Chapter Text
A Remarkable Rebel. [Axis Records, Nominee Profile]
The rich kid who became a “rock star”, Vel Sartha has survived romantic pain, family drama and intrusive paparazzi to become one of the most well known guitarists on the planet. In 2025, Imperial Times sat down with Sartha to discover her secret. “Being different is powerful,” she tells Lonnie Jung.
Now world famous, Sartha founded Rebel with three other members in a basement flat in Chelsea. It was a rather inauspicious start for a band that has been nominated for 12 Grammy Awards in the last five years. “We just wanted to make music,” Sartha says, plainly. “It felt like the right thing to do at the time.”
Rebel’s original makeup included Sartha as frontwoman and guitarist, alongside lyricist and pianist Kariss Nemik - known for his "sensitive nature and unwavering convictions” - bass guitarist Taramyn Barcona, who’s “dedicated and professional” attitude usually means that he fades into the background - and Cinta Kaz on drums. But Kaz departed the band last year in unclear circumstances. On a recent tour, they were joined by Arvel Skeen, but he too has since left the band.
“We’re going through a period of change,” Sartha says, diplomatically. A stern look means that we won’t go any further into the details of what this means for the future of Rebel.
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…
'Say that again, slowly,' Vel snaps, leaning back in her chair.
On the other side of the table, Luthen stalks back and forth like a prowling tiger. In his stiff, white collared shirt and a well tailored coat (Burberry, she guesses), he seems totally out of place in her flat. In between the stacks of tapes, heaps of flyers for fast food outlets and the twenty unopened stock boxes, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He should've been in a bank, perhaps. Or an antiques shop.
But here he is. In her flat.
And he isn't impressed.
'I've found you a drummer,' he says, chewing over every word.
'I can't believe you're doing this,' she hits back, shaking her head.
'He's a good drummer.'
'The gig is in three days, Luthen. I didn't ask you to find a drummer.'
'You didn't have one. What kind of band doesn't have a drummer?'
They stare at each other. He stops pacing and leans on the chair in front of him. She hates looking him right in the eye - icy blue, like they can look right through you. Like you are nothing. But she's too competitive to look away. That would be a defeat, and at a moment like this she can't risk it.
Ok, they don't have a drummer. That's true. But that is Luthen's fault too.
Their last drummer - Skeen - got fired because Luthen said he was a liability. A drug problem that Vel didn't see much harm in. Luthen said that there were some scandals you couldn't pay your way out of.
The one before that. Well, that was Cinta. And she left for a lot of reasons. But mostly because Luthen convinced her they'd be better off alone. Which is bullshit. Obviously.
If he wasn't so bloody good at his job, Vel would've ditched him ages ago. Too controlling, too neat and precise and damn paranoid to boot. But, there's a reason why Rebel, the band she founded, had three number one songs last year. And Luthen's management had a lot to do with it. He had the contacts, the publicity team. She was just a girl in a basement studio when she met him.
He's efficient. That's what she'd call him. Useful.
'How are you holding up?' he asks, methodically.
'Fuck off,' she replies. 'You're my manager, not my father. '
'If it's a risk to the image of the band-'
She laughs, sharp and certain, and for a moment it startles him.
'It's my band,' she says. 'It's me they're paying to see.'
'You and no drummer.'
'What's his name, this new guy?'
'Cassian Andor.'
'Never heard of him.'
'He's good. Mainly in it for the money.'
'Oh great. Real great Luthen,' she says, running her hands down her face in dismay. 'Some greedy git will just tear the band apart.'
'Doesn't sound like much of a band.'
'Don't you have some important meeting you need to scurry back to?'
'Vel, why don't you just go and see him play before you leap to any ridiculous judgements.'
Ridiculous? Who is he calling ridiculous?
As Vel seethes, Luthen leans forward and slips a card across the table. His own business card, of course. Like she doesn't already have a hundred of them scattered around the flat. She flips this one over insolently and sees he's scrawled The Ferrix Club, 10pm.
'Andor's doing session work for the Beemo's,' Luthen explains. 'In three days you're playing in front of some of the most respected people in this country. You need a drummer.'
'What if I wanted to do an acoustic set?' she hits back curtly.
'The reviews would be brutal.'
'Isn't it you that's brutal, Luthen?'
He doesn't reply, but buttons up his coat and heads for the door. Vel just watches him go. She's exhausted. They've been rehearsing for weeks now with no real break. And he's right. It makes her blood bubble but he is.
With his hand on the latch, Luthen turns back one final time.
'The Ferrix Club. 10 pm. Don't be late.'
