Hard core's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

The band had a sound and a case for the sealed pink guitar. What they did not have was a stage. Every venue in Clustervoid slammed its doors on hardcore. Then Axel found one that said yes. A little club with glowing green accents and a whimsical alien face over the door. Hard core hauled the guitar case across town to see it. But when the three of them arrived, steel bars sealed the front. A red notice hung on the glass. Condemned. Unsafe pressure seals. The one venue that wanted them was shut. Tim kicked the barred door. "So that's it. First real show, and we've got nowhere to play it." "We find another room," Hard core said. "There is no other room," Axel said. "You know that." A voice cut in behind them. "You're the sound. The clip. Fifteen seconds." A short man in a gray suit stepped off a polished ramp. Gold rings covered his fingers. Dark glasses hid his eyes. Hard core had never met him, but the guitar had drawn strangers before. This one had money written all over him. "Cash Rockwell," he said. "Producer. Fourteen others got that clip. I'm the only one who flew three days to hear it live." He looked at the barred club, then at the guitar case. "Your venue's dead. I don't need a venue." "What do you need," Hard core said. "You. Playing. Now." Cash pointed at the empty lot beside the ruined club. "Set up there. I record it. If it's what the clip promised, I fund your first show. Real stage. Real crowd." A purple alien woman had drifted close during the talk. White hair, a torn leather jacket, boots buckled to the knee. Vexxa Starlight. She had followed the band through steam and alleys since the first alley set. Her eyes stayed on Hard core, not on the producer. "Do it," she said. "Let him hear the real thing." Hard core opened the case. The pink guitar caught the club's dying green light. Tim dragged a dead crate over for drums. Axel pulled his bass off his back. In the open lot, under Clustervoid's hostile air, they played. The sound tore across the empty space. Vacuum did not swallow it. Steam did not choke it. The sealed strings held. Cash held up a small recorder and did not move. Vexxa grinned wide. The guitar screamed, the bass rattled loose pipes, and the drums hit like fists. When they stopped, Cash lowered the recorder. "That's it. That's the four hundred plays." He pulled out a folded contract. "I'll book you a stage. Bigger than this dump. But I own the recording. And I decide the venue." Hard core looked at the band, then took the contract. The condemned club no longer mattered. They had a producer now. They also had a man who wanted to own their sound before they had played a single ticketed show.