Junkie Chapter 8: Higher, a titan a.e. fanfic

7. Higher

Note: I take this chapter as the midpoint of my story, and I hope the descriptions of the concert will be enough to convince you to read this to the end. I wrote this chapter over a period of ten days, trying to get the right scenes for the concert and trying, hopefully not in vain, to get the music through into words. I am trying not to disappoint, considering the immense time and effort combined in this chapter, or more specifically the second-half of it. I get doubts too, on whether 'Junkie' is worth a great piece of my time in earlier 2003, and probably something emotional as well, where my writings meet. I have yet far decided, but if agreed, I know how everything will turn out. Though you may have to wait until I can get everything on the site.
Just so I don't take any of the credit: 'Are You Ready', 'Never Die', 'Beautiful' and 'Higher' are songs from Creed's second album Human Clay. They are the real conspirators behind the 'music which possesses' and they were quite an inspiration during this chapter. 'Freedom Fighter' is a song from Creed's more recent release Weathered.

With Iain leading us through the crowd, Vanessa and I follow in his wake, the cart of instruments gliding behind us silently. Aliens glance at us, their faces sulky and eyes mocking, but I suppose the mood has been swayed by their music. I have never seen aliens dance before. It seems unnatural; I wonder how they will react to our music?

Over the heads of the crowd, the stage swims into view. It occupies the entire length of my vision. Basking in the dim sunlight and crudely built together out of metal and wood, it vibrates with each deep bass note, emitting, invisible, from the monstrous speakers that line either end like pillars. Curtains, crude and drawn, in turn flank the speakers. On the stage, a group performs. Vanessa chortles; I am glad it has been smothered by the blanket of raised arms of the crowd.

All I can make out are gangly, tall performers. All have their mouths stuffed into mikes, and they please the crowd with their incoherent sounds. A blaze of electronic noises and instruments throbs in our ears, bouncing around aimlessly in the walls of my mind. I attempt to ignore it, but I am forced to endure its onslaught as we near the towering speakers. Sometimes the noise of the crowd drowns the sound. I hope that will be the extent of their emotion when we take the stage to perform.

"Hey, look!" Iain gestures, his voice nearly lost in the blare.

His fingers point in the direction of the performers. I see a guitarist is among them, brandishing an outrageous instrument. I try to separate his music from the incessant noise, and find it in a same rhythm of faint, sour notes. Iain smiles wickedly, wearing his "I know damn well we can do better than that" look. His eyes glint with the same strength I remember seeing in the classroom during the rehearsal. I cannot help but be eager.

As if we have crossed some invisible barrier, the noise from the speakers fades away immediately when we reach the field in the shadow of the stage. Other groups are there too, some glum-faced, others practising but all aliens. I wonder if they have ever heard human music before? Iain motions us towards a rickety flight of steps, its landing hidden by the vast drape of a curtain.

Inside, the light grows dim and the stuffy. Iain approaches an alien, his face partly obscured by shadow and curtain, while barking orders to sound engineers and those manning the control board concealed somewhere. At the sight of Iain, he recoils.

"Ah Iain, I see your band has arrived," his tone is condescending, chatty to the point of insult, yet Iain takes no notice. "I hope you've practised hard. We have a demanding crowd this year."

"Because last year you didn't feature humans," Iain retorts, "so can we go on now?"

The alien appears to scowl, and a stream of light reveals his face for only a moment. Gaunt chin, bristled face, slit-like eyes… I begin to feel uneasy. He is not a Solbrect native, let alone an inhabitant of Zechaat.

"Not yet, not yet, I'm afraid. We go on a first-come-first-served policy, Iain," he says carefully, his words spaced strangely. "And a bunch of… non-humans… came first. Brimming with talent they are."

He lifts the drape, gestures to an assorted group of aliens with one Akrennian, two with two pairs of arms and no guitar. My eyes narrow. I certainly hope Iain has done the right thing to bargain with this one.

"Swell, we don't mind if they go first, but on condition that we go next," Iain tells him. "Is that all right with you?"

