Chapter Text
To most people, there’s nothing more glamorous than being a rock star.
A life of fame and fortune dripping in the world’s greatest adrenaline rush. Smashing guitars against a stage that’s held the greatest names in rock n’ roll, while a crowd of tens of thousands chants your name and sings your songs. Experiencing a place where people of all walks of life can coexist. Here, it doesn’t matter if you’re human or faunus — all that matters is the music.
Or that’s what most people think, anyway.
When she was four years younger with her heart still intact, that’s what Blake thought, too.
Breathe. 1. 2. 3. 4.
Her head pounds against the chorus of sharp, repetitive strikes erupting out from the crowd. There’s screaming, so much screaming . The sound echoes all around her, ringing in her ears and bleeding raw in her throat.
Would anyone hear her if she screamed?
The desire burns deep within her stomach. She tries to satisfy the boiling beneath her skin, but her lungs are flooded and finds her mouth is already moving before she can force the feral sound from the void within her. The tongue between her teeth feels foreign, the voice wrapped around its words a mimic of her own as it blasts through the sound system. She strains to decipher the words pulled from her lips but can’t hear them over the heart beating wildly in her chest.
The screams grow louder, whether in response or in spite of the tale her mouth spins on her slurring mind’s behalf, she isn’t sure. She helplessly watches the sea of thrashing bodies as they reach for her, clambering over each other and ramming against the wall of flimsy barricades with bloodied, gnashing teeth. She wants to run, wants to hide, but her body doesn’t move. Her vision blurs beneath the blinding lights and the crowd melds into a single snarling shadow.
She blinks but sees in only flashes.
Staggered movement she distantly recognizes as her own faltering steps. Faces she knows but cannot recall, cannot trust, can only follow. A bright, endless hallway and the deafening buzz of the overhead lights.
Breathe. 1. 2. 3. 4.
The crowd is gone. It’s quiet, she thinks — maybe too quiet.
People say the quiet is supposed to be peaceful. Calming. She might’ve agreed once upon a time, before the quiet came with a half-blue stare and devilish smile.
A venomous whisper grazes her ear, but few words catch in the fog. The ones that do echo endlessly in her mind.
Stupid. Childish. Naive.
Maybe the words would sting, if she could feel anything at all.
(Maybe that would worry her, if the numbness wasn’t so familiar.)
Breathe. 1. 2. 3. 4.
She tries. The air clings to her skin desperately but can’t seem to fill her lungs. Still, she tries.
It reminds her of treading through the choppy waters off the coast of Kuo Kuana as a girl, barely keeping her head above the waves as they threatened to drag her beneath the surface. She did not belong to its depths, but it longed to become one with her all the same. The air here crackles dangerously with that same longing. She is too weary to do anything but drown.
(She’s always heard that drowning is peaceful.)
She tries to ignore the monster lurking within the depths, but knows he will come for her anyway. He always does.
She sinks and knows this time is no different.
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -
Her eyes land on a lifeless stage.
There’s a saying in show business, my darling.
The distorted-but-familiar voice croons in her ear and booms all around her at once, leaving a chill in its wake that burrows past her skin and deep within her bones. Her head swims, too heavy on her shoulders as she turns uselessly to search for its source. The weight of a thousand judging stares lance across her skin, but she finds that she is, by all means, alone.
Rows of empty stadium seats stretch out into the vast darkness, seemingly infinite in number as they wrap around the barren platform before her and towards the sky. Above she finds nothing but the criss-crossing metal of the retractable roof sealing her inside.
It all feels off , faded at the edges and lacking details that she cannot possibly place but knows distantly are missing.
Suddenly the ceiling warps, pulling back impossibly while the darkness seems eager to swallow the growing distance in-between. The room tilts and she wonders if the drop in her stomach means she’s falling, until she blinks.
There sits the odd underbelly of the roof, right where it started as if nothing had changed. She doesn’t know for how long she stares.
A thin layer of fog begins to bleed from the stage, swirling at her feet as it floods the stadium floor. She longs to run her fingers through the mist, but her arms hang like dead weight at her sides. Part of her wonders, if she were to look, if they are even there at all. Whether due to fear or apathy — it all feels the same here, really — she does not turn her head to find out.
The room hums with energy like the tense breath before a lightning strike. It hangs heavy in the air, settles like metal on her tongue. She isn’t surprised when a low rumble rolls through the empty stadium – but this isn’t the roaring of thunder, she realizes.
Slowly, the bassline begins to take shape.
Long, steady notes ripple through the air, each one crashing against her with the force of a tidal wave. The room itself bows to the will of the sound. She watches with distant wonder as the stage begins to wake, its lights flickering on as if pulled from a long slumber, bathing the non-existent crowd in a wash of deep blue.
The mist continues to rise throughout the room, kissing her knees like the lapping tide. It’s denser where it pours off the stage in waves, completely obscuring the platform lying beneath with no signs of slowing. From the pooling fog, a lone, lanky figure materializes, composed entirely of the hazy substance. It reminds her of finding a silhouette in the clouds — featureless and soft, yet thick enough to hold its form. If she reached out to touch it, would her hand pass straight through or would she find a solid body hidden underneath?
Within the apparition’s grasp she finds a slightly misshapen depiction of a bass, the rough shape of a hand floating up the instrument’s neck and another hovering over its body. The haze is too thick to form proper fingers, but each note rings out clearly nonetheless.
The fog shifts as the phantom turns towards another section of the stage, each note rising in intensity as more lights flicker on. Beams of vibrant yellow join the blue, each one piercing through the surrounding fog like the call of a lighthouse.
The wailing cry of an electric guitar soars through the room as another figure manifests. The surrounding mist licks at the air, swirling around it before dancing through the room like a playful breeze. She almost smiles when it grazes past her ears.
The phantom guitarist flickers across the stage in a vibrant dance, the instrument silhouetted in its hands as much a part of itself as the shape of a tail curling behind it. The bassist begins to stalk across the stage towards the lively figure, baseline pulsing behind the guitarist’s whirlwind of notes as the two meet, posing back-to-back as their playing teeters towards frantic.
The static energy in the air begins to crackle. Her heart pushes desperately against her ribs, wracked with an inexplicable longing as it tries to reach for the stage. She barely notices her hair stand on end as the metallic taste on her tongue becomes more pronounced.
The floor shakes as a rattling boom erupts from the stage, its lights flashing a brilliant white. The ache in her chest grows as another hazy apparition begins to form behind the distinct shape of a drum kit.
The figure barely moves but for a slight bob of its head with each thump of the kick drum, arms low but poised to strike. Mist curls away from its head in long, wild waves, ends flickering like the hungry blaze of a wildfire as its embers float across the stage, shining brilliantly against the thick fog.
The scene reminds her of fireflies, of a dazzling star-filled sky, of the broken moon twinkling against the open ocean. None hold a candle to the sight before her.
The disembodied voice continues.
All publicity is good publicity. They can love you, hate you, want to fuck you or want to fuck you over, it doesn’t matter. As long as they’re talking about you, you have the power.
As the distorted words rumble through the off-kilter stadium, a single spotlight flickers on at the head of the stage. There, the shape of a smaller, darker phantom slowly unravels from the shadows crawling along the edges of her vision, rather than the light, rolling fog.
It barely resembles anything at all, yet she watches the figure and feels the faintest whispers of recognition.
Her body shrinks in on itself as the voice speaks again, words dripping with familiar condescension.
But never forget, my love. It may be your name in the headlines, but I am the reason they care enough to write them. I am the reason these crowds know your songs. I am the reason your paltry troop is worth anything at all.
(Stupid.)
Long, spindly shadows crawl out from the phantom, inky tendrils striking out to poison the fog pooling beneath the figure’s feat. An endless void begins to grow within the mist, spreading throughout the room until it cloaks the stadium in darkness. She watches in silent horror as the three apparitions disappear within the black cloud.
She’s never been so afraid of the dark.
(Childish.)
The motionless blur is all that remains, bathed in a beam of harsh red light.
Without me, you are nothing .
(Naive.)
The instruments fade one by one, pulled within the endless veil until they can no longer reach her ears. The final thump of the kick drum leaves her breathless, a hollow shell the encroaching darkness is quick to fill. Her lungs tighten painfully as she chokes out a sob, only for the void to greedily swallow the sound as it leaves her lips.
The blur shifts. Though she cannot see its face, cannot make out its features, she knows the figure is staring straight at her.
