Author's Notes: Started out just as something for fun for NaNoWriMo 2008 (nanowrimo [dot] org) . Then I showed it too some friends whose characters I borrowed. It seemed only fair that I showed them what I had written.

Now I've got requests to finish the story. :\

Based on player-characters from the browser-based MMORPG Popmundo (popmundo [dot] com).

Special thanks to the players behind Neil Johnson, Gareth Reay, Cabot Mitchell, Pascaline Foulquier, and Sylvia Mendoza (so far), for letting me use their characters.

I'll try not to butcher them too badly.

-Jan "Sam" P., 01/15/09

Chapter One: Coming Home

"Yo, I hear there's a hot chica playing a gig here tonight, eh?" His co-worker chortled, "Whadda'ya think, Ken? Maybe I'll get lucky tonight."

Ken only half-heard his friend from under the bar. Not that he wasn't interested, but who got laid tonight wasn't exactly at the forefront of his mind.

"Hey, Dex? Could you pass me that plank of wood over there?"

He got a playful kick in the ribs instead. It wasn't strong, merely a push, but Ken straightened instinctively anyway, knocking his head on the edge of the counter top as he came up. The entire bar rattled and the make-shift shelf he had been building fell with a loud thud.

Rubbing the back of his head, the young man frowned at his companion, "What the hell was that for?"

"That was for being a stick in the mud," he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Well, sorry if your future sexual conquests aren't overly interesting right now, but we need a place to store the new shipment of glasses to replace the ones that broke with the shelf yesterday."

"You mean these?" asked a voice.

A box glided down the length of the bar with just enough momentum to stop gracefully in front of the two bartenders. They looked over to see a man standing at the far end of the bar where the package had slid from.

"Don't worry about the shelf, Ken," he told him as he approached, striding with a pride and confidence that spoke of someone who knew the world was his for the taking. "The carpenter's going to be in tomorrow to take care of that. Just run these through the wash and stack them in a rack for now. We probably won't need them 'til tonight anyway."

Ken caught Dex's slight predatory grin through the corner of his eye, but kept silent. Dex always claimed that the quality of sex increased exponentially with the fame of the partner.

Now he struggled to hide his sly smile, a seduction plot probably already forming in his skull.

"Expecting a big crowd tonight, boss?" he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

The boss paused and looked at him, taking a moment to study the younger man. Dex ran a nervous hand through his sandy brown hair, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. Something was different. The bar owner had never made a judgement on his promiscuity before; it was odd that it should matter now.

After what seemed like forever and a day, he folded his arms and looked at the bartender straight in the eye, a sure sign his next words were law.

"Not this one, kid," he said simply, with the finality of a judge's gavel.

Fidgeting nervously, Dex diverted his glance to anywhere except his employer. "Uh, sure thing, boss."

The older man nodded, smiling in satisfaction. "Good, we have an understanding then." His tone changed from grim to light as he changed the subject. "Anyways, let's get these babies unpacked, boys." He patted the box with a grin. "I'll get a rack. We open in an hour for the lunch rush."

He exited toward the kitchen.

With his piercing eyes finally turned away from him, Dex stared at the back of his retreating black shirt until it disappeared behind the swinging doors.

"Did he just call me 'kid'!?" he declared indignantly. "He's only like 2 years older than me!"

Ken only half-heard him, already unpacking the fragile contents of the box. "Yeah, well, he does sign your pay-cheque, Dex. I think he's entitled to call you anything he wants as long as it's not profane and not done with ill intent."

He was too focused on his work to notice the dirty look thrown in his direction.

The tiny mini-van rumbled down the poorly maintained road. He would have liked to catch a nap before the next show, but the infinite number of bumps in the asphalt and the fact that it was his turn behind the wheel prevented him from taking that much desired respite. Instead, the bassist had the luxurious privilege of stretching out among the instrument cases and stage equipment in the back. The band's sudden abandonment by their drummer left just a little more room to recline for someone with just the right size of frame.

This calm, relaxed demeanour was in complete contrast to the body of energy that sat (yet failed to sit still) in the front passenger seat beside him as he drove. She seemed to bounce more than their little vehicle did on the uneven highway.

He grinned, deciding to extract some of that excitement before she burst. "Excited, eh?" he asked in a laid-back Prairie drawl.

"Madre de Dios! Ya kiddin' me, right?" she paused to let her smile spread across her face. "Hells, yeah, I'm excited! I'm goin' home!" If she hadn't been belted to her seat, he could have sworn she would have been doing a happy dance right then.

"If you can find your home in that mess of an urban sprawl you call a city," he laughed.

"Hey, ya just jealous my city is ten times bigger than yours!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Hey! Keep it freaking down in front!" interjected a voice from the back of the van, somewhere beneath a blanket and wedged between a pair of guitar cases.

"Sorry, Mikey," they apologized in unison, then unsuccessfully stifled a laugh.

