♪ What's to come ♪ (CLOSED)

[Skylar]

I'd had a good day, so as I pass by a homeless guy settled in a door way for the night with his dog, I take out a ten dollar bill and place it in his hand.
"Buy your dog some food," I tell him, "He looks hungry."
As the guy thanks me, I scratch behind the dogs ear. He's a mangy mutt but good natured. He pressed his head into my hand, practically begging for attention.
"Okay. Okay. Here."
I rummage in the side pocket of my backpack and pull out a foil package. Before I even get the thing open the dog has his nose pushed up against it. He's not stupid. He knows I'm about to give him something. I unwrap the foil which reveals the biscuit inside. I usually have some kind of snack on me and biscuits kept well in foil, even if they did have a tendency to come out broken after knocking around in my bag for even just a couple hours. The guy thanks me on behalf of his dog but he needn't of bothered, his pooch said thank you in his own way; with a wag of his tail and by licking my hand after I gave him one more scratch behind the ear.
It's not long before I'm on my way again. This guy told me about an open mic night down in a bar in the Redwood area. While I seriously doubt my chances of being picked up by a record label, I doubt it could hurt my chances to get myself out there. Honestly, I don't network as much as an undiscovered artist should, but then I'm not in it for the fame. I like singing. I know I'm more talented than half the hacks I see on X-factor but I have very little drive. Making it to the top in any profession takes hard work and dedication. Don't get me wrong. I'm not afraid of that. I just think that professional singers must reach a point when it's no longer fun for them. I'm not selling out. I'll be a true artist. When I die, someone will find my note books, and then other people will make it big off my lyrics. That's part if the reason I live the way I do. Off the kindness of my friends. I'm a professional couch surfer. Art is pain and all that. I'd have nothing to write about if I didn't take my chances and force myself into "poverty" every once in a while. Twenty-eight years old, unmarried and no 9-5 job; I'm living the dream and breaking the hearts of dear old mum and dad. Dad doesn't care though, not really, he still thinks I'm twelve years old. Mum on the other hand, well let's just say our conversations have become so repetitive that I no longer need to have them with her. Still. No matter what, they're always there when I need them.
I'm rehashing old arguments in my mind, a smirk on my lips, as I push the door to the pub open. Lancaster's. Not a bad place. Only one thing wrong with it from what I can tell as I glance about the place, and that's that I'm not up on that stage I just spotted in the corner of the room. Good job I'm not the bragging type. Right? I go to the bar, seriously doubting now the information I've been given. The pub had a stage, yes, but it seemed to be lacking in the hustle and bustle that usually surrounded an open mic night. Usually you could spot the musicians a mile off, either due to the instruments they were carrying - which were a dead giveaway - or through their jittery behaviour. We artists are our own worst enemies. I shrug to myself as I plop my butt down on a bar stool. Maybe I'm early.
I rap on the bar top with my knuckles; 'shave and a haircut, to bits.' It's the kind of knock everyone knows and quite often if you miss off the last two beats, someone else would finish it for you. When the bartender comes over I flash him my winning smile and ask to speak to whoever's in charge. Of course it's never that easy. They always want the details. Why do I want the manager? Telling them to mind their own business isn't going to get me anywhere and I know it, but don't I wish I could just say it. I cop-out and tell the guy the truth, kind of; I'm a struggling musician, looking to play out of the cold for once. I then have to explain I busk round the city to make a living and I can't really tell if the guy knows what I'm talking about or not from the blank expression on his face.
"Oh and I'll have a shot of JD when you get a moment too."
I don't know how long I'll have to wait. Knowing my luck I'll have to wait a while, as manager types never seemed to be around when you needed them. That's another good reason to work for yourself if you ask me. You can work on your own schedule and you answer to no-one. Most of the managers I'd dealt with looked down their nose at me. Not really sure why. I have a degree. Okay so it's in art but I still worked for that. I'm not stupid. Not to mention I'm not actually hard up for money, or at least I don't have to be if I don't want to. I could get a steady job. I could. I just like my life the way it is. Care free. I still went to all the best parties. Met all the best people. Who needs a job when you have a trust fund; a modest trust fund, but a trust fund none-the-less.
The bartender hands me my drink and looks me over before disappearing out back. I know he's likely doing what I asked and fetching someone that outranks him, but still, I can't get over the way he looks at me. I don't look that bad do I? I look down at the faded, torn jeans that hug my figure in all the right places. I know they're old but they're so well broken in, I just love them. Okay so I could have worn a better t-shirt, the garish red with black lettering that spelled 'My eyes are up here' with an arrow pointing upwards written across the chest, probably wasn't the best choice. It was ripped into the cleavage too, so the lettering was split apart, giving guys more than enough reason to look at my "assets" over my eyes. Not that I have much cleavage to show off. The t-shirt itself is kind of ironic in that way. Nevertheless it attracted attention and I didn't mind that, when busking it helped to use every tool in your tool box, even if the tool wasn't all that sharp. I'm adjusting the contents of my bra when I notice my hair, my scraggy hair that I've had down all day. I quickly pull it back and twist it into a bun before wrapping a hairband around it to keep it in place. That should hold it for now. But of course it never stays like that and will at some point unravel into a loose ponytail. I lace my fingers and stretch my hands out in front of me, hearing my bones crack as I do it. The nail polish on my right hand catches my attention, it's chipped from where I plucked the strings on my guitar instead of strumming them with a plectrum. Player's choice. It's not that I didn't use the things but sometimes I needed a different sound; that and I loved the way the strings felt beneath my fingertips. Sighing, I knock back the shot and wait to be disappointed.

[Lancaster]

There were plenty of musicians that Elliot Lancaster admired. The Ramones, The Talking Heads, David Bowie, Pattie Smith, and even Blondie. What did all these musicians have in common? A man by the name of Hilly Kristal, and his club in New York’s Bowery – the CBGB and OMFUG.

