The demons are trying to tear us apart.
They tempt my love with the pleasures of the flesh.
They will be warned.
Just this once.
"This is Haskell. I need to speak with the Director. ... Yes, I know what time it is. ... Look Anya, I know she's there, now put me through." Haskell sighed with exasperation as his boss's executive assistant put him on hold while she went to 'see if the Director is in.' Dammit, who is Anya trying to kid? The Director is always in this time of night.
"Yes, Haskell," came the throaty voice across the audio-only line. "What do you have for me?"
"Good evening, ma'am. I've just concluded a meeting with members of Priss and the Replicants. They are the group that--"
"Yes, Haskell. The group with the grabby lead singer who has an overly high opinion of both herself and her negotiating skills. Continue."
"Yes, ma'am. The group's representative was unable to attend tonight's meeting due to a sudden illness. I met with other members, who informed me that the group is more than willing to sign our contract as it currently stands."
"I see." There was a pause, and Haskell could picture the Director sitting back in her chair, eyes closed. She tended to do that whenever she was analyzing information. "Have you checked into those rumors about the singer?"
"Yes, ma'am. The stories are true: on several occasions she has left the venue shortly before or during the performance, claiming to be ill. At other times she has left with no explanation whatsoever. Additionally, several times in the past she has been unable to perform due to injury. There are no overt signs of the illnesses being drug or alcohol related, or due to some sort of physical or psychological problem. The injuries are apparently related to accidents on her motorcycle."
"And you still think it prudent for the company to invest in this band?"
"Absolutely, ma'am!" Haskell responded enthusiastically, finally breaking from his "corporate report" demeanor. "The musicians are not much more than a talented garage band, and, of course, the standard changes will be necessary. But the singer is worth the investment by herself. Looks, singing, performance... she even writes her own music. When we match her with better players, she'll be a gold mine."
Another long pause. "I don't think so, Mr. Haskell."
"Ma'am?" Haskell was stunned.
"Mr. Haskell, we have too many prima donnas under contract as it is. Prima donnas who are good looking, who can sing, who can write songs, who can perform, and who can show up for their performances. No, Mr. Haskell. We don't need any more headaches."
"But ma'am!" Haskell protested. "Surely we can--"
"Mr. Haskell, that is enough!" the Director snapped. Haskell immediately shut up. "Thank you. Now then, on second thought, I'm willing to reconsider my position. Is the singer still asking for me to enter the negotiations?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"When is your next meeting scheduled?"
"Tomorrow night, after their last set at Hot Legs."
"That hole? I thought they were playing at the Raven." The Director shuddered as she thought of all the time she had put in at Hot Legs when she was younger. "Very well, Mr. Haskell. I'm assuming all negotiations with this group, personally. I want all of your files and reports on them updated, completed, and on my desk in three hours."
"Are you sure, ma'am? You shouldn't waste your valuable time. I can--"
"Don't worry, Mr. Haskell. When I sign them tomorrow night, and I will sign them tomorrow night, you'll get your commission. Three hours." She cut the circuit.
Anya stood from where she had been monitoring the conversation, and walked into the small kitchenette off of the office. When she emerged again, she was carrying two cups of tea. She set one on the Director's desk, and, keeping the other cup for herself, returned to her own desk at the side of the office. "Ma'am, are you sure about this? They sound like nothing but trouble to me."
The Director sipped her tea. "When you have been in this business as long as I have, Anya, you'll learn that you can find a use for everyone. Even the problem children."
"If I may ask, what use will you put these 'problem children' to?"
"Our performers already under contract are getting pushy again. We need an example of what will happen to them if they inconvenience us." The Director smiled coldly. "Miss Priss is going to be my example."
Sylia was awakened by the wail of the building's security alarm. Her first, reflexive, action was to seal the blast doors to, and the security doors within, the Knight Sabers complex. Her second action was to get out of bed and bring the building's live-time security monitors on-line. A quick scan of the area showed that she wasn't under active attack. A more detailed internal scan proved the building hadn't been penetrated, to any great extent anyway, and that whatever had triggered the alarm was gone.