Her head begins to pound as the shadows coiling around the phantom grow larger, wrapping around it tighter and tighter until they swallow the apparition whole. Her stomach shifts as the room tilts again, every corner pulling towards the stage as if collapsing in on itself in the face of a black hole, converging on the enshrouded figure to feed its insatiable emptiness.
The shadows stretch towards the warped ceiling, knitting together to form the silhouette of a hoofed beast towering over the lone figure, jagged, uneven horns protruding from its grotesque impersonation of a bull’s head. Its whip-like tail coils around the phantom’s body, pulling it closer to the monster’s looming form and deeper into darkness.
One of its claws grasps tightly around the figure’s head, the other snatching at its arm as it briefly emerges in an attempt to pry the monster’s colossal hand away from its face.
She hears a low, ominous rumble roll from the beast as it leans in towards the phantom, tongue lolling over its sharpened teeth as it opens its mouth to let loose its sickening laughter.
The creature’s head cranes towards her at an unnatural angle, the distorted voice booming from its gaping maw.
Do you understand?
Her vision blurs as her body grows heavy, desperate to sink beneath the waves of beckoning shadow, to succumb to the void. Maybe giving in wouldn’t be so bad.
Distantly, a high-pitched whine begins to crest over the sound of the still-cackling beast.
Something in her chest cracks as a lonesome wail meets her ears, begging her to swim as it drags her desperately towards the surface.
A soft, longing melody cries out from within the nothingness.
Look to the sun.
The beast sharply recoils at the sound.
She searches wildly for its source, but finds nothing. It’s as if the air itself is vibrating with the melody, surrounding her in the haunting aria as it continues to reach through the veil of darkness with its urgent plea.
Then the drummer begins to play .
Each powerful strike crashes through the darkness like the crack of lightning, flashes of light pulsing through the clouds in a fervent dance. Her heart thumps harder in response until it beats in time with the kick drum once more, her lungs reacting in kind as she breaches the shadow’s surface and is greeted by the ghost of warmth against her skin — it feels like the first time she can truly breathe .
The aria grows louder, its melody fuller and stronger than before. She hears the bass and electric guitar answer in harmony as blue and yellow join the drummer’s dance across the endless sea of black.
The phantom begins to break through its prison of darkness, yanking back one monstrous claw as if burned by its touch. The other tightens its vice grip around the figure, long nails digging into its small body as its tail whips out to wrap around its neck, when a pained scream cuts through the air.
The room stills. It’s as if the shadows themselves are watching with bated breath. Her blood runs cold when the beast and its prisoner turn towards her in tandem.
Her jaw snaps shut. The scream stops.
The guitar and bass begin to chug together dangerously, forming a growling bed of sound as a glowing apparition manifests behind the beast. The spotlight flashes between red and gold as the drums pick up in a frantic crescendo, the sound as desperate as it is powerful.
The hell-born beast roars with unrestrained rage as the dense darkness engulfing its prisoner is burned away, partially revealing the figure’s form as the shadows dissipate like smoke. Nausea grips her stomach as the room slowly tilts off-axis once more. The pounding in her head is all-consuming, nearly drowning out the music still blaring from the void. She briefly wonders if she’s having a heart attack as the muscle hammers harder than ever in her chest.
Yet through it all, she cannot look away from the emerging stranger — just as the stranger does not turn away from her.
For a moment, she thinks of letting go.
In the next, the room snaps violently back into focus. Her body stills as it sluggishly registers what she sees.
There, staring back at her through the void, is her own piercing gaze.
She doesn’t dare blink, doesn’t even breathe, for what feels like an eternity, then one more for good measure.
The realization that the pounding in her head has vanished dawns on her slowly, dragged along by the thought that she can’t hear anything at all.
Only then does she begin to process the very distant voice calling out from within the surrounding emptiness.
— ake .
Can … he— me?
You have… keep… —ving.
… got you.
She can barely make out more than a few words, but the voice feels familiar. Soothing. She tries to call out to it, but when she opens her mouth all that escapes is a shrill scream.
White-hot pain ripples through her body as a dozen knives bury deep within her torso, each point blending together as she tries desperately to breathe through her choked sobs. She barely notices the mounting pressure around her neck as liquid fire boils beneath her skin, mouth wide open in a silent scream.
She reaches a shaking hand towards the darkness, barely coherent in her pleading, when she realizes she’s several moments too late.
The beast is no longer on stage,
And the phantom is gone.
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -
Blake gasps, blinking wildly as her eyes attempt to refocus. The stadium walls have fallen away, replaced with the stifling night air. Where she once focused on a stage, her gaze has fallen to a crumbling parking lot. She keeps her head low as she walks, vaguely acknowledging the hand between her shoulders and the tail gently curling around her waist that keeps her moving forward. She ignores the ache in her chest.
She tries desperately to recall any piece of the song, clinging to the fragmented melody as it slips between her fingers, swearing her heart still beats in time with its rhythm. The haunting line calls from just beyond her reach but its notes are indiscernible, as if both sets of her ears were filled with cotton. The apparitions fade further into obscurity, featureless phantoms dancing mockingly at the edge of her memory, with the exception of her own sharpened stare burned into the forefront of her mind and the beast she knows too well to forget.
Her gaze shifts to the lights flashing against the leather of her platform boots. She barely notices the ring of shadows circling around her.
Someone collides roughly with her side, sending her steps stuttering over a crack in the asphalt. A hand grabs her by the—throat. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real-–shoulder, clings too tightly to the bare skin. The grip tears through her mortal vessel, wraps its fingers around her drifting soul and drags it back through the undertow.
Her consciousness slams back between her rattling bones, nerves alight as the rest of her dreamlike haze is forcefully cleared. She desperately covers her eyes as flashing lights assault her vision from every angle. The final fragments of the melody fall away as her senses threaten to overtake her like the discordant swell of a symphony.
A pair of strong arms pull Blake up and steady her on her feet. She thinks someone asks her a question, the individual words lost amidst the storm brewing around them. Someone shouts above the sea of roaring voices, their sharp tone forcing a violent jolt through Blake’s trembling body. The movement makes her lungs scream, gasping as she chokes on the heavy air that forces its way between her lips. Her skin crawls.
Gentle fingers wrap around her wrist to encourage her forward. She rips her arm away from them, cradling it tightly against her chest.
Hands. There are too many hands. On her legs, her hips, her mouth. Too warm. Too cold. A ghost made corporeal, a nightmare too intangible to push away. Blunt nails dig into her skin hard enough to draw blood.
itsnotrealitsnotrealitsnotreal–
Click! Flash!
“Blake! Blake, over here!”
Her head throbs, mind swirling with fuzzy, distorted memories. She aches for their numbness.
Sun places his hand back between her shoulders, says something softly into a feline ear. Blake still can’t discern his words, but she’s moving forward again. The crowd of paparazzi follows, faces obstructed by cameras with too-long lenses, voices overlapping as they shout questions and commands at her between blinding flashes. They’re too close, too close, too close .
“What do you have to say about White Fang ending your contract?”
“Rumors –”
“– your relationship with Adam Taurus –”
“– only signed Menagerie because you slept with your A&R?”
Click! Flash!
Blake catches a glimpse of bull horns behind a camera and jumps. A gloved hand meets her shoulder gently, a buoy against the rising tides. She meets Neptune’s worried gaze and tries to force another gallon of air into her lungs before finding the cameraman again. The man’s horns twist out from a head of curly blonde hair, larger and lighter in color than his .
He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not here.
“Now that your tour is over –”
“Fans want to know –”
Click!
“– without the support of White Fang Records –”
“Is this the end of Menagerie? ”
Click! Flash!
“Care to comment –”
Click! Flash! Click!
“Smile for me, Blake!” Smile darling, the cameras are always watching.
One of the cameramen breaks through the predatory circle of paparazzi, lens poised for the perfect shot as he stares at her cruelly. She stares down the barrel and wonders – will he mount her head on his wall? Spin wild tales of how he obtained such a trophy? Will anyone see the truth, that his prey was snared and broken, eyes wild and afraid as he emerged from the bushes, uncaring of the damage he would do?
Will anyone recognize the panic in her eyes, her last moments of fear frozen for eternity while onlookers ogle and praise the harbingers of her destruction?
The man steps daringly closer, calling for her attention with a condescending whistle and the clicking of his tongue against his teeth. Shame and ire battle in Blake’s chest as tense feline ears press back further into flowing black hair. The cameraman aims for the singer, ready to claim his prize and accolades with a smug smile.