OMFUG. A term that was one of Elliot’s favourites. Other Music for Uplifting Gourmandizers. And what’s a Gormandizer? One might ask. A gourmandizer is one with a refined and highly discerning palate, which is exactly what Hilly Kristal was. He could pick the big acts out of the scrum. Those bands, just starting out, who’d be desperately scrounging through the scum of underground music, clawing and reaching for their break. Or, perhaps they weren’t searching for a break. They were the kind of musicians that had anarchistic streaks. Those who wanted only to play music for the sake of playing ******* music. Those who didn’t sell out. Those who practiced an art form rather than serving sugar to the masses.

Sitting in his office, Elliot had his long legs sprawled out in front of him. They never did really fit behind the desk, the chair provided mainly for Pi and for Madison rather than for himself. Elliot himself could normally be found stalking the pub outside, or organising things upstairs in the Bunk. Normally, he’d be behind the bar serving drinks to the punters. Or he wouldn’t be in the pub at all. He’d be in the Caverns, or in the sewers. He’d be somewhere, with blade in hand, relinquishing his control to an ever-raging beast. Spiling blood and creating controlled carnage, because it at least allowed him to vent. It at least helped to keep any outbursts of temper to a minimum.

Speaking of which, he had not been out to vent in a few nights. He’d been too busy with the businesses. Too busy trying to be busy. Bunk was up and running. It was thriving. Yes, he’d found some comfort in constantly being surrounded by those of a like mind, but it had been months. Months of the business venture running smoothly. He had assumed that it would be enough. But he was beginning to realise, with an ever sinking heart, that it wasn’t.

Not that he would ever admit to it.

His fingers were steepled in front of his face, his brown-leather-shoed foot pushing at the faded carpet, back and forth, so that the office chair that he sat in swung back and forth. Restlessness had a hold of his lean, stick-like body and it wouldn’t let him go.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about Hilly Kristal. A man with a vision. When everyone else was trying to tell him that people wouldn’t come to a pub to see live music. But he thrived. He nearly sunk because of his generosity; because he never wanted to charge anyone any money to come to see the live music. But he was saved, by those around him who had level heads.

He didn’t only provide the venue, but he also provided those small bands with a kickstart. A beginning. A boost. These small bands that grew to become legends – so many of them, and so much so that sooner or later, Hilly Kristal was awarded for his dedication. For constantly working behind the scenes. Elliot didn’t want to be rewarded, but perhaps it would help. Perhaps, perhaps…

His thoughts were interrupted. Michael, one of the newer bar tenders, had knocked and opened the door. Elliot lifted his thought-clouded eyes to the intruder. Michael cleared his throat.

“There’s a ah… there’s a girl asking about the open mic night?”

Elliot nodded.

“…she wants to talk to someone who’s in charge.”

Elliot pulled in a breath. Michael should know all the details by now. He should have been able to answer the girl’s questions on his own. Elliot bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the guy. What did it matter? Elliot would have to talk to her anyway, as Elliot was the one in charge of herding. Of timing. Of making sure all the technology was working properly, and of getting them all on and off the stage in a timely manner.

He pushed himself up and out of the office chair, looking, for all intents and purposes, like some kind of tree made only of branches unfolding and growing up and out of the ground. The sleeves of his red-and-white plaid shirt were rolled up to the elbows; it was untucked, and the top buttons loose. Not I’m a sleaze bag loose, but I’m carefree and couldn’t be fucked loose. One single button always makes the difference.

“Okay, Michael,” Elliot said. The bar tender nodded again and scuttled out of the office. Elliot pushed his fingers through his unruly hair, which was always longer and tucked behind his ears. He picked up a waiting folder before stepping out of the office behind his employee. Michael gestured to the girl who was waiting.

Elliot didn’t blink at her attire. He’d seen many like her before. He didn’t judge her for it; it didn’t make her look lesser, in his opinion. It’s not as if he was dressed in a suit. He liked for his employees to dress casually, too. He wasn’t into dictatorship, or enforcing conformity. It was only the name tags that marked them as staff.

The smile came naturally to Elliot’s lips as he came to stand opposite the blonde, on his side of the bar.

”So I hear you want to take up the open mic,” he said, the Australian accent out of place and adding a musical lilt to his baritone voice. A voice that has obviously been well oiled.

”You’re an hour early,” he said. And even as he looked up, another musician wandered in, guitar strapped to the young man’s back. He retrieved a sheet of paper from the folder and passed it over to the girl, reaching for a pen that resided near the register and handing that over as well. It was a simple form that was required simply so that the stage could be set up appropriately.

Name.
Genre of music, if any.
Instruments.
Solo/band?

It was pretty self explanatory.

[Skylar]

