Prologue
Tink-dap. Tink-dap. Tink-dap. The sounds of steel-tipped stilettos echo through a tunnel as a light skinned woman saunters through. Tink-dap. Small ripples of indigo pulse as she glances down toward her heels while she makes her way across. She brushes some dirt off her grey denim skinny jeans and double checks her black jacket. The zipper and sleeves have been long ripped off by years of touring, leaving her to wear a t-shirt under it. Looking back up, she brushes her side-buzzed, multicolored hair behind her ear when she spots her signature guitar, The Hammer. It's a thin, single cutaway, solid body guitar in all black with blue tablature strewn across. Its ebony fretboard and reversed headstock made to her specification. She picks it up off a backliner's cart and checks the strings. “Cyd, you ready or what?” a feminine voice asks from behind her.
She turns to see her old friend and smirks. “Stella, I was born ready for this,” she replies. Stella adorns her old top hat with its faded purple band as well as a plain shirt the band had taken sharpies to, some pants, and her favorite pair of chucks. The two share a hug and Cydnie shoulders her guitar before they make their way further along the tunnel.
“Enjoy your honeymoon?” Stella asks as they walk.
“Unforgettable. Just like every moment that came before it.” The two make it to the end of the tunnel where another backliner is finishing changing the strings of a violet-pinstriped bass.
“Appreciate you, Justin,” Stella says as he hands her the bass.
“There you two are!” a gruff voice yells behind the two before pulling them in a big hug. Cydnie groans as she frees an arm to hug another best friend.
“I missed you too, Eric,” she struggles out. He releases them and chuckles long enough for Cydnie to look him over. “You shaved your beard!” His once glorious facial hair left only stubble on a chiseled jaw and a modest faux hawk. The girls eye him over to see it's the only change from his usual get up of a F*ck Society shirt and ripped camo shorts.
“Yeah, Victoria was getting sick of it, but it's just a phase,” he explains as he scratches his 5 o’ clock shadow. Eric pulls his drum sticks out of his back pocket and spins one. “Ready to kick some ass?”
“Always,” the girls say in unison. A myriad of hues pass through Cydnie's vision as they ascend the steps to the stage, the most prominent color to shine through is a very familiar shade of green.
“How the fuck you doing, Rio!” a man screams into a microphone before pointing it to the crowd to pick up their screams. He keeps a hand on his guitar as it stands on the stage. He stands shirtless, displaying the number, 46, on his right pec and a pair of motocross pants and boots. “That's right! My name is Damien Stubbs and we're here to rock and roll!” The other three take their places as Damien puts his own guitar on his shoulder and gives a thumbs up behind him. Eric sits down at his drum kit and does a few quick triplets then looks to Stella and nods.
She slides her fingers across her restless neck then looks to Cydnie and says into her microphone, “Let's go.”
Cydnie smirks then plugs her cable into her guitar and scrapes her pick across the bridge of her guitar before screaming into her own mic. “What's our fucking name, Rio!”
“AGAINST ALL RISK! AGAINST ALL RISK! AGAINST ALL RISK! AGAINST ALL RISK!”
