A/N: I have a new concept for a story, and an unorthodox way of setting it up for myself and readers. Currently, I am also writing a Jimmy Neutron fanfic, but after browsing the Hannah Montana stuff here, I have to say it took my interest. My goal for this story is 10,000 words per chapter, and in content alone on this one, I fell just short; it is currently 9,964 words in length and I hope to change that in the next chapter. Still...9964 in less than twelve hours is alright...technically, it only took four hours to get it down. Which is a bit slow for me; I can blow out a 5,000 word JN chapter in an hour and a half.
Enough idle chitchat. This story is going to be a long one, so prepare for a long haul. :)
Darkness laid thick and heavy over the city. There weren't even speckles of light from the buildings that towered over the shops and businesses below, not even a single bit of movement. Everything had stopped dead, everything had fallen silent. Night had taken on a new meaning; it meant quiet, and it meant cold, and it meant punishment for disturbers of the peace. The thick, oppressive blanket of shadow snaked its tendrils of ebony smoke through every crack, across every surface. Houses, apartments, supermarkets, banks, warehouses, businesses, towers, cars, trucks, trains, planes, everything was covered in black, as though it had been painted by some demented artist with a twisted vision of the future. Everything had changed after the restructuring.
It wasn't to be helped. America never was very good at picking who would lead the way and shine the light on a new tomorrow. But even so, it had tried. Unfortunately, it had all backfired, and the man who sat in the white-house had taken over everything from the east to the west. Everything. Not a single drop of water had escaped his control, not even a crumb of bread. Everything was his. Absolutely everything. He had decided to restructure the whole system, and it had worked. The public had been stupid enough to buy into his lies, been ignorant enough to believe everything he had said. And he used it to his full advantage. Total take-over. Total annihilation. People everywhere called him the Angel of Death. Monarch to the kingdom of the dead. For he had trapped everyone, as if they were the walking dead. Zombies. Petrified. Clueless. And now they all had to obey.
Nobody was to make any loud noise after eight in the evening every night. Period. Nobody was to leave home past nine in the evening. Period. Nobody was to be awake past ten in the evening. Period. Everyone had to wake up promptly at seven in the morning, and they all were at their desks working, or driving trucks, or building a new skyscraper, or manufacturing cars, or doing whatever the populace required of them by eight in the morning sharp. Anyone who reported in late lost their pay for the day. There was no such thing as vacation. No such thing as a sick day. No such thing as women in the work force. They were to stay home and take care of their children while their husbands worked. And the husbands worked from eight until six, every day. A thirty-minute break was held for lunch across the nation promptly at twelve noon every day, and anyone not in compliance was immediately called up and written a demerit. Two demerits lead to a hearing with the Board of Inquiries, and if a third demerit followed, the person was fired without question. No job openings presented themselves; there was no way for new jobs to be created. Everything ran based on popular demand and exact figures, and anyone who was fired was immediately alleviated from the national equation. It was a perfect system. Smooth, flawless, unhindered, unstoppable.
Their leader was not President of the United States. He was Monarch. Dictator. Kaiser. Chief. King. His word was law. Always law. Always. No questions, no comments, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Nothing could be done to remove him from office. Anyone who spoke out against him was condemned and erased. Every house could be erased. A new one could be created right where it had stood, for maturing teenagers when they reached their eighteenth birthday. Nobody ever got to stay at home anymore and live with their families. Nobody. Everything was grid-iron, structured, formulated, solvable. There were no anomalies. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that could break the system. It was perfect. Nothing beats perfection. Nothing. No way in, no way out.
There was some good to the monarchy. There were no wars. None. All the other countries around the world thought America was fucked up. And it was. It was beyond repair. The people had finally committed suicide as a nation and had succumbed to his tyrannical reign. The rest of the world had gone quiet to America. Nobody spoke to them. They spoke to nobody. No more trading. No more imports or exports. Oil became something that was manufactured from plastic and wood. Water was synthesized from dirt. Most everything was synthesized from dirt. And when it moved to the recycling plants, there it once again was reconverted back into dirt. Excrement became dirt. Even humans who died became dirt. They were buried in the ground, only to be dug up one week later and mulched into fertilizer or tomatoes or a tabletop. Everybody had some part of a dead person's remains in their house, woven into the cloth of their clothes or the wood of their cabinets, or even the condensers on their refrigerators. Nothing was free of dirt. Nothing. But this made for peace. Bombs could be synthesized from and then disguised as dirt. Nobody on the rest of the planet knew if the ground they stood on was safe or live. And they never would. It was the sheer terror of knowing that America could go fucking nuts and blow the planet to Kingdom Come. America, the beautiful.
The only other advantage to no war and self-production was the economic stability. Everyone had jobs. Those that didn't were disregarded. Those that couldn't weren't tallied. Women weren't counted anymore. They had lost their rights in the fight for salvation. It was hopeless. Any person who fought the system was condemned, dismembered slowly and with excruciating pain, and then discarded into a euthanizer. And nobody wanted their ashes to become the food that someone else would eat. So they all quietly abhorred the system within their own minds, acting like mindless robots carrying out their daily tasks. Nothing changed. Nothing needed to change. Nothing was out of place, and everything was accounted for.
Which is why it was so strange. It was one in the morning, the darkest part of the night, with no moon in sight (America had taken the moon hostage and had planted factories all over it, with shuttles constantly linking here and there to move the food, clothes, dirt, ash, and dust around as it needed to be), and yet there was light. One solitary light. It moved quickly, lithely, stealthily through the blackened streets, zipping and weaving and darting between cars frozen in their parked states, dodging obstacles and maneuvering rather quickly and quietly through the streets of downtown Los Angeles, the City of Fallen Angels. The light moved steadily toward its destination, and in the darkness around it, the city's hidden cameras and radar scopes picked up on the movement. Units were immediately sent to detain the light. For attached to the light was a motorcycle that had a V-shaped frontal cross-section with two wide tires that were rounded off for tight maneuvering. The black spokes twirled rapidly as the bike moved. Everything about the bike was high-tech and of finest quality. Of course, America had stopped having these street bikes, these 'crotch rockets' imported from Brazil and India after the take-over. It had been a limited-edition model at the time, pitch-black with gray and red accents spewing from around the cat-eye headlights and up over the short wind-shield.