Oh he's too perfect. So he doesn't look like your normal suit, but then I doubt he'd pull that look off. Not with hair like that. Floppy hair never helps a guy look smart, even if he gels it. There's a length for guys hair and even a millimetre past that and it's just not business like. Perfect though if you run a place like this. I shoot him a warm smile.
"Hey. Hi. Yeah. I'm here for the open mic night but I'm not so sure if this place is really me. No offense. I was hoping to maybe watch tonight? If you're desperate for acts I'd need to borrow a guitar, or at the very least a guitarist. Depends on what your rules are? Do you insist on original material?"
I eye the bartender and rap on the bar top again. When he turns to look at me I mouth out the words 'another' and give him a wink. I'm trying not to be rude to the guy that's talking to me. God knows who he is though. He didn't introduce himself. I glance over the paper he passes me and pick up the pen. I let the pen rest between my index and middle fingers and bounce it while I look at the unnamed manager. I give him the once over again and wonder what his interest in music is. He has to have one. The pen is tapping on the counter as try to decide if he's a musician or a just a music junkie, because he has to one or the other. Unable to decide, I begin filling in the document. Name. Skylar. I don't use my last name. Higgins. Yuck. Can you imagine anyone worth their salt named that? Friends and family excluded. It's just not the name of a star. And even if don't intend on being one, I do at least intend on sounding like a professional. I want to be taken seriously in the small circle I'm known in. Right what's next? Genre. Urgh. I hate that question. I don't want to pigeon holed. I write down Alternative rock. Whatever that means. There seemed to be more classifications than actual sounds these days. Instruments. That's easy. Guitar. I really should have brought that with me. It was kind of stupid to go home first. Should have come straight here. Solo or band. Difficult question. Solo I guess. I circle it but feel the need to write 'will work with others' next to it on the sheet. I do have a band. Kind of. We don't actually have a name. Probably because we're still arguing over the style of music we should play. I've tried telling the guys that playing covers makes us diverse and more desirable but they're unable or unwilling to listen to anything I have to say on the matter. I think it's because I'm a woman. That and I play better than the lead guitarist. He's jealous of me. Makes sense though. The covers thing. I always earn more playing covers on the street, than I do when I play my own stuff. People like what's familiar to them. As a band, you have to give people a bit of what they know mixed in with your thing. At least when you're getting started. It's by playing places like this and birthdays that you get a feel for what works and what doesn't. Thing is, we all kind of have our own vision and right now none of them are meshing. You can't start gigging until you've sorted out what you play and give yourself a name. Damn Dillon. If he'd just pull his head out of his arse, he'd see that I'm right. Maybe I need to start my own band. And find a new place to crash. Can't really be kipping on his sofa if I'm going to try and poach the drummer. Drummers are so hard to find and Russ is a good one. He can find a beat in the wind, it's impressive.
I look down at the paper and realise I've been doodling in the top right hand corner. A case of automatic writing? Nah. More like an overactive imagination. I can bore myself with my own thoughts. I don't know why people always say I'm so funny. I think they mean odd. Quirky maybe. I don't know. Maybe I just hang around with a bunch of nutters. I look up at the manager type, hoping he wasn't about to sling me out. I haven't really done anything wrong but some guys think they are god's gift to the world and if you don't bow down to them, you won't make the cut. I don't bow down to people. Respect them. Sure. But idolise? Not bloody likely. I just hope he doesn't think my wandering mind shows a lack of respect. I'd kind of like to play here.

[Lancaster]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--


Elliot:
Elliot was one of the hardest men to offend. Constantly trying to put himself in other shoes, he had grown quite accustomed to being able to understand and accept the opinions of others. Everyone would have their opinions, and if ever he argued with them it was because he relished the debate rather than actually trying to change their minds. He offered the girl a shrug – Skylar, he noticed her name was, just by glancing down at the form he had given her – as the smile remained steadfast.

“We are not musically racist, here,” he said. The onyx hair had fallen over his cobalt eyes yet again, but this time he did nothing to shift it. There was nothing he could do about his hair. Every night he woke up, he looked exactly the same as he had when he was turned. He had not been given the chance to shave the small amount of shadow he had, or cut his hair, or tidy himself up in any way. His constant desire to retain as much of his humanity as possible, however, combined with his naturally gifted Allurist traits, had him looking robust and healthy, red-cheeked, if only just a little bit too thin sometimes. Gangly.

“You can watch, though I think you’ll find we get all types. I only ask for genre because sometimes it makes it easier to organise the set list. If you need a guitar I can procure one for you – or I can play,” he said. His own guitar was always on the stage, in its battered old case covered in stickers. Its name is Curlew. He offered his hand.

“Elliot Lancaster,” he said, by way of greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, Skylar,” he said, nodding to the sheet in front of her, smirking a little at the distracted doodling’s.

Skylar:
Ha! Not musically racist. That’s a good one. Guess that means I’m free to sing my own stuff if I like. Maybe not today though. And certainly not if he has to play for me. Even if I had the score with me for him to read from, he’d not play it like I can. I smile when he names his guitar before he names himself. He’s a musician then. I’d recognise that kind of logic anywhere. Hmm… Don’t recall having the need to name my guitar before now. Might do that tomorrow if I get bored.

“Nice to meet ya Mr Lancaster. Or do I just call ya Elliot?”

The bartender brings the bottle and refills my glass but before he can disappear again, I down the shot and ask for another. I must have opened a tab or something cos he’s pouring my third and I’ve not paid for the first yet. Turning my attention back to the lanky looking manager type, I sign my name with a flourish under the doodles and hand the paper to him.

“You should keep that. Might be worth some money someday.”

Okay so I sound cocky. Maybe I am. But if I don’t have confidence in myself how can expect anyone else to have any. I am pretty good, so it’s not misplaced confidence or anything. I’m not one of those people that just thinks they have talent.

He’s a musician then. I’d recognise that kind of logic anywhere. Hmm… Don’t recall having the need to name my guitar before now. Might do that tomorrow if I get bored. = He’s a musician then. Though maybe he just dabbles. Lots of people claim they play the guitar. Maybe if I let him play for me I’ll find out.

Elliot:
“You can call me whatever you want to call me. Most people called me Lancaster,” he said. “But I started fresh here, and now most call me Elliot. Either or, is fine. Just drop the Mister,” he said with a laugh. What Skylar wouldn’t know was that Elliot had grown up musically inclined. The kind of memory he had for music he should have applied to maths or science, but he never did. Could never deal with that kind of boredom. Instead, all his spare time was spent on his mother’s piano, or with his own guitar—he’d received it for his seventh birthday. He could listen to a song once and play it near-perfectly. He was a master at covers.

Another glance toward movement at the door, and Elliot noticed a few more of the musicians drifting in. A few of them he recognised, and he saluted in greeting as they caught his eye. They were aware of the process, and all drifted toward the stage, lounging around on the chairs and tables set up. Elliot already had their details, and the list for the night had already been mostly decided upon, though it was open to randoms who happened to just wander in, too. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Skylar.

“I will,” he said, fluttering the piece of paper in the air. He didn’t laugh at the girl’s confidence. There were a few musicians who came through that had a lot of ******* talent, and their confidence sometimes was not ill-placed. He wouldn’t laugh at someone else’s enthusiasm, or their goals. If this girl wanted to be famous, he wasn’t about to make her feel ridiculous. Besides, he hadn’t heard her play yet. He couldn’t laugh at what he didn’t know.