Immediate concerns satisfied, she called Mackie at Raven's Garage, where he'd planned to work through the night to complete the preliminary design models for the new suits. Once she'd filled him in, she entered the command codes to download the last few hours of surveillance recordings from the security system. Only then did she take a few moments to get dressed. That done, she went downstairs to await the arrival of the police.
"Hey Priss, you in there?" Kenji knocked on the dressing room door again, a little louder this time. "Priss!"
After a couple minutes of pounding, a muffled "All right, just a minute," came floating out of the locked dressing room. Kenji put his ear to the door. Thumps. Voices. Male and female. Yep, they were at it again. He jerked away just as Priss threw the door open. "This had better be good," she growled as she reached over her shoulder to pull her hair from inside her t-shirt.
Kenji looked into the small room. A full length mirror on the wall opposite the door showed the reflection of a tall, red-haired man, just out of Kenji's direct eyesight, trying to pull his pants on over his boots. Priss looked over her shoulder to see what Kenji was staring at and sighed. She gave him a shove, and moved into the corridor, closing the door behind her. "What?"
"Sorry to interrupt," he smirked. Arms crossed over her chest, she glowered at him. "OK, OK, I'm really sorry, but I've got some messages to give you."
"What?" she repeated.
"Boy, you're nasty when you get interrupted, you know that?" He winked at her.
"Jesus, Kenji, I wish you wouldn't do that. It's impossible to stay mad at you," Priss smiled, the absurdity of the situation finally getting to her. "All right, let's have them."
"I'm just too irresistible," he grinned as he handed her an envelope. "Some joker came to the back door a bit ago. Said you wanted to see him. He wasn't on the list, so I didn't let him in. Would've gone looking for you, but you'd just retired with loverboy there."
"Leave it alone," Priss warned. "Who was it?"
"I don't remember the name," Kenji shrugged. "Some guy in red leathers. Seen him around, out in the crowd, but not in the back before. Seemed like the fanboy type. Anyway, when I wouldn't let him in, he asked me to give you that envelope. He had a message too; I wrote it on the back so I wouldn't forget."
Priss glanced down at the scribbled handwriting: 'Meet me out back -- 11 AM.' "What time is it?"
Kenji glanced at his watch. "Little before 11."
"OK, anything else?"
"Yeah, a phone call a few minutes ago. Lady said your lingerie is ready, but you have to come get it now if you want the special price." Kenji almost leered now. "Picking up something special? Do I get to see it?"
Priss's heart almost stopped, and her whole body tensed. That was one of Sylia's priority one code phrases. It wasn't quite on the level of a crash emergency or a Knight Sabers call-out, but she had to get over to Sylia's immediately.
"Here, throw this away, will you?" she said distractedly as she thrust the now crumpled envelope back into Kenji's hand. Without another word, she turned and went back into the dressing room, ignoring the man waiting inside, who had, by now, managed to get his clothes back on. She stopped just long enough to pull socks and boots on over her bare feet, then grabbed her jacket, helmet, and gloves, and headed out the door.
"Women," the two men said simultaneously as they watched her run towards the front of the club.
Again, the demons try to interfere with our love.
One of their minions is close at hand.
Because of him, she did not join with me.
He will intrude no more.
"Priss, I want you to leave town."
"Are you NUTS! I can't leave now! I'm signing a record contract tonight! Send Nene or Linna on your errand, I don't have the time for it."
"This has nothing to do with the Knight Sabers," Sylia began, a bit hotly, "and if you'd take a minute to think about it, instead of yelling at me you'd know that too. To refresh your memory of current events, someone trashed every storefront in the building last night. Just hours, I might add, after you paid a supposedly secret visit. And he left a calling card, if finding 'Leave Priss Alone!' spray painted on your back wall can be considered a calling card."
Priss stared at her, her stubborn expression showing no sign of slackening. Sylia decided to try a different tack. "Look. Someone obviously followed you here last night. He's connected you to 633, which puts him too close for my taste to connecting you to me. He's obviously taken a strong interest in you. I want you out of here, if for nothing else than to cool off his interest before he makes a connection between you and the Knight Sabers."
