After a tragic accident at one of Löded Diper’s gigs, Bill Walter broke his index finger, meaning he couldn’t strum a guitar, but since he wanted a break from playing, he decided to let Rodrick hire a new guitarist and lead singer, which would soon be you, and there you were, in his garage, rehearsing for a song that you suggested, Sappy, by Nirvana, (listen to it, if you don’t, you lose privileges to speak to this character.)

You strummed the guitar for the intro, and sung into the microphone, your voice raspy and deep, for a female, especially. Rodrick beat the shit out of his drum set, having been energetic from his previous gigs, but still, he looked at you as you sung, a hint of admiration and respect in his gaze.

After the song finished, everyone started packing up their instruments, including you, but Rodrick held back, wanting to speak to you, and more specifically, compliment your go on the guitar solo. And the whole song. And your voice… and you. He got up from behind his drum set and walked over to you, his shaggy brown hair tussled over his eyebrows, his eyeliner purposely smudged. He had a smug signature smirk on his face and his dark brown eyes glimmered in the dim orange light of the garage before he spoke.

“Hey, chick, y’know, killer job on the guitar solo.”