The figure atop the bike was clad entirely in black-and-red gear. Sleek, black, aerodynamic boots with cleats mounted to the soles rested tensely on the footpegs, covering the ankles of skin-tight black leather pants that had been lined with rabbit's fur for warmth and had pads on the insides of the knees and crotch for abrasive protection against the bike itself. A black leather jacket with flared cuffs and a high collar was zipped tightly to the figure's body, with a sleek, black, aerodynamic helmet atop that. Even the gloves were black leather, and they had small, air-diffusing bumps on the knuckles to create a more stream-lined sense of motion. Not even a single strand of hair escaped the helmet, not one piece of clothing was out of place. The figure, the shadow, was dressed so that nothing of its carbon-based skin was revealed to the outside. It tucked down against the bike's gas tank and hung a sharp left, then a right. The goal was very clear. Very precise. And He didn't like it when anyone was late. The shadow swallowed hollowly. If it showed up late, He would be very angry. He was a good guy, but sometimes He was a little demanding and pushy. Still, He had formed an underground cult that was supposed to overthrow the government from the monarchy. The Kingdom of the Dead would fall to pieces if He had anything to say about it, and the shadow was happy to help, even if His methods were unorthodox or extraordinary.
A red light shown like a beacon and reflected into the shadow's full-face blacked-out helmet shield. It chuckled lowly, watching the light flicker as the incarceration unit tried closing in. The bike was only traveling at about one-fourth of its speed, about sixty miles per hour, darting and drifting through the streets. The red and blue flickered ominously behind the bike. A mechanical voice demanded that the bike be pulled over and the rider dismount for examination. A smug smile crossed the shadow's lips.
"Come play," it whispered. It twisted its right wrist backwards, the engine revving as the shadow shifted up a gear, boosting the bike up to nearly one-hundred miles per hour. The engine worked quietly and powerfully; it never sputtered or changed rpm. The lights behind the bike disappeared as the shadow entered a parking lot and then circled a store back to the street. Even with the more modernized method of catching criminals, there was no way that the shadow would go down without a fight. It was quick, it was calm, it was patient. It would wait for the opposition to lose interest before making a move. And without hesitation, the bike found its way onto the 405 north, which reached all the way up to San Francisco in the north. The cult had been instructed to meet in Temecula, so almost as soon as the shadow entered the empty highway and twisted the throttle up to one-hundred-eighty miles per hour, it was departing the exit ramp, crossing the empty intersections, sliding around corners and lifting the front wheel in the air from sheer horsepower and amusement.
If only He could see me now.
Of course, He loved anything that was considered misconduct with the authorities. He hated them with such a passion that it was almost scary. He could spin stories, true stories, about what was really going on beyond the harsh ruling that had been instated in every last part of America. It was no longer Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. It was Land of the Greed, Home of the Enslaved. And He abhorred the government so fiercely and with such passion that it soon began rubbing off on everyone in the cult. They were all suddenly very daring to do crazy things, to rebel against authority. Since they were all of-age, too, it only made sense that they could try to get away with such folly. It was madness, they knew, and they never really understood how He could always do the craziest stunts and get away with it.
He was a nice man. Polite, courteous, courageous. Everything that the cult aspired to be. But he was practical, tactical, well-informed. He was always coming up with new ideas to end the reign of terror. He was always so energetic and so eager to help with other projects, too. But this time, he had come out with very clear instructions as to what everyone had to do. They would be putting his grand scheme into play at the Angel's Stadium in Anaheim in just one week, and they had to work out all the bugs and kinks before they got to the event. Flyers had already been passed out, everyone within the Los Angeles County knew; even in Long Beach and San Diego and Fresno and Temecula and San Francisco and Santa Monica, everyone knew. They were all buzzing with excitement, talking with their work buddies at lunch, but never disclosing anything to their bosses. None of the authorities knew. Everyone had already spent money on tickets, but at only twenty-five dollars a pop, with five for one-hundred, it was a very good deal. Everyone wanted to see what they had planned. Even the stadium employees and director were in on it and were working quietly to get everything ready. It was going to be big. It was going to be loud. And it was going to break curfew and sound laws into millions of tiny pieces. And the best part was that authorities could do nothing about it.
The shadow pulled the bike into the garage of a small, single-story house that lay nestled between two other one-story houses which all belonged to a neighborhood, a spiderweb of interlinking roads that connected a patchwork quilt of houses and apartments and buildings of all different shapes and sizes and uses. However, there was something different about this particular house. The instant the garage door closed behind the shadow and its bike, the huge, three-foot-thick concrete slab that the empty garage floor was made of began to sink into the ground almost silently, a slight hiss and a gentle whirring the only indicators that it was an elevator and not an actual garage floor. It fell at a very slow rate, and was controlled by water pressure and hydraulic pistons. It was virtually undetectable to any and all bug sweepers, and nobody would ever have guessed that the house was the entrance to an underground parking garage that laid five stories beneath the ground, underneath all sewage lines and construction work and subways and even electrical cables. It was untraceable, impregnable (with twelve-foot-thick re-bar-reinforced concrete walls that formed the exoskeleton of the underground fortress), and was the perfect hideout. Nobody would ever have suspected that the house, which looked exactly like all the rest that it sat amidst, save for the actual number of the house, was home to a secret organization, a secret covenant, a cult of personality that only had one objective: overthrow the government.