Their bassist was not amused. Grumbling, he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

They sat in silence a moment, quietly grinning at each other, before one of them spoke again.

"You know, size doesn't always matter, Syl," he commented with a sagely smirk.

"Matin' call of the self-conscious, prairie boy," she teased back, childishly sticking out her tongue.

"Hey! Low blow, city girl!"

"Feh, right," she folded her arms proudly, smirking triumphantly at him. "In your dreams, catgut."

He looked at her curiously.

"Oh-whoa, where'd the gutter brain come from, Miss Mendoza?"

"Oh, probably listenin' to either you or Mikey watch late-night porn in the motel rooms when ya guys thought I was asleep," she said as she casually leaned back, feigning nonchalance that was slowly subverted by an evil grin.

He stared at her, incredulously.

"You heard that?" His shade of red was priceless.

Laughing, she was about to reply when she cut herself off, her tone turning frantic. "Eyesontheroad! EYESONTHEROAD!" She pointed urgently through the windshield.

He reacted before his mind registered what he saw, steering the van instinctively out of the path of the oncoming car.

They sat in shocked silence, breathing heavily, as the van bumped along. Their vehicle remained in its proper lane a few minutes before Mikey finally got up from the back of the van.

"You guys freaking suck," he grumbled as he propped himself up between the bucket seats. "Next time we're hiring a freaking driver. At this rate, you're gonna get us killed long before we even have a remote chance of getting a freaking Juno."

The young man knew he was being followed; he kept up the charade for about three blocks before he finally spun around to address his 'predator'.

"I know you're out there, so you better come out! The jig is up!"

Silence (and wary glances from fellow pedestrians) answered him back. He scanned the street of bars, shops, restaurants, boutiques, and whatever else inbetween randomly scattered up and down its length. Small independent establishments sat comfortable and unthreatened beside franchised businesses. The streetcar that rattled by found no oddity in its patchwork surroundings.

"You can't hide from me! I know where you live!"

A frightened couple quickly crossed the street as he retraced his steps. Suddenly self-conscious, he ran an embarrassed hand through his hair as he glanced around.

"Aww, come on, buddy! You're making me look bad!"

This last plea finally elicited a response from underneath a display in front of a florist's shop. As he crawled out from under the technicolour vegetation, the 'stalker' gave off what seemed to be a self-satisfied meow.

"Ha ha, very funny," the man frowned at the whiskey-brown cat. "You enjoy making me look bad entirely too much."

The feline mewed in agreement and idly licked its paw.

"Look, you can't come. You know that. 'No pets allowed' and all." He knelt down to pet the ball of fur, but he indignantly ducked his hand. "Oh, come on. Don't be like that."

Sighing, he shook his head as he stood up. "Fine," he conceded reluctantly, "you can come."

Instantly, the cat was by his feet, rubbing gratefully against his leg. "Hey, don't thank me yet. There's no guarantee they'll let you in through the door."

If he understood, the cat seemed completely unconcerned as he looked up eagerly at the young man. "Yeah, I guess we'll figure it out when we get there, eh buddy?"

He turned to continue on his way, but oddly enough, after the previous exchange, the feline refused to follow. Instead, he caterwauled his protest, stopping the man in his tracks.

"What is it now?" He glared at the furball in frustration.

The four-legged creature nosed a blossom that had fallen from the florist's display, and meowed up at him expectantly. A moment passed before his annoyance melted as he began to comprehend.

"Oh my god. Whiskey, you're a genius! What would I do without you?"

Grinning, he went to enter the shop, but paused at the door to look back at the cat, who was already making his way to follow inside. "Stay there. I'll be right back. I'm going to have a hard enough time sneaking you in one place, let alone two."

As he disappeared through the door, the cat yawned and sat contentedly on his haunches to wait for his-- somehow 'owner' didn't seem to be the right word to describe him.

Lunch rush lasted longer than usual, as if the clientèle had decided collectively to enjoy the last few days of summer outside. Only a precious few remained inside to enjoy their meals and drinks (and air conditioning) within the walls of the popular bar and grill; everyone else was basking in the sun on the rooftop patio. This made the interior of the establishment busy without appearing so.

Dex lamented the lack of tight shirts and skimpy tank-tops in his field of vision from his position behind the bar. A well-shaped waitress in a low-buttoned blouse came over with an order of two martinis and a sex-on-the-beach. As he mixed the drinks, he made a flirtatious comment on the appropriateness of the latter as he looked her over appraisingly. She only laughed at him as she picked up her now drink-laden tray, flashing her wedding ring at him before she returned to the patio.

"You've gotta stop forgetting Gina got married last month," Ken told him as he dried a highball glass that was still damp after a run through the wash. Twirling it deftly in his hand, he placed it inverted on the hanging rack behind him and proceeded to wipe down the next. "One of these days she's going to bring in her husband just so he can slug you. She only dresses like that for the tips."

