Chapter Text
“Are you fucking kidding me? The OPENING band? NOBODY likes the opening band,” Mirage jeered. She rolled over from her laze on the couch, dangerously close to falling off the sagging cushions. Her backlight was half-shuttered in annoyance as she stared at the red machine who was absentmindedly fiddling with his bass. He sat, relaxed in a ratty office chair they had dragged in from the curb - like most of their furniture that littered the barren apartment.
She held out the band poster towards him, “Take a look at this shit. The Divine Lights, never heard of ‘em.” V2 gave no inclination of hearing her as his clawed hand strummed down the strings, his other less weaponized hand twisting the tuning pegs until the frequencies of the G major chord locked together.
She knew he could hear her just fine. Mirage stretched even further, waving the page frantically, “Hey bozo, this concerns you too.”
V2 finally met her eye, and with a sigh, took the poster from her. The chair creaked under his shifting weight.
Mirage rolled onto her back, clenching her fist that laid over her chest, “Benny TOLD me it was our show, he just had to run it past the manager. Looks like the manager doesn’t know what the fuck real music is.”
“Mirage,” V2 interrupted, holding a hand up, “just…stop talking for a second.” His optic scanned the poster, shutter narrowing ever so slightly.
The sound of something dense and heavy slumping against the wood of their front door announced their drummers return. V1 stumbled through the door awkwardly as it twisted the handle with a finger, carrying several black cases - the toms in both hands, cymbals tucked under each arm and the snare case slung over their chassis. As they entered, they tripped over a case that had been pushed to the side from the previous haul and hit the side of one of the covered cymbals against the wall. Their fans let out a frustrated whine.
Mirage kicked up from the couch at the commotion.
“Could you at least try to be careful?” Two identical optics stared back at the other - each equally annoyed, both being caught at a bad time. V1 was the first to break away, rolling their eye as it began to unload in the empty space of their unused kitchenette. V2 watched the brief interaction from over the poster. Mirage was in a bad mood, clearly. “If you dent it, we may not be able to pay to get it fixed if that is our competition.”
The two blue machines looked nearly identical if it wasn’t for V1’s fading paint job and if you looked close enough, outdated parts. Its fans ran a little louder, its wiring and design ever so slightly more antiquated than Mirage. Mirage’s model was the last hail mary from the company that patented their designs to hopefully make use of the warmachine with no war to fight in. A bridge meant to span the distance from stone cold bodyguard - V2, to protective companion droid. The edges of her plating sanded to be just a little smoother, top of the line voice module, and a proclivity for the humanities. Unfortunately, people found the singular, gopro-esque optic a little bit of a turn off from more humanoid machines. That, and her sour attitude.
Though, from far away the only way the two could be picked apart was by their drastically different effort in style. Outside of when Mirage played dress up with them for concerts, V2 had doubted he had ever seen V1 wear anything other than their black Insurrectionists hoodie and small rotation of cargo shorts. The hoodie originally belonged to Mirage, but she had begrudgingly lent it to them when they had accidentally deployed its wings during a jam sesh, shredding their old shirt to bits. V2 couldn’t be bothered to cut holes in his shirts, usually opting to wear loose tanks.
Mirage threw up a hand in frustration at being ignored, “Am I the only one who cares about, oh, I don’t know, our entire livelihood?”
Nagging V1 was always a lost cause. V2 decided to redirect her back to the topic at hand.
“I’ve never seen these guys.” V2 placed his bass back on the stand and stood, “Never heard of them either for that matter. They look expensive. We should be happy that let us be the opener.” Mirage clearly was not impressed with his conclusion by the way her optic followed him as he strided across the living room to close the door that V1 had politely left completely open.
Living room was really an exaggeration. The entire apartment was the living room. Bachelor pads are prime real estate for a couple of machines that wouldn’t need the majority of the facilities that came with apartments or are concerned with normal human social boundaries. The kitchenette - that lacked any major appliances anyway, was where clothing and belongings were stored. The bathroom acted as storage for equipment and the occasional shower but moving everything out was kind of a pain. A lonesome minifridge sat next to the closet where V1 usually powered down for the night. Mirage occupied the ratty couch most days as the cluttered coffee table became her personal office, and a bed frame with a lumpy mattress was pushed against the other wall. It wasn’t ideal, but the accumulation of music posters and assortment of knickknacks lined across the dusty tv stand made it feel a little bit more like a home.
V1 tuned out whatever conversation their bandmates concerned themselves with. It quickly unzipped each case, kicking them to the side and began to assemble the kit with a knowing hand. The routine had become ritual over time, it knew exactly how many times each screw needed to be tightened, the heights for each stand, the tension in each rod. They barely registered their name being called as they clamped the snare into the rubber teeth of its stand.
“V…V!” V2 hissed, bending down to enter its field of vision.
V1s head unit angled sharply upwards, their ‘pupil’ contracted as their routine was interrupted. V2 shoved the poster in its face,
“You heard of them?”
V1 snatched the poster from him and pushed off their knees. It plopped down on the kit stool, breaking their glare pointed at the bassist to scan the page.
The band name, ‘THE DIVINE LIGHTS’ was embossed in a Victorian-style font across the top of the page. The poster was glossy to the touch, the printing probably cost more per page than one of their own full poster orders.
Beneath the heading was a quartet of celestials, helmet-clad in a variety of frilly white gothic outfits. The white stood out starkly against the black of the background, accented only by the blue halo and wings framing their lead - a gloved hand outstretched as if beckoning the viewer closer. In their other hand, a golden microphone - the stand mimicking a cross that ended in a spear point that pierced the text, ‘Gabriel’. Was that his name?
