Archive of Our Own

Geoff is in Columbus, Georgia, at the tail end of a too-long scouting trip without any good leads or nearly enough sleep. He can't wait to fly back to Austin, but the next flight doesn't leave until the morning.

He slopes down the block from his boring beige hotel and into a no-name bar with wood floors and a bunch of old city photographs on the walls. It's busy for a weekday evening, but not overly loud. A low rumble of conversation, nothing Geoff can't handle. There's a stage at the far end of the bar, just a raised platform with a drum kit, two amps and a couple of microphones set out ready. It's almost endearingly quaint, compared to the set-ups Geoff so often sees.

'What's your poison, sugar?' the bartender asks with a broad smile.

Usually, Geoff would be more than willing to flirt with her, but he's tired and not in the mood.

'Scotch and soda,' he says, with the barest smile in return, settling on to a bar stool.

When she slides over the drink, he asks, 'Is there a band tonight?'

'Sure is,' she tells him happily. 'They're almost ready.'

Geoff nods, taking a much-needed gulp of his drink.

Perhaps they won't be too bad, he thinks with the undying cynicism of a talent scout at the end of his rope. If he must, he'll finish his drink and go back to the hotel to attack the outrageously-priced mini bar instead, but he's never got used to throwing money away like that.

A few minutes later, four men step up on stage, and some of the regular patrons greet them with eager cheers. They're casually dressed, wearing the blue jeans and rolled-sleeved button-downs that are as good as a uniform in these parts. There are no signs of cowboy boots or ten-gallon hats, though, so at least Geoff can be sure he's not about to be subjected to some god-awful country hoedown.

The big, red-bearded guy sits down behind the drums, twirling the sticks between his fingers with what looks more like idle habit than deliberate showmanship.

The bassist and lead guitarist are a study in opposites. The bassist is short and solid, ginger curls and glasses on a round face that's naturally cherubic. His expression isn't so innocent, a scowl that says he's all but desperate for a fight. The guitarist is tall and lanky, tripping on the wires as he steps on stage, his dirty-blond hair standing up as though he's stuck his long fingers in an electrical socket on his way out. There's a grin on his lips so infectious that Geoff can't help but smile slightly despite his mood.

The frontman is perhaps most interesting of all. He's tall, broad shouldered, with blond hair falling in loose, careless waves. He moves with the ease of a big cat, loose limbed and magnetic, and when he cups the mic in his hands, Geoff almost feels like it's a caress.

'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' he says, in a rich voice with just a hint of Georgia. 'We're Fallen Kings, and we'd like to take you on a journey, from the orchards to the bayou, to the places where the evening light is golden and a storm is always rolling in.'

The bassist gives him a swelling chord, and he starts singing, low and rumbling, as though it's a natural extension of his words.

'Beyond the horizon, of the place we lived when we were young, in a world of magnets and miracles...'

The drums pick up the beat, and it's mostly bass and drums for the first verse, just a thunder in the distance behind his story. The lead guitar doesn't really come in until the first chorus, picking a more energetic line than the rest, and it dies away again for the verse.

It takes Geoff an embarrassingly long time to recognise Pink Floyd's High Hopes. He's never heard a version without the iconic bells, and this group have made it seem entirely their own, a story they're telling just to the audience.

It's different enough to get his attention, and he listens with interest as they go through several other covers, including a pitched-down version of Florence and the Machine's Seven Devils which has no right to work as well as it does, with just two guitars and a basic drum kit to back up the singer.

It's an interesting mix, crossing genres to pull out songs with similar themes. Death and loss, the wild places where people haven't found a hold, and a strong undercurrent of old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone Christianity. It's the voice of the deep, dark south, Geoff knows, and he finds he's enjoying the set. It's only covers, but they're competently done and stamped with the band's own style, all three musicians working together around the captivating voice of their singer.

He's almost disappointed that there isn't more to the band, some excuse to bring them into the studio, but then they start up a song he's never heard before. The singer leans in close to the mic, closing his eyes, and sings in a low rumble, full of regret.

'There's a reckoning a'comin, and it burns beyond the grave. Lead inside my belly cause my soul has lost its way. Oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid? Oh Lazarus, were you so afraid?'

The beat starts up behind him, quick and startling as he launches into the chorus, and Geoff feels the energy in the room pick up.

'When the fires, when the fires have surrounded you. With the hounds of hell coming after you. I've got blood, I've got blood on my name!'

