"Ok…lets try once more. On time now guys!" Said a rather large man who was seated behind a set of drums. " I'll count y'all in a'ight? So at four. One two three f-" But he was cut off by his blue haired counter part.
"Feel goo-" He, in turn was also cut off. This time by a man of sickly green complexion.
"Oi! You fuckin dullard! Get it on time for once!" The man growled, mismatched eyes glaring at the other man.
"Please Murdoc-san. Please let us try to be more peaceful. Stu-san was not alone in his timing. You were off also." A young Asian girl pleaded softly.
"Forget it. S'no good! We're messed up or sum fink!" The blue haired known as 2Done groaned, his head in his hands as he had fallen victim to a painful, but mundane migraine. "Can we please just turn in for tonight, try to get some sleep, an then try again t'morrow?" He asked now lifting his gaze to meet those of his band mates.
"Of all the shop windows to crash though, it had to be yours…" Muttered the vileone, Murdoc.
"Guys guys. Lets be adult about this. We'll try once more and if it's a no go, then we'll rest up and try tomorrow. Now try and keep time with each other." Russel suggested from behind his barrier of percussion.
His suggestion was greeted by a nod of approval from young Noodle, and the apathetic grunts of 2D and Murdoc. Russel began to count them in once more, but it was no good. D had been dazing off, and Murdoc was the one to start early this time. Noodle, anticipating this hadn't even begun, and Russel now bore a look of frustration, eye brows furrowed above his blank voids.
"Tha's it…we need help." He declared after a moment of awkward silence.
A set of Vans skate shoes struck the rain soaked sidewalk as a woman of twenty-three jogged the 50 foot span from her cab, to the train station. One hand gripped a large duffle bag and a guitar case, the other, an umbrella. Once within the safety of the building, she dropped the luggage, closed her umbrella, and removed the hood of her sweater. A look of distress played her features.
"I'm going tobelate…They'll fire me before I even start. I'll go all that way and they'll fire me.." She muttered to her self before grabbing up her bag and umbrella and making her way toward the ticket booth.
Within moments she had received a train ticket to Sussexand was returning back toward the entrance. She halted and set down her things once more, now grabbing a chair and uncharismatically "flopping" down on it. After brushing a few strands of deep red hair from her gaze, she reached for a magazine which hither to, had laid immobile on the table next to her chair. She began to thumb through the pages. Her appearance would suggest lack of enthusiasm, and utter boredom, but truly, her entrails writhed and she felt the familiar sensation of "butterflies". She was nervous.
Helena, formerly a Canadian, had moved to London, England to study at the University of London. She had attended the school for several years, had recently graduated with a masters degree in Contemporary Music Studies and had been looking forward to beginning a career in music, and hopefully re-unite the band she had performed with until the end of high school. Now, with her expertise and the talent of her friends and band mates, they were sure to find success. Unfortunately, of the four members (all of whom she had lost contact with after moving to Britain), one had lost her life, the victim of an adiction, and the other two were simply not willing to pick up where they had left off.
"After all," they told her. "We're adults, we can't make a living off of music. We have other things to do. Do the right thing Helena, forget about this silly music thing." The young hopeful had been devastated, that is until she had received the phone call which she felt would change her life. An avid fan of the "Gorillaz" She had nearly died of a heart attack when she was called, in her London flat, by the percussionist of said band. Russel Hobbs. It turned out that Mr. Hobbs had contacted numerous businesses in search of a consultant in the area of Music.
His query had turned up unsatisfactory results, and so, desperate he began to scout out universities. Finaly, after two weeks of searching he had been giving the phone number of a graduate of the University of London. Apparently, her cherished favorite band had been suffering from a musical plateau lately. Without informing his band mates, he had decided to seek out a musical consultant to help the band with they problems, and get them past these hurtles. He had found her, and thus Helena's journey began.
Through with the magazine, the young woman set it atop the small table again, and glanced toward the clock. 3:15, the 3:30 train would be there soon. Today, Helena was adorned in a casual pair of grey sweat pants, a white tank top, and over top of that, a medium blue zip-up sweater. Though it had a hood it was not a hoodie. It was too thin. Just a simple zip-up sweater. No, she was not going for a comfortable look. Infact, she had been to the gym earlier that day, then showered and packed, and headed to the train station. Rich red curls had been thrown hastily up into a large, very loose messy bun, stray strands of hair gracefully resting against the nape of her neck here and there as they fell from the mess of hair and pony tail. She was pretty. But nothing spectacular. She sported full and plump lips, deep emerald eyes, and vibrant red locks. Her body, while nothing special, was toned and curvy. Feminine you could say. Soon, she would board the train and head for Kong Studios, where hopefully she could help the Gorillaz re-discover their musical talent.