Hard core's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Cash called the meeting in a chrome room with soft chairs. He slid a folder across the table. Inside was a photo of a bright, clean hall with tidy rows of seats. "Booked it," he said. "Two thousand seats. Family crowd. You play the clean set. No screaming. No feedback." Hard core stared at the photo. This was not a punk room. It was a place that would swallow their sound and hand back something smooth and dead. Tim leaned on the Riot Beat Drum he'd hauled in, its skull-painted shell scarred and peeling. "That's not us," he said. "We play sweat. We play close." Cash didn't look up from his rings. "I own the venue call. Read your contract." Hard core knew he was right. The contract handed Cash the venue. Fighting him in that room would win nothing. So Hard core stood, picked up the guitar case, and left without a word. Outside, Vexxa waited by the ramp. She had trailed the band since the alley, and she still watched Hard core like they were the only thing worth watching. "That look," she said. "He's trying to sand you down." Hard core nodded. "He wants a soft room. Two thousand strangers eating snacks." Vexxa pulled out her phone. "Then don't argue with him. Go over him." They set up in a cramped stairwell, pipes hissing steam overhead. Hard core plugged in the pink guitar. Tim propped the battered drum on his knee. Vexxa aimed the camera. Hard core looked into the lens and spoke first, plain and hard. "We're the first hardcore band in Clustervoid. Our producer wants to put us in a padded seat and clip the wires. That's not what this sound is for." Then they played. The guitar screamed off the metal walls. The drum cracked like breaking bone. Fifteen seconds, raw and loud. Vexxa posted it. Then she slept. By morning the numbers had gone mad. The clip crossed a million plays overnight. Comments stacked up fast. People tagged Cash's name. They tagged the clean hall. They demanded the underground show, the real one. Strangers across three systems fought to defend a band they'd never seen live. Cash called again. No soft chairs this time. He met Hard core in the stairwell, standing in the steam in his gray suit. He held up his phone. The number glowed on the screen. "Million two," he said. "You went around me." Hard core waited. Cash didn't shout. He did the math. "Fine. We book the dive. The small one. The dirty one. That's the crowd now." Hard core had won the venue. But Cash lowered the phone and smiled, cold. "You just showed me your fans obey the internet, not you. Remember who owns that clip." He turned and walked out. Hard core kept the raw room. Cash kept the recording, and now he knew exactly how to move a crowd without asking the band at all.