Transylvania
Disclaimer: I own all the characters. It's an original story with a not-so-original concept.
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Sprocket was in full swing on this rather uneventful night. There was an aura of tension throughout the town, even as Christopher Harper began some of his wild, flailing moves on the stage, kicking over a chair that had been set up as a prop. It was a particularly angry part of the song, about how the young were oppressed by the old, and to him, his kicking of the chair symbolized the rage the youth felt at the oppression in question.
Or, maybe it was just fun. One could never really tell with Chris.
Either way, the audience loved it. They erupted into cheers, shouts, and people were added to the jostling throng of the mosh pit near the stage. No stage diving for Quincey tonight, that was for sure. The poor boy, he loved that like he loved his beloved natural touch with the bass. He loved one of the two lead singers, Jessica Larrs, too…but that was irrelevant at the moment. Well, it would have been…had he not been using his position behind her to catch glimpses of her rather impressive…assets. Ahhh, the boy was in love…but that didn't mean he couldn't have a little bit of lust, too, right?
Jack Karter was trying to hide his disgust at Quincey's actions, and doing a pretty good job of it. Jack was the opposite of Quincey in that regard. The way he viewed it, lust was only something that one could have once one was together with the object of one's lust. Not that he didn't have ample opportunity to partake in actions just like Quincey's. He was the drummer, and this was a small stage widthwise, so he ended up at the back of the group. He just didn't like thinking thoughts like that about a girl he so treasured. He didn't hate Quincey for that; they just didn't get too deep into discussions on romantics or anything like that.
Rose knew that Chris was getting into the performance now, especially since he kicked the chair a little too far and it was now being used to smash heads by some idiot in the mosh pit. She also knew that Quincey was probably staring at Jessica's backside, and the thought made her laugh slightly. She knew that if Chris wasn't so into the performance, he'd probably be doing the same thing to her…hell, he'd probably been doing it earlier, before he'd allowed himself to get swept up into the music. It's what she loved about her boyfriend…one minute, he could be your typical hormonal teenager, the next a very angry man throwing a very large temper tantrum while deftly sailing his fingers over the strings of his beautiful guitar. What she really was curious about, though, was how he avoided getting cut on the thorny spikes situated on it.
Jessica knew the boys were staring, too, and not just the boys in the band. She thrived on that kind of attention, on everyone staring, and she hammed it up for the audience in that regard. Pouts, shakes, shimmies, and anything she could think of that would normally effect people were thrown into her performance. Guys were going wild, as seen by the continually increasing intensity of the mosh pit. A good deal of people were now trying to back away from the mosh pit, a bit afraid of the frenzied participants…and the idiot that was smashing a chair into people. Mosh pits could be fun, but that sort of thing was just ridiculous.
Liam couldn't help but laugh at the guy with the chair. He was entertaining, though in a morbid, "somebody could get hurt," way. Thus far, no one seemed to be injured, so Liam was content to let the guy do his thing. If he started seriously hurting people, Liam himself would push a preset button on the keyboard, and then go help security wrangle the guy. Liam always liked to do stuff like that, for some reason. Crowd control, he called it, and the rest of the band had to agree that it was crowd control. After all…you know you're doing something wrong when one of the band members gets off the stage and opens up a can of whoopass on you.
All of the band members tried to keep their eyes diverted from Vladimir Drakul, the richest man in the town. He had the money to buy the entire town, had he the desire to do so. He was tall, with a strong jaw and a good physique. He wasn't overtly muscular, but there was definitely a six-pack under that shirt. Various tattoos dotted his body, and an eclectic mix of Victorian era and modern punk-gothic clothing adorned his body. On anyone else, his clothes, with lace, spikes, skulls, and frills, would look like they'd gotten dressed in the dark…but somehow; Vladimir was able to pull the look off well. His eyes were a crisp blue, but there were rumors that the color was due to contacts, and that his natural eyes were some odd color. He would appear at any show they were at, no matter what the date…just so long as the sun was down. Apparently, only Christopher was worried about the fact that Drakul was never seen during the day. It was a topic of a good deal of argument amongst the band, actually. Everyone else thought he was eccentric…Chris thought he was a psychotic mass-murderer. No one understood his paranoia, and in truth, Chris didn't understand it either.
Instead, the members of the band focused their attention on one of two things. First among them would be the thin, tan skinned man in the dark sunglasses. He sat in a corner, feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles. A long brimmed hat was tipped low, almost to the point of hiding the sunglasses from view. Short black curls rested under that hat, the band knew. The man was Professor Gabriel Van Helsing, the teacher of the metaphysics course at the local college. He had a hard jaw, worn face, and a brow that was lined with wrinkles caused from worries and stress. He was only in his mid-thirties, despite appearances, but was more anti-social than most teenagers. A white unbuttoned t-shirt hung off of his body, exposing the muscle shirt underneath, while a long, dark tan coat billowed slightly due to gusts from an open window. Black work pants tucked into sturdy work boots, and a leather cord hung from around his neck. It was attached to a small piece of paper, with what appeared to be a protective symbol drawn on it in charcoal. His resting place gave him a perfect view of Vladimir, and it was obvious that the presence of the wealthy man was the only reason Gabriel was there.
The other place to hold the attention of the band was a less intense one. Three women stood in a tight group, two of them chattering back and forth. The third, a young girl with dark brown hair, black lipstick, pale skin, a narrow waist, and long legs seemed to be rather…depressed, actually. She wore all black, as was the want of two of these women, while the third (and apparently oldest) of them wore a deep crimson dress that looked VERY out of place, with it's low, lacy neckline, long length, and almost equally as long of a slip. The oldest and, apparently, the youngest couldn't seem to stop talking, and they constantly looked Chris's way. The quiet one seemed to be gazing, almost longingly, at Jack. They'd been coming to any show Sprocket was playing at recently, and that was the normal pattern of behavior for them, with the oldest and youngest apparently falling deeper and deeper into the "fangirl" category when it came to Chris, with the middle one silent and more or less pining after Jack.
Such was the usual way a Sprocket show went. Uneventful, with an air of tension caused by Vladimir, Van Helsing, and the three women. What none of the members of Sprocket knew, though, was that things were about to get very weird…very quickly.