The alien looks past Iain to the shadowed figures of me and Vanessa. I see his eyes narrow too, in disapproval or dimness or both. Behind him, the thundering sounds of alien percussion shake the false wall through which performers enter by.

"Remember one thing Iain: your time on stage is limited, so don't fool around," he warns, and I wonder where does this threat come from. "My sound engineers will cut the power when I say so. I can't have… people playing out there for so long. You know what my company's method of payment is like."

"See how we entertain the crowd," Iain grins, and Vanessa gives me a thumbs-up. I only hope they are right. "Don't worry, the crowd came for a reason, and we'll try to give them their time's worth. How much do we have then? Thirty minutes? Forty?"

"Half-and-hour, and that's all. Each time each group goes stage the crowd cheers," he says, "can't have that for the entire week, can I?"

"Time is money, I see," Vanessa replies. "Figures."

"It doesn't matter," the alien moves back into the shadows, and only his feet are visible now, "you'll be playing for free."

Iain's hands ball into fists, while Vanessa's face contorts, and her eyes turn small and fierce. "Really?" she questions, her tone a masterpiece of malice.

"Afraid so," the alien responds, his tone descending to apathy, "if the crowd thinks they don't want humans, they might do whatever they want to this stage. And do you know the expense of setting up a free concert… you've been a risk, Iain, you and your ladies here. I can't afford anything more than… humans now, at this time."

"This stinks," Iain says softly.

"Then you're welcome to back out. You came for the music, remember, and until you change your mind Iain, get out of my office and wait downstairs for my signal."

He disappears into the thickest of the curtains, his departure executed with a swift swishing of fabric. For a moment, I feel as if my guitar had been plunged through my throat, and its broken strings coiled around my heart. As Vanessa turns, I see read her eyes – and see nothing but disillusion there. She lets Iain pass, who stands, stiff and silent, until he abruptly stirs, as if suddenly realising the alien had just gone.

I cannot bear look Iain in the eye. He touches my hand, the one still grasping my guitar. It feels diminished and faint. Disappointed and dejected, we file down the stairs as the next group rumbles up to perform.

"Humans," one of them recoils.

Like a sore thumb on the bare grass, a crumble of wood stands. Thick, frayed leather drapes down on each side, and rods of metal slice narrow cubicles from the space it occupies. A waterlogged puddle blocks the entrance. I ask for a place to change into performing gear. A sound technician, eyes glazed from strain, points to the shack.

Inside the leather has been creased into folds, soiled with mud and dangling in tatters. I suppose it will do no good to complain. Once I ensure I am free from prying eyes, I tape the leather drapes to the velcro patches. It falls out, revealing a hole big enough to poke my guitar through. I shake my head in disgust.

Apart from good music, I believe in giving our audience something to look at. I change into a black top, with no sleeves; Iain says it brings out the flex in my arms when I play. I do not like belts like Michelle does. Instead, I put on the khaki bermudas I wore on the first day, sling them down a little so they go way below my kneecaps.

Pity there isn't any mirror. Aunt Cheng taught me to do my hair, so it stands out in spiked bangs. The stash for my hair unnecessary, I hang it on my neck loosely.

Outside, Vanessa and Iain are waiting. Iain's hair is done up in spikes too. He's sacrificed his jacket for his shirtsleeves. Apart from that he looks as normal as ever. There is a wicked grin across his face as he talks animatedly to Vanessa. I will ask him later.

Vanessa has her hair drawn into a ponytail, so you can see the sparkle on her eyebrow stud each time she moves. Her baggy pants are held up by a bright orange stash, while her acid green shirt strains my eyes when she moves out of the shadow and into the light. It will be hard for anyone not to notice her behind the drums.

"What's all the excitement?" I ask, joining them in a huddle.

"This," Iain beams, then presents to me a couple of cells with a flourish. My mind tries to piece the two and two together. I catch a glimpse of the amps a distance away, and then turn back to the cells. I can't help but grin. "You're not going to…" I eye Iain steely.

