So it's about nine o'clock on a Friday at one of the smaller venues down along the east side, and Drancy's just wandering in. The band's not scheduled to start til 10 or 11, but she's a bit all mixed up, between appointments and deadlines, and all.
Earlier in the night, she spent about an hour hacking her hair down to shoulder length, but had to give up when it started growing faster than she could cut it - swearing a blue streak all the while as she was, of course.
But she could leave the crystal and glass and bells out, the hair wrapped up into the garbage with newspapers, and she's streaked her hair throughout with purple and green, pulling on a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that leaves her collar and midriff equally bare, made of thick burgundy velvet.
So here she is, black boots on her feet, heavy silver and faux onyx jewelry at her wrists and throat and ears, with her backpack slung over her shoulder as she stalks into the club, flashing her press card and her proof of legal age with equal irascibility - Drancy has arrived, even without fanfare and trumpets. Having entered, she looks around. "Now bloody what's next?", she mutters to herself.
It's early enough that the posers are still hanging around, crowding the bar. Hell, maybe they'll even stay for the show. The band -- Deus Ex Machina, or Deus Ex for short -- is getting a name for itself on this smaller, darker circuit. Among the Goths and the Visigoths they're a hit. The punk factions are still in a wait-and-see credibility check. But you know, so far so good...
Some of the crowd is recognizable. Regulars to the club and regulars to the band. The small club is packed and what passes for a stage -- really just a cleared out corner -- is jammed with equipment. The bald head and blue goatee of the bass player (Erik) can be seen from a distance. Helps that he's 6'6". Completing the setup is the slighter drummer (Jared), dark haired and looking damned normal, dressed in a preppy-ish sweater, striped broadly orange and brown and white and red.
The lead guitarist (Sieg Vaard) is quite expectedly nowhere to be seen. He's probably in the group's now empty and spacious white van in the alley. You know, van's a rockin' don't come-a knockin'...
And the lead singer? The lavender-coiffed Amadeus "Dei"? Starting to tune up, flanked by young punk chicks in skirts short enough to reveal their natural hair color. One might imagine it's not fuschia and cobalt. Just a hunch. Anyway, he's talking while he tunes, which he just never does, and for now the small-time groupies of this small-time band are actually being... humored...
Well, I never...
Drancy stiffens slightly at this, and well, you just know, you can feel her tension increase. Just like a tuning peg that's been suddenly turned all the way to one side, but not quite far enough. She takes a deep, slightly shocked breath, and a slow, bitter look starts to burn its way into her eyes as she starts to push through the crowd. Doubtless few people realized she was that good with her elbows.
Might've known... Too bloody good for it to last, wasn't it? Not good enough, though, not by half...
Disjointed as her thought patterns are, her shoulders are tight as she makes her way to the edge of the stage, press pass palmed for the moment to be less than visible. A glance across to Erik and to Jared, a nod which she doesn't really expect returned, and then Drancy's attention, that changeable gaze, is locked onto Dei with every ounce of weight it potentially has to bear. She pitches her voice to carry, doing her damnedest not to sound as surprised, as hurt as she is. Don't show weakness. Never let them see you bleed.
"Evenin', Dei. I see you've set your nets and hooks out."
"Christ, what do you think this is? Your personal fuckin' lounge?" the man asks, pushing a young man's extended feet out of the barely-navigable, weaving paths between tables. A footy player, for sure -- but for what team? Shepperton? Man U? League? Does it matter? He clearly plays -- the size of his arms in the leather jacket and the thighs beneath the leather pants tell his affiliation. A British boy, born and bred, for the field.
He watches the owner of the obtrusive legs as he passes, as if daring him to stand and say something. Yet, all he gets is a "Fuck you," for cursory offering. No, no, the offending one isn't going to stand.
The player continues on, taking a seat at a booth with a blonde woman. He removes his jacket to reveal beneath what's clearly expected, and after tossing the leather aside, he settles to look towards the stage.
Well, it's not as if they're dancing on his lap, still, the usually reserved-to-the-point-of-reclusive Amadeus is a bit more... well... extroverted. Strangely so. Like it's foreign. Funny, when he was possessed he seemed so normal...
Erik and Jared do indeed nod back. In fact, Jared gives a drumriff. Hell, Erik even smiles and waves and then barks out something in Icelandic. Dei heard that, you see, before he heard your voice. So when he looked up, he caught the last elbow, saw the approach. Noted the temperment and mood and half-smirked. It's not really a smile. It's not really a frown. It's something in the middle....
"Nets and hooks?" he says, not really understanding the idiosyncratic English phrase, being Icelandic, and platinum eyebrows cock skyward. A glance to the two young, well-endowed-and-not-even-hiding-it-one-iota punk girls, and then those self-same eyebrows narrow. "You mean these two then?" the accent is breathy and strange, foreign on English, Icelandic is. Twists it like water twists a reflection. "Should I not tell the waitresses what I want to drink?"
Oh. He's good.
They are, in fact, waitresses of this establishment. But it's doubtful that he needs two of them while the rest of the bar goes thirsty. And they've turned around giving smug, righteous, more punkier-than-thou looks.
And the tuning's halted...
For all of Drancy's insecurities, she's not one to fall into that obvious a pitfall, and if anything, this just makes what little temper she had left run out the faster.
