Hard core's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

The festival was booked, but Cash still held the leash. He owned the recordings. He set the venues. One clause in his contract could box the band back into his terms, and everyone knew it. Hard core sat in the apartment and turned the problem over. You couldn't out-argue Cash. He only heard numbers. Vexxa leaned against the graffiti-covered bed frame, arms crossed. She had followed the band across three worlds and fixed their rig with her bare hands. She wasn't the type to wait for a plan. "He wants me," Vexxa said flat. "So I give him me. Get him here. Alone." Hard core stared at her. Vexxa had eyes only for Hard core, and both of them knew it. That made the offer worse. But it would work. "You don't have to," Hard core said. "I know," Vexxa said. "Make the call." Cash arrived that night in his gray suit, rings flashing. "You said terms," he told Vexxa. "Let's talk terms." She didn't talk. She pulled him toward the battered bed and pushed him down onto the patched sheets. His sunglasses slid off. He grinned like he'd already won. "Smart girl," Cash said. "Everybody sells eventually." Then the closet door opened. Hard core stepped out. Behind them came Zyx Voidstar, blue skin bright under the lamp, mohawk still. The Void Rattlers' singer had no love for a man who sold bands like crates of fish. Cash sat up fast. "What is this." Not a question. His voice went hard. Vexxa drew the knife from behind the pillow. It was an old ceremonial blade, gold hilt, jeweled grip, the edge etched with fine lines. She held it steady. "The terms," she said, "end tonight." Cash lunged for the door. Zyx blocked it. Hard core caught Cash's arm and held it against the bed frame. "You own our sound," Hard core said. "Not anymore." Cash twisted, spat a number, a bribe, a threat. Nobody counted it. Vexxa drove the knife down into his shoulder. Cash howled. Blood spread across the punk-covered sheets. Zyx grabbed the man's collar and yanked him upright. "You'll sign," Zyx said. "Or the next one goes deeper." Cash's rings shook. He looked at the three of them, the blade, the blocked door. He understood the math. He signed the release Hard core shoved in front of him, one bloody thumbprint on the line. The recordings returned to the band. The venue control died with his signature. Zyx dragged Cash out the door and dumped him in the hall. Vexxa wiped the blade clean on the sheet. Hard core held the signed page and felt the weight of it. Cash was gone. The sound belonged to the band now. But the festival still had its condition. Hard core had to share that stage with Zyx, and Zyx had just seen exactly how far the band would go to stay free.