# VVURM DRAMA 2nd Impact

Title: VVURM DRAMA 2nd Impact
Status: Complete
Characters: Anon, Fang
Rating: SFW
Classification: One Shot
Author: P.M.
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>Anon's finances can't keep up between his internet bill and his growing gacha addiction
>Those Ptero JPEGs though, Raptor Jesus on a stick. Well worth splurging his navy stipend
>Months behind on rent, he finally gets kicked out after selling practically everything he owns to delay the inevitable
>Only one thing left for him then, Anon becomes homeless
>Busks for money with a beat up guitar he found in a dumpster
>Gets decently good at it. No-one is going to feed a shit performer with anything but knuckle sandwiches
>One day, some guy sticks around, offers Anon a deal. Join in with his band for guaranteed income
>Band already has a few members. Could just use a 2nd guitar to round out the ensemble
>Anon agrees, arriving early on the first day of practice
>Some band members are late, so Anon just gets to showing off what he can do with the rest of them
>Everything is going well until the final band member comes in
>That voice is sure familiar
>Anon turns around to see Fang
​
>She hasn't seen him yet
>He grabs the closest thing to him, the unattached bell of a marching band tuba
>He then shoves it over his head, obscuring his face
>Band members have no idea what's going on
>There isn't even a tuba player in the band where did that bell come from?
>Anon replies that he plays better when he can't see
>They somehow roll with it. Good thing there's no sheet music for their songs. Anon gets invited to the next practice
>Next time around he just comes in with a paper bag with GUNDAM written on it in permanent marker
​
>One day is worse than the others
>Fang can't quite hold it together
>Band leader rips the bag off Anon's paper-bag-face to give to Fang for hyperventilation treatment
>No tuba around this time. The band has been especially on watch since the incident where Anon appeared to have pulled one out of thin air
>I mean shit those go for hundreds of dollars. Easy money if one shows up again
>God damnit, Fang is recovering faster than expected
>Anon sees his only redemption
>One silent prayer to Raptor Jesus later, he pretends to trip and impales his head through a snare drum
>Not too bad this time. He can almost see the fuzzy shadows of the band members through the drum skin
>Anon is disappointed that he won't be able to quote Batdino anymore. His darkness was taken from him
>He's made enough money to replace the drum at this point at least
>The band leader isn't too impressed though, but since Anon paid for it, it's his hat now
>They just call him Drumstick from then on
>Good thing too, since Anon was vetoing requests for his name and "Skinny" had worn itself thin
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>Band is actually doing well now. It's been invited to a good amount of medium profile gigs
>Anon's image has been going around pretty well too
>I guess Daft Grunk isn't too bad a moniker
>Even got one of the band members to stencil a face onto it while he was wearing it
>The acetone-smell hasn't quite vanished from the inside of it though
>He swears he can feel the bassist getting closer to him at every event they play at
>Can't tell for sure though, black stencil is probably not a good idea for visibility
>One day some rhinorex comes in to talk to the band leader
>By the way his shadow is moving, Anon can tell that something big is happening
>He finally comes over to make the announcement
>They've been invited to the big leagues
>Stickstock 201M2025 BC
​
>The event is enormous.
>Anon gets lost multiple times, but he can't take off his headpiece
>No way can he afford to let his adoring fans be crushed by just how plain he is
>Not to mention the shot of courage that this fleeting form of anonimity gives him
>God damn though, those burgers smell delicious. He only knew of one guy who can eat food through a mask and he lost contact with him ages ago
>One of his band members finally decides to help him navigate
>They're really quiet though, Anon can't tell if his smalltalk is even being answered over the din of all the people and sound equipment
>Oh well. Doesn't matter. He can ask later
>Eventually he finds himself in a nice chair with arm and leg rests, his guitar having been thrown onto his lap moments after sitting down
>One of the band members snidely remarks that the chair is absolutely perfect for Anon
>Anon can't figure it out though, a chair is a chair right?
>Maybe it's just nerves. There's a lot of anxious energy floating around as everyone checks their equipment and makes certain that nothing bad can possibly happen
>I mean, you wouldn't want a string on your guitar to snap right before a performance
>The shadow of the rhinorex agent casts over the skin of Anon's drum-hat
>He lets the band know that they'll be on next, and to get everything set up
>Anon suddenly finds himself moving. An automatic-drive chair? Holy shit how expensive is this thing? Must have gotten comped by the sponsors
>He hopes the AI is better than what he remembers of those car autopilots. He seriously doubts the companies claims that it doesn't specifically target skinnies
>His joyride finally ends, as Anon finds himself on what he can only conclude is his spot on stage
​
>The lights flash on
>Anon can only be grateful that he cannot see the audience at all thanks to his helmet
>He can certainly hear their cheering however. Over and over again they call out the name of the band
>It's a bit muffled though. Really should have considered carving some ear-holes. He can't quite make it out.
>Anon is surprised at the reception. All those hours lounging away on his favourite lithography carving meet-up didn't show any signs of his band
>I guess it isn't obscure or counterculture enough. Those fuckers. He'd get them later
>Anon sees a shadow move forward, and a voice cracks through the speakers
>"THANK YOU STICKSTOCK! WE GIVE YOU, VVURM DRAMA!"