He never gets the chance.
Met with an abrupt shoulder check to the stomach, he stumbles back, arms flailing wildly as he crashes into another photographer and drops his camera in the process. Blake flinches at the crunching of plastic and metal as it collides with the asphalt before being trampled beneath the mob’s feet.
The man glowers at his attacker, a blistering faunus woman whose presence is twice the height of her meager stature.
“Move!” Ilia shouts above the cameraman’s string of violent curses. “Get out of here! No comments, no pictures, nothing! You pap freaks have no fucking dignity. Get. A. Life!” Ilia levels the mob with a final piercing glare before placing a steady hand on Blake’s elbow, guiding her trembling steps the last few paces between them and their tour bus.
Mata moves to walk in front of them, the drummer towering above the rest of the band and effectively blocking the still-shouting-paparazzi’s view of Menagerie ’s lead singer. When they finally reach the door, Mata rapidly unlocks it and flings it open, Ilia already pulling Blake up the steps as Sun and Neptune lock their arms together to form a barricade against the overbearing horde.
Once she and Ilia are secured within, Mata quickly grabs the boys by their shoulders and ushers them up the steps, slamming the bus’s tinted doors behind them and blanketing the room in a tense quiet.
It hasn’t even been 24 hours — how do they know? How does everyone know?
How did he ruin everything so quickly?
The answer is obvious, really. Adam Taurus is a being of pure spite, a man drunk on the toxic fumes of power and filled with grandiose ideals. He’s never taken kindly to insubordination — boots primed to crush those bold enough to deny his demands beneath his heel.
But for better or worse, he always keeps his promises.
“Blake?” The concerned voice manages to push past the anguish winding itself around her tense frame, striking her straight in the chest. The shadows wail, hot breath brushes against her cheek as phantom claws tighten their grip on her torso in retaliation. It’s not real, she knows. But her eyes are on fire as her vision blurs and all she sees is red .
“Blake, breathe . Please , you need to breathe .”
Ilia’s voice is firm but gentle as she speaks, a grounding force for Blake to lean on. Her schooled features are convincingly calm, but Blake recognizes the concern pooling in her cool gray eyes. Sun and Neptune stand behind her at a distance, faces twisted in worry and desperation, but Mata holds them back with a pointed look. They’d all learned the hard way that any attempts from the three men to try and calm her in this state were met with visceral panic.
Ilia creeps forward slowly, palms out and arms spread as if she were approaching a rabid animal. The sight is almost ridiculous, but Blake’s eyes are wild, darting between each exit and any bodies blocking her way, every muscle spring-loaded in preparation to flee. Her chest burns, and only then does the sound of her own ragged, desperate breathing finally reach her ears.
What the hell is wrong with you? You’re acting like a psychotic bitch. Take a drink and calm down. No one wants to deal with a mental case, Blake.
Blake shakes her head violently in an attempt to dislodge the thought and regrets the action immediately. She squeezes her eyes shut against the throbbing in her skull, too scattered to hold in the whimper that escapes her lips.
“Blake, please , in and out, okay?” Right, breathe. You need to fucking breathe.
The air stings, but Blake drinks it up in desperate gulps. She tries to match the pace of Ilia’s breathing, clings to the steady sound like a lifeline until her heart rate slows and her body relaxes slightly.
“Good. You’re okay, everything’s okay,” Ilia says calmly as she takes another step closer. “I’m gonna touch you now, okay? I need you to put your hands down.”
Blake nods once and takes another deep breath as Ilia pries her hands away from her biceps, hissing on an exhale as she feels the sting. Several of the angry, crescent-shaped marks carved into her arms are bleeding from the force of her grip, and the dents are already starting to bruise.
At least I don’t need to make up an excuse this time.
She almost laughs at the thought.
Sun clears his throat softly as he sets the first aid kit down on the table beside her, shoulders hunched as he tries to make himself as small as he can. She flinches a little anyway, her every nerve raw and fraying. Blake hopes he doesn’t notice.
He walks away quietly, eyes glued to the floor as his tail flicks dejectedly against his legs. Guilt scrapes at her chest, every muscle crying out to reach across the growing chasm and apologize, to insist he did nothing wrong, something, anything , to chase away the shadows she cast over his cheerful disposition.
My, my. You just ruin everything, don’t you, Blake?
Her throat tightens painfully around the burgeoning apology, arms falling limply at her sides. Neptune steps over and quietly wraps an arm around Sun’s shoulders, offering a reassuring squeeze to draw his attention. The tiny smile that brightens his face offers Blake a fragment of relief, but does little against the colossal waves of guilt and grief slamming against her heart.
Ilia fiddles with the kit’s broken clasp, huffing slightly when she finally gets it open. “Looks like we’re out of bandages,” She mutters to herself before turning back towards Blake. “I’m gonna clean you up with the antiseptic for now, then on the next stop we’ll grab some more, okay?”
A protest pushes against her lips, ready to argue she was perfectly capable of cleaning up her own messes, but the words settle bitterly on her tongue when faced with Ilia’s stern glare. Blake sighs, resignation weighing heavily on her shoulders as she gives a curt nod. Ilia’s eyes soften as she offers the singer a reassuring smile. Blake hates the way it tastes like pity.
She slumps wordlessly into the black leather couch beside the bus’s only table. Ilia douses a cotton ball in antiseptic before gently dabbing it against Blake’s marred skin, wiping away the blood sticking to the indents before holding it down to stanch the bleeding. Blake hisses at the sting, drawing an apologetic look from her best friend, and promptly bites her tongue.
As the quiet stretches on, the tightness in Blake’s shoulders slowly begins to ease up, haggard breaths evening out as her heart rate lowers. The change is obvious to the rest of the room, concerned gazes turning to hesitant relief as the tension in the air begins to dissipate. She knows they won’t ask what happened, won’t wonder what caused her to fall apart so spectacularly . There’s no need when the source is always the same.
Mata watches them for another moment before his phone rings, the number sending a flash of anxiety across his face. He inhales deeply, offers what Blake assumes is meant to be a reassuring smile, and steps through the small curtain separating the band’s shared sleeping quarters from the bus lounge.
“Hey, looks like security cleared the paps out,” Neptune calls from up front, sunglasses settled on top of his neon blue hair so he can smoosh his face against the glass door. He looks over his shoulder, glancing briefly at Ilia and Blake before his gaze lands on a restless Sun beside him. “I’m gonna go make sure we have everything loaded up, you coming with?”
“Yeah, man! I wanted to grab my guitar anyway. Agents of Chaos released a new song and I need to learn Harriet’s solo even if it makes my fingers bleed. What better time to learn than being locked on a bus for a day or two until we can get a flight outta here?” Ilia groans.
Her fingers stall their meticulous cleaning as she shoots Sun a glare over her shoulder. “Maybe, oh, I don’t know, when you get back home? So we aren’t forced to listen to you for the next 48 hours?”
Sun waves her off with a pshh, his smile only widening at Ilia’s offended scoff. Neptune rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his amusement as he grabs Sun by the arm and pulls him towards the door. “Yeah, no, I’m with Ilia on this one. Maybe you could brush up on some of our songs for a change.”
Blake can’t help her small puff of laughter as Sun groans dramatically the entire walk (correction: drag) outside. Ilia softens at the sound, but doesn’t draw attention to it. They sit mostly in silence for the next few moments, the quiet occasionally broken by a pained grunt as Ilia finishes cleaning up her wounds.
“I didn’t expect it either, okay? None of us did, Alani.”
Her ears twitch towards the sound of Mata’s frustrated sigh. Blake flattens them against her head in an attempt to ignore the hushed voice coming from behind the curtain, but without the cover of conversation, there was little else to focus on in the small space.
“No, I know –...I’ll talk to them… I know. I love you, too. Bye.”
There’s a moment of tense silence as the call ends before Mata lets out an exasperated groan. His footfalls are heavy as he steps into the room, one hand massaging his temples, the other fiddling with the gold band adorning his ring finger. He quickly glances around the bus before slumping onto the leather couch opposite the girls.
“Everything okay?” Blake asks softly, cringing slightly at the rawness of her throat.
Mata shrugs half-heartedly, not quite meeting her eyes as he leans his head back, curling ram horns bumping lightly against the faux wood wall. “Just thinking,” he mumbles softly.
Blake nods, unsure if he catches the movement until he smiles appreciatively in her direction. She’s known him long enough to know he doesn’t like to be pushed.
