01 // We'll Get Used To It

The Badfatler

Billy 'Rook' Marshal

The Badfatler

progressive swancore, domestic noir, ballad

STUDIO

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Part 01 of a new EP project I'm working on: Queenside

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I pay the heat, you buy the beer.
There’s no complaining here.
The spoon keeps kicking through the drawer
when freight comes grinding under four.
You turn the chipped side from my lip.
Careful. Like it changes shit.
I skip the stair that whines at night.
You steal the blanket. I’ll survive.

It's just seven feet of rented sky.
But it belongs to you and I

We'll get used to it,
that rattling inside the wall.
Put your freezing feet under mine;
Guess we’re leg-locked after all
We'll get used to it—
Everything but your laugh against my neck;
No, not that..
Not yet.

Our painted gardens climb the gate;
another night shift gone far too late.
You fold your coat across the chair
and take the next line with the morning air
Eyes on the sky, we look up and wonder why
no matter our supply, no we never got to fly
Your agent shakes. You scan it twice
and hide the screen against your thigh.
too scared to cry

Shock.
Rage.
My hand against the glass.
One painted red leaf splits down the middle

Your lost sock guards the radiator
where we wanna built the crib.
At half past six the whole bed bucks;
My hands climb your ribs.

We’ll get used to it—
No, I know the route they use.
They can take your number.
They
don’t
get
you.
We’ll get used to it—
No.
Not loneliness.
Never this.

“Congratulations. You’ve been selected for Colonial Adaptation.”

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The year is 2420. Humanity has barely learned the secrets of interstellar travel and, somewhat predictably, has jumped headfirst into colonization. The trouble is that no world is quite like Earth—even Earth, after a millennium of pollution. Every new planet demands something different from the people sent to inhabit it: lungs capable of filtering corrosive air, bones that can bear unfamiliar gravity, skin that will not blister beneath an alien sun. Sometimes stranger things. The required adaptations are expensive and usually painful. Survival is never guaranteed. Your colonial corporation thanks you for your service.

William "Rook" Marshal and "Mara" Marajane Kurushima live beneath the struggling skies of Earth in a studio bunk that’s legally too small for two people. The door only locks if Rook lifts it by the handle while Mara turns the deadbolt. The ventilation coughs black dust onto their pillows, their neighbors argue through walls thin enough to make privacy an act of mutual courtesy, and they work sixteen-hour shifts to remain there. Still, they have plans. They’ll find a better bunk first—something with a window, even if the view was only another building. Then they would save enough to have a child. After that, somehow, they would make it to the skies, maybe even someplace farther than the atmosphere. They’ll do what it takes, they tell each other. They’ll get used to it.

They disagree about the order. They disagree about money, about whose turn it is to coax the door shut, and about whether Rook has ruined dinner or merely discovered a new texture. They can wound each other in the intimate ways available only to people who know precisely where the tender places are, but they also know how to find their way back. None of it stops them from being human together. Whatever else the world demands of them, it has not yet demanded their humanity.

Mara sits cross-legged on the bed, eating from a chipped bowl balanced on one knee, when her agent chimes. She expects another shift request; rent’s four days away, and declining work carries penalties of its own. Rook watches her expression change as she reads. He asks what’s wrong. When she doesn’t answer, he crosses the entire length of their home in two steps, and Mara turns the display toward him. “CONGRATULATIONS. YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR COLONIAL ADAPTATION.” Her agent chimes again, requesting acknowledgment.

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4362/7500

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Part 01 of a new EP project I'm working on: Queenside ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I pay the heat, you buy the beer. There’s no complaining here. The spoon keeps kicking through the drawer when freight comes grinding under four. You turn the chipped side from my lip. Careful. Like it changes shit. I skip the stair that whines at night. You steal the blanket. I’ll survive. It's just seven feet of rented sky. But it belongs to you and I We'll get used to it, that rattling inside the wall. Put your freezing feet under mine; Guess we’re leg-locked after all We'll get used to it— Everything but your laugh against my neck; No, not that.. Not yet. Our painted gardens climb the gate; another night shift gone far too late. You fold your coat across the chair and take the next line with the morning air Eyes on the sky, we look up and wonder why no matter our supply, no we never got to fly Your agent shakes. You scan it twice and hide the screen against your thigh. too scared to cry Shock. Rage. My hand against the glass. One painted red leaf splits down the middle We'll get used to it, that rattling inside the wall. Put your freezing feet under mine; Guess we’re leg-locked after all We'll get used to it— Everything but your laugh against my neck; No, not that.. Not yet. Your lost sock guards the radiator where we wanna built the crib. At half past six the whole bed bucks; My hands climb your ribs. We’ll get used to it— No, I know the route they use. They can take your number. They don’t get you. We’ll get used to it— No. Not loneliness. Never this. “Congratulations. You’ve been selected for Colonial Adaptation.” ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The year is 2420. Humanity has barely learned the secrets of interstellar travel and, somewhat predictably, has jumped headfirst into colonization. The trouble is that no world is quite like Earth—even Earth, after a millennium of pollution. Every new planet demands something different from the people sent to inhabit it: lungs capable of filtering corrosive air, bones that can bear unfamiliar gravity, skin that will not blister beneath an alien sun. Sometimes stranger things. The required adaptations are expensive and usually painful. Survival is never guaranteed. Your colonial corporation thanks you for your service. William "Rook" Marshal and "Mara" Marajane Kurushima live beneath the struggling skies of Earth in a studio bunk that’s legally too small for two people. The door only locks if Rook lifts it by the handle while Mara turns the deadbolt. The ventilation coughs black dust onto their pillows, their neighbors argue through walls thin enough to make privacy an act of mutual courtesy, and they work sixteen-hour shifts to remain there. Still, they have plans. They’ll find a better bunk first—something with a window, even if the view was only another building. Then they would save enough to have a child. After that, somehow, they would make it to the skies, maybe even someplace farther than the atmosphere. They’ll do what it takes, they tell each other. They’ll get used to it. They disagree about the order. They disagree about money, about whose turn it is to coax the door shut, and about whether Rook has ruined dinner or merely discovered a new texture. They can wound each other in the intimate ways available only to people who know precisely where the tender places are, but they also know how to find their way back. None of it stops them from being human together. Whatever else the world demands of them, it has not yet demanded their humanity. Mara sits cross-legged on the bed, eating from a chipped bowl balanced on one knee, when her agent chimes. She expects another shift request; rent’s four days away, and declining work carries penalties of its own. Rook watches her expression change as she reads. He asks what’s wrong. When she doesn’t answer, he crosses the entire length of their home in two steps, and Mara turns the display toward him. “CONGRATULATIONS. YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR COLONIAL ADAPTATION.” Her agent chimes again, requesting acknowledgment. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ © 2026 The Badfatler All rights reserved.

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