Overview
Movie: Pitch Perfect
Genre: Science Fiction and Fantasy
Setting: ALTERNATE UNIVERSE/Planet Barden
Rating: M for Mature.
Once upon a time, on a faraway world obsessed with enforcing cultural conformity...
ReBeca "Beca" Mitchell, leader of the underground beat movement, is the creator of MUSE (the Mash-Up and Sync Engine), a program that has been banned from polite society.
Chloe Beale, a prodigy with a violin, is the crown jewel of Barden's Academy of Sound, and all that is wrong with the music community.
Lieutenant Aubrey Posen is a hopeful for Barton's Chief of Police. She is assigned to Chloe's security detail while she tours the planet, along with rookies Lilly Onakuramara and Patricia (AKA "Fat Amy").
Cyn Adams is the bouncer for "Luke's Place", HQ for all MUSE operations and Stacie Conrad's go-go dancing.
Bumper and his Treble Makers are underground extremists dedicated to sabotaging any Academy of Sound performance.
Director Mitchell, President of Barden's Academy of Sound, is Beca's father.
And everyone is about to be pitch slapped something fierce!
Chapter One
Beca scowled in her sleep. The commotion next door could have woke the dead. She opened one eye, plucked from her velvet, dreamless sleep and dumped back onto hard reality.
Outrageous moans muffled by creaking bedsprings shouted from the other side of her wall. Beca groaned. She reached for her pocket-com, nearly knocking it off her nightstand.
Half past 3PM.
Beca dropped the device back on the nightstand, turned over and dragged the pillows and disheveled sheets tighter to her, doubly so around her ears.
"Seriously?" she complained. Beca jutted her hand out of the pile of linens and flailed about, searching for the wall—a thin plank of wash worn wood dividing her room from Kimi Jin's. She beat her palm against it clumsily. The slaps echoed through the shabby confines of her drab living cubicle.
"Hey in there! Can you keep it down, KJ!?"
A man's voice fired back. "Shut up, bitch. I pay good money for this!"
Beca's blood simmered. She sat up like a shot, her wily brown hair a tangled mess of static and frizz. "Yeah?!" Her head throbbed. Damn shots. Luke was the best bad influence for miles.
"Yeah!" he barked.
She could hear the limits of his English proficiency. That guy wasn't going Topsyde anytime soon...
"Well I pay good money for this lousy room and a few hours of shut eye, you dopechoked shithead!" She chucked her pillow at the wall.
"I come in there and -!" his threats devolved into a slew of slanderous Koreyann. Wasn't easy living next to a known cuddle-gal, but the residential district limited its bunking space.
Beca grumbled all the way to the communal sponge stalls. Sanctioned hot springs were damn expensive, even down here. The hanging lights lining the cabled clogged tunnels flickered unreliably. The paths, well-traveled, had been packed down by thousands of familiar feet. She could hear water dripping from rusted pipes and the perpetual clicking and clanking of generators.
Squeaking wheels, rustling trash, crass shouts, frivolous laughter, and hissing steam grates: the sounds of a typical underground afternoon.
Barden had been the first planet in their system to successfully harness fusion energy. Topsyde possessed a virtually limitless supply of power while Undersyde still relied on steam and aqua-kinetics. Rubber bound electrical wires, miles in length, crocheted the realm together.
This far into the planet, nothing differentiated the night and day. Still, people seemed to party harder around the midnight hour, and Luke's Lair operated under that trend.
Irritated, Beca scratched the new tribal tattoo on her back, chosen to conceal another scar that marred her shoulder blade. Natural law reigned here. If you wanted something, you had to fight for it. In the case of the scar, it had been Beca's favorite book: Fifty Thousand Hints Behind the Sun. A hint, the standard unit of hollow space measurement, occupied approximately the collective length of four thousand bump-stick tables, end to end.
The Baths, fragrant with mold, salt, and human sweat, didn't stand segregated based on sex. Hell. Wild indecency would have flourished regardless. Oldest person buried beneath, something like the mayor, was only a stone's throw over thirty-five. Thick clouds of steam condensed on Beca's skin, water beading down to renew the itch on her back.
Stacie, comb in hand, rounded the corner in the buff. Long raven tresses hid her breasts—the impeccably buoyant envy of every woman on this side of The Riff.
"Hi, Bec." She grinned, fluttering her fingers flirtatiously. Beca replied with a tight smile of her own. She liked Stacie for her confidence and courage, but the Amazon intimidated her. Made her feel small. Fragile. (And Stacie was probably the only person on Barden who could boast that.)
Beca slipped into the first available stall and dipped her sponge into the free-flowing water trough.
Jesse Swanson took the stall beside her. "You ready for tonight?"
Beca shrugged, scrubbing at the pit of her arm and refusing to shiver. "Just another night. Same Bassmaker as always."
Jesse doused his face. "You sound thrilled. Big bass not your thing anymore?"
Beca made her eyebrows jumped. She shook her head and focused on her elbows. "Stacie is great. She really is. I'm just sick of the same sound, Jess. MUSE needs something new."
"Cyber-grams get bored?"
"She does," Beca defended, calling creases of seriousness to her face.
He laughed, folding his arms to lay his elbows across the divider separating their stalls. "Bec... Do you know how rare BMs are?"
