A/N: Ellie's drum kit is almost exactly, like Jack White's drum kit with the Dead Weather, sans the bass drum design and the snareless snare drum. Look it up on Youtube, he walks you through his kit.

Disclaimer

I Kaien Crosszeria, do not in anyway own any aspect of the Last of Us, or the artists mentioned. The plot is my own. If a copyright holder would like me to retract their property I shall do my best to accommodate their desires. Please note that there might typographical errors.

Chapter 2

"Um, hi." Ellen said. "My name's Ellie, I play drums, and I'd like to read you guys a poem before we start the set." She took a deep breath. "It's a rewrite of a poem called 'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised', by Gil Scott-Heron. Um, a lot of it's pretty outdated, but the basic idea still applies. I hope you enjoy."

Her shyness was adorable, further aided by her blush and nervous fidgeting. She unfolded the piece of paper that had been in her pocket. The percussionist started to play out a steady, driving beat. 10 minutes in, Ellie started to speak.

You will not be able to stay home, brother
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and drop out
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and
Skip out for beer during commercials
Because the revolution will not be televised.

I was instantly hooked on the way that she read it, equal parts confident and meek, but with this underlying feeling of power caused by the words themselves.

The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruption
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell
General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
Hog maws confiscated from a Chelsea sanctuary

The revolution will not be televised

Although Ellie had been correct in her assumption that some of the lines would be outdated, what with some of the references being over 40 years old, the idea still had the same punch.

The revolution will be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and
will not star Natalie Wood and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
Thinner, because The revolution will not be televised, Sister

The beat seemed to intensify with every stanza, creating this sense of driving urgency and panic. My heart beat almost seemed to intensify at each drum pound, and at every little word emphasis Ellen – no, not Ellen, Ellie, - put on.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays
Pushing that cart down the block on the dead run
Or trying to slide that colour television into a stolen ambulance
NBC will not predict the winner at 8:32 or the count from 29 districts

The revolution will not be televised

Blood was pounding in my ears, loud and pulsing, but there, and I ignored in favour of focusing on the woman on stage.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
queers in the instant replay
There will be no pictures of young being
Run out of Greenwich on a rail with a brand new process
There will be no slow motion or still life of
Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a red, black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the right occasion

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and
Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant
and Women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because queer people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day

The revolution will not be televised

The last line before the title struck me particularly hard, and my amazement at the talent of Ellie as a reader kept growing. She pushed on.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock News
and no pictures of hairy armed women Liberationists and
Jackie Onassis blowing her nose
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb, Francis Scott Key
nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash
Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth

The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be right back after a message
About a white tornado, white lightning, or white people
You will not have to worry about a germ on your Bedroom
a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl
The revolution will not go better with Coke
The revolution will not fight the germs that cause bad breath

The revolution WILL put you in the driver's seat

The revolution will not be televised

WILL not be televised, WILL NOT BE TELEVISED

The revolution will be no re-run people,
The revolution will be live

When I heard the others in the room start to clap, I jumped up, broken out of my daze, and started cheering and clapping until my hands really hurt, and my throat felt raw. Even after every other person in the room sat down I was still stood up. Ellie looked at me with what at first looked like unbelieving shock, then a huge smile of pure ecstasy. I felt the same.

Once I sat down and Ellie had given her quivering thanks, she ran back behind her drum kit. After some whispers between the band members, one of the guitarists went up to the main mic. "This one's an oldie but a goodie. Hope you enjoy."

Ellie seemed to take a deep breath before starting a drum roll, followed by trumpets. I instantly recognised the song from one of my Woody Allen film soundtracks.

Roy Goodman and His Orchestra, with Sing, Sing, Sing.

The performance felt electric. Some people, myself among them, jumped up to dance to the jumping beat. Ellie seemed to be enjoying herself, as evidenced by the massive smile on her face as she went round her huge kit.

After that came a Gil Scott-Heron song, that I later learned was called 'Is That Jazz?' The singer in particular gave an outstanding performance.

After one last cover, a rendition of the jazz standard 'Autumn Leaves', the pianist got out a keyboard and they started to play what sounded like some trippy originals.

Eventually, the bass player went up to one of the mics. "I know it isn't exactly pure jazz, but we really wanted to finish with this song, so apologies to anyone who was looking for a straight up jazz show." he said, while trying to contain what sounded like laughter.

The pianist, back on the honky-tonk piano, started on a particular chord progression that I instantly recognised. One of the trumpet players got out a harmonica, and the guitarist seemed to turn up his volume knob.

Muddy Waters was fucking classic, man.

After they finished playing 'I Got My Mojo Working', I head over to the stage. Ellie had started to pack up one of her floor toms, and, once I tapped her shoulder, she turned round. "I have to say, both the poem and the show were incredible. I couldn't get enough of it." she smiles. "Thanks. I try. What's your name?" "Riley." I reply. I extend my hand for a handshake. She takes it. "Ellie." she says.