I'm not that bloody naive, and now he's insulting my intelligence on top of it... It's so tempting to be fucking childish and just flash my press pass and walk out. But, I don't know. What if this is something else? Did I piss him off somehow? Sod it. Only one way to find out...
"I'd thought you had a higher opinion of my intellect than that, Dei," she says aloud, striving to keep voice and face if not temperate, then ... neutral. "Should I not expect that from you, then?"
Now she casts a glance across, at Jared, and at Erik. Is this just me? Am I overreacting? And unconsciously, she's digging her nails into her palms again, shoving the press pass into her jeans pocket.
He doesn't even know what to say to that, so he turns and gets back to tuning, saying nothing. Sometimes, it's just the best course of action. One of the girls pat-a-pats his shoulder as he goes, "I'll bring the Stoli," she's not British, this bird. Sounds Russian or something. The other girl follows, winking to Drancy. "Don't you know, you should never mix business with pleasure?"
There's a sigh and he turns to you after the other girls tromp -- or is it tramp in this case? -- off to get the drinks. A gesture toward you with the neck of the guitar. "Why are you making a big deal of this? It's not like I was face down in plaid skirts. I was talking. No more, no less than what you saw." This Dei actually has a temper...
Erik and Jared glance at one another, look to Drancy, and then decide this is more or less private and head off stage. Or rather, out of the stage-corner. Maybe even to take cover....
The footy player and the woman laugh a bit, his dark hair glinting in the weird lights of the club. He smiles, reaching for a drink that was already at his booth. His legs extend under the raised booth, and arms come above his head for a stretch in knit. He glances at his watch, as if expecting the show to begin at any moment. Why not? The band looks to be warming up. But there's time. He nods at something his seating companion says, and picks up conversation with her once more.
Utter silence, and Drancy's face just closes off. No tears, no words, just an utterly blank expression, the facial equivalent of a blue screen of death. She takes a deep breath, but doesn't bother yelling, doesn't bother pleading. This is Drancy - she learned to beg, when exactly?
"So far, you're not acting much like yourself... at least, not like you'd been around me up until now. Am I supposed to not react to that? What do you want me to say, Dei? Please, do tell me what you want. Or perhaps you just want me gone?"
If it takes putting words in his mouth, I'll do it. I won't push, but ... if that's what he wants, better I find out now... not the morning after... but GOD DAMN IT, I want to break something and see it bleed.
Energy twists, pushed down below the surface of her skin, the tattoo on Drancy's belly pulsing faintly, to those with the power to See it. Drancy herself is unaware, completely absorbed in her own private little unwilling drama.
There are a few faces turned towards the stage. At some point, the band's to begin, but there appears a rather intense discussion there at the moment.
"I haven't said anything remotely like that," he says. "Look," hands actually leave the guitar and raise to motion to her, "I wasn't going to fuck them. But jesus, Drancy. If you're going to freak out because I have conversations with people, then we have a real problem..." And now he's looking at you like you're foreign. Like... who is this girl? This isn't the swaggering punk I know...
..."I've got a show... let's talk, okay? Afterwards?" And the guys show up, one by one. Hey, there's even Dot, dressed in black-red-and-white plaid pants, low on the hips, stomach bared, tattoos and navel piercing on display, and a Fuck Me Kitten shirt, two sizes two small. "Drance! Woo! 'allo!" she calls out. A kiss to Sieg and she wiggles her fingers at him. Sickingly sweet. Gah. Punks in love. It's pathetic, really...
"I've got to go," Dei exhales, "Stick around... we'll... claw and bite after..."
And the lighting starts going, what little there is, and Jared kicks into the drumming, loud and fast...
"Yeah, move," says the guy previously exposed as a coward. Girls are easier, to be sure. Besides...everyone's here to see the band. "Let's go, aye!" he calls, lifting a drink at the stage.
This gets the footy-player's attention. He looks up from his conversation and drink just long enough to eye the guy at the stage and the singer with the girl. His head tilts to rest upon his shoulder. Decision made: I'm going to have to take care of this guy later.
"Hey, shut up and let'em do wot they're doin', eh," he calls. Just because he must. Leave the band types alone. They're entertainment.
The words, the words she can deal with. But that look...
Well, that combined with the accusation. Freaking out? Heh. He has no clue. Clawing and biting? Nor that, either. She folds her arms over her chest, about to step away with barely a glance to Dot, when, well, some fucker starts harassing her.
Drancy turns, arms falling away from her chest, and she starts pushing away from the stage, blindly. If she'll calm down before she hits the door...
Right now, that's a big if.
The guy at the stage acts as if he is ignoring the man at the booth. He watches the guy and girl at the front, then turns to laugh with his friends at the table.
There's one expletive that kicks off the show...
"Fuck!"
Now, whether that's how the set really begins, or whether he's saying that after arguing with his would-be girlfriend, who's to say. That, we leave up to the critics. But there's energy in it...
Energy that swirls after her in her wake, maybe even pulled from them by her, she running out trailing their music like ribbons. And the starting song? Well, it's something from America. For those who might recognize it, it's a punk rendition of Bob Dylan's "Just Like a Woman". Only, you know... much faster and harder...
"... see her ribbons and her bows have fallen from her curls
She takes just like a woman
Yes she does
She makes love just like a woman
Yes she does
She aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl..."
