One - We Are The Vauseinators
Alex Vause is high when she struts on stage.
Blasts of screaming fill the room, but they're distorted, hazy to her senses. She's floating on a cloud of ecstasy, above and beyond the crowd below. Whisked away by her escape, she's blinded to reality. Only a warm, familiar numbness cruises through her system; the harshness of the cold ground is no more, for she's far into her flight.
She smirks, but it translates into a lazy grin. One that the girls can't resist, captivating their hearts in a beat. One that drives her hungry spectators wild. They respond with a wave of screeching, and it smacks Alex head-on, pounding her eardrums and consuming her conscience. In her dazed fit of elation, her grin can only widen.
While one hand grips her trusty guitar (electric blue, of course, with a blazing flame printed across the body), the other languidly raises into the air. It's a half-wave, half-command. Amost like a dictator. Simultaneously, the chorus raises again, and Alex knows she's got full control. Women in the first row become breathless, gawking and squealing, begging for any form of acknowledgement. The power she exudes is undeniable; every move has the audience firmly in her grasp.
Alex lowers her arm, revelling in the atmosphere. The band may be performing, but this is all for her. A new kind of bliss drifts through her body. She's never felt so fucking alive.
"WE FUCKING LOVE YOU, NEW YORK!" It's Nicky Nichols that hollers into the mouthpiece, always the mouthiest of their group. "YOU READY FOR THIS SHIT?!"
It's not obvious, because sunglasses are shielding her eyes, but she's also high. Alex knows for a fact. After all, they snort those pre-performance lines together. It's tradition.
The cheering reaches a crescendo, and it's that peak of activity when Alex's vision becomes warped; colours bright, shapes exaggerated, all dancing across her line of sight. She reaches an ultimatum, the problems of yesterday long deceased.
As she strums the first notes on her guitar, preparing to launch into her infamously complicated riffs (how she can do that in her state is one of the strangest phenomena of life), she enters a new dimension of euphoria. One that belongs to her, her guitar, and her one true love,
heroin.
"Why are we at a Pussy Destroyer concert again?"
Piper Chapman can't believe she's counted, but Polly has asked that same question thirteen times in the last forty-five minutes. She's showing no sign of stopping.
"I mean," Polly continues, and Piper internally groans, "their music is shit and it gives me a fucking headache. They just scream. And everyone here is clearly off their face on something. This atmosphere is so uncivilised it's actually concerning. We have manners. We're polite. These people are anything but. And it's totally not fun that I'm third wheeling because Pete..."
Polly's incessant droning is enough to ruin the entire evening. It's also enough to project an incredibly pretentious image of themselves, and deep down this concerns Piper. From entering the arena, an overwhelming urge to impress others is dragged to the forefront of her priorities. She can't quite pinpoint why. Rainbow-haired, tattooed fanatics are singing desperate praises of worship to their leaders; Piper is anonymous to them, utterly insignificant. Flashing her perfectly yuppie grin wouldn't receive so much as a wink.
And yet, Piper disregards these facts. She's compelled by the calamity of her surroundings. The grunge, the danger, it's all so new to her. To have these fascinating, alternative individuals scribbling down her name in their good books is strangely exciting. Even though their interest in her is invariably non-existent, Piper is obsessed by this fantastical universe and the people living within. To her, creating a half-decent impression is crucial at this stage. Despite living on the opposite end of the spectrum, she feels a slight inclination of belonging, a yearning to be accepted by these people.
"And Alex Vause a grade-A asshole." Polly adds, determined to assert her point.
Piper eventually gives in, feeling it her duty to defend the rock star. "You don't know her personally, Pol."
"I've seen her interviews. She's so full of it."
"Doesn't mean you know her."
"Don't defend her, Piper." Polly scoffs. "She said 'I'm the fucking Zeus of rock.' On national television. Like, how conceited is that? She acts like she's the only person on that stage."
"It's justified. She's really, really good. The best in the band by far." Piper speaks through low, loving breaths, making no attempt to disguise her infatuation.
Alex Vause, captivating and mysterious, and oh-so-incredibly hot. Her voice, belting into the microphone, is hoarse, harsh, and yet smooth like silk. Deep and rustic, but soothing to the ears. It's incredible. Never lip synched, always live.
Gazing up at the flat screen, Piper watches the beautifully tragic lyrics flow from Alex's lips. Her solo. Piper finds her eyes locked firmly in position, and she's unable to tear them away. It's like she's been pushed, prodded, forced into a trance, and Alex isn't permitting her release. Even though Piper's never tasted it (and never will), Alex oozes a sex appeal that's undeniably addictive.