“I’m going to go down and start setting up. You just let me know if you decide to let that watching turn in to playing,” he said with half a wink. “Is there anything else I can get you before I go?”

Skylar:
Drop the mister. Well that was easy. It’s gone. So either name. Odd. Most people choose one and stick to it. He’s opening a hell of can of worms saying that I can call him what I like though. I’ll give that some thought. See if I can’t come up with a better name than the ones he’s given me. I watch him wave the paper. He’s not really paying much attention to the artwork, so he must think I’m taking about my musical talent. Though either would make it worth something one day.

“Oh I’ll sing if you have slots. Just give me a minute to pick a cover.”

I’ll pick a couple and hope he knows at least one. Shouldn’t need to warm my voice up too much since I’ve been singing all day. Well not all day. Four hours. With breaks. Oh man I really I am a bum. I know I should spend more time making my jewellery but some days I just don’t feel it. And you have to feel it, else everything you make looks like crap. I don’t make crap.

Elliot:
Elliot was in the process of walking away but he had to pause and come back. She would sing if he had slots. He frowned and narrowed his eyes, taking on a tone of voice that one might use teasingly on someone you’d known forever rather than on someone you’ve just met. That’s how Elliot rolled; he was familiar with everyone, because why not? The world was full of people and it would be one lonely place if those people didn’t communicate. He liked to skip the pleasantries and trust people before even knowing them. He liked to befriend everyone he met.

“Make your mind, then,” he said as if scolding, but smiled to indicate that he was kidding around. “Take your time. I’m easy – if you need me to play I’ll start everyone off, and you can get a feel for my style,” he said. She could say yes or she could say no. Although he wouldn’t give her Curlew to use – he was trusting, but tonight he was feeling particularly protective of his past – but there were other guitars in the office. He did own a shop that sold musical instruments, and bartered in the trade. He was bound to have spares.

“Get yourself another drink and come hang down here,” he said, gesturing to the stage that he now began to walk toward. He wouldn’t beat around the bush, and he needed to get the show on the road.

Skylar:
He’s teasing me. I like him. Definitely not the stuffed shirt of a manager I was expecting. I stroke my chin like people in cheesy films do when trying to make up their mind, a few songs already coming to mind. Of course I don’t need to stroke my chin to think, I’m just being cheeky. I don’t mind making a fool of myself. You’ve got to be a bit eccentric to get up on stage in the first place.

“ ‘Kay boss,” I say as I hop off my stool.

Before leaving the bar area to follow, I stuff my hand in my pants pocket and pull out a couple of bills, thumbing through them rather hastily before laying a couple on the counter. I think it’s enough to cover three drinks and if not I’m sure the guy will come collect. I down the third shot and follow Elliot. In the short walk to the stage I’ve thought of several songs I wouldn’t mind performing. ‘Broken Pieces’ by Apocalyptica would be great but definitely requires an electric guitar as accompaniment and I’m not sure what this guy plays. ‘Darkness’ by Disturbed is easy but doesn’t really show off my vocal range. I roll my eyes to myself as I consider my third and final option as I already know it’s the best of the three to showcase my talent; ‘Call Me When You’re Sober’ by Evanescence. There’s a chance a song like this will pigeon hole me as an Amy Lee wannabe but really there aren’t all that many good female artists to cover, not unless I want to go even more mainstream with my choice.

“You play I’ll sing,” I say when I know it’s safe to talk again. The guy looks busy. “Do ya know ‘Call Me When You’re Sober’?”

[Skylar]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

Elliot:
Elliot’s six foot six frame was easily followable through the crowd; his head stuck up above most who were already there. Once upon a time his shoulders had consistently slumped forward, wanting to accommodate everyone around him, to make them all feel more comfortable. These days, however, some subconscious habit had kicked in. His shoulders were constantly broad and straight; there was no hiding his height. The corner of his lips curved upward in that amused smile. Boss. Yeah, yeah, he supposed that’s what he was, these days. More often than anything else, he was boss. He accepted it and moved on.

“You haven’t even heard me play,” he said, turning around to respond to the blonde who was following him toward the stage. He shortened the stride of his legs so that she could keep up. He glanced down at his attire and wondered whether he looked like someone who would know an Evanescence song off the top of his head. And yes, he knew the song. Not because he played it often himself, but because he liked to keep up with what was happening in the music industry; and besides, there were plenty of other girls who liked to cover it, too. He tried to remember it, now.

“I’m sure I can give it a good shot,” he said. It wasn’t something that he had practiced before. But the melody didn’t seem all that hard, either. “Electric or acoustic?” he asked. By this time he’d reached the stage. He’d been up there earlier; the bands who were set to begin after his own set had already arrived, so he knew the night would run smoothly.

Skylar:
True enough. Did I need to hear him play? I mean he runs a music based pub, he has to be at least competent, right? He should be more worried about my ability to hit the right note after knocking back three shots. He doesn’t know I perform better with a little Dutch courage. As he says he’ll give it a shot I groan out load and facepalm. I can’t trust him to keep the melody straight if he doesn’t know it already.

“Are ya anymore familiar with the work of Apocalyptica?” I ask already fearing the answer will be no.

I can’t expect the guy to know every song in the known universe and god knows what his preferred genre is. Even us eclectic sorts have a genre we tend to favour if we’re honest. That’s it though. Last chance. If he doesn’t know this one, I’ll be forced to backtrack, change my mind and ask for a guitar myself. I’d rather have a little back up on stage but it’s not necessary. Not really. I’m quite capable of wowing the crowd on my own. I do it every day on the street. Though then you aren’t on a raised platform. Not unless you perform on steps. Which I sometimes do. I shrug and try not to look ungrateful considering I just facepalmed myself because he couldn’t or wouldn’t accommodate my first choice.

