Hard core's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

The message came from a stranger who ran a music blog. Hard core read it twice. Cash had sold the viral clip to the festival buyers. Not the band. The clip. His edit of it. The festival committee would judge Hard core by fifteen polished seconds Cash controlled, and the committee had never booked a hardcore act in its long history. If they only heard Cash's version, they never would. Tim slammed his sticks on the drum. "So he sells us before we play a note." Axel said nothing. He unplugged his bass and coiled the cable slow, jaw tight. Hard core felt the same anger, but anger booked no shows. The buyers met that afternoon inside the oldest arena in Clustervoid, a huge stone shell with cracked tiers and faded banners. Hard core made a choice. "We don't beg Cash. We show them the real thing. Live. Today." They hauled the gear up the arena's worn steps and set up in the open bowl. The buyers sat high on the stone tiers, tablets glowing, Cash's edit already queued. Cash stood among them in his gray suit, arms folded. "Not on the schedule," he called down. "Nobody asked for a live set." Hard core plugged in the pink guitar and looked up at the tiers. "You're about to buy a lie. Hear the truth first. Fifteen seconds." A buyer waved a hand. Permission. Cash's jaw locked. Tim counted them in. Hard core hit the first chord and it tore across the ancient stone, louder and dirtier than any clip. Axel's bass shook the tiers. The steam pipes overhead hissed, and something stirred in them. Metal butterflies poured out, wings sharp as blades, bodies flickering with color. They rode the sound and pulsed on every beat, painting the gray bowl with green and pink light. The buyers stood. Nobody looked at their tablets now. The last note rang out. Silence. Then a buyer near the front leaned to another and nodded. A second raised her tablet and deleted something with one hard tap. "We heard the edit," she said. "This is better. We want this band live at the festival." Cash's arms dropped. "The recording's mine. I set the terms." The buyer shook her head. "You sold us a clip. We just bought a band. Different deal." She said it plainly, and the tiers murmured agreement. Hard core had won. The committee would judge the real sound, not Cash's cut. But the buyer wasn't finished. "One condition. You share the festival bill with an act we already trust. The Void Rattlers. Their singer's proven he pulls crowds." She tapped her screen. "He's on his way now." Down the arena steps came a blue alien with a burning mohawk, leather jacket loud with patches. Zyx Voidstar grinned at the butterflies still circling. "Nice sound," he said. "Guess we're sharing a stage." Hard core had the festival. Now they had to share it.