Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ VIVA ❯ Stage struck with Viva Voce ( Chapter 18 )

19: Viva Voce on Stage

 

It began with Middle C. The note, not the chord, droning with the Cello in perfect unison with the bass. The chimes tinkled evocatively in the background as soft blue light dimmed over the stage, shattering into a million fragments, refracting onto the silent, rapt faces of the audience as the stage once again dimmed to black, the sound echoing into nothing.

 

Followed by a minor chord, such as E, on the guitar, with the violin already threading a wisp of melody over the top; a miniscule tease as green and purple faded across the stage until once again there was silence, anticipatory, waiting, thousands holding their breath waiting.

 

A flash of gold on the drum stage; a scant momentary glimpse of Relena in the shimmering colour, her gold-painted face glaring down on the audience, drum sticks raised as if ready to strike them all down, and then she was gone but silver bloomed in its place and there was her counterpart, at her side on the same stage, the perfect mirror, only silvern and shadowed where Relena was bright. Each of them somber as night.

 

Another chime, a thread of orange, like fire, spilling across the base of the stage, the low whine of a flute in its lowest register struggling to go higher, spilling a complimentary pink tongue, adding to the flames.

 

And then it began. A heavy, pounding bass drum from the rock kit, the gentle flashes of gold from the brush kit, the small drum stage lit with fire. And then the Cello, loud and mournful, filled with sorrow, filling the stage with blue that clashed against the purple as Quatre joined in, the two string melodies entwining, wrapping around one another like lovers until they were broken apart, the harmony of colour shattered by a brief flare of red, and in that flare waited the dark shadow of dancers, scantily clad bodies in black suits threaded with beads to refract the light that hit them…

 

The guitars wailed, smashing whatever serenity there had been in the scene, the rock kit blasting into full force even as the brushes beat out thirty second note rhythms in fast succession, the green of the guitar and bright sky blue of the bass smashed against the waiting dancers and they glowed in the light, leaping to action, bodies shifting inhumanely as they crawled from the trench around the stage and wound themselves through the band.

 

The drum gave them rhythm and their feet moved. The melody gave them purpose and arms and legs followed. Shocked gasps from the audience as they shifted key, blinding running through the score, building it ever higher, to that point where you were sure the whole world was ready to break in half and then holding it there, on the brink until the smooth, shrill sound of the piccolo broke it all apart and the court jester flipped into center stage in a flare of wild pink light. Hot and bright. A projection of his mask enlarged over the scene drowned the suddenly silent stage in an eerie glow as the clown bowed low and a series of cages lowered from the ceiling, bodies curled tight inside, as if asleep, though one slowly, ever so carefully, unfurled.

 

The voice rang out through the auditorium, halfway between a scream and the last night a person would ever hear, beautiful and terrifying as the bottom fell out of the cage and the body fell…

 

The drums pounded, bodies rushed forward in the gold and silver light, catching, hiding, milling about in a perfectly controlled chaos as those who watched gasped and clutched at their seats, leaning forward to better see, to feed on the sensorial feast being offered.

 

The mob fell away and there he stood, in cloak and fine black lines that revealed everything of the body, slashes of bright red that mimicked the makeup of the crew; lipstick dark eyes, pale skin. It was not the kind of vampire you heard of in romantic stories, but the original ghastly ghoul who haunted the stages of Paris, Milan and Dresden, torn from the history books and placed back on the stage.

 

His voice tortured the masses, accompanied by the desperate moan of an ethnic flute and the fast paced, trilling rat-a-tat-tat of a Chinese drum. Red and pink and orange flared across the stage and it looked to those who watched as though the mass of performers had been lit on fire as the colors danced and mingled among the sounds. Like the king of the mad court had lit his subjects on fire in his fury.

 

Then it dissipated into nothing, and again they all waited, a trickle of green spreading among them as the guitar worked through the modes, screeching through the octaves until fingers were pressed so close to the edge of the frets one had to wonder how they did not fall off, and then the Electric Orchestra truly came to life.

