Birds of a Feather

📅 January 2014

Music was a tough business. Or at least, that’s what Athena had heard. The musical blogosphere chanted the phrase like a chorus, and Athena had heard all about it from Gabe in school, too: All the struggle of being a high schooler and unable to play gigs at clubs he was too young to attend; having to rely on publishing music online and hoping for the best. He and his brother had decided on a musical career before she’d entertained the idea for herself; back then she’d sort of figured the hours she and Kato wore away in her parents' garage would be just that: Time passed. 

But 2012 had brought Anarchy into the equation and he’d started on bass, and then Kato became willing to sing for people other than her, and even Seth had finally gotten roped in as an occasional lyricist and vocalist. They were suddenly writing songs and putting together an album and holy shit...Maybe they really could get it to go somewhere. She’d started listening to Gabe more, then: Talking to him in school less about their least favorite teachers and more about music—and how he and Gracian made it work as ‘Nightshrike.’ 

After graduating she’d kept in loose contact with him, still, but it tapered out on both their ends as the year went on; they both seemed to be leading rather busy lives. Athena kept being blown away by both the unending and non-tough-ness of it: Edge of Infinity’s first album, We Are Not Our Scars, had only been out for half a year—and half a year of actual reception, at that—when Kato mentioned that if they kept their shit together, they’d be able to get the last third of Broken Glass finished before spring ended. 
❝ If 9 months is good enough for a baby its good enough for a new album right? @katowinters says we could drop BGJTLB this spring. Hype up! ❞ she tweeted out, along with a link to their partial demo track of The Rubicon. She was gratified by the retweets and likes which flooded in, accompanied by compliments, requests for her to leak the tracklist, and three DMs asking if she was single.
She was clearing those from her inbox and nearly deleted a fourth message on instinct, but then she recognized the icon and eagerly opened the first direct correspondence she’d gotten from Gabe in months:

Ⓖ「 hey, i know i havent been super in contact, soz lol. i saw your tweet and listened to your demos tho! and your first album! I shot it over to my friend Astra because a) it’s her kind of shit, but b) she also owns a venue that Ian and I started opening at, so...figured boosting it with her was the least I could do for you giving me the time of day during school 」
Ⓖ「 Would love to meet the rest of your band and introduce you to the nightshrike crew sometime :) hmu! 」

That pulled her up short and then threw her back in, because hey, EoI had an album out and another on the way; they were a real band now! Why the fuck weren’t they doing shows yet? Contacting venues? Meeting other bands? She shot back a thanks and an excited agreement; she’d love to see him again, and it would be great if they could all meet up together at some point.

As it so happened, he and Gracian hadn’t ended up all that far away; she went to meet up with them at their apartment in Fort Greene and found out she was familiar with the location: Without knowing it she’d been only a few blocks away three months back, going to the Barclays Center for NIN’s Twenty Thirteen Tour. It was a beautiful location, walking distance to the Brooklyn Bridge, and Athena realized her friends had to be doing better than she’d given them credit for. The first words off her lips when seeing Gabe’s face again ended up being ones of congratulations:
“‘Music’s a tough business’ my ass, Gabe, I wouldn’t say the view from your balcony is that hard on the eyes!” she laughed to him inside, ecstatic for him and his brother for having escaped their father’s house to somewhere so beautiful. “I know you put the work in, don’t worry. You two deserve this so much. Tell me what’s going on for you both, what the fuck have I missed since graduation?”

The conversation started out with music and moving—the twins were working on their second full-length album, too, but in just the six months since graduating they’d also put out a handful of singles involving guest vocalists, and an EP to demonstrate their new drummer. They’d met their collaborators—“The Nightshrike Crew”—after becoming close with Astra, the owner of the venue they managed to start doing opening acts at in summer. In the twins’ words, “that’s where we really got the wind under our wings.” They were able to move out of their father’s house, and the distance seemed to be doing all of them good:
“It’s weird,” Gabe said, “Things are almost civil...He yells less now that he knows we can just walk out the door. Me and Ian take turns visiting him and shit to make sure he doesn't just waste away.”
“I think—I think—I think I’ve convinced him to join a grief support group,” Gracian interjected quietly. There was the shyest hint of pride to his voice. “I’ll check in with him on Friday. But I think I did.”

Besides the obvious milestones, Athena noticed changes too subtle to be verbalized: Even if Gabe’s voice retained its sarcastic edge and flint-steel spark quality it’d always had, he talked with a smile more often than a scowl, now; what used to seem threat-of-fire had drawn closer to warmth. Even visually things were different than before; though Gabe’s hair had stayed jet-black and long enough to fall into his face, he’d cleaned up the sides and no longer sulked behind his fringe.
Then there was Gracian, who’d made a push for individuality that Athena loved to see: His hair was short and out of his eyes, and he’d dyed it platinum, almost silver-white. He looked brighter, more open, somehow, and it fit. He’d always been quiet in high school; too intimidated to start talking in case his stutter stole his voice anyway. Athena had passed notes with him occasionally but now was delighted to see that these days he no longer shied away from conversation the way he used to; his stutter still tripped him up—but he allowed it to do so, now, and then kept talking. It seemed that music had bolstered his confidence, and helped him towards the same healing she and her bandmates were finding it to offer them. Both the twins’ green eyes seemed verdant, like the darker days in high school had been left as a shadow on the far horizon behind them.

They were easy to fall back into step with and eager to hear about her life, too. They were complimentary to no end of the music she’d helped make, and both of the twins, even the chronically shy Gracian, expressed their desire to meet her band. Gabe seemed genuinely excited by the idea of catching up with Kato; (“Don’t think he knew some of us other rejects thought he was cool, ya know, but he had a presence in school. Does he know I know his real name? I wanna see his face when I call him ‘Kato’ when I see him again.”) and Athena couldn’t keep the grin off her own face, imagining her close friend getting to hear his name—and getting to hear he’d always been more than he thought he was. The conversation was still alive and flowing by the time mid-afternoon threatened to laten, and Athena regretfully announced she had to leave: To—what else?—meet her band for a session at the recording studio.
“That’s how it goes, right?” Gabe asked, unbothered and beaming. “We’re all, ‘music is life, music is life!’ Then what keeps getting in the way of a chill life? Oh, right, the music!” He laughed. “Do you need directions, or, like, me to walk you back to the station?”
“Actually, I already know my way, I think,” Athena said, gesturing southbound from their balcony view. She told the twins about having been within spitting distance when coming downtown for the NIN concert, and Gabe’s eyes lit up at the Barclays Center’s name.
“It would be fuckin’ something to sell out a show in that place, wouldn’t it?” he asked. He sounded almost dreamy. “Bryluen thinks we have a shot at it some day.”