As he leaves, she puts her middle finger up at his back. Without flinching, he does too.
And then, with a slam. He's gone.
'Shit,' she says to herself. 'Shit.'
…
The bar is way too loud, which is how Vel likes it. It’s an underground place in Soho, all bricks and fake graffiti and trying to act like working class people come here and not just rich white tossers. Outside, the neon sign flickers, aesthetically of course, proclaiming “The Ferrix Club” is open. Punters spill out onto the street like ants, busy performing the social order of the nest.
Vel hasn’t exactly dressed for the vibe. A white vest top and a loose overshirt, rolled to her elbows. Ripped jeans, hair pulled back into a messy bun. She’s never been one to compromise her style. Her mother would have a heart attack, if she were still alive. That’s part of the appeal.
The bar is filled with people who look like they should be in a wine bar. Gaggles of girls knocking back champagne like it’s going out of style; men talking over each other with foamless pints. Vel dips and weaves past the crowd towards the back, towards the thrumming of live music which makes her feel alive.
They’re playing covers of Fleetwood Mac. For this place, it tracks. The Chain thumps through the space, keeping time with Vel’s heartbeat.
She ducks past a girl in a bride sash and barrels through the rest of the hen party without apology. Luckily, there’s a single empty table which she zeroes in on. It’s high, a mirrored surface littered with empty drinks. But it’s central, and it affords her a good view of the stage.
Well, she calls it a stage. It’s more like a raised step. Not exactly a prime performance space. And the acoustics in here are shit.
The Chain comes to an end and the band takes a break; someone appears from the shadows with beer and a packet of what Vel thinks might be Haribo. The drummer takes both without thanks and it’s as he moves that she gets her first look at him. Dark hair, dark eyes. He’s wearing a beat up leather jacket even though it’s thirty degrees in here. Dick, she thinks, watching him wipe the sweat off his forehead with a towel.
After a few moments, the band strikes up again. Dreams. It’s another good one for a drummer.
‘What do you think?’ someone suddenly says. Vel turns, ready to knock them back, or flat, whichever is easier.
But it’s just Kleya. Dressed in a sleek off the shoulder dress, blue mascara immaculately applied. Vel rolls her eyes.
‘I don’t need babysitting. Tell Luthen he can call his guard dog off.’
‘Get over yourself,’ the other woman says, putting two drinks down on the table between them. ‘Do you still drink gin and tonics?’
‘I’ll drink anything these days,’ Vel says, picking up the glass and drinking it down in one.
‘Steady on,’ Kleya says.
‘Why are you here?’ Vel says, ignoring the chastisement.
‘Our new drummer.’
‘Our?’
‘I forgot, mummy and daddy didn’t teach you to share.’
Vel slams the glass back down on the table and Kleya only blinks. Doesn’t flinch. All the years they’ve known each other and Vel thinks they’ve never had a conversation that lasted more than five minutes. Kleya is nothing if not to the point; sharp with it too.
She came as part of the Luthen Rael package deal; a publicity specialist to handle the fallout, or so it was called. Media, press releases, interview requests, whatever it is Kleya knows how to sort it.
‘He was Luthen’s idea. Andor,’ Kleya says.
‘So?’
‘He’s good. Not a permanent solution by any means, but time is running out.’ Kleya sighs heavily. ‘We’d have been okay if you hadn’t got it into your head to be charitable.’
‘It’s a wedding, not fucking Live Aid.’
‘Your niece's wedding,’ Kleya says, deliberately. Like she’s enjoying this. Toying with Vel, annoying her.
‘So what?’
‘I didn’t realise political weddings happened these days,’ Kleya says, fiddling with the umbrella in her drink. A single raise of an eyebrow sends a jolt of anger down Vel’s spine.
‘It’s a Catholic wedding. What did you expect?’
‘I’m surprised they’re letting you play.’
‘Well, my mother’s dead. And I’m successful. They like that.’ Vel shrugs. ‘Anyway, it’s for Leida. She likes me no matter what my uncles might say.’
Kleya laughs at that, a quick short bark. Even that annoys Vel. Like it’s hiding something - some sarcastic comment she won’t bother saying.
‘It’s not an easy one for PR,’ Kleya says, eventually, extracting the umbrella from her drink and closing it sharply between her thin fingers. ‘A trad wedding and a punk rock band don’t usually go together.’
‘You’ll live,’ Vel says, rolling her eyes.
In front of them, Dreams comes to an end. The drummer appears from behind his kit again, eyes searching. They skim past Vel with a momentary flicker of recognition, but land on Kleya. He raises two fingers, two minutes, he mouths.
