Hello everyone :D thank you so much for all the lovely and amazing reviews. I just thought I'd take time to thank all those amazing anonymous readers, lpwriter4life in particular, who I can't respond personally to but appreciate every bit as much as my signed reviewers x3 I love you all, thank you for reading.
/sappy rant over
This used to be two chapters. I combined them into this by cutting most of the first chap. I'm thinking of creating a Tumblr or some other blog for this story, where I can post cut scenes, outtakes, raygun/jacket designs, art, etc., but I'm not sure. Would you guys want to see something like that? Tell me in a review!
And now you can actually have the chapter xD
CHAPTER 16: EVEN THOUGH I TRIED, IT ALL FELL APART
July 27, 2013
Spaceland Rock Club, Battery City, California
9:55 PM
"That was incredible," Brad gasped, wiping his brow with his arm as Mike came backstage.
"Wild," Joe agreed. "Did you hear that crowd?"
"Loudest one I've ever heard," Rob piped up.
Mike drained his water bottle in two gulps, carefully placing his guitar back in its' case and sitting down. He felt as if all of the energy had suddenly leached out of his body. The performance, although amazing and the best thing he'd done in seven months, was more physically taxing than he had remembered.
"You okay, Mike?" Rob called out, turning to his best friend.
The Asian emcee grinned brilliantly. "Much better than okay."
"Amen to that!" Phoenix laughed.
It took a while for the club to completely empty out, many of the fans waiting long after the show to talk to the band. Mike, Rob and Joe went out a bit after Phoenix and Brad to thank them, but around eleven-thirty, even Brendon and Spencer in the far back of the club had packed up the radio gear and left after wishing the band a good night.
"It feels so good to be back," Mike murmured to Rob as they pulled the five sleeping bags out of the van and into the middle of the club's floor. It was where they slept every night, as it was the largest part of the remaining structure.
"Tell me about it," Rob grinned. "I've been dreaming about that for what seems like forever."
"Well, we're back permanently now," the Asian reminded him.
The drummer sighed happily. "That sounds perfect."
It took all five men ages to fall asleep that night—they were too hyped up and excited to calm their racing nerves enough to let themselves slip into oblivion. Instead, for a couple hours afterwards they would lay in the near-darkness and whisper about now amazingly the show had gone or plans to make it even better the next time. Whenever they neared sleep, one of them would whisper-shout either something they'd forgotten to comment on before or some randomly amusing phrase that would send the set of musicians into convulsory fits of laughter.
Finally, Brad dropped off first, his soft snores gradually taking the place of his voice. Joe and Phoenix soon followed the guitarist, until only Rob and Mike lay awake.
"We should probably sleep, too," murmured Rob. "I don't know about you but I'm fucking excited."
"Same," the emcee yawned. All the same, he doubted he would be able to sleep any time soon—the night's events kept replaying on an endless loop through his mind, making him too keyed-up for his mind to calm down.
"Tonight was the best night of my life, I think," Rob continued after a small pause.
Mike nodded into the darkness. "I know what you mean. There's just no better feeling than doing something you love…"
"With people you love," his best friend added.
There was another moment of silence in which Rob yawned conspicuously and Mike concentrated on his pattern of breathing, before the drummer whispered, "Love you, Mike."
"Love you too, Rob."
"Night."
"Night."
Mike knew instinctively the moment when Rob, too, succumbed to sleep, because his breathing slowed and steadied and the emcee was left with a sudden feeling of being alone. He laid his head on his hands and stared up into the sky, willing his eyes not to close.
The stars seemed particularly beautiful tonight. Mike knew there was a scientific reason for it, because he'd heard BL/ind preaching about it: because of the lack of energy usage and production factories in the new world, the atmosphere was being given a chance to clear, causing the stars to seem both closer and brighter. But the young man imagined a more romantic theory—maybe the stars were only brightening to reflect his mood, how at-peace with the universe he was feeling right now. It just seemed perfect at the moment.
He stared at the stars a whole longer, thinking. Maybe he had finally found his place in the new world: here, playing music and spreading his message. It almost seemed too easy. But if they could go on living off the food stored in their van and living in the club, then maybe, just maybe it would work out as he hoped.
Xero had reclaimed their place in the city.
With these thoughts weaving their way through his mind, Mike finally found enough peace to sleep, gratefully allowing himself to slip into unconsciousness. It was a vivid sleep, full of colorful dreams about the concert and their journey to this point. It was long, too—because of the late hour he fell asleep, Mike didn't wake nearly as early as he usually did. Instead, Rob was the first one up.