“Selling out a concert at the Barclays Center…?” Athena felt slightly headspun by the concept—and the concept that something so far out of reach could be realistic to aspire to—but the more she thought, the more she felt the fire of ambition she could see in Gabe's eyes, too.
“Man, it sounds like a pipe dream but now I can’t think of anything except chasing it! Sure, let’s see who gets there first,” she jokingly challenged, making Gabe laugh. “...Bryluen’s part of the Nightshrike crew, right?” she clarified, zipping on her boots and straightening up to go. “I think you said her name earlier. She sounds encouraging as shit, I need more of that in my life.”
“Yeah, she sings with us a lot, now; she’s great,” Gracian offered, stutterless and smiling. Gabe nodded enthusiastically:
“She is. You gotta meet her—and we gotta meet your guys. Tell you what, hit us up at Eocene nightclub on the 25th. And bring your band.”
Athena grinned and flashed the twins a thumbs-up. “You got it. We’ll all see you then!”

—

January 25th came quick, and Athena was overjoyed by her ability to persuade her band of the meeting. Kato tried to pass off his agreement as being owed mostly to musical ambition (“Yeah, we should be networking, anyway.”) and Sethfire had apparently agreed mostly to chaperone (“This is taking place at a nightclub? What is its name? They’ll be aware that you are all underage, won’t they?”) but Athena felt like she could read between the lines a bit: She glimpsed the uncertainty in Kato’s expression over the concept of seeing people from school again, and by the way he dressed up and posture-checked in the mirror, he seemed to think he might have something to prove. She loved knowing that he didn’t. 
Sethfire asked questions about the people they’d be meeting, and Athena crossed her fingers that she was right in thinking his curiosity seemed like legitimate interest and not simple guardianship: She knew his social life had been stunted by his caretaking role, and the idea of getting her quiet older brother ‘out on the town’ was a bit of a thrill. 
Anarchy was easily the most ambivalent, and when they all left that evening Athena noticed how he stacked on bracelets to obscure his ligature-scarred wrists, and absently ran his thumb over the scarred-in track-marks beside his adam’s apple.
“This will be fun,” she said, apparently to the car at large but directing her smile to him, “Gabe and Ian are great, I guarantee their crew will be chill, too.”

Gabe met them outside when they walked up, beaming and exhilarated; “Got your text, ‘Thena, I’m so psyched you all made it!” He gave her a quick hug, then immediately turned to Kato and raised a hand for a high-five. “Kato! It’s been fucking forever, man, we’re definitely talking after the show!”
Kato blinked, his mouth slightly open, clearly stunned to be greeted with his real name—then his shock broke into a smile and he returned the high-five, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
“For sure, Gabe, yeah.” 
Gabe, despite clearly being hurried, tossed his hair out of his eyes and gave Sethfire a friendly sort of salute, too.
“Good to see you again, Seth! Last time was way too short a convo, at graduation. If I remember correctly you were having to pry your parents off of ‘Thena, though, so it wasn’t the best time.”
Sethfire huffed a soft, smiled chuckle. “Ah, yes, I was slightly preoccupied by that. They have...constrictor-like tendencies. It is a pleasure to see you again, Gabriel.” 
Gabe’s phone buzzed and he shot Athena a guilty grin. 
“I’m holding everyone up a bit but I wanted to be the first one in the know, so sue me. Oh—you’re Anarchy, right?” Gabe asked, extending a hand to Anarchy, who seemed almost uncertain what to do with the attention—but shook, however stiffly.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Nice! Sick name. Here, all of you just come with me through the band door.”

Gabe took them around to a side entrance of the club, with a neon-lit staircase and a graffiti-tagged metal door with a ‘Bands Only’ sign hanging off one screw. The sense of belonging warming Athena’s chest seemed to be the same thing crinkling Kato’s eyes; he shot her a delighted look, mouthing the words: ‘Bands Only.’ She gave him a grin and a nod, but tried to tune back into what Gabe was saying as he ushered them down a short hallway, kaleidoscopic with multicolored punk-band flyers and the full color spectrum in graffiti tags. 
“...so the main room is up ahead and right, if you turn left you’ll walk into the bathrooms. Bryluen is gonna sing first—” Gabe suddenly cocked his head and listened to the sounds coming in from the main area; the relative din of the average venue was dying down as they stood in the hall, and his eyes widened; “Oh, shit, I think she’s already on stage! Ok—she’ll do a couple of her own songs, then stay on for us to come up, and sing with us, too. We’ll all hit you guys up after a few, alright? And in the meantime—Hey, Astra!”

A woman with numerous piercings and a punked-up blue-and-pink hairdo had appeared around the corner, and Gabe waved her over animatedly. The constellation of star tattoos that spread up her neck and onto her face, paired with her torn-up band shirt and distressed jeans, made her look more like an attending mosher than the venue-owner, but Athena straightened up: She knew Astra was the one who ran this place. Fortunately, she looked fucking cool. 
“Astra, here’s Athena,” Gabe said, pulling Athena forward by the arm, then gesturing more broadly; “and the rest of her band, Edge Of Infinity. I sent you—”
“‘We Are Not Our Scars’!” Astra interrupted. Her eyes lit with enthusiasm; she broke into a broad grin and punched Athena in the shoulder. “I listened to it three times, holy shit, alright!”

