Chapter Text
The last notes of ”drunk space pirate” rang out over the venue and the audience began to applaud. It was a small bar in London, the small room lit mostly by the stage lighting.
“Thank you, we have been the Mechanisms.” the lead singer of the band, Jonny d’Ville (also known as Jon Sims, currently a researcher at the Magnus Institute), called out to the audience as the band began to pack up.
“If you want to support us there’s a merch table at the exit where you can buy CDs with the story you’ve heard tonight as well as some of our other tales. Please give us all your money” He waved a bit with his prop gun, causing the audience to laugh.
Jon turned to unplug his microphone and pack away some cables. It had been a successful performance of High Noon over Camelot and he was still riding the wave of adrenaline that came with a good show. It was nice to let loose a bit and shed the professional persona he wore at work to sing about violence and tragic endings.
When he looked up again, the bar was almost empty. Where there just a few minutes earlier had been perhaps 60 or 70 people, only fifteen or so remained, none of which he recognised.
This did strike Jon as odd since their fans usually hung around after the show ended and talked with the band. Besides, that many people shouldn’t have managed to leave in the time he’d looked away.
It was Brian who spoke up first: “Hey, did any of you notice when everyone left?”
“No, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? They shouldn’t have managed to leave that fast.” Raphaella looked up from her piano to face her friends.
The rest of the band hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything before a man, carrying a keyboard case, made his way to the front of the stage, stopping to face the band.
He was middle-aged, short, extremely thin and wore an ill-fitting brown suit, all in all not their average audience member. The most unsettling thing about him wasn’t that he didn’t fit in though, it was the way he stared at them, cruel and almost expectant, making them feel uneasy.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ashes broke the silence, staring down the odd man before them. The other bar patrons seemed to pay neither him nor them any mind even though their voice was loud enough that it should’ve attracted attention. The way the audience managed to avoid even looking towards the stage was actually kind of unsettling.
“Don’t you recognise me? I’m Alfred Grifter, though you may know me better as Grifter’s Bone.” The name clearly didn’t ring a bell to any of them so Grifter continued, an emotionless and cold smile on his face. “Ah well, you seem to be on the younger side, wrong generation I suppose. I was actually wondering if you’d like to play a song or two with me.”
At this, Jon let out a shocked “What?” Whatever he’d expected the stranger to say, this was very far from it.
“Yes, I’ve been-“
“No seriously, what the fuck?” Tim interrupted, walking up to the front of the stage to properly stare down at Grifter. “You come up to us after a concert, we know nothing about you, not even if you’re any good at playing and then expect us to play with you just like that! Do you have any idea how shady that is? Give me one good reason as to why we shouldn’t just let the staff kick you out.”
Grifter gestured to the empty bar. “Well, do you see any staff around? That’s a reason as good as any.” A quick look around the room revealed that the only people inside the club aside from the Mechanisms themselves and Alfred Grifter were the remnants of the audience who still didn’t seem to notice them. The previously warm stage lighting at once seemed harsh and unforgiving, casting sharp shadows all over the stage.
Marius was about to question him on what exactly happened to the staff and if he had anything to do with it, but Grifter continued to speak, apparently unbothered by their confusion and the way they had unconsciously taken a small step towards each other, feeling safer in number.
“As for why I want to play with you, it’s actually simple.” As Grifter continued, his voice changed to an almost fond tone that didn’t match his cruel expression. “I’ve been to a few of your shows before and the music you make calls to me. The way you sing about violence, anger and tragic demise, and the raw energy I hear in some of your songs makes me think our music would work very well together indeed. All that pain and anger, isn’t it beautiful?”
As he spoke, the crew grew more and more uncomfortable. Sure, they sang a lot about violence and anger, but there was no beauty in it, only tragedy. Combined with his general appearance the words seemed sinister and almost threatening.
They shared a few worried glances, confirming that the others were just as creeped out by this supposed musician in front of them. It was quiet for a moment before Jon spoke up, his voice resigned and tired.
“Look, just get out of here. We don’t know who you are and we don’t want to play with you.”
He had a really bad feeling about what kind of music Grifter’s bone would play. See, even though he pretended to be a sceptic at work, Jon knew that the supernatural was at least in some form both real and horrifying and he had no intention of encountering it again. The more time he spent near Alfred Grifter, the more certain he grew that whatever this man was, it wasn’t natural.
