3rd person POV

  Around the middle of November, they locked it in. REAPERAND’s first gig.

  The Rustpit.

  It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start.

  And with the venue offering little more than flickering lights and a prayer, they couldn’t trust the house equipment to be anything short of a nightmare.

  So David insisted they bring their own.

  The van.

  David’s beat-up, sticker-covered, possibly-cursed van, groaned under the weight of their gear.

  Amps. Guitars. Pedals. Cables.

  Nickie’s drum kit, minus the floor tom and the bass drum she reluctantly agreed to borrow from the venue, praying it wouldn’t be torn.

  By the time they finished loading it all in, there wasn’t a spare inch of space left.

  David slammed the back doors shut and turned to face them, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  “Alright. That’s everything.”

  Nickie looked at the overstuffed van, then back at David.

  “So where do we go?”

  David jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Not here. You two are taking the bus.”

  Adam scowled. “Seriously?”

  “Unless you want to ride on the roof with the cymbals,” David offered, deadpan.

  Nickie leaned in.

  “You did say you liked dramatic entrances, Bass Boy.”

  Adam rolled his eyes.

  “Perfect. Sweaty gear-goblin by bus it is.”

  David fished his wallet out of his jacket and double-checked the back pocket, patting it down like he was preparing for war.

  Nickie raised a brow. “What, you worried the amps are gonna ask for ID?”

  “Money,” David replied, tucking it away. “For gas and maybe a beer. One. After the show. I’m driving, remember?”

  Adam snorted. “You’re such a dad.”

  David shrugged. “Someone’s gotta be. You two would probably trade the snare for candy if left unsupervised.”

  Nickie looked mock-offended. “Please. I’d trade your snare for candy.”

  “I’m literally the guitarist,” David said. “You’d be trading someone else’s snare.”

  “See?” Nickie said, smirking. “Irresponsible and impulsive.”

  Adam leaned against the wall, arms folded.

  “You wouldn’t trust us even with a pedal.”

  “Because you’d drop it somewhere.” David replied without missing a beat. “Or you’d get distracted mid-load-in and leave it on the sidewalk.”

  Adam’s eyes narrowed. “That happened once. And it was a cable.”

  “It was the DI box,” David said flatly. “I had to run six blocks to find it before someone sold it for cigarettes.”

  Nickie tried not to laugh, failing entirely. “Still beats that time you left your entire pedalboard at David’s and swore someone stole it.”

  Adam scowled. “It was gone. Vanished. What was I supposed to think?”

  David snorted. “You mean the pedalboard you left behind the couch and forgot existed?”

  Adam grumbled, “It was a weird week.”

  “Sure it was,” David said, grabbing a cymbal case. “This is exactly why I’m the responsible sibling.”

  He turned to Adam, handing over a folded twenty. “For bus fare. And maybe food. No Slurpees.”

  “No promises,” Adam muttered.

  Nickie adjusted her backpack, stepping beside Adam as David got into the van.

  “You’re gripping that steering wheel like it owes you money. It’s just a gig, Dave.”

  David paused, his eyes meeting hers through the open window.

  “It’s not just a gig. It’s the beginning of everything. And we’re gonna set the place on fire.”

  Nickie blinked.

  The usual smirk tugging at her mouth faltered for half a second as she realized he meant it.

  This wasn’t just road rage or pre-gig adrenaline.

  It was belief.

  David started the engine, then added, “I’ll see you there.”

  With a rumble and a faint screech from the brakes that always needed replacing, the van pulled away.

  Adam and Nickie stood there for a beat.

  Then Adam sighed.

  “He’s so fucking uptight.”

  Nickie smirked.

  “He’s just excited. Nervous.”

  Adam looked down the street.

  “So are we.”

  She nudged his arm.

  “C’mon, Bus Boy. Let’s go get immortalized in underground filth.”

  ***

  Last Call Salvation

  The Rustpit: a venue so underground it was practically in the Earth's mantle.

  Tucked behind a condemned shopping district and wedged between a defunct tanning salon and a pawn shop that may or may not fence cursed objects, it had the ambiance of a haunted boiler room... And the hygiene to match.

  The graffiti-covered walls sweated condensation, reeking faintly of mildew, regret, and someone's lost dreams from 1997.

  The floor stuck to your boots in places you didn't want to question.

  There were rumors that one of the barstools had been legally declared sentient after surviving three bar fights and a minor flood.

  The "stage" was really just a slightly elevated patch of floor, illuminated by a single overhead bulb that flickered like it had PTSD.

  A torn banner above it read TONIGHT: LIVE DEATH, which may or may not have been a typo.

  The sound system wheezed like it had bronchitis and possibly unresolved trauma. Every mic check was a gamble. Would it crackle, scream, or summon a low-level demon? No one could say.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The lineup was a mess, shuffled so many times it started resembling a cursed tarot deck.