She shot him a wry smile. "Considering I designed the program? Sure. I know. Not as rare as Lyricists, but… If you and Benji would pop by once in a while—"
"That isn't his scene."
Beca sulked.
"He doesn't like crowds. You promised that after the promoting gig, you wouldn't ask him to perform anymore."
She wilted under the truth in his statement. "Yeah. You're right. I just don't want MUSE to lose her allure."
"As if," Jesse scoffed. "She's the greatest thing anyone here has ever heard. Probably for Topsyders too."
"Yeah. Which was precisely why they banned her…" Beca glowered at her reflection in the trough. She braced one hand on the wall to scrub the black off her feet.
Gently, "Hey." Jesse pursed his lips. "Do you know how amazing it is for someone to hear the music in their soul? To make it audible to a room full of people?"
Beca managed what she could scrape together of a smile, somewhat soothed by the reminder.
"Tell you what. I'll fish around for a new BK at the bar."
"Gah… Beatkeepers are a dime a dozen," she mumbled, splashing water over her arms. "Anyone can do that. It's all heartbeat and energy. There's no real talent needed."
"Ouch," Jess exclaimed, clutching his chest.
Something sparkled from the corner of Beca's eyes. She turns her head to see Jesse holding up a small, slender vial. Beca went slackjawed and made a grab at it, but Jesse recoiled too quickly.
"Only if I get a smile," he stipulated.
"Where did you get that?" she whispered lowly, her eyes darting about to make sure no one else saw.
"I have my ways." He waggled his eyebrows.
Beca reached for it again.
"Smile for me!"
Beca rolled her eyes, unable to curb and eager smirk that split into a grin. "You're incorrigible."
"So I'm told," he beamed back.
Beca sucked her smiling lips in. True to his word, Jesse handed her the tiny bottle, which Beca handled like a precious treasure. She carefully unscrewed the lid and held the vial beneath her nose, absorbing the fresh, flowery smell wafting up from its contents. Juniper and black orchid.
"Real perfume…" she swooned, transfixed.
Jesse leaned down to rest his chin on his arms. "It's for you."
Beca balked in surprise. "What?"
Jesse winked at her, his gleeful eyes rich with earnestness.
Breathlessly, "Jess… Thank you."
"Thank Benji." Jesse raised his hands, palms turned out humbly. "He's got the magic connections."
"I will." Beca secured the lid and tucked it into a pocket on the utility shelf. "Are you guys doing okay?"
"Yeah," Jesse's smile grew, nodding. He massaged a splash of water into the back of his neck. "With the extra money, we've been able to stock up on food. If things keep looking up, we're thinking of fostering later this year."
Beca admired him with a fond, sidelong smirk. "That's awesome. You guys would be great at that. The urchins around here really need big brothers."
"You going scouting tonight?" Jesse eyed her.
Beca considered it, weighing the incentives against the risks. "Thought I'd pop up there for a while before work."
"What if you're ID'ed?" he posed, visibly uncomfortable with the idea.
Beca smirked, brandishing the perfume at him. "With this? They won't think twice. A quick-check will see me on my way. And if it doesn't… well… that's why I carry a gun."
Jesse adopted a deadpan expression and hung his head. "Man. You really are itching for new trouble." He grinned cheekily. "Or should I say Treble?"
Beca softly slugged his arm.
"Sir—"
"Don't argue with me, Lieutenant. An assignment is an assignment."
The statuesque Aubrey Posen squared her shoulders and set her lips into a grim line, standing stiff as a board. Her immaculate blond curls hung roped into a ponytail behind her head. The fitted, heavily starched collar of her jet-black uniform reached clear up to her throat.
"Respectfully, I did not join the force to babysit some prissy, pampered Aritso popstar."
"She's hardly prissy," Captain John Smith negated, seated comfortably in his desk. "She's actually quite kind. Miss Beale's talents are unrivaled and Treble activity is increasing. Protecting her might very well be a challenge for you."
Outraged, Aubrey flexed her hands. "A challenge? Sir, riot control is a challenge. Double homicides are a challenge. Sorting recyclables is more of a challenge than this!"
The Captain sighed, leveling a stack of reports with a smart smack on his desk. He set them aside and folded his hands together. "Posen, I don't have to remind you of the incident the day of your commissioner's exam. No one thinks you have the stomach for real police work."
Aubrey bristled at the underhanded joke. It was hardly her fault that, under extreme depress, her body couldn't keep anything down. Incensed, "I had the flu!"
"They don't believe that," he countered her with a lopsided smirk. "And neither do I."
Aubrey pursed her lips. Her eyes falling away, she stood roiling with rage from the inside out.
"I have confidence in you," he offered, as if it softens the blow. "But I'm not the one you have to impress anymore. Prove them wrong."
Aubrey filled her lungs, willing the threadbare contents of her stomach to stay right where they stewed. "Yes, sir."
The Captain nodded unyieldingly. "I want you to take Lily and Amy with you. Show them the ropes."
"The rookies?" Aubrey moaned. "… You're kidding."
He cocked his head, hardly amused. "Is that a problem?"
"No, sir."
He sat back and steepled his fingers. "Good. Dismissed."
Aubrey clicked her heels together, bowed her head to him, and marched briskly out of his office.
