The Big Damn Fight

Breathless, Nova finally raised her hands from the keys, and the sudden silence flooded through the room like a retreating wave, dragging with it a crushing homesickness. She’d chosen well: an instrumental solo version of Ostrovsky’s unreleased Second Act, Fifth Concerto - “I Am Sad, For I May Never Return Home”.

She cast an expectant glance at the judge’s panel. With satisfaction, she noted that Howie Mandel was upside down and going a particularly melancholy shade of chartreuse, while the spoilt princess was openly weeping. Only Raime and the Simon Cowells seemed unimpressed.

“...and when judging, it’s vital to keep a cool head,” Raime was saying, her own head floating in a champagne ice bucket. The Cowells nodded in agreement.

“All right, Miss Albright: your performance was above average, but then again so many other performances are.” Simon steepled his many-dimensional fingers. “As such, we’ve decided to host a special event, as a decider.”

Raime added, “In fact, only one other contestant performed to your level, scoring a perfect 400 points!”

At this point the announcer cut in with a booming: “She’s loud! She’s proud! She’s… pure Noise!”

Now, as far as anyone had practically experienced, thunderclaps generally stayed at a comfortable distance on the edge of the horizon, belatedly heralding the arrival of lightning bolts and other storm-based events in a minimally helpful manner.

Thunderclaps generally did not, for example: slide visibly across the stage, slide visibly across the stage half-submerged into the plastic floor like a soundwave made of shark, slide visibly across the stage half-submerged into the plastic floor like a soundwave made of shark while exploding.

Noise, on the other hand, was not a thunderclap.

Noise, in fact, was a fucking voice from the fucking sky fucking giving out fucking pronouncements like fucking candy rain.

“Bitch, please.” The echo came rattling through the very molecular structure of the stage, knocking over mic stands and spilling cups of cheapass coffee. “‘Voice of a generation’? I’m going to be the only one who does any generating around here!” In one motion, Noise leapt from the floor and shredded a sick riff on a nearby guitar without touching it.

“It’s a battle of the bands,” Raime pronounced from her ice bucket, “and the winner will be given… what was it exactly?”

“Continued survival.” Howie Mandel supplied.

“Our two contestants will be going head to head for… continued surviiiiiival!” The crowd went wild. Raime giggled.