There was an ear-splitting buzz of feedback as Mitch plugged his guitar into the amplifier. He grimaced as one of his bandmates yelled at him to turn it off, and he did so, making some adjustments in an attempt to fix it. After calming the feedback, keeping the volume down for the moment, he took a seat on the floor next to the amp, twisting the tuning pegs on his worn-out guitar. The black Epiphone Les Paul might have passed for the real thing at one point, but by the time it had landed at the pawn shop he’d obtained it from, it barely even passed for an instrument. Mitch figured that was the reason that the shop owner had practically given it to him for free.

“Hey, did you learn that new song?” their bassist, Daryl, inquired as he wandered over, a green Stingray slung over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Mitch replied. “It’s not like it’s hard.”

“Okay, cool, cool,” Daryl replied, nodding. “I know me and Sean have our parts down, so we should be good to give it a try together. Not so sure about the hooligans we have on lead guitar and drums, though.”

Mitch shrugged, glancing at the two in question, who were sitting in the back of the garage conversing. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m kicking their asses if they didn’t learn it though,” he added nonchalantly.

Daryl rolled his eyes, which were mostly hidden behind his thick-rimmed glasses, but let it go as another of Mitch’s idle threats.

“Hey guys, are we practicing or not?” Sean, the band’s lead vocalist, asked as he strode over to where Mitch and Daryl were. He absently swiped his dark bangs out of his eyes, hair more or less naturally falling into the same swooping style that had been popular with all of the self-proclaimed emo kids a few years back. The boy was not what one would call humble, nor particularly smart, at least in Mitch’s opinion. He also couldn’t play an instrument to save his life. But, he could sing, and made an entertaining front man, which was enough to keep him off of Mitch’s hit list and in the good graces of the remainder of Moral Of The Story.

“Ask Mikey and Spider,” Daryl replied, “they’re the ones standing around bullshitting. And that reminds me, where the hell is Backspace?”

“Over here,” a voice called from somewhere in the back of the garage.

“Dude, what’re you doing?” Sean asked, standing on his toes to look over the piles of junk and instruments, searching for their keyboard player.

“Trying to find something,” Backspace--who was called that for reasons known only to his bandmates--replied, shuffling some boxes around.

“What could you possibly be trying to find in this mess that Spider calls a garage?” Daryl inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

Daryl and Sean exchanged confused looks, then shrugged.

“Whether you find your mystery object or not, you’d better get out here,” Mitch said, not looking up from tuning his guitar.

“I’ll be out when you get the rest of the band ready to go,” came the reply.

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Hey, Mikey! Spider! Let’s go already!” he barked, earning half-irritated, half-fearful looks from the two in question, who stopped talking and headed for their instruments. Spider, a tall, lanky, tan boy who always wore a hat that nearly covered his dark eyes, took a seat behind his beat-up old drum kit, and hit the assortment of drums a few times to test them. Mikey, a similarly skinny young man with long, stringy brown hair hidden under a time-worn baseball cap, dropped his cigarette butt, crushing it under his foot as he picked up his guitar. He picked at the strings, making sure it was in tune, before nodding to himself and lighting another cig.

“Alright, are we ready to give this new one a shot?” Daryl asked.

The remainder of the band looked at each other and nodded.

“Good,” Sean said, stepping up to his microphone. “Let’s do this.” He took a breath, and spoke into the mic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Raina Weathers stared out her window, sighing lightly as the sun began to disappear behind the treeline. It would be a moonless night, which she didn’t care for, having a distinct preference for the light of either the moon or the sun.

This was disappointing, primarily because she really wanted to go for a walk. She’d been cooped up in school all day, and then in her house doing homework, at the insistence of her parents. She needed to get outside.

Raina got up and stretched, pulled her fiery red hair back into a tight ponytail, and decided that a short stroll down the street couldn't hurt. Besides, she wanted to check something out. There was a strange feeling about tonight. She wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it wasn't normal. Wasn't natural. So, it had to be supernatural. Something not-quite-human was nearby...and for once, it wasn't just her.

As she grabbed her coat and tiptoed out the front door, trying not to arouse her parents’ suspicion, she thought back to the encounter with the younger boy in the hall the other day. There had been something odd about him, too. She wasn't perfectly sure what he was, but he was definitely like her. She wished her senses on this were sharper--some of her kind were very good at picking out other non-humans and identifying them, but she was not. She could generally spot them in close proximity, but even then she had a hard time defining them. It was frustrating sometimes.

She was jarred out of her thoughtful state when she heard a strange noise coming from down the road. Music? Curious, she continued in that direction. It was getting progressively louder, almost raucous, with blaring guitar and a pounding, fast-paced drum beat. It was a far cry from her usual playlist of country and classical music, but she pressed on, still interested.

Finally, she got to a point where she could define the source of the sound--it was coming from a garage a little farther down. The garage door was open, and the lights on, and she could make out some movement inside. About...five people? No, six, there was one in the corner. All but one held instruments, and the last was yelling into what appeared to be a microphone on a stand. As she got closer, she began to be able to make out what they looked like. The one with the microphone had long dark hair, and a faded red hoodie and blue jeans. The one to his left was African-American, with thick-rimmed, rectangular glasses. He wore some kind of band tee and was plucking at a green bass guitar. Behind the keyboard in the back right corner was a pale blonde...boy? Raina wasn’t entirely sure; the person had a ponytail and soft, almost feminine features, sporting rimless half-moon glasses. But, they had the build of a skinny teenage boy, so Raina assumed it was a male. To his left was a presumably tall, lanky boy in a black beanie that was nearly pulled down over his eyes, beating on a drumset. In the far left corner of the room was a dark-skinned boy sporting a baseball cap. Long, thin hair was falling from under the hat, and what appeared to be a cigarette was sticking out of his mouth. He moved his fingers up and down the neck of a glossy red guitar. Finally, to his right, next to the singer, was a short boy with--Raina blinked and looked again--purple hair. Most of it was buzz cut close to his head, and appeared to be light brown, but one section down the middle was longer, dyed a faded purple, and flopped to one side. His hair aside though, the boy had several facial piercings, and wore an ill-fitting white tank top, jeans that were ripped in several places, and black boots. He was picking at a worn black guitar with a few pieces of duct tape that may have been holding it together.