Kleya sweeps up to the stage without the need for a second invitation. Unsure if she’s part of the bargain, Vel follows at a little distance, pissed that she’s really going to meet the new drummer under these circumstances.
The stage lights are overbearing but familiar and Vel weaves her way through the band towards the back where her new drummer awaits her. Kleya and the guy have a quick, intense back and forth that Vel can’t hear, and which ends with neither of them looking happy.
As Vel reaches the drum kit, Andor sticks out a sweaty hand, bypassing Kleya, who he seems to already know and not particularly care for. It immediately endears Vel to him.
‘Vel Sartha,’ she says, shaking his hand swiftly.
‘I know who you are,’ he says, abruptly. ‘Where are we rehearsing?’
‘Slow down,’ Vel says.
‘Don’t have time,’ he says by way of a response. ‘It’s a wedding, right?’
‘So we’re doing twenty questions?’
‘If you say so,’ he shrugs, slipping his drum sticks into his waist band and leaning back. He crosses his arms and stares at her intently. She can see the sweat beating down his face, his hair sticking in odd strands to his forehead.
‘Yes, it’s a Sartha family wedding,’ Kleya replies, jumping into the conversation. ‘I did tell you that.’
‘I’m not Catholic,’ he says, smirking. ‘Is that going to be a problem.’
‘Neither am I,’ Vel says, pointedly. ‘How’d you know it was a religious wedding?’
‘I googled you. The personal life section of your wikipedia page was very enlightening. Gay and with a Catholic family - do you have a death wish?’
‘Only sometimes.’
Cassian laughs darkly, still smirking. She doesn’t exactly like him, but he’s not a creep like Skeen, and he certainly won’t cause her problems the way Cinta did. Maybe his ego could do with deflating, but Vel can work with that.
‘You’ll be rehearsing at the venue,’ Kleya says, finally answering Cassian’s first question.
‘Which is?’ he asks, impatiently.
‘Claridges,’ Kleya says, and Vel watches Cassian’s eyes light up.
‘Shit, your family has money. What’s a spoiled rich girl doing in a punk band?’
‘I thought you googled me?’ Vel laughs.
He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Luthen’s not paying me enough,’ he says, more to himself than to anyone else.
‘Eight am, Monday,’ Kleya instructs, always to the point. As Cassian goes to reply, an electric guitar kicks to life behind them, tuning up.
And that’s their cue to leave the stage. Cassian doesn’t say goodbye, but just shrugs in a nice talking to you but please fuck off now kind of way.
As they step off the stage and rejoin the baying crowd, Kleya grabs Vel by the arm and pulls her slightly to the side, underneath a little archway lit by odd, receded LED lights which are too bright. Vel bats Kleya’s hand off her and stares at the other woman.
‘What?’ Vel says.
‘You can’t mess this up,’ Kleya replies.
‘The drummer?’
‘The gig. You’re one scandal away from the red tops, and we cannot afford that, Vel.’
‘Give over Kleya.’
‘I’m serious. The BBC have been in contact again.’
‘The BBC?’
‘Eurovision. They want Rebel for next year.’
‘Eurovision? The queerest pop contest in history?’
‘Don’t fuck this up, Vel. No throwing drinks over people. No fighting. And certainly no inappropriate girlfriends.’
Vel just nods, Eurovision want me, echoing in her head.
…
Vel falls asleep on the sofa, warmed by the overbright glow of Instagram coming from her phone. Doomscrolling is one of her bad habits, and these days it’s become a sort of addiction. Kicking back and loading up instagram, navigating until she finds the account she wants.
Cinta_Kaz52
They’re still friends, according to Instagram. Fucking joke, really.
Cinta hasn’t posted in nearly three months, no matter how many times Vel checks. And she’s checked a lot.
This time, not unlike most nights, she’s fallen asleep scrolling backwards through time: pictures of gigs, of backstage, of the two of them grinning, caught mid laugh. The comments are like little knives into her chest but she reads them. Is compelled to, still. It’s ridiculous.
She thinks about posting something about Eurovision, but knows that Kleya would absolutely kill her if she did. It would be stupid, too, because nothing’s even decided. It’s not like they’ve gone and offered it to Rebel. Kleya was just trying to shut her up. And anyway, she would only be trying to make Cinta jealous. Make her notice Vel again.
Vel’s thumb hovers over the DM tab, where her many messages to Cinta sit, unanswered. Ghosted. But not really, because Cinta did say she was going off grid. Backpacking in fucking South America or whatever. Just getting away from life, best she can. Living her life away from Vel.
