This is everything you've been waiting for.
Blake's been dreaming of this moment from the second she learned of its existence - no, since the first time she sang as a little girl.
Posters of this competition were plastered everywhere along her university's walls, boasting of fame and fortune and greatness: two weeks of blood and sweat and tears and the greatest of their generation that compete tooth and nail for the top prize. A prize that everyone has worked their entire lives for. This was where legends were born.
It's everything she's been working for, and it's finally come.
This is her moment, this is their moment.
(The founder of the annual Sanus International Jazz competition was a shrewd and obtuse man.
A small, thinly built man of sharp features and an even sharper tongue, Sanus was as ruthless as he was a genius to anyone's standards.
The local kids spun tales that he ate nothing but ice and cobblestone rocks; that's why his heart was so cold - the type of man to pop a child's ball if it rolled onto his lawn with a frown.
Legend says that his coffin was built out of the wood salvaged from his cherished double bass: an instrument passed down as an heirloom through his family which was worth its weight in gold.
It really belonged in a museum, but Sanus would have burned it before giving it away - now it rots in the ground with the tar that he called flesh.
He was never a kind man, nor funny, nor charming. He never married, no children to waste time over or anyone to live in the memory of. He lived through his music, notes on a page, an accompaniment part for double bass and a ghost of a band. His passion was music, nothing else, and he lived on through this competition.
In actuality, Samus did have a child.
The competition was as much of his blood and flesh as any son or daughter. The new generation will eventually replace the prior, a fact that he despised. Best to make them fight like hell among themselves for it.
Then, he would be satisfied, sitting back into the lone chair in his lonely house, with nothing but wood and strings to accompany him. His instruments may not speak nor himself have much to say, but his music sang for him.)
"Hello, everyone, we are the representative quartet for the Menagerie Institute of Music,"
Blake's voice fills the dead silent concert hall through the mic in her hand. She readjusts her grip on the metal, takes a deep breath.
The spotlights were blinding, and 5000 people stared at her expecting a performance of a lifetime. The air was too thin, too dry, too foreign - the air that she'll have to learn how to flourish in if she wanted to win. Damn right she's going to win.
Nerves were something of the past, left behind once sound checks were finished, basses were tuned, warmups were done. No, Blake was not nervous, nor scared, nor terrified - she took a breath and looked forward towards the 10 piece panel of judges before her and brought the microphone back up to her lips.
"We'll be performing three charts in our set; Blue Skies, That Old Black Magic, and Postage Due."
She glanced back to her band - hey all returned her gaze with a determined nod; Neptune on piano, Sun on double bass, Ilia on kit. They moved into playing position so seamlessly it was like they were born to, as natural as a breath of air.
Playing Blue Skies as the first chart of their set was a bold move - the classic of swing classics from a quartet hailed from the School of swing and blues. Ambitious, to say the least. It would be pulled apart note from note against every performance of the chart before it; all standards were.
Blake turns back towards the audience and the air takes on tension like a string pulled taunt. Almost a palpable quality - she adjusts the microphone stand away from her, she's always preferred a free mic.
One last glance, her band was ready to play; arms raised, waiting, gazes like knives on her waiting for their queues.
Blake raised her hand subtly and snapped at each turn almost inaudibly, but they knew exactly how to follow. Her hand lowered, snap.
Left, snap.
Right, snap.
Raise, snap, she pulls away towards her mic.
End of queue; they move instantly into action.
She has four bars before she comes in, when Ilia, Sun, and Neptune establish the swing chart's groove. They adjusted the chart with contributions from every member; the judges seem surprised when they start playing.
Sun leans into his walking line, Ilia taps out a high-hat quadruplet, Neptune puts flair as the chord progressions establish.
Bold enough to play a classic as the opener for the entire competition - bold enough to change a classic in front of the most critical panel of judges put together in the last 20 years of the competition's history.
Four over four, cut time, 110 beats per minute; they've rehearsed this song close to a hundred times. Ilia pushes it to 120 after the head, she queues it with a triplet off of her medium and high toms; unnoticeable to the crowd, they recognize it immediately.