Gabe laughed. “Okay, good! Astra, you make sure they don’t ditch us! I can’t fuckin’ wait to talk to all of you more, after!” He clapped a hand to Athena’s other shoulder before ducking into a side room, leaving all of them in Astra’s care and making Athena, with her tingling shoulders, feel rather like she’d just won a game show.
“You wouldn’t think he’s been known to scowl people right out the door, would you?” Astra asked rhetorically, half-rolling her eyes with good humor and a vague gesture towards Gabe’s exit. “180 degree turn if you’re part of his ‘tribe,’ huh? Lucky to be in it, though. Great kid. Anyway—I’m Astra,” Astra reintroduced herself; “Just in case any of you somehow missed Gabe yelling it. Y’all are Edge of Infinity. Shout your names at me while we walk; I’m deaf as shit ‘cause I’ve stood next to too many speakers.” She grinned at Athena. “Got yours down already, of course, Athena.”

Astra was spirited and easy to talk to for almost everyone, even Seth, who turned out to be the same age as her. Collecting off to the side of the main room around a table, she asked them questions with genuine interest and answered everything asked of her in the spaces between the particular Nightshrike songs she hushed everyone to listen to. She pointed out each of the on-stage members of ‘the Nightshrike crew’ by name, with compliments on their talents, personalities, or both. Astra explained that Bryluen, the woman Gabe had mentioned would sing first on stage, was one of her own close friends; primarily a solo artist, a model-turned-singer who had used her popularity to help get the club off the ground. It was easy to see—or hear—how that had worked: Bryluen had an incredible voice.

Astra, too, was one of those people it was impossible to not be impressed by, and as she shared her own journey into the music world, Athena couldn’t help but feel there was a way in which the two of them just...clicked. 
Astra had been the black sheep of her own family from an early age, as it turned out. She’d been raised in a conservative sort of Ohio town that “wasn’t necessarily big on dyed hair or dyke bars.” She’d acted out and smoked a lot of pot in high school, she said, only barely scraping by, then came out as a lesbian in college and prompted most of her family to make the leap from distancing themselves from her to outright disowning her. Despite the departing barbs that she’d surely drop out and would never amount to anything, Astra finished her BA in Business Management and moved to NYC, set on proving everyone wrong in the city that dreams are made of. She’d named her nightclub Eocene, new dawn, and looking around the crowded venue...She really seemed to be living her success story.

“Hey, you too, right?” Astra said when Athena voiced as much. “Meeting Bryluen and having her start performing here jump-started stuff as hell for me, and you’ll be meeting her tonight. She’ll love you! Have Colin take a few shots of all of y’all together, Bry never turns down a photo. Press. And Gabe was dropping hints that I should book you guys—I’m not about to disagree after listening to your stuff. You’re ‘living your success story’ as long as you’re working, and you guys? Are working.”

Athena was still aglow when Nightshrike finished their set and put the club in the hands of a DJ, who immediately set about clearing the air of any residual indie vibes with a healthy dose of Punk Goes Pop! that made Athena both laugh and feel entirely at home. She’d been grinning all evening and her cheeks were beginning to hurt by the time Nightshrike emerged from offstage and started over; hampered by a couple club patrons wanting their tickets signed. It felt surreal to watch Gabe, grinning, hand back an autograph before gathering the rest of his ‘crew’ and gesturing back towards her and her band as something to be presented.
“Alright! Yo, guys, this is the band Ian and I told you about!”
“Edge of Infinity,” Astra offered, sidling up to Athena; “Which is a bomb name, by the way. Whose idea was that? I didn’t ask before.”
Seth didn’t say anything until he felt all his band members’ eyes on him, and then seemed to almost startle.
“Oh. Mine, I suppose. It was only intended to be lyrical work in the beginning, though.” He lifted an introductory hand. “I’m Sethfire.”
“The Englishman,” Astra quipped. They’d only just barely met, but her teasing already read as warm. 
“Do you do most of the songwriting, then, Sethfire?” Audrianna, a pretty young woman with ombré hair asked as she approached, her silvery singing voice replaced by a stronger, vaguely husky one.
“Oh, absolutely not. Kato does the most writing out of any of us; he’s extremely talented. Our initial album was fairly evenly divided up, however. All of us contributed as lyricists.” Sethfire put a hand on Kato’s back as he spoke and Kato cast a glance up at him. From the tinge of pink that had risen to Kato’s high cheekbones, he had heard the pride in Sethfire’s voice that Athena’d noticed, too.

There were too many people present and too many questions to be asked for crosstalk to not happen, and even as Athena tried to follow the thread on what Kato started to say—hopefully accepting the credit he was due—Astra caught her attention again:
“Okay, it wasn’t just lyrics, y’all teamed up as shit for the vocals, too, right?” Astra asked. “I could hear the differences. Was it determined by who wrote what? ‘Thena, you clearly guested on Suicide Songs—may or may not have cried while listening, don’t @ me—but someone totally different mained for Come Home | Empty Years. Miiight have teared up about that one, too.” She turned to Anarchy and grinned at him, putting a finger to each of her temples;
“Using my superhuman powers of deduction: I’ve learned that Kato’s the lead vocalist, Athena sounds like a woman, and Sethfire’s got a voice so low that if he got in the bay he could start summoning humpbacks right up to Gowanus. So?”

Anarchy looked halfway to startled and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Er, yeah, that one’s mine. It’s just a song, though.” 
His tone was as closed as his answer, and similarly defensive to the response he’d given Athena and Kato when he’d first presented them with the lyrics; saying that he wanted to sing it, yes, but that they shouldn’t ask questions about it; should ‘let it just be a song,’ because it was ‘all fantasy anyway.’ All their speculation together about who he’d written it for and why had only ever amounted to speculation, and a couple years on, talking to strangers, didn’t seem a likely place for him to divulge anything more. 

He was saved from having to dodge personal questions by Bryluen; the tall, striking woman who had sung first upstage. She’d overheard the exchange and sauntered into it, tossing her sleek dark hair out of her face and accidentally crowding Astra backwards—making her laugh when she immediately backed into a young man with a large birthmark on his face. Astra’s “Sorry, Colin” was drowned out by Bryluen’s question to Anarchy; her clear, melodic voice able to carry and draw attention their way without any apparent effort.
“You wrote and sang it all on your own?” she asked, blinking her impress; “Are you considering a solo career on the side? Just because—that’s what I am, really, a solo artist. Bryluen,” she introduced herself, offering Anarchy a loose, feminine handshake. “I enjoy helping out my boys here and again, but I’m not in every Nightshrike song.” She cast Gabe and Gracian a smile.
“No, you’re just in our best ones,” Gabe laughed. Her smile brightened; Astra caught Athena’s eye with a nonchalant shoulder-shrug and good-humored grin. “I know, but she deserves the ego,” Astra mouthed, with a wink and a nod at Bryluen’s back, letting Athena chuckle and soak in the warmth with which everyone got along.

