Cracked and Torn


alexander_icon.gif berlin_icon.giflucille3_icon.gif marlowe_icon.gif robyn_icon.gif rory_icon.gif tamara_icon.gif zelda2_icon.gif

Also Featuring


Scene Title Cracked and Torn
Synopsis Anger blossoms at a punk concert on the 4th of July.
Date July 4, 2018

Brooklyn College

The late afternoon is a warm one, with the temperatures still in the high 80s with the clock nearing 6 p.m. and the start of the concert. One of the huge, lush green lawns of Brooklyn College is already filling up for the free outdoor concert. Violent Underdog is a local act, popular with both the college students and other punk lovers in the Safe Zone and even beyond, though the access to internet makes the business a harder one than ever to break into. Others who may not appreciate the band itself have gathered as well, simply for something to do on the holiday, and because it's free.

There's no beer garden but there are some merch tables. The band's roadies are finishing up sound checks on the temporary stage at one end of the lawn while the avid fans try to get close to the stage and less earnest audience members mill about, socializing. Some have brought their own refreshments with coolers or picnic dinners. A few hang back or take up faraway spots on the steps of one of the nearby buildings, content to watch from a distance.

Marlowe could be hanging out in the posh air-conditioned apartments of Yamagato, but no. She's out here celebrating ID4 because, come on you guys there was a war and everything. Plus, "Violent Underdog is a good fucking name for a band," she's telling the merch table cashier as she forks over a couple of bills for the most brightly colored tank to go over her spaghetti strap top. With a quick thanks, she's stepping away and pulling the clothing on over messy updo and all the metallic jewelry she could reasonably put on without looking like she's trying too hard. She's by herself tonight, but that's not stopping her from weaving around and enjoying the atmosphere.

One of those who does not actually appreciate the band happens to be Rory Karrington. He's only here cause it was one of the few things he could think of when he asked Berlin if she wanted to do something at a later date. Cause people had been talking about it where he lived at Spring Creek. And as he listened to the music, he quickly regretted that it had been the first thing he'd thought of. "This isn't exactly what I thought it would be."

But it could have been much worse, he imagined.

Berlin watches the band with a tilted head, as if trying to puzzle it out. Or maybe trying to make out the lyrics. Either way, Rory's statement gets a laugh. "Well, it's not exactly the Sex Pistols, is it?" She looks over at him, her lips curving into a smirk. She doesn't seem to mind it, perhaps more for the company, though, than the band itself. At least she's dressed for it, worn jeans and leather jacket (even though Lucille tried her best to make it a leather skirt instead). Her concession to her friend's stylistic advice was her make up, which included a smoky eye situation that Berlin is pretty sure she couldn't replicate on her own.

Al's concession to a day in civilian gear is a clean white t-shirt, faded fatigue pants, and old combat boots. Might be the only clothe he has that aren't scrubs. He's got himself a cup of lemonade from some vendor, and is idly wandering, as if in search of the most comfortable spot, in terms of balancing view vs being deafened.

It should surprise absolutely no one to see Robyn Quinn here tonight - though she may not publicly play anymore, she always comes out to local music shows in the Safe Zone and surrounding area. Helping rebuild the local music scene in New York is something a part of her wishes she could be more directly involved in, but it's near impossible to make the commitment necessary to be effectively an agent or a talent scout with her line of work. Besides, she didn't have the good help now that she'd had for that back in the Studio K days.

She's milling about the crowd, not at all dressed for a punk show - she looks more suited for a Cure or Siouxsie and the Banshees show, dressed in all black, cuffs and leggings of lace to go with her hat. At least the eyepatch adds a decidedly punk rock flair. She never moves too far away from the merch table, though - if this band is good, she wants to be over there as quick as possible to buy something.

Tamara Brooks is dressed in black. Black leather vest, black pants, black boots, even a black bow tying off her braided hair. There's a vibrantly emerald-green shirt under that vest, and her usual complement of jewelry in the form of necklace and ring, but overall the outfit is quite out of keeping with the blonde's usual aesthetic.

Skirting the knot of earnest fans around the stage, Tamara meanders through the idling crowd and gives the merchandise tables a dispassionate survey. Her fingers trail along the edge of one table as she drifts past, but it's more than obvious to anyone looking — most especially the vendor — that she has little actual interest and no intention of buying. No, she's simply passing the time.

