A/N: Alright, second chapter. Please read and review.
DISCLAIMER: I ONLY OWN THOSE CHARACTERS THAT I CREATED MYSELF. ALL OTHERS BELONG TO MARVEL
Huh, the biker thinks as he pulls into the theatre parking lot. I'd have thought that the police would have chased me more than they did. Parking his bike, he reinstalls the license plate and heads inside toward the dressing room.
It isn't long before he's greeted by a deep, aggravated voice that is usually belting out the lyrics of the band's songs. "A little late, aren't you?" a muscle-bound Nordic-looking man clad in black leather pants, boots, and vest with no shirt asks snarkily as the biker takes off his helmet and shakes out his longish sandy brown hair.
"What can I say? Traffic was shit," he answers, striding over to the trunk where his stage costume is stored.
"Ease up on him, Erik," a second large-framed man sporting the same black leather costume retorts as he warms up on his glossy black Fender bass, his straight, mahogany colored hair falling almost to his waist. "We've got plenty of time before we have to be on stage," he continues, his voice a rich, somewhat melodic baritone.
"Yeah," the drummer pipes up, also wearing the band's "uniform"; his hair a shimmering curtain of black and his voice is actually somewhat bland when compared to the rest of the band. "We don't even have to schlep our own gear for once."
While his bandmates are arguing, the biker opens the trunk, stashes his batons inside, and changes into his costume. Considering he doesn't have the physique of a Mr. Olympia competitor, his outfit is understandably different from the others. Instead of dressing like a leather-clad Warrior of Heavy Metal, he instead wears tan trousers that are raggedly torn to the knees, heavily worn, nearly tattered boots, no shirt, and a pair of costume shackles complete with broken chains. The costume, while definitely different than that of the others, complements him well: showing off his athletic, but lean physique and it also somewhat fits with the overall theme of the band.
Locking up his trunk, the biker takes his guitar, a black Dean Razorback V with silver bevels, out of its case and runs through a series of scales and arpeggios to warm up. When it's time, the band takes the stage, standing in the darkness as the noise of the gathered crowd permeates the air.
"Alright everyone!" the emcee, a man who looks and sounds a lot like Lemmy Kilgore says over the microphone. "Let's get this show on the road! Give it up for SWORDS OF THE FALLEN!"
Taking the cue, the drummer taps his hi-hat a few times to set the rhythm and they dive headlong into their first song: a self-titled track. The bassist starts a driving, galloping riff; similar to a slower, more aggressive version of Iron Maiden's "The Trooper". The drummer's rhythm is simple and powerful; meant to stir the blood. A couple bars later, the biker joins the rhythm, matching the overall feel while adding fills every few bars to add to the atmosphere. After a few more bars, Erik grabs the mic, and starts to sing in his powerful, nigh hypnotic voice.
The song weaves a tale of four men in an ancient army on the eve of battle, the dreams of glorious victory and the unvoiced fears of crushing defeat. It continues to the day of the battle itself, the song breaking down into the solo when the fictional army charges the gates of a castle. The biker's solo is fairly quick, but not insanely fast as he improvises on the fly: performing high-speed runs interspersed with trilling notes like a mix between Dave Murray and the late Randy Rhoads. The final verse has the men making it to the inner keep of the castle, victory in sight as each of the men receives a mortal wound. Somehow they manage to gather the last of their strength and finish their mission before falling.
"Now for wrath, now for ruin, and a red dawn; scores of dead before the castle walls. Crimson flash of steel brings our foes to heel, Swords of the Fallen pass into Odin's hall," Erik sings, the music fading into the roar of the crowd. Not letting up, the band transitions into covers of Manowar's "Sons of Odin" and "Warriors of the World", playing close renditions of each song, but not complete carbon copies of the originals.
"Well, you've been an amazing audience," Erik says as the band introductions start. "I'm Erik Samuelsson. To my right, on bass guitar: MIKE RICHTER!" At his name, Mike plays a bass solo, his style a cross between Cliff Burton and Steve Harris.
"YEAH! On drums, JOHN FERGUSON!" As with Mike, John goes into a drum solo, varying his speed and showing off his technical skills as a percussionist.
"HA HA! And on lead guitar: WILLIAM BYRNE!" Taking the cue, the biker dives into another solo, his personal style a hybrid between thrash metal and neoclassical metal: fast and aggressive but managing to hold a melodic quality even through the heavy distortion.
"ALL RIGHT! LET'S GO OUT WITH A BANG! TAKE IT AWAY!" Erik shouts. Immediately John sets the rhythm and Will dives into a tapping solo that leads the way into the final song of their set: Alice Cooper's "The World Needs Guts". Finished with their set, the band heads back stage to cool off and relax.
"I'm heading outside for some air, guys," Will says to his bandmates, ducking into the parking lot to get away from the overly clingy groupies that are already assembling. Before he gets too far, he spots a group of four people heading his way: a petite young woman of Chinese decent, a small, but powerfully built man who has an almost feral look to him, a tall, thin redheaded woman, and a tall brown-haired man wearing glasses with ruby lenses. They look familiar, he thinks. "Can I help you?"
"William Byrne?" Glasses asks, his voice sounding more like a confirmation than a question.
"Yeah, that's me. Who are you?"
"My name is Scott Summers. This is Jean Grey," he says, nodding to the redhead. "Logan," he continues, indicating the feral-looking man. "And Jubilee," he finishes, pointing out the Chinese girl.
"Nice to meet you," Will answers, more out of politeness than anything else. "What can I do for you?"
"We're representatives of the Xavier School for the Gifted," Jean Grey explains. "We help people like yourself develop their… unique talents."
'Unique talents', huh? Will thinks. Why doesn't she just come out and say it? I know what I am.
"So you understand why we're here," she continues.
"Anyone ever tell you it's not polite to read people's minds?" Will answers in annoyance, having met with psychics before. "And as to your offer: no. Being a mutant is a pain as it is. Aligning myself with Xavier will just draw unneeded attention to myself."
"Like that little motorcycle stunt, bub?" Logan asks sarcastically.
"It's not like anyone saw my face," Will counters. "Besides, all I can do is sense attacks before they happen. Not much use compared to just about every other mutant out there."
"But if you join us, you could become stronger," Scott replies, clearly not expecting Will to refuse their offer.
"And be targeted by Magneto, Senator Kelly, and all other mutant-haters. Look, I appreciate the offer, but my answer is not only 'no', but 'hell no'."
"Fine, fine. Have it your way," Scott says in exasperation. "The offer's still on the table if you change your mind."
"Don't hold your breath," Will answers, turning to head back inside.
"Wait!" Jubilee pipes up.
"Yeah?" Will asks, stopping for a moment.
"Can I have your autograph? I liked how you played up there," she says, holding out a small spiral notebook and pen.
Why not? "Sure," he says, walking over to her and signing her notebook. "Gotta say, you're the first one to ask me for an autograph who wasn't trying to get me to sell my soul or join their foolproof 'get rich now' scheme," he continues, joking around a bit.
"Thanks," she says, chuckling a bit at his comment.
"No problem. Good night," he says, heading back inside, changing back into his street clothes, and joining his bandmates for the after party; getting annihilated drunk and raising seven kinds of hell before passing out.