Chapter Two
Chloe gasped, her cheeks flushed and her brow damp with sweat. Her long ruby red spirals bounced around her face. Her calloused fingers clutched tighter to the flowered edge of her bureau. Madame Abernathy stood behind her, her hands tangled into the tails of the silky ribbons that crisscross their way down her spine. The woman yanked again, using strength that belied her slim physique, and forced another startled grab for air from Chloe's lungs.
Chloe pressed the flat of her palm against her stomach, uncomfortably constricted by the corset.
"How... How do I walk in this?" she wheezed.
"We don't walk, dear. We strut." Gail Abernathy smiled as she carefully tied the creamy ribbons into a perfect bow.
Chloe nodded obediently, cementing the word and the images that come with it into her mind. Confidence, purpose, and perfect posture—all invaluable to a student of Braden's Academy of Sound. Gail carefully clutched Chloe's arms and guided her away from the bureau towards the mirror adorning her vanity. Gail smiled lovingly over Chloe's shoulder.
With the makeup, the corset, and the intricate array of pins shaping her hair, Chloe barely recognized herself.
Chloe inclined her chin, filling her chest with what little air the corset peritted, inadvertently accentuating the rounds of her breasts above the brim.
"You are so beautiful," Gail professed in earnest.
Gail's approval coaxed a radiant grin to Chloe's face. She turned her head, eyeing her figure from different angles. Her smile faltered for a millisecond, because she just can't see it.
Luckily, Gail didn't notice.
Gail's smile: a sunset on the ocean—something so vibrant and awe inspiring that no one could look at her and not see the likeness. She had been Chloe's mentor since the discovery of her budding talent at the impressionable age of fifteen. Chloe, who loved the woman like a mother, longs to be her mirror. To exhibit all the grace, eloquence, and poise the woman exudes in spades. To be the quintessence of everything an Aristo woman was supposed to embody.
She couldn't think about her days with the neighborhood scrappers and their sparing matches anymore, her hatred of expensive fabrics and elegant finery all but burned from her memory, buried in a time so far behind her that it didn't feel real.
Gail squeezed her fondly and hurries to the closet, her fingers fluttering with excitement. She threw the door open and waltzed inside only to emerge holding a hanger. A floor-length gown dangled from the prongs, the strapless blue dress tapering down to the right and flowering out at the heels, the rippling folds shimmering under the fluorescent light. The fabric darkened from sky blue to midnight indigo at the hem, dusted in sapphires and diamonds over the bust and a descending swirling line. Transparent mesh sashed its center and spilled down in silvery waterfalls.
Chloe gasped and met Gail's proud, watering eyes.
"It's marvelous!" Chloe praised sweeping forward. "Oh, Madame... I've never seen anything so stunning!"
"When you wear this tonight, the whole world will see something even more marvelous."
Chloe surged forward, embracing her mentor. "Thank you so much."
Gail squeezed her warmly before she pulled back, quickly wiping tears from her flawless cheeks.
"Go on then. Try it on," she encouraged giddily, tucking the hanger into Chloe's hands.
A smart knock sounds from the door. Before Gail could approve, it swung open. Madame Abernathy instantly ushered Chloe—covered in but her underclothes—behind her, outraged by the intrusion.
"Madame Ab—" Captain John Smith of Barden's finest police force stopped short and averted his eyes. A stately blond in uniform stood beside him.
Chloe saw her flush as she peered over Gail's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," he expressed quickly.
The woman's expression softened, but her voice remained stern. "We'll be with you in a moment, John."
Captain Smith promptly shut the door.
The Captain looked flustered. He clasped his hands behind his back, clearing his throat with staunch austerity. Aubrey, swallowed thickly, keeping her jaw tense and her mouth shut.
"Someone call for backup?" an exotic voice rang out.
Officer Posen looked up to discover the two rookies from the precinct standing at attention before them. The laconic Lily Onakuramara— peculiar indeed—stared blankly back at her. But not even Aubrey could challenge her impeccable arms scores, an unbeatable shot at HQ. Patricia's talents, on the other hand, roosted elsewhere, the stout blond being first in her class in combat commitment and raw grit. She was also quite the comedian, or so Aubrey heard.
"Ah. Officers. Right on time," the captain commended with a confident grin.
Lily struck a stiff, soldierly pose. Patricia quickly copied her.
"Lieutenant Posen," Smith start announced, "this is Lily Onakuramara and Pat—"
"Amy, sir," the bright-eyed blond amended. "Fat Amy."
"You call yourself Fat Amy?" Aubrey droned, eyeing the rookies with her own poignant brand of disapproval.
"Yes, sir," Amy declared. "So twig bitches like you don't do it behind my back, sir."
Posen lofted a shapely brow and had to make an effort to stifle her smile. Amy had some nerve. Still, the fact that the young woman referred to her as sir spoke volumes as well. Aubrey enjoyed being held to the same standard as her male counterparts. No matter how much more girth the other blond had on her, Aubrey could easily wrestle her to the ground and take her to the tap within a three seconds flat.
"Very well… Fat Amy," Posen smarted.
"Officer Posen, if you wouldn't mind briefing them on their assignment," the Captain led.
She nodded. "Sir. Starting today, our mission is to safeguard Miss Chloe Beale, a top student at Barden's Academy of Sound, by whatever means necessary. We expect terrorist activity will ensue her appearance. Nothing is to befall Miss Beale while under our watch. Understood?"