God, Piper would love to though. She'd lick it clean.
Polly blinks, slightly taken aback by Piper's dazed countenance. "Wha-do you have a crush on her?"
In a flash, Piper snaps into reality, and it's that exact moment when Lorna Morello resumes the reigns of the song, with Alex slipping into the backdrop.
"N-No!" She's too rapid fire in her response, and she knows it hasn't gone unnoticed. How could it not? Her next words are less eager, more controlled. "Of course I don't have a crush on her."
Polly smirks. "We all know you're a secret lesbian, Piper-"
"Bisexual." Piper corrects, painfully slow and painfully dismayed. The common misconception never ceases to irk her. "And it's not a secret. Everybody knows."
"Lesbian, bisexual, whatever. You're so full of shit. Just admit you bought us tickets so you could check out Alex Vause's ass." Now Polly's laughing.
"Who wants to check out Alex Vause's ass?" Larry crops up out of nowhere, two beer bottles in hand.
A mighty lover of the sweater vest, Larry is Piper's recent and decent beau. But it's there, standing in the amidst of an Alex Vause concert, can Piper completely see right through him, like a human X-Ray machine. From his sheepish, awkward smile to his old-fashioned, awkward clothing, Larry Bloom is like a stiff plank of wood nailed against the vibrant, blinding wallpaper of their surroundings. Even the beer bottles are nestled awkwardly in his hold. He squawks a safety net, a cozy blanket, the security Piper's family yearn for her to attain. It's all so dull, and completely juxtaposes the excitement around them.
She feels awful to perceive him in this way. She feels even more awful for subconsciously comparing him to a goddamn rock star. That's unfair. But being attracted to Alex, no. That can't be helped, and as such Piper can't possibly uphold any guilt.
"Nobody wants to check out Alex Vause's ass." Piper sends a glare in Polly's direction.
Larry chuckles. Piper's unsure if he's faking it; the twinge of annoyance in his eyes tells one story, but he sounds genuinely amused. "Well, Pipes. You're the resident bisexual. Should I feel threatened about the future of our relationship?"
Piper rolls her eyes to the heavens. "Just because I'm bisexual doesn't mean I want to fuck every person I see."
"But you want to fuck Alex Vause." Polly buts in, chuckling at Piper's mercy.
"Polly!"
"Humans can't exclusively like one person." Larry shrugs, smiling. "We're sexual creatures. If you've got a crush on her, I totally get why. She's hot. Don't feel bad about it."
As, dare she say, boring as Larry is, he's been the most supportive of her sexuality. The Chapmans, being a high-strung, upper-middle class clan, refuse to acknowledge the 'gay situation' (as her mother calls it) too much. But thankfully, Larry's remarks are one of admiration. Once, he'd even said: 'you being bi is so cool, Pipe. Now you understand where I'm coming from when I say boobs are hot.' Coming out to Larry hasn't hindered their bond, but has rather heightened it, strengthening the foundations of their relationship.
Nonetheless, his constant empathy catches Piper at a wrong turn. The fire remains ignited from Polly's mockery, and she finds herself snapping at Larry. "So I've got your permission to 'crush' on Alex Vause?"
When Larry's smile fades away (and Polly conveniently turns away from them), a trail of disappointment is left behind, serving to extinguish Piper's flame. She mentally degrades herself, forever detesting her foot-in-the-mouth disease. Her cruel, bitter side loves to come out and play, taunting and teasing and toying with her emotions, and she resents that. For a short time, it's like she transforms into another being, some kind of an evil entity, and can't recall on her dormant self for aid.
Damn. She's got issues.
"I'm sorry." She cringes, silently praying Larry forgives her for the umpteenth time. "I didn't mean that."
"It's fine." Larry sighs. "Let's just...enjoy the show."
Piper sighs too. "Yeah...let's do that."
Alex isn't much of a dancer.
She soars, strides, collapses on her knees, fingers zipping up and down the length of her guitar, but she doesn't dance as such. And her attire doesn't help. Ripped skinny jeans, a studded leather jacket and heavy boots always make a classic fashion statement in the universe of rock, but they weigh her down, causing a real sluggishness in her stage prescence. It's the perfect excuse for her non-existent dancing ability.
That doesn't matter. The stage is hers. She saunters across the surface, beads of sweat trickling down abalastar skin. Belting out an intense, high-tempo tune, her voice directly parallels the sweetness of Lorna's. Her guitar, battered and bruised by a passionate aggression, only heightens the intensity of her performance. She exudes a twisted, enigmatic charm, and the audience are smitten by it, forever swooning over her. They're mere mortals, owned by the invincible goddess stood before their eyes.
