Of course it's down to him. They've criminalized fun where Rico's from. With how much of a hot mess his and America's universe is, there's no way Rico's going to be able to find inner reserves of whimsy.
Shit shit shit.
"Uuuh. Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop," he sings, wildly out of tune. "When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. And down will come baby, cradle and all."
It's very obviously not working. One of the children darts forward and slices his thigh right through his uniform before he manages to blast it back.
He can't tell if it's because he can't sing for beans or ... wait. Wait, he knows what it is. The feeling's wrong. He can't just recite a lullaby at them like a spell, these creatures feel like...like they're made of ideas. And feelings. And even though these little monsters very obviously want to turn them inside out, they also want to be put to sleep the same way little kids do when they're the ones scared of monsters. He can't just shout musical words at them, he has to comfort them to sleep, like they're actual kids.
He has to comfort them as he puts them out of their misery.
The idea of that, that something made these twisted things so malformed that all they want is to be comforted to death, causes something to pang in his chest, and that feeling helps. It's a road that leads outside the soldier mentality, and that means something finally clicks, and he remembers. His mother'd never sung normal lullabies. She'd always sung lullabies from things like musicals, like stuff from the Sound of Music. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...
But this was the one that always made his heart ache a little, as if he somehow knew, even as a small child, that life would never get that simple again. The song is still a little out of tune but there's more feeling behind it and the more morose sound to it is something he can manage better.
"Summertime, and the livin' is easy Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high Oh, your daddy's rich and your ma is good-lookin' So hush, little baby, don't you cry..."
This seems to be working better. The little stick children slowing down and swaying in place as they listen.
"Hum with me," Rich says quickly under his breath. "It's the same melody every verse."
no subject
Shit shit shit.
"Uuuh. Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop," he sings, wildly out of tune. "When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. And down will come baby, cradle and all."
It's very obviously not working. One of the children darts forward and slices his thigh right through his uniform before he manages to blast it back.
He can't tell if it's because he can't sing for beans or ... wait. Wait, he knows what it is. The feeling's wrong. He can't just recite a lullaby at them like a spell, these creatures feel like...like they're made of ideas. And feelings. And even though these little monsters very obviously want to turn them inside out, they also want to be put to sleep the same way little kids do when they're the ones scared of monsters. He can't just shout musical words at them, he has to comfort them to sleep, like they're actual kids.
He has to comfort them as he puts them out of their misery.
The idea of that, that something made these twisted things so malformed that all they want is to be comforted to death, causes something to pang in his chest, and that feeling helps. It's a road that leads outside the soldier mentality, and that means something finally clicks, and he remembers. His mother'd never sung normal lullabies. She'd always sung lullabies from things like musicals, like stuff from the Sound of Music. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...
But this was the one that always made his heart ache a little, as if he somehow knew, even as a small child, that life would never get that simple again. The song is still a little out of tune but there's more feeling behind it and the more morose sound to it is something he can manage better.
"Summertime, and the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high
Oh, your daddy's rich and your ma is good-lookin'
So hush, little baby, don't you cry..."
This seems to be working better. The little stick children slowing down and swaying in place as they listen.
"Hum with me," Rich says quickly under his breath. "It's the same melody every verse."
Hum if you want to live, Rico.