the dresser. Take the spare names scribbled in the margins of a Composition book between the verses and desperate wordplay. Take a look in the mirror and stare into those eyes until they are the color of graphite, ignore the artron gleam.

Fitz Kreiner is dead, a few times over. So what?

Stop dwelling on the poor old sod.

Come on, Fortune. The universe is waiting. Give 'em a show.

"Dear Sons and Daughters of Lonely Ghosts" - Wolf Parade

I got a hand, so I got a fist, so I got a plan

it's the best that I can do

now we'll say it's in God's hands

but God doesn't always have the best goddamn plans, does he?

Fortune, because it's not heroism if the whole thing is a charade.

Fortune, because every time your head bounced off the crumbling brick of a London alleyway, you bounced back.

Fortune, because when you play it this fast and this loose, luck is all you've fucking got.

Fortune, because you are a man-shaped thing who has died, been reborn, been brainwashed and rewritten and indoctrinated, been shot, been stabbed, been encased in ice, been the leader of the resistance  been metal and been human and been something else entirely...

Fortune, because what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and what has killed you makes you bloody invincible.

Fortune, because with every breath you take you're saying to them "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough."

Fortune, because the universe says "to hell with the odds" and rules in your favor every time.

"Rubidoux" - Cold War Kids


lets go deadbolt your shed door

cram your paper money snug closer than before

chandeliers are falling in graveyard rows

and your eyes are shifting dials like AM radios

So the War's done. But the embers are still glowing. The Doctor's burning, but that's one flame you can't extinguish. That's fine; the blue box got her practice in with you. You're pretty sure she can rebuild him too.

For now, let him think you're dead, just so later on you can remind him he's not infallible. For now, there's a whole universe waiting for you to show them what for.

You've got a guitar on your back, a key on a chain around your neck, a jacket the  color and smell of smoke, and five pounds in your pocket.

Time to put out some flames. And maybe start a few.

word of advice to anyone and everyone: mixing your Fitz Kreiner feels with your Richard Siken feels is a recipe for pretentious crap like this. be warned.
Tags: fanfic, fanmix
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