But she's a slave to her mind, always cast in captivity. And as the concert progresses, this possession takes an increasing hold. She can feel a dampness seeping through her high. The numbness is subsiding, leaving her thoughts frozen and vulnerable. She's suddenly craving the soothing waft of heroin, needing it to tie the loosening ends of her stability. It's all that she breathes, the ridiculous reality that she's living for.
She may own her performance, but she doesn't own herself.
But alas, the show must go on. That choice, like many others, isn't hers to make.
"This next song's an old one." She speaks into the microphone, her confidence little more than a farce. "If you don't know the inspiration behind this delightfully cynical tune, I highly recommend reading the 'Personal Life' section on my Wikipedia page." She forces out a laugh, and the auditorium reciprocates with an outcry.
"IT'S LESBIAN REQUEST DENIED, BITCHES!" Nicky, as characteristically jittery as always, can't possibly control her volume; her vocal chords have a resilience unbeknownst to any addict.
Damm. Alex needs what she's on.
Gina taps out the opening number on the keyboard. Nicky is hot on her tail, plucking erratically on the bass (not quite how it's supposed to go, but she's still shitfaced, so that can't be helped). This delivers instant signals to Alex, who plays a more restrained tone. Though she simply picks at the strings, the complexities of the composition certainly isn't absent. All very methodical, all highly concentrated (unlike Nicky). She re-enters her zone, her focus honing in, and the incessant taunting of her mind takes a temporary leave.
Lorna hums low and slow, her pitch soothing to the soul. Once Boo begins a rythmic beat of the drum, and Tricia resumes as Alex's backing guitarist, Lorna starts to sing.
"Lesbian Request Denied,
My lesbian request got denied...
Lesbian Request Denied,
My lesbian request got denied..."
Strangely, Alex is even in the mood to dance. Or, at the very least, to attempt it.
"What's the story behind this song, Pipes?" Larry wonders, sipping his beer. He swallows and pulls a face of mild disgust, the bitterness of the beverage overwhelming his taste buds.
Piper doesn't realize he's talking. She's too transfixed in the rawness of 'Lesbian Request Denied.' Alex's raspy, gritty voice harmonizes with Lorna's melodious tune, and the gradual build-up of intense, sporadic music allows Piper to see the tale unfold before her eyes. A teenage Alex Vause still finding her feet in the hike of life. Her sexuality is cast with contempt and hostility, not only from those around her, but from herself; predominantly from herself. With a slow, tentative drive towards acceptance comes the exploration, the adventure, the journeying into an unmarked territory. As more discoveries are made, Alex delves deeper in, faster, with an increasing enthusiasm. Soon enough, she's basking in her sexuality, thriving on the thrill that it brings. No matter what homophobia is thrusted in her face, she triumphs through the battle, shooting down her opponents with a bullet of insults.
"Pipes?"
Much to her dismay, Piper's focus on the explosive lyrics comes to a sudden halt. "Oh." She turns to Larry with a reluctance carefully guarded within her mind. "What were you asking?"
"Uh, the story." Noting his vague approach, Larry quickly continues. "Of the song. The song."
"I think she got suspended from school for being gay."
That was 'Lesbian Request Denied,' the stripped-down version. The basic, beta version absent of all the integral juiciness. The version where Piper effortlessly pretends she hasn't memorised the entirety of its backstory.
She only does that when Alex writes their songs.
"Wait." Larry frowns. "I could swear that's illegal."
"Probably." Piper responds, dry in her manner. "Ask your dad."
"What, right now? Should I text him? I should text him."
Larry's being his incessant hesitant self, and normally it doesn't bother Piper, but in this particular instance it does. Significantly. Her mind deviates from the concert - from Alex - and is instead filled with unnecessary conversation, a distraction persisting against even the optimum noise in the room. It's not nearly as frustrating as Polly's rambling, and yet the force is still enough to push Piper's buttons.
"Larry, the world won't stop spinning if you don't unveil this grandiose mystery."
Larry grins like a loon, invariably infatuated. "I love it when you're sarcastic."
Piper forces a pained smile as Larry leans in and presses a wet, sloppy kiss against her rigid cheekbone. Anything that isn't Alex somehow disintegrates into the background, and that includes Larry. His touch feels queer and almost foreign. It's an inexplicable sensation, because she's never even met Alex, but it's like a hold has snatched the leash of her life during this fucking concert, and her master is afar, oblivious of the strength she exerts. For Larry to kiss her in any way, shape or form isn't...well, right, even though Alex Vause doesn't know of her existence and undoubtedly never will. Like those crazed, jeering worshippers radiating an unbearable heat and stench.