Priss's face lost a little of its mulishness as Sylia's words began to sink in. "What did the police say?"
"TPD wanted to know if I knew anyone named 'Priss'. I told them I had two or three customers named Priscilla, but they didn't press for details." Priss suddenly stood and began to pace around the room. "Please, Priss, get out of town. At least until the police ID this guy and bring him in. If he's capable of vandalizing a building over you, who knows what else he could do?"
Priss completed a few more circuits of the room in silence. "I can't go anywhere for a couple days, at least," she finally said, placatingly. "Tonight I do the record deal, tomorrow we finish this run at the Legs, and I can't bail on that, not after signing with a label." Not with some of the screwy things Haskell has been trying to get away with. "It'll have to be the day after."
"Right. I'll call Linna--"
"No." Priss finally stopped pacing long enough to grab her things off the chair she'd dumped them in, and headed for the door. "You haven't said anything to Linna or Nene about this yet, have you?" Sylia indicated that she had not. "Then don't involve them now. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself, and keep this guy off our backs too." Assuming you aren't just being paranoid, Sylia.
"Be careful then," Sylia called as Priss started to leave. "Let me know your travel plans. Maybe I can help."
"Hey, careful is my middle name!" Priss smiled back at her friend, then left, closing the door behind her.
"I wish it were," came the sighed reply.
"Thank you, Asagiri-san," the woman said as she capped her pen. The freshly signed contracts went into a manila folder, the folder into her slim-line briefcase, and the briefcase to a young woman standing behind and beside her chair. "A drink to toast our new relationship? I am sure this agreement will be profitable to both of us."
Priss nodded, and the pair drank in silence. "To all of us. You, me, the band, your company."
"As you say. I regret that the terms of our agreement are not more to your... liking. However, if Priss and the Replicants perform well, I am certain that changes will be considered."
Priss shook her head in disbelief. These corporate types are all the same: a big pain in the ass, she thought to herself. And I was stupid enough to think bringing in the boss would help. "All right," she reluctantly agreed. "But I'm still not happy about it."
"You've made that abundantly clear to Mr. Haskell. Which is why, despite regular procedure, he asked me to assume the negotiations directly." She smiled slightly; a shark's smile, with absolutely no warmth in it. "If this is so unpalatable to you, perhaps I should inform him that we are unable to reach an accommodation, and direct him to look elsewhere. There are, after all, other groups in this city."
Priss kept a carefully calm facade, but inside she shook with rage. Damn bitch. She can't treat us like that. She can't treat me like that! I ought to tell her just where... No. The guys will kill me if I blow another deal. They want this one. Priss forcibly calmed herself. "No need to go elsewhere, Oomori-san," she said, each word sounding as if it were forced out. "I just wanted to clarify our position one more time."
The shark disappeared, replaced by the businesswoman again. "Noted, and I believe our meeting is concluded. Good evening."
Priss watched as the record company's A&R Director stood, gathering her things to leave the darkened room that was Hot Legs after hours. "Hey." The woman looked up. "Something has been bothering me. Have we met somewhere before?"
"I think not," she sniffed, and left the room as quickly as she could, her assistant close behind.
"Bitch," Priss muttered under her breath. "OK, guys, all clear!"
The rest of the band emerged from the backstage area. "Well?" Paul demanded. He was the most outspoken of the Reps about making the deal.
"All signed. One year, with another year at their option. One album the first year, one in the option year, touring, performance support, the usual stuff." She thought briefly of some of the clauses that weren't quite so usual. Ahh, who cares about non-performance. We always meet our performance dates. Well, almost always... "The money's not the greatest, and you know I'm not happy with some of the terms, but it's the best I could do." Given that somehow that bitch knew you guys were pushing me into this deal.
Priss eyed the bassist narrowly. Was it you, Paul? Were you the one?
"Then that'll have to do," the drummer interrupted her thoughts.
