Backstage was a whirlwind of activity when Boombox finally found you, and Palette was in no mood to let him off the hook easily. They scolded him relentlessly, waving a paint-smeared brush for emphasis. The chaotic backdrop of bustling crew members and hurried stagehands only amplified the scene's absurdity.

Before you could even process what was happening, a pair of hands yanked you backward, and you were swept away into the chaos. The world tilted for a moment as you stumbled, dragged through a narrow, dimly lit corridor.

The hands finally released you, and you nearly tripped over your feet, catching yourself on a cold metal railing. "...You're not... whoops," came a careless, somewhat sheepish voice.

You turned to face your unexpected captor, your glare sharp enough to cut through steel. They wore a sleek, metallic-like hood smeared with streaks of fresh paint. As a matter of fact, those streaks were now all over you, too. A messy medley of blue, green, red, and other colors decorated your beloved cloak.

You stared at the damage, your lips pursed in frustration. "I believe you aren't supposed to be here," you said icily, meeting their gaze with a piercing glare.

The stranger grinned unabashedly, seemingly unfazed by your irritation. "Nope! Neither are you, technically. We're under the stage, after all," they chuckled, gesturing to the dim, cramped space around you. "Thought that trapdoor would come in handy."

"Trapdoor?" you echoed, incredulous.

"Yep," they said with a grin that could only be described as infuriatingly proud. "Name's Paintball, by the way."

Paintball extended a paint-smeared hand toward you as if this entire situation was the most natural thing in the world. You looked at their hand, then back at them, and folded your arms tightly instead. "I don't recall asking for an introduction."

"Harsh," Paintball said with a mock wince, retracting their hand. "But fair. You've got a right to be mad, I guess. Your cloak's fancy and all, but hey, look on the bright side—it's got character now!"

You stared at them, deadpan. "Character?"

"Yeah! Think of it like... wearable art," they said with a wide grin, clearly amused by their own justification.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Just... what are you doing under the stage, and why am I here?"

Paintball shrugged nonchalantly. "Honestly? I was just checking out the backstage setup when I tripped the wrong lever. Didn't expect someone to get caught in it. As for you, uh... guess you're my accidental partner in crime now?"

"Fantastic," you muttered under your breath, glancing around. The space was cluttered with forgotten props, tangled wires, and the faint hum of machinery. "Let's just get out of here before anyone thinks we're actually up to something."

Paintball's grin widened. "Oh, we're definitely up to something. It's just not what they think." Before you could respond, they started toward the far end of the cramped space, gesturing for you to follow.

You hesitated, torn between annoyance and curiosity. Paintball was irritating, sure, but there was something oddly compelling about their carefree energy.

"Fine," you said with a sigh, shooting them a warning look. "But make it quick."

"Now that's the spirit!" Paintball said, clapping their hands together. "Follow me!"

They led you deeper into the under-stage labyrinth, a maze of exposed beams and forgotten equipment. Paintball navigated the space with ease, their sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor.

After a few twists and turns, they stopped in front of what appeared to be an old storage closet. With a dramatic flourish, they pushed the door open, revealing an explosion of color.

The small room was packed with canvases, spray cans, and brushes of every size. The walls were covered in abstract murals, each one vibrant and alive, as though the paint itself pulsed with energy. It was chaotic and messy, yet strangely captivating.

"Welcome to my sanctuary," Paintball said, gesturing grandly. "Pretty cool, right?"

You couldn't deny it—the sheer creativity on display was impressive. Still, you kept your expression neutral. "It's... something."

Paintball laughed, clearly unfazed. "You're a tough crowd. But hey, I'll take that as a compliment."

Paintball rummaged through the chaos of the room, pulling out a half-finished canvas splashed with bold streaks of neon colors. "This one's called Chaos Symphony," they said, holding it up as if presenting a masterpiece. The painting was a cacophony of swirling shapes and clashing colors, but there was a strange sense of rhythm to it, like it was on the verge of making sense.

You tilted your head, studying the piece. "Interesting. It feels... erratic, but intentional. Like it's trying to find harmony in the chaos."

