“And you, Wes?”
Wes stared blankly at the blank plaster of the multi-function room’s walls. Where the hell do we start? Obviously with that punk-looking dude. Are there even still real punks and goths around these days? Hot Topic? No, that’s stupid. Where do people like that hang out? He could just be somebody who likes wearing that kind of thing. Who is he? Does he have powers?
“Wes?”
The dull gray of an overcast afternoon filtered through greasy glass. Strong, huh? Strong like me? I wonder if you can categorize people like that. Categorize is the word we’re looking for, I guess. How do we box him in? Madam B said bring him in. What’s she gonna do with him? Should we just go to the cops? But how would they even handle it?
Why us?
“Wes.” A familiar voice shook his shoulder, and Wes dragged his eyes from the wall to Penelope’s questioning face. Her eyes darted to Dan’s - still leading the group, still getting on Wes’ nerves - and back to his. “Hey. Get your head in the game.”
For a second, Wes was tempted to respond: Where else would my head be? Instead, he nodded, and turned towards Dan, who again was in the 12-o’-clock position of the circle.
“Sorry, just - spaced out for a moment. I, um, got a job.”
“A job!” Dan smiled earnestly. “You must’ve had that lined up already! That’s great to hear, Wes. Would you mind telling us what you’re up to?”
“I’m helping out a journalist friend of mine.” Wes paused, and tried to sheepishly return Dan's smile. Inwardly, he grimaced. “Just small-time assistant stuff - ” He saw Penelope tilt her head slightly in the corner of his vision. “ - but I’m enjoying it so far.”
“You hear a lot about meditation, mindfulness and relaxation, but for people with anxiety, those can actually be really difficult or even detrimental to what they’re trying to achieve.” Dan shifted away from addressing Wes to addressing the entire group, and Wes felt the tension ease from his shoulders and back. Back to our regularly scheduled programming, he thought. “In those cases, getting busy - distraction, work - can actually be helpful…”
“Hey.” Penelope whispered to him again. “Dan’s on another rant. Can’t believe we have to come right after the first day.”
“Well that was supposed to be an icebreaker-type thing, I think.” Wes said, guardedly.
“Whatever. Here, check this out. Taken from the van dashcam.”
Wes turned to look, right into the screen of Penelope’s phone. On it was a grainy photo of a humanoid figure. The picture was poorly lit, but unmistakably the alleyway they had staken out the day before. The figure had a shock of pink hair, but the hair and clothes were unremarkable - if neither of them had seen this person before, they would’ve been hard-pressed to identify them.
“That’s our guy, I guess. But that photo’s pretty garbage, honestly.” Wes affected the largest sigh he could while still being quiet enough that others wouldn’t notice.
“You know anyone who might know something about Mr. Pink?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the investigative journalist, here?” Wes raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you’re paying me because you’d rather have a guy with punchy powers on a leash than on the street, not because of my detective skills.”
“This isn’t a movie, Wes. I don’t have some infinite pool of contacts from which I can pull the right one at just the right time.
“You just referenced Reservoir Dogs.” Penelope looked blankly at him. Wes coughed. Strike. I’m out. He let his failure hang in the air for a few seconds, then began again.
“Okay, but you’ve gotta know at least one guy who went to a party, like once.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“Well, I’m going to the bathroom. Let’s each take five.”
As Penelope stood up from her seat in the circle, Wes looked back at Dave and the rest of the group. They laughed as if on cue, and when Dave talked about his own problems and also addressed theirs more intimately, they listened with rapt attention. That woman, Diane, seemed to talk with the other group members almost as if she had made friends with them already. Wish I could do that, Wes thought. Then stopped. Looked at his hands. Wait. What does that even mean? Wish?
Flames danced behind his eyes, and he balled his hands into fists again. No way out. These people had come to counseling for a chance to find other people like them. Other people on the road to healing. What kind of road was he really trying to walk down here?
People like me. A thin rain began to fall again, the kind that made women over 40 scramble for umbrellas while most people under 25 wouldn’t even have noticed. I met Penelope, I guess. But she’s not really like me. Droplets gently clattered against the windows, an arrhythmic accompaniment to the gentle murmur of the room. His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Yo
Hate to say it but the gigs canceled
Sorry
Wes wrote back.
Nah it’s all good
That sucks, what happened?
Not enough fucking ticket sales if u can believe that
Apparently some other DJs in town and he’s the shit
Venue owner says there's no point hosting us
“Someone important?”
The syllables glided from Wes’ right ear to his left, Penelope speaking as she rounded him and sat back down. Wes hastily pocketed his phone, and kept facing front so as to not draw attention to their conversation. The session was already ending, though, and Wes ended up being the odd man out as others began to stand and leave. Dan was already making his hand-shaking rounds.
“Just a DJ friend of mine. Underground, that type of shit. Was gonna go to his gig, show some support, but it just got cancelled.”