...And somewhere nearby, upstairs from Pashmina's, a yellow and white tomcat is stretching out of his latest nap, woken by a buzzing in the ears, a tingling at his tail, which ended in a twitch.
He's been holed up in there for two weeks. Clever Huw. Free food, clean living, good shelter, watching his mark right under his nose and riflin' through her drawers whilst she's not lookin'....
Hands go up in a cheer as the music begins. Finally. Waitstaff remove themselves from the general populace, edging to the sides to listen to Deus Ex Machina.
Well, save one person. A guy with dark hair -- well, it could be any color in this crazy lighting -- comes over to Drancy, tray under his arm. If he's been paying attention, he's kept himself secreted.
"Hey," he tries to yell politely over the rising music, "...do you wanna seat?" She looks upset...or something. Ah well, trial and tribulations of the music industry. Broken hearts everywhere.
Such nice waitstaff, no? Among the most polite in London, to be sure. They're fast on and off their feet...
Drancy is upset, certainly, but it's got an edge of something harsher than just heartbreak. She turns, shoulders hunched, face feral with teeth showing. Now who the fuck are you?
And then the song cuts in, and you know, that's just not fair, especially with the little confidences she's made, but she absorbs it like a blow. One more curling twist of energy to threaten to push out from under her skin, and she's not even aware of it...
"A seat?", she echos. "Only if it comes equipped with something to drink. Anything except Stoli."
The waiter smiles, something light about his hair. "Yeah," he yells, leaning in, "...we can do that." He turns to point to a small table for two that has a chair turned up for the moment. "There," he motions, moving as if he is going to make his way to the bar to fill that order.
At the booth, where the footy-player sits with the female, eyes are upon the band. They still seem to chat, but those words are in snippets. He finishes with his beer, raising it towards a passing waitress. She spins and nods, seeming to know the chap, and walks off with empty bottle on her tray.
Tension radiates through the punk writer's body, even as she drops like a stone into the indicated seat, not questioning the miracle that has it empty. She places her hands primly on her knee, eyes narrowed in any direction except at the stage.
I won't think about it... I won't let him get that close. He got in once. I won't make that mistake again, never should've let him get this close, not after what happened back at school... what kicked this all off.
It's with an air of finality that Drancy's chin lifts, eyes storm-grey as she stares up at the ceiling, biting down on her lip in unconscious answer to the pulse in her belly. In a way, she's utterly unaware of the music, listening for something else, which she's not quite finding yet...
There's not a break in between songs, and that's about as fast as Dylan's ever been played, something more obscure follows, likely their own stuff. Well, some in the crowd know it. Two minutes and ..shite...that's done, too. The tempo slows by a few degrees, not much but say... not 120 beat at least. It's a tight little number -- sort of like the waitresses' skirts -- and it's three bars before there's a lyric sung by that smoky voiced Icelander.
"Meet The Brick Shithouse
Kiss the Brick Shithouse
Meet The Brick Shithouse
Don't you wish you'd never met her ?
Don't you wish you'd never met her ?
Don't you wish you'd never met her ?
Lay him down, lie on
Lay him down
Now your lover went and put me in the ground, I'll be watching, when he's around.
Now your lover went and put me in the ground, I'll be watching
Meet the Brick Shithouse,
Kiss the Brick Shithouse,
Meet the Brick Shithouse..."
Okay, so Placebo isn't exactly slow...
I'm bored and something's going on...
Mid-stretch, the cat transforms and Huw hops up, white-blonde hair going all directions. And he turns toward the window. I can't exactly leave her house unlocked. But then there's always a window...
Her apartment's sort of the low-key, bricked-up window variety, but there's a window in the bathroom -- and thank goddess for it, right? -- standing up on the bathtub's edge, rather precarious as the tub's old, though she's lucky she's got one, most old apartments don't have tubs, Huw gives the window a crack...
"Here," comes the voice, forced over the music. The waiter returns, setting a drink down upon the table in front of Drancy. "Something to right ya," he says, waving his hand. "House call," he notes, not accepting payment.
Every other song feels like it was picked to be aimed at her like a weapon. And maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but it's not helping Drancy's nerves anyway. And we all know Drancy rarely mellows out when she drinks, not when she starts off angry... she nods to the waiter, draining half of it in one go.
"Ta, then," she mutters, gaze flickering to the stage, then to the waiter. "So. Management send you to keep from having a bad writeup, or some nosy bleeder got it in for me?"
Well. You weren't expecting her to be polite just now, were you? Footy lad and his date get a brief, half-suspicious glance and the fellow up front gets a slow, burning glower. But Drancy avoids looking at Dei...
At the booth, eyes lift at the song. Now that's interesting. Edward, as the man calls him as he passes by and gives him a pat, smiles at the song, hand out as the waitress comes around again with another beer for him. "Aye, brilliant, sweet, thanks," he calls as she walks again, tipping the bottle up at his lips.
"Um," the waiter pauses, blinking, "...nooooo," he says. "Just...thought y' could use one," he shrugs, not taking offense. You clearly are having a bad night. Not everyone's like the singer up there, who gets a glance before the waiter looks at you again. Tray under his arm once more, he manages a weak smile, mostly because the music tends to wash out most expressions.
Funny thing, coincidence. But then, he wasn't exactly picking his own songs up to a week ago. Blame Andrealphus. Oh, that's right. You don't know him...
