Toad roused us at the unholy hour of eleven in the morning. We had played a corporate gig the night before and judging by the guys’ faces, which looked like chewed up blotter, their impressions of the event hadn’t yet settled in their long-haired skulls. Toad is Steve Michaels, our producer and manager. He earned his nickname through his savage gluttony and doughy, eternally-unhappy expression. Toad loomed over us with the demeanor of a disappointed parent.

“What the hell?” asked Beast, our bassist. His legal name was Edilberto, but his nickname did him more justice: Beast was as wild and unhinged in everyday life as he was on stage. Even I kept my distance when he was in a bad mood. At the moment, however, Beast spoke for all of us.

“The early bird gets the worm,” Toad brandished a didactic finger.

Our manager liked to quote various popular proverbs and bits of folk wisdom. Either he thought it made him seem more respectable or he simply didn’t have any thoughts of his own.

“Uh-huh. And the mangy old bird working the nightshift has already gotten an earlier worm,” I countered.

Why was my leg still asleep? Why did my back ache so? Because it’s better to sleep in a bed than splayed across the tattered armchair of a squalid hotel room. It was all thanks to Toad. He had again decided to save some money and get one room for all five of us. On the one hand, the price of a single room was clearly too much as it was and no one wanted to pay the extra money for another one. On the other hand, everyone had long since grown sick and tired of these teenage sleepovers. The guys had gallantly offered me the only bed in the room, but it stank so bad of cheap fabric softener that after I passed, only Beast risked sleeping in it. Judging by his gloomy mug and incessant scratching, he was already regretting that decision.

“Don’t be a wise gal,” Toad turned on me with gusto. “Instead of lounging around with these whisky-dicks, you could go down to the salon and make yourself look presentable. Don’t forget that I’m the one who has to sell your mug.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I objected. “I’d rather not be sold at all, not by the piece and not by the bulk.”

“Ah, what sucker’d buy you anyway?” Toad swatted the air ruefully. “If you grew some tits, at least the paying public’d have something to look at. Hell, I’d even pay for the job.” A note of hope sounded in Toad’s voice as he broached one of his well-worn topics—and was promptly told to go to a well-known and well-studied address.

“What are you bugging her for, you toad?” Yuri intervened. Yuri Charsky was our unofficial leader, guitar soloist, backup vocalist as well as the vox populi on budgetary and everyday matters. He was also our champion booze swiller.

Like a spider’s paw, Yuri’s gaunt, tattooed arm appeared from the sleeping bag that enclosed its master and—judging by a muted clink—this morning’s hair of the dog that bit master last night. The paw drew aside a corner of the sleeping bag, exposing Yuri’s battered physique to the world.

“You spend too much time reading teen mags, Michaels.” Yuri got up and brushed past Toad on his way to the mirror. “What a wreck…” He made a revolted grimace at his reflection. “We’re rockers, Michaels, a dying breed. When it comes to the quickly fading epoch of true rock n’ roll, you could say we’re the last of the Mohicans. And here you are—part of the problem. All you seem to want is less lyrics and more cleavage. So let’s figure it out once and for all: What do you want? Rock or striptease?”

“Why not both?” Toad churled. Happily though, this concluded any further discussion of surgically augmenting the band’s creative journey, for the time being at least.

“All right,” Charsky plunked down beside my armchair and gave Toad an unkind glance. “Next item. What the feck did you wake us up so early for? Last night we toiled at that corporate thing until two and then went quaffing. And you won’t let us sleep it off. Aren’t you afraid of burning us out? Or do you have the replacements all lined up? Unless you’ve brought us some gig, there won’t be any work today. I’ve got such a rattle in my head, you can hear it in the street. Hey Beast—wake Hal there, or he’ll sleep through the entire band meeting!”

“I’m awake,” the drummer objected without opening his eyes. “Why beat a dead snare? Yuri’s right, Toad. Just give us the scratch and leave us alone so we can recover. Personally, I don’t see myself rising before lunch.”

“Money’s all you lot think about.” The very idea of paying someone sent a sharp pain coursing through Toad’s heart, liver and kidneys. “But when it comes to thinking how you can earn it…Here I am, buzzing like a bee, wheeling and dealing, trying to come up with some lucrative gig for you…” Michaels swatted the air ruefully once again.