As the apparent band finished their song, the singer looked up, and raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of Raina, who had by now wandered close enough to be seen from the garage.

“Hello, what do we have here?” he said, a smile creeping onto his face. “Hey!” he called. Raina stopped walking, tilting her head and pointing at herself. “Yeah, you,” he said. “Hey, come here. We won’t bite.” He paused, looking considerate. “Well, I won’t, anyway,” he corrected, putting on a grin.

Raina hesitated for a few seconds, then slowly approached the garage, smiling. “Evenin’,” she greeted.

“Evening yourself,” he replied. “What’s a lovely lady like you doing out so late?”

“Aw, it’s not that late,” Raina said, laughing. “I was just takin’ a walk.”

“This isn’t really the safest part of town to be wandering around in at night,” one of the other boys, the bassist, mentioned.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Raina said, still smiling. She had to fight not to sound nervous though; something in this garage didn’t feel right. She suddenly wanted to leave. “Anyway, I oughta be on my way…”

“No no, you should stay awhile!” the singer insisted. “Check out our practice. We could use an audience.”

“No fucking way,” came a voice from their left. “This is not open to the public.” Both Raina and the singer turned to face the boy with the black guitar and purple hair. He glowered at both of them, but primarily at Raina. A chill ran down her spine, and she had to fight not to growl defensively. Him, she thought. That’s what I felt earlier.

The vocalist sighed irritably. “Goddammit Mitch, it’s not going to hurt anything,” he said. “Stop being such a prick.”

“Stop being such a playboy and going after every pretty girl you see,” Mitch replied icily.

The singer’s eyes widened as Raina involuntarily took a step back. “What? No!” he exclaimed. “That’s not--gah! Mitchell, just shut the hell up, okay? Nobody asked you.” He turned back to Raina. “Sorry about…him. He’s just got a stick--no, make that a tree--up his ass for some reason.” Mitch’s glare intensified, and his lip curled a bit in the beginnings of a snarl, but he said nothing.

Yeah, he’s definitely not human, Raina decided, biting her lip uncomfortably. Also definitely a predator.

“Anyway,” he continued, “if you can ignore Mr. Attitude over there, you seriously should stick around and hear us play a little. At least a couple songs.” As Raina tried to formulate a response, he suddenly frowned. “Oh man, where are my manners?” he said, and extended a hand. “I’m Sean.”

Raina considered his outstretched hand, eventually decided that he didn’t seem that bad, and shook it. “Raina,” she told him, smiling warmly.

“Raina,” Sean repeated. “That’s a pretty name. Much like the lady that owns it,” he added, grinning. Raina laughed nervously.

“Dear God Sean, could you be any more of a flirt?” the keyboard player--who Raina decided for sure was male, based on his voice--sighed. “You’re not even good at it.”

Sean shot him a glare. “Could you be any more of an asshole?”

“Yes, but I’ll spare you, since you’re doing a good job of freaking her out on your own,” the blonde replied. “Look, she’s ready to run, and not just from Mitch.”

Sean actually looked surprised, and turned back to Raina, who was looking equally shocked at the observation. “Aw man, I’m sorry,” he said. “I really didn’t mean to come off as some kind of creep. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, it was just an offer.”

Raina calmed a bit, actually considering it this time. “Well…” she said eventually, “I s’pose I could stick around for a song or two. I do love music.”

Sean looked pleased. “Awesome, that’s great,” he exclaimed, then indicated a lawn chair off to the side of the garage. “You can sit there, if you want, or on the ground, or just stand. Wherever you’re comfortable.”

“I’d recommend just standing,” the bassist inserted, “We can’t even begin to tell you the last time that chair was cleaned, and I’m doubting the ground is any more sanitary.”

Sean gave him a withering look. “Thanks, Daryl,” he said sarcastically, then tipped his head to one side, grimacing a bit. “Then again, now that he mentions it, maybe standing would be a better idea.”

Raina chuckled a bit. “That’s fine,” she said. “I’d rather be on my feet, anyway.”

“Okay, good,” Sean laughed. Then he turned to the band. “Alright guys, let’s impress the lady, shall we?”

Some nodded, some rolled their eyes, and Mitch let out a, “Tch.”

“Alright, what are we playing then, ladykiller?” the keyboardist asked.

Sean considered it. “Does anyone remember how to play ‘Swing Life Away’? It’s been awhile since we did that one.”

“I’m not getting my goddamn acoustic out just so you can show off,” Mitch snapped.

Sean rolled his eyes. “Fine, Mikey can do it then,” he said thickly. “Go sit in the corner or something.”

Mitch shot him another glare, but actually did go and sit in the corner of the garage, plopping down on the dusty floor with a thump.

The other guitarist, meanwhile, shrugged and swapped out his electric guitar for an acoustic. He played with the tuning pegs for a moment, then nodded to Sean.

“Alright, cool,” Sean said. “Let’s go, then.”

With that, the guitarist began to play, and Sean stepped to his microphone.