And then the tempo folds into something ambient, smooth and slow. And in this kind of tempo, in this kind of song, the tonal quality of Dei's voice is revealed. Powerful, despite the screaming. And the musicianship, sometimes lacking in your garden-variety punk band, is rather incredible really. They're really not bad. Getting better actually. And Dei's looking at one place in particular. But then, maybe it's just the blue lighting...maybe he doesn't see anyone at all...
"It barks at no one else but me,
like it's seen a ghost.
I guess it's seen the sparks a-flowin,
no one else would know.
Hey man, slow down, slow down,
idiot, slow down, slow down.
Sometimes I get overcharged,
that's when you see sparks.
They ask me where the hell I'm going?
At a 1000 feet per second,
hey man, slow down, slow down,
idiot, slow down, slow down..."
...From cat, to man, to bird. Maybe the only damned swallow in London, as it turns out, leaves the landing at an upstairs apartment and flitters past squat brick buildings...
Drancy smiles weakly, animal tension under it. She's having a bad night, yes, and she's so on edge it's hard for her to be anything other than animal - eyes and ears and sharp teeth and hunger. "Right. Sorry."
I don't believe in coincidence anymore... maybe he means it, maybe he doesn't, but it doesn't seem like anyone just wants anything easy from me anymore. Should've quit while I was ahead...
"Oh, that just fucking tears it." She's barely aware of saying it out loud, not quite rising from her seat to stare at the stage. "-He- wants to slow down now?", she mutters. Whatever message is being sent, if any, she's having trouble swallowing it. Or, in fact, anything other than her drink.
And that ribboning energy is starting to pulse frenetically, visible as a heartbeat to those who can see such things, just under the skin, threatening to break from its roil up and outwards.
The waiter looks at Drancy, then at the man she seems to be talking to. "You his...girlfriend?" he asks, rather confused at this point. He's seen a lot since this band began its gig this week. Eyes wander to the guy on stage, then Drancy, as if trying to imagine the match. "Oh, hey, look, nevermind, okay? None of my business. Sorry," he says, backing up a little to regain staffly distance. The waiter bobs his head politely, a second apology.
The blonde with the footy-ball player's on her second cigarette and as many drinks. Attractive woman, but then she'd have to be for his sort. She laughs at some joke -- likely lurid and definitely an 'insider' -- and if she notices any energy, she likely thinks it's eminating from the fellow she's sharing the booth with. She leans in, arm snaking around dark and massive shoulders, mouth to his ear and ...
The ambient song picks up, as they always do, into the last song of this particular set. And for bizarre choices, this definitely takes the cake and prize. It's a Beatles song, for Christ's sake, and an early one. But then that was their 'punkish' period, one supposes. In a poppy sort of way. And certainly the way they do it makes it seem the punk edge of an old pop song. Not bad, certainlly electric and driving. And surreal. And weird.
"You say you will love me if I have to go,
You'll be thinking of me, somehow I will know,
Someday when Im lonely, wishing you werent so far away,
Then I will remember things we said today.
You say you will be mine, girl, till the end of time,
These days such a girl seems so hard to find,"
(and here the tempo picks up, you see)
"Someday when were dreaming, deep in love, not a lot to say,
Then I will remember things we said today.
Me Im just a lucky kind,
Love to hear you say that love is love,
And though we may be blind, Love is here to stay.
And that's enough to make you mine girl,
Be the only one,
Love me all the time girl, we'll go on and on,"
(finishing as hard as they started, and faster...)
"Someday when we're dreaming,
deep in love, not a lot to say,
Then I will remember things we said today."
The player grins as the woman moves closer, the back of his hand gracefully wiping the top of his lip. The smile grows as he listens, yet his eyes wander to the stage. Drink tips at his mouth as his head drops faintly, eyes closing to hear what's pouring into his ear.
Drancy scowls at the stage, then turns to scowl at the waiter, as if having forgotten he was there. "What? Do I look like his girlfriend to you?"
Liar. Trying to calm me down, get me to stick around, wanting me to believe in you, believe... right. Why am I bothering to even sit here? Why? She turns away, blinking hard and finishing her drink with undue speed. "Another, please." She has no idea what's even in it...
"Okay, nevermind," the waiter murbles, turning to head off. Eeps. He winces and wanders towards the bar once more.
Among other things, probably at least a little tongue. You know how these things go...
How these things get started...
And when was the last time folks saw him carousing anyway...?
The woman laughs again, tipping her head back, a look to the stage and the song is pounded and pulverized until it's nothing...
First set ends as abruptly as it began, an amazingly enough nearly an hour has passed. "Vodka break," the band says in unison. And that's how it ends, the first set...
Dei is already sweaty, and a long thermal sleeve comes up and swipes his brow even as he writhes out of the hold of his guitar. It's left in its stand and he turns to head toward the table held down by the Glowering Girl. Oooh, Major Drama, Part 2.
But someone beats him to it...
"So what gives?" Dot says finally, finally emerging, her bobbed black hair sparkling in the lights. "No hello, nothing. Shite, you look like you've been drinking piss on the rocks, Drance..."
The cheering from the crowd rises, continuing for the moment the swell of noise. Appreciation at least, even from the obnoxious guy at the front table.
The blonde's leg is patted, and the footy-player begins to slide out of the booth. His evening's finished, it seems. Maybe hers too. Who knows. But he comes to stand on the floor proper, leaning to fetch his jacket while he accepts a kiss from the blonde...free hand around his almost-finished pint.