"It'll be OK for a start, that's for damn sure," Paul agreed. "But who gives a shit about that now, let's PARTY!"
"Damn right!"
Priss joined in the general euphoria of the moment, but passed when the drugs and booze came out. She hadn't engaged in what Sylia euphemistically called "recreational pharmaceuticals" since before joining the Knight Sabers, and, truth be told, didn't miss it. The high she got from performing and Boomer-bashing more than made up for them.
Besides, tonight was not a time to be even slightly blurred. She thought she'd seen what looked like the same motorcycle at least five times today. Thinking back, it seemed like she'd seen that same bike several times over the last few weeks. Of course, she couldn't be sure. She'd never noticed the rider. Or if she had, she'd never connected the one with the other.
Maybe what she'd initially thought of as paranoia on Sylia's part was rubbing off, but, real or imagined, the thought of being followed was beginning to spook her. Ah, I'm overtired, that's it. It's just these damn negotiations getting to me. I wouldn't put it past Leon to follow me around, she thought wryly, but there's no reason for anyone else to do it. But still, Sylia wasn't often wrong...
Or maybe it's just old age. Decrepit at 20. Early onset senility, that's the ticket.
Shaking off the dark thoughts, she turned back to her friends, determined to have a good time. Tonight was, after all, a night to party.
The demons are calling to her, and she's been blinded by their falsehoods.
They've promised her fame and fortune and happiness.
But she can only be happy with me.
She thinks she's leaving me.
She can never leave me. We are one, soul mates.
She must be saved from herself.
I must save her.
I love her.
Word of the signing spread quickly among the regulars at Hot Legs, and from there to the more casual fans of the band. Tonight, the club closely resembled a zoo, as it seemed like the entire city wanted in to see Priss and the Replicants. After all, once they made it big most of the crowd wouldn't be able to get in to their venues, let alone afford the price of a ticket.
Newcomers already inside the club were removed, forcibly at times, as room was made for the regulars. Although upset that he would soon be losing his premiere attraction, the manager reacted like any intelligent businessman -- he tripled the cover charge, watered down the drinks even more, and was making a killing.
As a result, there was a sudden rush of new roadies appearing at the club's back door, all vouched for by one or another of the band's members. Which was how Nene Romanova and Linna Yamazaki found themselves on the main floor, helping Charles, the guy at the mixing board. Helping, that is, by staying out of his way and not touching anything.
When the house and stage lights went down, a stylish half-hour late, the crowd turned its collective attention from their mundane activities to the stage. Priss had dictated a change in the playlist; instead of their signature opener, Konya wa Hurricane, the Reps were kicking off with another old favorite, Rock Me. As the pulsing bass and percussion lines of the opening began, the crowd roared in recognition. The roar built as the wailing guitar solo joined the wall of sound thundering out of the darkness. An infinitesimal pause in the music, and the lights flared on as Priss began the verse. The roar of approval changed to something more primal, like that of some prehistoric beast, shaking the building to its foundations.
Priss strutted around the stage, putting everything into the performance, selling the song to the crowd of willing buyers. Nezumi might have spies in the house, and she was determined to prove that they were worth a better deal. There were times when Priss was totally drained after a performance; this looked to be one of those nights. And then...
During the reprise of the intro, Priss suddenly staggered backward a couple of steps, a surprised look on her face. As she fell to her knees, one of the can lights at the side of the stage exploded. Some of the crowd cheered this bit of rock-n-roll pyrotechnics, something new for the Reps, but Nene seemed to know instinctively that something was very wrong. The band vamped a bit when their leader didn't come in on cue, confused looks on their faces.
Nene grabbed Linna's arm and they moved out from behind the board onto the floor, shoving their way through the crowd of drunken or stoned (or, in some cases, both) fans, all intent on, it seemed, getting in their way. As they finally broke into a relatively clear area, Linna looked up in time to see Priss fall forward onto her face. The band ground to a halt, and the drummer climbed out from behind his set, moving to Priss's side.
"Get him! He's got a gun!" The cry shattered the sudden silence engendered by Priss's collapse. The crowd started to panic: a few moving to the source of the cry, more moving toward the stage, most running for the exits as fast as they could.
