You must read their fanfics! The power of Synergy compels you! The power of Synergy compels you!
More Notes (March 21st, 2005): I decided to expand this chapter after I realized that my first concepts for chapter two did not need to be separated from this one. And, just to further explain the blather up their about the state of "JEM Stars" -- All stories directly relating to the Misfits origin story will have "JEM Stars : " in front of them. All stories related to other characters (Clash, Ashley, etc.) will be labeled as being part of the 'Stars' universe in the summary.
JEM Stars
a JEM fanfic by D.L. SchizoAuthoress
It was the event of the year. Spotlights sliced the night sky, beacons for adoring fans to home in on, so that they could line up along the red carpet, jostling and screaming for a glimpse of the rock superstars to come.
"It's them!" someone shouted as a ritzy-looking car pulled into view. The cry set off the horde, and similar shrieks erupted as both male and female fans surged against the velvet ropes, hands outstretched for a transient contact with celebrity. The event security had a hard time controlling the excited crowd.
As the car rolled to a stop, cameramen and reporters swarmed the pavement. The manic click and whir of photo-takers were drowned out by the crowd's chanting. The chauffer of the vehicle came around to the passenger side and opened the back door. A glamorously made-up woman with long blue hair stepped out and blew a kiss to the crowd, setting off flashbulbs, the cries of reporters, and the fans screaming,
"Stor-mer! Stor-mer!"
Stormer moved to one side as she waved and gave her dark blue curls a flip, allowing a woman with pale skin and even paler hair to exit the back seat. Roxy stepped forward aggressively, scowling as camera flashes went off practically inches from her rose-pink eyes. Her mood improved, fractionally, as the fans changed their chant.
Amid cries of "Roxy! Roxy! Roxy!" the Misfit fisted a hand on her hip and lifted her chin haughtily, letting her orange lips curve into a smirk. Beside her, but definitely not close enough to have to share a shot, Stormer posed for photos as well -- red cupids-bow mouth in a sullen pout, chin on left fist, left elbow held tight to her body by right hand, bright blue eyes sending smoldering looks out to focus on star-struck people.
After a few moments of this, the front passenger-side door opened. A shapely leg, clad in green stocking and black pump, found purchase on the sidewalk, and a lovely woman stood up out of the car. Moving like the fierce jungle cat her savage makeup evoked, the final member of the Misfits revealed herself to shrieks of, "Pi-zzaaaaazz! Pi-zzaaaaazz!"
Pizzazz smiled and raked her lime-green tresses back from her face with claw-like nails. Letting her hand rest on her shoulder for a moment, she turned toward her bandmates and indicated that it was time for a group shot. As they moved gracefully into position around her, Pizzazz glared over her shoulder at the cameras and sneered. Roxy, on her right, adopted a challenging stance, with her arms akimbo and her head tilted to one side, spilling her platinum-white locks into her eyes. Stormer, on her left, very nearly mirrored Pizzazz's pose, except that she had a gentle smile on her face, and as the camera flashed, she winked coquettishly.
Reporters thrust microphones into their faces, shouting questions almost frantically: "Will you make another album?" "Are there any love interests we should know about?" "How does it feel to be famous?"
'I remember how it all began', Pizzazz thought reflectively as she snapped out automatic replies to their inquiries, 'with my sudden expulsion from boarding school...'
Phyllis Gabor, age seventeen, slouched in the high-backed, decidedly uncomfortable chair that was provided for people waiting to see the dean. She snapped her bubble gum, drawing a disapproving glare from the dean's secretary.
Matching the older woman scowl-for-scowl, Phyllis then deliberately pulled her gum into long, thin strings and let them dangle from her lips. Fully nauseated, the secretary turned back to her typewriter. Phyllis, now unobserved, rolled the bubble gum back into a ball with her tongue and spat it onto the wall.
'I hate this place,' Phyllis thought with boredom. 'Nobody's any fun, it's too damn cold, and I have to wear this stupid uniform!' (Said stupid uniform consisted of a navy blue, knee-length skirt, white knee-socks, a white blouse, and a navy blue blazer. Jewelry was prohibited, and students were required to wear flat-heeled dress shoes and keep their hair tied back.)
In a detatched way, Phyllis wondered why she was back in the dean's office. She'd been brought in for everything from disruption of classes to vandalism of school property, from numerous truancies to various uniform violations. In fact, right now, she was wearing a pair of black heels and green tights with her uniform, her blazer rattled with a collection of lapel buttons pinned all over, and her skirt had been hemmed up -- by a professional seamstress, of course -- to mid-thigh length.
As Phyllis mused on the possibilities, the door marked 'Dr. Bercar' opened, revealing the dean of the New England private school that Phyllis had terrorized so extensively. The thirty-something woman frowned as she took in the sight of her least-favorite student.
Dr. Bercar spoke in tones so icy that Phyllis wouldn't have been surprised to see frost forming on the woman's thin lips, "Ms. Gabor?"
Phyllis smiled and, with practiced ease, slid into the unctuous voice that got her what she wanted with Daddy, "Why, hello Dean Bercar. It's so nice to see you again! Why am I here?"
Whatever the green-haired teen was expecting it certainly wasn't Dr. Bercar's reply of, "You're expelled from this academy, Ms. Gabor, for your repeated offenses against the rules. You will pack up your things and leave campus by eight o'clock tonight." Phyllis knew that she wasn't imagining the note of smug satisfaction in Dr. Bercar's voice.
