Chapter Text
[begin end of “Death Valley” music video].
🎸
Limp with intoxication, Joe allowed the two taller women to toss him haphazardly into the brightly-lit room. White light faded to darkness as he stumbled onto a metal platform, hearing the slam of metal doors behind him before he could protest. The unprompted change in scenery was quite sobering.
From the moment he and his bandmates had re-opened that long-forgotten briefcase, Joe’s life was had been jam-packed with a series of the most disorienting experiences. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t even quite whether he had simply partied too hard, and this was some strange drunken-dream. However, he was used to dealing with things that weren’t quite ideal, so the guitarist elected to do what he usually did; roll with it.
Joe’s easygoing demeanor made things less stressful, but it definitely did not solve any of his questions. Usually, he welcomed the spontaneity his life had granted him thus far. However, the young man found it increasingly difficult to do so as he now stood in a familiar room. Dented metal walls trembled in tandem with a low hum that wrapped around him. Once again, he was in The Elevator.
The same well-dressed, curly-haired tweenager stood beside him as before.
“Congratulations,” his voice was innocent, but knowing. “You passed your test. You’ve been granted acceptance into Heaven.”
That wasn’t a sentence you heard every day. Joe was thoroughly confused, but he supposed that going to Heaven was better than going to Hell- wait, wasn’t he just in Hell? He dismissed the thought with a slight shake of the head.
Just roll with it.
The Kid stood beside a set of buttons, one of which he pressed. The metal roof slid open to allow a pale yellow light to pour over the pair, and Joe could feel the elevator slowly begin traveling upwards with an accelerated hum.
When Joe looked back down, the Kid had mysteriously disappeared. Before he could think to reason with the situation, the elevator halted with a grunt.
The Jew raised an eyebrow, glancing around. Was this some strange puzzle that he was meant to solve in order to pass through the Pearly Gates? He scanned the walls for any clues, but found that the prior buttons and switches had disappeared along with the Kid. Surely, he would’ve been used to the endless confusion by now, but Joe found himself to be less well-adjusted than he was willing to admit.
He decided the best he could do for himself was at least try. Try to find some sort of answer. The guitarist began by stepping forward, patting at the cool, rusty metal surrounding him. He ran his bruised fingers over dented walls, searching for some sort of hidden… button? Lever? Switch? He wasn’t sure.
“Hello…?” His voice came out way more vulnerable than he liked, echoing back to him. That was the only response he received.
Defeated, Joe leaned against a wall, hoping the slight hum against his back may calm him once again. Patience was a virtue after all… right?
📝🥁
Pete and Andy stood before the door, welcomed to their destination only by chipped paint and the vague stench of long-forgotten garbage under smoldering heat. An overwhelmingly bleak grey cube of a building towered over the duo, the only defining characteristic being a small, black plaque reading “1515” on the door. The place looked convincingly unimportant, appearing as bleak as the fatigued duo felt. It was oddly symbolic.
Andy raised his sweaty fist to knock faintly at the metal door, evidently quite uncertain of what to suspect.
Tension coiled in the air as the two waited. Andy turned his head to again study their surroundings, as if he’d find some hidden clue lying amongst the dumpster-lined, eerily empty parking lot. He allowed himself to roam around the area as they waited, taking care to stay close to his friend.
Impatient, Pete reached forward to test the doorknob, only to be startled by burning-hot metal. He hissed, the unexpected sensation causing him to both jump back and throw the door open reflexively. His eyes widened in embarrassment at not only his reaction, but the loud bang that accompanied it as the already-beaten door hit the inner wall as the result of his force.
Pete glanced over at his partner, his heart aching at the lack of a reaction. Of course, he remembered, Andy had lost his hearing back in the hospital after a series of sadistic tortures had been inflicted upon the group. Pete figured the best way to grab Andy’s attention was with a light pat on the shoulder.
“Huh-?” The bassist watched his shorter friend’s eyes widen with curiosity—not because of his touch; Andy was looking at the building again. Pete followed his gaze to the door, where he was just as startled to see a woman in all black standing in the shadows expectantly.
“What are you doing just standing there? Get in here, quick!” The blonde motioned quickly, stepping back into the building. Pete made haste, following the mysterious person, Andy following suit. The newly-formed trio rushed down the hallway in tense silence, with only the sound of heels clicking against marble tile.
The room that the woman led Pete and Andy to wasn’t a large one. Only a small box TV, supported by a grey rolling cart whose shelves were littered with tapes, stood in the corner of the room next to a red loveseat. Behind the setup stood a wall, cluttered with a myriad of pictures and notes, all connected by pins that bound red string like something out of a murder-mystery movie. The vintage nerd vibe was interrupted by a wall, which, mounted upon it, sported an arrangement of instruments-turned-weapons. Andy seemed to admire the dedication, while Pete stood there confused, trying to make sense of it all. Their thoughts were interrupted by the woman locking the door. Pete tapped his buddy’s shoulder as the woman began to speak.
Pete groped at his pockets for the notepad he took from the police station as she rambled off a slew of information for the two.
Frances B. Cobain. Early 20s. Former Antimelomanist. Current M.A.N.I.A.C.. Estranged daughter of leader; leader currently known as Lady Love. Lady Love looking to terminate all record labels and their owners. Recent whereabouts: 3620 Ramos Drive. Wanted dead or alive by M.A.N.I.A.. …
As she spoke, Frances pointed at various images and notes along the wall. She seemed well-practiced with her spiel, the information pouring out of her determinedly. Pete scribbled down the information, transcribing it as quickly as he could to hand the notepad to Andy for him to examine. Now it was Pete’s turn to explain in detail why they were here whilst the drummer scanned over his friend’s handwriting. The young woman seemed to partially know this story somehow however, nodding along in recognition. Andy, however, now had more questions than he did answers as he finished reading Pete’s scribbles.
