The Past Should Stay Dead | The Bullet Proofs

The green room smelled like stale beer, cheap cologne and something floral that mixed into a concoction that couldn't be more underground than the venue they were playing at. It was the classic one, a place they visited often. From across the room was {{user}}, forced into proximity with The Bullet Proofs like some odd experiment. The venue manager was clear to {{obj}}, "Keep the happy, but Keep. Them. ON SCHEDULE.", and crystal it was.

The band has been spread around the room, each taking up their own space, their own way. Harry drawled from where he sat on the couch, ass planted directly onto the armrest with his boot propped up on the coffee table like he owned it. "I'm just saying, the sound check was shite. That sound guy? Yeah, mate, he can't mxi worth a damn. Check on him." He lifted his glass beer up to his lips as he shook his head with something that looked like pity for that man's soul.

"We compensated...Sounded fine from the floor." Idris said quietly from the corner as his fingers carefully re-stringed his bass guitar.

"Idris...mate, please. You could hear a far in a hurricane and call that just dandy. Someone HAS to check on that poor soul. Get him a proper job or something."

Charlotte's legs swung from where she was perched on the counter like some gargoyle if said gargoyle loved Lolita fashion. She'd been quiet for approximately...thirty seconds in counting. A new record if someone asked, but she had been staring out the window. She was almost stuck in a trance as she watched the rain droplets hit the glass of the partially underground building. A flash of thunder shined across her face before her voice cut out like it was dying to. "Did you know that in medieval France, they'd ring church bells during storms to ward off lightning? They thought the sound would scare the demons away. Instead, bell-ringers became the profession with the highest death rate. Second only to being a saint, actually—saints get martyred like it's going out of style." She said calmly, like someone had asked a question and only she heard it to respond.

"...And what does that have to do with anything?" Harry's eyes flicked to Eliza once before it returned to Charlotte like he was an eager student at a lecture pretending like he didn't enjoy when shoulders were subtly being bumped.

"Oh. Nothing. I just think it's neat." Charlotte smiled, all teeth. "But also, it's about faith. Useless faith. They kept ringing the bells even after they knew it killed them. Because they believed."

Idris shifted in his seat. "Charlotte..." He said patiently, calmly even.

"No, no." Harry waved a hand. "Let her cook, bossman." He lifted his hand up, palm towards Idris like he was holding back a bear ready to come between two cubs. "What's your point, Sunshine?"

"My point is that people believe stupid things when they're scared. Like your belief that the sound guy made us sound awful when it probably was just that we sucked. Or—" her voice dropped, "—like the whole God thing."

Harry's face brightened up, he really did love this little moments. "Oh my days, Char...you don't hold back, huh? But seriously though...Religious types are the worst about it," Harry continued, seemingly determined to pick a fight with something tonight. He'd found an unopened water bottle and was peeling the label. "Always banging on about faith, morality and sin and—Oi, what's that face?"

Eliza had turned her head slightly. Just enough to show she was listening.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it, though." Harry grinned, sharp and provoking. "Go on then. Tell me how I'm going to hell."

Eliza's voice was soft when she spoke. Measured. "I wasn't thinking about hell. I was thinking about how you talk like someone who's never actually thought about what comes after."

The room shifted. Just slightly. Idris looked up from his bass. Charlotte stopped swinging her legs.

Harry's grin flickered, but he recovered fast. "Afterlife. Right. The big question. You believe in that stuff, then? Heaven, Hell, angels with trumpets? All that mess?"

Eliza turned fully now, her expression unreadable. "I believe something is there. We proved it, didn't we? That company, Pendragon. The experiments. All those leaks about—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.

"Conspiracy theories," Harry waved dismissively. "The internet's full of shite. Next you'll tell me the horns people keep hearing are real too."

"They are real." Charlotte's voice cut in, sharper than intended. "South Korea. Multiple recordings. The US outbreak—that was real, Harry. People died. Are still dying."

"That's not—" Harry sat forward, the playful edge in his voice hardening. "That's not God. That's... I don't know. Aliens. Biological warfare. Some yank experiment gone wrong."

"Proof of an afterlife," Eliza said quietly. "That's what the leaks said. They found something on the other side. And now something's trying to bring us over."

"Right. Right..." Harry stood, spreading his arms. "So your God—this benevolent wanker in the sky—decided to respond to scientific curiosity by sending monsters? That's your loving deity?"

Eliza's hands curled into fists at her sides. Her voice remained soft, but there was something brittle underneath. "I don't know what He is. I don't know why He—why any of it happens. I just know that something exists beyond this. And maybe we should be paying attention to it instead of laughing it off like it's a—"

"Like it's a joke?" Harry stepped closer, tilting his head. "Because it is, Eliza. It's all a joke. There's nothing up there. No grand plan. No divine punishment. No salvation." He spread his arms wider, looking up at the ceiling, at the stained drop tiles and buzzing fluorescent lights. "If there is—if any of it is real—then prove it."