"Fine," she replied softly, "fine. I never liked this place anyway." She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. Pausing in the doorway a moment, Phyllis hissed, "And you're a bitch."
The door was slammed hard enough to shake a few pictures off the walls.
"Oh, Daddy, don't worry so much!" Phyllis exclaims into the receiver. She flops backward onto the queen-sized bed of her suite, in the Four Seasons Hotel. "Dean Bercar and the rest of the faculty had it in for me anyway. And it's not like I can't just take a GED test when I get home..." Phyllis twisted the phone cord around her fingers and listened to her father's reply.
"About that, honey, I'll be coming out to Pennsylvania on business, so just wait for me to come get you. No sense in having you run around the country on your own. Could be dangerous."
"Of course I can stay in Boston for a while, Daddy!" Phyllis exclaimed. She rushed on, eager to please him since he'd shown a bit of concern for her well-being, "And there's no need for you to get sidetracked on your business trip coming to pick me up; I'll meet you in Philadelphia next week."
"Yes, that's fine, sweetheart. Hold on a moment." Harvey Gabor could then be heard ordering some unseen third party to buy Stock A, sell Stock B, and hold onto Stock C until it dropped X number of points. This went on for several minutes, severely testing Phyllis's short temper.
A dark look flickered over the teen's features and she continued tightly, in a louder tone meant to break her father's concentration, "Well, I know you're so very busy, Daddy. Goodbye."
Mr. Gabor rattled off a distracted, "Oh, yes, sorry Phyllis. Goodbye," unnecessarily, because his daughter had already hung up in a snit.
Phyllis sighed discontently, glaring moodily at the princess phone she'd just been using. One more week on the East Coast. One more week of sneaking into eighteen-and-over clubs just to hear some decent music. She missed Club Avernes and Sally Hall, the cocktail waitress who, at nineteen, was two years her senior and could let her in the back entrance. It wasn't fair, but then, who said life was fair?
She glanced at the collection of suitcases and boxes neatly piled by the bed. The largest one contained the clothes she'd brought to wear off-campus. The next largest suitcase held her collection of records and a record player; another one of the same size held her textbooks and other such school materials. All of these were sea green vinyl, clashing horribly with the last one, a bright orange wheeled suitcase of hard plastic. This one held shoes and other accesories. Two medium-sized cardboard boxes boasted her horde of paperback books, and on top of these was the black leather case with her electric guitar.
"No point in unpacking all of this now," Phyllis said aloud, "Not when the servants can just do it for me when I get home."
Later that night, after a long, hot shower and a quick dinner ordered up from room service, Phyllis dug through her boxes of books and came up with a slightly battered copy of Carrie, by Stephen King. She loved the book, loved the idea of a young woman lashing out at the world with supernatural power. She imagined making Dean Bercar's head blow up and laughed, settling back onto the of pillows at the head of the bed.
She was just beginning the climactic scene -- where Carrie gets pig's-blood spilled on her at the dance -- when she was rather rudely interrupted. A faint thumping started on the other side of the wall, soon followed by wordless cries, soft at first, but increasing in volume. Phyllis recoiled in disgust, realizing exactly just what was going on in the next room. Someone, a very vocal someone, was having sex.
'Oh, jeez,' Phyllis thought unhappily, 'I got the room next to the Honeymoon Suite!'
Clapping her hands over her ears, Phyllis fought rising panic and tried to think of what to do.
"Matilda! How many times do I have to say it?" Roberta Gabor stormed at the young maidservant. She stalked toward the other woman, grabbing her little daughter's arm on the way, and pulling the child along.
Three-year-old Phyllis Gabor protested, "Owie, Mommy!" but kept up as best she could. Roberta abruptly flung her away, and she stumbled forward, clutching at Matilda's legs.
"Keep that child in her room when I have company! If I see her again today, you'll be out of a job!"
Matilda Bandshaw's eyes practically shot sparks of hatred as she answered, "Yes, Ma'am." She picked up the little girl and said soothinging, "Come now, Miss Gabor. Let's go play with your toys. Leave Mommy alone with her guest."
Young Phyllis looked at her mother, attired in one of her best, most beautiful dresses, speaking to the dark-haired young man and pointedly ignoring both Phyllis and Matilda. She acted this way sometimes when Daddy was around, but this man was unot/u Daddy. Roberta laughed at something the man said, and tucked a lock of her dark green hair behind one ear, leaning forward.
Matilda turned abruptly, and Phyllis couldn't see what happened. The maid ground out, "Herbert will have your drinks ready in a moment, Mrs. Gabor."
'I didn't have to see what they did then,' Phyllis said to herself. She was kneeling on the floor, flipping through a box of records. 'I saw them kissing when I first walked in.'
"Ah!" she exclaimed, finally extracting the album she wanted. Setting up the record player on the bedstand, she sneered, "See how you like some Black Sabbath, assholes." Turning the volume up all the way, Phyllis began to sing along, letting her voice twist itself into the sound, mutating into an expression of somebody that was neither Ozzy Osbourne or Phyllis Gabor, but somebody else. Somebody better than either of them.
For good measure, she started jumping on the bed and air-guitaring, too.