Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination Entertainment. This is a story for non-profit enjoyment. Original characters mentioned are of my creation. Songs mentioned belong to appropriate owners.

Author's Note: I will be shifting around POVs, throughout. Be aware of that. Italics represents thought or past events

That said, do enjoy.

Flash In The Pan

Chapter 1:

A dapper dressed flamingo loitered outside a video store, the kind with a smorgasbord of different televisions brimming in LCD colors. On all of them were the news, with a portly, effeminate cat and a showman koala chatting on. Most casual observers wandered away, able to catch the news on DVR or at home. The flamingo however remained erect and invested, even as salesmen tried to get his attention. They even threatened to turn off the TV.

The flamingo politely asked what size cast they would need for their broken limbs.

The program went on, all without a problem. The cat drummed up interest, and the koala made his own bold predictions over the tube. The flamingo figured the theme: Success begetting expectations. The higher the climb the greater the fall, but when one builds himself from rock bottom, well, the best one can do is keep going. When that show went through, and the citizens young and old ventured out into the embrace of the 'refurbished' Moon Theater...at first, the usual happened when an unmitigated success blared through. Promises of future interviews, debate from online forums, and other sunshine hopefuls, all interested in a sliver of the pie...these tones underlined the conversation as he listened. When stars rise, stars that were always there but never existed before, some folks are a wee bit curious as what might happen next.

The flamingo, upon hearing this, rubbed a feather on its curved beak. The interview came to an end, along with a final boast from the koala:

"When I was designing this show, our little troop performed for ourselves and the love of the arts. I encourage anyone else with such passion to come and perform. The New Moon Theater is the best place to find entertainment in the bay area. If anyone else says otherwise, well, I welcome them to try."

"Challenge accepted, Mr. Moon."

He grimaced. The wings felt clipped, but raw from earlier. Disdain colored beyond just its pink décor, and a simple, victorious truth amplified through his head.

What does he know? Anyone can sing.

Some want to stamp that budding future out.

-Sing-

Two weeks later (July 31st)...

Luck replaced Buster's blood some time ago. Much as a short-stacked gambler, Buster had come to rely on putting his chips on hope that the cards would fall his way. He wasn't much of a card-player, as his fellows might educate him on the difference between a gamble and a risk. But Buster defied that: Despite being destroyed once over, his luck swung back as a furious pendulum. With but a brush it filtered from sunny to rainy and back to sunny.

Despite that good fortune, Buster still preferred the comfort of the theatre as his abode. The problem, as the news and kids nowadays implied, was what was next. Two weeks gone and nary a rehearsal, with the damage wrought from the flooding.

Not for lack of trying, however, but in a sense of what show to put on.

"Ms. Crawley! Where are those scripts ideas I had yesterday?"

"Coming, Mr. Moon." She doddered on. Only a pair of titles were there. The choices, threadbare as they appeared, partially made Moon grimace. Another casualty of the flooding he caused.

"Only these...well, we'll have to bounce some more around. Ms. Crawley? Did you ever get in contact with the old stagehands we had-" That I never paid.

"They're unavailable, Mr. Moon."

"Huh?"

"They said they already accepted an exclusive contract two weeks ago."

Buster grimaced at that. It was impressive that he got by with only Eddie and Meena as stagehands during their breakout performance, but if they were going to do much more than a singing concert (and he understood the necessity of freshening up his shows), he needed more animal power. He even had the money to back the crew this time around.

"Ms. Crawley, I'll be out for a bit with the rest of the troop. Hold all my calls until I get back. We need to start gathering ideas for the next show. Also, get some flyers for help wanted. I know Eddie can handle what he can, but we need more feet behind the curtains."

"Right away, Mr. Moon."

The old chameleon dropped out at this. The paperwork and expectations were piling high in equal fervor, and it took much to merely get both ends, when so short-staffed under control.

Buster looked up at his new grand opening picture. Despite the short amount of time passed, the need to 'dust off the old girl', had been embraced with both passion and patience. Dedication to the theater was balanced by the responsibilities of living. Johnny, Meena, and Ash had all taken part-time jobs, so their availability, despite their own pledges, shifted with the responsibilities of a car mechanic, an ice cream vendor, and a musician at pubs, respectively. Rosita, despite being a stay-at-home mom, put her children first in every endeavor. Mike had resurfaced a week ago, mentioning briefly that he was ready 'for a fresh coat on the wall'. Arguments had been exchanged, but Mike had been embraced back. Gunter, meanwhile, focused his time as a personal trainer, but never allowed that to impede his commitment.