But what made the cult and its leader, Him, so brilliant, is that the idea was that of Gandhi and Martin Luther King Junior and Rosa Parks and several other freedom fighters. The idea was simple: practice non-violence until the first strike is thrown. For, you see, He had literally built the fortress on a sea of bombs and explosives, and they were all housed in a large steel vault underneath the exoskeleton of concrete. At any given moment, the bombs could be rocketed through the houses of the neighborhood, through the buildings and trees and grass shoots and sprinklers, through subways and conduit and wiring and cables, through to the fresh air of the surface, where they became active, lethal machines of war and death. And while the White House, the Shrine of Blood, was nigh impregnable, the immense amount of sheer hydrogen-based firepower that He sat atop each and every day was staggering. It could easily eliminate any country that believed it could stand up to America, and the best part was that it all appeared to be a large mound of multicolored dirt and rocks. He had just as much access to the information and plans as the Monarch did, and he was at perfect liberty to use it.
The shadow reached the top floor of the complex, the parking garage, and wheeled the bike over to its slot, two slots to the left of the secondary elevator at the far end of the room. The spot was labeled with the name "Shadow," one to the left of "Star," one to the left of "Leader." He hadn't ever changed his name on the concrete floor, even after he renamed himself. Leader was a bit obvious of a name, but it was a fitting title, as he was the one who organized the entire cult and kept it running smoothly, after all. The shadow parked the bike, polishing the logo on the side, which read "Black Panther" in very tiny, blood-red font that was slightly sunken into the plastic fairing over the cat's eye headlights, the red-tinted "iris" rings that acted as turn signals reflecting the overhead halogen lights as they bathed the room in their ethereal glow. The logo shone, and the shadow moved to the elevator, walking past the gorgeous red Corvette that Star drove and the four-wheeled two-seater hoverbike that He rode. The Corvette had been called The Fox; the hoverbike named Spyder. It looked very much like a spider, a shiny set of royal purple carbon-fiber flares and mudflaps protecting the tires, black-and-midnight-blue carbon-fiber plastics adoring the fairing, sides, and rear fender. Even the front fender was a sleek, deep cobalt color and weighed near nothing. Which was not to say that it was the best item in the garage, as the red Corvette beside it spoke for itself on appearance alone. It was absolutely breathtaking, and yet, it too held secrets: where the Spyder could reach a speed equal to that of the Black Panther, The Fox had been equipped with an engine that was as quiet as it was outgoing: it could produce enough horsepower output to raise the car's speedometer needle upwards toward two-hundred-eighty miles per hour. The supercharger and nitrous oxide tanks only served to boost its impression; it was a car made for high-speed getaways, and it was not one to be easily forgotten.
The shadow entered the elevator beside the Spyder and pushed the button labeled Board Room. It checked its watch and sighed a bit sadly. One-twelve in the morning. The meeting had begun two minutes before. He hated when people were late. But Shadow always got off easy. He was a bit more reasonable with Shadow and Star, the first two who He'd recruited for the cult. Shadow had accepted first. It was because they'd been friends, very strong and steady friends. Because He was a nice man. He had always been a nice man, even as a boy. And He was two years the junior.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Inside the Board Room were only two people, both at the far end of the fifty-foot-long solid oak table. A large clock that was based in the oak paneled wall behind the high-backed chair at the far end of the table did indeed announce that it was one-thirteen in the morning. Sitting in front of, but below, the gigantic hands of the clock was a figure clad mostly in black. Spiked black hair. Black short-sleeved t-shirt with glowing maroon graphics. Black leather pants that had purple stripes running in crosses and ribs, like a tight webbing, all the way from His crotch and black, diamond-studded belt down to His knees, where the pants were surrounded by black, laced-up leather boots with six inch rubber pumps cemented into the bottoms. The purple laces reflected the halogen light from overhead, while the toe of the highly-polished right boot shined as it rested on the equally-highly-polished table. Black, elbow-length gloves, skin-tight and made of an odd, surreal material clung to His skin, making it shiny and dark, just the way He liked everything of His to be. The dark cobalt-blue jacket that draped loosely over His shoulders and arms, the cobalt-blue necktie that He wore, the electric-blue contact lenses in His eyes, all tied together, all served to further accent his eccentric taste in fashion and style. But by no means was he a diva. He was a sane man, a straight man, one who could enjoy only the company of other women within his own bed.
Seated to His left was Star. Her dark-chocolate-colored hair ran in gentle curls down her back, covering part of her white cardigan, the accent to her red spaghetti-strap top that covered her body down to the waist, where black jeans ran to her ankles, meeting black, strapped, four-inch-tall high heeled shoes. The brunette gazed at Shadow with devious eyes, eyes that were both questioning and forgiving, angry and yet relieved. She stood immediately at the sight of her friend, her fellow cult member, blinking her long, thick eyelashes in an attempt to say hello without opening her ruby-red lips or moving her blush-covered cheeks. She looked absolutely gorgeous, as she should have; she was fairly well-off financially and didn't ever overstep her budget line. Everyone was on a tighter budget than they would have liked, but He never seemed to have any problems coming across money; it always seemed to fall into His lap whenever he needed it.
The elevator doors shut and the carriage moved down. He cleared his throat quietly at the head of the table.
"Truscott. You're three minutes late."
Shadow took off the helmet, letting her golden tresses careen down her back in a smooth, luscious waterfall of sun-kissed waves and locks. She set the helmet at the end of the table she was nearest to, sliding next out of her jacket, underneath which was a white long-sleeved V-neck blouse that had white and gray skull graphics plastered across the front. She dropped the leather jacket onto her helmet, the resounding dull flump of cowhide against plastic and wood resonating throughout the room. The oak panels had excellent acoustics and amplified the sound by several decibels.