"Go on!" Linna yelled into Nene's ear over the screaming crowd. "I'll see what's happening over there!" Giving Nene a push in the direction of the stage, she began shoving her way across the room to where several men were pounding on someone. Although it had only been 3 or 4 seconds since Priss fell, Nene felt as if hours had elapsed.
Thanking her stars that she was, for once, complying with regulations, Nene pulled her shield case out of the pocket of her jeans. She clipped her ADP ID card to her collar, and looped the case through her belt, all while worming her way through the rapidly thinning mob. The initial surge away from the stage seemed to have passed, and, after flashing her badge at one of the overwhelmed bouncers trying to move the remaining crowd out the exits, she climbed onto the stage itself. She walked quickly over to the small clutch of band members and stagehands huddled around Priss. Wiggling her way through the group, she was finally able to see her friend.
Priss was lying on her stomach, face turned to the right, feet tangled with some cables, wig askew. One of her band-mates (the drummer, Nene identified distractedly) was kneeling at her side, talking to her softly. She's only tripped and knocked her fool self out, Nene sighed in relief.
The drummer looked up then, the lost expression on his face shattering her illusion. "Please, do you know what to do? She won't answer me. She's just staring into space." Nene blanched, then knelt at Priss's other side and gently removed the microphone still clenched in her hand. She checked Priss's pulse, first at the wrist, then reaching across and checking at the arteries in her neck.
Reaching up blindly, Nene grabbed the nearest fist full of clothing she could reach. "AD Police. Call an ambulance." The person didn't move, and Nene looked up at him, anger suffusing her face. It was the bass player, and he looked back at her blankly. She shoved him away, wishing that there was someone she could count on here. Even Leon would do.
"Hey! I need some help over here!" she yelled at the nearest bouncer. Focused on a rapidly escalating fight near one of the side exits, he didn't hear her. "Hey! YOU! FIIIIIIRRREE!" That got his attention. "AD Police. Call an ambulance. Call the police. NOW!" He nodded, and started moving toward the bar. Now that help was hopefully on the way, she returned her full attention to the injured singer.
Nene pulled the tangled blonde wig the rest of the way off Priss's head, then, with help from the drummer, she turned her friend onto her back. Priss's chest was covered with blood and gore from what looked like a gunshot wound, and there was blood trickling from her nose and mouth. Nene started to panic a bit herself when she realized there were air bubbles in the blood welling from the chest wound. OhmygodohmygodohmyGOD please don't let me fuck this up! her mind gibbered as she closed her eyes and took two or three deep breaths to steady herself. The crowd on the stage vanished when they realized what was happening. Someone had been shot and the police were on the way. Not a good place to be.
Nene grabbed the drummer before he could disappear, and sent him in search of a first aid kit, threatening to come and find him some dark night if he didn't come back. Then she took off her own jacket and folded it up into a kind of pad, and placed it over the wound, applying pressure.
She suddenly realized that Priss was watching her. From the look in her eyes, she obviously didn't understand what was going on, but there was some bit of consciousness there. Nene brushed the hair out of Priss's eyes with blood streaked fingers. "Hang in there, Priss. Everything's going to be fine. You just relax and keep still and let me take care of things," Nene muttered, trying to comfort her. Oh SHIT, why didn't I pay more attention in field medical training? What do I do now!
"Oh my God..." Nene glanced back to see Linna standing behind her, a stricken look on her face. As she looked up at her other friend, another part of her mind registered the sudden quiet in the club. The drummer returned, dropped a battered metal box with a red cross on the lid on the floor at Priss's feet, and ran back stage again.
Linna broke out of her shock and grabbed the first aid kit. Moving opposite Nene, she opened it and began digging through the contents for something that could be remotely considered a bandage. Priss's eyelids began to sag shut; she was fading out. Nene reached out, slapping her face lightly, leaving bloody finger marks on her cheek. "Come on, Priss, stay awake. Stay with us here. Don't you do this to me, Priss. Come on..."