That was six workers. Good enough for a concert, but what else?

Exiting in secret after ensuring Ms. Crawley made the call, he found the classic of his bike, and memory laid siege to awareness.

San Francisco Bay Network: The premier capital of the news for San Fran's technology-starved audience: Kip Casey's rotund form chatting merrily and informatively with him. Cat and koala exchanged pleasantries, the news reporter doing his best to change the narrative of their previous accusations, and the showtime manager promoting his work while at the same time mending fences. Not fiery enough to catch the attention of the casual viewer. But enough for him.

It had been almost immediate with the summoning.

"So, Buster, the public is salivating for your next piece. Any hints? Some teasers?"

Buster, ever the showman, played hot and cold. "Well, the New Moon Troop is actively getting our next big blockbuster in the works, but you'll have to wait a bit longer, Kip."

"Oh, well, but you certainly feel the pressure, now, don't you? You've got fans rounding the sidewalks to see that next 'blockbuster'. Can we at least know what to expect?"

"No, no…you'll have to wait and see."

"Well, all right. Whatever you concoct, I'm sure the eyes of San Fran will be upon you. Anything you'd like to give to the fans?"

At this, Buster chuckled heartily, a laugh satiated on demonstrated confidence. "When I was designing this show, our little troop performed for ourselves and the love of the arts. I encourage anyone else with such passion to come and perform. The New Moon Theater is the best place to find entertainment in the bay area. If anyone else says otherwise, well, I welcome them to try."

That had been a not-so-subtle intent for recruitment. Unfortunately, as Buster was learning, his...'credit' was still half-and-half. One hand, he hit the proverbial home run. On the other, one gleaming success, even when buffered by media perception and his own talents, did not completely erase history.

Knuckles 'n' Chuckles Ice Cream had been a specific point of interest for the troop in the aftermath, in that it served as a centralized location. Meena had found herself a part-time job here, and both Ash's apartment, Gunter's clients, and Johnny's job weren't far. Mike and Rosita were repeat customers, if the hyena employers were anything to go, but the job also seemed smack-dab in the middle of the main road. People passed the vendor so often that they often didn't realize it.

As such, he had deduced it a good a meeting place as any, given The Moon Theater was still a bit off. The hyena proprietors actually had no problem with him holding a creative meeting here, provided they get a picture of the Troop before the next performance. Ever rich on promises, Buster acquiesced.

Unfortunately, professionalism didn't always hold hands with passion. Of his volunteers only Johnny and Rosita were there at the far end. Perhaps in respect to their novel celebrity status, the hyenas made a point of keeping the other customers out of sight. After some degree of greeting, the matter of deliberation came forth. Getting the next show off the ground might be a bit more difficult than anticipated.

-Sing-

Elsewhere in the city, frustration of another sort boomed.

Every artist felt the current agony she felt, not of the physical but as equivalent as popping fingernails: the laptop screen had been purged on more than one occasion, though the reasoning and cause had been twofold. The clock at the bottom had long been forgotten in her immersion.

Ash grimaced in spite of herself. The emotion, the intent, the cords in her head, all of that was there...but gluing it all together...that fell flat.

Part of it simply was emotion. When she made her first song, emotions spurred her on. Rage, jealously, despair, hope, sadness, liberation, joy, revelation, and the friction of ardor all melded within her brain to piece chord to chord, note to note, bar to bar. The words belted out in equal trudging labor. Would a rhyme here fit the tune there? Did it matter if star or sun were used? In honesty, she hadn't really critiqued it in its construction, formulating it slowly but quickly in days. Moon had been the first to hear it privately, and his encouragement spurred her on.

Lance and the memories connected to him bubbled deep as she clicked on her laptop. Still only one line.

Where has the magic gone.

The start had been workmanlike. Mindless and almost void. The words, even when supported with a few chords, a drifting storm of her favored rock, lacked the vitality of her own music. It didn't sing. It didn't energize. It didn't entice, seduce, or proclaim. The words vanished again under the delete button.