"I got spotted by a patrol unit. I had to detour momentarily to shake it."
He lifted his left leg up, crossing the left foot and its matching boot over the right one. He leaned back in His chair, resting the back of His head in His hands, the diamond and platinum bracelets that adorned each wrist glimmering beautifully in the light. He was never short on money, ever. He lived only in luxury and cleanliness.
"What classification?" he asked calmly. His voice was suave and courteous, merely asking a question, not chastising the tardiness.
"I think it was a Ranger. Nothing large. Whatever it was, it was a red-and-blue, and it wasn't even a fast one at that."
He sighed deeply, and it seemed that the air was suddenly sorrowful and a bit terse. "Truscott...I gave you a map. It has the locations of every single patrol camera in the greater Los Angeles County area. Didn't you consult it before leaving?"
"I did," she responded quietly, unable to meet his serene gaze. She hated how He could make her feel so regretful and yet Himself be so calm and collected. Nothing was ever out of place with Him, and He was never demanding; He only ever requested things, but they always got done. He was always trying to be positive, and everyone would obey Him simply because He was both a gifted public speaker and a very generous man. He was very willing to give out reward for the smallest of tasks that were accomplished for Him, even going so far as to give one hundred dollars to someone for taking His trashcan outside to the dumpster down the road, a simple task that took less than five minutes to accomplish. Never was anyone dissatisfied, and if they were, He worked His very hardest to right His wrongs and shortcomings.
"I looked at the map," she continued, sighing, gently drawing the chair to his right outward to sit in it heavily. "But the cameras are so small and pointless. I can outrun almost anything that decides to give chase. A simple Ranger was nothing to me."
He gazed up at the ceiling, as if deep in thought. She glanced across the table at the brunette, noting that her eyes had been trained on Him. She turned back to his attention almost immediately.
"Truscott...I realize that it must be frustrating for you and Stewart to have to maintain silence and secrecy. I loathe it just as much as you both do. But...even as I can excuse the tardiness, since you have been dedicated and motivated the entire time we've been here, I cannot simply overlook the Ranger. Imagine how you would have hurt yourself if you were caught. They would have most likely put you to death for breaking such a hard-fast rule. Imagine what it would have done to Stewart over here," he said calmly, gesturing to his left. "Imagine what it would be like, even for me. You're like a sister to me, Lilly Truscott, and I don't want to lose you because of something a bit foolish."
Lilly sighed and hung her head, ashamed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so reckless. I...just...I'm frustrated. It's stupid that we don't have freedom anymore."
"I understand," He replied. "It's tough trying to keep quiet and follow orders from the feds. You're only twenty-three, after all. You have a voice, and it deserves to be heard."
Lilly sighed again. "Miley...I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Not...not after remembering Ollie..."
She struggled to maintain her composure. Her shoulders buckled and wobbled. It looked as though she were a very weak butterfly, a leather-clad butterfly, sickened and blackened by the world as it had become.
"Lilly...he's not really gone," Miley said quietly. Her voice was low, but pure and vibrant even in the quiet tones she spoke in. She seemed so young and vibrant, just in what she said. She was so young and vibrant, a constant source of boundless energy that she freely shared with others.
"He's not gone. He's still here. With us. In our hearts and in our minds."
"Oliver Oken was a valued member of our cult. He risked his life every day that he lived, working as one of the government officials, our ear to the inside. I cannot begin to express my debt to him as an individual and as a team player. But. His death has made me realize that we need to be stronger, faster, smarter, more powerful in every possible way so that it doesn't happen again. I have taken additional precautions to ensure that it never happens again, and I intend to allow you two to take your full revenge on the government that obliterated him for having a voice, just as I intend to take my own relish in giving the monarchy hell."
"But why you? What could you have against the Angel of Death that could cause you to create a cult?"
He still gazed at the ceiling. His nose twitched from a slight itch, though He made no move to scratch it, letting His hands rest behind His head like a pillow against the hard oak embellishment grooved into the backing of the chair.
"It's a little more personal for me than it is for you two ladies. You both want freedom just as much as the next person, but first, nobody else has the vision, the ability to take the challenge, that I do, and second, I have a very personal reason for fighting against the uprising."
"Is it too personal for me to ask?" Miley asked softly, curiously, almost as if afraid of the answer.
"It is not too personal for either of you to ask, and I will only answer the question to you two ladies. However, this is highly personal and confidential information, because, you see...my father died as a result of the uprising. He...he was a great man, and..." He closed His eyes slowly, swallowing gently, collecting His thoughts. "And I loved him until the day it changed. He taught me so much, and then he was taken from me. I know not exactly how it happened, only that he never came home. It wasn't that long ago, but I began planning from then on. And December Twentieth, Twenty-Twelve, just as had been predicted, the sun moved into the thirteenth astrological house, and all chaos ensued as the take-over happened. I hid underground for a year, and had enough time to construct what is around us today. Money...I have a large inheritance. My father died. My mother moved away, leaving everything to me. I only hear from her once per several months, and I don't even know if she has come to terms with what has become of the country she once loved and trusted. Even I myself haven't come to terms with it, which is why I strive to overturn it. I want things to become better. Back when President Obama came up with the ideas to better the country, the first President of the United States of America in a very long time to have a brain, one that our country could finally be proud of, had a voice. He was African-American, a 'colored' man, a 'minority', and he was not afraid to speak his mind. He risked his life every day he was alive, and he was due for a second term, you remember. Then the report came out that he was dead. All hell broke loose. Chaos just fucking everywhere. And that's why I've got to stop it. Because the chaos was followed by a calm, and this currently is only the eye of the storm. The other side of the hurricane is coming around, and I'm going to be the frontline against the government that condemned its people to lives of horrid, putrid, stinking damnation. I hate it. I fucking hate it," He finished in a whisper, dragging His feet off the table, dropping his gloved fists against the oak tabletop, the dull thud echoing around the room. The girls were silent.