Dex frowned, "Yeah well, I'd have more than Gina to look at if the boss just built a bar right on the patio. Then we wouldn't be having this problem."

"You mean, you wouldn't be having this problem." He chuckled as he took a moment to inspect the glass he was wiping. "Personally, I think he needs a new dishwasher. The dry cycle on this one doesn't seem to be working properly."

Dex stared at his friend a moment.

"You're some sort of weird obsessive, compulsive perfectionist, you know that?"

"What? You only realized that now?" he grinned with an odd pride.

"That wasn't a compliment, dude."

His friend didn't reply. A pair of businessmen had sauntered up to the bar and rather coldly demanded from Ken a pair of stiff shots, probably to wash back the bitter taste of a tough morning on the stock exchange.

Smiling, Ken pulled out a pair of shot glasses from behind the counter. But rather than set them on the bar right away, he raised them up and, with a deft twist of his hand, let them roll down the back of his arm, keeping them carefully balanced as they descended. As they reached his shoulders, he leaned forward slightly to let them continue rolling undisturbed past his head to his other arm. They slid down gracefully, then when they reached his hand he snapped his wrist-- once, twice-- flicking the glasses into the air behind his back. They popped up over his shoulder, and skillfully catching them in his other hand with only a light 'clink', he set them on the bar top and poured their drinks.

They grabbed at the glasses and looked at him icily.

"What the hell was that, punk?"

"I thought we walked into a bar, not a circus."

Ken shrugged as they downed their booze, "Just thought you gentlemen needed a bit of a cheer up."

They grumbled, tapping their glasses on the bar for another shot. The young bartender reluctantly complied.

"Cheer up? You want to cheer us up? Make the stock prices go up. Then maybe Gateshead won't buy out entire companies. Or at least buy them out at a decent price." He turned to his companion, "Did you see how much that last one went for? Should have been quadruple that amount."

His friend agreed. "At the rate they're going, that company is going to own the whole city."

There was a sharp, bitter laugh. "What the hell are you talking about? They already do. Gateshead just doesn't want anybody to know about it."

The conversation continued on for a few more minutes, with four more shots between the two of them. Ken became lost among the conspiracy theories, large numbers and confusing trading terminology. They obviously went out for midday drinks regularly, judging by how well they held their liquor and how they became a bit more cordial with each gulp.

By the time they left, they had apologized for their earlier behaviour and had given the bartender two tips. One was the change from the bright-red bill with which they paid for their drinks; the other was "Don't take up day trading".

It wasn't just the disappearance of the woodland that lined the highway that told him that they were nearing the city. The highway itself was telling.

Farther east, where distance between towns was expansive and frequencies were harder to pick up on the radio (and more often than not the rare stations you could get a signal from were either Christian, Country, Pop or the CBC), the highway was simply two lanes, one going each way. As the surrounding areas became more populated, the number of lanes increased to accommodate more traffic, from two to four to six.

Finally the last of the forests faded away, replaced with the trappings of suburban life. Shortly after, the highway before them exploded into a twelve-lane monstrosity, six lanes going in each direction with barriers dividing them into sets of three.

He shuddered to think that this giant stretch of asphalt could be congested to the point of a dead stop for several hours twice a day.

They passed a sign that proudly read:

"Welcome to the City of Toronto, Ontario's capital. Population: 2,503,281"

He could hear Mikey grumbling in the driver's seat beside him. "Home sweet freaking home."

Sighing, he glanced out the window. A giant outlet mall flooded his vision for about three seconds, before it was gone at just over 100 klicks per hour. It was shortly replaced by a big-name industrial complex that was gone from sight in a blink of an eye. He didn't even catch the name that hung on the side of the building in big, bold, glowing letters. It just didn't seem important.

The concrete artificiality of a city of 2.5 million felt claustrophobic, like anything that didn't fit in a convenient cement pigeonhole was an utter waste of space. He missed the flat and infinite expanses of Saskatchewan, where all he could see was land and sky in every single direction. An old box would get caught in the wind and he would watch it fade into the distance for three days.

He chuckled as he remembered when she first came to visit him when they were children. His family had picked up her and her mother at the airport and as they headed for his grandma's farm, her expression had been priceless.

"Dios! Gareth! Where'd the city go!?" she had blurted in surprise.

Unlike Toronto, which melded into the surrounding municipalities, or other cities that waned into suburbia before giving way to forest or farmland, Regina... just stopped. One moment she was watching as they passed through a commercial-industrial sector of the city; the next moment... nothing but field. It was like the tiny city hadn't actually grown at the site of a pile of bison bones, but had been accidentally dropped in the middle of a prairie field.

The memory left him with a grin on his face as he turned away from the window and peeked into the back of the van. The three band mates had swapped positions at the last rest stop. After a bite to eat, Mikey, being more familiar with the city streets, had volunteered to drive the rest of the way ("I freaking swear, if prairie boy doesn't get us freaking killed, he's going to get us freaking lost"), and Syl...