"Yes sir!" Fat Amy exclaimed, yanking her hand up to her brow in a dutiful salute. Aubrey could have sworn Lily mouthed the same thing, but she didn't hear it.
The door to Miss Beale's dressing room opened. Madame Abernathy glided out into the hall in a whisper of satin fabric to join her prodigy's security team. She gingerly shut the door behind her and leveled Captain Smith with a wry frown.
He laughed sheepishly before scrambling to introduce her properly. She's a charming lady. Aubrey couldn't fathom how she functioned in a bodice that lead tight, but she managed with impressive finesse. Madame Abernathy, dressed in a floor length silk gown of royal purple overlayed with intricate patterns of black lace, also wore matching gloves and a dainty choker around her neck. Her golden hair had been swept into a crown of curls at the back of her head.
Aubrey listened closely as she explained Chloe's grueling schedule, and the demands they'd need to meet in order to keep up with her.
Back in the dressing room, Chloe floundered in Gail's absence. She gulped, her expression skewed by every second glance she took in the mirror. The anxiety started as a twitching knot in her gut and swelled to a writhing mass stubbornly lodged just below her ribs. She turned to the left and the right, her hands pressed to her stomach, her ships, and her breasts, scrutinizing every inch in despair.
About to take center stage at Lincoln Coliseum, where many an aspiring sensation had cracked under the pressure, Chloe Beale worried at her lip. The global telecast would reach even the most remote corners of the planet. Everyone would see her, precisely as she was.
Chloe rolled her eyes at her nerves and warring heart. At that skulking, vicious demon forged from years of high expectations that saton her shoulder, whispering about her imperfections... and how dreadful she would look on the megascreens.
Chloe had everything when she didn't deserve it; her life the epitome of perfect when she was born to be forgotten. Everyone would see HYPOCRITE it in high definition. Sure, she could hide it in smaller circles. But this was Lincoln. How could anyone miss the fact that she's… unhappy? A mistake? A fake? Unfocused? Unreliable? Unwanted since the beginning? Impure? That she identified just as easily with her masculine side as her feminine side, such a blatant imbalance of gender rolls unheard of for an Aristo woman who aspired to be part of high society.
Chloe wasn't Aristo material, not truly. She wasn't delicate. It took every thread of self-restraint she possessed to play the violin without succumbing to the passion she fostered inside. Forced into a crippling mold that suffocated her as surely as the contraption squishing her ribs, Chloe would have to start chopping ill-fitting pieces off soon.
Female graduates of the Barden Academy of Sound were known as Bellas, males as Bellos. As alumni of the prestigious university, they enjoyed not only loftier social standing, but stellar privileges as full citizens. Graduates lived comfortably for the rest of their days.
Chloe had to put these frivolous thoughts and uncertainties away.
There was no other choice.
"I think we should invite them."
Valedictorian Alice Fynes balked. "The underlings?" They roomed together in the dormitory. Alice had an iron hourglass figure, raven black hair, and wintry black eyes. "Chloe, do you realize what you're saying? They don't belong with us."
"Why not? Everyone loves music."
Alice quickly shut their door. "You can't say things like that. You don't want to be stripped of your rights and deported under, do you?"
"Of course not. No. But—"
"Look, sweetie. I like you. And I know you grew up mislead, in that orphanage." She nodded sympathetically as she joined Chloe on the edge of her bed. "It's so unfortunate you were forced to live with some of those children. I understand the way you think isn't your fault. So I'm going to help you out, okay?" She arose from Chloe's bedside and crossed to her nightstand, opening a drawer and fishing a newspaper article out of its confines. She returned holding it carefully between her freshly manicured fingers. "Do you see this boy?" she asked gently, indicating a smiling brunette.
Chloe frowned intently. She nodded, a picture of confusion. The somber way Alice stared at her made Chloe start to wring her hands.
"His name was Bumper Allen. He was one of us once, on the road to graduating as a Bello."
"What happened to him?" Chloe whispered.
"No one knows. But one day, he snapped and lit the Hall of Music on fire."
Chloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with horror.
Alice nodded gravely. "Two teachers and eight students died. He left the academy... and moved underground. Now, Bumper leads a group of underground terrorists called The Trebles. There's no telling how many Aristo people they've killed. I keep this clipping to remind myself. Do you understand now, honey?" Alice reached out and took Chloe's hand. "Those people aren't what you think they are. They may look like us when they're little, but underneath they're treacherous and vile. They don't want to be part of our society and live in the sun for a reason. They're dangerous, Chloe. You wouldn't last five minutes with those monsters. They sleep on the floor. They fornicate in public. They'd skin you alive and eat the rest. Those things in the deep dark... they're not people anymore."
So long as approval and smiling faces surrounded Chloe, the truth about her desires was muted and her past rendered irrelevant.
But when she was alone, it shrieked with conviction.
Chapter Three
Beca clipped gun belts into place and shrugged into an earth toned trench coat. While durable, the fabric also allowed for mobility. She wouldn't be caught dead in a dress: attire expected of Aristo women. Police personnel and common workforce folk stood outside that custom. Weapons, however, were strictly prohibited for civilians, no matters one's status.