"And I enlisted your help, Miley, my Star, because I knew, I knew, that you and I could see on a level playing field. It was an unorthodox reason, sure, but I knew that you and I had the same message to share, and I know that you'll be able to help me maintain non-violence.
"And I enlisted your help, Lilly, my Shadow, because you and Miley are such close companions, such ideal opposites and yet such an amazing pair. You're the fighter, the bite behind her bark, the strength that will help carry this mission out. You are the one who will aid me with the violence when the time comes, and God permitting, God damn it all, I will personally see to it that you get the biggest fucking gun I can possibly come across.
"You two together, the friendship you share, the prowess you command, the image that you stand for, is phenomenal. My image, my dream, my plan is nothing more than a blueprint for what I wish to accomplish. I have nothing to aid me in my grand scheme, though I am the grand architect. That is where you come in. It is a completely unorthodox and obscene plan that will charm tens, hundreds, thousands, millions into believing that there will be a better tomorrow. Now you understand my plan. You understand who I am and what I am. You understand my reasoning and my argument. And so I ask you one more time, just as I have twice before today, once on the day I called for you to meet with me for the formation of the cult, and once for the formation of this plan, will you aid me in my endeavor?"
They both gazed at Him as He glared down the table, lines of fire jetting from His eyes in furious agony and sheer determination at the success of His plot. Lilly laid her hands on His right fist.
"I hate the thing that our country has become. I hate even more how it came to be this way. The bloodshed isn't over. This war is ours. And I will fight, even if it means my death."
Miley followed suit with her hands on His left fist.
"I know that you have faith in me, and I have as much faith in you. We have everything to gain, and nothing to lose. And I will do everything I can to help you, until death do I fail, Kitten."
He blinked slowly and the blue contacts distorted his eyes to a purplish color of rage and joy; the girls immediately knew that his chocolate-colored eyes had altered colors to a more reddish hue that could not be canceled out by the blue in the contact irises. His pupils had dilated and he broke into a satisfied grin, still glaring daggers down the table in his ferocity, his sheer, overwhelming passion.
"Thank you, ladies. I appreciate your work so much, and I am terribly in your debt."
He gave them each a light, thankful peck on the cheek, and they both blushed; to be kissed in such a way by their leader was a high honor in his book, and one that he had only ever bestowed on them once before, when they had first accepted his hair-brained notion. The plan, the future, and their fates were all sealed with those two light pecks, and as he stood and gently freed his hands, jumping onto and then striding down the table with light, quiet knocks of rubber against solid oak, he left in his wake a very powerful, commanding aura.
"Miley, Lilly, I do apologize," he said, stopping at the far end of the table. "I don't mean to leave you both so soon, but unfortunately, I have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is not going to be going very well down below if I don't go speak with the others below deck. Perhaps Butters misplaced some cables or papers. Whatever it is, I beg pardon that I may leave without any hard feelings," he paused to backflip over the chair that stood at the end of the table, landing very precisely and steadily on his boot-clad feet, "and that you will forgive me terribly for having to leave you so suddenly."
He gently tapped the elevator button, his back to the doors. Both girls blinked in surprise; they had never seen him do anything remotely athletic, let alone flip backwards over a high-backed solid-oak chair and land on his feet which were six inches further off the ground than they should have been. The doors opened and he stepped backwards once, jamming a button that shut the doors immediately and whisked the small box downward toward the warehouse and the arena. They blinked again at the doors, then looked at each other.
"He's definitely a leader, alright."
"He never fails to amaze me," Miley replied. Lilly glanced at the clock. One-forty-one in the morning.
"So, should you get around to writing your song, then?"
"Oh! That! Yeah...maybe. I don't know. I mean...I know what I want to say, but it's tough to put to words."
"What style music is it?"
"It's a hard-rock song. I know that he's into the metal stuff, but that's a little too heavy for me, I guess."
"Well, no matter what you say, just remember to speak your mind," Lilly replied confidently. "You'll think of something, Miley; you always do."
The brunette nodded slowly, gazing off into the empty space immediately over Lilly's left shoulder. "Speak my...mind! Lilly, that's it!"
"What's it?"
The brunette flew across the table and knocked her friend's chair over, pinning the blonde to the ground rather suddenly and painfully in a bear-hug. Lilly gasped and squirmed a bit, trying to alleviate the pain in the back of her head and hip.
"Miley, what's gotten into you?"
"A feeling, Lilly! I have a feeling now! Come on! We've gotta get to the studio!"
Miley latched her hand onto Lilly's wrist and took off in a dead run for the doors. The blonde was suddenly dragged to her feet and yanked away from the fallen chair, which scudded against the ground loudly as her foot caught the leg and dragged it around. The elevator opened and whisked the girls downward to the lodging floor, where the studio room was housed, where Miley thence continued writing her song.
"Sir, we've got it! We got the shipment of equipment!"
"Excellent. Nice jingle too. Now, where are we with musicians?"
"Well...that's the problem. We have our singer, we have backup dancers, we have lead and rhythm guitars, but...we're missing drums and a bass guitar. We even have a violin, but nobody to fill for the main body of the music."
Kitten scratched the back of his head, toying with a clump of clean, but spiked and styled hair. His hair was mostly black, but it had blue and purple streaked within it at random locations for a totally outrageous look.
"We're missing drums and a bassist?"
The boy nodded. "Yes, sir...I'm sorry, sir."
"No, no, it's alright. I might actually have a solution. Butters!"