Sylvia was dozing, curled up in a blanket between the bass drum and a guitar amp. When her excitement had finally worn out, she had challenged him to a harrowing battle of 'Paper, Rock, Scissors' for the coveted spot in the rear of the vehicle.

Watching her sleep peacefully now, he didn't at all regret losing to her.

"So when the freaking hell are you going to ask her out, you idiot?"

Mikey's question caught him completely off guard. Gareth only managed to string together a handful of random syllables in an incoherent mumble before something even remotely comprehensible fell out of his mouth.

"Buh-wha?"

The bassist tossed him a glare as he checked his blind spot to change lanes. "You freaking heard me, catgut. When are you going to freaking ask her out?"

Gareth stared at him, dumbfounded.

"What the hell are you talking about? We're not like that," he claimed after a short bout of silence. He leaned back casually, trying to feign indifference. "We're just friends."

His friend was unconvinced and it showed through the frown on his face.

"You can't freaking lie for crap. You know that, Gareth?"

The young man sighed in defeat and slumped in his seat. "Is it that obvious?"

"Freaking hell, yes!"

Gareth paused a moment.

"Do you ever form a sentence without the word 'freaking' in it?" he asked curiously.

Now it was the other man's turn to pause.

Then he laughed, heartily and sincerely. The first genuinely not disgruntled expression Gareth had seen from him all day.

Mikey gave him a sideways smile while he kept his eyes on the road. "Don't freaking change the freaking subject, you freaking freak," he grinned through a tone of mock anger.

Gareth grinned back, "Now you're doing it on freaking purpose."

"Guilty as--" Mikey checked himself before he unconsciously inserted another 'freaking' between his words, "... charged."

He glanced a moment at the highway signs and changed lanes again, preparing for the next interchange, before continuing. "But seriously, Gareth, what the freaking hell is wrong with you? We've been on the road for a freaking month, and you've never made a move." He steered the tiny van to the next exit, which led to the on-ramp to another highway. "You really like her."

Gareth shrugged, turning to look out the window. They left the twelve-lane monstrosity behind and merged onto its smaller cousin, a six-lane expressway that ran perpendicular to the massive highway. "We've known each other since we were kids. We're like family; she's like my sister."

His band mate smirked, "But you wish she wasn't."

"Oh bloody hell, yeah!" was the emphatic reply. "She's freaking hot!"

"If you had been anyone else, I'd be so in your freaking face right now," laughed the bassist, then added with affection in his voice, "She's like my freaking sister too."

Gareth nodded in agreement. "What about you? You've known her for just as long, and you've had the added advantage of actually living in the same city. Why didn't you ever ask her out?"

"Besides the fact that her mom is freaking scary when she's pissed?"

"Yeah, I've met Mama Mendoza. She's good friends with my folks, and yes, she is scary when she's pissed," he chuckled as he remembered a photo shoot mishap a long time ago. "But besides the wrath of a single mother, why not?"

Mikey shook his head. "It's complicated," he stated simply, oddly omitting his usual expletive of choice, and turning his concentration back to the road.

The highway was now sloping downwards into a valley and the concrete structures of urban life around it gave way to trees and air. As they descended, the roadway twisted and turned almost precariously. Unlike the straight and unchanging path of the larger highway, it was like an asphalt roller-coaster cutting through a thick forest valley.

"Whoa! Dude!" Gareth pointed ahead in surprise. "Is that like a set of giant molars by the side of the road!?"

Mikey stared at him from the corner of his eye. "You mean the freaking wetlands project? You've been in Toronto how freaking long? And you only notice them now?"

He leaned against the front of his desk, and poured himself another glass of good old Canadian rye. Holding his cel phone in one hand and his drink in the other, he paused a moment to look at one of the walls of his office.

Framed photographs covered that entire one side of the room, a pictorial record of all the people who made a lasting impression on his life until now. He grinned at a family portrait of himself as a teenager and his parents, taken a few sort months before his father passed away. His smile faltered at the memory, so he distracted himself by turning his attention to a series of shots of various women who had come and gone from his life.

Not every single ex-girlfriend had a place of honour on his wall; he had long since grown out of the sentiment that every hot girl he lay eyes on needed to be another notch on his bedpost. A few however were more than just a beautiful babe on his arm and several night of passionate love. These weren't just throw-away relationships. For the ones that ended amicably, he still maintained friendships with the women. They had been more than just lovers; they had been friends and confidants. Even if it never worked out, they had made an impact on his life and he was better off for knowing them.