It wasn’t hard to melt into it; into the evening. Astra immediately tugged her over and got her properly acquainted with Colin, the young man with the birthmark, who had a tendency to hide behind his camera and talk to his feet, but seemed genuinely pleased to have people take interest in talking to him. 
She was jolted out of that conversation so that Gabe could introduce her to Nightshrike’s drummer and Eocene’s bouncer, Bayer; a muscular and heavily-tattooed man with a quieter voice than Athena expected. He was polite and just as warm as everyone else; the oldest one there but with a youthfulness beneath the surface that his group brought out in him. 
Bryluen did seem to have have an ego, that was true, and could’ve raised Athena’s hackles with echoes of her upbringing—but Bryluen didn’t have the same disdain in her voice as Athena’s mother had had, and more than made up for any self-centeredness with her outpouring of warmth and generosity. She was quick to compliment and nodded enthusiastically when listening to other people speak: It wasn’t hard to see why both Gabe and Astra spoke so well of her.

The night ran long with ease; Athena saw she wasn’t the only one thrilled by the evening’s company. Despite having walked in looking like a lone wolf and less approachable than even Kato, preoccupied with his visibly scarred-in history, Anarchy had gradually warmed up to Gabe, Astra, and Bryluen, all—and even managed to have a train-hopping conversation with Coahoma, a young Choctaw woman who rapped for Nightshrike on occasion and who, too, had seemed rather reserved at the beginning of the night but loosened up after a couple shots. 
Kato managed to hit it off with Gabe properly, rekindling a friendly acknowledgement they’d had in school that hadn’t had the real chance to become a friendship under the circumstances then, but now had the opportunity to bloom. He grinned sheepishly at praise for his lyrical work and his vocals, and failed to be quite as abrasive as usual: Milling around and just chatting and only occasionally being a jackass for the shock value of it. Within a couple hours he and Gabe were on good enough terms that Athena handed over her corrective rib-elbowing duties to him.
Even Sethfire wasn’t hanging too far back: He managed to mingle in his own, low-key way; to discuss academia with Audrianna, who turned out to attend Barnard and was getting her Masters degree that year—and who also did intermittent vocal work rather than playing a more intrinsic musical role. Overall Seth was actually seeming to enjoy having the company of several others his age, and Athena was overjoyed at the abundance of new connections he, and they all, had found.

By the pass of midnight they needed to leave, despite, though: The club needed to close soon, Sethfire had an enormous amount of paperwork to get through and his work week had left him exhausted; Kato hadn’t slept in 30+ hours. Bryluen had a shoot the next morning, Coah had work. It was a smiling, delighted chaos of an extended departure; everyone exchanging numbers and Twitter handles and handshakes. Astra gave Athena a full-on hug, with a demand that they be mutuals on Twitter and ‘hang out to shoot the shit’ sometime soon. As they all started to part ways out on the street, heading towards cars or the nearest station, Bryluen ran up to Athena, beaming, her heels clacking on the concrete.
“Thank goodness, I caught you! This comes off so awful but it’s the easiest way to give you my number—” She handed Athena her modelling business card, almost rolling her eyes at herself. Both she and Athena laughed.
“I know, I know! But text me!” she said, “I just can’t wait to get to know you all better. Maybe we’ll end up doing shows together! It was lovely meeting you tonight, Athena!”
Her friendly enthusiasm seemed able to warm the January night, and Athena pocketed the card with a grin.
“Yeah! You too, Bryluen!”

The same night; Anarchy’s perspective

It was the first time in a long time for Anarchy, to be walking into a situation where he’d be meeting new people. Especially a situation without any real chaos to it, spurring it along…and somehow that made it more intimidating, because he was walking in blind with no pressing reason for any of it to be happening. 

‘Nightshrike.’ He knew nothing about them. Athena had said everyone would be cool, and Kato had wanted to go, and they really did need to as a band, so Anarchy didn’t exactly have a choice except to roll with it. It was uncomfortable, though; he was preoccupied by his track-scars and his history, and even when getting introduced to people he felt uncertain about who or how he was exactly meant to be. He wasn’t out on the streets posturing; jockeying for a new rank amongst juvenile delinquents and runaways. He wasn’t freshly rescued by these people, nor were they a group of fellow recover-ees at a clinic, also on methadone and guaranteed to be non-judgemental. No, the closest Anarchy could figure, they were parallel to the other guys he worked beside at his various construction or miscellaneous physical what-have-you gigs. So he went into meeting “the Nightshrike crew” that way: All business and about as open as a spring clamp.

Athena surely noticed and made an effort to include him, more, if not pry him open, and she was who she always was; easy to talk to and sassy and smiling. Someone with a draw.
“C’mere, ‘Key, Gabe was just asking how we met!” she called as the group threatened to socially separate in the post-concert; waving vigorously for him to abandon standing in Sethfire’s shadow—listening to him and Audrianna compare notes on universities—and join her and Gabe instead. Finding himself lacking any and all interest in both Barnard and Columbia, Anarchy furtively backed out of the conversation, with all the ease of someone who hadn’t actually been a participant in it.

Gabe and Athena had joined Astra and another Nightshrike member, whose name Anarchy had forgotten, in crowding around a bar table to chat—or, equivalently, shout over the club noise. All but one of the table’s chairs had escaped, but no-one seemed to mind: Athena, as always, kept eager and welcoming company.

“Anarchy again!” Gabe greeted with a broad grin, “I was hoping we’d get to talk more! And Da..fuck—Kato, but I think Bry snared him.” He shook his hair out of his eyes. “Speaking of, though—you met him and Athena around the same time, right?”
“‘Met’ sure is a word for it,” Anarchy replied, pocketing his hands. Athena laughed.
“What would you prefer, ‘Key? ‘Got adopted by’?”
Anarchy rolled his eyes. “I’m a rescue,” he muttered to Gabe, trying to loosen up. “They all found me in East Flatbush after I OD’ed.”
“OD’ed?” Gabe repeated, blinking. “Was it on purpose, or—?”

