Chapter Text
“Hey.” A deep voice emerged from his ear that wasn’t covered by the cheap, spongy headphone material. His eyes slowly drifted to the burly bouncer standing by the narrow stairway just out of sight.
Fumbling with his duffle bag, He raised the worn ripped note with an involuntary tremor to his hand. He thought he’d gotten used to it.
‘DJ -S’
The ink was fading but it got the point across. With a nod to the stairs the bouncer stepped out of the way.
He trudged down the stairs. His eyes scanned the various posters scattered across the walls while simultaneously trying to read nearly illegible graffiti. He knew he was looking for a distraction. But the booming sound of bass getting louder and louder with every step he takes never stops.
Raising his free hand quickly to pull his hood down further, drowning out his already covered face. He slightly caught a whiff of the stale smell on his finger. The cigarette he’s smoked earlier.
It didn’t do shit to help ease the stress of this gig. Who was he kidding?
If anyone saw him on the street they’d say he was a fugitive on the run; With a black medical mask and sunglasses. His lanky and lean figure accompanied by his height certainly didn’t help.
'Oh well.'
The remainder of his way down smelled like piss and everyday’s regret. Standard.
His last step echoed throughout the place. He stared at the steel push door like it owed him money. A sign that read ‘Eden’ with the ‘e’ LED broken, no line. Just the faint glow of the neon lights from the crack underneath the door.
Sigh.
He pushes the door with slightly too much force. His forearm throbbing for a fraction of a second before his eyes took their sweet time getting used to the pulsing lights, Even with the black tint blocking out most of them.
The way to his designated platform pulsed like a migraine. Flashing lights flickered overhead like they were trying to give someone a seizure on purpose. The floor stuck to his boots with a disgusting squelch that he could somehow hear over the blasting speakers. He didn’t ask what it was. Didn't want to know.
The crowd was already a jumble of sweat, ego, and vulgarities. 'Home sweet home.'
Red.
Blue.
Purple.
Pink.
Red.
Blue.
Purp–
It felt like a never-ending cycle before he finally reached a narrow space just away from prying eyes. Setting the heavy duffle bag down on the ground with an inaudible thud.
Squatting, He’d started unloading his equipment.
Mixer.
Laptop.
Cables.
USB.
His gear barely fit, but he made it work. He always did.
He’d perfected it at this point. Chuckling at the thought, His too sharp canines peeking out from between his lips, The mask concealing the sight.
He suddenly became aware of the mass of people that had started to crowd around the booth that was being (barely) held together with duct tape and sheer hope.
Lifting the headphones to cover about an ear and a half. He inserts in the USB to his roughed up Macbook. “Fuck.” He whispers to himself, Praying to whatever god was there that the piece of junk wouldn’t fail him now. Releasing a soft sigh of relief when the login screen appears.
Tired eyes glance at the lone mic hanging by its cord.
He never says much on the mic. Never needed to. Let the music speak—it's got a better personality than he does.
Click.
First track hits like a train: deep bass, heavy drums. Not what you’d usually expect. But it works. Again. 'He always made it work.'
He blinks and the crowd twitches like it got jostled awake from a long slumber.
His eyes shift every once in a while, from the panel to focusing on a single person, or group.
No one listens to the music. They feel it, maybe. Or at least try to.
Close enough.
He manages to keep the tempo low and the bass dirty throughout the next 4 or so tracks.
Again, 'he always did.'
This isn’t a place for happiness. It’s a place for distraction. His job is to supply the noise and melody for it. Theirs is to give him back triple the energy he offers them.
With a strangled breath escaping his throat, The last track fades out like a drunk guy stumbling onto a seemingly empty street. No encore. No mic drop. No ‘Thank you’s’. No ‘See you next time!’.
‘Just me’ He thinks. Sweating under red strobes, twisting the final knob with force that was only fueled by the loud wailing siren in his head.
‘Get the fuck out of here. Now.’
The crowd cheered like they still had energy. He would fall to the floor if it weren’t for the booth supporting his body.
‘Get. Out.’
With a wince he yanked his headphones off his head, Immediately regretting the decision as every living being started to scream in his damn head.
Throwing everything into his duffel bag. The loud sounds of everything slamming into the nylon fabric are drowned out by all the howling and screaming happening around him.
Pushing the frame of his sunglasses closer to his face with a tremble.
‘I need a smoke.’ The thought crossed his mind like a breeze of cold air. Gone as fast it came.
Hauling the bag onto his shoulder aggressively. He looked ahead to the next guy, Nodding at him like he approved.
He didn’t.
But he was done. His job wasn’t to bless the next act. Just to not mess up his own.
Stumbling down with shaky breaths and even shakier legs, he starts his journey back to where he came from.
The owner stood near the exit waiting for him, in that shadowy corner where all good deals and bad conversations happen. He smelled like menthols and stress.
Handed him a crumpled envelope, like they were in a movie. Cash only. Expected.
“Good set, Vess” he exclaimed.
“You say that every time.” He retorted with a raised eyebrow at the nickname he never agreed to.
“You show up every time.”
Fair.
He made his way past him quietly. Bumping into his shoulder. Accidentally. Maybe.
‘Home. Now.’
“Right…” Murmuring to himself as the door clicked shut behind him.
The alley hadn’t improved. Same smell, same flickering streetlight in the same pattern.
His breath fogged in the cold air— In. Out. That helped. A cigarette would help more though.
Peeling off the sticky mask and tossing it somewhere on the ground, He reached for his pockets. Hands frantically (Though he would never admit that) searching for his box of sticks.
Empty.
'Empty?'
He spares a glance. ‘I’m out. There’s a deli nearby.’
He definitely minded the sudden side quest, but he minded the lack of smoke he should’ve been inhaling more right now.
Taking off his sunglasses and hanging them on his belt loop. He speedwalks past the bouncer and takes off.
The scattered honks and occasional footsteps didn’t faze him as much as they would have if it wasn’t well past 4AM. Maybe 5. ‘I don’t have my phone with me?’ He questions. He knows the answer.
Without his usual selection of music drowning his head, his heavy eyes started to wander, studying the shops and buildings across the street, and making pointless observations. He knew the deli was near. He couldn’t get lost.
His eyes eventually land on a unique tattoo shop he’d somehow never noticed before.
Small. Local. Authentic. ‘Definitely out of place in a city like this.’ It piqued his interest. ‘Later.’
In a haze, he’s in and out of the shop in a flash. He stands outside the entrance of his apartment building.
He finally lit a cigarette. The beat was still ringing in his skull, albeit not as loud.
The tattoo shop was just out of sight. He watches a figure come out and lock the front door with a clank of a million keys bundled together.
He didn’t really mind. Better that than silence.