Chapter 1

Gerard’s P.O.V.

It was July 29th, and we were performing a show here in Mountain View, California in the Shoreline Amphitheater, and outdoor venue. The show was part of the Projekt Revolution Tour, and we were all very excited to be performing alongside Linkin Park.
The Shoreline Amphitheater came into view of our tour bus. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mikey smile and Frank lean against the window to get a better view. We had been told that the venue seats 22,000, and you could already see people milling about inside, finding their seats. The amphitheater looked like a triangle, the stage at one point and the seating stretching out from it. The farthest seating section was the lawn, and in front of it were the two reserved seating sections. The stage was covered with two white, curved pyramids, and I wasn’t sure whether they were tents or metal structures.
We drove around the theater, around the back, towards the restricted parking section, designated for performers. It was the size of your average supermarket parking lot.
“Look!” Exclaimed Ray. “It’s Linkin Park’s tour bus.” He was pointing to one end of the parking lot, where the bus was parked. Around the place were some vans, no doubt carrying equipment.
The bus stopped moving and Ray raced towards the door. It was his thing. Frankie, Bob, Mikey and I followed suit. Brian Schecter, our manager, hopped out of the bus and handed us the program for today’s show, with playing times and the setlist. I checked my watch; it was 2:14 in the afternoon. The doors had opened at 1, and the sound check for Linkin Park would be starting soon. They started their playlist at three and finished at 5:30. We went on at 6:30, so we had a lot of time to look around.

TIME LAPSE.

It was 6:12 and we were all backstage in uniform, preparing to go on after the sound check finishes. Ray, Mikey and Frank were practicing on their guitars, Bob was warming up on a drum set, and I was doing my vocal warm-ups.
I had this one vocal teacher, and she liked the way I sang, so she taught me a good vocal warm up; I pulled out my tongue with my hands and held on to it, at the same time saying, “geeheehee.”
Frank looked up from up from his guitar and glanced at me with a smirk on his face, and looked back down at Pansy.
“What?” I asked, letting go of my tongue.
“No matter how many times I hear you do that, it’s still weird as hell.” He chuckled. I glared at him before grinning to myself and continuing with my warm-up, my back turned to Frank.
It was 6:33 now, and we got onto the completely dark stage, playing the first strings of “This Is How I Disappear.” The crowd cheered, and the stage lights came on, and the cheering turned into roaring applause, a mix of we love you’s and MCR!!!’s.
We soared through the setlist, playing “I'm Not Okay (I Promise)”, “Famous Last Words”, “Give 'Em Hell, Kid”, “House Of Wolves”, “Heaven Help Us”, “Welcome To The Black Parade” and “Mama”, all to get the same exact pumped-up excitement from the crowd.
“This next one’s called ‘You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison’ and it’s off of Revenge!” I yelled into the microphone.
“In the middle of a gunfight, in the center of a restaurant…” I could see the mouths of those in front of me singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs, not quite hearing their voices from the sounds emitting from the stage.

Frank’s P.O.V.

There is an uncontrollable energy that hits me every time I step on that stage. The sight of all the people crowding the venue —whether it be small or big— the lights and equipment onstage; and, as the show progresses, I get into playing more and more, head banging and jumping around the stage. It all becomes a big, colorful, loud blur, and when I go backstage after the show, I can’t ever rationalize whatever I’d done. Like that time I kicked Gee in the balls, or when I jumped on Bob’s drum set and ended up making the whole thing fall apart, or when I made Mikey fall over and dragged him in circles on the floor. But Gerard kept on singing and Bob found a replacement beat and Mikey somehow kept on playing his bass, so no harm was done…much.
But this time, something happened that made time stop; that made the world stop spinning and the music and screaming around me to fade. Something that happened during “Prison.” Something that happened with Gerard Way.

Notes

So this is an old story I wrote almost two years ago, back when I was ridiculously obsessed with this band (thus the creepily accurate descriptions of everything). I only wrote up till Chapter 3, at which point I got too lazy to continue. But here I am, two years later. I rediscovered the story and now I'm posting it here, hoping to get some feedback in order to have the motivation to write further. So all you chemmies out there let me know if you enjoy it!

Adelaide