Anarchy hadn’t had even a moment to dwell on his self-consciousness before Athena was already at work on alleviating it. 
“No, it was an accident,” she answered on his behalf; “We were coming back from a movie one night and from the corner of my eye I saw him all pale and crumpled up like—“ she suddenly stopped herself short and shot Anarchy an amused look. “…Ya know, I was gonna be poetic and be all, ‘oh, he was like a dying swan in that dark alley’ but, a) way too hetero for my tastes, and b) he’s way meaner than a swan, so...A goose. You were like a dying snow goose in that alleyway, ‘Key.’”
Gabe and Astra both snorted.

“I’m not mean,” Anarchy protested.
“You’re also not a swan,” Athena teased. “And the first words out of your mouth to me were ‘who the fuck are you,’ so…”
“Yeah, well…I didn’t know who the fuck you were.” Anarchy gave a good-natured eye-roll and glanced back to Gabe. “But yeah, I guess that’s the bulk of it, really. They found me in an alley and gave me enough bread to get me to stop hissing. How did you all meet?” Anarchy gestured between the Nightshrike members, only to have Athena all but swat his question out of the air.
“The fuck, ‘Key, that is not the bulk of it! They haven’t met you before, aren’t you going to talk about yourself at all? For fucks sake, at least tell the snake story about your tattoo or talk about the train hopping or something! It’s not like you’re not interesting.”

“Train-hopping?” repeated the previously silent, tan-skinned Nightshrike member whose name had escaped Anarchy’s memory. She seemed to have abruptly perked up at the mention. Astra laughed.
“Of course that’s what gets your attention, Coah!” she exclaimed—the inclusion of the nickname a welcome memory-jogging relief to Anarchy, who could ascribe the name Coahoma to the dark-haired woman in front of him with the analytical green eyes.
“I’m interested in the snake story,” she said, almost inflectionlessly. “But train hopping’s my wheelhouse, too. What’s your rail tale, then, Anarchy?”
“Ah…not much of one, really, sorry if you’re wanting a whole novel. I only did it once,” Anarchy said, then fumbled; “Or, well, I only took one trip, but it was a few trains. Just back when I was fourteen.” Anarchy found the topic of his history somehow unwieldy, but no one seemed to be catching on.

“Fourteen?” Astra repeated after him, exchanging an astonished sort of look with Gabe. Coahoma let out a low whistle.
“Damn, young,” she said with a small head-shake of the kind that typically accompanied a tsk, but this time came off as carrying some muted impress. “I had a mentor when I did it; found a seasoned leather-tramp near the yard who read me like a book. She probably saved my impulsive teenage ass from a Darwin Award. You just learned on your own?”

“Uh…” Anarchy struggled, as always, with how his heart twisted in the telling of his story where it intertwined with Chey’s, where it should have felt stronger in being woven together but instead registered as both brittle and underfoot; a rope-bridge of memories over a hopeless abyss. And yet…
“...Not exactly,” he compromised with his inner turmoil. “I ran into another kid who rode the rails, my same age. Are you still in touch with that mentor of yours?”
“Ah, nah, she moved on,” Coahoma said, waving a hand. “You know how it is with that lifestyle. How about you?”
“No, yeah…like you said…how it is,” Anarchy responded. He couldn’t tell if it eased or twisted the knot in his stomach. Somehow it seemed to do both at once. “I’ll never forget the ride, though.”

“I’ll believe it, it was mind-blowing enough for me at seventeen. Two fourteen year olds doing it together? You must have been wild.”
“Oh, we were. The second train I ever caught had major issues with the brakes, actually, so it was a long-as-hell ride, we thought we might go crashing down the mountain into Reno…”

Anarchy’s audience seemed genuinely entertained by his cinematic retelling of Frank And The Broken Train, to his equal surprise and relief.
“How about that snake story you mentioned, now,  then?” Gabe prompted after Anarchy had finished answering all clarifying questions—only to immediately be admonished by Astra, who stood up to get drinks for herself and Coah and demanded Anarchy wait for her return before continuing. He was vaguely bemused when she returned with drinks and actually did prompt him with an “Okay, now go,” but he delivered the requested elaboration on the snake story, as promised, after which Gabe muttered something about wishing his own dad would bust a toe open, “Just cuz he deserves it, but don’t tell Ian I said so.” Anarchy raised an eyebrow and waved a palm towards the table to open the floor.

“Ah, he just sucks a bit with keeping his emotions to himself,” Gabe said with a grimace and a shrug, “like, I can’t compare him to your psycho sperm donor, but I’m still glad I’m out of his house. And he still deserves a toe chop.” 
“Eh, my dad could probably use one too, but for him it’s just cuz he’s a raging bigot,” Astra concurred. “I came out while I was in college and he told me not to come back from school. Joke’s on him if he thought that would make me lonely enough to straighten me out: I was rooming with my then-girlfriend. She might deserve a choe top herself, though, come to think of it…”

Anarchy shifted his weight uncomfortably, knowing he’d had his own moments of intolerance that he’d had to unlearn, and forwent contributing to the conversation Athena and Astra dove into about liking girls and parental disapproval, though Athena drew laughter with her assertion that her parents could probably have stomached lesbianism, provided any such lesbians were rich and attending an Ivy League.
“I think that’s how Ian assumed dad felt,” Gabe chimed in, then flushed. “I shouldn’t have said that, he should tell you himself, sorry—” 
“Oh! No, I mean, does he not feel comfortable?” Athena asked. She looked genuinely concerned for a split second, then broke into a grin and stood up, slapping her palms on the table. “Let’s create an opening, then, K-O LOVES talking about being gay! I’ll just get him going in front of Ian so he knows it’s all safe.”
Gabe chuckled and stood up, mumbling something about having wanted to talk more to Kato anyway, while Astra shook her head and indicated she’d be coming along mostly for the laughs but also potentially to bail Ian out of being talked at too much in case the plan was imperfect. As far as Athena was concerned, it was a—
“Full team, great!” she said, turning towards the more densely packed bar area that Kato had disappeared off towards earlier. “You’re coming, right, ‘Key?”
“Ah, I’ll pass, actually. K-O and I have talked enough about him being gay, I think,” Anarchy said, making Athena snort.
“Guess you do suffer through that enough. Well, I’ll find you again later, then!”

