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Barely-muffled music seeped its way to the backstage, as always, but the sharpest of the audience cries could always be counted on to cut through the fluff. Kid felt them through the vibrations in the metal bathroom sink he gripped until his knuckles were white. This was his stage, his look, and he was returning to it as a new man — not changed enough to be unrecognizable, but not as ruthless and naïve as before, for better or for worse. So he thought trying something new with makeup would do him well, both to feel himself and to communicate this change. Now that it was on his face, though, he was second-guessing himself.
Kid kicked open the door to the dressing room. "Is this too much?”
Killer had been styling his hair in front of the full body mirror, and Kid could see himself in it better than in the bathroom. The spiked leather spaulders Killer had suggested did go well with his mohair cape, and would you look at that, you couldn’t even tell he had a prosthetic arm under it. Until he moved it, of course, but it matched oddly well with his getup.
Killer brushed his bangs out of his face to look at him, and Kid gestured towards his own face. It was their comeback appearance after his accident, and he wanted to try something new along with the usual burgundy lipstick, so he’d scribbled some jagged lightning shapes along the scars down his face, bright red and mustard yellow.
Killer was level-headed, as always. “Isn’t being ‘too much’ our whole deal?”
Kid threw his arms in the air, the left one making that clunky sound that he kept worrying the mic might catch. “I mean, yeah! Fuck it!” he said, but approached the mirror anyway to frown at himself. “I just,” he hesitated, “is it too pop?”
“Since when have you cared what other people call our style?”
“So it is too pop. I’m ripping off Bowie is what you’re saying.”
Killer crossed his arms.
Kid stared at him in disbelief. Did he expect him to read his mind? “What, if it’s not that, what is it? You think I’m trying to cover up? You think I’m fuckin’ ashamed?”
The way adrenaline thrummed through Kid’s ears was telling, even to himself. He knows, he’s heard it all before, mostly from himself. He should’ve known better than to pick a fight with the other bigger redhead vocalist in town, especially better than to storm off driving at high speeds with enough drugs in his system to kill a horse. If he had been alone, sure, but Killer probably still hadn’t forgiven him. The scars up his arm always seemed to tell him how close Killer was to joining him in the amputee club, and if it was hard for a vocalist, it could be career-ending for a drummer. Not to mention the tic. “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?! I’m sorry that I fucked up so badly that I lost an arm and you lost decades’ worth of progress! I’m not trying to pretend it never happened, I’m— I haven't touched a line since then! I know I fucked up, I’m trying to own it! ‘I fucked up, so what? Fuck you!’ That’s what I’m going for!”
Kid heard a creak from somewhere to the side and turned to see Heat, frozen still in the middle of painting his face, half-leaning forward on his chair like he was just trying to stealth his way out. “Um. I’ll leave.”
“No, I’m done!” Kid said, though he still sounded riled up, even to himself, and Heat sat right back down.
He looked back at Killer, who remained still as a statue — a statue that someone vandalized with dark lipstick. He hadn’t said a word, and Kid didn’t have to read his mind to realize he was blowing up on him for no reason. “Better now?” Killer said, even-tempered as usual.
Kid breathed out. At least he wasn’t laughing. “Better.”
Killer clapped his shoulder. “I like how it looks on you.” And I don’t blame you for anything, was implicit. Kid knew, he’d heard it before, even though it was hard to believe. “’sides, I was thinking of doing some more paint myself.”
That pulled a grin out of Kid. “What, with that mane of yours? It’s a miracle we can even see your mouth.”
“Hey, it’s a look.”
“C’mere, I’ll give you some contour. You already moisturized?”
“Why do I need to moisturize if I only wear lipstick and base?”
“To keep your ugly mug from getting uglier, dickhead. Right, Heat?”
“Right,” said Heat to the side, already back to his elaborate bodypaint.
Kid jerked his head towards the vanity, and Killer sat down next to it. Kid used the same red paint stick he'd used for his own makeup and brushed up Killer’s bangs. He was wearing smoky black eyeliner that gave his sharp eyes an alluring depth. Kid clicked his tongue. “Pity nobody's gonna see those eyes,” he muttered, and got to work.
He drew an angle along Killer’s cheekbone and down to his jaw, and filled it in like a triangle. Then he grabbed a sponge and blended the shit out of that side, towards the corner of his jaw, so that it looked like actual makeup and not just a scribble. “Here, look. If you like it I'll do the other side.”
“I like it,” Killer said, but he kept looking at him. Only when Kid frowned did Killer turn his head to the side to see himself in the mirror. “Really. It's good.”
“Okay, stay still now.” Then came the difficult part— the other side. Maybe with his left hand intact Kid could’ve used it to aid himself, but with the fine motor skills on his left still being a work in progress, he had to cross over with his right hand. He grabbed Killer’s chin and made him turn his face to the mirror, so his right cheek was more accessible, and he was able to draw the basic shape.