Two images in particular made him chuckle. To anyone else, it would appear as if they were two photos of the same woman. Tall, thin yet exquisitely curved with piercing blue eyes and a pair of full lips he wouldn't mind tasting again. He could settle for a kiss from either set of lips; they were identical twins after all. The only difference had been their hair colour and only because one sister had been so frustrated that he couldn't tell them apart that she dyed her silky blonde locks to a deep, rich brown. Looking at their pictures side by side, he still couldn't tell which he preferred: the blonde or the brunette. Even though they looked the same, they definitely weren't the same person. By the end of each relationship, they each had given him something different. One was encouragement and confidence, the other inspiration and a sense of peace. He couldn't place one above the other and he wouldn't have it any other way.

His eyes drifted a few photos down and to the left to a candid snapshot. Unlike the formal, posed portraits that took up most of the wall, this picture was taken on the spur of the moment and involved a couple of cans of whipped cream. One of the cook staff had snapped the photo and he had since sworn that the other person in the picture would never be invited into the kitchen to help decorate a birthday cake ever again. Yet every time he looked at this particular picture, his grin always matched that of his whipped-cream-smeared self captured for posterity. The girl beside him in the photo doing the smearing was equally topped with the sweet foam, and she worn a playfully mischievous grin that had since become her trademark. A static, formal portrait could never have captured all that she was the same way this simple random shot did.

Amateur photography though still tended to barely scratch the surface of what a professional was capable of. An 8 x 10 glossy hung prominently on the wall, a piece of memorabilia commonly on sale through booths at concert venues. Silently, he got up from his place by his desk and took a closer look.

It was an old picture; he had bought it at a concert years ago. The group had since disbanded, but the band members had moved onto other projects, bands or solo careers. One band member in particular was why he bought this particular glossy.

She stood prominently in the foreground, brandishing her jet black electric guitar, while her band mates populated the middle and background. Her look and posture cried strength and defiance, exactly what the professional photographer had ordered. He had met her on more than one occasion however (her autograph graced the corner of the glossy), and he had discovered there were more sides to her than a camera could ever capture. He idly flipped open his cel phone as he wondered when would be the next time he would see her again.

He paused a moment before he dialed, his eye catching one more photo on the wall. It was slightly crooked, so he adjusted it carefully with the hand that still held his Canadian rye. He couldn't help but stare sadly a moment. If he had lived, the man in the picture would have been a few years older than him and running the bar and grill instead.

If he could, he would have given up the establishment just to see this man alive again.

"Here's to you, Big Dog," he toasted the portrait then downed his rye in a single swig. "This place just isn't the same without you."

Turning back towards his desk, he poured himself another glass of good old Canadian rye. He took a moment to compose himself before he brought his attention back to his cel phone. He smirked; his accountant absolutely hated it when he used his private cel for business. The number cruncher could never sort between personal calls and business ones and refused to lump the entire phone bill as wholly one or the other. ("Bad business practices. You need to declare your expenses properly if you want to maximize your income tax return legally.")

As he took a sip from his glass, he made a mental note to buy a bottle of fine wine for the accountant when the next phone bill came in.

Leaning against his desk, he pressed the code to speed dial rather than dial the whole eleven-digit number. He grinned as a voice greeted him in a foreign tongue.

"Hey, it's me. How's it going?"

The voice switched easily into English, though the exotic accent he loved so much was still pronounced.

"It's a business call, but if you want pleasure, I can always call back later tonight," he flirted.

Some sort of mish-mash of English and something foreign was the reply back. He didn't speak the language, but knowing that the response wasn't entirely flattering made him laugh.

"Seriously though, I'm just calling to let you know that another band you booked here no-showed again yesterday, and if there isn't a miracle in the next..." he glanced at this watch, "...10 minutes, it looks like we're going to have another MIA today."

A string of non-English profanities followed by profuse apologies ensued for several minutes.

"Hey hey, don't sweat it. It's not that big a deal. There wasn't a cover charge, so we don't have to worry about refunds. Just thought you should know. Some of these guys just don't take this business seriously enough."

He paused a moment.

"You know there's this indie band I think--"

He laughed as the voice cut him off.

"Yeah I know, but you can't blame me for trying."

There was a knock at the door and a hostess peeked in. He nodded to let her know he would be done in a second.

"If you're ever in town again, I really do think you should at least check them out. Anyway, looks like I have to get back to work. I'll call you later. Peace out."

Flipping closed his phone, he slid it into the clip on his belt as he looked to the woman waiting by the door.

"There's someone here to see you, boss."

"Thanks, Jane. Tell them I'll be there in a minute."

She nodded as she exited his office.

Taking one last gulp of rye, he lay the glass on his desk, and stared at the faces that stared back at him from the wall. Maybe it was just the alcohol in him, but he couldn't stop the smile growing along his face. Without each of these people, he wouldn't have gotten to where he was now, and he couldn't help but wonder how many more would be added to this wall before his time was done.

"Neil!"

The two bartenders manning the bar looked up in time to see a petite form race across the barroom to slam solidly into their six-foot-tall boss.