 

Above their heads the bodies in the cages woke, whipped by the flung strips of bright light, screeching in protest, moaning in desperation as hands reached through bars in supplication. Begging, but for more or less was anyone's guess.

 

The vampire King mumbled his edicts and his subjects obeyed, tearing each other limb from limb in spiels of taffeta and silk brocades as the music wound tighter, grew faster, a war taking place between brushes and sticks, nylon and steel, lights flaring in thick, heavy walls spreading a dark rainbow across the stage and suddenly there, at the base of the rainbow, in the place of a pot of gold, stood the jester, and it seemed ironic to those who watched that he should stand in the place of their greed.

 

The classical flute lit the stage with a faint pink light, soft but building, challenging somehow, yet the king did not move. The Cello slowly joined, a quiet blue mist slipping around their feet, and then the bass and the brush kit, working in tandem as the jester slowly stalked his way closer through the throng, motioning to the vampire with his body language as if daring him to come out.

 

The king noticed at the last moment and rushed forward in a wailing bellow of voice, guitar and violin underpinned by the smashing of the tom-toms and a loud Asian horn. And a fight broke out on the stage, a gate opening at the back of the stage and following a series of small ditches on the stage, thick blood pouring between the falling bodies, flooding over the front of the stage, the projector showing images of torture, mayhem and death in the small waterfall.

 

After a time, the stage was quiet. The dead lay all around and between them stood the vampire king, frozen, and the court jester, flute raised high in the air as the Cello droned, washing the blood black with a sickly maroon tint, almost purple as it continued to flow off the front of the stage into the small catchments built at its foot. The jester laughed and the sound send white light soaring to a massive chandelier in the center of the auditorium ceiling, splattering the audience with light and among them rose the spirits of the dead in their ghostly apparition wisps of cloth, leaping over chairs into the aisles and tormenting the audience as they streamed toward the stage.

 

They gathered around the jester, and they shattered his flute across the floor in a rain of glass bells before dragging him to the cage and chaining him to its base.

 

The drum solo was loud and the blood pumped over the stage, flashes of cities falling, civilization blurring forwards and then backwards again as the pictures skipped randomly through time.

 

And then the King rose, drenched, his white face turned red as he stalked forward, the sound of his voice washing the stage red as he drew his sword and screams of terror issued from the audience and the mob surrounding them all, and then it lunged forward and the sound of a flute echoes and died, falling, fading into nothing, the pink light extinguished as the band leapt to life again, the king thundering a loud, demanding chorus in another language, like a creature from another world as he walked to the front of the stage, the cage rising behind him with the jester's body hanging loose from it.

 

The King's arms were outstretched, as if begging the audience into his arms, the words drawing them further into his lure, but just before he reached the front of the stage, a series of sparklers went off, exploding along the edge and the blood pouring off the front turned purple, threaded with silver, the images changing, morphing into visions of the future, to colonial settlements, to the advances in technology and one had to wonder if they were all that different to the images from before.

 

Then the cage exploded, the minions beneath scattering, fleeing into the audience as the jester appeared before the king, his mask shattered, flute remade and in his hands like some wicked ghost.

 

The guitar leapt into a solo, battling with the bass, the violin challenging the Cello, the drum warring as the king and the jester danced across the stage in a mingled mass of voice and flute, spiraled through so many effects modules it was impossible to know where one sound began and the other ended.

 

Higher and higher, the music created tension that was visible, the audience shifting to the fronts of their seats as the two combatants tripped across the stage until at last the violin and the flute hit high F together and stayed there as the rest of the orchestra came to an abrupt halt and the last note rang out, loud and pure and ear shattering.

 

And the king fell to the last note, leaving the jester standing alone in a flood of multi-coloured light. And then he bowed.

 

And the curtain closed. The bass and drums thundered out a closing number from behind the curtains as a projector rippled a word across the closed curtains.

 

Viva.

 

*

 

They sat on the edge of the stage, staring at the empty auditorium through sweat slicked bangs, bottles of coke, water and fruit juice scattered all around, the rough copy of the nights video playing on the projector while the last of the colored water dripped from the edge of the stage into the catchments below their feet.