“Alright, you should be good for now,” Ilia says as she moves to pack up the first aid kit. “It looked a little worse than it really was, but make sure not to pick at it or anything.” Blake nods as she moves to stand, but Ilia places a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. “Tea?”
“That’d be nice. Thank you,” she says softly, still moving Ilia’s hand away to continue standing, “but I was just going to grab a sweatshirt.” Ilia flushes slightly, pulling back and motioning towards the curtain with a teasing look.
“Right. Yeah, the crop top doesn’t help much against the Atlas cold, huh?” Blake rolls her eyes but doesn’t disagree. Ilia had warned her that her usual concert attire wasn’t going to bode well with the city’s weather, but it hadn’t been much of a bother on stage. The blinding lights, a fully packed Amity Arena, and the rush of adrenaline listening to the crowd had all been more than enough to keep her warm. But the bus offered little protection against the cold, and she was certainly feeling it now.
As Blake steps through the curtain, she hears Ilia shouting at the boys in the parking lot. “Hurry up or I’m leaving you behind! And for Light’s sake, close the damn door behind you next time. It’s cold as fuck in here.”
The responding “Sorry!” is cut off swiftly by the firm thunk of the door closing.
Blake shakes off a shiver as she grabs her favorite oversized sweatshirt—a well-worn purple crew-neck with a heavily faded graphic of Menagerie ’s first logo—from the band’s tiny shared closet.
It was, by all means, an atrocious design. The font is impossible to discern from more than a few inches away, vaguely reminiscent of a 90s heavy metal logo despite being an alternative rock band, and has what are supposedly the bars of a cage plastered atop it all. But Sun had been so proud of it, and as four broke college students, they didn’t have many other options to choose from.
The pilled sweatshirt wasn’t as soft as it had once been, but the warmth it brought as she pulled it on was a welcome feeling against her cold skin.
Deciding to trade her constricting leather pants for a pair of dark sweats, she pulls her phone from the single back pocket and tosses it on the nearest cot. The screen wakes from the movement, flooding the darkness of the bottom bunk with its soft light and drawing Blake’s attention to its lone notification.
3 New Messages from Unknown
Blake’s heart drops, muscles tensing with an instinctive panic, a primal desire to run. She doesn’t have to answer, she reminds herself. Things couldn’t possibly get worse than the hellfire the past day had been. Ignoring a single message won’t force her world to crumble any more than it already was. Besides, it can’t be him . She’d blocked him everywhere, and he’d already taken everything he could from her. The damage was done – there was nothing left for him to break.
But to think anything impossible was to underestimate Adam Taurus, and Blake knows better.
Folding the sweatpants over her arm, she grabs her phone off the bed, cursing her shaking hands as she re-types her password.
Unknown
How does it feel knowing your band of incompetent fools will never perform again, all because of you?
Good luck finding a studio anywhere in all of Remnant willing to work with your entitled ass, let alone another label willing to take a chance on such a colossal failure. Do you get it now? This is my world Blake, and I’m going to make sure you NEVER step foot in it again.
I hope it was worth it, bitch.
In some distant facet of the multiverse, Blake might have laughed at the messages, at their sender, at the patheticness of the attempt to grasp any remnants of control over her. That Blake would tell Adam to go fuck himself in the ornate, gilded mirror hanging above his California King and refuse to give him any further space in her mind.
In another, she may have faltered to his silent demands living between each line and behind piercing mismatched eyes, begged for his forgiveness and done anything to keep him from ruining everything she and her friends — her family had built together. That Blake would have suffered Adam’s blood trials to prove herself worthy of his tainted forgiveness, gasped for air beneath his heel until he had his fill or her lungs collapsed, but at least the future of the people she loved would be safe.
But here, alone in suffocating darkness, Blake freezes as their last conversation replays over and over in her fractured mind.
How could you do this to me, Blake?
I gave you everything. Everything. You want to throw it all away? Throw us away? Fine. When everything you’ve taken for granted is gone, when you weep for the ashes of the life I built for you, when your “friends” leave you behind, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.
After all, don’t you know what they say, my love?
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
A sob rips itself from her chest, weakly muffled by the sleeve of her sweatshirt as the memory sinks its fanged teeth into her still-bleeding heart.
It’s not real , she wishes she could say. It’d be easier to pretend the words were phantoms conjured by the darkest corners of her mind, that they had no consequences besides burdening her psyche. It’d be easier to breathe through the pain if the wounds weren’t so fresh.
But the debris from the previous night’s conversation was all too real as it lodged itself in the stomachs of every member of Menagerie . The anxious pits and shaking hands and tearful gazes were a hell of her own making. Fire licked at Adam’s heels wherever he walked, but she'd been the one to invite the devil in for dinner.
Blake thought she knew the lengths Adam would go. She’d prepared herself for the backlash long before yesterday. She’d made sure he was sober, that they were in private — but not too private — and had been ready for the barrage of verbal assaults she knew would follow. The venom, the threats, the sting against her cheek — these, she could handle.
Adam’s words were an omen, but no one had woken up this morning expecting the call from Sienna Khan herself to personally inform them of their release from White Fang Records, effective immediately.
Blake had wondered then how many favors and lies Adam had used to so swiftly and ferociously enact his revenge, while Ilia prepared to argue their case until her lungs burned. The band manager had barely gotten a word in before White Fang’s infamous CEO abruptly ended the call to handle more important business than offering Menagerie an explanation beyond “inadequate performance.”
They had been graciously allowed to finish out the final show of their tour, but would likely see barely a dime of its profits. The cost for transport back to Vale and any accommodations or food and drinks they purchased were to be footed by Menagerie as well, leaving a crater in the band’s already dwindling budget composed of album sales and the sliver of profits they’d received from previous shows. They’d all decided to camp in the bus until they could get a commercial flight out in a couple days rather than attempting to find a faunus-friendly hotel in Atlas on such short notice, since they no longer would have access to the White Fang jet they’d flown in on.
All in all, the news had been devastating, but they clung to the hope that artists have survived being dropped from their labels before. They would just have to fall back on their routine from their gig-band days, working multiple jobs and pooling together cash to get a few singles released. Eventually, another label might pick them up and give them a chance. It would be tough, but with the success of their first album to fuel them, it would be possible.
But as Blake stared at Adam’s messages, those anxiously duct-taped together hopes began a fiery descent into rock bottom.
She should have known Adam wouldn’t stop until he’d blocked every possible route to their success. He has endless connections, an army of yes-men across the industry who wouldn’t dare to defy him, lest their studios end up blacklisted or their positions suddenly emptied.
If Adam had convinced Sienna to listen to him, a powerful woman known for her stubbornness and her no-nonsense approach to business, there was no one he couldn’t bend to his will.
Biting back another sob, Blake glances towards the lounge. The curtain alone was far from enough to hide her cries, even muffled as they were, but the sounds of anxious conversation beyond it seemed to have hidden them from her concerned bandmates. She has to tell them about the messages, she has to find a way to break their hearts even further.
It’s all your fault.
She thinks of Sun and of finding the bottom to his well of never-ending optimism. She thinks of Ilia and of her exhausted body flashing red when she thinks no one is watching. She thinks of Neptune and of the spreading cracks in his cool-guy facade. She thinks of Mata and of his worsening anxious spiral.
She wonders if they all blame her, too.
They should.
“You’re joking, right?” Ilia’s clipped tone makes Blake jolt from her thoughts, but when she whirls around to face her best friend, there’s no one to be found.
She’s probably scolding Sun for taking her work laptop to watch videos on again, or for leaving trash around , Blake realizes. It wasn’t uncommon for the pair to butt heads, especially after such a stressful day — but it isn’t Sun who responds.
Mata’s exhausted voice drifts through the curtain. “I’m not. You know I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”
Blake had never heard him sound so defeated before. She remembers the fragments of hushed conversation she’d overheard before and feels dread settle like lead in her bones. Blake wipes away the tears still quietly falling down her cheeks and takes a final look at the messages still begging for her attention.
She won’t give Adam the satisfaction of an answer.
Blake saves a quick screenshot of the messages for later and blocks the number. She makes a mental note to replace her phone and change her number as soon as they get back to Vale before cautiously stepping into the lounge.
Four pairs of eyes ranging from exhausted to enraged flicker her way at once, the tense silence thickening palpably as she glances between them.
“What’s going on?”
Ilia stares pointedly at Mata, who hasn’t moved from the couch other than to shift forward in his seat, head hanging in his hands as Ilia hovers in front of him. She stands barely taller than the seated drummer, but in that moment she towers over Mata’s hunched form.
