Even without a voice, he could still hear the music skimming through his head. Lying around the edges of his thoughts, the way he should sing the notes, the words spilling out and showing people a little of what his thoughts were. Understood that they passed them off as mere artistic license. Now he felt gagged. Broken. The telepathy could never even come close to replacing his true voice. Didn't feel the same. Couldn't sing properly with it.

There were more parts of him missing then were visible on first glance.

Unless, Jonothon conceded, you were a telepath. Then maybe, using those other eyes, you could see. The hollow lying at the heart of him. Empty and gaping, cracked and dry. Like on nature documentaries he watched about drought stricken countries, the waterholes spread out as mud flats. Broken landscape. A skull, here and there. For some reason, it was usually cattle skulls. Made a better shot, better set up to have the long skull with sweeping or broken horns. It just plugged into the popular culture images of Westerns.

He could barely find anything to compare himself to, the broken open husk of a human being sheltering flames inside its ribs. Stared sometimes, into a mirror. Flares coiling and sparking around him, ribbons of flame and energy. They didn't burn things...unless he concentrated. Had to learn some sort of control, otherwise he could kill a lot of people if it slipped. The bandages just hid the flares, they didn't control it.

Come home (Jesus, this wasn't home even if Angelo was there), take off his bandages and run calloused fingertips over the bubbling and cracking of the material. Heat seared from the inside. One day, they were going to catch on fire in front of people, and then he'd be well and truly fucked. Every time mutants hit the news, it was in a bad way. Mag-bloody-neto. The wanker should do a somersault and disappear up his own arsehole, it'd help every mutant who wasn't camping out underneath his cloak and was also not flashing a big bloody X. They looked like targets.

Hadn't one of them died? Or something, he was sure that he'd watched something about that on tv. The days just seemed to bleed together lately. All of a same. Everything was just so futile. Of everything he'd ever wanted, he had exactly nada left. Loving beautiful girlfriend, who was incidentally (unimportantly) a member of the aristocracy? Manifestation had seen her off. Running. And the telepathy had told him everything about her that he had never wanted to know. Recording contract? Fuck that, he didn't even have a band anymore. They'd disappeared just as quickly as Gayle into the sunset. Bastards. They'd been friends since they were kids, but he was a mutant.

People treated it like it was some sort of infectious disease. Mutation wasn't catching. Far as he knew. You had to work at it to get a mutation if you weren't born with one. And if that didn't make the Ultimates one of the largest wank offs in the history of all governmental communal circle jerks about how downright spiffy they all were, he wasn't sure what could beat it. So sod 'em. Spread his fingers against the varnished wood of his guitar and studied his hands.

Still had his guitar. That was something. Wasn't exactly certain how he got hard, but he wasn't thinking about it too much. Looking horses in the mouth only got you bit. Could feel the flares shifting and sighing under the bandages, against the walls of his frail flesh that kept them in. Uncoiling radiance.

Angelo thought they were beautiful.

Sometimes he was disturbing.

He had a gig tonight anyway. Time to get a wriggle on, if he was going to get there on time. His ride'd be here in about half an hour. Getting dressed just meant he pulled an actual shirt over the bandages, since he usually just schlepped around in jeans, bandages and bare feet when he was in the apartment (home). Possibly fucking stupid, considering he had no idea how many people had owned the place before them and the carpet looked like it was a relic from the 70s. Possibly earlier. Some sort of vomit green brown. Except for some suspicious darker brown staining in splatters near one wall that they'd put the bed over.

Occasionally, Angelo's mother would come over with biscuits or meals for Angelo to eat. Some sort of mothering instinct. Feed the bloody yammering children. Always. Because food was love. When you didn't know what to say, you could always shove food down their gobs. It was a good thing she did really. Otherwise the idiot might end up with scurvy or something. Nutritionally deprived illnesses. Bloody joke. Angelo had no idea how to feed himself properly, and he had never been good at looking after himself either. Made his wrists itch for cuffs and scratches down his back.