It's depressing, really. Piper knows she's deserving of something more, something extraordinarily different.
"MY LESBIAN REQUEST GOT DENIED!
FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!
FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!"
Lorna Morello screams like a banshee, and Piper is astounded at her ability to sustain it. A tiny woman with the demeanour of an angel, yet one that contains a frightful insanity deep within, buried beneath the surface of her soft curls and ruby red lips. Piper is reminded of herself, in a way. An appearance of deception, like an illusionist cunningly abusing their tricks in a satirical reality. Not completely believable, but real enough to stimulate a false perception from those who wouldn't expect anything less. Except Lorna Morello is a disgustingly wealthy, disgustingly famous rock star that's known Alex since they were teenagers. And the more Piper contemplates that, the more it infuriates her. So they're not really the same, because Lorna is fluttering on stage, standing just inches away from her, and Piper isn't.
"FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!" Alex and Tricia chime in, keeping the backing vocals intact.
Piper feels a hot flush rise to her cheeks (as well as a slight dampness between her legs) as Alex continues her infuriated chant, recovering pent up grudges from a decade ago. It's just unfortunate that Lorna dominates the vocals. Granted, she's an exceptional singer, and despite Piper's exceptionally argumentative stance (or 'defending her rights,' as she prefers to call it), that case is impossible to win. But Alex deserves to take the lead when 'Lesbian Request Denied' is sung. It's her story to tell. Not Lorna's.
"Earplugs." Polly winces. "See, Piper? All scream."
"What?!" Piper loudly retorts, hearing impaired by the cacophony of chaos.
"IT'S ALL SCREAM!"
"FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!" The chorus remains, constantly cutting through any form of stability.
"WHAT?!" Piper questions, hardly wanting to indulge in a screeching fest. "YOU LIKE ICE CREAM?!"
"WHY ARE WE SCREAMING?!" Larry hollers, easily contesting Piper and Polly.
"WHAT?!" Polly retorts.
Piper exhales in a fit of frustration. She's left with little choice but to give in, certainly not needing to strain her voice. Swayed by the sheer power of 'Lesbian Request Denied' (and by Alex, because shit, those cool green eyes are hypnotic), she is snatched away once more, her consciousness squeezed through a funnel, filtering out what isn't the rock goddess reclaiming her soul.
Other then their music, The Pussy Destroyers are renowned for frequent on-stage coversation.
"...so the unconscious farmer wakes up and says 'dude, he's not an eggplant, he's retarded!" Nicky exclaims, waving her arms with great motion, sunglasses leaning from the bridge of her nose.
She's anticipating a flurry of applause, or even a cymbal crash from Boo, but the response is noncommittal.
Instead, it's Tricia Miller that's bent over in a fit of giggles. "Yo, you're always sayin' that boring ass joke."
"It's fuckin' funny, man!" Nicky retorts, a mild aggression creeping into her manner.
"Originality is obviously not your forte, Nichols." Alex adds, chuckling darkly, and it sends the fans tumbling into a whirlwind. They cry out in pure pleasure, the astonishment of Alex actually speaking beyond what they can comprehend.
So she's not particularly talkative. Does that matter?
A shrill of a voice clambers above the rest, desperate to make their presence heard. "V. A. U. S. E. ARMY! V. A. U. S. E. ARMY! V. A. U. S. E. ARMY!"
It's only for a split second, but Alex feels a tsunami of an ego flushing through her body, and her gnarling depression is ceased in its tracks. She cocks a thin eyebrow and smirks stupid; an expression reserved just for her, even at her lowest of days. An expression with a quality of eternal smugness ingrained within, one that can never be denied nor detested. An expression that rejoices hearts and shatters them all the same, because it can never keep the pieces intact. Iconically Alex Vause.
"Looks like we've got a Vauseinator in the room."
The Vauseinators. Fans of hers, and exclusively hers. Not of the band. Easily identifiable by their militarial chant.
The same voice screeches out; they're clinging to this unforgettable acknowledgement, refusing to let it falter away. "OH MY GOD ALEX VAUSE SPOKE TO ME! I AM FUCKING DYING! V. A. U. S. E. ARMY FOR LIFE!"
"Hey, what about me?" Boo jumps in, grinning. "Would you fucking die if I spared you a passing glance?"
"She'd commit suicide from the atrocity of your fat ass making fuckin' eye contact." Nicky drawls out, arrogance leaking from her smart mouth like a faulty tap.
"Oh, you wound me, Nichols."
"Over the line, Nicky." Gina scolds, narrowing her eyes.