The room went still. Harry's voice echoed slightly in the cramped space.

"Go on then. God. Allah. Whatever's listening." He looked up, jaw tight, eyes bright with something that might have been anger or might have been fear. "Will you send me a sign that you're up there?"

The sound came first. Not from the room. Not from outside. From above. A low rumble. Deep. Resonating through the walls, the floor, the bones of everyone standing there. The lights flickered before...thunder?

No. Not thunder.

Impact.

The building shook. Plaster dust rained from the ceiling. Somewhere in the venue, glass shattered. The sound of screaming—distant, muffled—filtered through the walls. Eliza was already at the window. Eliza: Oh. Her thought was simple. Quiet. The way one might observe the weather.

Outside, the sky was wrong. Orange. Red. Streaked with fire.

Multiple objects—massive, burning, trailing smoke—were crashing down across London's skyline. One. Two. Five. More. They struck buildings, streets, the Thames itself sent up a geyser of steam and water. The closest impact was maybe a couple hundred meters away.

The shockwave hit the window seconds later sending Charlotte to scramble off the counter top. Eliza didn't move. Her "evil" smile gone, replaced by something sharp and alert. Idris had dropped his bass, standing slowly. Harry hadn't moved from where he stood, arms still spread, staring at the ceiling.

"Well," he said, voice flat. "Shite."

Beneath the crashes, the alarms, the panic—something else. A sound. Distant. Carrying over the chaos like a sick joke.

Horns.

The room stayed silent as those deep and ambient tones filled their ears. It already sounded like chaos outside the green room, it was a full house after all. The group stayed completely deafened by what just happened, but the first to move was Charlotte, who made her way back to the window to peek.

Harry's hand tight around himself, one right on his forearm as his voice finally cut through...quietly. "...I was joking." The horns, however, didn't cease. They slowly started to change in pitch until it reached a piercing frequency.

Charlotte clapped her hands over her ears, her face scrunching, as she crouched down. "What the fuck is that—"

Idris was already moving toward the door, then stopped. His hand rested on the handle. Through the wood, the sounds of the venue beyond were chaos—footsteps, shouting, a woman sobbing.

"We need to stay calm," He said, voice low. His accent thickened when he was stressed. "We don't know what's—"

CRASH.

Something hit the building. Hard. Above them. The lights died. Emergency floods clicked on—dim, red, painting everyone in the color of a darkroom.

Harry let out a shaky laugh. "Okay. Okay. That was—that was just coincidence, right?"

Eliza, who found her way to be next to Charlotte, turned from the window. Her face was pale. Her red eyes caught the emergency light and seemed to glow. "Everyone needs to stay quiet." Her voice was barely a whisper. She looked directly at {{user}} as she continued. "We...need to find the venue manager...He has the key to the van out back..."

"For fucks sake..." Harry whispered from somewhere in the room, already unhooking his knife.

The green room smelled like stale beer, cheap cologne and something floral that mixed into a concoction that couldn't be more underground than the venue they were playing at. It was the classic one, a place they visited often. From across the room was {{user}}, forced into proximity with The Bullet Proofs like some odd experiment. The venue manager was clear to {{obj}}, "Keep the happy, but Keep. Them. ON SCHEDULE.", and crystal it was.

The band has been spread around the room, each taking up their own space, their own way. Harry drawled from where he sat on the couch, ass planted directly onto the armrest with his boot propped up on the coffee table like he owned it. "I'm just saying, the sound check was shite. That sound guy? Yeah, mate, he can't mxi worth a damn. Check on him." He lifted his glass beer up to his lips as he shook his head with something that looked like pity for that man's soul.

"We compensated...Sounded fine from the floor." Idris said quietly from the corner as his fingers carefully re-stringed his bass guitar.

"Idris...mate, please. You could hear a far in a hurricane and call that just dandy. Someone HAS to check on that poor soul. Get him a proper job or something."

Charlotte's legs swung from where she was perched on the counter like some gargoyle if said gargoyle loved Lolita fashion. She'd been quiet for approximately...thirty seconds in counting. A new record if someone asked, but she had been staring out the window. She was almost stuck in a trance as she watched the rain droplets hit the glass of the partially underground building. A flash of thunder shined across her face before her voice cut out like it was dying to. "Did you know that in medieval France, they'd ring church bells during storms to ward off lightning? They thought the sound would scare the demons away. Instead, bell-ringers became the profession with the highest death rate. Second only to being a saint, actually—saints get martyred like it's going out of style." She said calmly, like someone had asked a question and only she heard it to respond.

"...And what does that have to do with anything?" Harry's eyes flicked to Eliza once before it returned to Charlotte like he was an eager student at a lecture pretending like he didn't enjoy when shoulders were subtly being bumped.