The blending, though, proved to be difficult. Killer glanced at him sideways, but before he could say anything, Kid said “Shut up, I got this,” propped a knee up on the chair next to Killer’s thighs, leaned close, and finished the job. It took more time than the other side, but he managed an even blend.
He straightened up and got off of Killer’s lap to admire his work from a distance. His bangs still covered his eyes, but now his lips weren’t alone in being painted, and the contour added some sharpness to his look. “See, now you look like a proper menace.”
Killer stood up and approached the full body mirror. Out of the four of them, Killer had the most straightforward look; a low-cut leopard print tank top, tight black pants, and a pair of spiked braces on his forearms. It looked great on him, he had the body to show off, and as Kid walked up to the mirror next to him, they looked like a good match. Kid wore mostly red and black with yellow highlights, and Killer wore mostly yellow and black, now with the red contour. It was a pity Killer would be hidden behind the drumkit most of the time.
Then the music ended and the audience cries took over completely. A roadie peeked through the dressing room door. “Victoria Punk, you’re up.”
“We’re one guy short,” Kid said, but as if on cue, the roadie backed out and Wire stepped in.
Wire was already dressed and painted, but there was an uncharacteristic urgency to him. “We gotta get going,” he said.
“Yeah, no shit, it’s our turn.”
“That’s not what I mean, let’s just go, trust me.”
Kid shrugged him off; they were pretty much ready, anyway. They headed out through the dark backstage corridors on their way to the stage, but they didn’t make it far before it became evident why Wire was in such a rush.
“Fancy seeing you here, boys.”
Turning the corner from the stage was a familiar figure in an intricately tie-dyed blouse and long braided hair, followed by his crowd of hippies and Hare Krishnas. Apoo was starkly different from the rock’n’roll keyboardist they'd first met, and his grin had only become more shit-eating.
Kid grit his teeth. He hadn’t spoken to Apoo since the night of the accident, and from the look of his dilated pupils, he hadn’t actually changed one bit. He caught Wire muttering something about having requested for their dressing rooms to be on different sides of the stage. “Yeah? Where else would we fuckin’ be? You saw the lineup.”
Apoo raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “On Air is a blend of genres, after all,” he said, as if spreading gospel. “I just didn't think we'd share a stage with the likes of you.”
Killer and Heat grabbed each of his arms preemptively — Kid could use the reminder not to get in a fight. “The likes of what? Not sellouts?”
Apoo laughed and shrugged, stumbling slightly only to be held up by his hippies. “Hey, I know where the money is. And I can put on a mean show in any genre! Shame you're gonna have to measure up if you wanna keep the crowd fired up.”
“You know what they say, leave the best for last. That’s why we go after you.”
Another familiar voice came from behind. “And I suppose that’s why I go after you.”
Hawkins’ silky speaking voice couldn’t be more different than the image he projected onstage. He was already dressed for his show, it seemed, in a leather vest and pants, an obscene amount of spikes, and that corpselike greasepaint smeared all over his eyes. They also hadn’t spoken ever since the fight with the redhead, even less after they’d found out Hawkins signed with Kaido Records while Kid was out, like his band was meant to.
Kid was going to spit out some comeback at him, but was stopped by a hiccup of laughter coming from Killer. He hesitated, just to check in on his friend and make sure that it was just one slip and that it was under control.
“I trust your recovery has been speedy,” Hawkins said, using that conceited tone where you couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or if he just talked like a prick. “Good thing your new look matches the… ragged quality of your band’s image.”
Kid was about to aim a punch his way, but Killer barked out another laugh and immediately covered his face. He held back for the sake of not making him more nervous and worsening that tic. “At least I don’t splash sewer water on my face and call it makeup,” he hissed, and forced himself to turn around and shoulder his way past Apoo and his goons. “Eat shit.”
“Oooh, I’m so scared!” Apoo laughed, but kept moving.
Once they were past them, Kid pulled Killer to a side before going to their spots. “You alright?”
Killer chuckled under his breath, though Kid couldn’t tell if that was genuine or just a milder form of the tic. “Just need a smoke,” he said, already pulling out a tin from his back pocket.
Kid nodded and clapped his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go. What are we?”
Killer huffed. “Partners.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” and then louder, “What are we, gang?”
“Victoria Punk!” Heat and Wire chorused from behind the stage, getting their gear ready.
Killer took a hit and smiled in the exhale. “Victoria Punk,” he agreed, and put out the blunt for later. “Meanest motherfuckers in town.”
Kid laughed. “Fuckin’ right!”
The lights were off while they took their places, but the moment Killer sat down and struck the starting beat on the snare drum, the audience roared. The lights flashed on with Wire’s bassline and moved with Heat’s guitar, and then centered on Kid. In that delicious rush of adrenaline, he threw up his left arm in a fist, uncaring that it broke free from the cover of his cape. The crowd screamed and cheered. He grinned.
“It’s gonna take a lot more kill us, motherfuckers!”