Normally, he’d discard a vague feeling of something supernatural as preposterous, but he could feel a similar pull towards this man as towards the book that traumatised him as a child. Call it morbid curiosity or whatever you want, but something deep inside him wanted to know how the music sounded, even though he knew it to be an extremely bad idea.
That didn’t matter though, he wouldn’t put his band in danger just to satisfy some stupid fascination with things better left alone, and the larger part of him didn’t actually want more trauma. Hopefully Grifter would just leave if he knew he wasn’t welcome.
“No, I don’t think I will,” Grifter said, because the world is never fair. You only need bad luck to be targeted by the supernatural and it won’t go away just because you asked it nicely.
“You know, it’s kind of rude to ask me to go away when you can’t even begin to fathom what we could create together. Well, I suppose that’s why, so I’ll let it slide. I’m going to play my music regardless of what you do, but I think you’ll find that it’s preferable to not be in the audience when I start.”
“Is that a threat?” Ashes asked, crossing their arms.
“It’s a warning.” He let the words hang in the air as he slowly walked towards the small staircase at the edge of the stage, allowing him to climb up.
None of the Mechanisms made attempted to stop him, even moving out of the way as he walked towards the front. There was something threatening about the stranger and his words that made them back away.
The bar would’ve been dead quiet if not for the other patrons softly chatting in the background, ever so oblivious to the fact that something was very wrong.
When Grifter opened his case and began to set up a small keyboard with keys white as bone, he spoke again, his expression just as cold and calculating as before.
“But I’ll make an exception for you of course, so don’t worry about it. You can see it as a thank you for the excellent show. Join in if you feel like it, your music has such potential and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
None of them dared to say anything (or had any idea of what you could even say to that), somehow knowing that nothing would stop him from playing and that being spared from whatever would happen when he started wasn’t something they wanted to risk.
It didn’t seem worth it to stop him either. Sure, the situation felt very off, but it was probably nothing. What harm could music even do? Most likely he was just playing some sort of bizarre prank. Although deep down, they knew that wasn’t the case.
Then Alfred Grifter pressed a thin finger upon one of the keys and began to play. It was an eerie sound, a clear and haunting note that filled the venue, louder than it should have been seeing as the keyboard wasn’t connected to anything. At once the audience stopped chatting and turned as one towards the stage, staring at him.
Two more notes joined the first, forming a chord that was discordant, yet achingly beautiful. He struck another chord and began playing a slow melody with his right hand, fingers leaving dark red marks on the keys as if he’d dipped his fingertips in blood before starting to play. It was the most beautiful melody any of them had ever heard.
None of the Mechanisms knew who had joined in first, not even noticing that they had picked up their instruments until they were already playing. Was it the steady rhythm of the bass or the drumbeat of the cajon? Or was it a strum of the guitar or the stroke of a bow on the violin? Maybe it was another keyboard joining Grifter’s. It could’ve been the synthesizer or the harmonica, perhaps even the clear notes of the glockenspiel or the airy sound of a flute.
Who joined in first didn’t matter. What mattered is that all of them played that haunting melody together with Alfred Grifter. They were fleshing it out into a proper song, somehow knowing what to play and creating harmonies and countermelodies as they went. What mattered is that all of them had joined in despite never making the conscious decision to do so. What mattered is that the melody picked up speed and intensity, still eerie but with a clear drive forward. What mattered was the screams coming from the audience.
Jon was lost in the flow of playing, even more so than usual. Being swept away when singing or playing wasn’t unusual for him, but never to this degree. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this good, like being high on adrenaline but more, his heart beating faster and body moving to the music.
It was almost like the feeling he tries to channel while playing Jonny d’Ville, violence personified, but a thousand times stronger and so much more. The screaming echoing through the bar made him come back to himself and he looked out over the audience, still playing the song of Slaughter on his harmonica.
They’ve turned against each other and they’re fighting, ripping each other apart while screaming in pain, anger and fear. The music had driven them to madness and Jon knew that he’d helped cause this, but couldn’t bring himself to care.
One man punched another several times, perfectly in sync with the beats of the drum. He retaliated with a kick to the first man’s stomach, causing him to fall backwards. A woman armed with a broken bottle in each hand stabbed him in the chest to the tones of a piano, but it was impossible to tell if it was Raphaella’s or Grifter’s. A particularly accentuated note from the violin caused someone to rip a man’s arm off.