“More time for work, then.” Penelope paused. “Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“This DJ friend of yours.” A knowing smile stretched across Penelope’s face, and Wes’ stomach sank. She hitched up her backpack straps.
“Does he do parties?
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“I still can’t believe you actually made me come here.”
“Any lead’s a good lead.” Penelope looked around the hallway of the squalid apartment building. The walls were half bare concrete. The paint on the pipes was equally chipped, and the dull gray steel blended in perfectly with the ceiling, giving the impression that the ceiling was splashed with color. The floor was lined with damp cardboard matting for seemingly no reason. “You learn that quickly when you’re scraping the barrel as often as I am.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know Marv. Or Skitz, I guess, if you wanna go stage name - but that’d be even weirder. ‘Sides, what am I even supposed to tell him? ‘Oh hi, Marv, been a while, me and my fucking boss want to ask you a few questions’ -”
Penelope knocked three times on the door marked F, and Wes cut his rambling short as he jerked his outstretched thumb behind himself - let me do the talking. Penelope edged slightly to the left.
Even though Wes’ other remaining friend had been out of school for years, he gave a distinct college-like impression. A scruffy man in his twenties in a slept-in hoodie and wearing a beanie indoors answered the door. He was the image of someone “trying to make it in the game”, but with unfortunate emphasis on “trying” and not “game”. Bloodshot eyes squinted against the stark fluorescence of the hallway.
“Yo! Wes! Feels like it’s been forever, man.” He broke into a huge grin, stepped out of the doorway to give Wes a hug. Wes returned the hug with a similar, irrepressible smile. Under his grip, however, Wes felt tension as Marv spotted Penelope loitering in the hallway.
“Shit, dog, you didn’t tell me you were bringin’ chicks.” Marv clapped Wes on the back as he whispered. “Woulda cleaned up.”
“Sorry, Marv. Here on business. And that’s, uh,” Wes racked his brain for anything other than what he just said. “My boss.” Failed.
“Dude, I thought you followed the news n’ shit. They legalized it, man. I don’t even got a supplier no more. Are you still goin’ through a dealer? If so, my man -” Marv clapped his hands together, enclosing Wes’ single hand that he’d extended to push open the door. “You are most definitely getting scalped.”
“Yes, I know they legalized weed, no, I’m not going through a dealer. Not that business.” Wes watched a shadow pass over his friend’s face, and wondered what his own looked like. Marv was almost never serious. But if he was like this -
“Then it’s about the gig going down tonight.” He was sharper than most gave him credit for. Wes knew that he just didn’t really care. “You should probably come on in.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The apartment was infused with the odor of old food, B.O., and marijuana. Posters of old-school rappers - Nas, A Tribe Called Quest and Biggie featured prominently - and movies exclusively made in the years 1980 to 2005 lined the walls, but the gloss of the paper had long side been occluded by a layer of fingerprints. Now that the rain had begun in earnest and it had turned to evening, dull gray light mixed with a desk lamp’s yellow incandescence to render a syrupy, sleepy feeling.
The kitchen sink was piled with plates, and the small card table that Marv presumably ate at was covered in paper plates and disposable cutlery. An unmade - probably never made - bed sat in the corner. Opposite the bed was the most expensive thing in the room - a DJ Mixer, several monitors and instruments, and a speaker. As opposed to the squalor of the rest of the room, this area was kept clean and tidy. Guitars in racks, monitors spotless, desk uncluttered.
Wes opted for a relatively clear spot on the floor. Penelope leaned against the door. Marv stood basically in the center of the room.
“So, Penelope, this is Marv.” Wes shifted his legs, but it wasn’t the floor that was uncomfortable. “I mean, uh, Marvin Ferguson. He and I go way back.” He then looked back to Marv. “Marv, Penelope Coast. She’s technically my boss, but -”
“Not really.” Penelope interjected. “We’re kind of like co-workers, I guess. I’m a journalist for the Crest City Crier.”
Marv raised an eyebrow, then half-collapsed but more fell backwards into a plastic folding chair, as if he’d expended all his energy standing. “For real? Man, and I thought you’d gotten got by cops, Wes.” He looked up from his chair at Penelope. “If I tell you something, could you shout me out in your article?”
“Sure.” Penelope didn’t miss a beat. Marv nodded approvingly. That’s uh, because no one reads our paper, Marv. Wes thought. Now who’s getting got?
“Right.” Marvin reached under the dining table into a pile of unidentifiable stuff, and extracted two tubes of what looked like paint. “If you’re going to DJ Neo-N’s dig, and you want to blend in - since you’re journalists, trying to get a feel for the place and whatever - you’re gonna need these.” He waved his hands vaguely over the tubs. Wes picked up a tub that reminded him strongly of highlighter pen. It read: MIDNITE GLOW BLACKLIGHT BODY FACE PAINT. LEMON YELLOW. “I’m pretty sure tickets are sold out though.”
