Rapture
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Rapture
A Bubblegum Crisis 2040 vignette by
regie27
Standard Disclaimers apply
Beta reader: Carrie Asagiri
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The show was still hours away but the
stage was already overflowing with music, music that poured from the heart
meant to translate into an audible language the brewing emotions that emanated
from the performer sitting on the beat-up folding chair that uneventful Friday afternoon.
The lights were dimmed; the ambiance at
the usually loud and rowdy club was one of revered intimacy, one that beckoned
the sole performer at center stage to open up her heart and soul through the
chords that she deftly played on her guitar. Her trusted blue vintage Fender
Stratocaster answered in turn to the ever so slight pressure of her calloused
fingertips to the nylon strings against the frets. The Stratocaster knew all
too well how to establish communion with her, their voices tuned in unison
almost effortlessly, ready to conjure their enthralling alchemy one more time
on their expectant audience. In a sense, her guitar knew her even better than
her own bandmates. The instrument managed to do what no any living being had:
it had penetrated her barriers, it had sunk into her core and it had witnessed
the real her, the real Priscilla Asagiri, the person behind the façade of the
vocalist, of the fierce Knight Saber, of the tough as nails survivor that
roamed the streets of Tokyo without a care in the world. With her guitar, she
could strip herself of her masks and liberate herself from the binds that tied
her. Every chord, every note they created meant boundless freedom. It was the
moment she could be away from the pain and the anguish, from the worries and
the fears. Music was her haven, it was her refuge.
This time, the voice of the six-string
was lower and less strident than usual. The guitar’s usual partner in crime,
the Marshall
amp, hadn’t been plugged in yet and the softer sound that emanated from the
instrument and the audible clicking sound of the pick against the strings
enhanced even more the intimate atmosphere at the club as the melody echoed
through the darkened room. The sound of the guitar was quieter and so was too the
voice of her mistress. Instead of the hard rock that had become Sekiria’s
trademark sound, their lead singer was currently favoring a blues-tinged strum
of the guitar, her voice accompanying the tune not with words but by a haunting
and soft humming. Her voice had a slightly huskier tone than usual, perhaps
because she had skipped both vocal chord exercises to warm up and the lemon and
honey brew that seemed to work wonders when her voice was about to fade. The
pleasant result of her jamming made her nod in approval as she kept playing
almost automatic, letting her instincts lead. Music wasn’t just a way to make a
living for her; it was something much more profound. For her, it was a need
just as breathing or eating was; music was the vehicle that allowed her to face
her true self. It was the outlet for her soul.
A trance-like moment befell the
dark-haired singer. As if they had been etched in a corner of her conscience
waiting for the moment to be sent free, ideas and sensations began to
materialize on her mind. The electric impulses from her mind became words that
began to slip from her lips with the vehemence and care of a priest uttering a
prayer. Her lids slowly closed as her voice rose overflowing with the emotion,
drenched in a passion so intense it made the temperature around her smolder
with her intensity. At that instant of magic, nothing mattered, only the
mystical connection she was able to establish through her music. She could
barely sense her own voice rising, her hands gripping the guitar as a
heartfelt, passionate song was being given birth to. For that brief instant she
held the power of creation in her own hands. She already knew how power felt.
Every time she donned her hardsuit she was granted power mere mortals could
only wish for. She had tipped the balance between life and death in countless
occasions. She had danced with danger at the edge of the blade with each battle
and each deadly face-off with a rogue voomer. It wasn’t for the heroics and the
cult-following the Sabers had garnered through the web. Although the money was
good, what she relished the most was the almost insane tendency of putting
herself to the test in the ultimate battle, one that made her keenly aware of
what being alive truly meant. She had soared like the wind with each leap to
the open night sky. She had sensed what raw, unadulterated power was through
the devastating impact of her fists and yet, none of those sensations could
ever compare to the overwhelming emotions of being able to metamorphose mere
ideas into something more concrete, into a language that could reach out and
make an intimate, honest connection with her audience that came to be
enthralled and seduced by the music she had created and now shared, with the
part of herself that now became a gift to all. For Priss Asagiri, that’s where
true power resided.
Amber eyes flung open and the spell
began to lift from her, leaving in its wake a tingling sensation that lingered
over her skin for a while longer. A grin tugged from her lips as her eyes
shimmered brightly. Her hands abandoned the strings and her arms came to the
rest over the Fender’s body. Her eyes lowered to her watch. Her bandmates
should be arriving at any moment now and from then on the rest of the afternoon
would be lost in the frenzy of the pre-show rehearsal. Priss stood up resting
her guitar against the chair. A knowing look illuminated her cat-like eyes
again. She could already sense the anticipation building up inside, the
restlessness manifesting while striking a couple of her stage moves behind the
mike. For when she stepped into the stage again tonight, bright lights full on
with the vibration of the amps, the power of the drums, the pulse of the bass
and the thunder of the guitars as her acolytes, she would be casting her spell
on the audience all over again. It would be rapture all over again.
~Fin~
