#57. Talent

A bittersweet project: fun to quote-unquote "research" for this (ie, break out the air-guitar), but writing this made me miss Guitar Hero X)

Disclaimer: Don't own A:tLA or Guns N' Roses.

The backstage was in uproar, a mixtape of every and any Guitar Hero setlist being played at once. Wires and cables ran like pythons along the floor, and every available surface not plastered with famous, faded faces held an instrument case or some singer/guitarist/bassist/drummer frantically running through their notes. For somewhere behind Sokka drifted the sound of a kickass guitar solo—ZZ Top, he was pretty sure—and the screams of the crowd half-high on music and mostly high on whatever they'd just snorted.

Matter of fact, he might be smoking a joint with the rest of them, but for the fact that he was on in fifteen, and his guitar solo was killing him. He wasn't Kurt Cobain, but he damn well still had to be out there pretending he was. Stuffing a hand in his pocket and running the other impatiently through his hair, he shoved past a Blondie look-alike who was humming to herself—"One way, or another, I'm gonna see ya, I'm gonna meet ya meet ya meet ya meet ya!"—and towards the door. He needed a smoke.

The alley was cold and shockingly quiet, the aural equivalent plunging into a pool of ice water. He slammed the stage door shut behind him, slumping against it. The streetlights by the road only lit up the edge of the alley, and the only other illumination was the neon sign buzzing above his head. He stood in a faint pool of red, erratic light, only able to make out the area around the door. A dumpster next to him was heaped with week-old Asian takeout and beer cans and some nasty shit he didn't even want to think about, and across from him, a collage of graffiti and ripped concert posters leapt out from the brick wall: Jackson Polluck, high on New York.

"Spot's taken, dude."

He started at the voice, turning around. A figure was leaning against the brick wall a couple yards away. At first he couldn't see her, only a small circle of orange that lit up as he eyed it, but then she exhaled, blowing a cloud of blue smoke, and he recognized a cigarette. The circle of light caught only her feet: she was wearing trashed Converse, mint-green and every inch scribbled with Sharpie.

He expected her to continue, but she simply stayed there, leaning against the bricks. He took out his own cigarette after a moment, flicking on his lighter. "So, what brings you to the show tonight?" he asked finally, feeling the need to break the silence. After all, for all he knew she was hot—this could be one good way to take his mind off the solo. "Got a boyfriend in the band?" Establish mutual single-ness—always the first move.

"The hell I do," she retorted. "My boyfriend's here for my band."

Zero for two—she was a musician after all, and she was taken. But that wasn't really a problem: most of the musicians he knew didn't really worry about 'taken-ness'. "Sweet," he drawled, in a tone of voice that translated it into 'hot'. "Which one?"

"The one that's gonna kick your band's ass."

She talked coolly, rapping off comebacks like a drummer holding the beat. Between that and her audible monotone, Sokka got the irritating sense he was only receiving a fraction of her attention. "Got any money to put where your mouth is?" he challenged.

"Money?" The girl—for lack of ideas, he decided to call her Converse—shook her head. "Like I'd be living here if I had cash? Dude, I've got skill where my mouth is." Her voice went lower, slightly mischievous, as she added, "Anyone here can vouch I'm good with my hands."

Oh, she was definitely smirking. He did a double-take: was she actually flirting, or… no, he realized, watching her take a drag on the cigarette and purse her lips as she exhaled. Messing with him. Whatever—two can play, and all that.

"Yeah?" he wondered. "What kind of skill?"

"I'm multitalented."

"Go figure." He grinned crookedly, making sure to let his eyes linger on her face, even though he couldn't make it out. She had a hot voice, and he was willing to bet that whatever was currently hidden by the shadows was good, considering how she was talking. "So want to convince me exactly how good your hands are?"

For the first time, Converse glanced over for more than a second, eyeing him in a long, slow, head-to-foot motion. The red light gleamed, vamp-goth style, off her eyes. "That blows," she said finally. "Pretty bad taste for pervs and emo hair to be in at the same time."

Low blow. He reached up to his head self-consciously, before realizing he was only proving her point when she snickered. "This doesn't seem fair," he pointed out. "You've got an advantage, if you can insult me and I can't even see you."

She paused, taking a deep lungful of smoke, and then shrugged. "Fine," she replied, flicking the cigarette butt off into the shadows. She turned towards him, taking a couple steps into the light.

She was short, he realized straight off—couldn't be more than 5'3 to his six-foot-something. Her hair was cut short and spiky, Goth black that looked surprisingly natural, and her eyes, a faded gray-green, glowed in her pale face. Multiple piercings gleamed along her ears and at the edge of one eyebrow. She wore a bright green bandanna around her neck, cowboy-style, and skinny black jeans hugged her legs.