Sun and Neptune share an anxious look with each other before turning back to Blake.
Neptune attempts to reign in the shattered pieces of his perpetual nonchalance, but his lips press together too tightly, brows burrowing low over his eyes, and without his sunglasses, the tormented sea swirling in the darkened blue is on clear display.
When he finally speaks, his voice is strained and quieter than normal, but Blake can barely focus on the tone or his body language when the words themselves finally register in her ears.
“Mata wants to leave Menagerie .”
What did I tell you, my love?
She pushes away the low laughter flooding her ears from within, turning towards the still-hunched drummer.
“You’re leaving?” The words come out barely more than a whisper.
Mata sighs, finally lifting his head to meet Blake’s gaze with his own glossy eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I love playing with you guys, but I never meant for music to become my career . It’s almost me and Alani’s first anniversary, and I’ve spent half of our marriage on the road! And what about when Aurora comes? I didn’t grow up with a dad, I sure as hell won’t let my daughter grow up without one, either.”
Mata stands slowly, a single tear dripping down his cheek as he turns to face Blake, sorrow and exhaustion pooling in his eyes. “I know what happened with White Fang wasn’t your fault, Blake. You couldn’t have known Adam would do something like that — and even if you did , I'm so glad that you finally cut him off. He’s a raging asshole, and nothing is worth putting up with that. Nothing. ” He sighs, gaze dropping to the floor as he opens his mouth to speak. “But I have a family to think about now, you know? I’d never trade the last four years with you guys for anything, but I can’t bet on the past to support the future of the people I love. Without the support of a record label, Menagerie just isn’t something I can be part of anymore.”
Blake is silent as guilt and shame flare within her. It is her fault. This whole disaster is her fault. If she’d never fallen for Adam, never listened to his sickly sweet words spoken between sharpened, bloody teeth, they wouldn’t even be in this mess. How could she be so stupid?
“It’s okay man—we get it.” Sun’s voice was heavy with resignation, his smile tense and shallow as he clapped Mata on the back. “It sucks, don’t get me wrong, and we’ll miss you a ton, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Just promise to send us pics of Aurora when she gets here, alright?” Mata’s returning smile was small but genuine as his eyes brimmed with tears.
“Of course.”
Ilia’s expression softens slightly, irritation beginning to cool at the exchange. With a heavy sigh she steps forward and lays a hand on Mata’s back. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Sun’s right – wipe that smile off your face right now or when we get back I’m making you unpack the bus yourself.” Sun slapped a hand over his brightening smile, eyes still twinkling with delight despite Ilia’s glare.
“ Anyway . You have to do what’s best for you and for your family. We’re definitely going to miss you, but I understand.” Ilia gave him a curt nod before stepping back to address the rest of the room. “Besides, with the news of us getting dropped already flooding the media, fans are likely going to be a little more patient with us while we try to figure things out. We should hold off on making any kind of statements right now though, especially to any news outlets. Things are highly uncertain and we do not need people twisting our words or to give anyone false hope. With any luck, we can get back on our feet, pitch ourselves to another label, and get things moving again before long.”
Blake’s palm begins to sweat around the phone still clutched tightly in her hand. An exhausted sigh seeps from her tightening chest, pulling the attention of four pairs of cautiously curious eyes as her body floods with dread.
“Adam texted me.” The whispered statement sends a jolt of panic through the room, bodies tensing as the words settle in the air like static. Ilia moves to the singer’s side, placing a gentle hand on Blake’s arm as she analyzes her face. Matching the subtle steady breaths of her best friend, Blake continues. “Apparently, getting us dropped from White Fang wasn’t enough,” she says as she hands Ilia her phone, open to the screenshot of Adam’s message.
Ilia’s face drops before twisting in rage as she reads his words.
“What a fucking prick ,” she spits, fingertips white as she grips the phone, unable to tear her eyes away from the screen. “If I ever see his fucking face again, I swear to the Gods I’m going to kill him.”
“What? What’d he say?” Sun asks as he stiffly steps closer, leaning into Blake’s space to try and read the messages upside down.
“He’s gotten us blacklisted from every studio and label on Remnant that he has his disgusting little hands on. Which, quite unfortunately for us, is pretty much every fucking one, ” Ilia snaps, turning away from the pair. Her skin burns a flustered red, unable or uncaring to control her chameleon traits as she drags in deep breaths in a desperate attempt to center herself.
Sun balks at Ilia’s words, blue eyes wide in panicked disbelief as he slowly turns to Blake. “H-he can’t be serious , right?” He searches for Neptune over his shoulder, whose calm demeanor has cracked to give way to a matching state of shock. “I mean, I know he’s like, unhinged or whatever, but there’s no way he can do that! ” He whips his head back towards Blake, tail flickering nervously behind him as he scans her face.
Tell them the truth, my love. This is your fault. You left me - not the other way around.
“He can.” She shifts unsteadily on her feet, eyes dropping to the floor as she forces the words from her lips, “and he always promised he would. If I ever left him.” A dozen apologies sit heavy on her tongue, desperate to pierce through the oppressive silence, when she feels a pair of strong arms wrap around her in a gentle hug.
Her eyes fill with tears as Mata rests his chin between her drooping feline ears. “This isn’t your fault, Blake. None of this is your fault, okay? I-I’ve been thinking about leaving long before this, and it’s disgusting that Adam ever held that over your head. Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out together . Despite whatever that shitbag said to you, you aren’t alone, Blake. Not now, not ever.” The drummer’s arms wrap tighter around Blake as she leans against him with a shaky exhale.
Blake feels another warm presence at her back, then at her sides, as the rest of her band engulfs her in a steadying embrace. She had missed this, them , so dearly.
Oh, my darling, how naive you still are. Grow up, Blake. Soon they’ll realize you’re nothing but a burden, and you’ll be alone all over again. I took pity on you, took you under my wing, but even that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? Soon, you’ll have no one , not even me.
And it’s. All. Your. Fault.
A familiar itch worms its way beneath her skin, burrows into her bones, as Adam’s voice slides across her mind like tar. A chill burns through her body, numbing every nerve as her skin prickles with goosebumps.
Her bandmates release her from their group hug as she shivers, giving her space to breathe the stiff air apparent to no one but herself. Blake’s mind drifts to the familiar comforts of a bottle. A cheshire grin unfurls within the shadows of the lounge. Blake shakes her head, ignoring the queasiness pooling in her gut as she shoves away the image.
Realizing she’s still holding her sweatpants from earlier, she gently excuses herself to step back into their sleeping quarters, passing the bus’ kitchenette along the way.
She spots a long-gone-cold cup of tea on the counter and smiles wearily.
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -
It’s late when their bus finally rolls to a stop in front of the bus rental space, the dusty brick building lifeless except for their rented black van parked in the furthest corner of the customer parking lot, beneath a streetlamp serving as the lot’s only light source.
The five weary souls begin to unload the tour bus in relative silence, separating out their personal items and equipment in a well-practiced dance.
It had taken them a painfully long time to figure out in their first days as a gig band, with a second hand amp and the head of Mata’s kick drum posing as collateral damage to their initial incompetence as their own roadies. Eventually, they’d gotten the swing of working in tandem with each other, like the matter of unloading their gear was a piece of music itself.
Pulling each piece of road worn gear from the hulking tour bus carried an overtone of finality, like the final notes of a symphony before the curtains closed and the lights cleared the last dredges of magic from the crowd. Blake wondered if their name smeared in headlines would be all that lingered, a crumpled program beneath the feet of a wayward crowd.
Maybe a stray station would play one of their songs for new listeners, disheartened as a scruffy radio host describes Menagerie as nothing more than a hot flash in the pan, inevitably snuffed out by their own folly.
A loud thump beside her pulls Blake from her musing, ears flickering towards the low groan that follows. With a slight smile and a roll of her eyes, Blake turns towards where Sun is rubbing his lower back after dropping a hefty black road box. From the corner of her eye, she sees Ilia whip her head towards the guitarist, eyes bulging slightly as she spots the dropped box.
Blake cuts her off before she can voice her concern – for the box, that is, “We both know it’s just wardrobe.”
Sun feigns a dramatic gasp, clutching his non-existent pearls as he looks between them. “Hey!”