"Oh yes, I am," he says, the curve of his mouth ever present. "They say they'll cut us off after thirty minutes but I think, for going free, we should have more time on stage, don't you think?"

"So you're going to smuggle the cells inside the amps, and then use them when they cut the power?" I question.

"Wait till you see their faces," Vanessa says.

"By right the cells should kick in when there's no power," Iain looks at us, and fills the empty brackets in the amp with cells. "It'll give us, say, an extra twenty minutes."

I turn away from Iain for a moment, revising the entire list of practised songs. "Do you know the chords for all of them, or do you want me to go through them with you?" Iain asks again. He holds out a handful of guitar picks to me. I turn both his offers down.

I run a finger through my hair. "You make sure you know yours."

I feel my heart pulsing through every bit of my body. Something has lurched in my stomach. It has to be anxiety – or excitement. The crowd echoes from the other side of the stage. Vanessa is twisting her drumsticks. Iain, sure enough, going through the chords all over again hurriedly, barely able to contain himself. I tune my guitar to shed the tension building up inside.

Another roar from the crowd – music tangles out from the back of the stage, garbled and noisy- a hit of the keyboards, looks like the band's doing a finale – I hear a shift in tempo –and, finally, the music stops… rested, and there is a sound bordering on sub-satisfied silence. A sound technician cuts the sound, and another one summons us towards the stage.

Clutching my guitar, we move forward, grim with apprehension and eagerness.

"You know the drill, don't you?" the sound technician asks us, his eyes sullen but still. "We'll give you the signal so you can finish your performance. Good… luck."

The group that has wrapped up their performance talks animatedly, gesturing; they are proud of their show. We pass them, as if we were never there. At the top of the stairs, we hear the impatience of the crowd on the other side of the curtains. The three of us stop and ponder for a moment; I am aware of the alien whom we talked to earlier watching us.

"This is it," Iain begins, his tone sound and serious, "the peak of everything we worked for. This is where we show our music to the world."

"And I just hope we and our music will survive this," I mumble

"Well, Iris, there's no turning back now," Iain says. "You ready?

I press Iain's wrist, and feel his warmth through it. Vanessa, drum sticks in one hand, takes Iain's other hand.

"Good."

Iain brings the bass guitar down from his shoulder and, carrying it by its long neck, sweeps aside the folds of curtains. He sunlit outside blasts him with light momentarily, before the folds return to their fixed positions, engulfing his striding figure. I part the curtains again, and walk out onto the stage as a sea of colours begin to stir. My guitar firm in hand, I feel for a moment as if I were frozen in time. The thousands of faces, looking up, shred through my eyes, stilling time as my walk, though simply only five seconds, takes more than I desire for to complete.

Two mikes await us at the centre of the stage. Getting my amp from Vanessa, I notice the sound technician's wire, and I plug it into the amp. A surplus power light flicks red; the cells, hidden, will do their work once this light fades. As I adjust the amp's power, I am aware of the hush that has overcome the crowd. I can feel eyes, hot like lasers, on my hair, my hands, my bare arms.

They now know we are humans. Some aliens grunt, others wait in silence. Iain And I tune quietly, as we let our audience get over the initial shock of seeing humans on this stage. Vanessa continues to set up the drums, rearranging them endlessly in her mess of bass, snares and cymbals. Iain has completed tuning; he taps the mike, and it echoes through the field.

"Humans!" someone shouts from the crowd.

"Be wary of their devices." I hear whispers. "They are malicious and will do anything to innocents like us." I frown. "Careful, their music is a spell of hate on anyone who hears it."

Iain takes to the mike. His bass guitar is now slung across his neck on a strap, hanging precariously like a loose tooth. He addresses the crowd silently, but with that glint in his eyes: "Be prepared to lose yourself."

Vanessa nods. I flick the switch on the amp, and immediately it gives its eager drone of static feedback. Iain, shifting his head to Vanessa, nods in return. Taking his downbeat, Vanessa responds with a smash of her snare drums and a beat of bass.