The drummer looked around blearily, registering the continued slumber of the rest of his companions. He wasn't usually up this early, but he had startled awake for some unknown reason. The only thing he was sure about was that he had an odd sensation that something wasn't right in the city and in their lives.
But that was crazy! If anything, their lives were as close to perfect as they could be in this situation. There was no reason for the young brunette musician to worry.
Rob tiptoed to the radio, turning the volume down before flipping on station 103.5. Brendon and Spencer had promised last night that they'd be playing segments of the concert over the next few weeks as a promotion for the band and future concerts, and with any luck, maybe he'd be able to catch the radio premiere of their music.
But Brendon, Spencer and their music, which had always been a constant presence on the BL/ind-dominated airwaves, weren't there that morning.
Rob twisted the dial, checking all the frequencies near it. But all he could find was static. It had never been that way before—Brendon and Spencer had always been there. Always.
Now he was sure something was wrong. His anxiety heightened, and he flipped more rapidly between the stations, sure there was something he must have missed, There had to be a logical explanation, he was just overreacting…Mike would know what was wrong! Mike always knew everything about these types of problems…
"Mike," Rob whisper-called, carefully making his way over to his best friend who still lay inert in his blue sleeping bag. "Mike!"
The Asian still didn't stir, so Rob grabbed his shoulder roughly and shook. "Mike Shinoda, wake up!"
"Wha—where's the fire?" Mike muttered sleepily.
"No fire," he promised. "But the radio…"
"Whatever's wrong with the radio, I'm sure I can fix it when I wake up," the emcee yawned, turning over and burying his head under his pillow. "Just a few more minutes…"
But he was startled into attentiveness again by a heavy banging on the door of the club.
Rob shot Mike a desperate glance, silently asking what to do with his eyes. Tentatively, the Asian man called out, "Who's there?" in a quavering voice.
"We are representatives of Better Living Industries," a deep, monotone voice responded. "If this is the residence of the musical group known as Xero, open the door on command of the law."
"Shit," Mike muttered, jolting upright in his sleeping bag. Around him and Rob, the rest of the band began to stir, awakened by the sudden noise.
"Rob—with me," the emcee said tersely, assuming the role of leader as he often did in crisis situations. "Joe, Brad, Phi, get the fuck up and put the instruments in the van now."
"What's happening?" Rob asked, worried, as Mike rose from the sleeping bag and walked towards the front door slowly, a look of intense thought and concentration on his face.
"I don't know," the other man replied shortly, "but it sure as hell can't be good."
He ran a hand through his short black hair quickly before adopting a sleepy, innocent expression. Rob quickly mimicked him as he opened the door. It creaked open to reveal a trio of white-suited police agents.
"Hello?" Mike yawned, rubbing one eye for effect. He made sure to cover as much of the doorway as he could with his body, trying not to let the policemen see the activity inside the club. Rob caught his drift and stood to his left to block more of the view.
"Mr. Michael Shinoda?" the one in front asked with no inflection in his voice.
"Yeah, that's me," Mike yawned. "What is it?"
"We have come to arrest you and the rest of your musical group for infractions of the Better Living Industries Law, section 1, paragraph 1 part C: Any persons who publicly contradict the government or undermine its authority or aid in the contradiction of Better Living Industries are subject to up to thirty years in confinement," the agent droned. "Any tools that have aided in the making of such illegal statements will be promptly confiscated and destroyed."
The words flew straight over Rob's head, too complicated and full of legal jargon for the drummer to comprehend, but they must have made sense to Mike because he gasped loudly. A look both angry and fearful spread across his face.
"Do you accept or deny these charges?" the policeman continued.
Mike didn't answer the question. Instead, he spat "You're crazy if you think you can take the instruments!"
"Mr. Shinoda, do you accept these charges and the following consequences?" the policeman's voice rose.
"No, I do not fucking accept them!" the visibly angry emcee nearly shouted.
"Then please stand aside so we can conduct a mandatory search of your—" the policeman's lip curled into a sneer at the next word—"residence."
Mike, however, didn't budge an inch. "No," he said defiantly.
"Stand aside, Mr. Shinoda."
"I'm not going to!"