Stepping away from the table, freeing up space for actual customers to fill, Tamara pauses and surveys the crowd, perhaps contemplating which direction to continue in… or just how much longer it'll take to finish setup.

Zelda is one of those people who is quite content to mill about a bit further back. She doesn't know much of anything about the band, or the genre of music for that matter — but she figured she would come along to this with the intent of experience a 4th of July as Americans celebrate it. Quietly, the woman examines the merch table, a drink in hand as she ponders a shirt — and whether or not she might want to purchase it.

The sound checks complete, the roadies disappear off the stage and it's just a moment or two before the band comes on, taking just a few seconds to find their instruments and launch into a song. It's a fast paced, heavily-chorded thing but manages to sound quite upbeat, clearly influenced by classic punk. The more earnest fans begin to immediately jump up and down toward the front, creating a mosh pit atmosphere. Some of the others back up a bit, but the song definitely drives those inclined to bounce about or at least tap their toes.

After several measures of hard drumming and violent strumming of strings, the singer, a young man with pink hair, begins to sing. "We're the heirs of apocalypse! Nothing's our fault but it's ours to fix! Nothin's fair in love and war but we gotta keep going 'cause we've come this far!"

Most people are here to enjoy the punk music and each other. Some are probably spying on their best friends that are on a date. Lucille is definitely spying on her best friend that's on a date. She's leaning against the steps of one of the buildings with other stragglers. Heat or not Lucille is in dark clothing though her sleeves are short and she trades in long pants for skin tight black capri leggings. The majority of her tattoos are covered though the spirals of geo coordinates peek out from her sleeve.

Dark sunglasses hide her face for the most part but if Burr sees her she's toast. The auburn haired woman takes a moment to search the crowd. Ah ha!

By the time soundchecks complete, Marlowe's made her way close to the stage for the complete experience. That's also because she's got her phone out, snapping and recording away. Social media will see it eventually with all the tags. #VIOLENTUNDERDOG #NOTOURFAULT #NOTHINFAIRINLOVEANDWAR #WEVECOMETHISFAR

"Sex Pistols aren't bad," Rory has to admit, with a small grin, though he does doubt this band would meet up to their standards, and as they start, well— they don't. After all, they're not British. But at least he hasn't even been trying to hide his accent anymore as they talk now. He didn't wear black leather or make up, cause he didn't have any of that to wear himself. The closest he came would be in the plain white t-shirt that he's wearing, for the NYC Safe Zone. It's odd not being an actual American at a very American celebration. "Maybe next time rock climbing or something a little quieter or less… crowded." Already talking about a next time?

Not bad. Berlin grins at Rory's opinion of one of the best and well known punk bands of all time. "I like his hair," she says, then belatedly gestures toward the stage, "This guy, I mean. Not— well, Sid Vicious, too." To be fair. "He's got that raspy quality indicative of classic punk. You know, the original punk bands sang that way because Billy Joel— well and singers like him, but as an example— was being called Rock 'n' Roll at the time? And they were like… you have got to be kidding me."

It is possible that Berlin did research for this date. Because of course she did.

When he mentions rock climbing, she looks away from the stage and over to him again. "I would love that," she says, a bit loudly, but only to be heard over the music. Honest.

"We are the children of the revolution! We are the rising stars of evolution! We bear the hate of others in our scars! We can't come up 'cause we've come this far!"

The lead singer shout-sings in the style of ye olde punkers. The melody is catchy. Is it the lyrics? The powerful chords? Good music can evoke emotional responses — suddenly even the least interested in the band begin to feel some stirrings of something. Anger — at what? That varies from person to person. What doesn't vary is the desire to act on it.

Someone in the mosh pit gets bumped into by someone larger — the small teenager, all 5'4" of him, hauls off to punch the kid who looks like he plays linebacker for the college team.

"You're in my way!" growls out a middle-aged man at the couple standing in front of him — as if there are assigned seats on the sprawling lawn.

"Fucking evos!" calls out a punk who came to see the band but didn't realize the group's ideology, apparently — the spiky haired man throws a beer bottle toward the stage. It doesn't reach — but instead hits someone else in the head and splashes several people around them.

It was fairly inevitable that something like this would happen. So Alex doesn't look particularly irritated. His expression is resigned, in fact. He peels himself away from the tree he'd propped himself against to come forward. Power already spooling up, it has him moving in an absurd, Pigpen-like cloud of dust. As if the effort these days wasn't rousing his ability, but keeping a leash on it, like an over-eager, too friendly pitbull.