A tall, muscular man with a dark tan and long, bouncy orange hair stepped around a large steel rigging structure that housed several gigantic halogen bulbs, spotlights that would focus on the members of the band as they took to their various instruments. The dance-team was practicing on the floor below, about sixty feet further below the warehouse, complete with soundproofing and stadium-like sound quality. Everything was ready to go, other than the setlist, and now, the instruments.
The one called Butters stepped up to Kitten. "You called, sir?"
"Ah, yes. When was the last time you picked up a guitar?"
"Two days ago...but I was just messing around with it. I don't really play."
"If I got you tabs, could you do it?"
"Well...it depends on how hard the song is."
"It's for Miley. Do it for Miley."
He hesitated, looking left, then right, shoulders rolling oddly. "I could give it a try, I guess."
"That's what I'm talking about," Kitten cried in eager happiness. He clapped Butters a high-five and grinned widely. "Alright, I'll get you a copy of Miley's tabs translated from her sheet music. Sound good?"
"Whatever, bro."
He shrugged and walked away, looking nonplussed. The boy was astonished.
"You know Miley Stewart?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
"Not personally. What's she like?"
"Amazing. She's like the world's finest chocolates all baked to perfection and sealed into one small, perfect box."
The boy was drooling rather heavily, much like a bulldog. "Wow...she sounds just amazing."
"Well, I would think so, since that's what I called her too." Kitten winked at the boy.
"So, that only leaves yours truly."
"For what?"
"Well, Butters can do bass. I'll fill as a drummer."
"Sir...no offense, but...can you do it?"
"I used to play a little bit back when I was younger. I think I can still do it. I'm only twenty-two, you know."
"But, sir...this is big. HUGE. You just said it's Miley Stewart, the famous popstar. How...what...what is she going to think?"
"She's going to think it's a fabulous idea," a strong, slightly taunting voice called. Kitten glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
"How's the song coming?"
"Better now that Lilly's on the job," the brunette replied, standing to his left, her right arm wrapping around his shoulder. His left moved comfortably around the left side of her waist, and she gazed at the boy.
"Who is this?"
"This is a very ecstatic fan of yours, I do believe. I've nicknamed him Shorty. He's only thirteen, am I right?"
The boy nodded, eyes as big as saucers, stunned out of speech. Miley chuckled.
"Well, you already know Kitten, which means you must be gawking at me."
"You're...you're...you're her."
"Yep. Surprised?"
He nodded slowly, nearly dropping his clipboard. Miley turned back to Kitten, giggling.
"So, um...what was that I overheard about needing a drummer?"
"I volunteered myself for the part. I used to play as a kid, and I was a huge metal-head, with the long hair and the head-banging and everything. It's not going to be so hard to adjust, is it?"
Butters came back over. "Hey, bro, there's someone requesting you in the rehearsal room. They need you to sort something out."
"Can do. Who's asking, and who's telling?"
"The person on the walkie-talkie says her name is Skippy, and the one who's requesting you for clarification is one called Gaff."
"Skippy called, Gaff requested. Got it. Thanks, bro."
"No problem. See you."
"I'll get those tabs to you ASAP."
Butters nodded and moved away, calling out concernedly at some other workers who were about his age. They were either goofing off or had misplaced the delicate equipment.
"Alrighty, then. Miley, care to join me?"
She pecked him on the cheek, just as he had done to her not all that long before. "Don't mind if I do," she replied smoothly, ruffling the boy's hair. He grumbled a bit and straightened it out, following them with the clipboard tucked importantly under his arm. He only stood to Kitten's elbow, but he was very intelligent, and had a go-to-it attitude that lacked fear of retribution and regard for age boundaries. Even if he was thirteen years old, he was not afraid to lecture someone of double his age, as he had done a couple times previously.
He slipped into the elevator with the couple, their arms still linked comfortably around each other. Neither had specific, heart-felt feelings for the other, but they were on first-name terms, and they believed that they would be comfortable with one another no matter what the circumstances. The same could be said of Kitten and Lilly, and especially of Lilly and Miley, who had grown up in separate homes as sisters in all but blood. The only reason Kitten fit into the equation is because he brought everyone together and worked all the bugs out. He was the final voice of reason and the one who made everything seem alright, even at its darkest.
"So...what exactly are you being called for, sir?"
"I couldn't tell you, Shorty. All I know is that I'm wanted to sort something out. Maybe Magic is busy making mischief again."
Shorty fell silent. Magic was Kitten's sister, and Butters was his brother. There was no way anyone would order either of them around except for Kitten, the eldest, and there was no way they'd listen to anyone other than him. Even his authority was questionable sometimes in their eyes. They were all adults and all deserved their own voices. But they followed him, since he'd always been the big brother. They couldn't really live without him, not after their mother had moved away and their father died. They literally only had each other and the underground, and they often spent days alone under the intense concrete gridwork that built the underground structure. It was fairly often that Kitten wouldn't ever get to meet new members of the cult or those undergoing the induction process until months after they'd originally started, even though he made a strong-hearted attempt at getting around to introduce himself to everyone and to check up on everyone at least once a week. It seemed like it wasn't very often for him to be showing everyone some sunshine on his face, but he was a very busy man, and in the past few weeks of planning the revival, he'd been traveling in secret and forming other sectors of underground cults, all who obeyed him, all who were loyal. At least, that's what he said. Nobody ever questioned Kitten with anything, not even his name. For even as his name was light and fluffy, he was equally dark and deadly. He could kill a man faster than kiss him, and even as he tried to be polite and respectful to others and their possessions, even as he tried not to snap and lose it, once in a while it had to happen for his sanity's sake.
The elevator reached the arena. It opened its doors and standing before them was an electrician wearing a blue jump-suit, a yellow plastic hard-hat, and a tool-belt made of leather that had screws, nuts, bolts, a drill, and a stapler within its many pockets.