Anarchy gave her a thumbs up and returned Gabe’s friendly nod as they both walked away, and sat back in the relative quiet to appreciate the conversations had; the way that everyone was feeling relaxed enough to talk about their history without it being an excuse, or an explanation, or elsewise desperate in some way. It was more natural, or just more relaxed than he’d experienced before. Really, he was finding it far easier to talk to these people than he’d expected.

Coahoma’s friend Bayer briefly came by from the bar after the others left, to introduce himself and drop off a refill, and Anarchy noticed how Coahoma was seeming to ease up, too, as the night wore on and her cocktails grew emptier. In conversations her voice took on a bolder kind of strength and her hands moved more when she spoke. They drew attention, just as the first dismissive hand-wave had, though Anarchy tried not to notice. He couldn’t help it though: Her smooth, tanned complexion was interrupted on her hands and arms by patches of strange-textured skin; pinker in colour and rippled like water or looking stretched too thin. Anarchy imagined that they must be scars of some nature, but felt that they were likely very much like his own scar or scars—not to be asked about; chapters of history that should only be shared at her leisure. The train tracks were close in conversation, but he wasn’t the boy anymore who asked about injury when he glimpsed its mark past a veil of glossy black hair.

“...My dad was a drunk too, actually,” Coahoma said, late in the evening, so casually that it took Anarchy a moment to register the gravity of the comment.
“What?”
“You mentioned your dad was a drunk. Just about the only thing you mentioned about your life before New York—your dad was a drunk and that’s what got you out onto the rails. I guess it was kinda the same for me. Of course not totally, ‘cause it was different, ya know?”
“Uh...no, I don’t know,” Anarchy replied, raising an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward; “You didn’t really explain that part, there.”

Coahoma laughed, or did something adjacent to a laugh that registered as familiar to Anarchy. A closed friendliness; a welcome mat in front of a locked door. “Yeah, I don't, usually, to most people,” she said, “But I guess I could this time around. It seems like you’re different from most people.”
Anarchy couldn’t suppress a swift frown. “…Sure wish I wasn’t.”
“Ha, yeah. I wish I wasn’t, too.” 

Coahoma lifted her hand; waving it this time clearly not as a gesture, but in order to indicate itself. She ran the fingertips of one hand over the knotted scarring on the top of the other. “Burn scars,” she said. She watched the neon lights dance over the graffitied walls of the club and let history fill the spaces in the pulse of the music. “Was your mom in the picture?” she asked. “Mine wasn’t. She died giving birth to my youngest brother when I was still little.”
“Oh, uh…I’m sorry.” Anarchy shuffled his feet. “My mom was around, she just didn’t do anything about dad. How many brothers do you have? I had a brother, too, uh, I mentioned him earlier. An older one.”
“I had two brothers.”
Anarchy’s stomach dropped at the past-tense. Coahoma’s expression stayed indifferent.
“Both were younger than me.”

Anarchy tried not to stare at her scars and found himself doing exactly that. He tucked his arms across his chest. “You started this by bringing up your dad…are they…because of—? Like, did he—?”
“Oh, no. It was a normal family. My dad was a bit of a deadbeat and an alcoholic, but not abusive.” She paused for a moment. “…Substances are just kind of a thing out there on the rez,” Coah flatly added in response to some potential eyebrow raise Anarchy might have made at the use of the word ‘normal.’ She continued to frown. “They call it a hidden epidemic. It’s not hiding.” 

She briefly inclined her head toward him, then, catching Anarchy off-guard with her acknowledgement of his own experience with a so-called hidden epidemic, and the possibility that her distaste for the term wasn’t just due to her own bitterness at the neglected state of Native health resources, but for his suffering, as well; for the visibility of it and all the blind eyes in power.

 “....Anyway,” she went on, shrugging away the moment, “I snuck out one night when I was fifteen just to do it, you know, to be a little rebel. Race the rez dogs through the woods and try to rile the coyotes. That kind of thing. My dad was drinking his favorite on the couch when I left, the TV was on, I figured he was already passed out or close to it, ‘cause he didn’t say anything…” She paused. Frowned. “...and I didn’t smell anything. I didn’t know he was smoking. But he must have been, and passed out, ‘cause when I got back to the house, it was all up in flames, with the neighbors staring. The firetruck was pulling in when I was walking out of the woods.”
“I never really felt like I was part of the community,” Coahoma interrupted herself, rather curtly, all of a sudden; “I didn’t endear myself to them; truth be told, I wasn’t a great kid. Defiant, headstrong. Talked back too much and was one of those kids that punishments didn’t work well enough on. I didn’t get emotional the way I was ‘supposed’ to about anything when I was young, like, I cried too little and was silent too much. I got comments about being emotionless or a little sociopath in grade school; I played Slayer too loud and wanted to cut my hair. Told the elders that tradition could make room for it and gave myself a defiant pixie cut when I was 13...You know. 
“That night I came out of the woods with the dogs most of them hated at my heels and didn’t react how a little girl is meant to react to her house burning down. Cool head in a crisis type, I suppose. I overheard a firefighter say that people were still inside, and so I just…Went in. To help, I guess, I wasn’t thinking. It was actively on fire, though, yanno? The entire house was already collapsing, that’s why my brothers couldn’t get out; the living room caved in already underneath their bedroom. When I went in, everything left just fell apart on top of me.” Coahoma mimed raising her scarred arms to shield her face from smoke and flaming rubble. 
“A couple people had to come help me get out, and I needed to go to the hospital because of my arms, but I was so shut down for a few days, I didn’t scream or cry...A bunch of kids at school and shit took it on themselves to decide I was so emotionless because I’d set the fire and burned my dad and brothers to death. That I had accidentally set myself on fire while burning it, and that’s why my arms were all messed up. Some of the adults even seemed like they might be willing to buy the rumor.”