The moment that the singer had first started to sing, Robyn had turned back to the merch stand, intending on picking up some of whatever they had to buy - it would certainly make for a departure from her standard fare back home.

But when she hears the curse throw out into the air by one of the other attendees, Robyn grits her teeth. Frustration and anger wells in her as she takes a deep breath. Why here, why at an event like this? Seriously, what the hell.

Without taking the moment to consider exactly why she feels so pissed all of a sudden - after all, such a callout should be reason enough, she turns back to the crowd and offers the only reasonable, effective response that comes to mind, one maybe not befitting of her station but certainly one befitting of how that comment makes her feel.

"Fuck you!" she shouts back impulsively, before her hands clasp over her mouth. Did she really just…?

Finally, Zelda decides to help the band, and promptly purchases a purple tank top that she will likely sleep in and not wear out of the house after today. As it stands, she pulls the purple tank top over her black tank top, adjusting it on her frame until she's content that it isn't too wrinkled or bunched up. Once content with her attire, she moves a little bit closer to the stage, keeping her distance enough to avoid any rowdy concertgoers that might not be watching where they're going.

And suddenly, she feels mad. The lyrics stir something in her — perhaps it's frustration at the status of the Evolved in her home country? Or the fact that she feels like she's wholly alone here, so far. Or maybe it's just the douchebag who just put his anti-evo sentiments on display quite prominently, while flinging his beer. Normally, Wilhelmina Falkenrath is loathe to display her anger. She takes it out on the punching bags at the gym, or running.

But today, she decides to do something different. She lifts the beer bottle in her hand, still mostly full of the fermented beverage. Gears turn as her gaze flits back up to the offending punk. And then, after taking three steps closer to the man, she sends the glass bottle flying, hopefully hitting the punk in the chest.

Spotting Berlin and her mmmm hot date from afar the operative smiles before she's craning her neck, she wishes she was closer to see if Burr was snorting like a pig or something crazy but she's content to be a watchful eye for the moment. The rest of the crowd getting a once over as the mood takes a turn.

There's a whole pool of anger, frustration and aggression inside of Lucille and whatever it is that does it.. it's like a match. She's vaguely reminded of Huruma's empathic ability before a man next to her shoves her to the side.

Slightly thrown off balance the woman's eyes flash and she darts forward three fingers jammed into his throat. Lucille let's out a scream of pent up rage. It feels amazing.

The yellow-clad "EVENT SECURITY" staff — all five of them, and all in their late teens — begin to move forward, but they're angry too. One is about to haul off the bigot, reaching him just when Zelda throws the bottle. It hits her target but splatters the security guard who splutters. "Out! both of you!" he hollers, grabbing the man's arm and beginning to pull him away from the stage. The punk takes a swing but it misses the security guard and the punk goes sprawling, knocking into a group of angry-looking fans.

Lucille's target grasps his throat, a hoarse and raspy "Fuck!" coming as he drops to his knees. The woman next to him pulls out a pepper spray container and aims it at Lucille. "Back up! Just back the fuck up!" she yells — luckily she doesn't spray just yet — maybe the look in Lucille's rage face is warning enough.

Up on stage, the band starts looking at one another. They stop playing and the lead singer shouts into the microphone, "Oy! Fuck off if you don't want to listen to our music!"

"We can't come up 'cause we've come this far!" Marlowe's caught on the catchy melody and just the whole feel of the concert. Anger? Oh, baby there is a lot of that going around. And while Marlowe was aiming to get the complete experience, it probably didn't include a brawl. Or a splash of beer getting all over her after it's struck a nearby audience member. And all over her hair (gasp) and her phone (doublegasp). Once the initial surprise wears off and the screen is hastily wiped, the woman spins around with wild eyes looking for a culprit. And she sees Zelda, in practically the same style outfit as her, hurling a beer bottle at someone else. Nevermind where she had gotten the beer from. But clearly the other woman is responsible. Then Marlowe's pushing her way through, leveling a right swing, metal rings and all, at Zelda.

