FicWad

“Are you sure about this?” asked Cory. She folded her arms as her foot shook.
“Yes.” I snapped, applying eyeliner to my left eye. I had to stop for a second and glanced at Cordelia. Then I finished outlining my eye in black and then turned around to look at the other three girls.
Cordelia, Raisha, and Deanna were the members of my band, Sinner‘s Despair. I was the lead singer. Cory was the guitarist, Raisha played guitar, and Deanna was drummer. And in this world, we’re everything.
Things aren’t like they used to be. Music is everything. If you’re not musically inclined, you might as well just die. In this time. In this world. That’s all there is to it.
And here, people will do anything to get higher up. Blackmail. Kidnapping. Murder. Whatever. It’s what you’d expect from a pack of rabid dogs, really.
So my friends and I are pretty well off. I mean, we’re not Elite or anything. We’re not like how the Beatles used to be. Nothing like that. We’ve only really been official for a couple of months. Even though we’re getting pretty famous, pretty fast. And you know what? That’s what worries me.
It worries me because some bands that have gotten famous have gotten offed. Just mysteriously. No warning, no answer. But everyone knows what happens. Everyone knows that the big bands like Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and so on. They’re the ones that do it. They’re like a mafia. Like a mob.
I never want to be like that. So I’m worried about getting famous.
“Sinner’s Despair?” the stage manager walked into the dressing room. “You’re on.”
I nodded as the other girls got up. We followed the manager and went out to the stage.
Once there I went to the microphone and grabbed it in my gloved hand. “Hey LA!” I yelled, and the people yelled cheers back. “Are you Ready for Sinner’s Despair?!” This time most of them shouted yes.
Raisha started playing, and we launched into song. We started off with a remix of My chemical Romance, which had been suggested to us by our Agent.
“They're gonna clean up your looks
With all the lies in the books
To make a citizen out of you
Because they sleep with a gun
And keep an eye on you, son
So they can watch all the things you do

Because the drugs never work
They're gonna give you a smirk
'Cause they got methods of keeping you clean
They're gonna rip up your heads,
Your aspirations to shreds
Another cog in the murder machine

They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone'll bleed
So darken your clothes or strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me”
The crowd was cheering as we finished that song. The rest of the concert went perfectly.
Afterward I sat in the dressing room alone. The other girls were out smoking, and I was sitting against the wall staring at the opposite wall.
My name is Angel Pryce. Lead singer of Sinner’s Despair, I’m eighteen and the only Pryce left in the world. My parents were killed by-guess what? Musicians. A band called Die Young killed both of them. They were getting pretty famous as the Pryce family. A singer and a guitarist.
From my dad I inherited my bright green eyes. From Mom I got my dark brown hair. I’m tall and kinda pale. That could have been from either of him.
There was a knock on the door and I looked up. “What?” I asked in my usual mean voice.
“It’s Andrew. Can I come in?” asked my agent from the other side of the thick door.
“Why?” I wasn’t in a great mood.
“I have an idea on how to get you guys in with some elites,” griped Andrew.
“Fine. Come in.” I drew my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my knees.
Andrew came in with a smile plastered on his face. Of course, he always had that. “So you up for this?” he asked, clapping his hands together.
“Up for what?”
“Getting in some favor.”
“By doing what, exactly?”
“Oh you know…stuff.”
Was it just me, or was he totally avoiding the question? “What stuff Andrew?” I growled, glaring at him.
“Well I just thought…if one of you girls….got together with someone like…Well a member of My Chemical Romance. Or something…I mean it’s not like you have boyfriends…or anything.” He rocked back on the balls of his feet.
“So you want one of us to be a whore for one of them in the hopes that they like us for a good fuck and then sponsor us or something, am I right?” I quirked an eyebrow at him. “And did you already have one of us picked out?”
“Pretty much. And uh…yeah.” He didn’t say more.
“Would you like to tell me who?”
“You.”
“No. Get out or you’re fired.” He did so and I shook my head back and forth, as if trying to forget the last conversation.
Here in Sin City, none of that was uncommon. Being a whore to gain famous was almost as popular as eggrolls. I would not sink to that, though I knew the others probably would. In a way I felt like a baby sitter, keeping them out of trouble all the time.