The first to react to the threat, however, was not Harlyn. When someone at last addressed the goading threat she had directed at Harlyn, it was in the low, rumbling voice of Rick Rayberg. "No bar fights tonight, Viv." The towering Georgian turned her head to look back to her co-guitarist as he spoke, biting her lip. Dammit. She knew what he was about to do. He was about to start talking sense. Rick, and that fucking voice of reason. Why'd they both have to be so damn...so damn reasonable? "If y'all really wanna start something, there's a place down the street but for now just drink an' be merry, or whatever. In fact, pint a' Guinness for the walkin' skeleton," he glanced over to the other band. "And the next round's on me too."
And then he swivelled back around, eyes turned back to Vivian. "Look, I don't wanna start nothin' tonight; 'specially what with the tour coming up the way it is. If you start a bar fight tonight, or if you piss her off and she gets drunk so far under the table it merits a hospital trip--which, lookin' at her, may be likely if'n you two get into i -- an' that means th' tour's delayed or maybe even off." He raised one eyebrow, and then finished. "Now, I don't want this to happen to me 'cause I kinda like playin' this music. Do you?" And with that, he turned back around to the bar, leaving Vivian glaring down at him, biting her lip indecisively--though she knew damn well she was decided on it. It'd been four years they'd been in the band and without realising it he'd become almost akin to Vivian's 'psychological leash'--which worked, because Vivian didn't even realise that oftentimes if Rick advised against something, she'd end up not doing it. It might've been respect for him as a person, as an equal, as her fellow guitarist, maybe even acknowledgement that just maybe someone else's judgment might have been better than her own (heavens forbid)--were you to point it out, she'd've vehemently denied it.
Nevertheless, in the end, she merely scowled, and forced herself to sit back down. "Alright already," she grunted, half to Rick, and half, it would seem, to herself. "I'll lay off it." And then she added, in an undertone. "If only so Legion can show that blonde brat the real meaning of metal tomorrow. Bartender," she raised her voice, and held up the empty bottle she'd set down what felt like days ago. "Another."
Seemed for a while, things were dying down. Harlyn turned her verbal venom towards her own bandmate, the one who had tried to discourage her. Little emo bitch? Wow, her bandmates must have a hell of a tolerance level for immature bullshit, she smirked mentally--at no point occurring to her that the same could almost be definitely said of her and Legion in turn. Vivian was fully prepared to watch Nerveshock devolve into its own little bout of infighting. Hell, if Vivian couldn't lay into the blonde brat herself, might as well have a drink and watch Harlyn's own bandmates do it for her.
The bartender slid the drink Rick had purchased for the group towards Harlyn--Vivian noted it only casually, as an aside, more concerned with watching how aforementioned 'little emo bitch' was gonna react to Harlyn. But instead, Harlyn took the shot, grumbling, "This is bullshit," and stood from her seat to walk towards the door. And she was striding right past Legion (Vivian, grudgingly, resisting the urge to stick one boot out and trip the singer up--the thought was infinitely entertaining) when she suddenly stopped, and then turned to Rick. Now, this alone was enough to cause Vivian to return to a state of alert--but she didn't have the time to react to that alone when Harlyn proceeded to throw the drink into Rick's face and declare, "I don't want your fucking shot." And then she turned on her heel and stormed out.
The silence that reined for a split second, frozen and absolute, hung over the entire group like a cloud in the wake of Harlyn's departure. Vivian's mind was still processing what had just happened. That bitch. That fucking worthless piece of shit bitch. A cold fury overcame Vivian's features before she shot up from her seat, with what could only be described as murderous intent in her eyes. No one pulls shit like that, at one of my bandmates, to my fucking face. Nobody. Least of all this blonde brat. Tomorrow's concert be damned, and the upcoming tour be damned right with it. Nothing was going to stop her right now from going right after the brat and--
"I don't know what your fucking game is."
Vivian stopped, and then almost mechanically, slowly turned her head, her enraged glare falling upon the guitarist of Nerveshock. He was pointing at her, his eyebrows all furrowed up as though he was actually gonna stop her from doing exactly what she was planning on doing. "Please don't take this as a threat. It's merely a warning. You can talk all the shit you want, to me, to my bandmates, but if you ever lay a finger on them...I'm coming for you."
Is this jackass threatening me? After what that fucking brat... "No. Not happening." Vivian's low, rasped voice came out bursting at the seams with aggression just waiting to be released. She didn't need all this. The worrying about how she was gonna deal with...Fury if she ended up coming across them tomorrow, the little stunt that blonde brat had pulled, and now this? I'm taking none of this. I'm done with it. "I don't give a fuck what you say. What yer little friend did right there? Not fuckin' happening, and you can go fuck yourself if you think I'm gonna sit here takin' threats after that. So come after me all you want, because I'm goin' out there right now, and I'm going to make a point of making her regret ever throwing that shot in Rick's face." And her words dripped with full intent. She was making no empty threats.