The drummer waited for Pete’s lips to stop moving before he spoke up.
“Wait,” he spoke a little too loudly, still unadjusted to his freshly-inflicted disability. Francis’s eyes softened in immediate recognition and understanding. “What could someone with a vendetta against labels have to do with Pat…rick…”
Andy paused, looking up from the paper at Pete. They seemed to have the same realization.
“Shit,” Pete deadpanned. “I own a label.” He looked again at the young woman, frowning. “Would they really use-“
Frances nodded solemnly, interrupting Pete. “I wouldn’t put it past them to pit your singer friend against you.”
Pete scowled, Andy scanning his face for answers. The bassist took the notepad back, scribbling the new information down for his friend. Andy, whose facial features typically failed to reflect his emotions, frowned a little at the knowledge.
“We’ll find your woman,” Pete declared with a newfound vengeance. Even without hearing the words, Andy seemed to understand what the taller man was saying.
Frances looked doubtful, but not surprised. “Okay,” she sighed, “but she’s got a whole lot of followers. And they are some determined women,” she warned. She turned to approach the wall that was adorned with the hybrid instrument-weapons. “These aren’t just for decor; they really work. Those Antimelomanists really hate weapons. I kinda maybe had these made just to spite my mother,” she added.
Pete smiled at that, admiring the blonde’s relatable sense of pettiness. She reminded him of himself in his early 20s, bleached-blonde hair and ripped clothes and all. The shorter of the two men simply watched as she took the weapons off of the wall, offering a bass-machete to Pete and a drum-crossbow to Andy. He nodded in thanks, admiring the fine craftsmanship as his friend exchanged last-minute information with Frances.
Andy allowed the two to converse, gravitating towards the door awkwardly. He would never let it show, but he had quickly come to hate how he had to sit and wait for someone else to fill him in. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help but feel a spark of jealousy at watching people interact. Despite his tendency to be more introverted, Andy had hardly realized how precious of an ability it had been to speak and to listen. As he entertained the thought, a sense of bitter vengeance and uncharacteristic hatred coiled around his insides.
Andy Hurley wasn’t one for vengeance, but when it came others greedily manipulating the lives of his loved ones, Andy couldn’t help but let his negative emotions get the better of him. This emotion wasn’t one he felt often; it was hot and passionate, and it voraciously sucked any semblance of reason the vegan had in his heart. Hatred. Hatred towards the women who took his beloved friend and corrupted him into a tool; hatred the women who took his precious hearing for their own sadistic enjoyment. The sourness threatened to burst out of his chest as he white-knuckled the crossbow, waiting impatiently by the door. Pete noticed this and said his last goodbyes to Frances, trotting over to Andy and shooting him with a thumbs up.
Pete smiled at his friend in determination, newly energized with purpose.
Andy nodded back in acknowledgement, electrified with vitriolic certainty.
The pair itched with the desire to head towards their target location. Andy only paused to stand in the doorway briefly, allowing Pete to run ahead of him.
“Thank you,” the drummer called back into the room.
“Good luck,” Frances replied, unsure of a better way to respond. The somewhat mysterious man was trotting away before she could linger on it.
🎤
Music; pain. Friends; pain. Microphone; pain. Guitars; pain. Rhythm; pain. Resistance; pain.
Patrick’s veins burnt with white-hot fear as varying images flashed before him on the projector screen. The massive screen dwarfed the blond, engulfing almost his entire field of vision with an overwhelming array of colors and shapes. Just as he would attempt formulate a thought on his own, his mind would be punished and redirected by an electric shock provided by the wires attached to his body. The singer shifted uncomfortably in his wooden seat, rightfully confused as he was bombarded with a plethora of overstimulating imagery and unwelcome sensations.
Mercy; pain. Hatred; pleasure. Fear; pleasure. Violence; pleasure. Submission; pleasure.
When approved imagery flashed on-screen, Patrick was rewarded with a warm, relaxing tingle delivered to his scalp that descended the nerves along his spine.
The blond would have been none-the-wiser if you’d told him he’d been tied to that unforgiving setup for hours. When the presentation finally came to an end, he was relieved to be met with no sensations as a black screen buzzed tamely before him.
He wasn’t allowed much peace, however, as two much-stronger figures yanked Patrick from his seat, allowing the wires to be torn from his skin. The singer reacted with a pained groan which was not met by mercy with his captors, rather, they dragged him away faster, expecting him to readjust on his own.
“Get up,” one of them demanded, dissatisfied with the dragging of his feet.
“‘M s-sorry-“ the musician stammered.
“Just be quiet.” The second person quipped.
Patrick stumbled forward, attempting to follow their orders. Despite himself, he found it was easiest to let his already-fucked mind melt away numbly, and just submit to their order. Jeez, was he really regressing to such a doormat already?
The musician’s neck ached in protest whenever he attempted to look at his captors, so he resigned to staring at his beaten shoes in defeat. The two relentlessly dragged him up a flight of stairs, kicking at his ankle or digging their fingernails into his arms whenever he lagged even momentarily. Clearly, they were much more determined than he was; he tried not to think too hard about the futility of the punishments they inflicted were, considering he was hardly even capable of resisting at this point.
It felt like an eternity of pain and stumbling before the group had finally arrived at a polished mahogany door. Beside it, a golden plaque read the title “Lady Love”. Below the name, italicized text read “Head Bitch In Charge”.
One of the women at his side rapped at the door, the two standing at attention.
“Come in,” the voice of a matured woman replied from inside. The door creaked loudly when the taller of the two opened it, pushing Patrick in without hesitation or an explanation. The heavy door slammed behind him before he could even muster a response. Hearing a click behind him, the singer was engulfed by a suffocating darkness.