He took all that in in an instant, though, because—unusually—it wasn't really what he was interested in. As soon as he'd put together a rough picture, his gaze moved to her hands—those, above all else, could tell him what her instrument was. Her fingers, he noted automatically, were small and childlike. Besides, as if it hadn't been already obvious she wouldn't make a guitarist, they were also slathered in a ridiculous amount of jewelry, dripping with silver that glinted in the dim light.

No, Converse was a drummer type, maybe. Leastways, she had the mouth for it. And he could definitely see her in the back of the stage, whaling on a kit. Yeah—that worked. Drummer. Pretty hot.

"Comments?" she wondered, grinning. She had a cute smile—smug-ish, but cute. "I'm shaking in my boots, here."

"Hmm," he murmured, putting a hand on his chin for effect. "How about, been a Hot Topic model long?"

"Nah," she answered, not missing a beat. "They couldn't keep me. I kept making all the other girls jealous."

"So you picked up the cowgirl vibe instead."

"Dude. You see this hair?" She shook her head, letting the spikes of black ruffle up around her face. "No cowgirl has hair this sick."

"No shit," he muttered. "It'd scare the horses."

To his surprise, Converse laughed, giving a lopsided grin. "Touché," she conceded. "Which, by the way, is French for, like, 'congratulations, you're not as retarded as you look'."

"Jesus," he muttered, leaning his head back and staring up between the building. A light mist was grazing his face, announcing rain-to-be. "Don't think I've ever gotten dissed by a band chick this many time in five minutes."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey." She held up her ring-slathered hands, suddenly looking intensely serious. "I'm not a 'band chick'. Those are the sluts who hang out at these things and hook up with the guitarists once they're smashed."

Sokka, who had previously been rolling inward eyes, cringed slightly at that—it was somewhat too true for comfort. "I," declared Converse, drawing herself up to her full height—it wasn't very tall—"am a rock star. You've never been dissed by a rock star this much before."

"Someone's touchy," he observed, not quite sure how to respond. She sounded chill again, but it seemed easy to piss her off. "You, like, a psycho-feminist, or what?"

"The hell?" A corner of her mouth curled up in amusement. "Dude, you're not listening. I don't give a shit about your band chicks. I'm just not one of them."

"I'm gonna hear you play before I make any calls on that."

"Whatever." She tossed her head, flicking hair out of her eyes. "I look like a band chick?"

He let his gaze move across her face, taking in her Goth-black lips and the smoky edges of her eyes. "No," he replied boldly. "They're usually not as hot."

Converse looked carefully up at him, tilting her head to the side as if a different angle might help her read him better. Eventually she grinned slightly, an edge of bright pink tongue poking between her teeth.

"I lied."

He frowned. "Huh?"

"My boyfriend's not here. Well, he is, but not for me. And he's actually my ex."

"Yeah?"

"He cheated. Band chick," she added venomously.

"He's an idiot."

There was a brief silence. Sokka had spoken utterly without thinking, but knew it had to be the truth. He'd hooked up with groupies, sure, but he'd never actually been dating a girl like Converse at the time—or ever been dating a girl like her, actually. She was an unusual kind of hot, not quite tall enough to be leggy nor stacked enough to be, well, stacked, but hot nonetheless. She stared at him, looking even more curious than a moment before, but then clapped her hands suddenly, straightening up.

"Well," she declared. "This has been a great way to kill fifteen minutes, but—"

"Fifteen?" he yelped, dropping the cigarette. "Shit!" He spun for the door, yanking at the handle. "Shit, shit, shit, shit—"

"Christ," she wondered, "what's your damage? Oh—and it's a pull, not push."

Finally he managed to yank the door open, stumbling in. "I'm on," he gasped. "Shit, I'm late…"

"I'll come watch." She sauntered in after him, and he caught a glimpse of her leaning on the doorway as he scrambled inside. "Good luck."

He ran, and by the time it occurred to him that maybe he should have replied, she was gone.

He still wasn't Kurt Cobain by the end of their songs, but he could have been worse. Teo and Aang ditched after their set; the latter, incidentally, was with Katara, and suddenly looking a lot less tired. Sokka was cool with it, though—his biggest concern was more disappointment that the bassist was getting more action than him.

Eventually it was just him and Suki left—she'd been their front man, so to speak, and really had done a hell of a job with the song. She hadn't asked him why he'd been so intent on staying after, either. That was the great thing about Suki: she always seemed to know when something was up with him, but knew far better than to ask.

But he'd almost given up—who knew? Maybe Converse was just full of shit—when, at one thirty-three exactly, he saw her again.

She was third onto the stage. First came a tall, pale boy with shaggy dark hair and his own bandanna: this one red, tied eyepatch-style over his left eye. Second out was a wild-eyed kid with carrot-colored Einstein hair. Incidentally, the redhead seemed to have lost his shirt, but he was ripped, full-on six-pack. Suki wolf-whistled loudly, and wasn't the only one.