He leans back against the bar and watches, captivated, as the band steps up to a whole new level. The regular patrons seem to have been waiting for it, singing along with the chorus, stamping their feet to the beat. The singer is almost howling the refrain, backed up by the deep, steady voice of the drummer, and his presence is electric. The bassist plays as though he's furious, brown eyes full of fire, hands wringing the sound out of his bass guitar as though he's inches from smashing it on the stage, but he never misses a note.

When the song ends there's a pause as the listeners holler their appreciation, and the singer grins and takes a mocking little bow. His hairline is damp with sweat, his blue eyes flashing with the joy of a true performer.

'Sounds like some of you have heard that story before,' he says breathlessly. 'I guess we'll have to try another.'

He tips a nod to the drummer, and the bearded man starts a fast, jangling rhythm.

'I've been working on a cocktail called grounds for divorce,' the frontman sings, and the whole band joins in on the embellishment between lines, singing 'Whoa-oh-oh-oh' with gleeful abandon.

Within two lines, the audience is joining in as well, and the bar rings with voices and shakes with stamping feet.

At the final chord, the audience roars, and Geoff hears the guitarist giggling with delight at the reaction, high and squeaky.

'Hey, Jack, I think they've heard that one too,' the singer says, pouting at the drummer for a moment before the facade breaks and he's laughing.

'We'll give it one more try, ladies and gentlemen, and then we're gonna have to leave you for tonight,' the drummer says into his own mic. 'If we don't get Gavin home by midnight he turns back into a pumpkin.'

There's an indignant squawk from the guitarist, and a round of laughter from the audience. The singer takes a moment to laugh along with them, then watches the guitarist, waiting for a cue.

Gavin picks out a fast melody, and after a couple of bars the singer leans close to his mic.

'Oh Abraham would raise his hands and mourn this very day, for his children left the promised land in search of their own way,' he growls.

When he reaches the chorus, he lets the rest of the band sing the refrain; 'There are chains upon your children, Lord! Chains upon your children!'

He matches each repetition with a breathy cry, and chills go down Geoff's spine at the sound. The song builds, the band guiding the audience to stomp in time with the heavy beat.

'Do you hear the lion's roar?' the singer asks, dragging his hands through his hair as though racked with anguish.

'Wake O sleeper!' the band and the audience reply in unison.

'Stand with me, we'll fight the war!' he declares, eyes flashing, face set.

'Wake O sleeper!'

It's one of the most genuine performances Geoff has ever seen, and he's not the only one disappointed when it ends. The singer is breathless, leaning on the mic stand as though it's the only thing keeping him upright, and it's left to the drummer to close out the set over the delighted shouts of the small crowd.

'We are Fallen Kings, ladies and gentlemen. We'll see you next Tuesday. Thank you and good night!'

They leave the stage to enthusiastic cheers, and though there are shouts for an encore, they don't return.

Geoff guesses they really do need to leave. Odds are, like most small bands, they have day jobs to get to in the morning.

He downs the last of his forgotten drink, gone warm while he was listening, and hurries out to catch them before they go.

~

There's a black van in the orange-lit parking lot, nondescript enough that it won't be broken into, and the band are gathered around the back doors, having a spirited conversation. There's a lot of slightly hysterical laughter, and Geoff recognises the sound of a band on a post-performance high.

'Hey!' he says, and walks closer when they all turn around. 'Some of those songs were original, right?'

The red-headed drummer, Jack, nods cautiously.

'Any more where those came from?' Geoff asks, stopping on the edge of their little circle.

'Yeah, we've written tons,' Gavin says, and Geoff is surprised to hear a British accent.

Geoff grins, reaching into his pocket for a red and white business card.

'Geoff Ramsey, Rooster Teeth Records,' he says, handing the card to Jack. 'I enjoyed the set, fellas, but it didn't really come alive until you hit your own stuff. If it's not a lack of material, why do so many covers?'

'Most people want shit they've heard before,' says the bassist.

'And it's always interesting to make 'em our own,' the singer agrees. He holds out one broad hand. 'Ryan Haywood, pleased to meet you.'

'Trust me, it's a pleasure,' Geoff says. 'I'm not even meant to be working tonight, but that was one hell of a performance.'

Ryan seems pleased, smiling and looking down almost shyly until the bassist punches him in the arm.

'Learn to take a compliment, asshole,' he says. 'Michael, Michael Jones,' he adds, when Geoff offers his hand.

'Jack, and Gavin, right?' Geoff says, pointing at the other two men. 'I caught your names in the set.'