"You! Kitten, right?"
"Yes, that is I. Who are you?"
"Gaff. I called for you. What the hell kind of operation are you running here, dipshit?"
A girl shoved her way in front of the electrician, pulling Kitten and Miley out of the elevator. Shorty followed quickly in their wake, the electrician still yelling at the spiky-haired man.
"Forgive me, sir. He just got out of the academy and went through orientation all this week. It seems he has a complaint about the structure of the lighting fixtures we're going to utilize.
"Damn right! What the fuck kind of Mickey Mouse job do you have going on here?"
"Gaff, please, profanity is an extremity in my book. Everything is fixable. Besides, have you not noticed whom we're in the presence of?"
The man looked at the brunette that was still linked comfortably and willingly by Kitten's side. He gasped.
"Ms. Stewart! You...you're real!"
"Well, kinda, yeah. I mean, if I weren't, how could I be here, right?"
"But...but...this is..."
"Perhaps the reasoning behind the arena is a bit more clear now. Skippy, back to your post; your dancers need you. Condition them. Star, if you will, please join them and coach them. Shorty, follow us. Gaff, lead me to the problem at hand."
They all parted into their groups. Kitten followed Gaff to the colossal intricacy that created the geometric interlinking of millions of triangles made of solid steel piping; all the construction had been created so that it could be broken down, slipped together, and carted around as needed. The pieces only measured three feet long at most, so that they could all fit on the elevator, and had been numbered specifically according to position. The end result was to be a gigantic arch that would have thousands of glowing lights hanging over the performers, specifically over the star performer of the show.
"So, Gaff, what's the problem?"
"Well, look, sir."
Kitten scratched his head, looking at the joists in the rigging. "I'm not sure I see the problem."
"It's in the linking, sir. Look. If I slip this coupler open and then jiggle it just a little," he said, demonstrating. The coupling link came apart with a light click, and the joist fell out of its housing, separating one three-foot-long segment from the rest of the giant arch. "You see the problem. Imagine if these things are blown open or are mistakenly left unlatched. The weight of the lights coupled with the pulse of the decibels would be enough to rattle the entire structure loose and crush the stage. Everyone would die or be severely injured."
"And why did you call me down here for this?"
"Because it is a serious issue which I don't know if I can resolve."
"I think it's easier than you're making it out to be."
Kitten reached behind him for a short length of thin rope. He recoupled the joists, then looped the rope around two of the triangular cross-braces, tying the loop tightly closed with a simple knot.
"Now, with that one rope in place, uncouple the joists and see if it disconnects."
Gaff tried. He tugged on the piece with all his might. He even called two other engineers over to assist him. Nothing they did got the piece to budge.
"See, Gaff. You overcomplicated the matter in thinking it would have to be restructured. Trust me: sometimes, the simplest of things can be the crux of a large problem. My father often spoke to me about a comedian he listened to, one who was of amusement to him when he was young, and he said that for one of the jokes, the comedian used a record-player as the punch-line. He kept adding speakers to this record-player until he had filled the world with them, and then recalled that the only way to read the record was through a sensitive, diamond-tipped needle that fed into a translation arm. So he thought 'Hey...maybe it's the needle.' In this case, Gaff, it most certainly was the needle. Just think simple. Keep it easy. Sometimes, maybe it's just the needle." He patted the stunned electrician on the shoulder and stood up, walking away.
"Oh, and if you want a little advice, from me to you, I'd suggest running the cables through the piping rather than around it. Much cleaner and more sophisticated. Plus, when the cable twists and winds, it runs the risk of breaking and shorting out. Miley wouldn't want that to happen midway through the concert, would she?"
He winked at the electrician, then continued walking away. He spotted the dancers all standing with crossed arms at their positions, Miley standing behind Skippy, the instructor. Skippy was giving them a bit of a lecture in what exactly was being asked of them.
"...you need to feel it. Deep in your body, down by your toes, the tips of your fingers, all the way up to the top of your head and the middle of your belly. It should radiate. You should breathe Miley. Every move you make reflects her movements; the dancers are merely an extension of 'the man,' which in this case is Miley. We aren't here to be perfect, we're here to be professional. And professionalism is a sense of knowing who you are and who she is, because if you don't have the answer to either of those questions, the show looks like shit."
Most of the dancers were either skeptical or gazing at Miley in stunned silence. Skippy rolled her eyes.
"Would you rather that she teaches you for the day?"
Most of them nodded. Miley laughed.
"Actually, ladies, I can't today. I've gotta get back up to the studio and finish writing this new song I've been working on. Skippy here should be able to keep you all going. Just listen to what she says and stay smiling."
"Remember," Kitten voiced, sliding up behind the proud singer, "we're doing this for the world. Something needs to change, and only you guys can help us get there. Can you do it?"
They all nodded seriously. Kitten beamed.
"Wonderful. Well, I think our work here is done for now. I may be back after a while, but I've gotta go help Ms. Stewart write her song."
Miley chuckled. "It's like you could read my mind."
He winked. "Some might say. I just call it intuition."
He spun and ventured toward the elevator, the doors of which were still wide open. It always stood open at the arena's floor. It had to. People needed quick access to get in and out. Often, none of the other buttons were pressed by other cult members. The arena button had already been replaced once from overuse, and it was already starting to fade again.
Miley stepped into the elevator immediately behind Kitten. He pushed the button for the dorm rooms and the elevator whisked them upwards to the correct floor. The doors opened and he strode away very quickly, the singer having trouble keeping up. He made his way quickly to the studio door and wrenched it open, startling Lilly as she sat in a chair at the mixing board scribbling notes on a pad of paper.
"What key, what tempo, what style?"
"Um...I...it's..."