“Neptune refuses to let you carry any sound equipment after you tried to carry the rack equipment by yourself and nearly broke your foot when you dropped it,” Blake shoots back with a knowing look. “Besides, if that isn’t wardrobe, I’m pretty sure Ilia and Neptune would have jumped you the second it touched the floor. Especially considering it has wheels, Sun.”
Sun crosses his arms with a huff before glancing towards the side of the box where four pairs of small wheels protrude from the scuffed silver trim. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles sheepishly.
Blake scoffs out a laugh before setting down the dolly holding her own stack of roadie cases. Grabbing one end, she helps him flip and right the wardrobe case, chuckling as Sun pats the top of the box for good measure.
“You would think you were used to this by now,” Blake jabs lightheartedly, regretting it immediately as Sun’s face crumples slightly.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he waves off with a half-hearted smile. “Just, got a lot on the ol’ noggin.” He raps his knuckles against his skull for good measure.
Perhaps sensing the incoming apology, he continues before Blake can speak. “Hey, uhm, I can grab the rest of these - do you mind doing the final run through with Ilia?”
Blake nods at the forced shift, crossing her arms in front of herself as she takes a step backwards towards the bus. “Sure thing.” Sun nods back, his smile a little tighter as he turns to wheel the box towards the van.
The singer turns to find Ilia already standing at the door, pen in hand and clipboard tucked beneath one arm as she waves Blake over. Blake takes a few deep breaths to steady herself as she crosses the few paces between them, fingers hesitantly loosening their grip on the sleeves of her sweater, arms beginning to ache as her collection of small blue-green bruises throb dully beneath the fabric.
“Hey,” Ilia’s exhausted voice rasps as Blake approaches. “Doing walk-through with me?” Blake nods, fighting back a yawn as Ilia’s own swallows the tail end of her question.
The pair climb into the bus, blinking as their eyes adjust to the harsh overhead lighting. Each cabinet and doorway is thrown wide open, allowing for easy viewing inside each space to make sure nothing’s been left behind before they close it off. They hadn’t managed to lose anything important yet, so Blake figured it was a good enough system, if a little visually chaotic.
For a while, they both move in relative silence, the clattering of cabinet doors and their soft footsteps on the laminate floor the only sounds to be heard throughout the bus. Blake can hear the scuffling of the boys unpacking their equipment outside, followed by muffled laughter echoing through the parking lot.
Blake stiffens as she reaches the cabinet beneath the sink. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the ebony stained door, eyes locking on the spot she finds a bottle of rich amber liquid is hidden behind a slew of cleaning supplies.
She glances quickly over her shoulder to make sure she’s alone before pulling out the bottle of expensive Valean whiskey with shaking hands, narrowly avoiding knocking over a stack of boxes filled with garbage bags in the process. Wilted Rose - Adam’s favorite , Blake remembers as she runs her thumb over the embossed black and red label. The red wax seal had already been broken, half the bottle gone. She doesn’t remember putting it there, wonders if Adam had planted it for a celebration of their tour's conclusion before everything went to shit, or if it was just to taunt her and remind her how her demons always seem to be lurking in the shadows.
Blake thinks of her bandmates’ anxious faces, the worries, the collection of bottles on the counter as she stumbled back into their hotel room in Vacuo, Adam nowhere to be seen, but his presence clear as day.
Sun must’ve missed it. I should toss it out before anyone sees.
She moves to stand on shaking legs when another voice sends a chill down her spine.
Why let it go to waste? You’re always so on edge, everyone likes you better when you’re a little buzzed, darling.
Blake’s hands stall as they hover over the trash, a familiar thirst scratching at the back of her throat. She fingers the waxy cap, loosening it enough for the whiskey’s deep, smoky scent to flirt with her nose. A quiet gasp leaves her lips as she screws her eyes shut against how her body reacts to the smell, buzzing alive at the familiar sensation.
It’d been two months. Two months too long . She doesn’t know which voice tells her that one.
“Blake? Everything alright up there?” Ilia calls.
Blake drags in a deep breath, twisting the cap closed until the wax cracks in her grip. The bottle falls to the bottom of the trash bag, clattering against the remains of instant noodle cups and various snack wrappers. She ties it off and sets it by the door to bring to the dumpster on their way out.
“All clear,” Blake calls towards where Ilia is digging through the back half of the bus, making sure to settle the tremor in her voice before she speaks.
A moment of silence, as if Ilia is analyzing every aspect of Blake’s response, visualizing her face and body language through the wall. “All right, I’m just about done here and then we can lock up the bus and head to the airport.” She sounds unconvinced, but drops it nonetheless. Blake supposes it’s the best she can hope for as she closes off the rest of the cabinets.
Ilia steps through the curtain and into the lounge a few moments later, clipboard in hand as she finishes checking off the items on her walk-through list. “It seems like we’ve got everything. Find anything left up here?” Ilia asks as she quickly glances around the room, eyes stalling on the closed trash bag before flickering back up to Blake’s.
Blake shakes her head. “Just a few more pieces of trash. You know Sun and his shrimp chips,” she jokes, her smile tight as she shrugs.
“That I do,” Ilia says with a chuckle, crossing off a few more boxes on her checklist before placing the clipboard back beneath her arm. “Alright, let’s get out of here. I cannot wait to sleep in my own bed again.”
Blake stills. Right. Home. I have to go home.
The simple one bedroom apartment was far from luxury living, but it had been hers . Her neighbors were nice enough, not too loud and never seemed to mind her bursts of late night creative energy. They were mostly faunus, a fact Adam had mentioned with praise the first time he’d taken her home. He’d told her to be wary of the humans in her halls, to never put her guard down around them. They wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of her.
If only she’d paid more attention to the monster sleeping in her bed.
She nervously finds the small brass key on the ring in her pocket and thinks of the matching spare sitting in Adam’s own. What if he was waiting there for her? It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d been angry then - made her pay her penance however he’d seen fit. What now? He didn’t care about forgiveness. He just wanted to make her suffer.
Blake wonders if she should move – or at least, change the locks.
“Movie night when we get back?” Ilia’s voice is soft and knowing, a tone most would never hear from the small woman. Blake thinks Ilia’s reserved it just for her, before chastising herself for the thought.
“Yes. Please,” Blake answers with relief. Ilia nods with a smile before stepping off the bus. Blake follows close behind, grabbing the trash bag and flicking off the last of the lights behind her.
As they cross the parking lot, Ilia snickers slightly at the sight of a sleeping Sun drooling on a half-asleep Neptune’s shoulder on the building’s doorstep. Mata stands nearby, head against the wall as he leans back on the red brick with his eyes closed. He rouses slightly as Ilia and Blake approach, eyes half-lidded as he gives them a small nod. Blake waves him off as the drummer moves to take the trash bag from her, stepping past the group and towards the dumpster around the corner.
“Load up!” Ilia calls towards the group from the van as she loads the last of their luggage into the trunk. Sun groans and burrows further into Neptune’s shoulder, who rolls his eyes and lugs the guitarist to his feet.
“Let’s go, sleepy head,” Neptune mutters into the head of fluffy blond hair, barely hiding a smile.
“Shotgun!” Sun calls sleepily through a yawn, lamely raising a hand as he leans further into Neptune’s side.
Blake side-steps the pair and crosses the parking lot in quick strides. “Maybe next time,” she calls as she settles into the front passenger seat. Sun’s responding groan echoes through the parking lot as she shuts the door behind her. Blake tries not to think about what “next time” might look like. If it happens at all.
Mata slumps into the seat behind her with a yawn. “Gods, I hate that this is the last time I’ll be doing this with you guys, but I am so ready to be home,” he says with an exhale that borders on a laugh.
Blake hums in quiet agreement as her eyes grow heavier. Another door opens and Sun slides into the middle seat, Neptune falling in next to him as the door thumps closed.
Confirming the bus is locked behind them and keys are dropped off in the mailbox, Ilia finally steps into the driver’s seat. The vehicle rolls to a start, the quiet rumbling of the engine luring most of the exhausted band members to sleep as they pull out of the parking lot.
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -
“We’ve finally arrived,” Ilia sighs as she pulls the car to a stop.
Blake nods, pulling her eyes away from the window where she’d scanned every shadow as they climbed the three levels of the apartment building’s parking garage. She’d briefly nodded off on the drive to Mata’s from the airport, but as their numbers dwindled, the anxiety gnawing at her gut only grew and left her wide awake and restless.