He shakes their hands, amused by the contrast between Jack's massive, calloused palm and Gavin's delicate bone structure.

'I never expected to see someone from Rooster Teeth out here,' Jack says, shaking his head. 'Weird coincidence.'

'Why's that?' Geoff asks. He's not surprised they know the name. Rooster Teeth is one of the biggest record labels in America.

'I'm from Austin, man. The Pattillos have been there -'

'Five generations,' the two guitarists chorus, then laugh when Jack scowls at them.

'He's very proud of his family history,' Gavin says.

Geoff shrugs. 'Fair enough. There's a lot of bands who draw their sound from their roots. To be honest, I'm more surprised to hear a British guy playing Southern Gothic like that.'

Gavin nods. 'It's weird, but it's my sound, Geoff. I've travelled a long way to find it.'

'Freeeee, as a bird,' Michael croons, and Gavin swats at him.

Geoff doesn't get the joke, and it shows in his frown.

'That's his surname; Free,' Ryan explains.

'That's so fucking rock and roll,' Geoff says, and they all laugh.

Geoff's scouting instincts are going crazy. Not only do they have a great sound, but it seems they have stories to tell, as well. Marketing isn't his field, but he knows the building blocks they need to turn a band into a phenomenon. Fallen Kings might have everything they need.

'What about you two?' he asks Ryan and Michael. 'Local boys, or travelling players?'

Ryan laughs. 'My father was a pastor at a church not ten miles down the road. I couldn't get much more local.'

'Jersey,' Michael says. 'I backpacked south as a kid, never went back.'

There's a lot left unsaid there, about what drove a boy to travel damn-near the length of the continental states, presumably alone, but Geoff isn't insensitive enough to pry on a first meeting.

'You guys got somewhere to be, or can I have a talk with you now?'

Jack sighs. 'We've all got work tomorrow morning. Gavin's shift starts at 6am.'

Geoff nods. 'Figured. I'm on a plane to Austin in the morning, but listen, you should seriously call me, okay? That card's not a joke. If you want a recording contract, I absolutely have the power to make it happen. Having seen you play? I really want to make it happen. Fallen Kings could be fucking huge.'

'Thanks, man!' Michael says, grinning.

Ryan looks thoughtful, but he doesn't say anything.

Geoff starts to walk away, backwards. There's no point trying to push them when they don't have time to talk.

'Have a think about it. Call me any time.'

'We will,' Gavin promises.

Geoff turns and walks back to his hotel, feeling one hell of a lot better about his trip.

~

In the morning, waiting for his flight to board, he calls Burnie.

'What've you got for me?' Burnie asks, as soon as he picks up.

Geoff snorts. 'Jack fucking shit from any of your leads, dude. I can't believe you had me bouncing through five different states for a bunch of whiny teens.'

'You sound pretty happy for a wasted trip,' Burnie says.

'I found my own lead,' Geoff says. 'Went to a bar last night and the band blew my fucking mind.'

'Hey, nice!' Burnie says. They've worked together long enough that he won't question Geoff's instincts. 'Did you get them?'

'Not yet,' Geoff says. 'Gave them a card. I'm hoping they call. I don't want to have to come back to Columbus next fucking Tuesday to convince them I wasn't messing around. They could be a major, major find.'

'That's awesome,' Burnie says. 'Stop off at Which Wich on your way back from the airport and come tell me all about it.'

'Freeloader,' Geoff says, and hangs up while Burnie's still laughing.

~

'The singer, Jesus Christ, there's some real power there,' Geoff says, through a mouthful of bread and salami. 'When he hit his stride he didn't really need the mic at all, he just put everything he had into the performance. And I've never seen someone play as angrily as Michael and not fuck up a single note.'

'Rage issues?' Burnie asks, already looking ahead to the fallout from a possible meltdown.

'I don't know. He might've been a runaway kid. There's sure as shit something going on there,' Geoff says. 'He didn't seem violent, though, so that's something.'

Burnie bites into his sandwich and hums. 'You said one of them's foreign?' he says, slightly muffled.

'British. Got that sexy accent the girls go crazy for. Either he's got a visa or he's working illegally, cause he apparently had a 6am shift this morning.'

'Doing what?'

'I don't know! I only got to talk to them for a minute. One of them's a local guy, apparently. Jack Pattillo.'

'No shit?' Burnie says, grinning. 'Yeah, I've heard of the Austin Pattillos. Big old family, used to run this place during prohibition.'

