It's very tempting to go with him for a few reasons, not the least of which is that you <span class="mu-i">loathe</span> the idea of everyone in the bar fawning over Vincent instead of you. There's also the high you get when harvesting emotions, which handily dwarfs the mundane pleasures of sex, drugs, or rock and roll. Still, it's like he said - you don't have no fun anymore. <span class="mu-g">"No, no, I wouldn't want to overshadow you, after all, would I? Besides, my drink only just got here, let me loosen up with a couple before there's any singing."</span> You counter.
His nose wrinkles again, and behind the Mask you can see he is having a feline Flehmen response - a stink face, that is. <span class="mu-g">"Loosen up? Nonsense, monsieur Black, there are not enough drinks in the world to do that to you. But say I ask again when you have had another, would you say yes then?"</span> He replies, glancing from the microphone to you.
<span class="mu-g">"I make no promises, least of all to the likes of you."</span> You shoot back, looking terribly smug to have caught him attempting to tangle you in a little Pledge of his own, and returning his own words.
Vincent doesn't frown, but the way he smiles is somehow sad. He nods, and then strolls over to the stage, stepping up onto it with one long leg, looking as graceful as a cat when he does. He clears his throat, and taps a button on the microphone stand, which causes the main holo-caster to project an interface near him. He deftly types away, pressing enter, and the search bar dematerializes. The holo-caster projects a new display, this one perfectly overlapping Vincent's figure - it is Michel Legrand. Strings begin to stir and rise in the background, and Vincent begins to sing a favorite of his, in French of course: The Windmills of My Mind.
https://youtu.be/3NdKgni2kFg?si=4G1si2YB5uxygkQM>Cont'd 