She groaned. A familiar urge bubbled, the image of her ex striving back up. She kicked it back down.

Her eyes journeyed back to the clock. Hours escaped her eyes and another subsequent groan escaped her lips. She had been working on this for hours and she couldn't get a more than a line out?

What the hell?

Powering down the laptop, she scuffled her guitar into its case for her nightly gig. The skills needed to be kept, and she needed to meet with Moon before she got in. Keeping in touch had become its own challenge, among the other necessities of life.

The good news was that she didn't see Lance. The freedom rejuvenated her too this day, but it also stung-implying that still, despite for the most part pushing past the drama, she felt a tinge of agony from his cheating heart. She looked at the couples young and old as she walked crosswalks and sidewalks: Their animated joy or quiet contentment reflected darkly back onto her. The held hands reminded her of waiting from the subway train, hand in hand with Lance. The young couples chatting about everything from Eddie Lizard to Salaman' Tanta, she could paint the silhouettes of the past on them.

And therein lied the problem. Despite her freedom, the jerk was still there.

She had made it a point to avoid the cafe, or any such place that might cause her to run into Lance, but the imagery prickling her brain curled in.

She would need to rock hard tonight. That always worked. Distracting her mind, the shame and agitation and the creeping silence banished everytime she brandished her axe…and the Moon Theatre troop supplied plenty to it. Mere presence erased any such problem at least for the time.

A kindred smirk, lazy but genuine, dashed onto her lips. The camaraderie forged in the simplicity of staging a free show energized and soothed. Beyond just being fellow performers, they had found means to help one another. Meena and Ash, despite their noticeable differences in tact and approach, found a desired trait in the other. Johnny was certainly easy on the eyes and more than willing to carpool if needed. Gunter, in spite of his flamboyance, kept everyone grounded and positive. Rosita, meanwhile, let her own motherly instincts assist as needed. Ash, in turn, had helped watch the kids one night, so as Rosita and her hubbie could get some 'me-time'.

Though, truthfully, Ash had been smart in her altruism. She made damn sure to get some help watching those 25 piglets, and the uncanny commotion kept her own grievances at bay. Though, as many things, they were temporary.

The streetcar rumbled by her as she got closer. Construction's melody boomed and rattled all around her. In the past week hard-hats became in vogue, with the flood of workers flooding the streets. Not merely the crew hired by Nana (that was an old lady Ash had a time relating to), but just up on the main street, every time she went to her gigs, she saw the yellow tape and the orange cones and the mammoth trucks coalescing at the same area. A strange, three-story black building, shaped too conspicuously like a theatre itself, grew from the center of San Francisco, nameless but looming next to its businesses.

"When you set it all free, all free, all free…" She muttered. Her stomach groaned. She forgot food in her brainstorming. Again.

The thoughts, rippling and rampaging, rifted an unfortunate problem. Selective focus can make one forget where the hell one was standing, after all. A working construction crew, with the rhythm of saws and hammers blots out the quietude of speech. The management of loading equipment, ranging from cushions to deluxe pianos and unicycles and iron maidens…

She saw it before anyone else.

"Hey, Hey HEY! WATCH OUT!"

He didn't hear the panicked calls. Everyone else heard it, but they saw the sliding dolly and its cumbersome load fly before they noticed the target. The target in question was arguing on a cellphone, quills too animated to see the hulk heading towards him. The quills blocked vision, and failed to catch the rush.

A pair of furry hands jostled her own of her own reservoir, pulling her and this dumb porcupine close into a breathing shield. The dolly flew right by, chases down San Francisco's slopes by a pair of panicked workers. However, an untied shoelace, close proximity, both Ash and her surprise 'hostage', the weight of the iron maiden at the specific moment, and the sheer ending of the sidewalk, conspired to a single madcap prophecy.

Both of them fell into the middle of a San Francisco rush hour traffic. Both of them butted heads twice: Once against each other, and the second time against pavement (for the nameless porcupine) and a rear view mirror (for Ash). Stars danced and groans escaped.

"Glasses…my glasses…"

His hands fumbled briefly on cooling pavement. Ash grabbed her wits and his hand in the sliding realization (We're in the road we're in the road we're in the road we're in the damn road!). Adrenaline hulked out and rolled them both quickly out of the way, despite blaring horns, rampant middle fingers, and slew of swearwords.