Afraid of scaring Angelo away with what he wanted. Making him leave. So afraid. What would he do, if he didn't...have him? Around? What would he do? Jonothon picked up his eyeliner pencil as he stared into the mirror, bangs falling forward over his face as he gazed into the reflective surface. Bandages presenting an illusion of wholeness, when the reality was that you could see his spine through the flames. Wet red of the inside of his skin. Like if he could put his hands through the flares, through the core of energy settled inside him, he could push through to the other side and tear himself into pieces. The idea...that...no. Shaking fingers underlined his eyes, brown eyes darkening and deepening as he then smoothed dark grey eyeshadow over his upper lids. Goth club, some sort of new romantic Goth shite and he had to look dead.

Which he was, but no need to advertise the fact.

He could see the cracks of light from the edges of his bandages, but no one else seemed to notice. Maybe it was just his paranoia talking. Had to be. Shuddering little voice in the back of his head that he'd carried around from the first time his father had belted him across the face. Voice of a child. Confused. Afraid. Snivelling little whiner. Blurred the edges of the eyeliner with his thumb, dragging it down his cheeks. Black and white. Everything existed in opposites. But there had to be something in the middle to hold each one to the other. Like a coin.

Face and another face, but the edge held it there. All together. Turned and picked up his coat as he walked out the door, knowing that he was almost running late. Felt the throb of a bruise on his hip as he swung around the outside door, dropping down the steps and guitar thumping against his back. Thank God they were providing the amps. Hated having to drag around a lot of equipment.

"J! Hurry your ass, man. We're gonna be late." Multi-coloured fringe flicked back and black mouthed smile of Skids as the door into the back seat of the beat up panel van slid open. He slithered in, long legs moving ganglingly and put his guitar in the back with the rest of the gear. Petting fingers against his hair, which he removed as Dreamer sort of smiled in the back around her everpresent cigarette, Thornn's too sharp fingernails touching his face gently before she withdrew her hand. Wondered, sometimes, about her...

About all of them.

But he wouldn't pry to confirm for certain what he only suspected. He had that much control. And opening to let them in...would mean too much of a breach. So not only good manners but good survival instincts. And he had to be silent. Quiet. He was just glad they hadn't asked what was underneath the bandages. Never even really mentioned them. Some bands...were nosy.

"Gloomy vibes. Find them," Ray advised, face turning for a moment to the back as Thornn leant around Jonothon to close the door. The scent of pot and body odour was layered over everything. Dirty and underpaid. A grungy almost-Goth band that teetered on the punk edge. The Morlocks. And he felt...almost at home with them.

"Children of the nii-iight, bay-beh," Skids crooned, the van jolting and shuddering as she put it into gear, hand fondling the head of the gearstick. "Vhat vonderful music zhey make, ahahaha!" she cackled madly, teeth glittering in her lipsticked smile, black PVC corset looking wet and liquid in the New York night aura. Like something dark spilled over her body, clinging and sucking to her shape.

"Crazy. Someone give her coffee or what?" Thornn muttered, eyes picking up a lambent glow from the streetlights, golden green and blank for just a moment. She leaned in against him and he petted her awkwardly, feeling the spill of her long brown hair against his cheek. Prick of her nails tapping against the worn denim of his jeans. Like a cat kneading. "Ray, she's your girlfriend..."

"Snatch," Dreamer murmured, tapping ash on the windowsill from her ever smouldering cigarette. Tattered little veil hanging over her face, swathed in soiled looking finery. Ruined and aged. Ancient lace and streaked satins. Torn and worn around the edges. Her wrists were brittle thin, and you wouldn't have thought she could pound out any sort of rhythm on drums, but there you were. People were never what you expected. "Relationships are messy. For all you know, she's just using him for sex."

