xp_logs | Friday night at Immerse

Not Terry's best performance ever.

It wasn't that the club was normally a quiet, sedate place. Terry would have considered herself a failure if it was. Silence was death. But tonight seemed exceptionally loud and her head was aching as she squinted into the lights. People chattered, glasses clinked. Outside the traffic was thunderous and the apartment above was obviously hosting some kind of killer party judging by the heaviness of the foot traffic and the throbbing pulse of the bass. It permeated the whole space, a dull cacophony of thuds that she could feel in her bones.

She who never met a decibel she didn't like was a few moments from screaming and running off to somewhere--anywhere--that was less noisy than here. She knew it was affecting her performance, could hear it in the way her voice--gravelly and harsh--rasped over notes that she should have made velvety and warm. What had started as a little sore throat a couple weeks before was attacking now with a vengeance.

She'd screamed her throat raw before, torn it up by inhaling razor sharp particles. But it had never hurt like this. As she finished the last song of her initial set, her head was pounding and her vision was blurred from the pain. Stumbling off stage to the tepid, polite, somewhat bewildered applause, she fled to the back room, hands over her ears. Her own breath sounded like a banshee's cry, piercing and painful. Singing had been torture.

The owner, Grant Colten, followed her, stalking like a particularly livid bantam. The ever present cigarette dangled from his lips, lit and trailing smoke in blithe defiance of the anti-smoking laws. "What was that, girl?" he demanded in a voice as rough as hers felt. Bobby followed behind.

"Lay off of her," Bobby said, voice low and worried as he frowned past Grant's shoulder. "She's not feeling well." He slipped past him to put a comforting arm around Terry's shoulders, being every inch the supportive husband.

Terry lifted her hand to cover his but didn't look away from her boss. "I'm sorry. I'm having an off night." She spoke softly, trying to minimize the punishment of her own voice on her newly sensitive hearing. "I don't think I can..." she stopped when she realized that Grant was looking at her like she'd grown another head. It was a measure of her weariness that it took her quite a while to realize why. He couldn't hear her. Terry sighed and pitched her voice higher, bracing against the way it made her ears pound, "I'm sorry. I can't finish out the night. My voice is just...I can't do it."

The owner's jaw worked soundlessly and he took a few irritated drags off his cigarette then pointed it at her. "Do you know who is out there, girl? Do you? That's the fucking TIMES. They came out here because of that voice of yours and now you can't sing?"

"The Times is here??" Bobby asked incredulously before Terry had a chance. "I mean..." He glanced nervously down at Terry, then looked at Grant. "You heard her out there. It's not like she's doing it on purpose."

Terry gave him a wry look and reminded herself that she loved him madly and without reserve or condition. "How do you know that? They don't announce them...you know what? I don't care. I can't sing, Mr. Colten." Her voice was noticeably deteriorating as she spoke and though she raised it, it did little good. "My voice is shot and...I can't even hear myself over all the noise. It's just not working. I need to rest."

Bobby's expression went from sympathetic to puzzled. Noise? It hadn't been that noisy. If anything, the usual background noises of the club had seemed even less present than usual. Terry and the band had been loud and clear--except for her gradually failing voice, of course. That was less clear. "Come on, sweetie. Let's get you home," he suggested, wondering if it was maybe just because she wasn't feeling good, or...hell, he didn't know. Terry's hearing was so much better than everyone's, anyway; maybe she just got good at ignoring it, when she wasn't sick.

"Not...there was noise. The street noise, the people. They were moving around and talking and..." Terry trailed off when she realized what the cacophony of thuds had been when she realized she could still hear it but greatly diminished. She whimpered and pulled Bobby closer, pressing her head to his chest then moaned despairingly. "hearts. I can...oh mother of God. I..." she broke off in a fit of coughing, her throat rebelling against the emotion and panic welling up inside her. She doubled over and sank into a crouch, her hands covering her ears again. "I can't..." she tried to say.

No sound.

Okay, this wasn't good. Not good at all. With a frown directed at Grant, Bobby crouched next to her, whispering, "Come on, Terry. Let's go home." He slipped a protective arm around her shoulders, biting his lip in concern.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." The words fell soundlessly from Terry's lips, just forceless gasps of breath. She looked at Grant, hands still over her ears. The blood rushing in her head was almost unbearable. She bit her lip and ducked her head to walk past him. He just let them go, stunned and disbelieving.

Bobby led her out of the club, unable to keep his worried gaze from her. Once they were outside and in the car, he turned to her, face drawn and anxious. "What's wrong, baby? What's going on?" He reached out and absently started the car, revving the engine to warm it up so he could get her back to the mansion--and the medlab if necessary--as quickly as possible.

She shook her head and reached forward to snap off the radio though it barely murmured its night programming. "My voice. I can't talk!" The last had some force behind it but hardly strong enough to be heard. She felt like she was screaming at the top of her lungs just to manage it. With a half-sob, just as soundless as everything else, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Just down to her hearing, everything seemed to close in on her. Her fingers dug into the car seat.

It wasn't like laryngitis was a death sentence--Bobby had had it a few times, himself. But it would be different if his mutation depended on his voice, wouldn't it? "We'll get you home," he said, patting her leg and throwing the car into reverse. "You'll be okay."

Terry nodded and swallowed hard. Right. Home. They'd figure this out at home.