"Glasses…where?"

Ash looked down, a black holster in jeopardy of rolling into the sewers. Her hand darted out.

"My guitar…Ah!"

Kicked around its case and darn near forced out, but thankfully the iron maiden hadn't destroyed the thing…if her axe got crushed, she…

"Hey. A thank-you would be nice."

The porcupine was on his hands and knees, touching around on the sidewalk, grumbling what sounded like 'contact lenses'. Ash tapped him once on the shoulder, and she forcibly put the glasses case into his hand.

"My case? But I need my…"

She pointed down. His glasses, thankfully were right at his feet, nearly crushed in all of the commotion.

"Ah…let me just…"

The porcupine slid them on, and they both got a very good look at each other.

Ash wasn't sure what this dumbass's thoughts were, but she had memories of Lance and success in a concert to remind her of wonderment. He stood a little taller than her, lanky, and wearing a business-casual ensemble: Straitlaced and nerdy, like he belonged in an office cubicle, even with pens and a notepad in his pocket. The quills, though equally long like her, were kept orderly, in flowing rows. Shoes that constantly demanded a shine and oval glasses rounded out the rather stuffed shirt guy. His face, though…it brimmed expression. She was certainly, consciously tossing the most "I'm-Not-Impressed" looked she could muster, but he still seemed dazed.

"Well, as I live and breathe," He waxed out, "That sprouted a tussle."

"Ahem."

"Oh…right. We're a might bit lucky."

"You almost got flattened by that iron thing and you got nothing but luck?"

The porcupine adjusted his glasses, surprised, it seemed, by her vigor.

"Well, yes…I…I wasn't keeping…"

"You shouldn't be on your phone all the time. It might get you killed."

"My phone?" Panic swelled in his voice. "My phone! Where-"

The essence of comedy? Timing is everything. No sooner did the porcupine ask, a resounding crunch reached their ears. Both him and her looked to the streets, seeing the innards of hardware and SD cards littering the pavement. His expressive face dropped almost instantly.

"Oh…sorry?" Ash said. "Better the phone than-"

"Oh…he's gonna kill me."

"Hey! If you aren't gonna thank me, then I'll leave you to your mid-life crisis."

"I'm 19! I'm not old!"

For a moment, Ash and her rescued party glared at each other: Him bristling at the slight at his age and her smirking almost in sardonic attitude. But he relented in a sigh.

"I'm sorry. That…that was rude of me. Thank you, miss, for keeping me from…"

"Getting flattened like a pancake?"

"Yes."

"Reduced into roadkill and popping a tire?"

"Yes."

"Saving your glasses from a toilet cruise?"

"Yesss." He gritted out. "Yes, yes, all of those. Look…I appreciate what you did, but don't string me up just yet. I got a line forming right now, because of that phone, miss…"

"Ash." She plainly said. A second later she wondered why she even gave her name.

"Ash…Ash…" He drifted almost immediately away. A hand reached for his notebook.

"If you write down my name, creeper-"

Placating hands shot up almost instantly. "Easy! Geez! This is business, not pleasure!" Though he subconsciously winked at her.

Great. Now he was attempting to flirt. Dork.

"Look, guy, I got to go. I'm already going to be late-"

"Morty."

"Huh."

"My name. It's Morty." He pulled a card out from his shirt pocket. "I'm new around here, and I gotta get this show on the road, but…look, I got to do something as a thanks."

"Thanks?"

Her thoughts were a slight bit jostled, but they both could hear breaking glass, groans, and shrieks. Apparently, the iron maiden finally stopped rolling downhill, finding its way into a rustic, charming, china shop.

"There goes half my pay," He groaned. "I damn knew I should fastened them better."

"Well dumbass, welcome to life. Unlucky stuff comes."

"You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?" He spoke incredulously. His ignorance failed to detect just how cutting his words were, but his face hunched in, as she turned silent almost instantly.

"Bad subject?" Morty asked, placating in his words.

"..."

"Alright, I'm sorry. I'm just batting a thousand today. Listen, uh, here…" He extended a card. "That's my work number. I want to properly thank you, so...just leave me a message, and we can…we can…do…uh…"

"Hey." Ash butted through his deliberations. Now he was having a hard time looking, his eyes turned away to the street, with the card extended out. "Hey, look at me." He didn't. "Look at me."