Rob chanced a quick glance behind him. Brad was rushing out of the side entrance to the club, Phoenix's bass in one hand and his guitar in the other. Joe and Phoenix had already trundled half of the drum kit outside, but the other half of it, the turntables, the amps and Mike's guitar still lay unprotected in the middle of the floor.
"We need more time," he hissed to Mike. He bobbed his head down slightly in affirmation.
"We do not want to use violence," the agent said, his malicious grin contradicting his words. "But we will if we are required to."
Mike emitted a low sound that was halfway between a growl and a curse word. He refused to move, still blocking the doorway with his body as best he could.
"We will give you one last warning. Stand aside, Mr. Shinoda."
"No," Mike growled.
The policemen reached for their gun holsters in sync, hands latching onto the white handles of their guns and whipping them out. The speaker trained his gun on Mike's temple.
"Mr. Shinoda, every second you continue to defy us will raise your potential sentence," the policeman droned.
"That is a chance I'm willing to take," the emcee answered.
Rob bit his lip in fear. "Mike, don't be stupid," he murmured. Behind him, he heard a loud curse and the rattle of the bass drum as it rolled across the concrete floor.
"Are all the instruments out?" Mike whispered.
"Not yet, but still—"
"Mr. Shinoda!" the policeman yelled, releasing the safety on the gun.
"I'm not moving, you motherfucker!" Mike roared.
He didn't register what the agent's quick movement meant until he felt the white-hot sting in his arm, searing his flesh. He clutched his arm, wincing and fighting against crying out.
"Mike!" Rob yelled in fear. He reached out for his best friend even as the Asian stumbled against the door frame. He hadn't heard the gunshot or seen the bullet, but he'd definitely seen the policeman pull the trigger, and judging by Mike's reaction…
"No, Rob! Block them!" Mike gasped. But it was too late—the three policemen were pushing past the pair, shoving their way into the club. Joe, Brad and Phoenix paused, doe-eyed and stuck in the spotlight.
The lead policeman cocked his head to the side, grinning evilly. "What do we have here?"
"Don't touch them," Mike gasped out, his left hand still wrapped around his right arm protectively.
The police ignored his desperate request, stalking over to the middle of the club where the amplifiers, parts of the drum kit and a cherry-red Paul Reed Smith electric guitar lay, completely exposed.
"We must confiscate these on behalf of the government," he informed the band.
"No you will fucking not!" spat the emcee, rushing over to his guitar. Two of the policemen raised their guns again, but he had thrown himself down next to the instrument, clutching at it.
"Release the guitar, Mr. Shinoda," the policeman ordered.
But Brad stepped forward, flanked by Joe and Phoenix, to stand in front of Mike so that the Asian man was hidden behind a shield formed by his friends. "We'll protect these instruments with our lives," the guitarist growled. Phoenix, meanwhile, was desperately signaling to Rob with his eyes. His sight kept flickering from the drummer to the pile of musical equipment and back again. Rob understood the message clearly: When I signal, grab whatever you can and run.
"Bradford Delson, your resistance is futile," the BL/ind agent intoned. "If you do not cease your protest immediately, you and your comrades will be eradicated."
"Does it look like I give a shit?" Brad yelled. His hands curled into fists, quivering as if they were itching to hit the smug, expressionless man.
The policemen's only reaction was to re-aim their guns at the trio of men.
"Move!" Phoenix yelled, and dived backwards. The action set off a chain of events almost too fast for any human to follow. Mike jumped up, shielding his guitar with his body, and rushed for the side exit as shots flew from the BL/ind policemen's guns. Rob and Phoenix dragged one amp and a snare between them, making too-slow progress towards the door as one of the agents raced them to the exit. Brad and Joe, meanwhile, had literally tackled the other two to the ground, guns knocked from their hands.
"Hurry!" Mike screamed, holding the door open with his good arm.
"We are!" Phoenix huffed. "Brad, Joe, get the other amp and get the fuck out!"
"But my drums!" Rob wailed. The entire conversation was dominated by the high-pitched keen of the agent's gun as it fired shot after shot at the men.
Phoenix and Rob made it through the open door first. Brad and Joe trailed, half-fighting off the last agent while shoving away at the last amplifier. Two of the drums and the cymbal from Rob's kit still remained in the club.
"Mike, get my drums!" Rob begged as shoved the first amp into the van. "We can hold the agent off, just get them quickly!"
The Asian man knew it would be crazy and dangerous to go back into the club, but he couldn't ignore the keening, desperate note in Rob's voice. He knew what it was like to be in that situation—to almost have your life, your music, taken away. He couldn't let the drummer suffer like that.