“But that’s nuts,” Anarchy interjected; “That’s insane! A little teenage girl just burning up her family?”
“Hey, you’re telling me. But it was ‘06. A 16-year-old boy had just shot up that Red Lake Ojibwe rez in Minnesota a year ago. It was a couple weeks to my 16th birthday and I was mad at my dad a lot before… I bitched about him at school like all kids do, and I guess I said some shit that teenagers say but that stuck around to haunt me after what happened because of what happened. A thirteen, fourteen, fifteen-year-old says she hates her dad? Whatever—but if then he burns up the worst of anything..? It was because he sloshed beer all down his front, but people make up their minds…” Coahoma grimaced. “My brothers and I didn’t really get along either, just sibling shit. They’d pick on me, I’d pick on them back. I hid a copperhead in my brother’s bed once after he hid a toad in mine. I was eight, I didn’t know what kind of snake it was. It was just a fluke I didn’t get bit. But that story came back around after it all, too.”

Coahoma grimaced in response to whatever facial expression Anarchy wore, and stated more than story-told the rest; that none of the gossipers could ever prove anything but with only a single neighbor and a firetruck from the neighboring community as witnesses to her innocence, suspicion poisoned her tenuous social bonds and she wound up further outcast anyway. Her grandmother, at least, had never thought her so wrong and cared for her until her death when Coahoma was seventeen, which was what set her riding freight off and away from assuming, judgemental eyes.

“Spent my last couple years on the rez in Mississippi with people talking behind my back and spreading lies about me. It’s good to finally have some actual friends, you know? Ones who hear the story and don’t judge. Who don’t already have biases and shit.”
“...Yeah, for sure.” Anarchy didn’t know if he’d been read and was being reassured, or if he and Coahoma were just that much alike. 
“Knew you’d feel it,” Coahoma offered. “Something about you reminds me of Bay, a bit, and he always got it. It’s not just the hair. You two hold your faces the same when you’re watching other people talk.” She nodded towards Bayer, who stood a ways away with his back to them, talking to Sethfire and holding a light-colored beer in hands sporting dark tattoos, which extended from his fingers at the second knuckle all the way up to his temple. His hair was vaguely similar to Anarchy’s own; a dark umber color on the sides and a bleached top, though Bayer sported a slick french crop rather than a spiky fauxhawk. Anarchy couldn’t parse his expression.

“How do we hold our faces when we’re talking to people, then?” he asked, turning back to Coahoma. Her mouth twitched upward into a kind sort-of smirk.
“Interested, but preoccupied behind the eyes. Like you want whoever you’re talking to to keep talking about themselves, because if they stop they might ask you about yourself.”

Anarchy went to protest that he wasn’t necessarily trying to hide anything, and maybe Coahoma knew he was going to react like that, because she was already letting out a laugh. 
“Don’t worry about it; it’s not a bad thing.”

“Oh, here’s Anarchy again!” Bryluen’s melodic voice suddenly interrupted from behind him: “I was hoping to find you! We didn’t get to talk enough earlier; Kato’s been saying so many good things about you!”
Anarchy turned, bemusedly, to offer a greeting to both Bryluen and to Kato, who stood halfway behind her, midway through an eye-roll.
“Can’t say them to my face?” Anarchy asked.
 Kato flipped him off, tossing out an accompanying, sarcastic, “I missed you.”
Bryluen laughed at the exchange and gave Anarchy a pleasant nod before turning briefly back to Kato, her height plus heels giving her a couple inches on him despite his platform boots and forcing her to look slightly down. “Sorry, Kato, I think I got over-excited there and cut our conversation short? But I was saying—I think you really could model if you wanted to, so if you want me to try and get you some numbers—”

Anarchy couldn’t keep from snorting at the idea of Kato on a catwalk, but Bryluen blinked at the sound, her hand still on Kato’s shoulder.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked; “He would excel at it; look at him!” She cast Kato another smile and reiterated, despite his pinking cheeks, her intentions to reach out to some agents if he was interested; going on to say that in the interim he should have Colin take his photos. No sooner had the name left her mouth and she’d seemed to have just about conjured Colin from the air beside her. 
“He’s SO talented,” she gushed; “If I could bring my own photographer to EVERY shoot I’d take him every time, but some brands are SO insistent…” 
Colin managed an awkward, shy smile before quickly looking back down at his feet, though neither the ducked head nor the port wine stain birthmark which stretched across his face could conceal his blush. He mumbled something that got lost under Kato’s own ambivalent, quasi-audible oh-I-don’t-know…

“What, you’re not up for the pearl-sequined dresses, K? Unlike you,” Anarchy ribbed, gesturing at Bryluen’s outfit: An ornate, honestly ridiculous-looking black dress embellished with a cathedral-like pattern of pearls, sporting a glittery fishnet-like neck and a high, feathery ruff. 
Kato scowled. Anarchy pressed his lips together and tried not to snort again.
“Oh, of course, he wouldn’t be wearing dresses,” Bryluen chided, as though correcting someone misinformed; not condescending to validate the snark and so leaving Anarchy to feel vaguely childish in it; “Modeling isn’t just for women, or just for high fashion, even! Philipp Plein and Alexander McQueen both have casual wear…I actually could get you all a couple t-shirts, no problem, really, provided you wear them in a promotional manner at least once.” Bryluen turned around and, like with Colin, seemed to pluck Gabe from the ether—though Athena’s simultaneous arrival at Anarchy’s back indicated that at least this time they’d simply walked over and weren’t potential tenants of Bryluen’s purse.
“Gabe just wears them when we’re all singing together or when his band opens for one of my acts,” Bryluen went on, fondly pulling Gabe to her side; “Audri and Astra are the only ones who will do actual photoshoots with me, but that is an option, too. And it would grow both of our portfolios!”

Gabe laughed. “Who are you trying to sell on a modeling career this time, Bry? I’m telling you, not everyone thinks it sounds like a fun time like you do.” 
“Psh! It made your eyes light up a bit, didn’t it? I’m sure of it,” she encouraged Kato, who glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish sort of smile on his lips.
“Ah, I dunno, I couldn’t really do it, I don’t think.”