Two bars left, they all watch Blake as they play. There was no sheet music in front of them. No, this chart was ingrained into their flesh more than any ink or scar; what they're playing is long past just notes on a page.
They pushed the tempo two weeks ago, Sun cut some chord changes, Neptune added a fill before the solo section, another virtually undetectable queue that reaffirms the structure of the chart.
They took their fair share of headway with this chart, pushing the bounds much further than what was expected from the rigorous and rule-abiding Menagerie Institute. The solo section was ambitious - for better or worse. High risk, high reward - that's how you win among this cutthroat competition.
The judges this year will be critical on stylistic liberties - they'll feast on each solo like vultures, picking apart each performance with a fork and knife, talon and beak. They watch with their black hawk eyes as Ilia queues with another subtle quadruplet.
This chart was perfect, at a cost.
No, change that, back to the drawing board, back to the practice room, back to rehearsal. From the head again, no, section B, less bass at bar 46, exaggerate that crescendo more in the piano once we take the coda, more here, less there, yes, no, maybe. It was perfect; it had to be perfect.
Blake timed her breaths, watching as Ilia's high-hats diminuendoed, Sun cut back on the timbre of his 8th note walk, Neptune started his lead-in fill. One bar, before she showed the world that they deserved to win, that they were the best, in leaps, in steps, in one point on a paper slip under the pencil of a judge intent on failure.
One bar, four beats that separated her from everything that she's dreamed of since she was a little girl. Four beats, three, two,
One
The roaring of the crowd was deafening from the moment it started once they played the last note of their set. Sweat was dripping off of each of their brows, chests heaving, cheeks flushed. Sun let out a few laughs looking at the rest of his band members and pumped his fist.
It was an incredible performance, the best they'd ever done. The reaction of the audience echoed its magnitude as the judges scribbled on their papers, speaking hastily into their recorders.
Stage crew flooded the stage quickly, taking the bass, the kit, wheeling out the piano into the folds of the velvet stage curtains on each side. A man took Blake's microphone and beckoned for them to follow.
They were all charged with electricity, souls ecstatic as they hurriedly grouped together and off stage. They're long used to the buzz, the rush, the applause - they slip out of the view of the audience as the lights start the dim, only then did the applause start to quiet down.
Blake was too exhausted to indulge in their celebration and walked blindly into the curtains. The rush of adrenaline was beginning to fade, but came right back as she ran straight into a tall wall. It sprouted arms to steady her, firm hands on either shoulder before she tipped over head first.
"Woah, careful where you're stepping, miss." A voice said, one that dripped charisma and honey the second it hit Blake's ears. After more than a decade of vocal training, it was a skill she picked up along the way.
Startled, Blake found herself staring straight into the chest of a white fitted shirt, looking up to see a mane of blonde hair and a smiling face. She was gorgeous, makeup light underneath the residual light streaming through the curtains.
"Oh, sorry," Blake finds herself saying automatically, looking down as something cold brushed along her leg - a trumpet hung by a hand at the woman's side.
The woman's face lit up once she recognized Blake's voice, "Wait, you're the Menagerie quartet vocalist, Blake Belladonna?" Starstruck; a face she'd begun to see more and more.
"I guess that's me," she returns, amused at the grin that the woman starts to wear.
It might just be how high the performance lifted her, the familiar scent of cork grease and metal. The air felt refreshing - a cold and waking breath that made her dizzy; maybe that's why she indulged in pleasantries, in conversation that she usually avoided. "and you are?"
"Oh, sorry," she spouts, lifting up a hand to offer in introduction. "Yang, I'm with the Vale big band, lead trumpet." She stood up a bit taller after that last addition, confidence swelling in her chest, grip on her instrument squeezing tighter. Minuscule reactions that Blake caught out of the corner of her eyes.
"I know you, I'm pretty sure everyone has." Blake takes her hand with a gentle shake - it was ice cold in her grip. It was a robotic prosthetic, joints moving with a quiet hydraulic whirl as she pulled it away.
She pulled her gaze away from her arm before the woman could notice. "You have plenty of rumours flying around your head." She adds, back on the offensive, keeps her on her toes. Be cautious around the competition, her professor echoed in her head.
