Disclaimer: I do not own any works of Jhonen Vasquez, unfortunately. I do however own Dead Annie and any associating characters.
Chapter One
The club was dark, smoky, and the brick walls were old and crumbling. There were hardly any people their own age in the audience, mostly guys in their late forties, sporting facial hair and wearing tweed. Warehouse 49 was one of those places where the spooky people came to read bad poetry and smoke clove cigarettes, where incense burned on every table and the only light came from the neon sign above the bar advertising beer. It wasn't the most clean, or reputable of places to perform at. The stage itself shoddily nailed together out of stained, splintered wood, maybe light mahogany, and the curtains surrounding it were moth-eaten and battered red velvet.
All in all, not the most impressive place for the fledging band Dead Annie and the Wednesdays to start off with their first performance. But who was going to employ an almost all-chick punk band to serenade their customers? At the time, this was the best that they could do.
Dead Annie herself, the leader of the band once upon a time before Devi had come along, slouched over the microphone at the foot of the stage, glowering at the people in the club. Her black hair was long and hung about her face in an attempt to hide it. Her hair had no shine to it; it was an absence of color, pure nothingness. Her skin wasn't the pale that you would expect; it had a pinkish-cream tint to it that made her look healthy, shiny and extremely alive, despite her stage name. There were impossibly long, fake eyelashes framing her green eyes, and her eyeliner was smudged and sharp. Her Violent Femmes t-shirt was ripped at the sleeves and grungy, one of her many trademarks, and her long black skirt dusted the floor. Her teeth were straight and white from years of torment from braces in high school. Her high-heeled boots looked like they were bought at Wal-Mart. She was pretty, with her full cupid's bow mouth and thin, frail body, but not beautiful. There was something poisonous in her face that begged at you to stay away from her. Like she wouldn't hesitate to slit your throat if you were too nice to her.
Since when did the drummer become the leader of the band? Wasn't it, by tradition, the vocalist or lead guitarist? Dead Annie and the Wednesdays was comprised mainly of Larry (the bass guitarist), Shooter Girl (electric guitarist), Devi (drummer, as already mentioned), Devi's strange friend Tenna (tambourine and synthesizer), and, of course, Dead Annie on vocals. Originally, she had been in charge of the band- writing songs, telling everyone else what to do, and suggesting new directions or sounds. Then Shooter Girl had ended their search for a drummer by bringing in Devi.
Shooter Girl was a tall, willowy Asian girl in her mid-twenties, viciously beautiful and always grimly serious. She hardly ever smiled, and when she did, she had a quirky sense of humor. She was nicknamed for the computer games she played where the main mission was basically to kill everyone else playing before they got to you first. Her favorites were Quake and Doom.
She also had weird taste in friends, examples being Devi and Tenna. One day she brought the two of them to a band meet and that's where it all began. Or ended really, at least for Dead Annie. From that moment on, Devi was the natural leader, the one that everyone looked to for help regarding everything band-related. Even Larry loved her, and he was a balding gay man in his early forties who hated everything but money and his iPod.
Dead Annie tried to tell herself that of course she should be jealous of Devi, it was natural to be envious of someone who had taken her place. She tried to put it behind her, tried to be friendly to Devi and put this behind her.
Yet…they were so different that it was near impossible. For one, Devi was one of those crazy starving artist people who always had clay and paint embedded in her nails and on her clothes. She even talked to herself! On several occasions, Dead Annie had overheard Devi muttering the word "sickness" to herself along with "stop it" and "not now". Secondly, Devi was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, vivid purple hair pulled up into a ponytail and dark, artsy clothes. The only thing that Dead Annie had in common with her rival was her green eyes, and Dead Annie's were provided courtesy of contact lenses.
Lastly, Dead Annie hated how angry Devi was, all the time. She contrasted sharply with her weird friend Tenna who was always excited about something and who ran around bopping everyone with her freaky little squeaky skeleton thing. Dead Annie wasn't the most cheerful person to be around, but she was known as the eternally amused voice of reason. Most of the time she was at least pleasant to be around, unlike little miss perfect.
Trying not to think about it, she stood on stage, smirking at the audience. She introduced the band, and without further ado, launched into their cover of the song "Early Sunsets over Monroeville." Sometime while she was singing the chorus, growling "...if I had the guts to put this to your head, but would anything matter, if you're already dead..." into the microphone like she had something to prove, she happened to look towards the back of the room, at the crowded bar.
One guy stood out, someone looking a little older than her. Maybe he was even the same age, it was hard to tell. He was tall and rail thin, his clothes all in black and blue, colored like his hair that standing up in spikes away from his face. He reminded Dead Annie of a bruise, or a crow. And those were some beautiful boots, with steel cloved toes and buckles going up them. Just beautiful. She knew how to appreciate quality when she saw it. He was pale, like he stayed underground and hardly ever came up for air. A sneer was fixed on his face as he made eye contact with her, and she froze, tripping over her next line. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice her mess-up. Dead Annie looked away from him, biting at her lip worriedly. She had a feeling that she had seen him around before, but where? Wouldn't she remember a face like that, a handsome one with eyes of stone? With the icy blue eyes of a killer?
She finished her set and got off stage amid minor clapping from the schmucks around her. The image of the creepy boy stayed with her as she helped get equipment into their band van parked in the adjacent alley. Where HAD she seen him before?