I cradle the guitar to my side; fingers flailing, they dance across the metal string. And the amp replies; creaky at first, and the noise melts into music.

The music, unrestrained and moody, slams into the crowd. They recoil, many utter noises disapprovingly at the raw strength of the intro. Others, those more attentive, scowl as Iain's bass runs aground on Vanessa's offbeat tune. Our notes, still green and shaky, emerge as a tangle of sounds incoherent. Ragged as it may be, Iain's body jerks into beat as I end the spluttering intro. The song begins proper; his voice bursts into song.

Iain's voice stays constant as our chords struggle to merge for our first song, 'Are You Ready.' Vanessa, trying to bind both sounds, fails. Yet as we roar into the chorus, my fingers descend sharply, my other hand steadying the chords, I throw myself back recklessly. My strumming, inconsistent, is replaced by a groaning, sullen cry as my fingers plod the field of strings. The audience, slowly leaning into the music, continues to stare. I see some people in the distance dancing. Suddenly, I feel I want to dance too. Iain, caught by the music, gives the audience his best grimace yet.

The finale of 'Are You Ready' comes out clean and neat. Vanessa executes her tattoo of repeated, monstrous beats with ease, and Iain's voice continues to hang as I play, silently, new notes for a new song. As his last word trails and disappears into the noise of the crowd, my hands burst into speed, and Iain's bass picks them up, coolly, ceaselessly.

I turn my attention from the crowd to my guitar for a minute. The verses of 'Never Die' (my favourite) are tricky and powerful. With each new chord, I press my fingers on the thin metal, feel steel throbbing with my blood. But I don't care. I get to introduce the chorus; without mercy, I run my fingers over the strings. The amps, forced into action, echo a moaning, shrieking, shattering note that hurls itself at our audience. Iain's voice comes in, his bass weaving in and out of my chords.

I lift my head for a moment. An entire section of our audience are standing on their feet, anticipating, raring, as our music continues. I close my eyes now; my fingers flying low between the strings. The music captures me – and I make Iain's bridge an unintended duet.

The music, like a spirit walking forth from the stage, utterly possesses. I only know the way it makes me feel, the way it grips my heart in a flow of concentrated desire. As the chorus for 'Beautiful' approaches, I lunge into a set of rasping chords. Feeling the pulse of the music rushing through my veins, I feel the entire thing hit me – Iain's bass and voice, Vanessa's drums, my howling guitar – a wave fuelled by emotion, hot and foamy, with sound mixing with poetry.

The wailing of my guitar continues, as Vanessa plays the opening for 'Higher', trying not to disappoint. Collected from my hands, Iain's voice swims over the cries of the guitar, his words clinging on desperately like the air on my skin, before dissolving into the noise from the crowd. Again, the music possesses me; my hands, fed with a craving to dance, grind on my guitar. The 'Higher' chorus, neat and genuine, breaks over my fingers, taken at full emotion by Iain's vocals. Consumed by urge, I press close to the mike, and before I know it, I am taken higher… beyond all that I can imagine.

My fingers, uncontrolled, guide the song as Iain's sweaty voice speeds into my guitar solo with utter passion and strength. Poetry, for that second, ascends into the solo, crying, straining explode into the air. Bursting forth in a thousand invisible lines, infiltrating and successfully winning, both hearts and voices.

His voice continues to rage, mingling with mine, filling my ears with a cry comparable to a siren's. I cannot see now, my eyes have been blurred with tears; the frenzied screech of the chorus continues, strong and sure, refusing to be eclipsed by the noise that can only be the crowd's. My hands radiate, and the chorus goes higher still, resolute as depression, heartfelt as sacrifice, compelling me to fall on my knees.