Round the clock guards patrolled all entrances to Undersyde, the sharp strides of their march heard clear down in Undercommons on quiet mornings. She had a favorite a ventilation shaft, normally left unguarded due to the assumption that a grown person couldn't manage to navigate the cramped space. Beca, however, was just small enough to fit through, a fortuitous discovery she made early last year not long after being deported. Her father had always described her as one to never sit still too long. Living without a shred of sunlight was one thing, but she refused to live in the dark when it came to Topsyde politics. She sponged up as much relevant news as she could when she visited the surface… and a few juicy celebrity stories to entertain the urchins.
In any war, knowing one's opponent meant securing significant leverage.
Aristo Police weren't the only folks she had to keep an eye out for. Beca's scarce encounters with Treble Makers had never been peaceful… in spite of the fact that for all intents and purposes, they abided on like sides. Bumper had a distinctly dramatic way of dealing with any situation.
With her typical preparations finished, she applied a few careful dabs of the perfume to her wrists, hair, and neck, cautious never to waste a single drop. She strode out the door, briskly descended the stairs, and made a beeline for the south tunnel. It branched up to the surface at several points.
If memory served, the second chute would have her come up in the heart of the city, just outside of Lincoln Coliseum.
Miss Beale opened her dressing room door, hugged by a breathtaking blue gown. Her wine-red hair couldn't have shone any brighter. Madame Abernathy embraced her, the ladies exchanging kisses on the cheek.
"You'll be just wonderful, Chloe dearest. I can't wait. We'll leave you girls to get acquainted. John and I will take our seats. Remember, only the songs we practiced… and keep your feet together. You're on in an hour." Madame Abernathy took Captain's Smith's arm before they glided their way down the vintage patterned carpet.
Aubrey advanced on cue. "Miss Beale."
"Oh," the diamond eyed ginger laughed. "Chloe, please. Just Chloe."
Aubrey nodded stiffly. She peeled off one of her leather gloves and extended her hand. "Lieutenant Aubrey Posen."
Chloe took it. Astonished by the thick feel of callouses on what she assumed would be baby soft hands, Aubrey endured Chloe's equally shocking masculine handshake with just as much oomph. Maybe a reevaluation was in order... Chloe's glowing grin dimmed in a self-conscious plunge, her eyes darting to the right.
Aubrey blinked when Chloe's grasp became feather light, like a reset trap. Dammit. She must have let her surprise shine through her face.
Heat surged into Aubrey's face when she felt the weight of the other officers' stares. Not only had she held Chloe's hand and gaze for far too long, but she had neglected to introduce them. Aubrey dropped Chloe's hand and squared her shoulders.
"Miss Beale, these are Officers Lily Onakurama and Pat—... Fat Amy."
Chloe-midway to shaking Lily's hand—flinched, her eyes popping open.
"F—?" she started, whirling to face the ample hipped blonde.
Aubrey stood mesmerized by the genuine concern in Chloe's face, questioning like a child.
"I call things as I see them, missy," Fat Amy proclaimed, sandwiching Chloe's hand between her own. "No need for the Officer thing. Fat Amy suits me just fine."
Chloe's sympathetic vexation dissolved, understanding that the commonly slighted name was openly endorsed. "I see!" She laughed.
Aubrey mused stoically at the silver-bell-sound.
"Well, it's a real pleasure to meet both of you," Chloe chimed out.
Both. Aubrey curled her toes within the ungiving leather of her boots at the unforeseen wave of disappointment that doused her when she wasn't included in that comment. Chloe's beauty was just too vivid not to envy. It made her want to be noticed, too. Funny. Aubrey hadn't given a damn about beauty before. All that mattered was looking imperturbable. Like the face of a cliff.
Officer Posen cleared her throat. "The rookies will escort you downstairs to the stage plank. I will be patrolling the halls." Plus, she needed time to compose herself. Aubrey never approved of distractions. "Collect your effects."
Chloe stared at her blankly. "Oh! You mean my violin?" She giggled.
Aubrey nearly started shuffling her feet sheepishly. Standard police jargon. Dammit all...
"Of course. Just a moment." Chloe spun and danced back into her suite. Seconds later, she emerged with a cherry colored case.
Posen nodded smartly at Lily. Officer Onakurama took a stiff step forward and extended her hands towards Chloe. Chloe eyed her incredulously, gradually gripping the case tighter to her chest, clutching it like a prized doll.
"Come on, gingersnap. She just wants to carry it for you," Fat Amy laughed.
"O—oh. Right. Sure. Thank you." Chloe struggled to smile as she relinquished the violin. Lily slowly snaked her arms around it, holding it even tighter than Chloe did, and glowering to emphasize the gravity of her charge.
The smile Chloe conjured slipped nervously off her face.
"Are you prepared?" Aubrey prompted.
Chloe folded her hands. "Yes. I'm ready now."
Aubrey signaled the rookies to fall in at her front and back. They proceeded down the hall. Aubrey watched them round the corner. When they slipped from sight, she allowed herself respite from the tension and dropped shoulder shoulders.
Chloe's heart fluttered inside her ribs like a wild bird in a cage. As the retractable platform elevated her up to the ground level of Lincoln Coliseum, she recounted Madame Abernathy's words. Sanctioned songs. Minimal movement. Feet together. Sanctioned songs, minimal movement. Feet together.
