Amasa
Warnings: Skellerness, music.
Feedback: That'd be fine.
Beta'd by: Nekuyasha! WHEE! Everyone give the love a hand.
Chapter 1
Gregory Jones used to be a normal little boy with an unquenchable curiosity, an unstoppable drive for information and a flair for writing catchy snippets. Such a combination guaranteed he would be a journalist, and so it came as no surprise to his parents Megan and Timothy Jones, when their son became a hard-hitting writer for the Talon. It was however the first two aspects of his personality that found him living in a rat-hole apartment in the bad part of the city spending his food money on tickets to a concert.
It had started innocently enough, if anything involving that group could be, his boss had simply asked that he do a short feature story on the group because their tour had led them to their town. The band had a stigma of never choosing big, or even well known cities. It was always small out-of-the-way towns that you drive through on your way to a vacation, but don't actually stop at. That was Eagle's View for you; small, unknown, and just big enough to get a spot on one or two really specific maps. He had listed well-known facts on them, the date and time of the concert, and how many people had already arrived to wait in line. Then he had received an envelope in his In-box. Old-fashioned cream paper, with brownish edges, and actually sealed with black wax. The stamp had been familiar to him, having seen it on WebPages, the news, CD's and his own article: the Amasa insignia, a jagged A surrounded by thorns. Inside the envelope was a single ticket stating 'Amasa: Mask or Blade Tour'. So, of course he had gone, stopping off to pick up a simple Zorro mask on his way, as dress code required. The band had not failed the hype, and he had seen quite a bit of it.
He had expected it to be packed with gothic-punk teenagers, which there were a fair amount of, but there were all sorts of people. He was sure he recognized the police chief underneath a dog mask, and the middle school teacher behind one of a butterfly. Adults, grandparents, teenagers all with masks, all brought together by the siren call of a concert. But not a soul under the age of sixteen, as required by the members. They had placed it outside, on the football field of the High School. Even so, when Gregory arrived a massive tent had been erected, no seats, there wouldn't have been room anyway.
It was like a dark circus. The black canvas blocking out the streetlights, but a patch of lighter material allowed a single beam of moonlight. After allowing their audience an hour to talk and mull about, a heart-stopping thunder strike sounded from the 'stage'. Attention focused onto that single beam of light and from the shadows came one slight individual. He went by the epithet Scythe. He played piano, violin, cello, and guitars as well as having a thrumming bass voice. No words of welcome or thanks, or singing or instrument playing. He wore a simple black mask and veil. 1
"The Cirque de Sol is well known for it's colorful costumes, bright and cheerful acts, and amusing slapstick comedy." He said without the help of a microphone. Another thunderclap and the moonlight shifted over a few feet where Arms stood. Known for his flair with drums, cello, and the flute that was only beat out by his hypnotic tenor. "The sun reveals, light offers too harsh truths. The dark is the mask of the world." He stopped and an unsettling smirk curled his tan lips underneath his silver mask. "The dark makes the old young, the ugly beautiful, the night is safe."
The moonlight had widened onto the full stage and the entire band stood around, a fellowship of five members. Three circles around the stage, and one large one in the center. There was no set 'lead singer.' Sometimes only one or two would play, other times the entire troop would go up and create absolute madness. The element of surprise kept them famous, the very things that made them enigmas were the reasons why they had crushed all others underfoot. "Gone are the cheerful faced clowns." Scythe called, sharing his small ring with a 'clown' with stitches across his mouth, in a straightjacket and black hair, face painted inversely from a normal clown's.
"Gone are the golden proud lions." Arms purred as two panthers stalked around his feet. "The poodles, the seals.
Don't worry they made excellent meals."
"No more trapeze." Wing, under his extravagant hawk disguise. "No cute prancers.
Knife throwers, flaming rope walkers, those are our dancers." He growled, a voice like a knife barely sheathed in soft black velvet.
Even as they chanted a slow steady rhythm arose from somewhere, steady war-drum beats.
"The popcorn, soda, cotton candy, gone." Another member, Serpent, growled "And we are your freak show, feel free to fawn."
"So now that you know."
"And are quite aware"
"We'll begin the show."
"Do not be too scared."
The lights went off so suddenly Gregory didn't know if he had blinked or not.
The rest of the 'show' had continued on that thread, songs complimented by 'acts'. From knife throwing, archery, and gun practice, to show-riding on giant black stallions and jumping right over the entire group of singers. Every single stunt, if the tiniest thing went wrong someone could die, walking on tightropes on fire with no net, playing on thin rungs up a structure, dancing with panthers, fighting with live steel. It was frightening, ethereal, dark, mysterious, and enticing. However one thing remained the same as every other concert. The entire house went dark at the last song and only music reigned, the spotlight on a single microphone.
'We sing for
The Music
Not for you
You can keep your voice accusing
Your scorn is undue
Haunting ghosts
And freezing wind
We will keep our posts within
Our Lady
The Music.'
Then the tent flap opened, the real world shoved itself in and the throbbing mob separated itself and returned to their lives, if a little disconcerted at first. Gregory, however, stayed steadfast in the web, and that's when all aspects of his normality crashed and burned.
A/N Skeller and my little…uh…tribute? Blatant rip off? Of Broken Warriors. Yes. We love it that much, but really… who doesn't? I owe much to BW… not just in this story
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If you can't guess who everyone's fake name is we reserve the write to laugh and point at you. I'm entirely aware I didn't mention one. There's a point to that.
Oh, by the way, since FF seems to have a serious problem with stealing other people's works (cause I guess some 'writers' are really slow) if we find out you stole our idea, plotline, or songs… I'm gonna get pissed. - We've already had it happen once.