Hey all. Giving this fic a test run. Let me know how you feel about it. I do believe I fixed all the auto-formatting my phone does, but there still might be some blips. And yeah, I reused and revamped this OC. I will probably also be posting this on AO3. Onwards.
I own nothing you recognize.
Struggling? Yeah, I knew what it was like to struggle. To be thrown away by your record company in favor of parties more profitable, to have to resort to working a pole to pay your bills. Why my parents left that beautiful goddamned goddess of a country I'd never know, just like why I couldn't figure out why I didn't just use my pitiful funds to get back. I guess I was just stuck now. Trapped in a forsaken loop of living paycheck to paycheck, supporting myself and the rest of the ragamuffins known as my bandmates, living in a tiny apartment, our meager fanbase dwindling and leaving us to rot with the other burnouts.
We'd taken to following big names, offering opening acts in stabs at publicity, hoping to pick off some cash for our pockets. Today was such a day.
We're all strewn about in our dressing room, tension heavy and thick and nearly physical, like you could reach out and touch it. There's a man from the main act looming in our doorway, the reason for his presence something about making sure we don't engage in foul play, like locking them in their own backstage area as done by some previous opener. Our frontman is making stabs at him for it, arguing that it would only give us a negative image. The stranger is scowling at him in response.
"Lay off, Moray," I bark, turning around in my seat at the vanity table to give him a glare. He about-faces to me, looking nothing short of livid. It doesn't take many strides for him to reach me. I stand, closing the height gap, and grab one of the drumsticks on the table. It's the only pair I currently own, and if I have to break them over this fucker's head, fine by me.
Right on cue after our staring contest is the exchange of verbal abuse. I can't think straight enough to formulate responses in English, reverting to my native tongue. Next is a shoving match, then he brings his hand up in preparation to strike. I might be the token female member, but it didn't excuse me from getting smacked around. His gaze flicks to the mirror behind me, and he then changes his action to jabbing his finger at me.
"You. Get your sad fuckin' face out of my sight," he snarls.
I'm not sad. I'm frustrated. Behaving like and making the rest of us look like asses in front of whoever that man is. That feeling when your throat is tight and dry, your eyes are watering, you're holding your breath lest you make some sort of pathetic sobbing sound like a walrus being bludgeoned, and you're fucking embarrassed because why are you crying anyway? You know that thing? Fuck that thing. I lob the drumstick at his head, shoulder check the man in the doorway as if to say "it's your fault douche" and make my way through the maze backstage and out the rear exit.
My fingers fumble to rip off the cellophane and foil blocking my access to a fresh pack of Marlboro 27s I'd brought with me long ago from across the pond, ungracefully wiping my snot on the back of my hand. I notch one between my teeth, chewing the filter, and struggle to light it before I wear down the flint too much. Suddenly a tanned hand is in my line of sight. Between long fingers is a cheap Bic with a gas station logo. The person ignites it and I cup my hand around the flame.
"Thanks," I reply in a voice thick and hindered with mucus and tar. I sniffle, feeling my stomach churn at the post nasal drip. I nervously glance up, not surprised it's the man that had been embodying a vulture this evening. He'd been half-naked before and now he's thrown on a red silk button down. I'd be willing to bet he owned sheets that matched.
"That was quite a show back there," he comments, and his voice is sticky with some accent. There's a faint growling tone to it.
"Yeah, I'm beginning to think that's the only show we'll be putting on tonight," I shrug, taking a long drag and flicking the butt more times than necessary to give myself something to do.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat. I don't know how to interpret it. He looks up at me through femininely long eyelashes, then leans up against the wall next to me on his elbow. He's only got about an inch on me. "Look," he begins. "I need a drummer."
"Do you really think now is the best time to be propositioning me?" I question. I've damn near cried my eyeliner off. But he's a man, and furthermore apparently a man trying to ensure his wellbeing, so I supposed body language and facial expressions went over his head. Nevermind the fact that it was right before a set.
"They weren't treating you right," he presses.
I give him the once over. "Yeah, and you certainly seem like the type to support a family dynamic," I retort. He seems mildly offended. Should I know who he is? Fuck if I could keep track of everyone Moray contacted.