Light and chatter flooded the air. She could see over the lip of the stage now. The amphitheater lay before her, packed to bursting. She squinted, trying to make out Madame Abernathy in the sea of faces.
Sanctioned movements. Minimal songs. Feet –
Wait. That's not right! Chloe's nerves stormed, her rolling stomach a writhing knot of spiny tangles.
A hush fell over the crowd as she assumed her position, her feet within a hand-span apart, and one positioned daintily in front of the other, heel modestly raised. Poised to play, her ramrod straight, she inserted her violin just beneath her chin. She raised her bow, laid it across the strings, and mustered her courage. To silence the butterflies, Chloe took as deep of a breath as the corset allowed.
After a three count, barely mouthing the numbers, she began to play, her motions are carefully choreographed and her facial expressions as subdued as possible while she dragged her bow across the shimmering strings.
The audience seemed to swoon with the first few notes.
The song, slow and sad in its melody, was Madame Abernathy's favorite. Chloe took meticulous care of every detail of her performance, especially her posture.
Aubrey stood captivated by the notes swimming through the air and echoing down the halls, convinced that until this moment, she had never heard something so beautiful.
"Excuse me," a voice prompted. Jarred by the interruption, Officer Posen rounded on the young man adorned in the blue and yellow bellhop uniform of Lincoln Center, clearly indicating his status as an employee, and not a particularly high ranking one. In fact, he looked rather like a dancing monkey, especially with that mane of wily curls jutting out from under his hat. His arms hung laden with a gigantic arrangement of flowers, which he had to crane his neck to peer around.
"Yes?" Officer Posen quipped impatiently.
"Delivery for Miss Beale," he explained with a clipped smile of his own. Officer Posen rolled her eyes and stiffly nodded her approval. The token only blatantly reminded her of the girl's pompous, prissy Aristo status. Aubrey opened the door to Miss Beale's dressing room, allowing the young man to place the flower arrangement on the bureau before hurrying back to the lobby.
Chloe pulled her bow across the strings for the final note. A light shower of glitter rained down from the catwalk high above her, hidden behind thick red curtains. The song came to a close. Applause swelled from the audience. The sound washed over her like a balm. She bowed her head respectfully.
Chloe slid into the next song in her set, a more energetic melody she wrote last summer. She'll have to stay mindful. The strings sang under her bow, the cadence escalating. Chloe nearly panicked when she found a grin on her face. She quickly reined in her emotions, blinking rapidly. But as the song continued, and the tempo quickened, the rules and regulations started to slip away from her conscious thought.
She thought only of the music.
Far below in the dark, grungy streets, Beca tucked today's paper—another piece of news for her collection—into her belt. So far, she had managed to avoid the guards. So long as she stuck to the shadows, she should be fine. But then, music reached her. She stopped in mid-step, her head snapping up and zeroing in on the wall ringing the coliseum.
"That sound," she whispered. It struck a dead cord in her, flooding her with chills of life. Tears sprang to her eyes. When was the last time she had heard a real string instrument? Beca stared, blindsided, at the unfeeling stone. She had to see this for herself! Suddenly remembering her need to breathe, she marveled at the tears dribbling down her cheeks before shoving them aside.
She would never attain access through the main entrance. Beca hastens to the wall and started climbing.
"Code red, Code red!" someone shouted through her com-link. Officer Posen struck a chambered pose, poised for action as her hand flew to her ear piece.
"Active," she immediately responds.
The urgent voice trembled. "We have an intruder on the premises. Unidentified male, twenties, dressed in a Lincoln valet uniform. Stands at roughly five foot ten, dark skin, curly hair. Not a part of our staff. Repeat, not a part of our staff!"
Aubrey balked, the description matching that of the same young man who delivered the flowers only a moment ago. She looked up just in time to see him break into a sprint and round the corner into the next corridor. She peeled off after him.
"This is Officer Posen! Target identified. In pursuit. Seal the building!" She ripped her gun out of her belt and shoved a fresh magazine into place.
Chloe closed her eyes as her second number faded out. The emotions coursing through her veins started to creep into her face. She forgot the audience, their stipulations, and the restrictions of her set.
Chloe stepped out and planted her feet, diving into The Demynn's Trill, a song she learned on her own time. Ruby tresses of her hair fell from their thrones, framing her face and cascading down her back. She played for her the parents she never knew, for the anger of her abandonment, for the mold she couldn't fill, for the anguish in her heart, and for the overpowering need to be heard.
Not just listened to, but heard.
Donald stared, awestruck, at the woman on stage. "Bump," he croaked, entranced. "Do we have to do this?"
They stood together by the lever encased by a clear, dusty box in the corner obscured by the draping curtain.
"A plan is a plan is a plan is a plan," Bumper Allen pressed, repeatedly slapping his hand against his other palm.
"But she could… She could die." Donald rounded on his captain and thrust his arm in the direction of the stage. "She's not one of them. Look at her, dude!"
Bumper did. The ginger had a smile more radiant than any stage light. He could taste her passion.
At this moment, as though fueled by something supernatural, it seemed that utterly nothing mattered to Beale but her violin and the drowning drive to play.
Beca finally reached the top rung of the coliseum, pulling herself into a rounded window cut into the stone. She puttered her lips, wiping at the sweat on her brow in frustration, and stared out over the spectacle. Her eyes caught the mega-screens, projecting the image of a striking red headed woman playing her violin.