"Hold on!" Mike shouted to the rest of Xero and darted back into the half-collapsed building. The two policemen on the ground were struggling to their feet, searching for their guns, but they weren't up yet. That gave Mike just enough time to stack the two drumheads and the cymbal and, protesting the searing pain in his right arm, limp over to the door with the percussion tools.
"Going somewhere?" The voice chilled him to the bone.
Mike looked up slowly. His brown eyes met the cold, menacing ones of the policeman, who grinned sinisterly.
With hardly a thought, he threw his shoulder against the lean body, shoving the older man through the doorway. He estimated he could dash to the van and hopefully Rob would drive off before the agent could catch him.
He hadn't factored in his guitar.
The cherry-red instrument still lay where he'd left it next to the doorway, waiting for him to reclaim it. He was the only band member not yet safe in the van, so there was no one to help him.
Desperately, he scrambled to his knees, grasping for it, but the policeman's foot came down with a resounding, heartbreaking crack before he could reach it.
At first, Mike's mind didn't understand the noise. He couldn't connect it back to his instrument, his partner in music, the object he loved more than anything. The agent hadn't stepped on his guitar, hadn't broken it in two, hadn't snapped the neck from the body—
But there it laid, the only thing holding the two pieces together those six strings he was so accustomed to.
The emcee didn't allow himself to feel rage until he had snatched up the broken halves of his guitar into his arms and frantically rushed into the back of the van, depositing the pieces of the drum kit into the back. But as Rob spun the van out of the side alley, making a wild dash away from the club, he looked down into his lap where it lay.
The neck had snapped off cleanly, a definite divide between the two parts of the instrument visible. It flopped limply over the edge of his knee as he sat. The red paint on the body was scratched and marred with dirt from the scuffle.
It was completely unplayable.
Some part of his brain acknowledged Rob asking in a shaky voice "Is everyone okay?"
"Got shot in the thigh," Brad replied tersely. "But whatever that thing was, it wasn't a regular bullet."
"It was more like a laser or something," Joe agreed. "And it feels like a fucking burn—I only got grazed by one on my stomach, but I swear to God it's burning or something."
"Mike?" Rob called out. "You got shot in the arm, didn't you? How are you holding up?"
But the only answer Mike could give was "He broke my guitar."
"What?" Joe, Brad and Phoenix swiveled around to stare into the backseat where Mike had laid the fragmented instrument next to him. A series of gasps followed, and then all three chimed in with "I'm so sorry" and "that bastard" and "I'm sure we can fix it."
"Where are we going to fix it?" the emcee questioned bitterly. "We can't stay anywhere in Battery City, if Better Living wants to arrest us. And we sure as hell can't play any more shows here."
"But Mike—"
"Check Brendon and Spencer's station," he said suddenly. "Check it again. Rob said it wasn't working this morning, but maybe there'll be some clue on there about why BL/ind started coming after us."
With an unsteady hand, Joe reached for the radio dial, switching it on and twisting it until the display read 103.5. The static was gone from the airwaves, but the music was absent, too. Instead, there was a pleasant female voice blasting from the car's stereo system.
"Rock music has been targeted as a potential threat to your health, safety and well-being by officials at Better Living Industries," she informed them, her voice sweet and innocent. "As a result, we have banned all such music from Battery City airwaves. Any persons found creating rock music or participating in an organized meeting involving the creation or enjoyment of rock music will be detained for questioning. We are sorry for any inconvenience. Better Living Industries—for a better tomorrow!"
Nobody in the van made a sound.
The radio dissolved into static for a full minute, before the woman's voice penetrated the airwaves again, repeating her message. Joe swore and punched the off button savagely.
"This is all our fault," Mike muttered. "They probably got Brendon and Spencer already! I can't believe we were so stupid…" he trailed off in the middle of his thought, staring out the window absently.
"Mike, how was any of this our fault?" Phoenix cut in.
"That stupid speech I made last night before No More Sorrow," Mike growled. "Obviously there was a BL/ind agent or insider or just some idiot civilian who mentioned it to the wrong person, but whatever it was, they must have told someone in the government about it! I can't believe I just singlehandedly banned music from the city and ruined my own life, how much of a bastard am I…"
"It's gonna be fine," Rob soothed. "We'll be fine. We can go live in the desert again! You didn't ruin everything…"
"But they b-broke my guitar," the Asian man choked out.