Jon played a short melody causing the now one-armed man to scratch his attacker’s face, leaving three bleeding wounds behind. The fighting looked almost like a dance. Screams filled the air of the small bar as blood pooled on the floor.
Jon couldn't stop playing even though he knew it was wrong, just like he couldn’t stop reading that damned book so long ago. Although this time, instead of mounting dread and fear he’s filled with elation, not even knowing if he wanted to stop anymore.
Every nerve was on fire as he played, filling every single note with as much emotion as possible. The music they created together was haunting and oh so beautiful. The audience tore each other apart over it, and causing such violence should’ve felt wrong, he should stop playing, but it felt so right. Like a puzzle piece he didn’t even know missing finally slotting into place. The devastation was glorious and the power he wielded intoxicating.
Glancing over at his fellow bandmates, Jon could see a gleam in their eyes that he knew was mirrored in his own. A thirst for blood. He smiled at them, a vicious smile, and kept on playing.
He should be afraid of what was happening, of how fast a normal concert turned into a bloodbath. He should worry about what would happen after this moment, when they stopped playing. But the music was too captivating, and it was way easier for him to just give in and lose his conscience. In the moment there was only music and he was drunk on the power, hoping it would never end.
All things eventually come to an end and this song of slaughter was no exception. Almost twenty minutes later, when only one member of the audience was still standing, the music started to slow down.
She didn’t seem bothered by what she’d done, clutching a broken and bloody bottle in a hand that’d probably been broken and bled from a stab wound in her left side. As the final note sounded over the mangled remains of the audience, she turned around and limped towards the exit.
Before the Mechanisms had fully some back to themselves, still dazed as the adrenaline wore off and the weight of what they’d done sunk in, Alfred Grifter quickly packed up his keyboard and turned to face them one last time.
“I’m glad you decided to join in after all, it looks like you enjoyed it. It was glorious, wasn’t it? You don’t even have to worry about the police, all of them were already dead. Except for her of course -” He gestured at the door that was quickly closing behind the only survivor. “…but I doubt she’ll report it. I wouldn’t normally tell you this, since I find people’s regret at the death they cause much more… satisfying, but playing with you makes up for it.”
He took a deep breath and picked up his instrument case. “Let’s call it a favour, shall we? I haven’t had this much fun in ages. If you feel like playing again sometime you’ll know where to find me.”
With that he turned around and disappeared before any of them could say something. He was gone, almost as if he’d never been there at all. The band stared at each other, dumbfounded.
“Well, fuck,” Jon said, his gaze drifting to the corpses (if you could even call them corpses at this point, it was almost impossible to tell where one ended and the other began). “What have we done?”
“We can have a breakdown about that later, the important question is what we do now.” Nastya said. “I mean, we can’t exactly call the police and I doubt we could hide the bodies.”
“We leave,” Raphaella said as she stood up from behind her piano. “We pack up our instruments and leave. Whatever that was, it wasn’t natural and there’s nothing we can do for them, especially if they were already dead like Grifter said.”
“They were alive half an hour ago!” Marius shouted. “They can’t have been dead, that’s impossible. He somehow tricked us into playing fucking murder music with him! I’m not trusting anything says. They were alive, you saw them!”
“The music made them murder each other. That shouldn’t be possible either, so how much of a stretch is it to believe that they were already dead?” TS piped in. “It’ll be easier to live with this if we believe there’s at least a chance that we weren’t the ones to kill them in the first place.”
“Fuck, we just killed a lot of people. Not willingly, but they’re dead because of us and I fucking enjoyed it.” Tim stared at his guitar in horror. “What do we do? Is there even something we can do?”
“It feels wrong to just leave,” Brian said, standing up from the cajon where he’d been sat. “But what else can we do? As long as we talk about this later instead of pretending it didn’t happen.”
“We can talk tomorrow morning when we’re not half in shock,” Ashes said. They were looking at the floor as if to avoid eye contact. “I think we should leave.”
“It’s probably good to see what the police and the news has to say about it too. Before making some kind of plan I mean,” they added, almost as an afterthought.
“Then I vote we talk tomorrow,” Ivy said. “What about a sleepover tonight? Because I don’t want to be alone after this.”
All of them agreed to that plan and began to once again pack up their instruments, the room deadly quiet behind them. They left shortly after, doing their best to avoid looking at the bloody remains on the floor.