I sit down near the stage, and I ask, "So, where you from?" "Lived in New York just about my whole life, in Lower Manhattan." she says "Though apparently my mom was from Boston. Not sure though. Orphan." she doesn't even look up from the ride she's unscrewing from its stand.

"Oh." I say, surprised. "Me too."

A silence descends, until she breaks the silence. "So, what's a cop doing here?" I look at her in shock. "How did you know?" I reply, bewildered. "Ellie looks over and smirks. "Spent just about my whole childhood running from you guys. You notice mannerisms, like the way in which you hold a mug or glass, or the size of the bags under your eyes." I chuckle at that one. "I actually needed to talk to you about something sensitive. I'd rather we talk somewhere private." Ellie seems to mull it over for a little bit, before nodding.

"Let me just finish packing my kit, and then we can head to my apartment. In Lower Manhattan. Where's your place?" she asks. "Queens." I reply. "Quite a while away then. I'll fund your ticket home." she says. I move to tell her that it's fine until she raises her hand in a silencing gesture. "Least I can do." I hesitantly nod.

We start talking about everything. How long she'd been playing drums (10 years), how long I'd been in the force (a year), my own creative pursuits in the form of painting, and several other topics. Eventually, she loads up her kit in the band's van, says goodbye to her bandmates, and then we were off towards the metro station.

XOXOXOXOXO

Ellie's studio apartment, located somewhere in Lower Manhattan, near the Hotel Chelsea, was rather comely and cozy. It was certainly messy.

"Sorry about the mess. Didn't think I'd have any visitors." she said to me. "It's fine." I reply with a dismissive wave, "My place is miles worse than this." I wasn't lying. At least Ellie's kitchen wasn't filled with cheap take-away boxes.

Ellie switches the coffee machine on, and as she folds the filter paper, she asks the question I'd been dreading the whole evening. "So, what did you want to tell me?" I sigh. "Ellie, you know the murder's happening around the city?" I ask. She snorts. "Who doesn't? The Times basically have a spot on its front page for that story. Why do you ask?" I take a deep breath. "You're foster aunt, Marlene Callahan, was found dead last week. Based on the way in which she died, we think she was murdered by that same serial killer."

Ellie stops what she's doing the second she hears the name. She takes a quivering breath. After a minute, she speaks.

"How much of this conversation happened because it was your job?" she says, her tone dangerously strained. "I went to the show so I could get contact. But my reaction to the poem? Real. What's happening now? All me. My job was literally just to go to the club and tell you. After arriving at the club, everything that happened was my choice. Nothing was forced."

She seems to relax. "Good." she finally says. "Means I won't punch you in the face." she chuckles humourlessly.

A few minutes later, she has two coffee mugs and an ashtray in her hand. She puts all three down on the table. She pours me a cup, and gestures towards the milk and sugar over on her counter. I shake my head. She nods, and pours herself a cup, and then opens the cigarette pack she had in her hands. I accept her offer of one. After we've both lit up, she sits back. And then, she finally speaks.

"Riley? Can you do one thing for me?" I look up."What is it?" I reply to her question. She looks right into my eyes. "Catch this sick fuck. Catch him for me, for you, for everyone one of his victims. Catch him, and make him bleed." she takes a drag from her cigarette. I nod, still staring right in those big green eyes. "I swear." she nods. "Good." she looks at the clock and the wall and her face takes on a surprised look."Fuck, is it really twelve?! The last train left 30 minutes ago!" I look at the clock, and she was correct. Twelve a clock. "What do I do?" I whisper. Ellie looks over at me. "You'll just have to sleep on the couch. I'll dig out the second duvet. Give me a minute."

Ellie heads over to her laundry. I was equally relieved and terrified at the idea of staying over at Ellie's. Relieved because I wanted to spend more time with her, terrified because I didn't want to fuck anything up, especially when she was no doubt very sensitive. Eventually Ellie pulls out a duvet and a pillow, and hands them to me.

Hardly 5 – star, but it'll do for a night. "Thanks so much for letting me stay, Ellie. I really appreciate it." she smiles for the first time in what feels like days. "No problem Riley. I'll see you tomorrow."She strips down and climbs into bed, oblivious to my blushing face as I look at her undress.

"Night." she says. "N-Night." I reply.

I lie back and look back over the day. 'A day of balance, I guess. My outfit, half-smart, half-casual. The club, fun, but cramped, and of course, Ellie. Nervous and meek one hour, a vicious revenge-lusting girl the next. Not that I could complain. She's great."

I close my eyes, and soon enough, I feel myself drifting off, and for once, I do it instantly. That's a first in a while.

End Chapter.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. All reviews are appreciated.