Sokka watched, interested. Eyepatch had made straight for the mic—no surprise; he looked like a singer—but to his surprise, Redhead had the drumsticks, spinning them in blurs of white through his spindly fingers. Then Converse…

Then Converse, it seemed, was going to prove him wrong on everything. She had an acid green Fender Stratocaster slung over her shoulder, and swung it around to her hands as she reached her spot. A leggy, dark-haired girl wearing black and red and a hell of a lot of leather, took up the bass; she glanced towards Converse, and Sokka's new friend responded by slamming down on the strings.

The chord hit like an earthquake, prompting an explosion of cheers. Eyepatch grabbed the mic double-handed, pulling it close to his mouth.

"Hey everyone," he said, low and grinning, and Suki screamed in response, along with most of the girls. Converse had already started to play in a murmur, skittery chords echoing as her hands jumped along the frets. She hadn't shed any of her rings, but she was moving regardless, fingers going triple-speed to compensate for length, or lack thereof. "Those of you who don't know who's up here," continued Eyepatch, "we're Blind Bandit, and we're hoping you're ready to rock!"

Converse slammed into her first real chord, and he knew the song instantly. "Slash!" he heard several peoples bark, and whooped with the crowd as she launched into a riff. The other girl was holding steady on the bass, and Converse dug in her fingers, hands blurs of silver on the strings. The music rose, faster and more intense each second, until, pausing just a second at the peak, she came racing down into the riff. Eyepatch grabbed the mic, jerking it to his mouth.

"Welcome to the jungle—we got fun and games…"

Converse was flawless. Eyepatch turned towards her once in the second verse—"And you're a very sexy girl," he sang, grinning, "very hard to please"—and she kept the undertone steady, fingers working like pistons as she smirked back, mouthing, "Hell, yeah!"

And her solo. He didn't even want to start on her solo. Because he thought he'd been decent, but Converse had been right—she had money where her mouth was. She bent over the Stratocaster, fingers catching notes and pinning them to the frets, even holding her own in the eerie high section where every note hit high and fell like a slide whistle. Suki leant over once to comment, "Damn—good guitarist," and it was all he could do to nod. Converse's ex really was a retard.

He was waiting when she and the rest of them left the building, maybe an hour later. Zuko saw her looking at him and raised his good eyebrow, but Bumi leered out loud, catcalling, "Yo, T, who's the cutie?" from behind her. June rolled her eyes, slugging him in the shouder—cut T some slack, dickhead—and he mock-flinched dramatically. They all ignored him.

"Who's the guy, T?" Zuko wondered, too-casual, and she rolled her eyes.

"Chill, dad," she muttered. "I'm fine."

He eyed her briefly, and then shrugged. "We'll get the van," he told her, jamming his hands into his pockets. With a jerk of his head, he motioned June and Bumi away towards the corner where they'd parked, and Toph turned to the boy from the alley.

"We're stupid—entertain us?" she wondered, quoting his song. He hadn't done badly with it, either—the solo in Teen Spirit was a bitch. "Didn't have you pegged for a Nirvana fan."

"Didn't have you pegged for Slash," he replied. "You were sick out there."

"Told you I was good," she shrugged, but she was grinning. There was a pause.

"So…"

"So…?"

"So I was wondering... if you wanted to, like… hang out, some time?"

"Hang out?"

"Yeah, you know," he replied. "Don't get to spend a lot of time with actual rock stars."

"T! Come on!"

She flipped the finger to Bumi, who was hanging out of the passenger window, and turned to the alley boy. "Dude, I gotta go. Can I…" She broke off, glancing around. "Got a pencil?"

He paused, rifling through his jacket pocket, before pulling out a pen. "What for?"

Converse reached across calmly to the lamppost, ripping off one of the concert posters there. "Autograph," she replied without looking up, scrawling something rapidly onto the paper. "From a rock star, right?"

"T! The hell're you doing?"

"I'm effing coming," she snapped back, before pressing the flyer into Sokka's hand. "See ya," she muttered, turning away and sprinting for the van. "Chill out, Bumi—Christ," was the last thing he heard before they peeled away from the sidewalk, lurching out in front of a taxi.

He unfolded the paper. There was a name—Toph—and beneath that, a number. He turned it over to find four words on the back. It took him a moment to decipher her handwriting, and then he grinned, stuffing the note in his pocket.

Welcome to the jungle, it said.

This was going to be fun.

This was fun to write ;) For the record, a) Bumi in Toph's band is young, not creepy old here, and b) The song is 'Welcome to the Jungle' by Guns N' Roses--which has been stuck in my head for the last 2 days. R&R, please: reviews are even more inspiring than coffee ^_^