Geoff laughs so hard he chokes on his sandwich. 'Shit, that's awesome,' he says when he can breathe again. 'Just that little hint of bad-boy for his backstory. These guys are gold, I'm telling you. If they call, I want them.'

Burnie puts his sandwich down, suddenly serious. 'Want them as in management?' he asks.

'Yeah,' Geoff says, hardly needing to hesitate. He had plenty of time on the tedious journey home to think about it. 'If Fallen Kings sign for RT, I'll manage the fuck out of them.'

'It's been a while, Geoff. You haven't managed a band since RVB.'

'And whose fault was that fucking mess?' Geoff asks with a scowl.

'Miles was the right guy for the job,' Burnie says. 'We've been over this, and you've agreed with me before, when you weren't trying to score a point.'

'Yeah, I know, I know. It wasn't his fault The Freelancers started shit. I doubt either of us could have seen it coming either,' Geoff says, still bitter over the disintegration of one of Rooster Teeth's biggest name bands. 'But it's been three years, and I'm fucking sick of scouting. I want to stick with a group for a while, make some real music again.'

Burnie nods. 'It's your call, Geoff. You found them. Better hope they call, right?'

As if summoned, Geoff's phone rings. A number he doesn't know, with a Georgia area code.

He holds one finger up, grins at Burnie and answers the call.

'Geoff Ramsey.'

'Hello, Mr Ramsey,' says a smooth voice. 'It's Ryan Haywood. You gave me a card last night?'

Geoff laughs. 'Yeah I did. Don't worry, my memory's not that bad. What can I do for you?'

'We're all here, we got together after work and had a talk. It might've been the fastest band meeting in history, to be honest.'

Geoff hears Gavin's squeaky laugh faintly in the background and chuckles.

'If you're interested in Fallen Kings, we're all interested in hearing your offer,' Ryan says, and Geoff punches the air.

'Hell yeah!' he says, never one to let professionalism get in the way of enthusiasm. 'I am absolutely interested. Can you guys take a trip this weekend? We'll fly you down to Austin, put you up, get you into the studio for a little playdate. It'll be fucking amazing, I promise.'

Ryan laughs, a surprisingly sweet giggle for a man with such a powerful voice.

'For Rooster Teeth, I think all of us are willing to blow off a shift or two.'

'Spectacular. Let me give you the number for our travel department, okay?'

~

'This is it, boys, the inner sanctum, the holy land, the place where the magic happens,' Geoff says extravagantly, opening the door to a studio and ushering the band inside. He's been having a great time showing them around the building, but everyone knows the recording studio is the one thing any decent band cares about. It's only one of several studios at Rooster Teeth, and far from their biggest, but Geoff thinks it's worth the hyperbole. It's already set up with the same kind of instruments he saw them use on stage, as well as a few others he thinks they might like to try.

'Ray, come say hello,' he says to the glass-fronted booth, knowing the mics will pick him up.

The inner door opens, and Ray comes slouching out, a skinny Puerto Rican in a purple hoodie and black-rimmed glasses.

'Guys, this is Ray Narvaez Jr. I picked him up outside a Home Depot and I can't get him to leave. He's a badass sound engineer, though, so it's not all bad.'

Ray grins at the familiar joke, holding out a hand to Jack.

'Pleased to meet you, man. Geoff said he had a big new band coming in.'

'I dunno if we're big, but thanks.'

'We'll see. Geoff thinks you're hot shit, and that's saying a lot. Want to play around a little, get some tracks down? I can make tweeny pop singers sound good, so I promise I can make you sound awesome.'

Gavin is already making a beeline for a guitar. Of all of them, he's been the most desperate to get to a studio, twitching the whole way through Geoff's little tour.

'We've never been in a studio before,' Ryan says, eyeing the microphone with obvious distrust. 'Bear with us, will you?'

'Yeah man, of course. There's no pressure here. It's a getting to know you thing.'

'We'll start with all of you together, like a normal rehearsal,' Geoff says. 'Then maybe get some individual tracks, see what Ray can do with the mix. I'm gonna be in the booth, ok?'

'I have this weird feeling, like I'm being watched,' Michael jokes, scowling at the glass booth.

Geoff laughs, and leaves the band to get set up.

They chit-chat for a few minutes, idly strumming a chord here, tapping a cymbal there, and Geoff lets them. The closer they feel to a normal rehearsal, the better they'll sound.

'Let's try Around the Bend,' Ryan says eventually, picking up an acoustic guitar from the side of the room. He strums it, checks the tuning, then looks expectantly at Gavin.

