Current location:	The Flat, Southampton, UK
Current mood:	accomplished
Current music:	Apocalyptica- Stroke

Apocalyptica Fic: What Could Go Wrong? Part 6

Daciana returned a time later, along with a couple of others, all bearing bowls of something steaming. These were thrust into the band’s faces as they sat and contemplated their fate, or in Mikko and Antero’s cases, stood and stretched and contemplated. There was little to contemplate for the now- play or be eaten, was the choice upon them, and while none of them wanted to be eaten, it was hard to take the fact of the matter seriously. In this modern day and age who seriously, who- actually ate another? Alright, so these were werewolves.

That, too, had gone down now without issue. Whether they individually clung to an idea of stagy tricks and costumery, or if- as they mostly did- actually think they saw and heard exactly what they had seen and heard- even the prospect of werewolves seemed remote. Werewolves were things for stories and silly films; not real. Trying to take them on board as truth, therefore, was proving slippery.

Focus; focus on what is known. In this case: playing.

Next question: play what? Eicca wasn’t wrong when he suggested it would take magic to summon up instruments and gear. Would a bunch of half-maddened weerde just happen to have four cellos, drums and pickups just hanging out in the backs of their caves?

Eicca straightened his fingers, twisted and rubbed his arms, scowling. Paavo and Perttu were doing what looked like a rowing-on-land mutual exercise by clasping hands and peddling their arms between them, feet braced together.

Oh, minun armas heim- I wish I was with you!

 Eicca was about to call out softly to his friends, when the bowl of hot stewy-stuff ranged into his field of vision.

 

“Eat,” an angry-sounding female voice instructed. Eicca craned up and saw that Daciana was standing over him, the bowl shoved towards him.

“You get the knowledge, too?” he queried, raising an eyebrow.

“What- what Aedd chooses to share is known by all,” she relied stiffly.

“Sounds a bit like a dodgy love-in to me,” the Driver muttered, coming over to sit by Eicca. “Nip-nip, oooh, I know shit!” the Driver rolled an eye to the staring cellist. “Is that a Biblical knowledge?” Daciana scowled at the Driver and thrust the other bowl she carried at him ungraciously, causing it to spill slightly.

“Ow! Huh- in her dreams!” the Driver finished in a glowering mutter.

“I’m sorry- who are you?” Daciana flashed pointed teeth at the Driver. “Seems to me this group is a man over… how sweet; a main course that comes with its own hors d'oeuvres!”

“He’s our palvelija!” Eicca blinked. Where had that idea come from? The Driver squinted slightly, and then nodded.

“S’right. Couldn’t do without muggings, here. Hey-” and he stared hard into Daciana’s eyes- “don’t go eating the means if you want the message!”

 

The look was held between them for a moment longer than most exchanges with the lycans so far, and in it Eicca thought he detected a flicker of recognition on Daciana’s side. The others had received their bowls from the other two werewolves to escort Daciana, and now were accepting wooden goblets of cold, clear water. Perttu and Mikko, hungry and startled, found refuge in their dinner, while Antero and Paavo shrewdly watched the exchange playing out before them.

“You- you look familiar…” Daciana’s face crumpled into uncertainty. Stripped of her habitual scowl, she wasn’t that un-pretty; a little, dark, sharp-eyed thing suddenly looking less than sure. The other two werewolves had gone back to their people; Daciana only had Ion to watch over her with the big, band cellists.

“Me? Nah. Maybe passed through the towns in this country before- I travel a fair bit.” The Driver was dismissive, and interested now only in his dinner, which he slurped with great gusto.

Eicca, Antero and Paavo blinked- had they just missed something? For her part, Daciana was all business again- sneer back in place.

“Shape up, people- Ion, once they are finished, bring them.”

The man-mountain-creature nodded assent and Daciana spun on her heel haughtily.

“S’good, what is it?” Perttu called out as she left.

Daciana smiled slowly down at him.

“Woof, woof,” she smirked, and left.

Perttu started into his bowl- nearly cleaned out, his mouth chewing slowly, the news not having reached its full impact in his brain yet.

“I’m sure it ‘ad a long ‘an happy life…” Mikko offered.

Of all people, it was Paavo who offered the obscure ‘grace’: “When in Rome…”

“Wear a toga?” Antero quipped.