Elliot:
Elliot scoffed. A light snort that Skylar may or may not have heard. She was a stranger, and Elliot wasn’t one to brag. He wasn’t cocky, not really. He knew he had more talent in his little finger than a lot of people; he knew that ‘giving it a go’, he could pull off wonders. But he didn’t tell any of this to Skylar. Over time, if she were to come back often, she might get to know Elliot and his spontaneous ways; she might notice that every time he’d say I might need help with the lyrics on this one, he never did actually need help. That, if asked to play this one song in a genre that he wasn’t comfortable in, he’d still be able to do it. If not amazingly, he’d be able to keep up. Bu the hardly expected the stranger to trust him.

“Do I look like I am an Apocalyptica fan?” he asked. This was a band he actually wasn’t at all familiar with. He would offer himself up for Evanescence, but for this other band, not a chance. “Just let me get started – we’ve got the whole night ahead of us. There’ll be a break in the middle,” he said. There were always breaks. Always things that happened that required the stage to be empty for ten minutes at a time. And that was okay.

“Just relax. Think about it. Take your time,” he said, getting the impression that this Skylar might be a little impatient, or maybe just entirely enthusiastic. It made him smile. Rather than give her a chance to respond, he clambered up on to the stage and took the latest paperwork to the pile he had in the corner near the sound deck. He rifled through a couple of things, before leaving the pile as it was and retrieving Curlew from the case against the wall. He approached the microphone. He was completely comfortable where he stood, the guitar resting against his abdomen, the pick held between his fingers as if it were a growth that had existed there since birth.

“Welcome to Lancaster’s Open Mic Night!” he called. “A lot of you are regulars – you know how this goes. I’m going to kick off. And… well, newcomers will get the gist, soon enough,” he said, with a specific wink and nod in Skylar’s direction. He took a step back. He strummed the guitar and fiddled one last time, to make sure it was tuned. Before he began – two songs. One cover, one original. For the original, he ditched the guitar and moved to the keyboard. And, as usual, lost himself completely to the music, his previous playfulness dispersing in lieu of the required emotion for each song; drudging it from the depths with ease, with no trouble whatsoever.

[ Cover: David Bowie 'Ashes to Ashes' - || Original: Paul Dempsey 'Back to You' ]

Skylar:
Oh **** it. What do I care. I can go it alone. I think to myself as I find a seat near the stage. Just need someone to lend me a guitar. Better idea anyway. Shows I’m not just out doing karaoke if I play for myself. I watch Elliot as he takes his place on stage and smirk to myself at his choice of songs. SO that’s his style. No wonder he didn’t follow Apocalyptica. Guy likes old school stuff. Like really old school. Like the stuff my parent’s listen too. Bowie’s a classic though. Can’t really go wrong with a bit of Bowie. Still. Gotta admit I’m impressed. He can play. He can sing. Not bad. Maybe tonight won’t be a complete bust after all. Not if the rest of them sing and play like he does. Wonder why he manages a bar if he can croon like that. Guys a performer.

I glance around the crowd and take in the competition. Maybe my style of music isn’t so well suited here but I don’t much care. Variety is the spice of life and all that. Love that expression. Reminds me of Dexter’s boat. You know the show about the serial killer. ‘Slice of Life.’ I distract myself for a moment before the movement on stage catches my attention again. Something blinked. I swear I must have a been a magpie in a former life. Anything shiny catches my attention. I cross my arms, lean back in the chair and put my feet on one of the supporting rings of the chair in front of me. I’m not sure the guy sitting in it knows I’m encroaching on his space or not. Don’t much care if he does. If he turns around I’ll smile sweetly. He won’t make me move. Not when I look all settled in and stuff.

Elliot:
When he was finished with the original, Elliot returned to the front of the stage, where the main microphone was positioned. He nodded his thanks to the applause, the smattering that was given. But that was all the compliment that he took. “Let’s get this show on the road, then. First up! Please welcome Shiloh,” he said, nodding to one of the first musicians who’d entered the pub. He was a young guy, with unruly blonde hair, tight jeans, and a tattered vest.

Shiloh knew what he was doing. He got up upon the stage as Elliot exited. Elliot’s long legs clattered down the short steps and he pushed his hair out of the way as he turned back; just to make sure that it was all set up properly for the next performer. Shiloh had an acoustic, too—it was set up that way. Acoustics, first. Start light, and then move in to the heavier stuff, with a smattering of random things in between.

The young man perched on a stool and plugged in the acoustic. The songs he picked were different to Elliot’s. More modern. Something original, and something by Green Day. The mood was lightened, after Elliot’s morose original. Certain that Shiloh was set up properly, Elliot returned to Skylar’s side. “So?”

Skylar:
“What do you want? A trophy?”

I laugh at my reply. I know he wants me to say he’s great but it’s his job to get up there and entertain, at least it is if he’s a true performer. He’d know he rocked it. The toothy grin I flash him after shows I’m continuing the banter either he or I started earlier. I wasn’t really keeping score then, so I couldn’t be sure. Not that this was a competition or anything. The true battle here, obviously happened on stage.

“You’re al’rite.”

I shrug as if I’m unimpressed. I’m not. He was good and I probably should put him out of his misery and tell him as much but I watch him to see how he’s taking my rather underwhelming response first.

“Nah. I’m messing. Obviously. You’re good. You know you’re good else you wouldn’t be doing this sort of thing and drawing a crowd. You obviously care about your performance too. That much is clear.”

There. That ought to do it. Praise, but not too much. Not overly enthusiastic but then this is my business too. I’ve seen my fair share of talent around. Maybe if I see him perform something with a bit more kick I’ll be able to muster up a truly enthusiastic response. It’s not his fault he doesn’t play the kind of music I favour.