V1s optic drifted over to the other three that flanked what seemed to be their lead singer. ‘Selaphiel’ clung tightly to a sleek white-bodied 12-string Fender, a deceptively simple body design compared to their staggeringly intricate helm resembling an incense burner, the faceplate inlaid with celestial filigree. Next to them was their bassist ‘Raphael’ - their frame lost in layers of loose fitting frills and lace. Gold wings wrapped around the sides and over the face of their helm, six pairs in all crossing over the silver plating. From their size and demeanor, they looked almost the complete opposite of V2. Their drummer was to the right of their lead - the name ‘Michael’ scrawled across the kick drum he sat behind. He dressed more masculine than the other three, and gleaming drumsticks were held tight in an X above his gladiatorial helm. The design reminded V1 of a movie the three of them had watched a while ago - though V1 only paid attention during the battle scenes, mesmerized by the brutal bloodshed.
V1 remained rather unimpressed scanning over the celestial troupe. None of them seemed as interesting as their singer. Gabriel. V1 liked the name. Compared to the other three - his helmet was incredibly plain. A golden crown ended at the temples - upturned like horns, with a cross placarded across the centre. The bottom edge was bordered with gold, ending in a sharp chin. A ruffled skirt split down the middle, framing long, muscular legs ribboned with golden strokes. His waist was corseted, only accentuating his broad muscular chest wrapped in a loose, lacey top. His stance was regal, commanding attention. It wondered if his wings were corporeal. From the art, they looked like they were made of pure light. It noted only Gabriel’s halo and wings were included. Perhaps the other three weren’t angels at all, despite donning angelic headwear. Maybe it was an artistic choice?
“Have you heard of them ?” V2 asked. “I swear to god, are your audials breaking too? Don’t make me repeat myself,” he grasped the base of V1's neck and shook them back to reality. Mirage had flipped onto her stomach and hung off the arm of the couch waiting for V1's response.
Its optic scanned down towards the bottom of the poster, ‘Opener: ULTRAKILL. Doors open at 7’ printed in small text.
Ah , that was the issue.
V1 lowered the page, and signed,
[I thought the show was ours]
Mirage let out a loud exasperated cry, “Yes, V, obviously . Just answer the goddamn question.”
[No, I haven’t heard anything]
Mirage groaned.
They weren’t sure what the two of them expected of it. On the account of them not being able to fucking speak, generally, most people didn’t even try to talk to them. No one told them anything.
“Gothic dickwads. They come out of nowhere and take our spot?” Despite her well-placed anger, V1 could hear the disappointment thinly veiled behind her venom.
[I thought goths wore black]
V2 reached down, swiping the poster back from V1’s grasp. Its finger twitched, hoping to hold onto it, but they refrained from retaliating. “They’re celestials, I don’t think they’re allowed to wear black,” V2 retorted.
[They’re angels, they have halos. One of them does anyway]
“Yeah, whatever. Makes this shit weirder. We should ask Benny what their deal is.” V2 crumpled the poster in his hands and tossed it in the bin with more force than was probably necessary. The crumbled ball bounced off the wall and into the trash, dangerously close to overflowing with drained blood bags.
They went back to setting up their kit as a silence settled over the flat. They could almost hear the gears turning in Mirage’s processors.
“Industry plants,” Mirage murmured, her voice module struggling to maintain the volume.
“What?”
“Industry plants, they have to be. Fucking corporate. They probably paid off the venue manager.” Mirage’s backlight had simmered down to a deep amber. “Even the poster is way too expensive for some start up,” she trailed off.
V1 turned away and began to tap each drum head, twisting the tension rods until the pitch matched the registered frequency range in their audial processor. The waves of sound settled as each turn of the drum key brought the waves closer and closer to equilibrium. Their fingers drummed over the snare rim as they twisted the key every so slightly. Tap tap tap . Perfect.
The old leather stool squeaked as V1 twisted around, foot testing the kick drum pedal. They looked up, catching V2’s gaze that had left the seething Mirage. V1 gave a quick nod, and V2 turned, reaching for his bass - it was an acid-washed green, ‘WHIPLASH’ etched deep into the body. The strings were not typical bass strings on account of the sharp two-fingered claws that made up his strumming hand. The dark grey reinforced steel strings let out a deep reverberating growl under the knuckleblasters touch.
Mirage was still splayed over the couch, somehow making a bunch of steel and plastic look fluid as she deflated. A little slow on the uptake. V2 gently kicked her leg to get her attention.
He slung the old neck strap over his shoulder, “C’mon Mirage. You know no one wants to go second in a pissing contest,” he said, a rare kindness in his words, “We’ll show them that we deserved that headliner. Those will be our fans in the audience.”
Mirage watched V2 get into position. She would pout if she could. But she couldn’t.
“UGH!” She sat up, “FINE. No more pussyfooting.” Mirage got to her feet, pushing the coffee table out of the way.
V2 reached over to the guitar stand next to his for the crimson bodied Squier - the body's wood stained with deep black ichor with sharp cutouts, her pickguard was customized to look like a starry night sky, though it glittered the best under the harsh spotlights of the stage. He kicked over the cherry red pedal board.
Mirage took the neck, stopping the pedal board with her foot, slinging the strap over her shoulder and plugging the amp cord into the output jack in one fluid motion. She nodded at him as he flipped on the amps.
“Alright, we go until V needs fuel,” Mirage stated. V1’s wings twitched in annoyance at the comment.
“Hey man, it's not my fault your tank is small,” Mirage chided, “Plus, it’s a great timer!”
“Either that, or until the neighbours call in a noise complaint,” V2 scoffed, experimentally strumming his four strings, the sound of the chord crackling through the amps. V1 tapped the kick drum impatiently, blue plated knuckles gripping oak sticks that rested against the rims of the kit.
“Or until the neighbours call in a noise complaint!”