Ever the comedienne, nobody is a stranger to Nicky Nichols' obscenities, and Alex is no exception. Most claim her true talent lies within snarky, obnoxious quips and innuendo that rests uneasily on the border of unpolitical correctness. It's what her name lies upon. And yet, being a bassist isn't simple arithmetic - especially when it equals a renowned rock band - so Nicky is undoubtedly a master of the musical equation. Even if Alex is more proficient in her calculations.
Never one to establish her professionalism, Nicky flips Gina off. An explosion of laughter detonates, filling the auditorium to the brim. Gina huffs in contempt as Nicky grins cheekily. Combined with her oversized sunglasses and the resemblance to a badly behaved school child is uncanny. It gives an strange innocence to her manner, and that's despite how she's a twentysomething year old woman who's snorted a good few lines and bam, reality is obliterated before her eyes and it's crumbling down at her feet and it's constantly shifting from nonsensical to hysterical and that's anything but innocent.
Fuck. Alex really needs what she's on.
"So we got one more song tonight," Lorna says, "and boy, oh boy, is it a treat. I'm gonna be sittin' this one out, Trish'll be takin' over on vocals and Vause is backin' her up."
"Because 'Finger in the Dyke' obviously undermines your vow of purity and chastity." Boo snorts. "We all know you're a bad little Christian, Morello. Ain't no pulling the wool over our dyke-ass eyes."
Lorna gasps, scoffs, snarls by slight. "Fuck you, Boo."
"Jesus, no beef on stage!" Gina intervenes, ever the kill joy for entertainment. "Now c'mon, we've got a fuckin' concert to finish."
"Couldn't agree more." Alex murmurs, and the fans strike again, girls shuddering and crying and praying for just one measly glimpse of her, a minuscule spec of eye contact.
And now that her ego boost has worn off, all she's itching for is her beautiful, sweet, perfectly pure powder.
Who would realize she doesn't give a shit about them?
"Who-oh-oh, I want my finger in the dyke...
Oh, oh-oh...finger in the dyyyyke..."
As Tricia finalizes the lyrics of 'Finger in the Dyke,' the instrumental comes to a slow finale (aside from Nicky, who finishes a couple of seconds later, always thriving on deviating from the designated music). Alex's hand breaks away from the strings, and it's that moment when she feels a wave of relief washing through her needy body. It's as if her self-combustion has been repaired by the miraculous mechanic of the drugs; even just the thought of them is enough to get the gears grinding, giving motion to her lust, her hope, her euphoria.
"YOU WERE FUCKING AWESOME, NEW YORK!" Nicky howls, fist-pumping the air.
Even if Nicky Nichols is still high (which Alex thinks not, realistically), they'll snort those post-performance lines together. It's tradition.
A call-and-response arises, starting from the left side of the area and shifting to the right.
"WE ARE THE VAUSEINATORS!"
"WE ARE THE VAUSEINATORS!"
"ALEX VAUSE IS OUR GOD!"
"ALEX VAUSE IS OUR GOD!"
Alex is breathless. Sweat is pooling down her body, and it's soaked her shirt right through. Reaching three mentally challenging, physically draining hours of performing can take a toll on anybody, but Alex's only energy supplement has been inaccessible for what feels like absolute eternity (perhaps she should start working out, as per Diane's proposition.)
She throws her head back and stretches out her arms, encompassing the glory bestowed upon her. Maybe it's got to her head and maybe it hasn't, but she finds herself functioning on an unquenchable thirst to fuel her ego; not that she adores the praise or anything, because that's certainly not the case. It pains her, panics her. She's unworthy of their worship, undeserving of her obscure status as their god. She's a diabolical example of omnibenevolence; them one thing she's equipped to love is goddamn fucking heroin. At least omnipresence is her suitor, since she's quite literally everywhere, showcased in all four corners of the globe.
"We are The Pussy Destroyers!" She shouts loud and clear, the most vibrant she's been all evening, unable to shake the anticipation of restarting her high. "Thank you and goodnight!"
"V. A. U. S. E. ARMY!" The audience booms as a collective, unifying their desires, their dreams, their insane appetite for Alex. "V. A. U. S. E ARMY!"
"I think our fans may be blind," Nicky begins, sarcasm bleeding from her words, "cos' there are other people on stage, and they ain't-"
"Jesus, Nichols!" Gina groans, and Nicky flips her off once again, smirking with an obscenely infuriating smirk that many, many women instantly recognize. Not quite as iconic as Alex's, but still containing a reputable claim to fame in her own right.
Well, that's another concert over with, Gina penalizing Nicky and all.
Now Alex needs her fucking drugs.