He did that time.

"No promises."

Morty looked a bit relieved. "So there's a chance."

"Just I'm not used to fans-"

"I've never seen you before. And that's my line."

"Who the heck are you anyway?"

"Check my card."

Ash pulled her own card out, for the Moon Theater. "Check mine."

"Ok…" Morty's hands jostled, but he kept his eyes on her. She likewise seemed to keep his eyes on him as he took her card.

"So…plays?"

"Gotta go." Ash flung up the horns of hard rock and continued on her way. In her pocket was his card, shaped amusingly like a joker playing card. She didn't read it. She needed to get to her gig.

"Ok. Thanks again, you…fine…"

She didn't hear the rest, or dare ask what he was going to say next. She looked back once, but he was retreating to his construction workers.

Morty looked back after she turned back, enchanted by circumstance under his own witting eyes. The Moon Theater card shone in his quills.

-Sing-

Next day (August 1st)…

Buster grimaced under the newspaper headings. Inevitably, he should've seen it coming. Not a one dared to speak up when his theater flipped belly-up. But here, now with a city salivating with a lust for the arts, it was only a matter of time before another show decided to step up.

After meeting with part of his troop (Ash had called in due to work; Mike had a 'prior engagement'), Rosita had drawn his attention to a moving company literally across the street from the Knuckles 'n' Chuckles Ice Cream Parlor. To anyone else it simply looked like an ornate, bulbous black building, three-story building with workers milling about like a fantastical horde. But he saw the silver and gold paint being prepped. He saw the pedestrians stopping and looking at the forming obstacle. He saw several suave suited mammals directing things, barking orders, and trying to expedite work.

Buster groaned. Competition knocked literally on his doorstep, and tossed out the welcome mat.

As any patron and lover of the arts would wonder, he clambered to the scene. Warning signs abounded, but the actual proprietors of the theatre weren't available for frequently asked questions. As such, the New Moon Troop returned to their homes, partly curious, partly concerned.

It shocked him to his core that in two weeks he already had a competitor staring him in the face. Buster had once said that the stage was the battlefield, but this was ridiculous. To further worsen the problem, they hadn't quite decided on their next show yet.

Lets see…we have "The Picture of Dorian Greyhound", a sci-fi mystery dinner spectacular, or another concert…opera? I still got Pete on dial for that…

This whirlwind aside, Ms. Crawley, unfortunately, brought another element of doom to his doorstep. She informed him, when he left for lunch today, that someone was waiting for him in his office. Curious, but not so much as to demand speed, he took his time in the race.

The animal was still there when he got back, patiently in the chair, waiting.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I was on the other side of town…couldn't get here in time, mister...?"

The visitor, a flamingo in a white, three-piece suit, said nothing. His eyes danced on everything in the office, looking, catching, fetching onto the awards, pictures, details. Buster thanked himself that he got everything cleaned since reconstruction.

"Sir? Is there something I can help you with?"

The flamingo focused on the most recent picture, the one of the New Moon Troop: Buster cutting the ribbon, Ash holding her guitar, Rosita and Norman waving, Johnny taking up most of the background, Eddie's arms folded with pride, Gunter fabulously posing, Nana surveying the ceremony…everyone smiles and rainbows, the ardor of a task finished and the joy of completing an art for the sake of art flowing over in black and white. Buster smiled at the picture, similar so much to the one of his dad. Dad would be so happy to see him now.

It was a full moment, which Buster finally got in his seat behind his desk, before the flamingo turned his eyes away.

"You seem very proud of yourself."

Buster beamed. "Yeah. We brought our A-game for that show. You would've liked it. Standing room only! Meena literally bring the house down!"

"We?" Only then, at that single syllable, did he look right at Buster, eyes-to-eyes. Cold grey iron met his cheery azure orbs.

"Yeah. This was a team effort. Everyone sang for themselves."

"Everyone?"

"Echo, sir?" Buster joked, trying to bring levity to the pokerfaced flamingo. His eyes didn't bend. "Well, yeah everyon-"

"Including you?"

That stopped the koala's kidding around instantly. The flamingo turned his eyes back up.