“Amen to that,” Eicca muttered and poked at a suspiciously lumpy bit of… whatever.

Food was food, however, and it had been a long time since lunch. The band ate whatever they felt they could stomach, and once done, ion was over and grabbing them to their feet.

“Ow! Mind the arm! I need that!” Paavo yelped. Ion gave a sticky grin.

“Jus’ feelin’ th’ quality!”

Paavo pulled a face and stood his ground. Ion’s face registered faint surprise.

 

The potential dinner wasn’t meant to get shirty.

 

“Th-this way- c’mon!” Ion settled from shoving Paavo instead, sending him stumbling forwards, Eicca right with him, catching his friend.

Ion growled properly- a truly disturbing thing to hear and see in a man-mountain so very, very big, and three other large (mostly male) figures loomed close, chivvying the band to their feet, hustling them out of the clearing that had been their holding pen and towards the fires and the main gathering.

 

Unconsciously, the band huddled closer together, the Driver bringing up the rear flashing defensive looks about the curiously assembling wildmen and women.

They stumbled into a wider area- an open expanse before the caves they had glimpsed briefly backing the lycans’ forest home. The interior of the caves looked strangely inviting, with plenty of light in there showing what looked like fur-lined sleeping areas, wooden chests and even tables- accoutrements of working countryside homes and houses, transplanted into this rather more rugged setting. The open fore-area was swept of leaves; the ground dry and clean. Overhead between the trees tarpaulins were strung, creating a covered, almost marquee-like space. Beyond this, where the band was now jolted to a halt, the covering was absent and they were under a sky suddenly very cold and sharp with diamond-pointed stars twinkling without mirth.

The old oil drums and open fire pits were scattered around this open area- covered lanterns illuminated the cave and the apron marquee.

Aedd emerged from the crowd- a curious assembly of small and large, of beauty and grace, smooth and hairy, heavy and brutish. All wore the tough, practical clothing they had glimpsed earlier- heavy boots being a requisite. By comparison, the band’s mud-splattered leather boots looked hopelessly delicate. Aedd was wearing Eicca’s duster coat. It was too long on him, and instead added to an effect of a cloak trailing behind.

He came to stand before them.

 

“So, my brave, bully-boys, my bold musicians. You will play, and enchant us with your skill, no?”

he gestured behind and the crowd drew back a ways, to revel on the edge of the marquee’s shelter a small staging area erected from boxes, boards and crates.

Eicca managed a slightly pitying smile.

“We- we need instruments, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Aedd sounded almost bored. “Maybe, in lieu of your own precious equipment, these will do instead?”

He made a languid gesture, and four smaller werewolves stepped forward, carrying cases. These they laid out, the spike end pointing each to one of the cellists. The cases looked worn, battered- old. Perttu grimaced. Thy looked worse than one of their cases halfway through a tour. What sort of battered junk were they going to make they play on and win their bet… oh, God!

Then werewolves had opened the cases.

 

There are some things in this life that make anyone stop and lose their breath. Some things so wonderful, so marvellous that they momentarily steal away all sense. Ladies of yesteryear would have reacted by fainting. Indeed, Perttu was starting to feel a little light headed… In every walk of life there are ‘holy grails’- ultimate versions of deeds or things that make those ‘in the know’ giddy with excitement. Antero’s hands itched to touch… There are aspects of chosen paths, careers and knowledges that become as sacrosanct to the hearts and minds of those who follow them- the ultimate Ideal to aspire to. Paavo was feeling the stirrings of pure transportation.

Eicca... Eicca was nearly weeping with joy.

“Is… is that an original?” he breathed, kneeling down and, unable as yet to sully it with his fingers, caressed the air above it. Similarly, the others were crouched by their cases, passing amazed and fluttering hands over what lay there.

“On thing about living so long; you get to see a lot. We’ve had these stored for years.” Aedd rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Got a whole bloody orchestra back there.” Mikko flashed him a glance, which Aedd caught and shrugged off. “They took a wrong turn.” Then he grinned. Wolfishly.

 

“But- it’s just some old cellos,” the Driver was struggling to make sense of what seemed an incomprehensible scene; the band, all but worshipping some old cellos with a reverence normally associated with a saintly vision.

“Very old and rare cellos,” Mikko clarified.

“Ah. Are they... having a moment?”

“I think so- best leave them to it.”

