Author's Note: This story can be considered the third story in the "JEM Stars" saga (even though the first is unfinished and the second one hasn't even been written yet).

Time to Roar, Part One
a misfits femmeslash fanfic by d.l. schizoauthoress

dedicated to Stormkeeper

---

The game is near the end
They can't reverse the trend
Victory's in store
Baby, it's time to roar
We're takin' it all

---

"What's wrong, Roxy?" Eric inquires in one of his smarmier tones, "Afraid we'll find somebody better than you?"

"They don't come any better than me, buster! Let's go." Roxy growls back, raising one of her hard fists in defiance. I barely suppress a smile at Roxy's bravado. She isn't scared, that much is true, but I know she has doubts about her own worth.

To soothe her, I sling an arm around her shoulders as we walk out of Eric's office together. And I whisper, "Nobody comes close to you, Rox."

"Hmmph," she grunts, acting all tough, even though she knows I can see the left corner of her mouth turning upward into a reluctant smile. "Says you, Pizzazz."

"That's right," I shoot back in my sweetest voice, bestowing a quick little peck on her cheek, "says me!"

---

"The Tinkerbillys, direct from London!" Stormer reads off a fresh poster near the entrance of yet another club. How she can dredge up that much enthusiasm after the trash we've been hearing all night is beyond me.

"Forget it, Stormer," Eric says, "they're nobodies."

That's it. Far as I'm concerned, everybody we've listened to tonight has ended up being 'nobody'. Who does Eric think he is, anyway, some hotshot talent-scout? Don't make me laugh! All the bands that Eric has 'discovered'? They were better staying unknown -- it's the Misfits who bring in most of the money that keeps Misfits Music in the black.

"Eric," I cut in, "we've been to ten clubs! I've had it! We don't need another Misfit!"

And it's true, we really don't. The three of us came together on our own. We only went to Eric because he had a major label under his thumb, and we'd been trying for a while to get a recording contract without success.

Behind me, Roxy mumbles, "My feet hurt."

I don't know why I let Eric talk me into this wild goose chase. We've got a good thing going! I trust Roxy and Stormer, and I know that Stormer trusts Roxy and I. Roxy...well, I'm a little biased when it comes to Roxy. But she really is friends with Stormer, and I like to think that she loves me (and is just too proud of her toughness to say such a mushy-gushy thing).

Stormer is listening intently to the music that drifts out through the club's open doors, despite Eric's dismissal of the band. "Whoa!" she exclaims, getting our attention, "Listen to that saxophone! It's so powerful!"

The people inside the club obviously don't share Stormer's high opinion of the Tinkerbillys, if those boos and shouts of 'Get off the stage!' are any indication. "Well," I say, barely stifling a laugh, "anybody who gets that much of a reaction can't be all that bad."

Still, why not humor her? I flash Roxy an amused look. "Let's check it out."

---

People are throwing anything they can get their hands on at the band on the stage. The men scatter quickly, but the only female Tinkerbilly stands at the front of the stage, a jet-black saxophone --same color as her wild, silver-highlighted mane of hair -- in one hand, refusing to move. "Get off the stage!" shouts the crowd, "Go back to England!"

Even as I observe this, the four of us skirt the dance floor where those discontented listeners are, making our way to the stage. Nobody pays attention to us, and for once, that's okay with me.

"I'll show you ruddy Yanks!" the saxophonist screams, her icy grey eyes flaring with rage. Adjusting her grip on her instrument, she dives into the crowd, weilding the sax like a club. "Move it or lose it!"

I check that Roxy and Stormer have found proper instruments from the ones left onstage. Stormer smiles in that angelic way she has and flashes me a thumbs-up, while Roxy gives me a devilish grin. I nod at them, putting my hands on my hips, and Roxy gives voice to a loud, piercing whistle. Wish I could do that.

Hushed now, the crowd mumurs, "The Misfits...the Misfits..."

"I like your style," I tell the British girl. Challengingly, I ask, "Think you can keep up with us?"

With her looking straight at me, I can see that her eyes are really a smoky pale violet. She growls, "Depends on whether or not you can keep up with me!"

"Hmmph," I hear from behind me, as Roxy starts in on the bass line. Stormer joins in without missing a beat. Barely three seconds go by before the Brit joins in, perfecting the opening. I'm impressed. Stormer'd been trying for weeks to come up with something I could play on lead guitar, but I'd been shooting down everything she gave me, dismissing it as too weak-sounding or too difficult to play.

"I come right out, say what I feel," I croon into the mic. Immediately, that saxophone wails out again, barely into the first line. Why, that scene-stealing stage hog! Work with it, Pizzazz! I tell myself, don't blow it!

Controlling my anger, I continue, "I won't mince words, you got my appeal..."

Then Roxy and Stormer are backing me up with, "B-b-baby, I like, I like your style; I like, I like your style," and I know it's coming together.

Turning to the new girl, pointing, "I know you are versatile. I like, I like your styyyle..." But, girl, you better learn quick who runs the show, and it's not that money-grubbing suit in wings.

A pause, barely noticable, to take a breath as I step off stage. "I won't waste time; I come the the point." Zeroing in on a nerdy guy at one of the nearest tables, I turn on the charm. I run my index finger along his jawline. He reaches out to touch me (Disgusting!) as I sing, "You don't belong," a quick little shove against his face, refusing his advance, "in this kind of joint!"