 

“Thanks for playing…you were awesome.” Relena held out her hand to Solo, who took it with a grin and a wink, hauled Hilde over to the corner he had claimed as his own and promptly forgot he had performed at all.

 

“You weren't too bad yourself, you know,” Dorothy pointed out and Relena turned to find her right there, at her side, finally a genuine smile on her face and it amused Relena a little as she took one of the slender, long-fingered hands and gave it a little squeeze that promised more to come.

 

“That…was unreal. I can die now. Seriously, shoot me, I won't care. It can't get any better than that.” Duo collapsed backward into Heero's lap, blinking up at the guitarist as if he hadn't known just where his head would land.

 

“Maxwell, there is always better. Like…the next one.” Wufei glanced aside at Trowa who just smiled and gave a small nod and everyone knew the maestro's mind had already moved on, imagining something bigger, something better. Something more. Quatre seemed entranced by the idea as he leant on Trowa's shoulder and blew in his ear, trying to distract him, if only for a moment.

 

It made Sally chuckle as she came out of the trench and sprawled in the pit in front of the catchments. She looked up at them all and pulled a camera from her pocket, clicking several times happily while Wufei frowned at her.

 

The doors at the end of the auditorium opened and two shadowy figures came in. They didn't come all the way, just stopped halfway down the long stairway and bowed low, leaving a bunch of roses there in thanks. The EO waved tiredly to the recluse's and let them go.

 

As they were leaving, Standish slipped in, waving his arms excitedly. Heero sat up a little taller, cracking his knuckles with a smirk.

 

“Oi, did you hear? Dermail got fired! He packed up and left while the concert was on!” Standish was apparently so excited about this news he was yet to put down his trumpet. Trowa followed it with a lazy finger as it was waved around on the end of Standish's arm.

 

“Whose his replacement?” Duo asked, the only one who seemed confused, though he was the most relieved of the group.

 

“Kushrenada!”

 

There was shocked silence at that, and then Heero looked across at Wufei who simply scowled back at him. Sally grinned from ear to ear, gave a loud whoop and then settled back against the floor, the sudden flare of energy gone.

 

“Celebrate?” Hilde asked suddenly and everyone was quiet, still. Considering.

 

Heero stood first, pulling Duo up with him and moving off to where he had left his guitar. Hilde followed, pushing Solo to the drums. Relena let Dorothy haul her upward, Trowa just shrugged and he and Quatre quietly picked up their instruments. Wufei sighed and pulled his box over to the edge of the stage, pointing at the desk and smirking as Sally grumpily got up to obey.

 

The power came on. The lights flashed as a drum beat counted them all in, and they erupted into an encore performance; the original score with improvised solos, additions, jamming over the top of Trowa's piece and tearing the perfection to shreds with delight.

 

“Hey Tro,” Duo yelled over the mic. “Thought of your next Voce?”

 

“Maybe,” Trowa mouthed knowingly and Duo just laughed, picking up the discarded clowns mask and putting it on; claiming the jesters position and taking his place in history with the rest of the Electric Orchestra as creatures outside the political, human nightmare people liked to call society, living on its fringes for a brief moment in the spotlight, feeding off the performance, breathing the music and letting art be the blood of his life.

 

 

~owari~

I know this is not the ending many were hoping for. However, over the course….very long course…of my writing this fic there have been countless enquiries as to the purpose of the fic. Now that its done, and you're done reading, I don't mind letting you all know that Viva was never a romance story. It was never about two characters getting it on. VIVA was, and will always remain, about the music. From the structure to the plot, to this end, I was concerned always with sharing the idea that music is something outside of our concepts of `right' and `wrong'; that it transcends all boundaries. Hopefully something of that message got across and you aren't all too disappointed. Kkls. Leth

 

VIVA is inspired by many pieces of music, however the key to its creation and its completion was the Finnish rock band `CMX' and their album `Isohaara'.