"Mister…uh…"

"My name is Donovan."

"Er…Donovan, then…there must be a reason you're here."

The flamingo nodded, eyes still focused on the picture.

"So, what is it? I'll be more than happy to help."

"I doubt that. Your help, besides, would be neither wanted nor appreciated." Donovan stood up, his long, lanky body gracefully stepping over to the window. San Francisco's summer winds breached through, warming the office. His electric fan tried vainly to calm everything.

"Sir, I don't know where you're from, but usually guests aren't this rude to their hosts."

"I'm from Tampa Bay, actually. We normally aren't rude to house guests, but we also don't do other things. Endangering the lives of your workers and stealing another business's water supply, rankles the old tail-feathers more than a frank assessment of a host."

At that, the room, despite the August warmth, turned sour and cold. Buster's levity leashed itself only just, but he kept his manners up.

"All's well that ends well. We had some mistakes along the way, but-"

"Everyone in that photograph nearly took the dirt nap," Donovan coldly interrupted. "Everyone, according to my agents. Do you feel proud of that? Would you have been prouder if they died in the name of your show? Would you have been proud at their wakes, after the curtain fell, for oh, the show must go on."

"No one died! Only thing that died was my theater, and we rebuilt that."

"So you learned nothing. Water under a bridge or through a building, all luckily falling into place. " Donovan growled. A strange noise for a flamingo, but it came close to clinching baritone. "Those kids are talented. As an artist, I despise the waste of talent to such silly recklessness!"

"I wasn't going to let anything happen. We got the show running and everything turned out well."

"It turned out well in spite of you, Mr. Moon. You have no talent. You have none of my sympathies."

Buster's patience ran thin as string at this point. A finger pointed up. "So, what? You just came in here to call me out? Hey, pinky, I don't think you've been here long, but the papers have been doing that for a while now."

Donovan thrust a feather at the paper on his desk. "How fickle and forgetful those media darlings get! Hero. Mad Genius. Maestro of San Francisco. The Great Showman of central California. Rubbish!" His wing slapped the paper in the bin. "You should pay less attention to those window-washers and more to me and your contemporaries. You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Nope. A very ruffled flamingo, but otherwise-"

Donovan tut-tuted him, then handed him a magazine.

The magazine came from Florida, but it was a recognized, national magazine, Gold and Glamour. On the cover was the flamingo, this time in a suit of dark green and hunched over an ornate piano. The cover read in bright yellow font: "Donny-Jo Vinci: Greatest Pianist of Our Time?"

Buster felt shell-shocked. Now he knew who this guy was.

"Toronto to Tampa, Baltimore to San Antonio, Chicago to Kansas City, Mr. Moon, and more. My track record is ironclad. You? What do you have? A one hit wonder? I've performed for the rich and the poor, the foreign and the homeward. You're just an amateur demolition expert. But, it is rude for us Southern birds to lead a little, so…let me make my point clear."

Donovan reached into his pocket, and pulled out a roll of tickets.

"I've commissioned for a theater to be built, Mr. Moon. I will hold my own show-you and your meager troop are invited to attend free of charge. We will have our first show soon. Check the papers, check the brochures we'll be passing. Heck, you can even ask your old stagehands. They seemed quite fond of working for me, since my checks don't bounce. Two weeks tops. Embrace your little theater, Mr. Moon, until then. When I'm done, they'll forget you and this little palace. Well, perhaps they'll remember what you've done."

Donovan tossed his tickets down, grabbed his hat, and began for the door. Before he exited, Buster still stewing, he turned back.

"Mr. Moon. I acknowledged that your troop is of some talent, but you misread me."

"Why's that? They're all great singers with a bright future ahead of them! They'll all be stars one day!"

"Oh, Mr. Moon...at the end of the day, anyone can sing."

The door shut behind him, every chiding, cutting sentence wounding Buster's self-esteem further. A single card, embroidering the address of his new rival, shone bright in the fluorescent bulbs on his table. Ms. Crawley slowly waddled in, a coffee drink in her hand and somewhat oblivious to the commotion.

"Mr. Moon? Are you all right?"

He smiled weakly. Fake. Phony. Shaken. But he was there.

"No…not right now."

-Sing: End Chapter-