"Yes. I use his body like a whore, girl." The van turned around a corner as Skids's hands spun over the steering wheel, and Jonothon put his hand against a window as Thornn fell against him. Laughing, warm dark sound. Curled against his side and it would be so easy to touch this feeling of camaraderie, let himself be lured by it. He was just a hired back up guitarist because they needed one, their own being sick or something. He didn't actually belong here.

But it would be sweet to pretend.

That he fit in here. That he would meet next week with them and the months after, arguing about chords and rhythm. Whether or not using references from horror movies in their lyrics was acceptable. Or just sitting and lounging as they talked nothing but bullshit. Compare themselves to past greater bands and think that one day, one day they'd reach that high. Touch that star. See down from the height of a recording contract and wonder at their garage band days.

The flickering lights played across his black bandaged jaw as he looked out the window, and the easy banter of the band flowed on around him. Leaving him on the outside. Which is where he should belong, because to take the risk of being inside again then cast out would be more then he could bear. He was just a temporary stopgap measure. So they could play tonight and not get a bad rep on the club circuit for missing gigs. That was it. Nothing more.

He didn't belong here on the world anymore. Adrift in nothingness, the only grounding he could find in the spiral of notes from his guitar and at Angelo's hands. Holding him tight, giving him something to latch onto that was outside himself. Wise old eyes, snapping with sarcasm and mouth exhaling curls of cigarette smoke as grey as his skin. The annoying as hell little soulpatch on his chin, while Angelo considered the idea of actually growing a full goatee. Jingle of keys in the lock and a 'hola, I'm home, Jono'. Anchors. Or maybe hooks in his skin, piercing cruelly as chains of being held him on the ground when his soul was meant to fly to...somewhere else. He wasn't egotistical or certain enough of anything to say Heaven.

Had a show to do. Flashing lights and people pretending to be something dangerous on the dance floor. While they played and sang, creating something for the amusement of the herd. Why was he so bitter about the audience now? He never really had been before. Maybe it was because now he knew exactly how fickle they were. You could molest children, go to court for it and then be let free, yet your fans will cluster about the courthouse and scream happily at the fact that nothing had been proved. Even when people knew what had happened. The truth of it all. And have your career suffer not. Yet...to be a mutant... Unforgivable. Some things the world would forgive, strictly on the strength of humanity.

"Draw it out on me," Skids sang huskily, suddenly, voice skimming over notes like a bird in flight. Ray just gazed out the window into the night. "Sins of blood and love..."

"Trace the words out over my skin," Thornn joined in, feminine voices roughened with a purr. Invitation gleaming like light falling across some soft sweep of fur. Jonothon turned his head away slightly as Thornn looked at him, hair covering his eyes. "Dig the quill point in, and let's begin..."

Tap of Dreamer's fingers against the side of the car, beating out the rhythm, low breathy hum her only contribution vocally. Jonothon listened, hearing where the instruments should go, the strum of guitar and Thornn's weird keyboard. Wherever she'd gotten it from. It was certainly a unique sounding piece of electronic shite. And here was where the deeper thump of Ray's bass would enter, providing detailed background for everyone else to stand against.

"Watch the slurs blossom ‘cross white skin..."

Thornn murmured something under her breath, then broke off to do the backing vocals. "Slut, bitch, bastard, whore, asshole, skank, freak..." Soft, an undercurrent of hating words. When they got up on stage and played it...it became something uncanny. Skids' voice belting out the main songline with Thornn's almost whisper, harsh and hard in her mouth running along in the background.

"Black sin written onto false purity..." Skids coughed and then halted, the other girl's voice of obscenities fading into the background as well. Done. A little bit of warmup before they went on. Dreamer's fingers were still tapping out complicated rhythms that looped in and over themselves in the background. Ray grunted, moving in his seat as Skids concentrated on driving again. Band'd be playing soon for real, not just for fun.

Brooding, Jonothon didn't move Thornn's hand this time as she placed it on his thigh.