Yang's eyes take a mischievous glint, "Well, what type of rumours have you heard? Good ones, I hope," she comments casually, clearly amused. She understood the game they were dancing around very clearly.
"That you're flamboyant, and hot-headed, and push the tempo like it's no one's business," Blake says, earning herself a laugh. "A killer soloist though, that's what I've heard the most."
"Well, you'll hear for yourself in a few minutes," Yang says, glancing past the curtains to the stage. Chairs were set up for a big band while her conductor was organizing microphones for soloists. A separate stand and microphone were set up to the right of the band for the set's lead.
"To be fair, you have your own fair share of rumours yourself, Belladonna," Yang says with a hint of a flirtatious challenge, which Blake deflects with a cross of her arms, "Mhm, isn't that right."
Yang continues on unfazed, "I've heard you guys have an all-original set in your pockets, a bit ambitious for an International Jazz competition, isn't it"
Her prosthetic taps at the metal of her horn absently, a rhythmic drumming that fell in line with the heavy boots of the stagehands on the wooden floor. "Bold of Menagerie to send you."
The pair both turned before Blake could answer as the announcer called out the next group over the speakers. "Our second performers, the representative little big band from the Vale Academy of Jazz!" The crowd started to clap as the screen above the stage shifted to the academy's emblem.
The emerald green crest cast a glow on the stage below, changing the entire feel of the stage compared to the purple of Menagerie's crest.
"I guess that's me," Yang says sheepishly, her entire demeanour shifting. She seemed reluctant to leave; hell, even Blake was too.
Yang was peculiar; forward, refreshing, she'd have to find her later after the first round of the competitions were over. That is, if her band survived the cuts or not. 16 representatives from the top 16 music schools in the world came to compete here, after surviving their own competition among their school to come as representatives. Four rounds, 15 cuts, 1 winner that takes all.
Turning to glance at her bandmates start moving onto the stage, Yang was actively trying to stall for time, but another woman appeared beside her.
Hair as white as snow, and nearly a foot shorter, the girl whispered into Yang's ear with an annoyed urgency before brushing past her towards the stage. The woman's heels clicked loudly on the aged wooden floor.
"Alright, alright Weiss, I'll be over in a second," she calls to her playfully as the woman walks out of view. Yang turned back to Blake with a small chuckle.
"Good luck, Yang." Blake laughs, amusement apparent as her conductor called Yang's name.
"No need, I won't need it." She calls back before slipping into the bright lights of the spotlight. The crowd boomed in volume once she stepped into the limelight as she waved to the crowd to their delight.
The shadows of backstage were cool on her flushed skin, watching the next performance through the curtains. The 11 piece band started to set up; saxophones taking their places, brass lining up behind them. The rhythm section had their instruments in place, tapping out some last notes and rhythms.
The woman from earlier, with the white hair, assumed her place at the piano. Yang, at the lead soloist's stand a few feet apart from the crowd. She even had her own spotlight, that made her almost glow.
Blake was familiar with the band's reputation - Vale was known to be electric and played an exuberant bebop, putting on a fan-favourite spectacle. Borderline hard bop, with as many Latin derivatives as they could get away with. Their brass were sought after the moment they graduated from their program.
"What's taking you so long?" Sun asks as he approaches from behind. Blake turned and followed him away without responding, through the performer's hall, through the doors, into the concert hall's audience seating.
Each group of performers had their own designated balcony seats, the pair making their way to the private spectator's booth. Ilia and Neptune were already seated, and the last two musicians took their places at the seats that had their names on.
"I've heard about that trumpet player they have," Neptune said as they arrived, stretching over the ledge to try and get a better view of the band as they took their places. "I heard that she's insane and her dad's a legend, no wonder she's that good."
"You mean Yang?" Her bandmates turn to her, lounging in the velvet-lined chair. Sun tried to hide his excitement, tried .
"Wait, you know her? How come you've never said, can you introduce me to her?" He says, leaning over their shared armrest.
She laughed, pushing him away back into his seat. "No, I don't know her like that . I was just talking to her on the side of the stage, I ran into her."