“Uh-huh, that’s right,” Charsky nodded frenetically. “You’re a busy bee and we’re a flea circus run amok. Speak your mind and all, but don’t get carried away, aight? You make moola off us like Stromboli did off his puppets so don’t act like some beneficent patron schooling his prodigal children.”

To be fair, Yuri was exaggerating here. The album we’d cut on budget studio time was selling poorly (to put it mildly) and even then only really among our band’s local tribe of followers. Most of our income was trickling in from live performances at corporate gigs, weddings and other well-funded events. Naturally the well-funded revelers couldn’t give a fig for our art. However, there was a deficit of live music in our part of the boondocks and everyone wants to get their rocks off to a tune. And so we’d migrate from Fidel Kennedy’s birthday celebration to the wedding reception of one Anahit Agajanian, then rush over to the IPO for Horns&Hooves.com. Most of our work was as a cover band. We played old hits that had long since become social patrimony and seen their copyright lapse. But our own songs were popular with our crowds as well. Though, to be honest, we played them in the second set when the listening public had had its drinks and couldn’t care less what to listen or dance to. We made up for the selling out by playing small, local concerts, but these only generated enough scratch to pay for gas, a street burger and a modest after-party—meanwhile, hunger came by each day.

Effectively, if we hadn’t come across Michaels—who really was a wheeler and dealer—we wouldn’t have even as much as we did. As frequently happens with musicians, we weren’t very good at combining our art with business. We lacked the business acumen, the ROI synergy, the silvered tongue, and as a result Michaels became our dubious savior. And we were the same for him. In our age of growing unemployment, a former employee of a cultural center couldn’t count on finding a full-time position with his skillset. With us he’d acquired a collective of four varying musical dispositions and begun spinning like a top, procuring work for us and percentages for himself. That’s how we lived—without any particular affection for one another but with a clear understanding of mutual necessity. After all, the most upsetting thing was that we were good. It was just that proper TV and radio marketing was so expensive that our hopes of becoming independent individuals were melting away every passing day.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“We’ve earned our keep and then some,” Charsky went on meanwhile. “Be so kind and toss the scratch on the table and stop acting like you’re getting mugged.”

This fiery speech was slightly ruined by Hal’s smacking yawn and a deafening snore from Straus—our keyboard player and the last member of our band. Odd. I could swear that at the beginning of the conversation Straus was awake…

“Oh all right, what are you getting worked up for?” Toad began to backpedal. “I’ve come here with a once-in-a-lifetime offer. A chance to lock in an audience of millions for the next album.”

These words woke everyone in the room in an instant. Even Straus—jabbed awake by Beast’s elbow—sat up and began whirling his head, acting attentive.

“Well, get on with it,” I prompted when the dramatic pause had lingered too long.

“Do you know where most of the youth who listen to rock hang out?” Michaels went on building suspense.

“Will you cut out your charades?” Beast, whose hangover had him in a fine, foul mood, banged the table. Everyone jumped, from Toad to Straus who finally woke up. “What’d you come up with, you toad?”

Michaels screwed up his face, but he’d grown accustomed to Beast’s outbursts.

“In Barliona, my impatient friend. Just like the billions of our fellow citizens.”

“In the game? What of it?”

“Why they’re your target audience. What do you lot sing about? Epic battles, swords, magic, heroes, kings, warriors…All of that’s in there, in Barliona. People play the game in pursuit of medieval romance.”

“Okay, we get the idea,” Yuri agreed. “What do you propose? You want songs about Barliona?”

“Precisely!” Toad grinned. “Just look at Nubar and the hits they have: ‘Ballad of the Three Orcs and the Gnome’ and ‘Mommy’s Little Griefer.’ Or those other guys, what do you call them…Oh, right! Tarantula Progeny and their ‘In the Name of Yalininka.’ The devil knows what it all’s about but the kids listen to it! Those bands hang out at the top of the charts for weeks at a time.”

“As you yourself just pointed out, we’d be far from the first to write songs about games. What’s the novelty?”

“You said yourself that you’re talent,” Michaels reminded. “Record a couple hits and people will talk about you. And we won’t have to dump money on TV and radio campaigns.”

“Well, I mean, I’m not against it,” Straus spoke up. “I play Barliona myself. Never had any problems with it.”

“Aren’t you a gamer, Kierá?” Charsky turned to me.