The waiter comes back, quiet now. Patrons are talking. He sets another whiskey down upon the table, and then waits patiently for the pay.
"Hello, Dot." She wants a hello, she'll get a hello. Drancy, meanwhile, slumps back down in her seat, the very picture of abject surrender. Well. If one can ignore the tightly tensed shoulders, the clenched fists.
Where the fuck is that drink...
She'll become an alcoholic if she keeps this up. Or at least drunk. Hopefully drunk. Drancy peels her wallet out of her jeans, along with her press badge, and peels a tenner out and hands it over to the much-maligned waiter without a word.
Finally, she addresses Dot. "You planning on staying, or just watching the show?"
The waiter doesn't speak, just bobs his head again as he turns off to see about the next patron.
The roar of music's only a hum now, the white noise of conversations...
The blonde rises after. She'll at least make a show of leaving with him, even if they part company in passing taxis. And that'd be a damn shame, from her point of view...
Dot purses her lips, a hip jutting out. "Well, I guess that depends on you. Christ, who pissed in your gruel, Punk Princess? What happened?" she pulls up a chair, but thinks better of it as Dei wanders over. "Say, you kids need to be alone...that's fine.. but you know, you'd be smart to let me pave the way for you, ducky, she's right pissed off." That way she has with the English language.
Well, Drancy, it's not like you're going to have any privacy for this whatsoever, cuz the band's starting to pile over en masse, per usual. Sieg first, taking a seat and thereby providing a seat for Dot. Jared and Erik coming lastly with the Stoli. And the hand on your shoulder? That's Dei's. "I had not, and was not planning, on fucking either of the waitresses...so, if you thought otherwise, stop it..." Which is as much as saying sorry, really. Only not as romantic and smooth.
And where's that buzz? Where's that rush of warmth you got freaked out by once? It's not there. Just... you know, the usual bit when a guy you're into touches your shoulder. But not anything shocking like making dragons dance.
Another call is made to Edward, the footy-player, as he moves away from the booth with blonde in tow. He turns to give a smile to this latest fan, and tosses back the last of his pint. With that, he leads the blonde towards the front, where the band's taking seats at a table.
"Great set, mates," he informs, nodding his head somewhat approvingly.
Which, of course, probably freaks her out -worse-...
What the fu- he's not. There's something seriously wrong here...
Now Drancy's really unsettled, and trying hard not to show it. "You're just not acting like I'm used to, is all," she finally says, hands tight around her drink, stomach knotted even more than before. "So of course I want to know what gives."
She's forcing herself to be nice, to be polite, not give vent to all her uncertainties, doubts, stresses and angers. Which only makes the tightness in her stomach tie itself into a square knot and start macrameing itself...
Edward receives a blank look - not hostile, not unwelcoming, just I don't know you, so I don't know how to react to you. Her palms are bloody by now...
"You'd bett'r do somehin' about that," Edward motions, hand pointing at Drancy's trickles. Hard not to notice. He makes a low noise under his breath, then looks wider to the table at large. "Night," he says, not planning to make an evening of it. Just passing by to tell the band that they did a good job.
For punks, they're damned polite. Comes from coming from a small fucking island. Erik lifts his head and nods, in fact they all do. But Erik and Jared take an appraising moment to stare. It'd be hard not to. Sieg even leans forward, "Hey, thanks... spread it around, wot?" he's getting used to English. He may morph if he's not careful. He's learning Dot's vernacular...
Hand on the slight girl's shoulder, Dei twists about, "Thank you..." And he seems genuine. He just doesn't seem filled with simmering, smoldering lust barely controlled. But really, is that his fault? "Thanks for coming, we're playing as long as we're standing..."
Dei looks perplexed. Take care of what? Then looking to Drancy. "Damn. Look... I don't know what's upset you, but... Dot, see if the bar has some cloth or something. Like...clean, alright?"
... and where the energy was spiraling. Where it was seeming to trail like a mighty river. Fuck, I've lost it again! Shite, she's squirrelly. The sparrow wheels about, fluttering wings back to the smell of curry and cinnamon....
Edward grins at the staring two, not so impolite as to tell them to stop. Another nod for Dei's comments, and he moves on with the blonde in tow, heading for the door.
Drancy is blank as well, completely derailed. and rises. "I can get it," she says smoothly. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine..."
Fine...
It echoes in her head like a physical pain as she steps towards the bar, like a high, singing note, confusion and chaos just about overwhelming her.
He's not in there... it's him, but it's not, the feel is all wrong, the attitude's all wrong. This should never have happened.
I should never have come... Power starts to leak out from under her skin now, an almost palpable glow. All it'll take... one wrong note, one false step...
At the bar, the waiter from before and the bartender stand about and chat. The bartender motions at the approaching Drancy, causing the waiter to turn around to see.
"Jeezis," he meeps, pushing up from the bar, "...what happened?" He turns about to grab a bar towel, immediately offering it at Drancy's hands.
Dei twists, taking the towel from the waiter. A quick look about for water -- fuck it -- he uses a vodka tonic. It'll have to do. Hell, the alcohol will probably help. "So, you wanna tell me what all this drama is about?" A hand goes to Drancy's, to support it, as his other, holding the towel, means to tend to her.