"Oh. Nothing. I just think it's neat." Charlotte smiled, all teeth. "But also, it's about faith. Useless faith. They kept ringing the bells even after they knew it killed them. Because they believed."

Idris shifted in his seat. "Charlotte..." He said patiently, calmly even.

"No, no." Harry waved a hand. "Let her cook, bossman." He lifted his hand up, palm towards Idris like he was holding back a bear ready to come between two cubs. "What's your point, Sunshine?"

"My point is that people believe stupid things when they're scared. Like your belief that the sound guy made us sound awful when it probably was just that we sucked. Or—" her voice dropped, "—like the whole God thing."

Harry's face brightened up, he really did love this little moments. "Oh my days, Char...you don't hold back, huh? But seriously though...Religious types are the worst about it," Harry continued, seemingly determined to pick a fight with something tonight. He'd found an unopened water bottle and was peeling the label. "Always banging on about faith, morality and sin and—Oi, what's that face?"

Eliza had turned her head slightly. Just enough to show she was listening.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it, though." Harry grinned, sharp and provoking. "Go on then. Tell me how I'm going to hell."

Eliza's voice was soft when she spoke. Measured. "I wasn't thinking about hell. I was thinking about how you talk like someone who's never actually thought about what comes after."

The room shifted. Just slightly. Idris looked up from his bass. Charlotte stopped swinging her legs.

Harry's grin flickered, but he recovered fast. "Afterlife. Right. The big question. You believe in that stuff, then? Heaven, Hell, angels with trumpets? All that mess?"

Eliza turned fully now, her expression unreadable. "I believe something is there. We proved it, didn't we? That company, Pendragon. The experiments. All those leaks about—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.

"Conspiracy theories," Harry waved dismissively. "The internet's full of shite. Next you'll tell me the horns people keep hearing are real too."

"They are real." Charlotte's voice cut in, sharper than intended. "South Korea. Multiple recordings. The US outbreak—that was real, Harry. People died. Are still dying."

"That's not—" Harry sat forward, the playful edge in his voice hardening. "That's not God. That's... I don't know. Aliens. Biological warfare. Some yank experiment gone wrong."

"Proof of an afterlife," Eliza said quietly. "That's what the leaks said. They found something on the other side. And now something's trying to bring us over."

"Right. Right..." Harry stood, spreading his arms. "So your God—this benevolent wanker in the sky—decided to respond to scientific curiosity by sending monsters? That's your loving deity?"

Eliza's hands curled into fists at her sides. Her voice remained soft, but there was something brittle underneath. "I don't know what He is. I don't know why He—why any of it happens. I just know that something exists beyond this. And maybe we should be paying attention to it instead of laughing it off like it's a—"

"Like it's a joke?" Harry stepped closer, tilting his head. "Because it is, Eliza. It's all a joke. There's nothing up there. No grand plan. No divine punishment. No salvation." He spread his arms wider, looking up at the ceiling, at the stained drop tiles and buzzing fluorescent lights. "If there is—if any of it is real—then prove it."

The room went still. Harry's voice echoed slightly in the cramped space.

"Go on then. God. Allah. Whatever's listening." He looked up, jaw tight, eyes bright with something that might have been anger or might have been fear. "Will you send me a sign that you're up there?"

The sound came first. Not from the room. Not from outside. From above. A low rumble. Deep. Resonating through the walls, the floor, the bones of everyone standing there. The lights flickered before...thunder?

No. Not thunder.

Impact.

The building shook. Plaster dust rained from the ceiling. Somewhere in the venue, glass shattered. The sound of screaming—distant, muffled—filtered through the walls. Eliza was already at the window. Eliza:Oh. Her thought was simple. Quiet. The way one might observe the weather.

Outside, the sky was wrong. Orange. Red. Streaked with fire.

Multiple objects—massive, burning, trailing smoke—were crashing down across London's skyline. One. Two. Five. More. They struck buildings, streets, the Thames itself sent up a geyser of steam and water. The closest impact was maybe a couple hundred meters away.

The shockwave hit the window seconds later sending Charlotte to scramble off the counter top. Eliza didn't move. Her "evil" smile gone, replaced by something sharp and alert. Idris had dropped his bass, standing slowly. Harry hadn't moved from where he stood, arms still spread, staring at the ceiling.

"Well," he said, voice flat. "Shite."

Beneath the crashes, the alarms, the panic—something else. A sound. Distant. Carrying over the chaos like a sick joke.

Horns.

The room stayed silent as those deep and ambient tones filled their ears. It already sounded like chaos outside the green room, it was a full house after all. The group stayed completely deafened by what just happened, but the first to move was Charlotte, who made her way back to the window to peek.

Harry's hand tight around himself, one right on his forearm as his voice finally cut through...quietly. "...I was joking."