“Uh- how rare, are we talking, exactly?”

 

It was Antero who answered, stroking the back of his hand down the curve of the neck and along the body, like a lover caressing his sleeping belle.

“One word- Stradivarius.”

“That is a famous name,” conceded the Driver.

“What else, Antsa?” Mikko queried, curious despite himself. No one went ga-ga over rare drums, but it was fascinating to see the pure essence of his friends’ musical devotion; that thing that, while no one said anything about it, was basically the love of what they did that they brought to the alter of the musical gods every time they performed, practise, or even thought about music. For people as trained, as dedicated and as devoted as the cellists of the band, this was like having an archangel come down and inform them that, yes, their faith was true and not in vain, and rewarding them for being so loyal.

It was Perttu who answered. He had found a date mark on the case of his cello, and was cradling it, excited and yet awed. “Stradivarius made cellos- only sixty or so remain. The rarest and oldest sell for millions. The earliest one still in existence is the du Pré-Harrell, from 1673. But- but... but…” his eyes saucered and crossed slightly as he hugged the cello to himself so gently, so tenderly and rocked slightly, his mind short-circuiting from thr effort of containing the relevant thoughts.

“But these say 1670.” Eicca tore his eyes away from his own cello to gaze, confused, at Aedd. “It’s not possible.”

 

“It’s not probable by all known standards,” Aedd corrected him. “Make it- sixty-four cellos of his still knocking about. Like I said, an orchestra-group took a wrong turn in one of our territories… back in the bad old days when we still had to be cruel to be kind and prove we were not to be trifled with. Ah, good old superstition...” he seemed lost a moment in reminiscence.

“They are… extraordinarily well kept,” Paavo murmured, more to himself. Indeed, the wood was sound and strong; smoothed and even oiled against elemental damage. The strings looked new.

“We are werewolves, not animals,” a voice at his elbow spat. He gazed calmly, still dazed by the effect of the cellos, into Daciana’s eyes. She recoiled slightly, mollified by the semi-blank incomprehension there.

“We love beauty- we preserve it, if it deserves it.” She explained in a sulky tone, before skittering away to stand beside Aedd, where she stood taller, taking strength from his assurance.

Aedd rolled his eyes at her. The werewolves sniggered.

“My young and rash colleague is correct. We are not savages, and never have been. It’s all been… for public relations and publicity. Scare the buggers away.”

Eicca blinked. Did he mistake it, or did Aedd sound almost regretful? The moment passed quickly, however, and Aedd was all business again.

“Why did you not play them yourselves?” Wondered Paavo.

Aedd gave a sticky grin and scratched the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish.

“We… we can’t.”

“Why?”

Aedd growled and flicked his fingers upward. The nails automatically elongated, sharp and wicked. “Let’s just say we aren’t an instrument people. We sing. Now! You need some drums!”

 

This to Mikko, who favoured the lycan prince with one upraised eyebrow. He knew perfectly well that there was no such thing as rare drums… holy, moly!

“Is that…?”

Surely not- one of the grail pieces of drummers everywhere… a distinctive set of drums… maybe there was a whiff of sweat there- some lingering remnant of the man who would thrash so hard at his kit onstage that the drums had to be secured with ropes and six inch nails… a man whose very name these night-dwelling wolf-men might appreciate… the approaching drum kit, loaded on a cart and heading for the stage paused by him, and he ran a hand over its chrome and wood and plastic skin surfaces. He shuddered slightly, a deep sigh. A thrill passing through him, for surely this kit had belonged to, been used by-

“Ah, no, sorry, this is just some drum kit we had in storage,” the larger werewolf wheeling the trolley told him.

Mikko’s hand dropped and his face soured.

Just the bloody drummer. Just ‘some kit we had in storage’.

“C’mon, Mikko, you know Moon practically destroyed every kit he ever played!” Perttu, cradling his new ‘baby’ against his body with one arm laid the other around his disgruntled friend’s shoulders. The others, Mikko saw, were standing up with their own Strads carefully poised, trying desperately not to giggle.

“Bit like you and cellos then, Perttu?”

“Don’t listen to him, honey!” Perttu’s arm removed itself sharpish from Mikko’s shoulders and was patting the cello like a prized pet. “He’s just being mean, I’d never hurt you!”

“Better not, or I will hurt you!” Antero growled at Perttu, who pulled a contrite expression.