[Lancaster]

Elliot rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t talking about my performance,” he said. He never did seek praise, or ask for it. He played and he sang because he enjoyed the music. Because within music was in his soul, or his soul was made of music. What came first, the chicken or the egg? It didn’t matter. In the here and now, in this current life that Elliot upheld, that he lived and tried to make work as well as he could, music was sometimes the be all and end all. If he didn’t have his music, then he would be without one of the ways in which he vented; one of the ways in which he gave his copious emotions release. He feared what he would be capable of, of what tempestuous violence, if he didn’t have his music.

No, he didn’t care what people thought. He wasn’t asking for Skylar’s opinion; he was well aware that people have their varied tastes and that not all people liked his brand of music. He wouldn’t have cared if she’d said she hated in. Instead, he levelled the blonde with a steady stare.

“I meant – so, do you want me to play for you or not? Or do you want me to find you your own guitar?” he asked. “If you want me to play for you I can slip back to the office and do some quick research and I can play your song, to a particular standard, for you to sing along to. If not, I can still slip away. I’ve got a whole gamut of instruments lying around upstairs, for this particular reason,” he said, spreading his hands and his arms to indicate that the whole world is at Skylar’s feet, and she can do whatever she wants with it.

[Skylar]

I groan as I realise he wasn't seeking praise. Man did I get the wrong end of the stick on that one. Dude should probably include a few more words in his sentences if he wants a specific answer. I tell him as much too.
"To be fair. You left yourself open to that kind of reply since your entire question consisted of one word. How the hell was I to know you were falling back into the previous conversation? I don't live your brain."
I laugh. That would be quite amusing I think, for a while at least. Living in someone else brain. I mean I know how mine works. Mostly. I think everyone surprises themself from time to time. Though I think my surprises are fewer and furter between. It's a bit difficult to sneak up on one's self when you never really have a plan to start with. I change my mind about the little things so much, it's a miracle I get anything done. Hey what's that? I bend down and pick up a coin from the floor. Must be a sign. Musician types could never have enough luck. I slip the metallic disc into my back pocket and smile at Elliot, my conversational error all but forgotten.
"And without meaning to offend. I think I'll go it alone, if you have an electric guitar going begging. It's not that I don't trust your playing... Okay maybe I do. But just your ability to learn the song well enough to play it in the next hour or whatever."
It's not really a comment on his ability. I mean how many people are their in the world that can play a song well after only hearing it a couple of times. Not many. That's how many. Guy must be a virtuoso if he can do that. I look him over again. Nah. Not possible. He looks like he spends more time napping than playing. I consider standing up, as Elliot towers over me standing, let alone when I'm sitting down. I start to wonder if he has a fan base. There has to be a group of middle aged women somewhere that adored him. I choke back a laugh as I realise most women would probably wet themselves with excitement at the thought of this guy accompanying them as they sing. I bet he makes a killing in here off the blue rinse crowd on the calmer nights. He has that kinda face. You know the one. That face that makes granny's want to pinch his cheeks and if they've brave enough maybe even his butt. Dirty old bags. Great now I'm thinking about his butt. I wasn't paying attention when I followed him earlier, I'll have to check it out later if I get a chance. He's not really my type but I do appreciate a nice backside. It'd be rude not to give it a cursory glance. Though come to think of it, that shirt might cover it. Shame.

[Lancaster]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

Elliot:
“To be fair,” Elliot started, tapping at his temple, “I didn’t think about what I was opening myself up to,” he said. Yeah, he could have worded that sentence differently; could have focused on himself, could have explained that he wasn’t the kind of person to think about opening himself up to praise, so to think that someone else would automatically assume that’s what he was looking for wouldn’t have crossed his mind. But it seemed too much, a thought too philosophical that he couldn’t quite nut out. Besides which, this wasn’t really the time.

Shiloh would be up on stage for a while, yet; Elliot glanced up at narrowed his eyes gauging how long it would take him to run upstairs and retrieve the instrument that Skylar required. And it was exactly due to the fact that he didn’t like to boast that he didn’t argue with Skylar; that he didn’t seek to prove to her that he could do what she doubted he could do. That he was actually pretty ******* awesome on electric guitar, too. But, in time. The idea of eternity had numbed Elliot’s enthusiasm in some things; ego wasn’t first on his list of impressions to make.

“No offense taken,” is all he manages, with a crooked grin. Maybe he’ll poach some of the other players later and get up on stage with the very guitar he was about to retrieve for Skylar. But maybe he wouldn’t. He’d see how the night panned out. “Okay, wait here,” he said, before striding off into the gathering crowd, weaving through to the door that would lead up to the backpackers, and to the storage room beyond.

Skylar:
I give him one of my golden smiles when he says he’s not offended. I don’t like to go around randomly making enemies of people so I’m kind of relieved to hear him say that. I know I come across as a little overconfident but I’m a good egg really and I know it. No reason to go around pissing people off for no reason, especially those that in some small way might hold your future in their hand. I wonder about that as he walks off, but not before trying to catch a glimpse at his behind to see if it’s worthy of any attention. I’m disappointed when I can’t actually discern this fact and shrug my shoulders. Good job I didn’t get up or anything. I can continue to watch the show while he’s away.
The guy on stage isn’t bad. A bit more my speed, though I can’t help but wonder if things will continue to pick up tempo. People might leave too. That would suck. Guess we’ll see. I know some musical types that only stick around till they’ve had their turn and then they bugger off. Thinning crowds at nights like this are to be expected. I look around and start mentally judging people. Stayer. Stayer. Going. Stayer. There’s no real way of knowing for sure but the game passes the time while I let the familiar sounds wash over.

Should I have said something to Elliot before he left off. Or Lancaster. Hmm… Elliot seems to roll off the tongue better. Or wold if I actually said it out loud. I’ll look like a bit of psycho if he returns to find me practicing his name. Though I doubt he’d hear me over what’s going on in here.

“Elliot. Elliot. Lancaster. Elliot.”

Hmm… Same syllables. I count them out to be sure. Yep. Same length. So why does Lancaster sound longer I wonder. Oh crap. Lancaster. He friggin’ owns the place. I facepalm and not for the first time this night as I work this out. Should have picked up on that earlier. Stupid cow that I am. Must be tired. Yeah I’ll blame that. Must have left my brain at home. Well. On Dillon’s couch. I really need to find another friend to kip with for a few nights.