Blake hops out to help Ilia grab the remaining bags of personal items loaded in the trunk and lug them towards the elevator. A flicker in her peripheral vision pulls her attention towards the corner of the parking garage where, for a moment, she swears she sees something hiding in the shadows. Her heartbeat jumps, but she doesn’t see any further movement. With a shudder, she doubles her pace after Ilia.
“You know where to drop your stuff,” Ilia quips once they make it upstairs, setting down some of her luggage in the small entryway before walking towards her own bedroom on the far side of the apartment. Blake slips off her boots to set by the front door before following after her, turning into the open guest bedroom just before Ilia’s.
Blake sets her suitcase and bags filled with clothes of varying levels of cleanliness and a collection of hair and makeup products by the door before moving towards the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, she grabs the lone set of pajamas sitting inside.
She slips off her sweater and peels away her day-old ripped skin-tight jeans, tossing them on the bed to be dealt with later before unclipping her bra with a relieved sigh and pulling on the fresh clothing. The oversized gray t-shirt and loose purple and black checkered pajama bottoms are soft and comfortably cool against her skin, while still providing a welcome warmth in the Valean winter.
Blake smiles softly as she smoothes out the front of her t-shirt, realizing that from now on, she no longer has to worry about Vale’s biting nighttime air against her bare skin.
Her ears twitch at Ilia’s typical three-tap knock against the still-open bedroom door. Looking up to meet her best friend’s gentle gaze, she finally breathes for the first time since they crossed the border back into Vale. “Popcorn is ready to go and I have some cookies and cream in the freezer if you’d like,” Ilia says with a motion back towards the kitchen.
“Sounds perfect,” Blake says as she grabs the white throw blanket from the end of the bed and follows Ilia back down the hall.
Ilia pulls the tub of ice cream from the freezer and grabs a pair of spoons while Blake bundles herself up on the loveseat, pulling the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table into her lap to snack on.
The chameleon faunus settles in, a matching throw now bundled around her shoulders, before flipping wordlessly through her digital library of movies, landing quickly on You’re A Hot Mess – one of Blake’s favorite trashy rom-coms.
The familiarity in the ritual settles some of the remaining anxiety lingering in Blake’s chest. They’d done this since they were roommates back in college – whenever one of them was stressed or depressed or simply over-thinking, they’d curl up with snacks and watch the other’s favorite movie. Over time, the movies, snacks, and setting had changed, but it had always been their thing.
Adam had found it ridiculous when she’d told him about her and Ilia’s movie nights early on in their relationship – called her childish and immature . In an effort to prove she was neither, she’d stopped.
But the first time she’d turned Ilia down for a movie night, the guilt had eaten away at her for weeks. She’d ended up throwing together a proper feast of candy and greasy finger foods, coupled with a movie marathon of Ilia’s favorite action film series, to apologize. Ilia had asked then, if it had been Adam’s doing. Blake denied it, but she wonders now if Ilia had always known that something was off, if she’d always seen the red flags Blake had missed wearing rose-colored glasses.
Blake wonders, how much could have been different – how much could she have been different if she’d just told Ilia the truth then?
Ilia’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, lighting up with an alert she’d set for whenever Menagerie appeared in the news. The pair quickly read the headline that flashes across the screen before Ilia shuts the screen off with a huff.
Menagerie: Creativity Uncaged or Killed in Captivity? The future of these rising rockstars now hangs in the balance.
Her stomach twists as she reads the words, an ever-present guilt burrowing deep in her belly she tries to ignore in favor of a spoonful of cookies and cream. Maybe a few months of downtime will be a good change of pace after this nightmare.
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -
“No - Hey, wait! Don’t hang up on me, I – Oh you asshole .”
Blake looks up from her seat at Sun and Neptune’s circular coffee table towards where Ilia has finally stopped wearing a hole in the apartment’s kitchen, freckled skin turning a blistering red as she glares at the phone clutched in her hands.
“I’m assuming that’s another no?” Sun asks from his spot behind Blake on his beaten-up leather couch.
With a scoff, Ilia pulls her laptop towards her to delete the studio’s name from their list of dwindling possibilities. “ No , what makes you think that?” she drawls sarcastically, the finger clicking against her keyboard growing more aggravated with each click of the Delete key. “Surely, it couldn’t be because that was the third studio to hang up on me this week? At least some people can be civil when turning us away. Gods, did everyone lose their fucking professionalism sometime in the past five months?” Ilia snaps her laptop shut with a sigh and turns to lean against the counter when her phone pings with an email notification.
She barely glances at her phone before placing it facedown on the countertop, face twisting in a scowl Blake has seen far more often these days as the manager resumes her pacing. “Does every reporter have their heads so far up their asses the only thing they can see is their own bullshit? How many times do I have to say no comment before they get the hint? How many times do I have to ignore their pushy emails before they understand they aren’t getting an interview? It’s almost impressive how many articles have been written about us saying nothing! ” Ilia yells to no one in particular as she slips into a rant the rest of Menagerie had become well-acquainted with over the past few months.
“What do they even want us to say? Oh, yes! Even though we’re all living off the crumbs of a single successful album, most of which goes right back to White Fang’s greedy pockets, and there isn’t a studio from Vacuo to Atlas that will let us within 100 feet of them – let alone another label that would dare risk their reputation on us – we’ve got another album coming right away, so don’t forget about us!” She croons mockingly, hands clasped against her chest.
“Oh, and let’s not forget!” She barks with a feigned gasp. “With seemingly no future in sight, we can’t find another drummer, either! But of course, they can’t know that, or else they’ll sell the story that we’re already finished, right? What a fucking joke ,” Ilia scoffs, waving a hand dismissively through the air.
Already thin concentration now thoroughly broken, Blake scratches out another set of mediocre lyrics before shutting her song book. She wonders, for far from the first time, if she’d find the inspiration she needed at the bottom of a bottle. The thought begins to unfurl behind her eyes before she shoves it away.
It’s just the stress , Blake reasons with herself. She’d never written well under pressure, preferring to let the words pool on the page as they saw fit, rather than force them together like she’d been doing. She tries to push away the thoughts biting at the edges of her mind, the bitter fragments crying about how none of it matters if we can’t find anywhere to work with us.
Perhaps those thoughts wouldn’t dig in so deeply if they weren’t rooted in truth.
“Hey, I mean - something good has to happen sooner or later, right? We just have to keep our eyes open, keep looking for opportunities and all that junk,” Sun tries to lighten the mood.
Ilia rolls her eyes. “Nothing good is just going to happen , Sun. We can’t sit around twiddling our thumbs and waiting for the answer to come knocking on our door – we need to find a solution and make it a reality ourselves.”
“You know, there’s nothing wrong with having a positive attitude every once-in-a-while!” Sun pushes back. “Would it seriously kill you to just have a little faith that things are going to work out eventually?”
“Oh, I’m sorry ,” Ilia drawls. “I didn’t realize you were the one making all of these calls and getting doors shut in your face all day, Mr. Positive! Tell me - where has all of your wishing on shooting stars gotten us? Not in a studio, that’s for sure! So how about you shove your positive attitude right up your –”
“Guys!” Blake snaps, cutting them off with a hard look. “None of this arguing is going to help us – it certainly isn’t getting us in a studio. All it’s going to do is drive us apart, and then what? We’re already down a drummer – are we just going to push each other away until there’s no one left?” Ilia and Sun continue to glare at each other for a moment before turning away.
Blake sighs, tone softer when she continues. “I don’t know what our future is going to look like – but I do know that we won’t have one if we don’t work together .”
Ilia’s shoulders sag in defeat, her face softening as the tension in the room eases. “Yeah, fine. Blake’s right – no matter how things might seem, we can’t let that tear us apart.”
Sun nods, his pout smoothing into a mischievous smile. “Sooo, you’re saying you have to try and stay positive? ” Blake smacks him with a nearby throw pillow, earning a yelp from the guitarist as it collides with his head. “Worth it!”
“ Anyway ,” Ilia calls as she bites back a smile. “Neptune – have you had any luck with any of the new drummers Mata connected us with?”
Blake turns to find Neptune curled up next to Sun, headphones on as he watches something on his phone with rapt attention.
“Neptune!” Ilia shouts, sending the bassist jumping a foot in the air. He pulls his headphones off, sending Ilia a shocked and confused look while Sun snickers beside him. “Did you hear anything I’ve said in the last ten minutes?”
Neptune shrugs sheepishly, motioning towards his phone. “Sorry, I was watching the new Vytal Music interview with Juniper –”
“Oh! Is that the new metal band that’s on tour right now?” Sun interrupts, twisting his head to get a better look at Neptune’s phone.