'Right,' Gavin says. He swaps places with Ryan, putting himself in front of the main vocal mic.

Ryan strums a simple opening, and Gavin starts to sing, his hands resting idle on his guitar.

'Wake me up when the sun comes, I'm not sure I see the light. I blink and it'll be morning as my eyes cling to the night. I need a good cup of coffee to spark my sullen bones, a kiss from you to remind me, I can't live this life alone...'

It's lighter than anything they played in the bar, a sweet little love song, and Geoff instantly knows it could be a hit. He can see it being used for cute indie-movie montages for years to come. Gavin's voice is nothing like Ryan's, soft and light, but it's pleasant to hear. It's great to know that at least two of the band are willing to take the vocal lead. The wider their range, the better.

He can see Ray hunched over the desk with his headphones clamped over his ears, sliders twitching under his fingers as he adjusts the mix on the fly.

When the song ends, Gavin grins at Ryan and tugs him towards the vocal mic.

'Got your nerves settled now?' he asks. 'Let's do Me and Mine. Geoff wants to hear your powerful stuff, not my dribbly love songs.'

Geoff hits the intercom. 'Don't knock dribbly love songs, dude. That little tune would sell like crazy.'

Gavin grins and ducks his head.

Jack starts up a thudding beat, and Ryan swallows, stepping up to the mic and visibly steeling himself. He's not the first singer Geoff's seen get more nervous in the studio than live on stage. True performers are often that way, needing the pull of a crowd.

'Evil men like a spring without water, no truth to their piety. They cheer and toast to the Holy Ghost, but just won't let me be. I will burn your kingdom down, if you try to conquer me and mine,' Ryan growls.

The others support him as best they can, stamping in time, but it's clear that the energy isn't there without an audience. Their feet make too little noise on the sound-proof floor.

'I will burn your kingdom down, if you try to conquer me and mine!' they all sing in unison, repeating the refrain.

They get through the song, but Ryan doesn't look happy. He's apologising to the band almost as soon as they finish playing.

The others try to brush him off, but they do look worried. As casual as Geoff has been with them, they all know there's some pressure to do well. They haven't signed anything yet.

'I got this,' Ray says, and plays Geoff a brief burst of a track that sounds like hundreds of people clapping and stamping, set to exactly the tempo Fallen Kings were trying to keep.

'Hey, Ryan?' he says over the intercom. 'Grab the headphones next to you. I've got some crowd noise for you.'

Ryan does as he says, frowning at first, then smiling when he recognises the beat Ray is playing for him.

'Try the song again, guys?'

The others all look to Ryan, and when he nods, Jack starts the beat again.

Ray plays everything he's capturing from the studio into Ryan's headphones, adding the crowd noise he needs.

Geoff watches them play the song again, sees Ryan with his eyes closed, cradling the mic and pouring out his soul the way he did in the bar, and thanks Christ for Ray.

'Dude, you're a fucking wizard,' he tells the engineer, when the second play-through ends on a crashing crescendo and Ryan all but howling into the mic.

'It's why you pay me the big bucks,' Ray says, laughing.

Geoff is about to go out and speak to the band when Jack starts playing again, beating out a bass line he recognises from the bar.

'Hey Ray, can you do some magic, give that beat to Ryan?' he asks, grinning at the booth.

'Hell yeah, man, give me a minute,' Ray says, already pushing buttons and working sliders.

'Done!' he says, faster than Geoff would have believed possible.

Ryan needs no prompting, starting the quiet vocal on his own, trusting that the noise will kick in when he needs it.

Gavin and Michael come in on cue, and they play through the whole song without stopping, Jack's voice acting as an anchor for Ryan in the chorus.

The energy isn't quite as high as it was in the bar, but Geoff's not worried. It's more than enough for a recording, and it just means that Fallen Kings will be a hot ticket band for live shows.

The band plays for two hours, helping themselves to water from the mini-fridge in the booth when their voices go dry, running through a dozen of their own tracks and several favourite covers. Once again, they finish on the hurricane performance of Awake O Sleeper, and with Ray's help Ryan sounds like a vengeful god. The others rise to the occasion, howling out the "Wake O Sleeper!" refrain extra loud to make up for the lack of an audience.

Ryan sags when it's over, pulling off his headphones, and Geoff can see why they always play that last. Ryan puts so much into it that he couldn't jump straight into another song.