  By the time REAPERAND were called up, it was the graveyard slot.

  Somewhere between 12 a.m. and societal collapse.

  Most of the crowd had either left, passed out, or merged with the sticky floor.

  Still, they took their places.

  Undeterred. Unshaken. Possibly infected.

  It was going to be perfect.

  What was left of the audience were diehards, clinging to their beers and joints like lifelines.

  They weren't here for polish.

  They were here for the rot, the blood, the sound that clings to your ribs... and that's what REAPERAND delivered.

  The moment Adam's bass growled through the speakers, the atmosphere shifted.

  It wasn't perfect.

  The sound system struggled to keep up, popping and distorting at moments.

  But the raw power of the music cut through.

  David's riffs were jagged and unrelenting, carving through the room like a chainsaw.

  Nickie's drumming wasn't just heartbeat, it was organ rupture.

  She didn't keep time; she bled it.

  The setlist included three songs, which would make about a half hour performance with no breaks.

  "Chains and Shadows" came last, and that's when the room truly changed.

  Adam's bassline crawled into the ears of the small, scattered crowd, a visceral thrum that seemed to tighten the air.

  His guttural vocals, dripping with pain and rage, left a few jaws slack.

  David's guitar screamed in harmony with Adam's anguish, and Nickie's drums crashed like thunder, the beat impossibly tight and yet full of raw emotion.

  At the back, a man in his late 20s with a scruffy beard and a worn leather jacket leaned forward, his beer untouched.

  His brows furrowed as he muttered to his equally stunned friend, "Holy shit, are you hearing this?"

  A woman with vibrant green hair and piercings decorating her face swayed near the edge of the stage, her movements slow and reverent, like she was being possessed by the music.

  She shouted, "Hell yeah, drummer girl!" as Nickie hit a particularly brutal drum fill, her voice swallowed by the sheer volume of the set.

  Near the center, a young couple who had been half-dozing off suddenly started headbanging like crazy, moshing with each other.

  When REAPERAND struck their final chord, the room was silent for a moment.

  A stunned, ringing silence.

  Then, the stunned quiet gave way.

  First a yell, then boots stomping the beer-stained floor.

  The dead crowd had risen, and they were screaming.

  It was as if the collective energy of the band had left them breathless, and they were only now remembering how to react. That suited REAPERAND just fine.

  I just hit things

  The scruffy-beard man was debating with himself how to approach the band.

  His name was Alex Kenes.

  He was dressed in his usual "metal journalist" uniform: a vintage Iron Maiden t-shirt, faded black jeans with more rips than fabric, and combat boots that looked like they'd been through a war.

  His leather jacket, covered in patches from obscure underground bands, completed the look.

  It gave him the air of somebody who lived and breathed the scene, which, of course, he did.

  REAPERAND were packing up their gear with the same no-nonsense focus they'd brought to their music.

  Alex grinned, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair, then advanced with a swagger that screamed I'm a friendly guy, trust me!

  "Hey, hey! REAPERAND, right?"

  he said, his voice warm and confident, though loud enough to cut through the post-gig din.

  "You guys just blew the ceiling off this place! And that's saying something, considering this dump doesn't really have a ceiling."

  David turned first, eyeing Alex with curiosity.

  "Yeah, we're REAPERAND. You are?"

  Alex extended a hand.

  "Alex Kenes. I'm with DIEFORSTEEL, online magazine for all things loud and unruly. And holy hell, you guys are both of those things."

  Nickie tilted her head, intrigued.

  Adam, on the other hand, froze momentarily, then resumed coiling a cable, his dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  "Look," Alex continued, his grin unwavering, "I've been in a lot of pits, seen a lot of bands trying to be the next big thing. But you guys? You don't try. You just are. That set was raw, unrelenting... and that drummer!"

  He pointed at Nickie with both hands, like he was naming the MVP of the night.

  "Girl, are your sticks blessed by some ancient metal deity, or what?"

  Nickie couldn't help but crack a small smile. "I just hit things," she said modestly.

  Alex let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah, well, you hit them like they owe you money."

  Adam's grip on the cable tightened slightly.

  "You need something?" he asked flatly, his tone cutting through Alex's exuberance like a blade.

  Unfazed, Alex turned his attention to Adam.

  "Straight to the point! I respect that."

  He held up his phone.

  "I'm writing a piece on the underground scene, and I want you guys front and center. Your sound? People need to hear about it. I got a killer photo of you on stage tonight, shadowy and badass, just like your music. But I need your permission to publish it. Names, too."

  Adam hesitated, his jaw tightening.

  A flash of something passed through him.

  Recognition, maybe, or warning.

  He'd seen too many promises come with strings.

  "We're not looking for... attention."