She would love to. That smile on Rory's face is sadly short lived when he hears someone yelling about fucking Evos and the various fighting and yelling and throwing of various things begins. He can't help but feel rage start to boil up in him as he looks toward the source of that voice. He thought he had left that behind when he fled the UK, but apparently those things followed him everywhere— He doesn't have a chance to think on that much when there's a man yelling at the two of them, saying that they are in his way. He turns around to yell right back and the man's fist is flying right at his face…

The yelling gets Berlin's attention, too. That hate is plenty of reason to be angry on its own, but usually she can keep a tight rein on that sort of thing. Today, it's harder than she is ready for. And then, the man behind them is growling and she turns that direction in time to see him throwing a punch at her date.

Berlin steps in, fist knocking into the crook of his elbow to knock his aim off first, but then she shifts, jabbing her own elbow into his stomach. Her own growl sounds a lot more animalistic than the man's did, especially when she takes the moment to kick his legs out from under him. He ends up with his face in the ground and Berlin's shoe pressed against his back.

Coming in to try and mitigate things - how many of these jackasses will be a problem on his wards tomorrow - whatever's feeding anger catches him. And in the case of Nurse Knight, anger's always smoldering below the surface. It's like a match thrown into a stack of sun-dried hay - a second where it's only an innocent glimmer, and then it's a raging bonfire.

Which means, practically, that even as he's trying to work his way into the crowd, his power's off the chain. Things come loose- drinks plucked from their owners' hands, phones, and even impromptu weapons all sailing loose. It's like someone let a furious poltergeist into the crowd, and the chaos only worsens.

As the music starts up, Tamara's attention turns towards the stage, her head canted to one side. She seems mildly curious, if anything, as if listening to a live band were a novel experience — or maybe just this genre. Or perhaps none of the above.

When the gathering takes a turn for the chaotic, she breathes out a quiet breath and studies the crowd with narrowed eyes. It's a calculating kind of look, evaluating, weighing… waiting. But what Tamara actually does, as glass and beer and invective and anger all fill the air, is turn her back on the stage.

Instead, she pads past another merch table and makes a beeline for the woman standing nearby, fingers curling around Robyn's forearm and tugging it down. "Robyn." There's a distinct insistence in the word, in the way Tamara doesn't actually stop until she's moved past. "Come here a minute."

"Always so ready to pepper spray, Maria," says a chiding voice — with no body attached to it. The pepper spray bottle knocked out of her hands by Alexander's impersonation of Paranormal Activity rises from the ground and then disappears — just a body suddenly appears. Bright yellow shirt marks the tall, muscular man as Security.

"Fuck you, Anders," says Maria, as she stomps off, leaving her date choking on the ground and Lucille with Anders.

"Miss, I need to escort you out. There's no throat punches allowed, I'm afraid," the man says. He seems less angry than most — it might be the smell of marijuana clinging to him as strongly as Drakkar clings to a middle school boy at a a dance in the 1990s.

Everything descending into unexpectedly mass chaos should be cause enough for Robyn to get involved more professionally. You know, if she wasn't on vacation and had actually thought to bring her badge with her.

Which it's probably good she didn't because normally having her badge also means having a gun, either her service pistol or personal sidearm, and god knows what kind of trouble that could lead to.

"Oh, shove it up-"

Robyn stops suddenly when her arm is tugged, gaze darting to look at the source with a narrowed eye. The sight of Tamara does some help to temper the anger she feels, but it still wells and bubbles just below the surface, creating an undercurrent of unintended agitation when she responds to the seer.

"The f- Tamara? What-" The insistence for her to follow is met with a sigh and a roll of her eyes - a byproduct of the induced mood rather than her actual feelings on seeing her again. "Sure, right behind you."

Oh hey. That wasn't actually supposed to hit the guy, and it certainly wasn't supposed to hit the security guard. While the yellow-clad guard is busy with the punk, she quickly scrambles back, pulling off the band tank top to reveal the original black tank top as she goes.. As though that will render her unrecognizable. Either way, she takes advantage of the fellow's distraction to get away from the stage, horrified and angry at herself for acting so rashly.

Oh hey, and then Marlowe is punching her. She takes it fairly well, stumbling slightly and putting a hand to her jaw, eyes wide. Oh man that hurts. And now she's really mad. "Fucking bitch!" She hisses in that prim and proper British accent, straightening up to glare at Marlowe. "What the fuck was that for?!"

Apparently, an answer isn't necessary, because Zelda suddenly launches herself at Marlowe, aiming a right hook back at the other woman, while her left hand goes for a fistful of hair.

"For gettin' your fuckin' beer on my phone, kusottare!" spits back Marlowe, eyes flashing hotly. Almost out of reflexive self-defense, she's blocking the right hook and charging in to close the distance between them. Which does put Zelda hands on her hair (and extensions), but at this point, Marlowe's launched herself at the other woman to pull her to the ground.