He staggered back, more from surprise than from the actual impact. When he recovered, he picked up the small figure and spun her around in the air, enjoying the sound of her laugh and finishing off with a tight hug.

"Hey there, kiddo. You're late. I thought you were going to be in town yesterday," he grinned as he gently set her back down on the ground, "How's the road been treating you?"

"Great!"

"Freaking lousy."

"Ignore 'em," she laughed, as she looked over her shoulder to the two young men that had followed her in, and answered for her. "Ya remember Gareth and Mikey, right?"

Neil nodded and shook their hands, "I do. Your violinist and bassist, am I right?" He paused a moment as he searched for their fourth band member. "Aren't you missing someone?"

"Ah. Yeah. I meant to talk to ya about that," she looked up at him sheepishly.

"Freaking Derek bailed on us in freaking Montreal," Mikey grumbled, his mouth tight in obvious anger. "He met some freaking groupie after the show and freaking disappeared. Took us a day to freaking find him and he freaking refused to leave. Freaking said he'd found his freaking 'true love'." He gestured with 'air quotes' around the last two words.

The bar owner frowned. The prospect of another cancelled show was certainly not what he had been expecting. "That's a shame. Not much of a rock band without a drummer."

"Well, Syl did say she knew a drummer that might be able to cover for us for our last show of the summer," Gareth said, as both he and the bassist glanced at her expectantly.

"Oh really?" The beginning of a grin began to curl at the corners of his mouth, as he looked down at the girl in front of him. That mischievous grin he knew too well was staring back up at him. He already knew his answer before the question was even asked.

She reached behind her to pull out a pair of drumsticks she had tucked into her belt. "So when was the last time ya hit the skins, Cowboy?" Her expectant eyes said she knew his answer already too.

He laughed and took the drumsticks from her as he wrapped an arm around her waist. "You guys are lucky the opening act never showed up. You can set up early and run me through your set list."

"Oh my god! Neil, you're awesome!" Excited, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, an act that also required a short hop for her lips to reach their target considering their difference in height.

She was completely oblivious to the unconscious flinch this caused in both of her band mates.

Neil, however, caught their reaction and inconspicuously let his arm drop from around her waist as he waved down the hostess to bring over a set of menus.

"You three must be dying for a damn good meal after eating at all those roadside diners," he smiled and handed them each a menu when the hostess returned. "Pick a dish. On the house. I'll get Alex in the kitchen to start cooking while we unpack the gear from your van."

"Wow thanks!" Gareth grinned in appreciation as he began to enthusiastically peruse the menu. "Though those diners weren't all that bad, eh?" he added.

Mikey looked at his friend in disbelief. "Are you freaking kidding me? Remember where we ate at that last freaking rest stop? Freaking disgusting." Just recalling that last meal made his face twist in distaste. "I've never seen freaking greasier food in my life."

"What are you talking about? Those burgers were awesome!"

The bassist shook his head, turning his attention to his own menu.

"Your freaking arteries are probably screaming at you right now you know," he grumbled.

It was quiet

Too quiet.

Not that she didn't like quiet, but her life was naturally busy. When it was this quiet, it usually meant one of two things.

One was that she had forgotten something, leaving a gap in her time that was meant to be filled with some important task. She had hired a small entourage of personal assistants mainly for this reason, to remember things she had forgotten. Unfortunately, this plan had not always worked. More than once she had found herself double- (or even triple-) booked for engagements she would have otherwise had every intention of attending. She had found it particularly heart-wrenching at times when she had to choose between such important events as a crucial business meeting that could potentially decide the fate of one of her companies, or a recital at her daughters' private school.

She wondered when her twelve-year-old was going to forgive her for her choice three weeks ago.

Nothing seemed to be amiss at the moment, though. She had quadruple checked her schedule with her assistants. No double-bookings. No missed meetings. Nothing had been forgotten. It seemed just an unnatural lull in her day.

She leaned back in her office chair, letting it roll back a bit from her slight movement. Even with nothing in her schedule, usually she would still have paperwork to do or her phone would be ringing insistently for her attention. The odd silence, though out of the ordinary, was still a welcome relief.

Swivelling her seat, she turned away from her desk to look out the window.

The window pane was rather gaudy in decoration with spirally floral accents and intricately carved trimming. Similar designs pervaded the rest of the room, along the mantle and fireplace and throughout the moulding that lined the floor and ceiling.

It was a very old building, Rococo in architecture, and many of the other rooms within this structure were similar in appearance. It had likely been some rich family's residence for generations before being turned over to commercial use.

She despised this architectural style. The happy curves and flowery decor seemed to her like a laughable facade, a farcical attempt to pretend life consisted of nothing but pure joy. The history of the building did not escape her; she knew shortly after it was constructed a few centuries ago, riot and revolution had left blood in the streets outside her window. If the act didn't feel like an insult to the architectural heritage of her people, she would have gutted and renovated the building's interior when she first moved operations here.