Neptune smiles, face flushing slightly as he adjusts to hold his phone closer to Sun. “Yeah – I’m obsessed with their bassist, Li Ren. The lines he comes up with are insane . This interview goes more into their writing and recording process for their debut album The Fall , so I was hoping to see a little more into how they write their basslines.”
“That sounds so cool! I wanna watch, too!” Sun presses further into Neptune’s side, tail flicking across their laps as he settles in.
“Watch it later! We need to focus,” Ilia sighs, trying in vain to wrestle their attention back.
“It actually sounds pretty interesting,” Blake says with a shrug, moving to sit on the arm of the couch beside Neptune.
Ilia sputters, reaching for any reason to pull them back on track before slumping down next to Sun in surrender, half-heartedly glancing towards the phone as Neptune restarts the video.
[The video opens with a few cinematic shots of Juniper playing to a sea of fans over a driving instrumental before cutting to a small room where four musicians sit side-by-side on a plush red couch, across from a stout older man with a bushy mustache holding a stack of notecards. The music fades as the camera cuts to focus on the man.
“Welcome, viewers! I’m Peter Port, and you’re watching Vytal Music’s Behind the Beat with Juniper , Remnant’s hottest new metal act.” The camera pans to focus on the four smiling musicians, one of whom – a tiny ginger woman – is waving enthusiastically into the camera.
“If you’re one of the unfortunate few who don’t know who these four brilliant youngsters are, let me introduce you!” Port motions towards them each with a smile, title cards appearing with each member’s name as he says them. “Pyrrha Nikos, Juniper’s lead singer and one-half of their lyrical genius! Jaune Arc, lead guitarist and Juniper’s second lyricist! Li Ren, Juniper’s incredible bassist, and Nora Valkyrie, Juniper’s absolutely phenomenal drummer! Thank you so much for sharing your time with us today.”
“Thank you for having us,” the singer, Pyrrha responds with a soft smile. “I’ve been watching these interviews since I was in middle school – I can’t quite believe we’re really here!” The rest of the band nods, sharing their own sentiments of awe and astonishment, before the camera focuses back on the interviewer.
“Several months ago, your debut album The Fall took the charts by storm, with your single “I May Fall” topping the charts and living there for an astonishing 12 weeks. How does it feel to have your first album be so well-received by fans and critics alike?” Port asks.
Jaune motions for Pyrrha to speak with a smile. “I believe I can speak for all of us when I say that we never expected such a warm reception, but that we’re incredibly honored that so many people were able to connect with our music and have continued to support us since then,” the singer says earnestly, the rest of the band nodding in agreement.
“Though, I don’t think The Fall would have received even half as much attention without the amazing team at Rose Thorn Studios,” Pyrrha continues, earning a bark of laughter from Nora.
“Yeah no way – I mean, I think our first versions were good, but Ruby really made them into the great songs they are today,” the drummer says.
“Our producer and recording engineer,” Jaune adds. “She’s like, an honest-to-gods musical genius.”
Pyrrha chuckles softly. “She really is. Ruby pushed us to take The Fall to the next level time and time again, encouraged us to take risks musically, and overall just worked with us every step of the way to make The Fall what it is today.”
“The entire team was a pivotal aspect of our success,” Ren continues. “They provided an unprecedented level of support, in both business and creative sides, that meant everything to us as an unsigned band.”
“Ha! Yeah, they definitely made the trips from Mistral to Vale worth it,” Nora adds.
The interviewer laughs along as he readies another question from his stack of cards. “They must have been truly spectacular for you to make such a long trip! Now –”]
Sun pauses the video, his whole body thrumming with excitement. “Did you hear that?! This place, what’d they call it? Rose Thorn Studios? They said it’s in Vale!” he turns to Ilia, whose eyes shine with her own curiosity. “Have we already tried this place?”
Ilia shakes her head, already standing to grab her phone from the counter. “I’ve never heard of it, but it can’t hurt to look it up.”
Blake can’t help the hope blooming quietly in her chest like a flower reaching towards the sun, nor the anxiety swirling in her gut as they wait for Ilia to finish her search. The singer crosses her arms, cradling herself gently as conflict rages within her.
“Huh,” Ilia mutters, brows twisting in confusion as she looks at her phone.
“What is it?” Blake asks.
“All I’m seeing is this tiny hole-in-the-wall studio that doesn’t even have a proper website , just a social media account that goes back a year and a half, with an email for business inquiries. I mean, this must be the place, but it doesn’t look anything like I would’ve expected,” she responds, settling back down in her seat on the couch and angling her phone towards the trio to show off the page’s image gallery.
Neptune snickers. “Hole-in-the-wall is one way to describe it – Adam would’ve had to wash his hands after just looking at this place.”
A beat passes before the realization settles in the air, stealing the breath from their chests.
Sun speaks up first. “This place could’ve easily flown right under Adam’s radar, right? I mean, I doubt he would’ve bothered to even check it out when it looks like that. If I hadn’t just heard Juniper singing their praises, and we weren’t well…”
“Desperate?” Blake offers half-jokingly.
“Well I didn’t want to say that, but, yeah – majorly desperate – I don’t think I’d think it was worth our time, either.”
Neptune nods, gears visibly turning in his head as he grabs the phone to scroll through the photos. “But if they really do have the team and the gear to record and produce something like The Fall , then I doubt they’d have any problem recording our next album.”
“If I can even write an album to record,” Blake mutters. Neptune bumps her with his shoulder, shooting her a half-serious, half-playful look.
“Oh hush. Eventually, the inspiration you need will come, and then we’ll have to drag you out of your writing bubble,” the bassist pokes with a smile.
“Alright, well, no harm in trying right? I’ll send them an email and we’ll see what happens, but don’t get your hopes up,” Ilia says as she takes her phone back from Neptune, sending a pointed glare towards Sun. “We have no idea what they know or think about us, or if Adam’s already gotten to them, or really anything other than what a few people said about their experience in an interview.”
“I know, I know!” Sun calls back, throwing his hands up in a playful show of surrender before curling up against Neptune’s side to watch the rest of the interview.
Pulling her own phone from her pocket, Blake hunts for the studio’s page with cautious interest. She thumbs through the account’s gallery, noting various photos of random recording sessions and the studio itself. It was clear whoever took them was far from a professional photographer, but she couldn’t help but feel drawn to the cozy charm exuding from each picture.
Blake pauses when she reaches the studio’s first upload, a selfie of three women she hadn’t seen in any of the other posts, standing in an overgrown parking lot in front of a painted brick wall covered in vines.
Her heart flutters uncomfortably in her chest as she lingers on the woman taking the selfie – a confident looking blonde with a blinding smile and playful lilac eyes that Blake swears can see her through the screen as she winks at the camera.
She’s holding bunny ears above a much smaller figure’s head of black and red hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. The shorter girl side-eyes the blonde as she playfully shoulders the taller woman’s – very muscular and tattooed – arm, with her other arm pulled back as she prepares to strike back at the camerawoman.
Behind the black-and-red-headed girl stands an equally small, but by far the most professional-looking, woman with a braid of stark white hair. Her hand rests on her hip as she rolls her eyes at the boisterous duo, but Blake notes the smile on her face as she watches their antics.
Blake glances back towards the blonde once more before scrolling down to read the caption.
Visit Rose Thorn Studios in Downtown Vale today, we’ll get you sounding right! - RWY
(Weiss, respectfully, that caption is lame as hell.) Hey! You! Yes you! If you make music and want it to sound good, let us handle that shit! (We both know you don’t know how to use a mixer properly). Come check us out now that we’ve breached containment! - Y
Blake bites back a smile as she reads, enjoying the playful banter of these three mysterious women as she scrolls past a wall of tags, nearly closing out of the app when she spots another line of text at the very bottom.
Woah, you’re still reading? That’s crazy! Clearly, this means you’re interested in our business, and are now contractually obligated to check us out. See you soon! - Yang >:)
Blake snorts at the caption, earning looks of various levels of surprise from her fellow bandmates. She waves them off, curling in on herself slightly as her skin flushes with embarrassment at her outburst. Glancing up to make sure her bandmates have moved on, she re-reads the caption once more before liking the picture.
Blake bites her lip as her finger hovers over the Follow button.
You’re a star now. Your every action has consequences, my darling.
The flower in her chest blooms.
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -
blake_belladonna followed rose.thorn.studios
- ☾ 𝄞 ☽ -