Seeing his date kick some middle aged guy's ass is enough to shock him out of his anger a little bit, or at least make him angry at himself for not being the one who kicked his ass first?? At least Rory doesn't have anger for her for knowing how to fight. He's not that asshole. "Wow, that's amazing." But his anger for the guy isn't gone, either, so he actually does something he would never do normally and just kicks the guy in the side a little while he's already down. There's things floating everywhere and it's definitely weird. "Maybe we should go." He's suddenly very angry at just about everything here. Including himself for bringing her here.

People begin screaming when things begin flying. "Fucking freaks!" yells the bigoted punk, and other — luckily a small group of them, compared to years' past — begin to join in.

The pink-haired front man shouts into the microphone, but to no avail — he's growing more visibly frustrated as the audience members seem to have forgotten about the band, either fighting or running or chanting at one another. After pacing a few steps, he takes a leap off the stage and into the "mosh pit," beginning to punch and kick as he lands. A group of teens seems to decide that's more than they bargained for and take off running — their hair each a different color — teal, neon red, green, and gray. One of them has a bloody nose from being kicked by the Violent Underdog, but he's laughing gleefully while the blood stains his brand new merch shirt.

Berlin straightens up, flipping her hair over a shoulder as she looks over at Rory. "Thanks," she says, although she's having to work to keep it from also sounding like a growl. There's really no reason for that to be so, which is the thought that crosses her mind as she looks out over the crowd. The anger is there, burning in her lungs and making her breathe heavy like a bull at a red cape. Rory's kick brings her back around, and she steps off the guy and gives him a little shove with her foot. "Comemierda," she says, in parting, because she still feels like that dude deserves it, even if he really didn't. She grabs Rory's hand, because his suggestion is a good one, and she starts them away from the concert grounds at a quick pace. Words are going to wait until she feels more in control of herself again.

It's turned into one of those fits of loss of control…and it sends Alexander staggering back, forcing people out of the way with both power and hands. Scarlet spots bloom and spread on the white cotton of his shirt. Must be the mother of all nosebleeds - he's certainly clutching at his face, as he blunders back towards the edge of the park.

Tramping determinedly over the grass, Tamara leads Robyn in a straight line away from the stage, keeping firm hold of her arm all the while. It isn't until the merch table is a fair distance behind them that she stops, pivots on her toes — bow-bound braid swinging with the force of it — and looks straight at Robyn. "Listen," she says with that same insistence, intently searching the other woman's face. "You hear the difference?"

Robyn grumbles as she follows behind Tamara, but it fades to confused glances around the further and further they get away, and when Tamara stops, the SESA agent blinks and cants her head slightly to the side. "Listen? To the music?" She pauses for a moment, literally turning her ear to the music - there's no audible difference, but after a moment she picks up on the emotional absence. She takes in a breath, eye widening. "Oh shit," she mutters, a glance at the stage, and then back to Tamara.

"My beer didn't go anywhere near you, bitch!" Zelda screams as she's dragged to the ground; her right hand flails about at Marlowe's head and face, while her left remains tangled in the other woman's hair, yanking as hard as she can. "I was throwing my beer at the racist fucker who threw his!" The logical part of her mind is completely baffled as to her seemingly boundless anger; the rest of her starts kicking at Marlowe along with flailing fists and pulling hair.

She's not sure why she's fighting with the woman, but she wants to kick her ass right now.

After a few minutes of mayhem, the feeling of anger begins to fade. The lawn is a mess of thrown objects and items dropped in the melee.

"Shit, Sandy's down!" calls out the drummer, rushing to the edge of the platform and hopping down to where the pink-haired singer has been knocked unconscious by someone — or someones.

The feeling of rage begins to dissipate. There's a lingering sense of irritation — but it's orange or yellow rather than the bright red anger of moments ago.

The guitarist takes the microphone. "We're supposed to rage against the machine, not each other, you assholes. Now get out of here before the MP come and arrest anyone. Have a good fourth."

He too hops down to help 'Sandy' while campus security begins to try to clear the place out.