None of the rest of Xero had anything to say to that. Instead, they left the emcee to mourn his broken guitar in silence while they stared out the windows at passing Battery City. Each was consumed with their own thoughts and memories. There was no sound in the entire van.
Brad spoke up first about fifteen minutes later, just as the van was exiting the city. "We'll have to go back to the motel in the desert," he told Rob. "It's the only safe place left where BL/ind can't reach us."
"We can never come back to the city," Rob agreed grimly. His blunt comment was met with various noises of reluctant assent as the reality of their situation dawned on Xero.
"It won't be too bad," Phoenix said tentatively, glancing around to gauge the reactions of the rest of his band. Brad smiled and nodded, supportive of his boyfriend as always, but Mike seemed to not notice his friend's words, still mourning the loss of his guitar.
"How so?" Joe questioned, trying to break the silence.
"Well, at least we saved the instruments—" Mike let out a strangled sob at this, and Phoenix bit his lip—"scratch that. At least we know it's safe and there's food and we're used to it."
"There's nothing in the desert," Mike burst out. "BL/ind won. They silenced Xero permanently. If we ever play another show, they'll come after us. We'll be stuck in the fucking desert forever."
"At least we'll be alive!" Phoenix shot back.
"I don't know if I want to be alive in this kind of world!" the Asian man exclaimed.
His words stunned the rest of his band into silence—not because they were particularly shocking, but because it was what they had all been thinking, too. They knew what desert life was like—the constant worry for food, the dry, stifling heat, and always, always that all-encompassing boredom. It wasn't an attractive prospect for any of them to face.
"Can we not talk about this now?" Brad begged desperately.
"Well, when are we going to talk about it, then?" Mike shot back.
"When we get there, maybe?"
"What's going to change in the four hours it takes to get from here to there?" the emcee seethed.
"Maybe, if you get some time to calm down—"
"I'm not going to calm down, Brad!" he shouted. "I can't fucking calm down! Fucking BL/ind just fucking ruined every single thing we've worked so fucking hard for! How am I supposed to calm the fuck down after fucking everything that those corporate bastards have done to us? I'd rather protest or die trying! Anything is better than sitting back and letting all this shit happen—I won't allow it! I won't allow them…I can't…"
That morning was the first time that any of them had ever seen Mike Shinoda cry. He had always been the calm, structured leader, the one who kept his head even in the worst situations. But on that day, he just…lost it. Sobs wracked the young man's body, and he curled up in the back of the van, face pressed into his knees as he tried to hide from the world. The other four men were left silent in the wake of his tirade, and nobody spoke for nearly the entire journey back out into the now-hated desert. Mike's stifled sobs were the only sound in the otherwise-quiet van.
"We're close," Rob tentatively informed them three hours later. The driver had watched the scenery slowly become brighter and brighter as the road progressed farther away from Battery City, leaving the dark, rainy atmosphere behind them. When the roads became more familiar and rusty blue signs for a Motel 6 began to pop up along the road, he decided it was best to let the others know.
"Close?" Joe asked tiredly.
"Ten more minutes, maybe."
The three men in the back of the van looked out the window, Brad and Phoenix curiously and Mike reluctantly lifting his head from its' resting place on his knees to glance out, his face still tear-stained.
"Oh my God, I remember this place so well," Phoenix giggled.
"No shit Sherlock, we did live here for over three months," Rob laughed.
Brad pressed his nose to the window like a child, staring out excitedly. He didn't say it, but he much preferred the desert environment to that of Battery City. Although the latter was the only place they could have played their music to a crowd, the city was dark and depressing, as if a constant raincloud covered the entire area. In complete contrast, the desert was probably the brightest, prettiest place the curly-haired guitarist had ever been.
The familiar motel appeared over the horizon, looking just like they'd left it…well, mostly.
"Was that care there when we left?" Joe asked, puzzled—because there was indeed a silver-white vehicle parked outside of the building, parallel to the door.
"I'm sure it was ad we didn't notice it," Brad said, but he, too, was confused.
Rob steered the van back into the parking lot and the five men stepped out warily, overcome with a sense of déjà vu as they remembered the day over seven months ago that they had first set foot in the building.
"Welcome back, guys," Phoenix murmured as he pushed open the door. The bassist stepped into the dark foyer confidently, sure the room would be empty.
But instead, two teenage boys spun around to look back at them, staring with wide eyes.