Paintball blinked, clearly taken aback. "Whoa. That's... actually a pretty deep take. Most people just say, 'Cool colors, bro.' You've got an eye for this, huh?"

You shrugged, brushing off the compliment. "Just an observation."

Setting the canvas aside, Paintball leaned against the wall, their grin turning mischievous. "You know, you've got a vibe to you. All serious and mysterious, like you're plotting something big. You should let me paint you sometime—capture that whole enigmatic aura."

You shot them a flat look. "Pass."

"Aw, come on!" Paintball pleaded, clasping their hands together dramatically. "Think about it—Portrait of a Reluctant Muse! It'd be legendary."

You shook your head, unable to suppress the smallest hint of a smirk. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're stubborn," they shot back, crossing their arms. "But hey, I respect that. Stubborn people make the best muses. All that bottled-up energy just waiting to explode onto the canvas."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Absolutely," Paintball said with a wink.

The two of you fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence, the hum of the under-stage machinery filling the gaps. Your eyes wandered around the room, taking in the vibrant chaos. Despite yourself, you felt a strange sense of ease here—like you'd stumbled into a world that thrived on imperfection and spontaneity.

"Hey," Paintball said suddenly, breaking the quiet. Their voice was softer this time, almost contemplative. "Thanks for not freaking out earlier. Most people would've yelled or ratted me out by now. You're... different."

You glanced at them, caught off guard by the sincerity in their tone. "I just want to avoid unnecessary drama," you replied, though the words felt like a half-truth.

Paintball grinned, their usual playfulness returning. "Fair enough. But still, it's cool. You're cool."

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts. "Let's just focus on getting out of here before someone notices we're missing."

"Right, right," Paintball said, straightening up. "I know the way back, don't worry. But hey, before we go, take this."

They handed you a small, palm-sized canvas, painted in a swirl of colors that seemed to shift depending on the angle. It was surprisingly delicate for something so vibrant.

"What's this for?" you asked, studying the piece.

"Call it a souvenir," Paintball said with a grin. "Something to remember your first escapade into the world of under-stage art. And maybe... a reminder to loosen up every once in a while."

You stared at the canvas for a moment before tucking it into your pocket. "Thanks. I think."

Paintball laughed, already heading toward the exit. "Come on, partner in crime. Let's get out of here before someone comes looking for us!"

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"Pally!" Paintball practically sang, bouncing into the space with a grin that could power a small city.

Their greeting was abruptly cut short by a paint can flying directly at their face. It landed with a loud thunk, causing both you and Boombox to wince.

"Don't you 'Pally' me!" Palette snapped, already wielding another paint can like a weapon. "How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak into these places? The last time you pulled this stunt, I nearly lost my job!"

"Okay, jeez, lighten up!" Paintball said, rubbing their forehead where the can had struck. "Wouldn't that have like—"

They didn't even get to finish their sentence before another paint can smacked them square in the chest.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the paint splattered across the floor. "I'll assume you two know each other," you murmured dryly.

Palette sighed, dropping the paint can with a clatter. "This," they said, waving a hand toward Paintball, "is Paintball. And unfortunately, yes, we're friends."

"Friends?" Paintball grinned as if they'd just received a glowing endorsement. "More like best friends. Right, Pally?"

Palette leveled them with a withering glare that could melt steel.

Boombox, who had been quietly observing the chaos, suddenly pointed between them. "You two look like siblings to me."

Both Palette and Paintball froze, exchanging a look before blurting out at the same time:

"We're not siblings!"

Boombox blinked, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "Really? You've got the same energy—chaotic but weirdly charming. And you even argue like siblings."

Palette groaned, dragging a hand down their face. "We're not siblings, okay? Paintball's just... someone I unfortunately can't get rid of."

"Aw, Pally," Paintball said, clutching their chest dramatically. "You say the sweetest things."

You couldn't help but snort at that, earning a pointed look from Palette.

"So," you said, trying to steer the conversation somewhere less volatile, "what exactly are we doing here again?"

"getting you to Boombox cause you got lost??" Pallette reminded you, making you nod. Right-... how could you have forgotten?

" Oh, " you simply utter.


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