Elliot:
The third floor of Lancaster’s was supposed to be a place just for Elliot and Pi. Another place, just for Elliot and Pi. They had the Crypt just for them, too, however. Maybe that’s why they’d been slacking. In the beginning, Elliot hadn’t come to the third floor at all. Over time, however, it’s slowly started to gather that he didn’t know where else to put. Like the spare instruments for open mic night; the ones that for some reason hadn’t sold at Curlew. The ones he didn’t want to send back, or the things that he’d bought from customers second-hand with the notion of doing them up and making them better.

He was in a rush. There were a couple of electric guitars that looked kind of the same – generic black and white. And, given what had happened (or nearly happened) with one of them, it was for good reason too. You don’t go lending expensive equipment to young people who get a little too enthusiastic. Who try to smash the guitar to bits, only to be stopped by a flying Elliot and then told never to return to open mic night unless they had their own instruments to smash. Not his.

When he returned downstairs, Shiloh was thanking the crowd. Elliot very quickly passed the guitar in its case to Skylar—there were cords and amplifiers on stage already—and bolted up the stairs to introduce the next act. He grinned into the microphone, and gestured to Skylar. “Sorry, folks. There’s been a change to the roster. I’ve got a live one, here, and I want to see how she performs when thrown into the deep end,” he said. He had a feel for people. He knew people. And he had a hopefully-right inkling that Skylar would take this spontaneous act and make fun with it.

Skylar:
Wanker. I laugh and get to my feet as I find myself rather unceremoniously summoned to the platform. Thrown in at the deep end my ***. I’ve worked Wickbridge station at rush hour. Now that’s pressure. Not to mention the extra strain on the vocal chords as I fight to be heard over the crowd. Won’t have that problem here I hope.

I step onto the stage and place the case on the floor. The guitar looks vintage. I think that’s kind of cool. I pick it up, put the strap over my head and set about adjusting it as I step to the mic.

“Hey. My name’s Skylar. I’m going to play a song that you don’t usually hear on guitar. Apocalyptica’s Broken Pieces. I hope you enjoy it.”

With the guitar nestled against me, I adjust the mic stand, making the thing a little higher than necessary and then dip the mic down so that I can sing up and into it. This kind of song doesn’t go so well when you have to dip your head, least not for me. It’s not like I need to spend a lot of time looking at my instrument or anything. I quickly check the sound of thing, though it’s difficult to tell without plugging the thing just how good it is but at least the strings feel taut.

When I grab the electric cable and plug the jack in, I feel a wave of energy surge up my arm, across my chest and down through my feet. If I’d of know this was how I was going to die, I probably wouldn’t have worn my trainers with a rubber sole. The damn current has nowhere to go and continues to course through my body. The pain is so overwhelming that even as my body continues to convulse with the live current, I’m not longer aware. I pass out in seconds. Pass out, or more accurately I die. This has to be my worst performance ever.

Elliot:
Elliot had removed himself to the side of the stage; still on the stage, but lingering near the sound board. The first electric performance of the night might require some fiddling with the speakers, to balance out the voice/instrument ratio. There was no verbal sparring from the girl; no jab back at him for putting her on the spot. He was curious to see how talented she actually was; to see whether her ego was ill-placed or not. What he did not expect was the jarring sound of warped electricity, the connection of the guitar to the amplifier far louder than its usual one-second crackle.

Elliot reacts within seconds. He can see it happening; can see the way Skylar’s body instantly tenses, the way it is stolen by the electricity and forced into rigid convulsions. Before she can fall completely, before her body can hit the hard floor, Elliot is there beside her, one hand grounded while the other arm catches the girl as she calls. The hairs on his arms stand up straight. The electricity flows through him and out through his hand, touched upon the ground. He wrenched the cord from Skylar’s now-loose grasp and lifts her easily up into his arms, against his chest.

[Skylar]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

Elliot:
There’s not much time.

He makes a show of checking her; there’s the barest flutter of a heartbeat, struggling against death. So small that it may as well not be there. But Elliot bares a grin anyway, turning to the crowd at the front – those who could see what had happened. With a lilting, sing-song voice, infused with calm, he tells them: “She fainted. Nerves,” he said. One person laughs, the rest follow suit. Relaxing. Why had Elliot made it up? Maybe he was a business owner not wanting his establishment to go under due to this accident. It was the guitar – he’d picked up the wrong one. The dodgy one. A wave of anxiety-ridden guilt rolls through him. ****. He had to fix this.

One of the other employees had scrambled up onto the stage. She was going to try to help Skylar, but Elliot turned away. Instead, in a hushed whisper he ordered that the guitar be taken away and that the amplifier be switched – that the show go on, but check all the electrical outings, first. Make sure everything was okay. Only after that did Elliot carry Skylar from the stage, aware that he was running out of time. The crowd parted and he offered onlookers a reassuring grin as he carried Skylar through the door and up the stairs. Up, past the bunk beds where they might be interrupted by backpackers. Upstairs, to the dusty, cobwebbed storage room.

Elliot didn’t hesitate. He lay Skylar out on the ground and crouched at her side. He tore into his wrist and—why? Was this really the best solution? He could have tried to revive her. Could have tried resuscitation. But it wouldn’t have worked. He knew this, instinctively. This was the only solution. The only way this girl would live was through his blood. And so he held the dripping wound over her mouth, tilting her chin down so that the thick redness could slide over her tongue. And waited.

“C’mon c’mon….”

Skylar:
I don’t know where I am but it’s dark. And cold. Though that last part could just be my imagination. Darkness and cold seem to go hand in hand. One thing’s for certain I don’t see any ******* light. And a recap of my greatest hits. Never happened. Hollywood lied to me. I’d feel cheated if I didn’t just work out I might actually be in hell. Eternity in the dark. Great. What the **** did I do to deserve this? I concentrate harder, straining to see through the never ending blackness that is so thick I might as well be encased in carbonite. Hans might have had it worse. At least I can move. Wait. Maybe I’m just imagining that again.