Eliza, who found her way to be next to Charlotte, turned from the window. Her face was pale, with a voice that was barely a whisper. She looked directly at {{user}} as she spoke. "We...need to find the venue manager...He has the key to the van..."

"For fucks sake..." Harry whispered from somewhere in the room, already unhooking his knife.

The set was going well. Too well, maybe.

Foundry Hall was packed wall-to-wall, bodies pressed together in the standing area, the hum of conversation dying down as the lights dropped. The overhead truss rig flared to life in synchronized bursts of cold white and deep red, cutting through the haze of machine-generated fog rolling across the stage.

Idris stood center stage, bass slung low across his hips, megaphone clipped to the mic stand within arm's reach. His fingers found the opening riff without thought, the low vibration climbing through the floor and into the crowd's chests. Behind him, Charlotte's sticks clicked together—one, two, three, four—before she exploded into the intro with a ferocity that made the first row flinch.

Harry leaned into his rhythm guitar, half-crouched, one foot propped on the monitor wedge. He flashed a grin to no one in particular. Stage smoke curled around his boots.

And Eliza—

Eliza stood stage left, headphones draped around her neck, red hair catching the light like something burning. Her fingers moved with surgical precision across the frets. She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at anyone. She was somewhere else entirely.

The sound is violet tonight. Good. That means it's right.

Then Idris stepped to the mic. His voice came in low—a rough, accented baritone that didn't match his appearance, and that dissonance was exactly what made people stop and stare.

"Stood at the door with no handle, no name, Knocked on the wood like it owed me a thing— It opened its mouth like it knew my face, Swallowed the dark, left the light out of place."

He pulled back slightly, letting the bassline carry the weight. His eyes scanned the crowd—hundreds of faces, some mouthing lyrics they'd memorized from bootleg recordings, others just... staring. Caught. Harry pivoted on his heel, dropping into a half-crouch beside Idris, guitar screaming through the chorus progression. Charlotte's kick drum hammered like a defibrillator.

"I gave you my teeth, I gave you my tongue, You took the words and you made them a gun. Now every prayer sounds like a warning bell, And I don't know the difference between heaven and hell."

The crowd surged. Someone in the front threw a drink. Harry caught a splash of it on his jacket and laughed mid-chord. Idris closed his eyes for the bridge, letting the lyric sit in his throat like a confession. This was the part that always got him. The part he wrote at three in the morning on a mattress on the floor of a flat that wasn't his, wondering if any of it mattered.

"So build me a bridge out of bones and wire— I'll walk to the other side, I'll walk through the fire. And if something's waiting that looks like me... Tell it I'm sorry. Tell it I'm still trying to be—"

CRACK.

The floor shook. Not the bass. Not the drums. Something underneath all of that—a deep, structural groan that traveled through the concrete and rattled the light fixtures overhead. Idris's voice cut out. His fingers stopped on the strings, letting the note decay into discordant buzz.

Charlotte's drumming stuttered, then stopped entirely. She sat frozen behind the kit, sticks hovering in mid-air like she'd been paused. Harry straightened up slowly, the smug expression slipping off his face one muscle at a time. He looked at the ceiling. ...That's not a kick drum.

Another shake. Harder this time. A section of the overhead truss rig swayed, and one of the par cans swung loose, sending a beam of light sweeping wildly across the crowd like a searchlight. The audience's energy curdled. What was movement became stillness. What was noise became a collective, confused hush punctuated by murmured "What the fuck—"

Eliza's headphones were back on her ears. She wasn't looking at the stage. She was looking up at the window along the top of the far south wall of Foundry Hall—the long exterior pane that showed nothing but black sky and the orange glow of London's light pollution. Except now there was something else. A streak. White-hot, cutting diagonally across the glass like a scar. It was gone in a blink, but the afterimage burned.

Then—distant, muffled, but unmistakable—impact. Somewhere above them. Somewhere out there. The venue's emergency lighting flickered on, bathing everything in pale, sickly yellow. Idris stepped back from the mic. His mouth opened, closed. He looked toward the side of the stage—toward the BOH corridor—toward {{user}}. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes said it clearly:

What do we do?

Harry was the first to speak, pulling his guitar strap off his shoulder with a sharp tug. "Right. That's not normal. Tell me that's not normal."

Charlotte's sticks clattered onto the snare drum as she leaned forward, peering past the crouching figures of the front row. "Did anyone else see that? The sky just—did you see that?"

Eliza said nothing. She hadn't moved. Her fingers were still resting on the strings, pressing down on a chord she'd already forgotten she was holding. Something's wrong. The colors are wrong. Everything just turned the color of rust.

The crowd was beginning to shift—not panicking yet, but the exits were getting glances. The murmur was growing. And somewhere far above ground, muffled by layers of concrete and earth, the sounds of the city had gone strangely, ominously quiet.