"Oh, too bad," Ilia says from two seats down. She kicked up her legs onto the ledge and closed her eyes. "That would just make winning feel that much better."
The lights brightened again, revealing the band set for their performance. The four of them snapped to attention as the conductor tapped his mic on the stage.
The audience quieted down, watching in anticipation so heavy it weighed down the air.
"Good afternoon, we are the representative little big band for the Vale Academy of Jazz."
Everyone started clapping in approval at the announcement of another big name right behind Menagerie just before. It quieted down again as the older man brought the microphone to his lips again.
"We'll be playing Nuttville, Give it One, and Slick Stuff." He says, fitting the microphone into the stand and walking away.
He turns back, but doesn't even take one glance at his band. Everyone was waiting, frozen in playing positions. Horn raised, sticks hovering, breaths held.
Everyone except Yang, who held her instrument lowered with a smile. Her fiery blonde hair was unmistakable underneath the spotlight; mesmerizing and hypnotic. Blake couldn't seem to take her eyes off her.
After a few moments, she finally raised her trumpet to her lips, arms holding it in perfect form. Only then, did the conductor start his count.
A fast count, almost a shake of his hand. Never once did he even look at his band, pacing back and forth. He hit the last count in and the band exploded in sound.
Flamboyant, that's what Vale had a reputation for. Bravado, style, and fires like no other. They did not disappoint.
The percussion section immediately fell into a heavy Latin groove, cymbal clanging, bass walking loudly as it carried the initial lead-in melody.
The horns came in with more intensity than any band Blake had heard before. They led with the melody before dropping back to the bass again, coming back in a few bars later with the trombones.
They layered their sections with an execution that was almost jaw-dropping, shots tight, crisp, cutting through the concert hall with ease.
The build-up was setting fire, burning, flames licking out of the stage. The band crescendoed as the conductor raised his hand before queueing a cutoff with a wrap of his fist. Yang pulled off into her solo.
And Yang had the balls to say that Menagerie was ambitious.
Yang played brilliantly; they swapped out the tenor solo for a trumpet solo, something unheard of in such a high stakes competition. Latin hard swings like this needed constant fast movement, range, a free-form sound that most trumpets never even dared to consider. Even less pull it off successfully.
She moved through 16th passages with a hard swing, with an ease that Blake's never heard before. Her fingers moved on the valves at a blinding speed.
The band came back in and proceeded to the next section, build-up, tension, release, moving fast and unstoppable to the next solo section. Yang never lowered her horn.
The conductor queued with a wrap of his fist again, and Yang started another solo.
"Wait, what?" Sun exclaimed from beside her, eyes wide. He turned to her, eyes wide like a madman in the dark of the stands.
Neptune was next in his exasperation, "Two separate solos in the same chart? That's completely unheard of, I can't think of any time that anyone's done that in this competition."
They all turned back to the stage, where Yang had grown larger than life.
This solo was amorphous, lacking a driving flow that made it teeter on free-jazz. A contrast so apparent to her last solo that you wouldn't have been able to recognize it as the same soloist. Her sound took on a piercing timbre that filled every crevice of the concert hall.
Blake stared at Yang as she played, breaths shallow. Her heart pounded in her ears as the band moved into their third section. The piano pulled them through with a dancing fill.
She's read the history of this competition before, on a late Sunday night after rehearsals. She knew about the founder, a bastard, really.
As much as he loved his own music, it was competition that drove him to live. He founded this event to bring the very best together; to push each other past what was unimaginable hours before.
Cutthroat competition, what Samus detailed in his last written letter, was what drives musicians. It's what makes their hearts pump, gives them a bloodlust. To reach for more, to fight for more.
Everyone in that concert hall was thinking the exact same thought, watching as the band dazzled with their set. This year's competition, its competitors, the talent, it was like no other.
Blake didn't play naive; she knew better than that.
This was her dream, something she'd shed tears and blood and years of her life for.
Yang was brilliant, and gorgeous, and possibly one of the most exceptional musicians she's heard. And she just made everything harder by tenfold.