Seattle, Washington.

The air in the club is thick, a suffocating mix of spilt beer, expensive perfume, and the underlying scent of sweat. This is it. The final night of auditions for MMV, and the small venue feels like it’s bursting at the seams. Anticipation is humming through the place. Or, maybe that's just you. Probably. Every corner is crowded.

The venue is a subterranean cavern of brick and shadow, a place where the walls seem to sweat along with the crowd. It’s cramped and stifling. MMV wanted a 'legitimate' feel for the auditions. So we weren't in some fancy arena. It was a small venue that local bands used. In fact, you've played here twice before. One, in fact, was right out of high school and was a local Battle of the Bands. You came in fourth place.

Of course, they had set up more fancy lighting rigs than the place usually had. The stage practically glowed. You had made a quick bathroom break and were currently shouldering through the crowd to get backstage. You pause, your eyes unable to help flicking to the board near the stage. To the other seven acts that have qualified.

Tune Lust.

You can't help but pause in your step, half stumbling. That faithful day is burned into your memory. You hadn't been aware of the vote the band was going to spring. It had been a surprise to both you and Quinn. Your vote hadn't even mattered. The other three voted 'Yes'.

And then Quinn was gone. Not just from the band, but also from your life. They blamed you for not leaving the band with them. But how could you? It was your everything. Your dream and your fear, and you had to hold on. The amount of shit your family gave you about 'real jobs', you had to hold on. It would just prove everything they've said true.

With a shake of the head, you continue. There were five other acts tonight, competing against you. Two bands - PussPussPower and JannyModsofDoom, two singers - PurpleJam and Spartan, and a rap group called WWNA.

Backstage, behind the door to the small room, the band is a mess of nerves. You can hear the rhythmic, restless tapping of Drake’s drumsticks against his thighs. Beside him, Lily is staring blankly at her bass, her eyes wide and slightly glazed, while Pat is obsessively tuning his guitar, jaw clenched tight.

Drake glances up with an easy grin, an almost manic light in his eyes. "'Sup, boss? Ready to fuckin' rock?! Oh, we're so gonna kill it."

Lily let out a long, soul-deep sigh. "I'm going to have a heart attack. Or pass out, or... Something."

Pat clenches his jaw harder and starts fiddling with the tone nob on his guitar.

There's a quick knock at the door and a producer with a headset leans in, pointing a finger at you. "You're up in ten minutes!"

Seattle, Washington.

You're led into a small room, where a young girl with bleached blonde hair is sitting, loudly chewing bubblegum. She grins at you. "OMG, like, take a seat,"

You sit across from her at the small table. She has a laptop in front of her, as well as several sheets of paper, a clipboard and exactly four packs of gum.

"You're like, here for the music thingy, yeah? 'Coz, like, if you're here for the circus thingy, that's totally next week! But, OMG, where are my manners? I'm Kelly-Kelly! And I'm a junior producer!"

You were, in fact, here for the 'music thingy'. You were fifteen when you managed to whip up your high-school friends together and convince them to join you. That was about a decade ago. Trying to get your band up and running since then has been your full-time job. One that has you broke, worrying for the future, and more than slightly panicked for your next break. But this could be it. MMV's 'Battle of the Bands'. A national televised music competition, that'll even be uploaded on their global streaming service. The prize was a record deal with one of the biggest music labels in the country, if not the World. The prize winnings of a million dollars sounded pretty good, too.

The only downside? It wasn't just a music competition. It was also a full-scale reality TV show. If we managed to get through the auditions and be one of the eight competitors, we'd be lumped in with the other acts, with cameras and producers everywhere.

Kelly-Kelly shoved some papers over at you. "Just like, fill out some info. And then like, there's some basic boilerplate waivers and stuff, don't even bother wasting your time reading 'em, it's so boring! Just like, put your Johnny Hancock down, or something like that!"

The papers, when you glanced at them, demanded information. Your name. Your gender. Your age. Were you a solo act or a band? What was your stage name/band's name? The genre of music you played. Did you have any dietary restrictions or conditions they should be aware of? Your social media following.

You pick up the pen, click it, and try to focus past the smacking sound of Kelly-Kelly's chewing.

Outside Seattle, Washington.

You're still shaking. They called your band's name. You were through. You were in The Battle of the Bands! You had a shot at finally making all your dreams come true. You'd barely registered the information when producers swept in, guiding the band, A celebration you were told. A party. At some MMV exec's mansion, just outside the city.

The transition from the grimy, sweat-soaked club to this sprawling hillside mansion is jarring. The air here doesn't smell of stale beer and ozone; it smells of expensive lilies, chilled champagne, and the heavy, cloying scent of designer perfumes. Everything is marble, velvet, and gold, a glittering, high-end playground designed for the rich and elite.

Apparently, all winner acts were here. For them, they had time to prep for this party. They knew about it. Whereas your band was swept from the stage to here with little to no warning. At the very least, you were assured this was a 'no camera' environment. It was a simple celebration of the victors and what was about to come.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights twinkle like fallen stars, but inside, the atmosphere is thick. The 'celebration' feels less like a party and more like a strategic summit. You see the contestants scattered across the lounge: Alexa is at the centre of a glittering circle, her laughter ringing out like a practised melody; Ryan Cash stands near the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey; and the Synth Savants are tucked into a corner, looking far too relaxed for a room full of competitors.

It registers, faintly, in the back of your head. Tune Lust will be here, too. Despite moving in the same circles in the same city, the two bands had carefully not run into each other ever. In fact, you haven't seen Quinn in years. Not since they took their things from your shared, shitty apartment a little over two years ago.

This was a foreign environment for you. You were used to 'celebrating' with your band in dive bars and underground clubs. Lily looked uncomfortable on your shoulder. As did Pat, but it was hard to see past his obvious relief. Drake, however, strolled through like he owned the place, completely at ease. He nodded towards the bar. "Oh, open bar!"

"How do you know it's open?" Lily asks.

"Damn well better be! I ain't payin'! They're rich! Oh, I'm so goin' over. I want an old-fashioned in my left hand and a margarita in my right!" With that, he walks off.

.