Mark that one down for encores, he thinks, knowing it'll drive the crowds wild.

When Geoff and Ray step out of the booth, the band is buzzing.

'That was fantastic,' he says, grinning all over his face. It's been a genuine pleasure to hear them play again, and he has high hopes for their future.

'I got there eventually,' Ryan says. He reaches out to Ray and shakes his hand enthusiastically. 'Thanks for that. You really got the spirit for me.'

'No problem,' Ray says. 'Believe it or not, I have to do it for a lot of big names.'

'Ryan's never as good in rehearsal. He needs a crowd,' Jack says.

'H-attention whore!' Michael says, on a very obvious fake cough.

Gavin creases up laughing, and Ryan glowers.

'We'll give Ray until tomorrow to do any tweaks he wants, and we'll see how it sounds. Some of those tracks might not even need a second recording,' Geoff says. 'You're already really good together. Honestly, I think you've got at least one solid album there, even without the covers. Your range is huge.'

'We all write differently,' Gavin says.

'All of you write songs?' Ray says. 'Dude, that's impressive. Most bands only have one or two composers at most.'

'Ryan's the only proper composer,' Jack says. 'The first time he showed up to practice with actual sheet music I laughed so hard I broke a drum.'

'Ryan the fucking college guy,' Michael agrees.

Ryan huffs at him, but he's smiling.

'Were you a music major, Ryan?' Geoff asks.

'I did a double major in music theory and religion. My father insisted on the religious side,' Ryan says.

'Neeeeerd!' Gavin says.

'Right, because being able to read sheet music and play six instruments because you just felt like it makes you so much less nerdy,' Ryan shoots back.

'Six?' Geoff asks, eyeing Gavin with new interest.

Gavin blushes. 'It's five, and singing,' he says. 'Guitar, bass guitar, piano, saxophone, and flute.'

'Fucking flute,' Michael says, laughing, and dodges when Gavin slaps at him.

'How did you manage that? You don't have any formal training at all?'

'Oh, no, I did lessons for saxophone and flute as a kid. It's just the rest I sort of picked up in bits and pieces. I travelled a lot before I met Michael in Georgia, traded lessons with people all over the place.'

'A genuine wandering musician,' Geoff says. 'That's awesome.' He looks at Jack and Michael. 'Any hidden musical talents, or is it just one instrument and song writing?' He makes air quotes around "just", because in all honesty that's more than enough.

'I play acoustic guitar as well as bass,' Michael says. 'I've done a lot of busking with a piece of shit Spanish guitar over the years.'

'Harmonica,' Jack says. 'It's a lot more portable than a drum kit.'

'You're a whole god-damned big band, Jesus,' Geoff says, and they all laugh.

'It's great, but there's not much we can really do with it,' Ryan says ruefully. 'I'd love to write some more intricate stuff, but there are only the four of us to actually play it. Even if we recorded everything for a track and put it together, we couldn't repeat it on stage.'

Geoff grins. 'Not true any more, dude. You want more guitars? Piano? Violin? A full fucking orchestra? We can make those collaborations happen. In fact, I think I'd like to introduce you to Lindsay and her boys sometime soon. You'd probably have a lot to say to each other, musically speaking.'

'Lindsay Tuggey? Like, Firebird Lindsay?' Michael says at once.

'Yeah. Are you a Firebird fan?'

'Fuck yeah! Their bass lines make my pants shrink, if you know what I'm saying.'

Geoff howls with laughter. 'I will pay you actual real money to tell Jeremy that to his face.'

'Sold!' Michael promises.

'Right, we can talk contracts and shit tomorrow, if everyone's still interested,' Geoff says, clapping his hands together. 'Tonight, I'm taking you out on the town. Champagne is on me.'

'I don't drink,' Ryan says, sounding a little sheepish.

'Hey, me neither! Sober fist,' Ray says, and holds out a clenched fist.

Ryan bumps it gently, looking more like a confused suburban dad than a howling rock singer. Geoff thinks the contrast is kind of adorable.

'Ok, champagne and assorted sodas are on me. At least that gives us a designated driver.'

Ryan sighs. 'Wow, that sounds familiar,' he says.

~

Fallen Kings sign with Rooster Teeth Records and release their first single, Blood On My Name, within a month. The single hits number one in five countries. Three months later, the second single, Awake O Sleeper, tops the charts in seven. The full album, Kings and Vagabonds, goes triple platinum. Sitting in the tour bus on the way to a sold-out stadium show, Geoff knows it's just the start.