My eyes pick out a hand signal; Iain wants the end chorus played again. His look is one of pure triumph. My eyes steal a stare at the crowd, transformed from a watching trio into a dancing swarm of supporters, arms interlocked, chanting every last word of the song. Here it comes again… I lean into the words, my voice now strong and secure. Our voices soaring, hands still on the guitar – just one last line now. And I submit to the song – forcefully it washes me away – with arms outstretched, on my knees – I let it…

… to the place of golden streets…

For an entire moment I don't stir. The aftershock of my crying guitar strings continues to pierce my ears, along with earsplitting roars from the crowd. My guitar before me, the ghost of the song walks abroad and anoints us with its silence.

Everything in front of me is blackness – but someone is playing a guitar, soft and lonely, but I can hear it. Another eruption of noise from the crowd. My ragged breathing betrays life throbbing within me. The sound of a guitar continues, its notes hanging in the air. But who is playing it?

My eyes open, the crowd attempting to lunge at me in their excitement. Then, with a jolt, I realise it: I'm the one that's playing.

Someone else is shouting: a slimy, alien voice. I notice one of the sound technicians, demanding us to cut the music and return backstage. Iain and I exchange glances for a second. With a gesture of defiance, he cuts the technicians' wiring to his amps. Severing it, he returns to stare at the crowd, his face shining with sweat. I follow.

And turn to him for orders. The sound technicians look furious enough to drag us offstage. But Iain, a grin of pure malice in his face, nods – and I begin to play. I do not turn back to look at Vanessa, but I'm sure she's grinning too. I don't look back at the sound technicians either. Their abashed faces are second only to their curses; they know they cannot do anything against a crowd feeding on our emotion.

All the while the crowd roars and hollers, never with such an intensity I have ever seen before. They seem to be one large being, alive and moving, with just a thousand faces. I focus my eyes on the mass of life, seeking Gail's face or that of any of her conspirators. My hand brushes over the strings; from the death of 'Higher', comes new music.

Iain, too, is driven by something more than his voice. He steps up to the mike, his voice shaking and says in solemn, spirited tones: "This is for all my human friends in this universe."

Vanessa opens, and I pick up from where she left off, the intro to 'Freedom Fighter' stinging my ears. The crowd, overwhelmed, rejoices at our persistence. Yet in their excitement the words of the song go unnoticed. Their voices, provoked by music into a deafening echo of tones, urges our song on. After 'Higher' I feel that this song is about the victory we have been vying for – a triumph for ourselves over all the masters we have ever known, to all those we have been flogged by.

Maya… my head swims, and I picture a boy decorated with bruises, sobbing in one dark corner. I accidentally miss a chord though I make up for it in the chorus, twisting my chords gently with the voices of Iain's bass. My desire has not slackened; only now the lights of longing, hoping have been put through walls of fire to become defiance, persistence.

A flame within me surges. I try and think of Maya again, but his image has been replaced by others – Tamar, Michelle, Liwei, Gail… and finally myself. Just like looking into a mirror, I am sobbing too. My hands tighten at the sight; I fight back distraction, and with all my remaining grit I join Iain at the chorus.

"I'm just a freedom fighter/ no remorse…."

For seven songs, we play to the crowd, their voices always thirsting for more. Our cells, however, had a different idea. Catching the flashing red light on the amp, Iain orders a shift in tempo with a downward slash of his hand. The sky, turning a blackened blue, fell into the hands of a warm Solbrecht evening, with a slight breeze blowing and clouds taking their positions in preparation for a possible overnight shower. All this, and the faint, piercing lights from afar were our only portents to celebrate our finale.

Plucking the final lines of the closing song, my last chord coincides with the cells' final lapse of strength. With an ending tattoo from Vanessa, the sound cuts – for real – and the music is laid to rest.

The voices of the crowd, in a mixture of appreciative disappointment at our untimely end, swash us with cheers and applause. The entire stage left pitched-black, I rue not having the opportunity to take the crowd for their support and unruliness. With the repeated chants of "encore" urging us not to leave, we escape in the darkness and slip through the curtains backstage.

