The Frequency of Stray Gods: Chapter 2: Neon Orphans
“Funny how everyone reckons blue means sad,” Claudette said, picking at the chipped polish on her glove, “but to me it feels more like velvet, like you could drown in it and still breathe.” Vinnie laughed, a short ugly bark, then softened, “Nah, I get you, it’s like Morrissey, isn’t it, moaning and moaning but somehow it makes you want to live more.” Claudette rolled her eyes, “You only like him because he makes misery sound like sex.” Vinnie grinned, “And you only like Robert Smith because he makes eyeliner look like armour.” Claudette smirked, “Exactly. What else is there worth liking?” “Teachers keep telling me to smile more,” Claudette muttered, snapping her gum loud enough to echo off the tiled wall, “as if grinning makes algebra less pointless.”
Vinnie tapped his headphones, nodding to a beat only he could hear. “Told Mr. Walker yesterday I’d rather fail maths than life, he nearly had a stroke.” Claudette laughed, sharp and sudden, “Fail life? You’ve already aced it if you can piss him off that easy.” Vinnie tilted his head, serious now, “Nah, acing life would be front row at a Cure gig, crying and not caring who sees.” Claudette nodded, voice low, “That’s the exam I’ve been studying for.” Vinnie nudged the quiet kid who’d been hovering at the edge of their words, half-shadow against the carriage glass. “What about you, mystery man, you reckon sadness is a subject worth passing?”
The boy shifted, eyes on his scuffed sneakers, then finally spoke, voice thin but steady. “I think sadness is the only subject they can’t mark you down on, because no one’s smart enough to grade it.” Claudette grinned slow, leaning forward, “Well, look at that, the ghost talks. And he’s got poetry in his pockets.” Vinnie whistled low, tilting his aviators so the boy’s reflection warped in the glass. “Poetry, huh? Careful, mate, they’ll string you up for that in Birrong High.” Claudette snapped her gum again, “Better than stringing yourself up in the locker room like half those meathead footy boys dream about.” The boy’s lips curled just enough to suggest a smile. “I’d rather be strangled by song lyrics than by silence,” he murmured, almost daring them to laugh. Instead, Claudette clapped once, sharp and loud. “Enrolled. You’re one of us now.”
The carriage had emptied, the last commuter fleeing at Redfern with a mutter about “bloody ferals,” leaving only the three of them sprawled across the vinyl seats like kings without crowns. Claudette lit an imaginary match, holding her hand up like a torch. “Anarchy isn’t smashing windows, it’s making them see us without permission.” Vinnie kicked the door with his boot, rhythm like a drumbeat. “Madonna’s cheeky, sure, but Siouxsie, Joy Division, they’re the prophets, they’re the ones saying burn it all down.” The boy, still nameless, straightened a little. “Then call me Gabriel,” he said, eyes catching the neon smear outside, “because every revolution needs a messenger.”
Claudette tested the name on her tongue, slow and theatrical. “Gabriel, like some fallen angel with a mixtape instead of a halo.” Vinnie chuckled, drumming faster now, “More like Gabriel with a Molotov made of vinyl, chucking Meat Is Murder through the stained-glass windows of Woolworths.” Gabriel looked from one to the other, unsure if they were mocking him, then answered with a calm that startled even himself. “Maybe the real fire is just refusing to shut up, refusing to sing the songs they give us.” Claudette snapped her gum, eyes bright. “Careful, Gabriel, you keep talking like that and you’ll end up leading us.”
Gabriel slouched deeper into the seat, fringe falling into his eyes, the kind of messy brown that never sat right no matter how often you brushed it. His shirt was second-hand, collar stretched, safety pin fastened where a button should’ve been, and the cuffs of his jeans were rolled too high, showing off striped socks in deliberate defiance. Claudette eyed the eyeliner smudged just enough to look accidental, though they both knew it wasn’t. Vinnie leaned in, smirk curling.
“You trying to be Bowie or just yourself, mate?” Gabriel shrugged, a soft grin ghosting his face. “Maybe both. Maybe neither.” Claudette nodded like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Doesn’t matter. We already know what side of the song you’re singing from.” Vinnie stretched his legs across the aisle, boots clanging, and said, “So if the suburbs are a prison, and the city’s a circus, where do we set up camp?” Claudette didn’t hesitate. “On the ruins. Always on the ruins. That’s where the best bands start.”
Gabriel traced circles on the fogged window with his finger, half-smiling. “Then we’ll need a name. Every uprising needs one.” Vinnie flicked his lighter open and shut, open and shut. “Alright then, Gabriel, prophet-boy, what are we called?” Gabriel leaned back, eyes narrowing like he was reading something scrawled across the ceiling. “Neon Orphans,” he said softly. “Because even with families, we’re still the ones left outside, raised by static and streetlights.” Claudette clapped once, loud in the hollow carriage. “Perfect. Neon Orphans it is.”