Fists and fury is happening off to the side where Marlowe is basically sitting atop Zelda, partly by choice, partly because her hair's in the other woman's grip. She catches a few jabs and nails to the face, a few kicks from flailing lower limbs, before finally grabbing for the other woman's neck with a free hand and pressing down rather viciously. Then, as the rage fades away, so does the strength in Marlowe's grip. Where rage fades, a sense of horror grows and she lets go of Zelda abruptly.

It's taking everything in him to keep from punching people, but luckily most of the other outbursts are directed elsewhere and by the time Rory gets to direct his anger at people its actually starting to dissipate from him, only lingering in the form of anger at himself for bring her here of all places. "I certainly picked a right good place to bring you, didn't I?" he mutters to himself as she continues to lead them out of the area, shaking his head a little as he looks back at the stage. They didn't even get to hear a full song. Just the sound check. And the beginning of one.

Once the feelings start to fade, Berlin slows down the pace and breathes easier. She looks over at Rory at his words, then back toward the stage as the band tells people to get going. "I mean," she says before she looks back to him, "it wasn't boring." there's a beat before she takes in a gasp and brings her hands up to cover her mouth. "Oh god, I knocked that man right to the ground," she says, embarrassed. She looks like she might turn back, probably to try to find him and apologize, but then… she doesn't. Because it would be awful if she just ended up kicking him around more.

Seeing comprehension on the agent's face, Tamara nods slowly, somberly. Exactly. Releasing Robyn's arm, she steps aside and looks past her towards the stage, towards the crowd shifting from anger to bewilderment and the security personnel trying to bring the chaos back under control.

"Quiet, now." She looks back to Robyn, and nods once. "But you know."

Offering Tamara a soft smile and a nod, Robyn looks toward the stage herself, before reaching up and patting the other woman on the shoulder. "Thank you for pulling me out," is an earnest remark. "And I'm sorry if I was rude." Without that flaring emotion, it seems like she's regained at least some of her composure. She seems torn, indecisive on what to do next. "Shame. They sounded good," she settles on, glancing down to Tamara. "I'll leave this to people better prepared."

And just like that, the concert is, apparently, a bust. Robyn lets out a long sigh and a shake of her head. "Have you made it to dinner yet?" she asks as she turns away from the crowd, her way inviting her friend along to her next stop in the night.

"You kept him from punching me, so for that much I'm personally grateful," Rory responds with a grin, but he can't help but look down at her hands as if wondering how she's not hurt herself taking down a guy that big— "If you want we could go get a drink or something— of water or coffee or tea or whatever you would like. I know a few places around here or up in Ferrymen's Bay where I live." He's not quite bold enough to suggest actually taking her back to where he lives, but…

"Well… you're welcome for that," Berlin says, her smile more sheepish as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Not much like someone who just took a guy twice her age down. Her hands are fine, by the look of them, but then it was her elbow that dealt the most damage. "You know a good tea place in Ferrymen's Bay? Well, I have to see that," she says. Her hands slide into her back pockets and she walks again, leading them on to a calmer night. One hopes.

Nothing can really quite describe the sensation of a hand pressing down on your throat. Zelda lets out a choked sound, and her flailing becomes more fervent. However, the feeling suddenly fades, and Zelda's more rational mind becomes the stronger voice, rather than whatever anger she has within herself. The look on her face fades from one of fury to one of shock, even as her grip on Marlowe's hair loosens, before she shakes her hand free from the woman's locks. Replacing it is a look of confusion.

As the anger fades, the place empties, the fans taking the guitarist's words to heart and running off before the military police can make their way here — they probably won't. There's no good reception for calling in the help and there are other, worse things to respond to than a 10-minute riot.

The roadies and bandmembers along with a few of the die-hard groupies stick around to help get Sandy, along with the equipment and merchandise loaded, into the van that one of the roadies brings around from where it was tucked behind one of the buildings.

The security team helps clear out anyone not helping the band. Luckily no one seems to need an ambulance. Even Sandy is coming to, groggily helped into the front seat by the drummer.

Suddenly, Marlowe is bodily pulled off of Zelda by the invisible arms of Anders, while another security guard hoists up Zelda from behind. "Time to go, ladies. Too bad, though, I'd have paid to watch that. Would be great in some jello next time, though," says the amiable Anders, still invisible as he pulls Marlowe in the direction of the street, making sure that the security guard who's escorting Zelda is heading in a different direction. Once they get them away from the event, they don't particularly care if the two ladies go at it once more.

Anders might even watch.

As they walk, he hums the opening lines from the singular song from the set: "we are the heirs of the apocalypse."

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