 

Eicca tore himself away from the spell of the cellos long enough to speak to Aedd, who was watching the band’s good-humoured teasing with a puzzled air.

 

The potential dinner should not be so at ease!

 

“Aedd! These are… amazing. Alright, we have instruments, but what we play- it’s heavy stuff. We need… we need special pick-ups, amps… these ladies won’t be heard over Mikko once he gets going!” Eicca unconsciously shifted the cello neck in his hand, stroking it with his fingertips.

Aedd raised one eyebrow and his hand, clicking his fingers together. Four werewolves- one large variety, three small, trotted forward, hung about with wires and kit and torches and the staple item of roadies the world over: gaffa tape.

“You have two hours to get ready and make good. Go!”

at Aedd’s barked command, the ‘crew’ scurried off to the stage and started swarming over it in the busy-look that crews perfect as a means of hiding the fact that what they are doing is a hell of a lot less complicated than it looks, thereby justifying the mystique.

The rest of the were horde turned back to whatever they had been doing before the band had been brought in. to Eicca’s surprise, this included what looked like wool carding and spinning within the cave mouth, and food pickling in another. Others were oiling and testing the strength of a series of wicked-looking bear traps and heavy weaponry that had gone out of fashion with the advent of cannons. Most were talking- debating, even, by the sound of the tone of conversations being held around the fires.

Eicca glanced back at the band. Mikko, over his grump at not having any ‘special’ instruments was happily bossing about the larger werewolf ‘crew’, having his drums set up to his personal specifications.

The others were lost in admiration of their cellos, bows out and testing them gingerly, then with increasing confidence when it became apparent that these ladies wanted to sing. Paavo actually looked close to tears. Antero’s bottom lip quivered. Perttu just really, really really hyped. Eicca tried a run or two on his cello. The sound was liquid gold.

Oi minun jumala!

 

The Driver, however, was not happy.

“Hey, hey!”

Aedd turned back. “What?”

“They have their cellos, he has his drums, and they are all about to go do incredible things onstage- but where’s my baby, huh?” The Driver’s eyes narrowed. “What’ve you done with my rig?”

Aedd frowned in return and stepped forward.

“Do I know you?”

The Driver smirked. “I have that kind of face- but, no.”

Aedd peered into the Driver’s face, examining it minutely, even sniffing sharply, scenting him. “Sure?”

“Positive.”

“Funny. You’re… familiar.”

“Not this lifetime, chummy, and you’re had more than one to find out.”

Aedd blinked. “You are remarkably forward.”

“If you wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. I doubt you’d find over-theatricality useful. You need these boys and their music to bring something to your people, don’t you? What are you after, I wonder?”

Aedd leaned in so he was nose-to-nose with the Driver. “I could ask the same thing about you.”

“Where’s. My. Rig?”

There was crashing sound- undergrowth being pushed aside, along with shouts and ululating yells. The werewolves answered in broad, laughing barks of encouragement, as through the far end of the clearing came- the tour bus. On the shoulders of eight larger werewolves.

It was a good thing the band had a firm grip on their cellos, or else they would have dropped from numb hands. As it was, Mikko dropped the snare on his foot. A stream of Finnish expletive followed that no one took much attention of.

“O-ok, so they are supernatural beings of enormous strength,” Perttu stuttered as the team carrying the bus- with others gathering around them and offering what was probably an unneeded, teasing commentary, as well as the usual useless instructions any groups feels compelled to give any other group engaged in moving something from A to B.

They reached the edge of the clearing, the bus wobbling slightly on the heavy wood boards lodged on the shoulders of the werewolves carrying it.

Then they let it down. In one go.

“MY RIG!”

There were sounds of loose objects dropping and some smashing from inside the bus, as well as a painful sound of good suspension being out to the ultimate test as the bus’s whole weight collapsed onto the wheels.

The Driver was running forward, shoving werewolves out of the way, until he ran flat into the bus’s flank. He spread-eagled himself against it and stroked it lovingly with his palms. Even rubbing one knee up against it, murmuring endearments along the lies of “what the big, bad, nasty men been doin’ with you, eh? My lovely? All safe, daddy’s here.”

The werewolves watched a moment, amazed, then peeled away quickly, faces registering disturbed disgust.

 

“That,” Paavo spoke for all of them, “Is wrong.”