“Neo-N?” Penelope’s voice expressed more disapproval than any kind of curiosity.
“Hey, I agree. Dumb name. The fans call themselves Neon Gang. That, or Neo, or NG, N-Gang -”
“We get the picture, Marv.” Wes cut him off. “Know anything about Neon?”
“Neo-N.”
“I’m not gonna say that.”
“I only say his stupid name right because Neo-N makes real shit.” Marv sighed. “It does suck that he stole my gig, but also, can’t fault the guy for just having mad talent. He blew up out of nowhere, but I think he deserves the clout he’s gotten in the last couple months or so.” Marv got up out of his chair and ambled to his workstation in socks that were white, once. “Check it.” He clicked open a SoundCloud player.
Thumping bass and metallic noise blasted out of the speakers. A clanking, crashing industrial sound like a hydraulic press crushing a can made up the bulk of what could be called a melody but was probably better described as just “the higher frequencies”. A man roared indecipherable lyrics into a gale of sound. But as they reached the bridge and keening synths began to quiver at the edge of the mix -
Hands, interlocked in brotherhood /Monochrome soldiers under steel sky/ A ghostly army of gray soldiers in an endless, bloody desert. They march to glory under a banner of /Fuck a bitch, snakebite the rest of they life/ There is only the will of the many. None question. A dust cloud builds on the horizon and their grips tighten on /Head off the opp block street strife pop rocks/ Guns. They are on a field. Spears. They are on a bridge. Swords. An amorphous cloud of fiends and terrible things -
“Like nothing you ever heard before, right?” Wes’ eyes snapped to Marv at his workstation, and he leapt across the room from a seating position, grabbing Marv’s shoulder, their combined weight and the force of the leap knocking Marv onto his back, chair and all with a CRASH.
“Hey, hey! Take it easy!” Marv’s eyes were wide with fear, and Wes only realized what position he was in. He tried to settle his breathing, and noticed his fist streaming with red. The corner of his vision was lit up purple.
“Why did you stop?” Wes growled out. Many-armed giants, mountainous wolves, slavering teeth and hundreds of eyes -
“Man, get off me!” Marv scrambled at his outstretched arm. It would have been useless, but Wes let go, more out of shock at what he himself had done. He looked to his left. Penelope’s hand was slowly drifting back up from her side. She stared at it, strangely, as if she’d never seen anything like it before. A cloud of purplish light was slowly fading from around her head. “I didn’t stop shit! The song ended!”
Wes stood up and offered his shaking hand. “I’m - I’m sorry, I don’t - there’s just -”
“Something about it, right?” Marv took Wes’ hand and heaved himself up from the floor. He dusted himself off, and began picking his chair back up. “Yeah. Told you.” More than “something”, Wes thought.
“Neo-N’s playing at 9-mil tonight. If you just look up pics of NGs, you’ll pretty much figure out their whole aesthetic. Like a neon-punk-rocker-rave kinda thing.” Marv rubbed his shoulder where Wes grabbed him and looked at Wes warily.
“You’ve got two hours to be there.” Marv nodded towards the paints.
“Stay safe, you guys.”
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Wes got out of the van they had parked across the street from the Nine-Millimeter Club, the handwraps in his pocket bumping against the door as he exited. It was twenty minutes after the performance was set to start. The street was mostly clear of passers-by; everyone who would be here at this time of night was already inside. Though he had foam earplugs in, Wes could feel the bass thrum through the air, like a heartbeat in his skull, beating against the backs of his eyes. The windows of the 9-Mil bled UV light, and clashing fluorescent shades blurred and writhed in the dim purple past the glass. As expected of a private, ticketed event, nobody was coming in this late into the game, and two toughs stood arms akimbo at the closed door.
Purple light shimmered in the driver’s seat as Penelope took aim with her slingshot. Wes heard two faint whistling, keening noises as two streaks of violet shot out of the driver’s-side window of their van at odd angles, about a second apart from each other. With twin THUNKs, the ball-bearings Penelope had fired impacted the temple and jaw of the first and second guard respectively. They dropped like muscular sacks of potatoes, and Wes took the time to jog over and rifle through the guards’ pockets. Bingo, Wes thought. A key around the first one’s neck. He turned around to give her a thumbs-up, and Penelope hopped down from the driver’s side door as Wes shifted the guards’ bodies into a nearby alleyway. She was in her usual attire sans camera - the way she dressed was close enough to “punk” to pass - plus the addition of vivid lines of pink face paint. Wes had gone for a tank top, sweats and a cap with swirling patterns of yellow paint on his arms and face.