Beca gawked. "A student?"
"We shouldn't do this, Bump," Donald persisted, holding his breath as he awaited his ringleader's reply.
Bumper yanked his eyes to the floor and gritted his teeth. A determined scowl assumed control of his face. "No. She's a top student at AOS, Donnie. Don't let her deceive you. She is one of them." He yanked open the cover, seized the rusty lever, and threw it up.
The platform Red stood on abruptly rose, soaring up into the master level, eight stories above the ground, towards the concrete overhang. The old blue draperies attached to the circular shaped transparent platform fall free. They swayed and billowed in the evening breeze, sending clouds of dust and sparkling flecks of excess glitter into the air. The audience takes a collective gasp, half startled and half amazed. This stage effect has not been used for many years.
This high up, the jewels littering Red's dress glinted in the light, reflecting it in flashes like star bursts. Beca could almost hear them twinkling. Immobilized by such dazzling beauty, she couldn't look away. Couldn't think about anything beyond the sound. Every sound.
She can hear it all: the base and the synth-layers that would match Red's melody just behind the violin, like a complementary shadow. The sounds swelled as Beca let her mind run with it.
She was perfect. Her sound was perfect. New and fresh—unlike anything Beca could ever produce with MUSE.
Officer Posen careened through the hallways on her target's heels. She leaped, lunged, and tackled him to the ground. Wrestling with him for a split second, she pinned him with his arm wrenched uncomfortably beneath his shoulder blades.
"Identify yourself!" she demanded.
The young man chuckled, the sound strained by her weight. She shoved the barrel of her gun against the nape of his neck and pulled the hammer back. "Identify!"
He peered over his shoulder. "You're too late, Officer."
Aubrey blanched as it hit her. "The flowers," she whispered.
Red spun gracefully, never faltering as she danced and twirled across the liqious-glass stage, oblivious to anything except the instrument in her hands. She plucked a quick tune with her fingers. She bent her knees to play a particularly fast trill. She stood again and kicked her leg up.
A massive explosion rocked the coliseum.
Beca braced her hands against the walls of the round window to keep from tumbling back the way she came. A storm of fire, smoke, and masonry erupted from the north wing. Glass shattered. And something cracked.
"Let's get out of here!" Bumper exclaimed, yanking Donald with him.
Captain Smith, on his feet as the panic and chaos ensued, followed a scream above them where the smoke gathered.
Gail surged to her feet. "John," she blurted in alarm, seizing his arm. "Oh John, it's Chloe!"
All eyes turned skyward. Those who remained inside the coliseum pitched headlong in a chorus of gasps, pointing. Chloe clung to the jagged edge of the break in the stage, the glass surface rendering it impossible for her scrambling feet to find purchase. A shoe slipped off her foot and plunged down to the ground level, eight stories below her.
"Help! S- someone! Help me! Please!" A desperate, pleading sound, undone with fear and strife.
"Hang on Chloe, sweetie!" Gail shouted back brokenly.
John laid his hand over hers.
Director Mitchell, President of AOS, stalked towards the lift operator, standing dumbstruck at the old key pad. "Bring it down, dammit!" he bellowed.
"Sir," the young man stammered, his frantic eyes pregnant with terror. "I - I can't. The hydraulics are all out of line. The explosion-Something's jamming docking the mechanism."
"Find a way to get it down, man!" Mitchell demanded, clamping his hand on his shoulder. "If that girl falls from that height, she dies!"
"Sir!" the quaking intern acknowledged dutifully. He returned to his task with renewed fervor.
The security guards on duty began to usher the crowd away from the towering platform. "Ladies and gentlemen, you need to clear the area immediately. Please move away. Step back. You cannot be in the collapse zone. Please step back, miss," one of them ordered Madame Abernathy.
"Collapse?" Gail echoed hoarsely.
The guard nodded. "Should the support give, that stage is headed right for this row."
Gail gasped, her lace gloved hand flying to her mouth. "John," she managed through her distress. She clung tighter to him, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, John we have to do something! Chloe's up there! Someone do something!" she begged.
"I know. We'll get her down, Gail. We'll get her down," he tried to reassure her as he guided her out of the danger zone.
Aubrey shouldered into the thinning crowd, her uniform smudged with dirt and dust. Cuts lace on her face from the blast. In the commotion, she had lost her target, but that doesn't matter as uch right now. She stopped short when she finally broke through, her eyes glued to her charge, dangling helplessly from the ledge above.
"Officer Posen!" Director Mitchell exclaimed with a hint of relief. He met her halfway down the aisle.
Chloe shrieked again. Her image flickered across the mega-screens, damaged and pixelated by the blast. The glass had cut into her hands. Blood smeared the stage and her arms trembled from the exertion and pain.
She's slipping. Aubrey rounded on one of the ushers. "Ways up!"
"There's a service stairwell through that door!" He pointed to the left.
"Elevator?" she pressed urgently.
"Closed for repairs."
"Fine." She whirled right. "You, you," she points at Rookies Lily and Amy, who rushed out just after it happened. "With me. Guns out and ready." She yanked hers out of its holster, loaded a fresh magazine, and unlocked the safety. "Eyes peeled. The Trebles may still be in the building!"
Many rows back, near the entry arch, Beca watched flashes of Red's big blues blink back tears in the failing mega-screens. Three armed officers dashed towards the door to the service stairwell.