She much preferred the Gothic style of architecture. Gothic was dark and brooding, almost menacing in its ugliness and yet somehow endearing in its treatment of the unattractive and hideous. It was as if it were attempting to beautify that which was not beautiful, rather than hide behind stone-carved flowers and pretend ugliness did not exist. Gothic to her seemed to be the perfect analogy for life. Life was ugly by nature; to pretend it wasn't was a profound lie. But instead of feigning divine perfection and tranquillity, it acknowledged its degenerate form and made something grand and majestic out of it anyway.

Though Gothic better suited her tastes, she had lost the chance to purchase such a building for her business use. When one had gone on the market, a foreign buyer had outbid her on the dark, brooding structure she had set her heart on.

She instead had to settle for the blindingly flowery Rococo building that now housed her main company. Its only redeeming quality was the view she had from her office on the top floor.

Tossing back a stray lock of raven hair, she stood up from her chair and approached the window. She looked past her reflection in the glass as she seated herself on the flowery ledge.

The city stretched out before her, its centuries-old buildings lay low, as if humbled by the presence of the tall iron tower that graced its heart. The only structures that challenged its stature rose some distance off, modern skyscrapers that seemed to shrink from the army of Old World buildings that surrounded 'La Tour'. Despite their diminutive size, they collectively grasped at every directions, seeming to engulf the horizon. It gave the illusion that the city encompassed the entire world, that it went on forever.

Forever was a lie; there was no such thing. Everything faded; nothing would last. Even the business empire she worked so hard to keep standing would someday fade away.

"Everything fades away," she half-muttered, half-sang under her breath, as she turned away from the window and back to the silence.

The other possible meaning for the quiet was simply the old adage 'the calm before the storm'. More often than not the silence meant something was coming, a downturn in the market or a fallout at one of her companies. At these moments, it was intuition more than business projections or expert analysis that told her to be wary.

But that sense of foreboding was absent as well.

Her time was simply empty and this sensation was new to her.

Her eyes scanned her office as she basked in the silence. It was large and was as much a place for her to conduct business as it was her private sanctum. Actual utilitarian office furniture was sparse. A desk. A bookshelf. A filing cabinet to one side. Two chairs: her own and one for any purveyors of business that may come to call personally. The rest resembled a sitting room of an upper class residence. Cushioned ebony couches and high-backed leather chairs encircled a large, low coffee table of dark midnight stone. A plush Persian carpet covered the floor underneath. Two doors stood slightly ajar in the nearby wall. One led to a small, but well-stocked kitchenette, complete with espresso machine and mini-bar; the other a private bathroom, shower stall included. If she wanted to, she could hide from the world within these walls and live comfortably for some time, and she had done just that on more than one occasion.

Returning to her desk, she found a still-full mug of coffee she had forgotten beside some papers she had yet to sign. Lifting the mug hopefully, she frowned as she discovered the liquid within had cooled substantially, her fault for neglecting what should have been a hot, soothing beverage. She retreated into the kitchenette and began to brew some fresh coffee.

As she waited for the pot to percolate, she stood in the doorway staring out at the fireplace in the opposite wall.

It was a typical Parisian summer. The fireplace hadn't been used for some months and would not be for some months yet, which she felt was a shame. A warm, crackling fire would have been a comforting accent to the silence that had currently nestled around her. She crossed the room, letting her eyes wander from the hearth to the mantelpiece. Several awards and achievements sat along its edge. Platinum record sales. Gold record sales. 'Best New Artist'. Several claiming 'Best Rock Artist' and 'Best Music Video' by several associations. A Grammy was hidden in there somewhere, along with a Juno for 'International Artist of the Year'.

She felt like she was staring at the accomplishments of someone else's past life.

Her gaze wandered higher to the place of honour above the fireplace. Bracket-mounted on a plaque like an heirloom sword was a jet black electric guitar. As she stared at it, it seemed to stare back at her. Before she knew it, she was standing on a nearby footstool taking the instrument down from the wall.

She sat down on the stool as she inspected the old guitar. She held it at once like a lover caressing a lover and as a seasoned warrior examining the condition of a trusted blade. Running her hands gently along its neck and body, she searched for any flaws caused by time and disuse. Despite its long repose on the wall, not a speck of dust lay on it. She made a mental note to give her cleaning staff a substantial raise.

Satisfied it had not warped with age, she plucked the first string. Not surprisingly, a horrendously off-key note whispered through the air. Without an amp, the guitar was only capable of hushed, strained tones.

She didn't care.

Twisting the knobs on the guitar's head, she tuned each string to its proper pitch, using her own angelic voice as a guide. She sang each note perfectly and, tightening or loosening the tension of each string accordingly, plucked the strings until the sound matched.

