Snippet #1812410

"Why the fuck am I even here."

Two people, as it happens, were pondering this same question, but the answer evaded both of them.

In the case of the woman known as Murakami Akira...the answer was really quite evident. She knew full well why she was here. The question for her was, as such, more along the lines of "Why have I let myself be forced into this shit?" The question came upon her as she sat on the edge of her bed, her guitar in her hands as she played through Nile's Permitting the Noble Dead to Descend to the Underworld, singing along as she did so. "Hail to ye who art in the sacred desert of the west, I know you and I know your names--save me from these snakes which are in Rosetjau, which live on the flesh of men and gulp down their blood, For I know you and I know your names..." Her higher-pitched snarl didn't quite match with Karl Sanders' anthemic growling, but hell, she could care less. More of an irritation to her was the fact that they wouldn't permit her to plug her guitar in, and so she was forced to play the instrument unplugged, which...definitely wasn't the same.

But at least, she recalled as she gave a ragged, irate sigh and set the guitar facedown on the bed, this was her last day in this shithole. One last meeting and she was through with this shit--and then what? Her scowl, omnipresent as it was upon the cold, angular features of her face, intensified--she wouldn't be going back to Legion, that much was for sure. The band she'd spent two years of her life building and creating--and all it took was one moment in which everything got to her, one moment in which she'd finally lost it...and now Legion wasn't hers anymore. Not long after she'd been carted off to rehab, Akira had discovered that the premier death metal band of the region had found another singer and guitarist--oh, she'd been pissed as all hell. It was all fucking bullshit. This rehab shit, being more or less ejected from her own fucking band, all of it was just bullshit.

Well, to hell with it. She wasn't thinking about that now. She could find another band easily enough once she was the hell outta here. She stood up, shoving her music player back into the pocket of the leather jacket she wore--which, with all its chains, spikes, and studs, looked more metal than leather--still blasting the death metal into her ears as she departed the room she'd been given and began to walk towards the 'Circle'--the room in which those condemned to this hellhole sat in a circle and talked about their shit--or rather, they were supposed to. Akira sure as hell didn't. "The first one Osiris, lord of all mysterious of body..." she continued to murmur along with the song as her heavy boots thumped against the polished floor, carrying her closer and closer to that hated room. "Gives command--He puts forth breath into those frightened ones who art in the midst of the west--what has been decreed for me is lordship over those who exist..." And thus it was that she entered the room, ears still being assailed by music that could quite easily be heard by those around her--this, in combination with her steadfast sneer and overall appearance, what with her multi-coloured mohawk, torn jeans, and bullet belt, giving her the impression of a rebellious, stubborn teenager. "Sup, doc," Akira tossed lazily at Bernstein, barely capable of hearing her own voice over the din that issued from the headphones buried in her ears. She took the nearest seat to her, crossing her arms as she continued to listen to her music and more or less ignoring the other two present. What did it matter? This was the last time she was ever gonna have to see any one of the people here.



For his part, when Ian Frasier asked himself the question "Why the fuck am I even here"...he really meant it. Because he hadn't the slightest idea why he was here. They told him it was for his 'alcoholism', but Ian was pretty sure he hardly drank alcohol at all--a fact they didn't seem to take into account no matter how much he insisted on it.

And so it was that the twenty five year old foreigner had ended up in a rehabilitation centre with people who, frankly, kinda scared him. Not that they were all that bad, though. Hell, he'd even met Murakami Akira, frontman of one of his favourite local bands (and given how few death metal bands there were around here...that wasn't hard to determine). Then again, she kinda scared him as well.

As for himself, Ian was already in the Circle, quite some time before he was even supposed to be there. Why? Because he'd been wandering around boredly through the rehab centre, ended up here, decided to sit down, and then decided it was too much of an effort to get back up. The young man, dreadlocks hanging down over his face and back hunched over, was currently pre-occupied with tapping out a drum pattern he'd had in his head for ages with his hands, the fingertips rapidly striking his denim-clad knees before the sound of someone entering the room shattered his focus. Glancing up, he noted the 'new arrival' to be Bernstein himself--eliciting a sigh from Ian. "Guess that since it's the last day and all, there's really no point in reiterating that I'm not an alcoholic, is there?" he mused, before shaking his head. Of course there wasn't. Now that it was his last day at this god-forsaken centre, Ian's only complaint was that now his record was permanently going to display him as having gone to rehab--for something he didn't even do.

A few moments passed before the next person entered the room--Masa-Chei Yasuo, as Ian recalled. Ian just referred to him as 'Visual Kei Dude' because...well, he was just like those visual kei dudes who creeped the shit out of Ian with their make-up and...just their whole thing. Not to mention his aggressiveness and masochism kinda put Ian off, so he kept his distance. After Yasuo came Akira--music, as always, blasting into her ears and obscene levels, striding right past Bernstein as if she didn't give a fuck about him or anything he had to say--then again, she probably didn't.

Between the two, Ian felt...well, completely out of place. Both Yasuo and Akira were so aggressive and abrasive in their demeanours that it made Ian wonder how anyone was supposed to approach them without fearing for their lives. And that wasn't even getting down to appearances, where both of them again took the cake for being way more extreme than Ian, who felt that he looked downright ordinary in comparison to either of them. At least I'll be outta here soon, he mused to himself, eyeing the two precariously.