>An amused hum leaves Anon, Fang must have more input on the band than he thought.
>Anon's thoughts are quickly interrupted as the band's drummer counts them in
>Speakers call out as the band enters their musical set, the audience responding back with yet more cheering
>Lightning fast fingers go through the motions, Anon's blind practice showing through as he played his parts to perfection
>Take that Rockki Hendrix
>Can't quite lift the guitar behind his back while playing though. Maybe if he ever takes off the drum-helmet
>Song after song gets played, the mania of the crowd becoming ever more potent with each passing minute
>If their set was infinite, Anon felt like he could play forever. His aching sweating body being no contest towards the absolute euphoria he was undergoing
>But as the last song of their set finished, Anon accepted the inevitable. The crowd's response surely had guaranteed their return to big leagues
​
>Anon set his guitar back on his lap, signaling to the audience with devil horns on his pumped out hand
>But, the cheering died down. What? What's going on?
>Isn't the band leader supposed to close them out? Where is he at?
>The lights dim a touch, as another shadow comes up to where the microphone stands
>Geeze, about time
>A guitar sings out once more, testing chords. Anon surmises that whoever is playing must be really nervous
>Ah fuck. The band must have managed to forget about him in their own euphoria before they left the stage. How much time passed? Did someone spike the water?
>Maybe he should just play along with these next guys. He did tell himself he wanted to play more didn't he?
>Anon gets his guitar into position once more. All he needs to hear is some chord progression before he jumps in with his own improv
>He follows the lead guitar, call and response, call and response
>Once more, the stage lights blaze on, their spotlights panning toward both the guitar out front and himself
>The silhouette of the lead guitar imprints itself onto the drumskin of Anon's helmet
>Those wings, time and despair marking them, spanning across the entirety of his vision
>It's Fang
>In that moment, Anon can only let his heart and fingers guide him.
>That song, made together at what seemed a lifetime ago on a roof, tempered by life experiences, sprang forth from the both of them
>It was this song that Anon believes had saved his life. It was what he played when life was at its lowest
>It was even what he had been playing that day he was first found and inducted into the band
>But, he never finished the song. Its parts were all in shattered pieces at best
>And yet, when his song sputters out in unknown waters, Fang's guiding harmony is there to stop Anon from drowning
>It grabs a hold on his song, holding it aloft until Anon can once again find his footing
>And where Fang's song gasps out in weakness, Anon's resounding chords pump life into it once more
>And so it was. where one guitar falters, the other is there to guide it back
>Nothing else in this moment exists to Anon, only his music and the music woven counterpart to his soul springing forth from the shadow ahead of him
>The song hits its climax, the two becoming a singular whole as the uncharted ending exploded out from both of their hearts
>Nothing but silence greeted their fading notes
>Anon begins to believe the whole thing is some sort of elaborate prank. Is he playing to a canned audience?
>That thought is quickly quashed down, as the sheer wave of exuberance reverberates from the audience
>He didn't even know girls can hit that octave holy shit
>The cascading shadow over his drum-hat brought Anon out of his daze
>Wait, is Fang coming towards him?
>Oh fuck
>It's too late. Something clamps down on the drum and wrenches it off Anon's head before his hands can possibly secure it
>The blinding stage-lights pierce into his eyes, his head dropping down to protect them
>Wait, this chair
>Oh fuck this is a wheelchair
>Might be suitable depending on how this turns out I guess.
>His vision slowly climbs back up to view what he believes is his goth-grim-reaper
>There she is, standing before him.
>"I knew it."
>Shock reverberates through Anon, prompting his eyes to finally meet Fang's
>The expression he expects her to be wearing isn't there
>In its place, with tearful eyes dripping ruined mascara, beams a glowing smile
>"Come on, they're waiting for us."
>Fang's hand grips onto Anon's forearm, hauling him up from the chair and bringing him center-stage to fully appreciate the adoration coming from the audience
>Despite the growing demand from the audience for a encore, there is only one response to give with such a packed event
>"THANK YOU STICKSTOCK WE LOVE YOU!"
>As the curtains close on the band, Fang's wings close on Anon, wrapping him up along with her tattooed arms
>The hug is much more subdued than the one Anon remembers from that one fateful gig he helped with before, but no less heartfelt
>They stand together like that for as long as they can, but the world waits for no-one
>"Fang! Drumstick! Come on! Get your stuff, we gotta go!"
>They break apart, barely held emotions showing clear on their faces
>Both Fang and Anon grab their equipment, using the wheelchair as a mock-handcart
>Both of them push the wheelchair with a hand, the other entwining with its soul-bound opposite
>Fang then turns to Anon, "I think a certain dweeb owes me dinner."
>Anon lets out a watery laugh, before replying, "Yeah. I owe you a drumstick don't I?"
>The jab and resulting light pain to Anon's shoulder was well worth the sounds of Fang's laughter in his opinion
>He can definitely use that to excuse the tears trailing down from his eyes