"That's eight flights up," she realized, gritting her teeth together. "They'll never make it in time." Beca scanned the Coliseum for something, anything, she could use. "Come on Bec, think." Then she noticed the strings of lights hanging from a bolt high above the stage's broken platform. They draped down and spidered outward, tacked to the circular stone wall of the structure.
Beca raced to a maintenance ladder built into the concrete. It led to a fuse box. Directly beside that hung one of the cords of lights. She climbed to it and yanked it out of the wall. After a few few hard tugs, she decided that the bolt seemed sturdy enough. Beca took a deep breath, trying not to think about the sharp slope of the seats and the long, long way down if this didn't go well. After finding a solid grip on the cord, she kicked off of the wall. She sailed over thousands of seats, gaining speed and momentum as she swung towards the platform.
"One… Two…—!" She tucked her knees and releases the cord. She dropped, falling into a shoulder roll on the safe part of the stage.
Meanwhile, back in the service stairwell…
Officers Posen and Onakuramara raced three flights ahead of self-proclaimed Fat Amy.
She stopped on the landing of the second floor and braced up against the railing. "Woo~… Stairs." She tried to catch her breath. "I should have taken that cardio tip more seriously."
"John, look!" Gail cried.
"Someone's up there!" another woman exclaimed. More spectators gasped and muttered to one another. Director Mitchell lefts the frantic intern at the key pad and stepped back into the aisle to get a better view of the mega-screen. His eyes widened.
"It's a Treble!" A guard shouted. He readied his gun. John shoved his arms down.
"No! You could hit Miss Beale!"
"But sir," he defended, "she could be the terrorist who planted the bomb!"
John and Mitchell exchanged grave, furrowed glances. The young brunette was indeed dressed like someone from the underground sectors... but the Trebles prided themselves on being an all-male group... didn't they?
The young woman inched towards the break in the stage and the struggling Chloe. Her dark hair obscured her face. She dropped to her knees and extended her hand.
"She's going to help!" Gail proclaimed through the tears trickling down her cheeks. "It's alright! She's going to help her, John!" She squeezed his arm.
Everyone watched, holding in a collective breath.
Beca leaned over the edge, extending her hand as she stretched for the violinist. "Hey! Hey, up here! It's okay. Take my hand."
Red's head snapped up. Her watery Caribbean blues widdened, absorbing Beca's telling attire. "You're—?"
"I'm here to help you!" Beca finished. "Reach for me." The stage groaned cavernously. "Reach for me!" Beca demanded, leaning lower.
The girl licked her lips. Gritting her teeth tightly, she reached up, stretching out her arm and grabbing for Beca's hand, but her own was slick with blood. They brushed fingers. She almost slipped.
"It hurts—I can't!" Red shouted in despair, resuming her feeble grip on the jagged ledge.
"Yes you can!" Beca rebutted. The stage shuddered beneath her knees. Something cracked again.
Red shook her head rapidly, on the verge of sobs. "No, I can't!"
"Yes you can! You listen to me! Yes you can! You're titanium. You're bulletproof, woman! NOW REACH!"
Red filled her lungs, mustered every fiber of strength she had left, and made another valiant grab for Beca, catching her by the arm. Beca's hand locked around her wrist. She hoistd her up and helped her over the edge and into her arms. The broken piece of the stage gave way, plummeting to the ground and shattering loudly. The bystanders screamed. Luckily, the path lay clear and, albeit the mess of debris and broken glass, everyone stood well out of harm's way.
Safely hunkered down in the stranger's arms, a warm, floral aroma cushioned Chloe's senses. Chloe opened her eyes and slowly lifted her chin, reluctant to leave this unspoken sanctuary. They met eyes. The girl looked to be around her age with cloudy green eyes, dark eyebrows, and sharp features—a handsome woman, as far as women went. Chloe didn't know what to make of her appearance, or what her actions implied.
Don't underlings hate Topsyders? Weren't underlings supposed to be ugly and dirty?
"Thank you," Chloe whispered.
The brunette responded with a warm smirk.
"She's alright! Oh, thank god!" Gail sobbed joyfully, nearly ready to collapse.
"I don't believe it," John marveled. "That under—" He thought twice and, to their surprise, corrected himself. "That girl saved her life."
Officer Posen burst through the side service door just as the stranger helped Chloe to her feet. They saw it all through the failing mega-screen, but the smoke congesting around the ceiling wasn't making it easy. The brunette's head snapped in Officer Posen's direction, presenting a full view of her face for the first time.
Director Mitchell blanched. "… Beca?" he whispered, stupefied.
"Freeze! Hands up!" Posen demanded Chloe's rescuer. "You're under arrest for high treason against the Barden Bureau of Justice! Come quietly, or I'll use lethal force!"
Chloe whirled around, spreading her arms and planting herself between Officer Posen and her rescuer. Her bloody hands gave Posen pause.
"No, Aubrey! Wait!"
Aubrey hardened her expression. "Stand down, Beale! I have my orders!" A cloud of smoke drifted between them. When it cleared, Officer Posen's eyes widened, darting about behind Chloe, searching. Bystanders started muttering again.
Chloe pivoted to find nothing but empty space behind her. The far curtain settled back into place.
"She's gone," she whispered.