So, he's not a complete asshole...
Drancy is distracted by the touch, turning. There's something just wrong about the touch, the fact that there's nothing under it for her to pick up on; it's a jarring, discordant note.
Fuck. What'm I supposed to tell him, that he's not magic like he used to be? I mean, it's not like I always picked up on things from him... Maybe it's just me, maybe I've gone mad...
Aloud, she says, "I just want to know where I stand. I'm not good at doing a juggling act."
It's as much to Dei as to anyone else, really, and she glances to the waiter. "My grip slid." Well, it is fingernails...
Carefully, she slides her hand free of the towel, looking at the faint bloody smears. They'll be gone by morning, like as not. A glance back up at Dei. "Are you gonna be Wesley or someone else?"
The waiter hovers a little, but once he sees Dei attending the hands, he takes a step back to watch and wait for the return of the bartowel.
"Where you stand..." He mulls on that while Sieg goes back to his drink. Dot doesn't hover, hell, let Dei do it. Erik and Jared watch, but then, that's what they do. "Well, I figured we were seeing one another. After the other night," he shrugs. "But you know, it's up to you too. The thing about Wesley, he had it easy. It's a movie." A pause and his expression is dead-pan. "But you are hard-headed, Buttercup." So, he does know the movie. Well, at least that hasn't changed.
Dei dabs the towel on her hands again, then pauses. "Looks like the bleeding's stopped. It's not bad. Ummm...." he goes to offer it to the waiter.
And the others promptly return to their drinking. Drama's over.
Who knows what this girl has. Or anyone for that matter. The waiter lingers to verify for himself that Drancy's alright, but once the towel is given, he nods, adding, "No drama," before he turns back for the bar.
"Movies are always easy. They end, the lights dim, the audience goes home." She's not keen on having an audience herself, but then, Drancy isn't the performer than Isabel would be. The quote gets a reluctant smile out of her - something that hasn't changed. It makes her a little more comfortable, if only just.
"What I don't understand is why you seem 'different'. I don't know why you do. You just... do."
Not to mention your guitar, but then, I didn't run up to feel it. But the energy's different, all wrong for what you were. Unless I'm going bonkers.
The waiter gets a brief stare. "Huh?"
Well, that he can't explain. He is who is. Maybe, Drancy, it's you who've changed. Dei lets her hand go, his finding his own pockets of the faded jeans. "I can't tell you that, Drancy. I am myself. How I seem..." He drifts off at that point, words ending in a shrug. "I can't do anything about that. Seeming... isn't Being. If, you know, I don't seem like the guy you have been with, or if -- romanticized -- I'm no longer ...whatever. Well, I'm sorry. I guess. Though, I'm not sure why I'm apologizing," he suddenly mulls, "I didn't do anything. But..." What can you do. You are a man, you apologize. Constantly. "Anyway, second set is coming up. I need to tune. Um, if you want to come by the apartment... I'm heading there after. We can talk of it more then, if you want." But he's done for now.
He picks up his guitar. The old one, the blue one. The acoustic guitar with electric pick-ups. And he tunes it.
But when he does, there's no shiver of electricity. No warmth in the pit of your stomach. There's just smooth, rich sound.
Drancy almost could believe it, almost just accept she's going slowly insane - and really, would it be that unexpected? She nods a little. "Don't worry about it. I'll see if I can, but I might have to go before the set's over - waiting on a call from another band, my editor wants an interview with." Well, it's half-true. It's not a priority, she can probably catch them before the deadline in any case, but ...
Right now, I really just need to leave myself a back door...
She watches the second set start, slouching her way towards the back, to find a wall to lean up against, to actually let herself be weak for a minute. And there's the guitar coming out, and it's ... all wrong. Again.
Again... I can't DEAL with this shite!
With the tuning note, in time with it, she slams her fist back, into the wall. If Huw needed another spike, well, he's got one in spades, now - that energy which had gone so deceptively quiescent rises, tearing out through her skin.
It's as painful as you can imagine, a brilliant flash across more barriers than Drancy even knows exist, filling the area and sending her to her knees on the club floor. Soundless, furiously blinding light and energy...
... No sooner had the swallow landed upon the window sill of an upstairs apartment...
Who turned on the lights???
Well, if you were waiting for a sign, Huw, this'd be it. Either you nab her tonight, or there'll be nothing left to nab. Every fae in the city -- or nearby -- every warrior of Order and of Chaos has to be seeing this. Fuck, and now it's a race...
The little heartbeat of the little sparrow is fluttering from the journey, and as he takes off from the sill, the sparrow becomes a raven...
No more Mr. Nice Guy...
The waiter had turned away with the bloodied towel, handling it gingerly. He only looked over his shoulder at Dei's questioning. Not a big deal. The towel was tossed over the bar, perhaps to a pile of towels needing cleaning service tomorrow. He seemed relieved that whatever was happening with the singer and freaky girlfriend was over.
Well, until the world lit up. An explosion!
"Holy shite!" comes the waiter's voice, accompanied by screams and yells around the pub. Are the lights on fire?
And then the mad, insane dash of a crowd begins...
Meanwhile, Drancy's pulling herself painfully back up to her feet and hugging the wall, eyes still blinded on more levels than one by that intense flash, and no less charmed for -knowing- it was ripped out of her somehow. Her hands've stopped bleeding, though she looks slightly sunburned. "The fuck?"
