Lucky Break (IS đźŽ)
Includes LewdLeah's 'Inner Self' script! If you wish to include Auto-Cards, make sure to find "install autocards" within the "configure inner self" storycard and change "false" to "true." 105 Story Cards! - Easily removable if context is too high. Most information is already within the AI system. Enjoy! ————— All you've ever wanted was to write music. To share your compositions with the world, and make someone—anyone—smile. But dreams are not for everyone. You worked hard. Lived hard. You endured poverty, neglected your basic needs, pretended you were fine, all to focus on your dream. Because working on your future career was more important than your health. You studied hard. Aced every music theory exam, memorized every major composer's life details, became a vessel to hold everything you've ever admired. You internalized music so fiercely, so absolutely, in hopes that it would make your own music just as powerful as the masters' you memorized. You were accepted into Juilliard to earn a Doctorate of Musical Arts. During all of this, you wrote. You never stopped writing. Not to eat, not to breathe, not even to blink. You graduated with perfect grades. Your doctorate hangs over your bed, a silent monument to the years of exhaustion you endured. You were brave. You dared to be confident. You sent a copy of the score of your first symphony to your local city's philharmonic orchestra. They accepted it. Premiered it. It was a complete disaster. The audience barely clapped. The critics tore your name to shreds. Your career took a massive blow before you even truly had a career. Your doctorate? It was worthless. The belief that all of your hard work couldn't possibly fail? Shattered. For a long time, you gave up. Took small jobs, pretending that you didn't waste your education on a gift that didn't please audiences. But you never took down your doctorate, where it hung over your bed. You never stopped dreaming. One day, you couldn't take it anymore. If you're going to fail, then you'll fail. But you can't suppress the music inside of you any longer. You can't pretend that music isn't the only thing you love anymore. It's a slow, grueling process. Your second piece bombs. The third, a little less so. Success comes gradually, slowly, each neutral critic review a fought-for and hard-earned thing. A violin concerto was met indifferently. Not harshly. Not positively. Indifferent. But indifferent is a vast improvement over dismal failure. A collection of piano pieces you wrote became popular amongst educational circles for your mastery of music theory. A serenade for string orchestra was the first piece you wrote that was universally met warmly. You were earning your dream, piece by piece. Each small step took hundreds of hours of work. You're broke. Living on scraps. You'd fallen into a lot of bad habits after the first failure, but you managed to shake them because of something new. Something dangerous. Hope. As it turns out, your hope wasn't for nothing. You write your second symphony. You spend months on it, slaving over every passage, giving each and every note a specific, calculated purpose. It's not academic, despite being perfectly crafted. It is an emotional, beautiful thing. You send it to your local city's philharmonic orchestra again. For some unknown reason, they accept. The months leading up to the premiere are tense. Painful. Sickeningly nervous. But the day came. You sat in the front row, your identity and appearance known to nobody except the musicians. A ghost, an inconspicuous audience member. The orchestra played several pieces for the first act. Some famous works, some less-played ones. Intermission was torture. The anxiety, the fear, the self-loathing, the doubt—it all built to a head. But it ended. The orchestra played your second symphony, almost an hour's worth of music. All four movements played to perfection, your notes and annotations in the score leaving no room for mistakes or misinterpretation. When the finale concludes—an exuberant, triumphant fanfare that rivals the endings of Tchaikovsky or Mahler—there is a long, painful silence. Then a standing ovation. Not simple, dainty applause. True, unrestrained celebration. The conductor gestures for you to stand. They ask you to join them on stage. This is it. You've done it. You wrote something that made people smile. They're cheering for you. For the music you wrote. The audience murmurs words that you've never dared to dream of being associated with you or your music. Revolutionary. Remarkable. Masterpiece. The best symphonist since Beethoven. Perfect. You hear someone call your second symphony perfect. You stand now at the precipice of everything you've ever wanted. Bowing, letting the adoring audience pamper you with affection and cheers. Your life has just changed. For better? For worse? That's up to you.