"Hey, I'd never hit a woman, at least not without consent." He oozes cheese from his very pores. Maybe he's trying to lighten the mood, maybe he's coming onto me, maybe it's a little of both. I try to take kindly to it.
"Why?"
"Because safe, sane, consensual-"
"No, why do you need a drummer?" I correct with a soft exhale that was supposed to be a mild laugh.
"Ours is.. indisposed at the moment," he replies vaguely. A klaxon sounds in my head.
"Yeah? And as soon as you get him back, you'll drop me faster than I can blink. I fucking know how this works." I shake my head and stare down at the orange tip in the darkness.
"I suppose you'd rather go back in there?"
"You don't even know my fucking name," I sneer with a hint of the green-eyed monster. "You don't know a damn thing about me. I'm just a convenience to you."
"I'm guessing your favorite car is Mustang Boss in grabber green." I glance down at my muscle shirt. Teal, with a single black stripe with a boss cutout. And my hair? Yeah, grabber fucking green. "And you're some kind of an athlete. You have very defined calves."
"Athlete!" I snort.
"A dancer, then. An exotic one."
"Fuck you."
"I was referring to the fact that you talk like Mads Mikkelson, but alright." He shrugs and I take a pull, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I don't know your name, but why should I?" Ouch.
"Fucking prick," I snap, pushing myself off the wall and pacing up and down the alley. "I have to get back. It's your own damn fault for not being prepared," I point out, trying to heft open the door. I can't. This catches his attention. He tries to pull, then push, and it settles in that we've locked ourselves out.
He grabs my upper arm and begins leading me around the building to the front entrance. I don't take kindly to the action and wrench myself out of his grip. "I'm not a baby. I can fucking walk," I growl.
"You were just crying and snotting like one, love," he reminds. Love? The nerve of this guy. He's every bit the sleaze he looks. He gives a snaggle toothed grin at me and I huff, pushing past him and hastening our trip. We weave through the building to the backstage area. I return to my dressing room.
Of course it would be fucking empty. A string of ethnic curses rolls of my tongue. They'd leave me here. Not a second thought. The tension between us really was that bad. To think we'd once had a name, a relationship among us, and now it was rot, infected. We were dogs with our legs in a trap. "Mad Dog Strategy" - how fitting it seems now.
I return to the hallway. The strange man hadn't left. He's standing there with his arms across his chest, the tiniest self-satisfied smirk on his face. "They're gone?" he asks, stating the obvious in his question.
I sniffle. "Yeah. Fuck 'em." I shrug and avoid eye contact. "I'll be fine."
"Will you?" he corners, and I snap my head up to meet his mismatched gaze. "You're already here, you know."
"And learn this shit in a night?" I demand, feeling the tears of frustration return.
"It's not impossible," he replies, and I get the feeling he's speaking from experience. I press my mouth into a thin line.
"Fine, just...just fucking fine," I relent, throwing my hands about. He beckons to me down the hallway, and I follow him to another dressing room. The little laminated sign reads Gorillaz. He opens the door and gestures for me to enter.
He points to a man with blue hair that seems to be little more than legs. "That's 2D," he introduces. Said man twiddles his fingers at me and then plucks at a banjo. The guy leading me around seems a bit annoyed by it. In fact, he grabs it and launches it across the room. The klaxon goes off again. Don't tell me it's no better here. "That's Noodle." He then points to a young asian woman playing a video game on the floor.
"And you are?" I prompt.
"I'm Murdoc Niccals," he answers with a flourish.
"Adeline Rasmussen," I state even though I wasn't asked.
"Yes! Adeline! Now..." He shrugs off the shirt and drags out a laptop. I expect him to present me with sheet music, but he just pulls up an mp3 and hands me headphones.
"You're fucking kidding," I scoff.
"Wait, what is she doing?" 2D speaks up, leaning over my shoulder.
"Learning!" Murdoc replies enthusiastically. He's a fucking madman at best. I can feel 2D eyeing me with concern.
"Learning...?" he presses.
"Well, you know how Russell's got his...little...situation?" The hell is he on about? "She's our drummer!"
"For now," I add under my breath. 2D doesn't comment if he can hear me. I press the headphones against my ears and push play, closing my eyes and leaning back against the couch. Yeah. Sure. Let's learn.