I don't know what I did... but if I'm mad, then so's everyone else.
Still, she isn't entirely heartless - clinging to her post by the wall, she waits for the mob to slow down enough that she won't get trampled, casting a look with her slowly returning vision towards the stage.
Sorry, fellows, didn't mean to ruin your concert, but... I think I have deeper shite to worry about... Buggerit.
Ignoring the startlement of the crowd and the staff alike, she hops the staff only line, making her way for the back of the place, and the stage and delivery entrances.
At the front of the pub, the sign 'The Lokal', suddenly explodes, sending shards of colored glass splattering across the sidewalk outside. Sparks fly from the pub's lighting system, raining sparkles down upon the band...
Okay, so... what do Londoners do when shite seems to be exploding?
They hit the deck, they scatter, they spread. Fuck the Irish. Folks are going everywhere. It's a bomb...
You know how they do it, fuckers put it under the table... under the bar... under a car... in a shopping center... in a crowded mall... in a bar...
So no one's sticking around to ask any fucking questions. No one paid their tabs. Folks are just scattering. Just scattering. Screaming, there was some of that too. You have to assume the worst of the world. That's the way these things go. You have to assume the worst of it after all.
Erik and Jared hit the floor, under a table...
Sieg and Dot -- Dot's still screaming -- did the same. Dei was standing not that far away from the blast when it happened, and he ran to the back, guitar held to him. Shite. Shite. Shite.
Fuck. "Drancy!" The guitar is dropped...
The waiter calls out, apparently a staff head, "Get out!" trying to remain as calm as possible. He looks around to the scattering muss, reaching behind the bar to pick up a phone. Someone needs to come help.
Meanwhile, the pub is clearing, the waitstaff taking the hint. Only the bartenders are hesitant to go, but they move as the waiter waves his arm at them to exit as he calls.
Patrons are leaving. No doubt. They get the hint. Many stand outside across the street, watching the fireworks as they wait for the fire brigade and police.
The living source of the 'blast' is disinclined to stick around herself, running for the back. Whether she's heard her name or not is debatable - considering the volume, probably not. No doubt, she'd be terribly flattered that he cares, but as it is, beyond a fast glance to try and see if everyone else is all right, she's aiming for the back doors at top speed. Dim thoughts surface in the murk she calls her mind.
Thank god I didn't wear spike heels... hope everyone's all right... shite, shite, FUCK. - There's that rhythm again.
She hits the doors at dead speed, slamming them open, hard enough to bounce off the brick sides of the building if need be, a tangle of blonde hair streaked with purple and green visible like a wild thistle banner as she tumbles into the alley's night air.
Erik lifts Jared up and Sieg and Dot scramble through the front door. Shaking, absolutely. They step out with the rest of folks and look as wide-eyed as anyone. They mingle in with the crowd, every one of them reaching for cigarettes. "I don't know if she got out, I thought I saw her in the back," Dot says. "Should we go back..."
"No, fuck it... I'm crossing the street," Erik says, and Jared follows.
There are steps coming up behind you, Drancy. Must be Dei, you passed him on the way out....
It's impossible to miss her. Look for the shaft of light extending into the universe and you'll find her. Like a lighthouse beacon leading ships through the fog to the safety of the shore, aye....
Unheard, the raven lands in the alley...
Unseen, the warrior of Order stands, talons turning into steel-toed boots...
Wild blonde, green and purple hair sailing all out. Did you miss my reach? "Quite a spectacle, m'lady," there's a hand on your arm, Drancy. "I think you better come with me... they'll be cops swarming any minute. And they're the least of your worries."
The hold is strong, Drancy. And the face... maybe if you calm down, you'll remember it. The voice? Sounds like Davydd...
But it couldn't be...
A voice calls out, rather close by, "Hey! That's the guy! With the boots! I saw him near the electrical box out here in the alleyway!"
And indeed, as if on cue, the sound of sirens, still a few blocks away.
Drancy would be much happier if it were Davydd, likely - a familiar face, to go with the voice, and that touch on her arm which is so strong. Blind panic, or very near, wells up as she whirls round in that grip. "Let GO of me!" There's a slight answering surge of power, a rumble beneath the skin, but it's nothing like that flash, nothing like anything, really. So much power sent outwards in that signal, what's left only registers to those who already know and See.
It's followed by faint, uncertain recognition, which combined with all her fears, all her stresses, to belligerence. Well. That's Drancy, isn't it? "Who the fuck are you?"
Then that voice calls. Shite. Shite shite shite... She moves to jerk herself free, fear and aggravation and a strong desire to Not Get Caught lending a need for speed to her heels. Not, of course, that she's exactly Miss Brawny, here...
"That's him...the shite tried t' blow up th' pub!" comes another voice, lower pitched. The sounds seem pointed at the direction of you all.
Oh fuck...
Well, this is how wars are fought...too bad I can't turn you into a titmouse or titwillow, Drancy. Our lives would be so much the simpler.
"There's just not time for this tonight, my lady..." And he doesn't fuck around. Your move to jerk yourself free turns into a grab and a twist. Up and over, your on his shoulders. "You'll learn to thank me later. Oh shite..." There's doom in that voice. "Shut up and we may live, little magician..."
