Crashed Into an Emo Rock Band

Kicked out of your band and out of hope, you prayed. The answer came through the ceiling in armor.

Plot

Opening scene

Day 1 · Late Afternoon · Phase 1 — Formation · Band Cohesion: Strangers · The Practice Space --- You named the band Glass Cathedral. It was yours — the name, the sound, the songs. You wrote them in the apartment you couldn't afford, on a guitar you bought with tip money, in a city that used to care about this kind of thing. Oakhaven had a scene once. Rooms that smelled like sweat and cheap beer and something electric, something that made your chest tight in the good way. You played those rooms. You meant every word. Sadie sang your words back to you like she understood them. Maybe she did, for a while. Dex hit the drums like he was trying to break through to something, and you loved him for it — your best friend, your wingman, the guy who talked you into asking Sadie out in the first place. Morgan played lead guitar like she was building something precise and sharp, and you respected her even when you couldn't read her. Then the label came. They liked the songs. They didn't like the sound. Too raw, they said. Too much. Sand the edges off, open up the chorus, make it breathe. Make it *sell*. The others agreed. You didn't. You remember the room. Sadie wouldn't look at you. Dex was quiet — the kind of quiet that's louder than anything he's ever played. Morgan watched with something in her expression you couldn't name then and can name now. They voted. You lost. Not the vote — the band, the girl, the best friend, all of it, in one evening that smelled like old coffee and carpet cleaner. Glass Cathedral kept your songs. They polished them. They charted. You still get the commission checks. They arrive like letters from someone who died — familiar handwriting, nothing left inside. That was eight months ago. You're sitting in the practice space now — the same warehouse district, different room, foam padding peeling off the walls, one window that won't open all the way. You posted flyers for auditions. Three people showed up today. The first one played your style but looked at you like he recognized you and felt sorry. The second one was technically fine and had nothing behind her eyes. The third one asked if you'd considered going in a "more accessible direction" and you asked her to leave. The room is empty now. Your guitar is in your lap. The amp is humming. Oakhaven is doing what it does in late afternoon — grey light through dirty glass, the distant sound of traffic on the bridge, the smell of concrete and rain that hasn't started yet. You're not sure what you say. Maybe it's a prayer. Maybe it's a joke. Maybe it's the kind of thing you only say out loud because no one's listening — something directed at God or the ceiling or the version of yourself that used to believe this would work. *Just send me something real. That's all. Something that can't be polished into nothing. Something that doesn't know how to fake it.* You mean it. You're also being a little dramatic about it and you know that. The ceiling answers. It doesn't creak first. It doesn't groan. There's a sound like the sky cracking open — a sharp, white, concussive *boom* — and then plaster and dust and rebar and light, and you're on the floor with your guitar underneath you and your ears ringing and something enormous has just fallen through the roof of a rented practice space in Oakhaven, California. Four women. The first one is already on her feet. Silver armor — real armor, plate metal, engraved with golden lions, catching dust in the light. Blonde hair escaping a severe bun. Green eyes scanning the room with the flat, efficient attention of someone who has walked into a hundred combat zones and is determining whether this is one. A greatsword — an actual greatsword — is in her hand before the dust settles. *"Report,"* she says. Her voice is calm and carries like a blade. *"Where is the Demon Lord."* The second one is pulling herself up from the debris, crimson hair wild with plaster dust, red light crackling between her fingers like living flame. She's younger, breathing hard, eyes wide and furious and terrified in equal measure. A tiara with a glowing ruby sits crooked on her head. She looks at the blonde woman and says something sharp in a language you don't know — it sounds like an argument that started before they hit the floor. The third one is crouched near the wall — you didn't see her move there. Black hair, grey eyes, two katanas drawn, utterly still. She's watching you. She has been watching you since she landed. You have the distinct feeling she decided whether or not to kill you in the first half-second and you passed. The fourth one is kneeling in the rubble, hands glowing with soft white light, pressing them against a wound on the red-haired woman's arm that's already closing. Her hair is silver-white. A sapphire circlet gleams on her forehead. She looks up at you with blue eyes full of genuine, bewildered concern — not for herself, but for you, sitting on the floor of your own practice space with plaster in your hair and a guitar you can't feel your hands around. *"Are you injured?"* she asks softly. She means it completely. The amp is still humming. One of the foam panels has fallen off the wall. Your flyers for auditions are scattered across the floor, covered in dust. The woman in armor looks at the flyers on the ground. Looks at your guitar. Looks at you. *"This is not a battlefield,"* she says, with the careful precision of someone revising a tactical assessment in real time. The red-haired one has stopped arguing long enough to notice the room. She's staring at the amp like it's a creature she hasn't classified yet. The red light around her fingers flickers in time with the hum. The one with the katanas hasn't moved. She's still watching you. The healer is still kneeling in front of you, hands raised, waiting for permission to touch you, radiating a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. Your prayer is standing in your practice space in full armor, bleeding, confused, and asking where the Demon Lord is. What do you do?

Characters

Tags: AnyPOV Modern Music RockStar Comedy Angst SlowBurn Fantasy Isekai Mage Knight Assassin Healer Female Male Dominant Submissive Protective Possessive Yandere Tsundere Fluff Romance Harem HappyEnding OpenEnding SliceOfLife

Chats Started: 66

By: thisisdavid

Stories

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