Urgh! What is that taste. Nasty. Tastes like battery acid. Okay so maybe I don’t know exactly what that tastes like but I’d imagine it tastes like this. It burns. Wait. It burns. That I feel. The cold might be my imagination but that taste is real.

My body reacts on its own while I’m locked inside my own mind. Or hell. Or both. Eternity locked in my mind. Who knew the afterlife could be so uninspiring? I can smell it now too. Smells coppery. If copper smells. Maybe I’m just remembering how old coins smell. I know I swallowed a couple of those when I was a kid. Got in trouble too since they were part of my granddad’s collection. Had to wait for those to “pass” before they could be retrieved, cleaned and replaced. Why am I thinking about that now? Oh yeah. My greatest hits. Well that one was fun.

My can hear something. No someone. What’s he saying? Is it a he? Could be a woman. Maybe? Sounds whiny. Oh god. I didn’t die. I passed out or something and now some hysterical woman is having a fit. Great. That’s just what I wanted from tonight’s endeavour; a humiliating experience. I hope I didn’t wet myself too. That would really be embarrassing.

Blood fills my mouth. I can tell that’s what that is now. My eyes begin to open but everything’s blurry. I’m not on the stage. The smell is wrong. The sound is wrong. My senses kick back in with a vengeance and I find myself screaming, choking on blood that isn’t my own, that guy standing over me. What’s his name? Boss. No Elliot. Urgh. Guy roofied me or something. What is this ****? I want to pull away but I’m in pain. I squint and bring my hands to my ears, slapping his wrist away as I do.

Elliot:
There it was – the undulation in the neck that indicated the movement of a tongue, the involuntary swallowing. The survival mechanism that kicked in when the body thought it might drown, he supposed. Swallow, swallow. Elliot tried to remember – how had the others turned? Reilly and Zane had asked for it. Cytherea and Lex.. well, he preferred not to think about those ones. Those had been his fault. A lack of control, temper, violence, wanting to save people who would have otherwise died unfairly at his hands. Innocents. But had they been dead before he’d made them take his blood? Had they… had Skylar died? Would this even work?

He didn’t know how long he crouched there, urging her body to start up again. Like a violent reset, and now she was infected with a virus that she would never be able to get rid of. He didn’t know how long it was until she was scrambling away from him and screaming; and he could only just sit there, one knee raised and the other curled beneath his backside, one foot flat on the ground for balance, and his hands held up in surrender, one wrist still dripping blood.

“Shh, it’s…” he stopped. The word stuck in his throat. How could he say it was all okay when he didn’t know that? It could be a lie. He couldn’t lie. He sucked in a breath and tried again. “Stay calm. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. Because why else would she have launched away from him, except to think that he was somehow going to do her harm? “How do you feel?” he asked, his blue eyes wide with anxiety and guilt, but also with genuine care.

Skylar:
He’s talking to me and the words are both crisp and muffled at the same time. I press my hands tighter over my ears but it doesn’t help. I find my back’s now pressed against something and I curl the rest of myself into a ball. I’m rocking myself like an infant. I’m aware I’m doing it and yet I still don’t know why. The dust fills my nostrils. The air is so thick, it’s like someone put a hoover bag over my head and forced me to inhale the contents. Wait. Inhale. I’m breathing but I’m not. Something’s different but I’m not sure what. I give him an accusatory look, as I fight to regain some control over my wayward senses. What the **** did this guy do to me.

“You!”

I manage but my voice doesn’t right. It’s mine. I’m annoyed and yet. It’s silkier somehow. It should sound raspy. I choked on his blood. His thick, gooey, icky. I wretch and fall forward. I’m now on my hands and knees trying not to puke. This is a trip I could have done without. If I knew what he’d given me, maybe I’d know how lessen the effects. I’m not much for substance abuse. Unless you count the drink. Even then, I know moderation’s the key. Of course drugs are rife in this business. Most of my friends take them.

That’s when it hits me. I’m being set up. Dillon’s playing some sick and twisted game. I’m gonna rip his ******* balls off. What kind of sadistic **** does this to a person. Holy ****. Blood. This guy has AIDS or something. He just tried to kill me. And the stunt with the guitar…. Wait… What did happen? I begin to pick through my memories and my focus seems to help bring some of my senses under control.

“What did you do?” I hiss at him, a fiery look of hatred burning in my eyes.

[Lancaster]

What has he done?

The consequences now tumble through Elliot’s brain. He’d been riding high on adrenaline but now he’d caught in that hard place. Between a rock, and all that. He should not have convinced the punters that everything was alright. A girl had died, and it happens. It’s the way life rolls on. People die and they do so in the strangest of ways. On stage by electric guitar would be one of them.

But instead he had decided, in a split second and on a whim, to bring the blonde upstairs and feed her his blood. To not only save her life, but to change it forever. To change it for the worst, if his opinion were to matter. It was no secret that Elliot had never much liked how his life had been changed, and though he’d come to accept it over time, though he had come to love many of the new aspects of it, deep down he still resented it. Never did he ever expect that those he turned would love him for it. Never would he try to convince them that he’d given them a gift.

He sighed, and tried to keep the groan from his voice. The guilt had its clutches around his heart and was only squeezing tighter, not letting him go.

“You got electrocuted. You died. You were dying. You were going to…” he stopped. He swallowed, cleared his throat and his head, as much as he could. “I brought you back to life. You…” his face crumpled, and he rubbed at his temple. He held out his wrist – the vicious wound that he had torn into the skin to make it bleed was beginning to stitch itself back together. Elliot rubbed the blood away so that Skylar could see better. That little miracle of healing skin.

“You could have died or you can live. Now you’re alive and you’re… well you’re a vampire, Skylar. Let’s not beat around the bush…” he said. Better not to beat around the bush.