And he heads into shadows...opposite to the voice. To the rip in reality he can feel, viscerally. That shimmer of the world. You know that. You know what happens when the world shimmers. You've only felt it shimmer with light. The universe can also shimmer with darkness, Drancy...
I need to find a tree. Just one tree. That's all I need. Then we're home free...
And where is Dei anyway? Where is he when you need him? Coming after you, a few steps behind you. That's where he was...
"To the front," he heard a voice say, and he turned, toward the sound of sirens. The last thing he saw was your hair, Drancy. It's so dark, hell... did you go in front? You had to... You were in front of me. You have to be around the corner...
He runs the other way...
If Drancy had any notion that Huw were considering turning her into a bird, she'd likely be struggling harder. As it is, she's still a bit dazed by all this... but not dazed enough, of course, not to struggle.
"Y'bleedin' bastard, put me down!" The only reason it's not a shriek is that her throat's hurting, and because she's busily trying to bite her captor, flailing and kicking. He's stronger than her, of course - but she's not going to make it easy.
Being called a magician, little or other, does nothing for her forebodings and grave misgivings... the shadows, the energy she feels, just makes her feel even worse in a way. And, well, what else can she reach for? "Dei!" She calls it out desperately. If you know any magic, if you've anything left, for godsake, get me OUT OF THIS!
But, of course, that she doesn't yell, doesn't have time to even if she would, grunting as she catches the edge of Huw's shoulder on her ribs. She'll be even more pissed when she sees the bruise...
There's a sudden Nothing. Voices clamoring around the corner. The sirens closing in, apparently. A cool, London night...save for the exploding pub.
The rush of wind comes from nowhere. Behind, above, around. Swirling and rising, it grows from an Instant, flying into a crazed thud somewhere between your legs, Drancy, and into your pedestal's chest...
"Fuck!" The large blonde -- and like your Davydd he's something of a mountain -- falters as he carries you, ass up, slung over his shoulder as you are. Stumbling a bit back, cursing in something like Welsh but not Welsh as he goes, large, strong legs managing to keep him upright. Good thing he wasn't cradling you, you might have felt the hit he just took to his chest. Huw grits his teeth. "I should fucking drop you and let you die, but I placed a bet to the contrary, missy, so here we are...cheek to cheek and ass deep," Fuck, I can even rhyme wounded.
Last word's a grunt as he struggles forward dispite the ripple of power through his body. It wracks him. Maybe you can feel him tremble. Maybe later you'll thank him for saving your ruddy little existence. That's of course... if he manages it. There's a street... past this alley, down a block. A woman lives on the corner with a lovely garden...
All I need...
All I need is a single flower...
The air starts to hum...
Not of my blood, not of my body was I born...
But formed by magic from the buds of nine sorts of trees...
Nine powers of nine flowers...
Ah, you can hear it now. Whatever it is, it won't have time to stop that. There is recognition as you reach for the flower, but little can be done about that.
The night air rises again, a surreal emptiness. Coalescing in the moment, It Is and Is Not. And in the blink? It's rushing between girl's legs again, aiming harder now at Huw's chest.
The sirens sound suddenly closer. Immediately so. "Constable! Here! Yeah, but here's the guy who did it!" Dangerous man, he must be.
There's a feeling of...static. As if someone's trying to disrupt your reaching out. Fuzzy channel this, but navigable, if painful.
Drancy would probably be more amenable if she were aware of what was really going on. Unfortunately, she's clueless, and hence, a pain in Huw's arse - err, chest.
"What the fuck are you talking about!" It's a shriek, or would be if she had more air in her lungs; as it is, it comes out as a hiss, right next to the blonde man's ears. In a way, it's a good thing this isn't Dot, before Sieg - she'd probably be cooing over his physique. As it is, she's cursing his physique, since it's holding her very firmly in place.
"You're not Davydd, who the fuck are you? - What do you mean, let me die?" Well, at least that shocks her enough that she's not struggling as hard. The tremor makes her twitch, her own power flaring briefly with the movement of shadows, eyes widening.
But if there's one thing Drancy has going for her, it's her hatred of authority and the 'fascist regime', as the Sex Pistols would say. "Shit. Police... "
Why can't there be any moss in London in the spring? Is it too much to ask? Alright, that's it. I've had it. I can't work under these conditions...
Huw grasps the girl in his hands, and then he grins. Savage. Wild. Uncivilized. Musical. A rude gesture thrown behind him. And the girl becomes a pebble in my grasp. It's small. It's still. It's quiet. It's ruddy perfect, mate...
Small and shiny, the pebble is stowed under his tongue and by the next step, Huw's vaulting in the air, pain and all. A raven -- one of those large London bastards -- holds a pebble beneath his tongue. Now, how else would a raven steal a bit of treasure?
And within easy flying distance there is a tree, the perfect perch in a residential neighborhood. That'll do just fine...
Well, little missy... won't we have the story to tell...
From somewhere inside the pebble, there is a seething fury which is going to make sure Huw never, ever gets married... and if Drancy has her way, never has sex ever again...
Whatever it was, it appears to be over now. The sirens do close in, and below, uniformed bobbies make their way around to the alley -- albeit a moment later than one might have expected. As if they only now arrived.
Around the front, pub crawlers are already looking for another place to spend the evening. A fire truck is parked near the Lokal, and men in boots crunch over glass to make their way indoors -- hoses in hand.
Posted by rowan at May 11, 2003 06:30 PM