"B-b-baby, I like, I like your style; I like, I like your style," we Misfits sing in harmony. As I turn to the stage, I see Stormer, beaming like it was Christmas and her birthday all at once, eye-to-eye with the saxophonist. A sarcastic thought pops into my head, A little mutual attraction? How sweet. "I know you are versatile. I like, I like your style..."

I take my place beside the Brit onstage. "We could make some noise, you and I," I sing, pointing at her once again. She better be getting the message. I feel a little like a recruiting poster, without the stripey top hat.

"Hoo-hoo, whoo-hoo-hoo!" My backup singers think that they're funny.

"Are you ready, are you willing to try?"

Last repeat of the chorus, amid the shouts and cheers from a pumped-up audience, "B-b-baby, I like, I like your style; I like, I like your style. I know you are versatile. I like, I like your style..." and to finish them off, I drag out the final line, "Yeaaaaahhh, I...I like your style!"

We all thrust a fist into the air, basking in the adulation of the fans. The fact that this girl can synchronize with us so quick seals my resolve. Turning to her, I give her a rare compliment, "Hey, you play a wicked sax!" and offer quickly, "How'd you like to be a Misfit?"

"Sounds pretty ace to me," she replies, and I can see the interest lighting up her face, the calculating gleam in her eye.

"Not so fast!" Roxy cries, and suddenly she's between the two of us. Like she has to protect me from this girl. "Nobody joins this group unless me and Stormer say so too! What do you say, Stormer?"

Well, if Roxy was looking for support from our keyboardist, she was going to be sorely disappointed. I choke down a sarcastic burst of laughter as Stormer giddily exclaims, "I love her accent!" with the same enthusiasm she had when saying 'direct from London!'

I thought, Maybe Stormer has a thing for girls with flashy accents. It would explain the crate full of subtitled French films in her room, at least.

But anyway, Stormer's blithe, kinda clueless reply does nothing but make Roxy even madder. She grabs the neck of the saxophone and snarls, "Well, I say she gets lost!" and yanks on it hard, causing the violet-eyed Brit to stumble forward a step.

"Oh, yeah?" she spits caustically, pulling her saxophone back. Just then, I notice that she's written something on her yellow plastic bangle in black marker, just one word: 'Jetta'. The distance between the two narrows, and she -- Jetta, it must be -- raises and shakes a threatening fist. "Well, I say I ought clean your clock!"

I can see the change in Roxy almost immediately. This is familiar ground to her. But if she pounds this girl Jetta into hamburger meat, I swear I'll lock her out of the mansion. I swear. Roxy speaks softly, confident in her ability to win, "Go ahead and try."

Before either of them can go at it, Eric intercedes, snapping, "Let me handle this!" at Roxy.

Roxy steps back, her right hand in a fist, lifting to aim at the back of Eric's head. I snatch her wrist tightly, and her eyes lock onto mine. My grip relaxes, my hand slides down to her hand, stroking the fist loose so I can weave our fingers together briefly.

Eric demands, "Where's your work permit?"

Jetta blows him off, breezily stating, "Hm, I must have left it in the Rolls, last time I was visiting the Prince of Wales..."

Roxy gives a sniff of disbelief and pulls her hand from mine, cocking it in a fist at her hip, sending a roseate glare toward Jetta. Eric isn't letting anything deter him, sending back a poison dart of his own, "Which means you can't legally work in the United States."

The satisfied smirk on Roxy's face disturbs me a little bit. Why does she feel so angry about letting Jetta join up? Well, I want Jetta in the band, and I won't let Roxy or anything like a silly work permit stop me from getting what I want.

"When Immigration gets wind of her, they'll deport her," Eric tells us, and the look on his face tells me that he wants us to walk away, leave this hassle behind and find somebody else. Like I'm gonna listen to him!

"Relax, Eric! Daddy's lawyers will take care of that!" I cry, enjoying the look of defeat on his face as I push him away and step toward Jetta.

She looks at me, adoration clear in her expression. In surprise, she asks, "They will? Ooh, luv," she points at me, "I like your style, too! I'm in!"

I can tell, without looking, that Roxy is pouting when she says, "I still say she'll be nothing but trouble!" I turn toward her anyway. And I can tell, too, that I've won.

"We're all gonna be trouble, for Jem and the Holograms!" Exhilarated by my victory, I crow, "Watch out, Jem! The new Misfits are gonna getcha!"

---

Eric has called two cabs for us, one to take him and Jetta back to Jetta's place and then to our mansion, and one to take Stormer, Roxy, and I straight home. Stormer's in the front seat, flirting coyly with the cabbie, a handsome Hispanic man of about thirty, I'd guess.

"What's the matter with you?" I ask. Roxy, who has pulled her whole body away from me, even angling her knees toward her door, stares out the window and doesn't answer. "Roxy, c'mon!"

"Why'd you have to let her join the Misfits?" Roxy mutters, in a voice so flat I can hardly tell that it's a question.

"What is this, you still worried about that four-way profit split?" I ask lightly, trying to make a joke of it.

She sneers; I can see it reflected in the glass. "More like a two-way split," she whispers mysteriously, and despite my further efforts, she won't say any more.

to be continued

More Notes: Do you guys realize, there is no scene in "The Talent Search, Part One" where Jetta tells the Misfits and Eric her name? They cut right to that press conference with Eric introducing her. So I had to make up a way for 'Zazz to deduce the girl's name...a bit contrived, I realize, but I hope it worked.