‘I’ll drag you down,’ she said, the last time they saw each other. ‘We’ll just destroy each other. It’s not working. You and me and the band, it’s never going to survive, long term.’
And Vel, trying not to cry and half understanding it and half hating it.
Luthen had given her the ultimatum, Vel’s sure of it. Cinta had to go by choice, or he was going to push her. Bandmates being in relationships was one of his big no’s. Falling in love with your drummer was, obviously, outlawed entirely; love made you liable to make bad decisions. It made you sloppy. Vel had always known that, so she and Cinta had been careful.
But he’d found out. Vel had given it away, caring too much.
He won’t tell her where Cinta is. She’s certain he knows. Just in the way he looks at her sometimes, paternalistic with protection; like he’s done her this massive, life altering favour in persuading Cinta to leave. His way or the high way.
She wants to tell him that she wrote some of her best music when she was falling in love, but she thinks he would call it falling out of control. And there’s no use arguing with him. He’s a brick wall of conviction. No changing that.
Sometime around three am, Vel’s phone pings in the quiet. It jolts her away. Her phone slips out of her hand and spirals towards the carpet, where it lands with a small thud. The screen stares back up at her.
It’s Mon. Vel doesn’t question why her cousin is up at this god awful hour. She knows the answer. The world’s going to shit. Who wouldn’t be up half the night, dreading it?
I’ll be there tomorrow for your rehearsal. Want to go for a coffee before it all gets mad?
Vel swipes her phone off the floor and replies without really thinking.
Fuck yeah, she types. Double espresso might make me feel more alive.
A second later, she adds, sorry for swearing.
On the screen, the three dots start to move. After a second, they stop. Maybe Mon’s changed her mind?
Vel taps her phone lightly against her forehead, wondering if moving to her bed might do her back a favour and help her get some proper rest before the next few day’s insanity.
Her phone vibrates and when she lowers it, Mon’s message flashes up at her.
I’m not your mother. No need to apologise.
Some habits are hard to break, Vel types back.
Get some rest, Mon replies.
You get some, Vel hits back.
She doesn't get another message, just the appearance of a slightly off cry-laughing emoji that looks a little like it’s dead inside.
In the end, Vel falls back asleep on the sofa, phone clutched in her hand, going over the guitar solo for the first track they’re practising in the morning. E minor, G, E minor, A minor. Over and over.
Ever since she was little, music has been her escape. Her obsession. Something to take her mind off the rest of the world.
In her head, she plays the song and falls asleep trying to get the chord progression perfect.
…
They end up at a coffee shop on New Bond Street, not far from Claridges. Mon chooses it; a sleek independent place called just “Coffee” but with a pretentious umlaut on the O. It’s anonymous and relatively busy, both of which Vel is glad for. It’s not too expensive, which isn’t something Mon has to care about, and most of the time Vel doesn’t either, but the last few months haven’t been spectacular and Skeen’s non-disclosure settlement wasn’t exactly pennies.
Mon buys her the double espresso and a chocolate croissant. Gets an apple turnover and a macchiato for herself. They sit in the corner, hemmed in by a bookcase made of solid steel on one side and a massive purposely tarnished mirror on the other.
These days, meeting up is a pain; cousins or no cousins, a rock singer and an MP don’t usually hang out. And people notice, they really do. And Vel’s in no mood to sign autographs or pose for inane selfies. It helps that it’s early - most of the people in the cafe are commuters on their way into the city centre, bankers or lawyers or politicians who don’t usually have much of a reputation for caring about anyone other than themselves.
‘A penny for them?’ Mon says, holding her mug in both hands. In her cashmere coat, and stylish, offwhite blouse, Mon looks the picture of perfected grace. Vel always has a hard time reconciling the public version of her cousin with the private. She still remembers being a kid, the two of them in the garden of the house their grandad owned, some townhouse in the outer reaches of London, exploring woods and playing at make-believe. Before they grew up and became other people.
‘Big day, that’s all,’ Vel replies, dusting off the croissant crumbs from her shirt. Mon is staring at her, all sharp eyes and I know you and Vel hates it. Hates being seen.
She downs her espresso in one and clatters the mug back down onto the table.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Mon says, and her voice is deceptively guarded.
‘Isn’t it Leida you should be saying that to?’ Vel asks, gazing down into her empty cup.
‘I have,’ Mon says, without missing a beat. Vel snaps up to meet her eye. Mon swallows. Vel raises an eyebrow.
‘She said it’s what she wants,’ Mon continues, voice leaden with the day’s stress.
‘She’s seventeen,’ Vel says, shaking her head. ‘She’s too young to know what she wants.’