Content, she played a faint chord, then another, and before long a series of them were strung together in rhythm with a song. She sang quietly, so her voice wouldn't drown out the accompaniment of the unplugged guitar:

"Day becomes Night
Night becomes Day
And Remember, remember
Everything fades away

Even if
Blood runs like rivers
Time washes the stains
And Everything, everything
Everything fades away..."

The fingers on one hand danced along the frets, deftly sliding along the wires, while the other plucked and strummed in perfect time.

The phone rang abruptly, shattering the silence and breaking her song. Surprised, her hand came down too hard as she looked up. Two of the old strings snapped at the sudden pressure. She flinched as if they had been attached directly to her heart.

She sighed and gently lay her guitar on one of the couches, before making her way to her desk. Rather than sitting down behind it, she stood in front of her desk and turned the phone towards her. The call display indicated that it was an internal call from the reception desk in the lobby a few floors down.

Roughly, she hit the speaker phone button. "Allô? Qu'est-ce que c'est?" she inquired gruffly.

"Ah, désolé, Mme. Foulquier, mais les avocats de votre mari sont ici pour les papiers de divorce." The receptionist on the other end of the line was completely unfazed by her employer's tone.

"Oui ça va, j'ai presque fini. Envoyez-les moi."

"Oui, madame."

She hung up and retrieved a fresh cup of coffee from the kitchenette, before returning to her seat behind her desk. Calmly, she sipped her mug, enjoying the warmth running through her. She ignored the papers in front of her; she had already read the terms of the divorce. Her own lawyers had already combed through them several times. Everything was in order. But...

Diabolique...

She shook her head. Her daughter had to understand that her stepfather didn't want her, didn't want any of them anymore. There was no point in chasing a man who didn't love her back. Better for her to learn that now than later.

Picking up her pen, she signed the documents with a flourish, and slipped them into a plain manila envelope, sealing it with a strange sort of satisfaction.

Nothing lasts forever; everything fades away...

"Hello... Earth to Ken..."

"Yeah, Dex?"

"Yo, I've been calling you for almost five minutes. Are you staring at the boss' girl again?"

"What! No!" he blurted, indignant. He spun away from the table of four he had been staring at for the last five minutes. "And how do you know she's dating the boss? They haven't kissed once since she got here."

Dex shook his head. "Not that you've seen. And you heard what he said this morning." He deepened his voice in a poor imitation of his boss. " 'Not this one, kid.' She's off-limits. Why else would he have said that?" he asked as he measured out two pints of some Canadian lager from the tap. He placed them on a tray, and winked at the waitress he was certain was not married. She giggled as she went to deliver the order. "And dammit, he called me 'kid'! What the hell!" he added, grumbling under this breath.

Ken ignored his friend's addendum, as he made a couple of daiquiris for another waitress. "I don't know," he grinned sarcastically. "Maybe to protect her from someone like you?"

There was a laugh from the band's table. Looking over, he caught his employer draping an arm across the girl's shoulder, while they shared in the camaraderie, probably a humourous story from the road at the expense of the violinist, judging by his expression. "Maybe... they're just really good friends?" he suggested weakly. The arm around her appeared far from unwelcome.

"Yeah, just keep deluding yourself," Dex rolled his eyes, as they both went back to work. "She's not that hot anyway."

"What are you talking about? She's gorgeous!"

"She's tiny. Has she even hit puberty yet? Seriously, someone needs to card her. I swear she's like twelve or something."

Ken stopped in the middle of filling a pint and stared at his promiscuous friend. "You were expecting a 5' 6" blonde bombshell with double-Ds, weren't you." It was more a statement than an actual question.

"Hell, yeah! I mean look at her! She'd be lucky if she even has B cups!"

"You boys feeling deprived?" cooed a voice, sultry and oozing with femininity.

Dex turned to the new customer that had slid up to the bar. Her chest just barely fit in her tank-top, revealing ample cleavage. Muttering something under his breath about there actually being a god, he proceeded to flirt with the well-endowed woman.

After a moment of his own gawking, Ken turned his attention back to the tap and finished filling the pint glass he still had in his hand. He placed it on the tray of the waiting waiter, who frowned now that he no longer had an excuse to enjoy the view. As he started mixing a few more drinks for another order, his boss approached, the girl grinning by his side. The other two band members were heading back stage to prepare for the upcoming show.

"Hey Ken, if anyone needs me, I'll be in the back with the band." He glanced at the woman flirting back at the other bartender. "And uh... try to stay focused... Ooph..." He rubbed the suddenly sore spot in his side where he had just been elbowed.

The girl next to him tried hard to keep a straight face, but failed horribly. She broke out laughing, as she took his hand in both of hers and led him to the door that went back stage. "Geez Neil, I thought ya were done with all the skirt-chasin'." She seemed completely unperturbed by his wandering gaze a moment before.

He laughed back, "Oh, I am, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate a nice figure every once in a while."