He’d mangled my name the first day we met, stressing the last syllable and thereby creating my nickname.

“I’m more partial to the old school,” I reminded him just in case. “Board games, classic singleplayer RPGs, casual free to play MMOs. I wouldn’t know what to do in Barliona. And with the money I make, I couldn’t afford an account or a legit capsule. But if you want to cover my, uh, marketing expenses—I’m all for it.”

“Well what? It’s not a bad idea,” Beast agreed. “A chance to take a big leap.”

Hal merely nodded mutely, as always agreeing with the majority opinion.

“Makes sense,” Charsky concluded. “On the one hand, no one feels like selling out, but on the other…It’s the same crap we already write songs about. So instead of our abstract kingdom, we’ll have…” He glanced over at Straus who was the most experienced gamer among us. “Malabar. Or Kartoss. Yeah, Kartoss is even cooler. Sounds more brutal. Don’t they have like werewolves and zombies there?”

“Hey Michaels,” I spoke up, “how are we going to eat while we’re in game? It’ll be a while until we get settled in and write something. Not to mention dealing with band practice and our social lives.”

Here, I exaggerated—I didn’t have any social life to speak off but it’d be a sin to pass up on the chance to squeeze the tight-wadded Toad when the chance presented itself.

“Uh-huh. And you’ll have to buy us VR capsules,” Straus pointed out. “And pay for our accounts. They’re not exactly cheap.”

The entire band nodded in unison.

“All right, I’ll think of something. Maybe find some sponsors. Barliona’s a global brand after all so it’s worth the investment. As for now I want you lot to take some cold showers and deal with your business. Once we get the capsules, you’ll be emerging only for band practice. Come on now my little chicken-hawks, left right left right…” Toad began to clap his hands the way he liked to do whenever he wanted to rally us.

“Are you daft?” Charsky rushed to deflate him. “What language do I need to tell you in that we’re not doing a thing today?”

Michaels looked over our faces closely and waved his hand in resignation.

“Ah the hell with you artsy types…” He rummaged in his pocket and produced our pay. “Just don’t go blowing it on spikes and Doc Martens.”

“We’re not punks, in case you haven’t noticed,” Charsky reminded.

***

As per tradition, band practice was held in the old garage that belonged to Straus’ parents. Compared to us, Straus had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, yet he never abandoned our band and would always contribute some scratch at the moment we needed it most. In return, we never gave him grief for his privileged origins. Today, instead of practice, we were doing our monthly planning. Shiny new gaming capsules—which Toad had acquired who knows how or where—were already installed in our apartments. Michaels teared up as he paid for our gaming accounts. All that was left was to figure out what we were actually going to do.

“I ain’t deleting my main, don’t even think of asking me to,” Straus announced. “So we’ll have to play for Kartoss. I transferred my character there last week.”

“In that case, you should tell us what races to choose and where to start,” Charsky offered.

“I’m partial to goblins,” Straus said—ignored the immediate gibes of ‘bro, you’re a goblin as it is’—and continued, “so it’s better if you start with that race. The closer together you spawn, the easier it’ll be to level up.”

“Hang on,” I spoke up, sensing that this thing was getting away from us. “Why are we doing this? To gain new experiences and new inspiration. But how are we going to gain anything new if we keep staring at our own ugly mugs? I see you guys out here all week as it is. And if we go in together, then we’ll see all the same stuff and have the same thoughts et cetera. Nah. I suggest that we choose different races, get into the atmosphere of the place, level up a bit and only meet up later. We can share what’s going on at our band practice and generate ideas based on it.”

“Kierá’s got a point,” Charsky agreed. He opened a guide on the races of Barliona. “Goblins are taken, so let’s choose from the other options.”

Beast immediately grabbed a red orc, while Yuri settled on a drow. Hal couldn’t make up his mind between taurens and trolls. In the end, he flipped a coin and got the former—a horned Kartossian minotaur.

“I like biotas,” I announced, looking at the race of humanoid plants.

“That’s a bit hardcore,” said Straus, checking the guide.

“So I’ll be a hardcore biota. If I can’t handle it, I can always delete my character and roll a new one. The song inspiration’s what’s important and I’ll keep that either way.”

“Well, whatever you think’s best,” Charsky shrugged. “Since we seem to have figured things out, let’s head home and enter the game.”