“The shirts are a good deal even without a modeling contract, for what it’s worth,” Gabe interjected before Bryluen could launch into another defense of her position that Kato could, in fact, model; “Not that you couldn’t get one if you actually wanted, K.” 
“He could! So could you, Gabe, I keep telling you…” Bry exclaimed, half-pestering, half-laughing. Gabe grinned and rolled his eyes.
“Bry, you tell everyone they could model. If you had your way the homeless guy who sleeps out front of my apartment would be decked out in Gucci and strutting around on the red carpet.” He tapped Kato on the arm and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder; “C’mon, you haven’t gotten to talk to Bayer yet, you oughtta!”

“Well, I’m sure the gentleman out front of your apartment would look lovely in Gucci!” Bryluen called after Gabe as he and Kato meandered away, before accepting the chair Colin pulled up for her beside Anarchy, giving Colin a gracious hand-grasp and smile, then taking a seat with a good-natured eye-roll towards Gabe’s back and a fake, smiling, huff.
“One of these days it’ll happen, selling a friend on modeling,” she said. “I don’t know how talent scouts do it! I’m just asking the wrong people, I suppose…maybe everyone here already found their calling, and modeling isn’t ‘it’ how it was for me.” She gave Anarchy and Athena a pleasant smile. “Well, the clothes are an option anyway for you all, regardless. Now, tell me about yourselves, I missed out earlier, didn’t I?!”

Bryluen was as active an audience as Anarchy had had earlier, though she fussed over him more than the others had, and asked those shock-and-sympathy-laced questions the way he wished she wouldn’t; inquiring about his old train-hopping friend, and how on earth he’d wound up struggling on the streets where Athena met him so young, and if he missed his mother at all, though she caught his discomfort as he dodged answering the third question in a row and swiftly apologized, waving her hands to dispel the inquiry and saying that she just knew she’d miss her own mother if she had left home so young, and that she knew how dearly the twins missed theirs.

“Still not at all my business, of course,” she said. Anarchy shook his head.
“No, it’s alright. I guess I kinda feel like... ‘miss’ is the wrong word for it, for me,” he allowed; “I just sort of wish things had been different.”
“Feel that,” Athena responded, “I actually forget it might be weird to other people that I don’t miss my mom…”
“Do you not at all?” Bryluen blinked, shifting the conversational focus to Athena, to Anarchy’s relief. Athena seemed much less ill at ease than him when it came to talking personal history, much to bonding’s benefit, it seemed, given how visibly sympathetic Bryluen became upon hearing about Athena’s fight with anorexia. Her bright eyes grew glossier as she lamented how common eating disorders were in the modeling industry, eventually reaching across the table to grasp Athena’s hand, stressing that if she were ever to start struggling again, not to be afraid to reach out. 

“Thank you, Bryluen, but—I’m really okay,” Athena reassured. “I’ve got my recovery buddy here, and I’ve got my brother…that’s all I really need.”
“Oh, your brother!” Bryluen exclaimed, sitting up as though she’d just remembered she was late to a meeting. “Sethfire, right? He sounds lovely; I have a shoot in the morning so I’ll have to be off soon, but I do want to talk to him more, first. Shall we go find him?”
“Uh, sure! He’s probably going to want to do something lame like leave pronto ‘cause it’s late, though,” Athena said. Anarchy joined her in glancing around the room, but Sethfire’s skyscraper-like form had somehow vanished amongst the club’s patrons, even though they were beginning to thin in number—and thin in number enough that Bryluen seemed to be getting more visible to some of them, who stole stares and hurriedly attempted to pretend they weren’t looking when observed; stowing their pointer fingers in pockets and studying their jacket zippers intently. 
  “I think you might have to fight through some of Bryluen’s fans to get to him,” Anarchy joked, nodding towards a nearby pair of teens, stuck in some anxious purgatory of false-starts towards the table, holding a scrap piece of paper and beat-up ballpoint dug from a purse.
“I shouldn’t keep them waiting, you’re right,” Bryluen smiled, getting up and beckoning Athena to accompany her; “Why don’t you come with me? It’s an opportunity for you: Just let me market. Maybe you’ll get to sign something too!”
Athena got up, grinning. “Oh—Okay! Comin’, ‘Key?”
“I think I’ll skip getting mobbed this time,” Anarchy deferred. “It’s not me they wanna see anyway, so I might as well stay out of the way.”
“Soon you’ll have your own crowd, I’m sure,” Bryluen said, trailing into hushed instructions to Athena about keeping her chin up and some question about photograph angles, just in case, as the two of them walked off.

Anarchy leaned back in his seat and watched Athena’s face light up from afar, Bryluen patting her on the shoulder rather like a car salesman might show off a Porsche. Since his rescue two years prior, his life with EoI had been a showcase of generosity; from material to emotional. Nightshrike seemed much the same. Coahoma arrived back at the table after having revisited the bar for a soda and accidentally caught his eye as she sat down.

“Guess all of y’all are more or less part of ‘the Nightshrike crew’ now, too,” she said, nodding her head toward the front of the club, where Gabe was walking Kato around with his left arm slung across his shoulders, a mirror of his right arm across Ian’s. 
“Sure looks like it…I’m glad for it, too. You all are cool people.” Anarchy’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a pair of messages from Athena; the first an exhilarated I SIGNED SOMETHING!!, the other a less enthusiastic update that her hunch had come true and Sethfire was ready to go, and could Anarchy collect K-O, please, because they’d lost him. 

Anarchy pocketed his phone, offering Coahoma a friendly nod of his own as he stood up. “‘Thena was right, we’ve gotta get going…But thanks for, I dunno, the company and conversation and all, tonight, Coahoma. It was really good meeting you. I didn’t think I was gonna get along with anyone.” 
“Just call me Coah; it’s what everyone does,” she corrected him, leaning back to prop a boot up on his newly-vacated stool. “And yeah, I’ll probably be heading out before too long, myself: Work today. But thanks yourself, Anarchy. It was a good time meeting you, too.” She held a hand out for a fist-bump.
Anarchy paused, a smile tilting his lips. “Well….thanks for the convo, then, Coah.” He tapped his knuckles to hers. “...And…You can just call me ‘Key. It’s what all my friends do.”