Hard core's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

The guitar worked. That was the problem now. Hard core stood on the roof of Dustcoil Flats, one instrument in green hands and no one to play beside. A guitar alone was noise, not a band. Punk needed drums that hit like fists. It needed bass that rattled the pipes. Hard core had neither. So the neon green alien went looking below, where steam hissed through the crowded halls and other players sometimes drifted through. Hard core found the drummer in a basement room, kicking dents into a steel barrel with both feet. Tim Timmy. Everyone knew his story. His last band got their gear dumped on the curb, and the door bolted behind them. He played hardcore, and hardcore was not welcome anywhere. He did not stop when Hard core walked in. "You play," Hard core said. "I have a guitar that survives the vacuum." Tim kept his boot on the barrel. "Everyone says that. Then it breaks." Hard core struck a chord. The sound tore through the room, raw and alive. Tim's boot froze. He looked at the sealed body, the pressure-fed strings, the stickers. Then he grinned. "Real," he said. "Finally." He grabbed two bent rods. "I'm in. But I don't play small rooms anymore. The Grand Aetheric Festival never booked a hardcore act. I want us to be the first through that gate." Hard core wanted a full band. Tim wanted the biggest stage in Clustervoid. It was the same dream, aimed higher. "Deal," Hard core said. "We need bass." "I know a guy," Tim said. "Axel Graves. Hits low and mean. Nobody wants him either." They found Axel loading crates behind a shut-down venue. Long black hair, tattooed arms, a bass slung on his back. He worked alone. He did not look up. "If you're here to fire me," he said, "you're late. I already quit." "We're not firing you," Tim said. "We're starting something." Axel set down a crate. His pale eyes moved from Tim to Hard core to the guitar. "Starting what? A funeral? Hardcore gets you thrown out. Every time." Hard core held out the instrument. "This one plays where nothing else can. Vacuum. Steam. Pressure. All of it." Hard core struck the chord again. The crates rattled. Axel felt it in his chest. He was quiet a long moment. Then he pulled the bass off his back and thumbed one string. "If it breaks, I walk." "It won't," Hard core said. They played together in the alley. Guitar, then drums on a dead crate, then bass under it all. The three sounds locked. It was rough. It was loud. It was real, and it was a band. But Tim wiped his hands and named the new wall. "We have a band. We have no gig. The festival committee decides who plays, and they've never let hardcore near the gate. No instruments. No stage. Just a committee that says no."