"C key, about one hundred thirty beats per minute, hard-rock."
"Is it a party song?"
"Sort-of. It's a song that explains our purpose, and it's the first song I want us to do when we play in the Stadium. It's about revolution, about standing up for oneself."
"What do you have so far?"
Lilly tossed three crumpled sheets of paper to Kitten. He caught them and unfolded one dexterously with one hand, juggling the other two with his left hand.
"Good ideas, but it's not compulsive enough..."
He dropped the sheet and unfolded the other two, each with only one hand, and began reading them simultaneously.
"Hmm...the way this thing starts off is a bit wrong. How about we do something unusual?"
"What do you mean?"
"Have you ever heard of a multi-track song?"
"What?"
"A band I was once very fond of did something called 'multi-track songs' which are songs that are cut at certain points for length reasons, and they all have different titles, but they are merely parts, or movements, of that one mega-song. They would often devote entire albums to one particular song, and once devoted two albums to one long song, almost like a story. I think...I have an idea for you. Remember what I said in the board-room about a hurricane?"
"Yes. Very clearly."
"Well, think about the destruction a storm brings with it. You can call the entire song The Storm and break it into four parts: The Onslaught, Surreal Calm, The Second Attack, and The Aftermath. Or something along those lines."
"It's brilliant! Do you have any ideas?"
"The first part of the storm would have to be something fast and totally rocking, something to get the crowd up and on their feet. It has to talk about what happened to change us; build, destroy, repeat. But it has to be censored so that it takes some analysis to really understand. The second part, the eye, is what we've got now. Talk about how it's not over and the war's just begun, again with censorship. The third part would be as rocking, if not more so, than the first part, and it would be the upheaval. It's about how the destruction came back around, but the wind shifted directions. It can all be highly symbolic."
"I love it! But what about the fourth part?"
"Optional. That would be like what devastation and rebuilding we have to do once the storm is over. All the hardships that we've overcome, what we've accomplished, and what we now have to fix and rebuild for a better future."
"That's deep. That's amazing. I love it," she gushed. "This is going to be huge."
"But I'll leave it to you to write. Even though I came up with tons of lyrics in my youth...none of them would fit."
"Well...maybe there's room for a duet?"
"I think that spot should be reserved for your best friend," Kitten replied calmly. Lilly blushed crimson. Me? Duet? With Miley?
"Well, there's an idea! How about it, Lilly? Think your voice is up to it?"
"I...I don't know."
"Tell you what. Figure out the words, then see if there's an option open. Come up with a melody and a tempo and I'll help you figure out the rest. It's one thing to write lyrics, it's another to do the entire band's parts.
"Kitten, wait," Lilly called. He paused as he moved to leave, his diamonds and bands glimmering and flashing in the light of the overhead bulbs.
"Are you sure you're committed to doing this? I mean, imagine the trouble you could get into if we get caught."
"That's the intention. We get caught in an act of public defiance, and we set an example for the rest of the country. If they see us doing it, they're going to wonder 'why can't we?' It's a very simple domino effect, and we're the finger that pokes it all over. This concert is the first domino, and I fully intend to bring this government down. We have to be defiant, obnoxious, obscene, and downright unruly, but we have to maintain non-violence for as long as possible, maintain our sense of purpose and objective. Besides...I have an odd feeling that I won't have too much trouble to contend with. I have more fear for you two and the others belowground. I...I'm putting you all in danger with this scheme of mine, and perhaps not even for the right reasons."
"Hush," Miley said sternly. "Lilly and I elected to be here, we elected to do this, to stand up, to throw down. We elected to assist you, and we will do so no matter what it takes. To the end," she finished strongly, holding out her right hand, pointing finger extended, jabbing at Kitten's face. He smiled, volumes of positive energy and lightheartedness flooding the room. Lilly also pointed at him, mumbling "To the end" like her friend. He held out his finger, tapping the ends of their index fingers individually, eyes bright and sparkling, the blue contact lenses shining brightly and excitedly in the anticipation of the first step in the plan.
"To the end," he replied quietly. He then turned back around and slipped quietly out the door, his footsteps skipping their way down the hall with a very giddy, almost school-boy-ish attitude.
"He never really gets down or upset, does he?"
"Not really. Something's always there to boost him back up."
"He's just so happy all the time. I don't see how he does it without snapping or losing it."
"It's gotta be tough for him to be a beacon of light for everyone."
"But he does it with a wink and a smile," Lilly replied, grinning in the happy energy of the atmosphere. Miley turned and flopped into a chair beside the blonde, excited at the prospect of a new, multi-track song.
"Alright, let's do this. First up: The Onslaught."
It was only about two in the morning when the first word hit the page, but it was well after four by the time the entire song had been written and a melody thrown together at the desired tempo. It was nowhere near perfect, and Miley persuaded Lilly to side with her in wanting Kitten's opinion on the song as well, but they were both tired from being awake in the middle of the night. And they exited the studio, flicking the light switch off, the pad of paper still sitting on the sound board. Both girls yawned and stretched as they entered Miley's room, shutting the door quietly behind them, where they proceeded to change their outfits into something more comfortable for sleeping in. The light darkened on voice command, and the girls curled up beside each other, warm and cozy, in the same, large, fluffy bed that led them to drift off into dreamland, comfortable and at complete peace with themselves and the world. The last thing Miley remembered before drifting off was her hand twisting a strand of Lilly's back over her ear before black consumed her, and she dropped off the cliff of consciousness into the sea of dreams and memories, where forever was both an instant and infinite, and nothing mattered anymore.
Wasn't really convinced with the way I ended it. I'll only update this thing on the weekends, since my JN is easier to write and I'm more engaged with it. Anyways, enjoy what you can. I love readers and reviewers, and anything and everything is welcome as criticism or feedback. :)