Our arrival is one of silence. Sound engineers line the stairway, as if to politely show us out. Iain's alien friend, present in the darkness, which begins where the curtains end, watches over us like an observer beholding an execution. Everyone, sound engineers and other performers included, gaze at us with nothing short of controlled fury and quiet admiration. I swear at least one of the performers would have been captured by the music.

Nonetheless, they lead us down to the patch behind the stage. Their eyes stare, then turn away once we pass; the stunned, unnatural silence continues even as we pack our instruments as if uttering a word would bring a curse against such magical music. We accept the cold dispositions, but the excitement, the thrill, the sheer joy at our success… burns even more brightly within me.

Now our music has gained us a thousand followers and tenfold the number of listeners.

Iain, trying desperately hard to keep his flippant mood inside the curve at his mouth, calls out to his alien friend, "So I suppose you're still not going to pay us despite all the noise the crowd's made?"

I cannot see his dipping glare but I am certain of its malevolence. Has Iain gone too far? The sound engineers appear to be ready to round in on us, while the other performers simply watch in impatience.

To our surprise, he flips a debit plate down from his ledge; it lands on the ground, and embeds itself in the dry earth. It glows a distinctive blood red, and from my knowledge of Solbrecht currency I know the amount it contains.

Five hundred credits!

Iain sweeps it up and drops it into my guitar case. "We thank you for your generosity," he says in a tone filled with sarcasm or genuine thanks or both.

"Now let me not see any of your breed again!" he orders, his voice full of spite, from above. We are only too welcome to leave though.

Our instruments in hand, we saunter along the edge of the crowd, rowdy with impatience and darkness. In their restless distraction, they hardly recognise either of us – even with Iain's bass guitar too long to be concealed – and I hope it stays that way. I cannot bear being smothered by the crush of a million alien bodies anyway.

Under the cover of the night, and the bad music which follows, we take our leave.

Once we reach the crest of the field leading to the road, we encounter our first admirer. A shadow obstructs our way, standing in the extended penumbra of a bruised streetlamp. The sky above still shows evidence of lingering light, though faint, glowing deep beneath the cast of clouds; combined, both the streetlamp and clouds give the scarce light a purplish hue, the shadow a wash of lighter lilac. I approach, the shadow stirs; the light bounces off something, and I catch a streak of ginger…

"You could've started a revolution."

I straighten myself as I reach the parapet and turn to face Gail, one leg on her skateboard. She is alone.

"Where're your friends?" I question.

"Gone to light the fires at all human homes tonight," she tells me, her face trying to hide a glimmer of admiration. "Tell them you beat the aliens flat."

"We do not deserve such flattery," I say, trying to hide the modesty inherited from Father. But still, I have yet to stomach the reason. "Though I'm inclined to think it was magic the way the crowd took to it."

"It is kind of captivating, standing in the crowd. Gives you a feeling short of pure bliss, yet at the same time makes you think you've lost a heart, physically… no human has ever played that well before."

"It's poetry, sometimes it just turns into music."

"But everyone loves it," Gail says, turning to the parapet for a second as Iain vaults onto it, then helps Vanessa up. "You should've seen the view from the crowd."

Iain stares, taken in by the sight. Gail eyes him too, until Iain finally asks Gail, "Who're you?"

"An acquaintance," Gail nods slightly, in her humbled superiority, "Gail, as Iris knows. You play bass well."

Gail turns, this time taking my right hand in hers. "So it seems we do have much in common, after all. You're only human anyway."

She lets the skateboard slip, and I catch it with my right foot.

"Payment for the show, and for the bet," she grins. "Might I add you were deserving of this win – this time."

"If there might be another time, Gail," I say. I scour for a pick in one of the pockets of my guitar case and uncover a bronzed, stiff one. I pass it to her. "Something for you too, taken it as a small token, for your appreciation."

Pocketing it, she takes a few steps back before facing us again.

"Watch yourselves, because heroes come and heroes go, you said so yourselves," Gail says, one hand to her heart. She does a theatrical bow and then disappears, just like that, into the waning light.

Written by shelter