As Wes opened the front door, two problems immediately presented themselves. The club was lit only by the strobe-like flashing of the dancefloor and omnipresent UV glow, highlighting the crowds that blended into a shifting mass of burning colors. Wes felt a stab of pity for the bartender in the back - he had his phone light on to try and figure out which bottles were where. It was difficult to even see non-fluorescent colors in the club, let alone find a specific person in two floors of frenzied ravers. Wes took out his phone, and typed out a message.
Can’t see shit - ask ppl?
Penelope turned on her phone and typed back.
Split up, try manager + bar
She considered for a second, shook her head, and rolled her shoulders.
If SOS, use powers
Wes read the message, raised an eyebrow, and nodded. He pointed at the bar with his thumb, then turned it to himself. Penelope nodded, and tilted her head up towards the second floor. As she made her way up, Wes began grinding through the sweaty ravers filling seemingly whatever space he tried to navigate through. Although it wasn’t really his scene even normally, the earplugs stopping the music coupled with the unsettling lighting effects of the UV set his nerves on edge. He pushed through a pair of girls grinding on each other, their eyes wide and staring. The one grinding was wearing some kind of mouthguard painted fluorescent green, and it was clear she was smiling a crazed rictus grin.
This isn’t right, Wes thought to himself. There’s partying hard, and there’s whatever the fuck is going on here.
Wes managed to force his way to the bar. The bartender in a casual button-down and glasses looked remarkably out of place, and as Wes sidled up, he gestured to a placard that had a QR code on it - ORDER DRINKS HERE. Wes pulled up the grainy image of the pink-haired man leaving the brothel. He shouted at the bartender, over the perceived din of the club:
“Looking for my friend! You seen him?!”
The bartender tapped his ears and shook his head. Wes saw the tell-tale nubs of earplugs poking out of the clean-looking man’s ears, and sighed. The bartender pointed at the dance floor, drew a circle motion with his hands, then shrugged. Everybody looks like that. Wes sighed. Figures, I suppose. The bartender took out his phone and typed something, then handed it to Wes.
You see him around here a lot?
Around 3 AM couple days ago
Can’t tell who that is, but only Neon’s posse hangs around that late
Most people go home a little bit after the show
Try talk to the DJ after maybe
Tysm
Wes nods vigorously at the bartender. All that’s left to do is kill time, I guess. He scanned the QR code and balked at the prices. He slipped the bartender a ten instead and shrugged at him. Whatever that gets me. Moments later, an icy Collins glass appears, as if by magic, next to his elbow. Wes sipped the drink - it tasted like carbonated hospital air. I guess ten bucks is only good for a vodka soda here.
He puts it down and turns to watch the crowd. Far off in the distance, over a monolithic mixer that makes Marv’s look like a children’s keyboard, a wiry young man twitches. Two massive speakers, frames lined with RGB lighting, pump a call to arms into the air. The ravers raise their fists in response. Text scrolls over a black LCD mask on the DJ’s face. NEO-N, followed by an endless tide of social media information - Snapchat, SoundCloud, Twitter, Instagram. Wes squints, and a faint black shape on the ground near the DJ comes into focus. A guitar case?
As if on cue, a wave of some kind spreads through the crowd. Panic briefly flashes on some ravers’ faces before they settle back into that unsettling, euphoric grin. A slow outward-spread of bodies clears away from the dance floor in the center of the room. And a faint purple glow, slightly warmer in hue than the UV, glances off the top of the room. Wes leaps to his feet, pushing through the crowd. The rhythmic thump of bass through the floor is marred by the thudding of heavy footsteps, and as Wes rushes to the dance floor, security in short sleeves and vests emerge from the second-floor fire escape.
Wes shoulder-charges the last group of ravers, sending a few of them tumbling to the floor, and breaks through the human wall. In the center of the dance floor, surrounded by broken glass, Penelope dusts herself off of glass fragments, a cut smearing dark blood with neon paint on her face. Purple energy shimmers around the crown of her head - into the shape of a big, feathered hat - and around her hands, clutching her slingshot.
Wes extends his hand to Penelope, but she brushes aside the broken glass and pulls herself to her feet. Neo-N cocks his head slightly to the left as he regards them, then raises his hand to the sky. Wes focuses - can’t allow myself to hear, anyway - and the last vestiges of sound that his earplugs were letting in die away. He pries them out - still no sound. Then he looks down at his hands, burning with pale, pinkish-red light.
Neo-N raises his hand to the sky, and the entire club, security included, follows suit. Penelope shouts something at him, but he can no longer hear. Wes points to his ears, then the direction of the door, and Penelope nods. Wes begins wrapping his hands as Neo-N draws a circle around them with hands, and the throng encircling them tightens.
Neo-N moved his hand downward, pointing straight at the pair. Wes finishes wrapping his hands. Neo-N closes his fist.
The crowd closes their fists.
Wes closes his fists, and smiles.
Time to get to work.