  David didn't miss the tension in Adam's jaw.

  He caught Nickie's eye, and in that wordless exchange, something softened in both of them.

  He stepped in. "We appreciate the interest. What exactly would you be writing?"

  "A love letter to the scene, and you'd be the centerpiece. Nothing cheesy, I promise! Just raw, honest praise. And hey, I'm not here to blow up your phones or anything. Just let me showcase what you're already killing it at."

  Nickie, sensing Adam's unease, gently touched his sleeve. "Maybe it's not a bad idea," she said softly.

  Alex, noting Adam's guarded stance, added quickly, "Look, man, I get it... trust is earned, not given. I'll send you the draft before it goes live. You hate it? I'll scrap it. No strings."

  Adam finally looked up, his expression unreadable but his tone slightly less icy.

  "Alright. Send it first."

  "Hell yeah! Alright, you'll hear from me soon. And seriously, killer job tonight."

  "I'll give you my number." David said, and they exchanged contacts.

  As Alex walked away, David smirked.

  "Friendly guy, huh?"

  Adam snorted, his eyes still wary. "A little too friendly."

  Nickie laughed. "He's just excited, Bass Boy."

  Adam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Let's just finish packing up and get out of here."

  ***

  Vibe Repellent | Nickie’s POV

  David had stepped out to take a call, and I’d ducked into the hallway to fill my water bottle.

  As I turned back, I saw the whole thing go down.

  A girl.

  Mila the goth, they called her.

  Heels too high, voice too syrupy.

  She beelined for Adam the second he was alone.

  Like a heat-seeking missile made of perfume and bad intentions.

  I’d seen her around. One of those girls who hovers near every stage, flirting with whoever holds a guitar.

  “Hey, Bass-Boy-Wonder,” she purred, every syllable laced with glitter and desperation.

  “That was unreal. The way you play... It’s like the bass is alive in your hands.”

  Adam stiffened. I could see it in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened around his bass-case like it might save him.

  “Uh, thanks,” he said, voice flat. “Just trying to keep the groove going.”

  Mila didn’t even flinch.

  She stepped closer, real close, nails grazing the side of his case like she owned it.

  My jaw clenched.

  ‘Seriously? Is she trying to audition as his bass strap?’

  Adam rubbed the back of his neck.

  That move.

  I knew that move. It wasn’t nerves. It was discomfort.

  The kind that made him want to evaporate.

  ‘Why doesn’t she just take the hint?’

  “Oh, you do way more than that,” she cooed. “You don’t just play… You feel it. It’s magnetic.”

  I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something.

  Adam shifted, backing up a little. “Yeah, uh… appreciate it. I should, uh, help with the gear.”

  God, he looked like he wanted to disappear.

  But she blocked him, sidestepping like it was a dance. She brushed her shoulder against his arm, voice dropping low.

  “Come on, don’t be modest, cutie. I’ve seen a lot of guys on stage, but you? You’ve got something different. Raw. Real.”

  Her eyes locked onto his like she was trying to hypnotize him.

  "I like that."

  I don’t know what made me clench my jaw tighter.

  Her words, or how Adam flinched like she’d touched a nerve instead of a shoulder.

  His eyes flicked toward the door. “Yeah, well… just doing my part. It’s a team thing.”

  He moved again, trying to get out, and she followed. Again.

  Her fingers found the zipper on his case.

  “You know,” she said, all fake sweetness, “We could talk more… somewhere quieter.” Her smile curled.

  “Just you and me. We could… vibe.”

  He looked like he was going to pass out.

  “Uh, yeah,” he said quickly, voice tight, “but I’m not really looking for any... uh, vibes right now.”

  Mila pouted. “Shame. Could’ve been fun.”

  Adam didn’t even respond. Just nodded like his brain had been unplugged, gripped his case like a lifeline, and bolted.

  “Catch you later,” she called after him.

  I nearly gagged.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  He didn’t look at her again. Didn’t even say goodbye. Just turned and started toward me like I was his only salvation.

  And that was the only part of that whole nightmare that made my chest ache in a good way.

  He looked… tired. Sweaty. Shirt a little rumpled. Hair all over the place.

  Just the way I liked him.

  He stopped in front of me, and for a second, his eyes actually softened.

  That tightness he carries around, like he’s bracing for impact, eased a little.

  “Want me to take you home?” he asked, voice quiet. Almost unsure.

  And just like that, everything else faded out.

  I blinked. “Yeah,” I said before I even thought it through. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  We headed toward the exit, our steps weirdly in sync.

  As we passed by the merch table, I caught a guy with a bright red mohawk muttering to his friend:

  “That last band… fuck, man. That wasn’t just a set! that was a fucking exorcism.”

  I smiled to myself.

  ‘Damn right it was.’