‘You knew,’ Mon says.
‘That’s different.’
‘You have to hope it’s not,’ Mon says, pragmatically.
Vel hates the idea of Leida getting married so young, and to someone she barely knows - has always hated the idea. She thought, maybe, that things were changing. Maybe Leida could grow up first, find the right person. Make her own choices.
But when matches and money come into the equation, it makes Vel shiver. Aren’t the families well suited? That’s what her grandma would’ve said. Did say, time and time over. Vel can still imagine her on Mon’s wedding day, the great matriarch, extolling the virtues of tax evasion with a priest and pretending it was a smart business move.
‘I mean, she is letting Rebel play,’ Vel says, with a shrug. ‘It’s something.’
‘If the family had anything to say on the matter you would’ve been exiled to Paris by now,’ Mon laughs, saying the word “family” like they’re part of the mafia. Which sometimes, it feels like they are. At least mobsters are loyal. Maybe to a fault, yeah. But their family is decidedly not loyal in any way that counts.
‘I’m sure grandma tried,’ Vel says, rolling her eyes. ‘The cabal probably let her down.’
‘Don’t be harsh on grandma,’ Mon says.
Vel just laughs. Mon always did have a soft spot for that woman but being the golden child helped. Not that everything’s perfect for Mon, but she doesn’t have the memory of trying to come out to your 75 year old grandma in a state room that had an original Rembrandt in it. Or being told, by said grandma, that she had to just buckle up and get over it. Being gay. Their family wasn’t like that, obviously.
But Vel was. And grandma has been dead for nearly 15 years now. Vel will let Mon keep her charitable memories of the old battle axe. Her memories are hers and they are painful.
In her pocket, Vel’s phone begins to buzz. She slips it out and sees it’s a call from Kleya. Fuck that. She clicks it off and puts her phone facing downwards on the table. She’s in no mood for Kleya’s clipped tones and precision; they probably need her for something - some small disaster’s almost certainly befallen them. Andor could’ve backed out, or a paper’s running a hit piece disguised as a puff piece. Someone’s bound to get a sniff that she’s “sold out” to perform at a wedding.
Just as Vel’s about to say something else - to steer the conversation away from grandma and towards Perrin’s latest idiotic move - her phone buzzes again. Vel ignores it and it rings out.
‘You’re popular,’ Mon laughs.
‘Always,’ Vel says with a forced smile.
‘Do we need to get a move on?’
‘Let’s just stay here for a bit longer,’ Vel pouts.
Instead, Mon reaches for her coat. Vel can feel their nice morning slipping away from them - once they get to the hotel, it’ll be battle stations. Nothing family related ever goes smoothly. And, while she’s good at it, Vel isn’t ready for a whole day with her “happy” smile plastered on her face, fending off well, and not so well, meaning questions from strangers who think they know her.
Vel slides her chair backwards, but halfway through standing up, Mon’s phone rings. The other woman stares at the screen and runs her tongue along her teeth in frustration. Vel’s seen that look enough to know that her cousin is not impressed. She turns her phone around so that Vel can see it.
The caller ID says Kleya Marki.
‘You have her number?’ Vel says, incredulously.
‘You go missing a lot,’ Mon says, raising a single eyebrow. ‘I’m not getting dragged into your shit today, Vel. Not today.’
‘Give it here,’ Vel says, gesturing for the phone. Mon passes it over reluctantly.
Vel jabs at the screen and the call connects.
Kleya’s voice comes through sharp and certain. The woman has a very particular way of infuriating Vel just by breathing. The entitlement; all clean lines and no room for error. The constant sense that Vel is disappointing her, just by being there.
‘Is your esteemed cousin with you?’
‘Yes. I’m here,’ Vel replies.
Without pause for breath, Kleya replies.
‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘Yes?’
‘That awful woman from ISB News is here, outside the hotel.’
‘Shit,’ Vel says.
‘Well yes, exactly. Just be careful, Vel. She’s got it out for you.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
Vel closes her eyes and exhales deeply, trying to contain the rising rage in her chest. The woman from ISB News. Dedra Meero, AKA chief outer, AKA the woman who nearly ruined Vel’s life. A journalist in the loosest sense, Meero has decided that it’s her life mission to take down Rebel because it’s indecent and amoral and, the worst sin of all, popular. A new-age Mary Whitehouse, Meero’s goal is not just to destroy Rebel, but Vel and the whole Axis label along with it.
Vel puts her head in her hands as Kleya clicks off the line, her warning ringing in her ears.
Today of all days. Leida’s wedding day.
Why won’t they just leave her alone?