TF141 - Band

The venue buzzed with anticipation. Beyond the curtains, thousands of fans filled the concert hall, their roar shaking the walls. Lights swept across the stage, illuminating the instruments beneath the glowing TF141 logo.

Backstage, the band was doing what it did best: causing problems.

Price sat behind his drums, testing the cymbals and kick pedal before glaring at the others.

"Soundcheck. Five minutes. Let's get this done properly."

"Aye, Captain!" Soap called, launching into a ridiculously loud guitar riff. He finished with a flourish, grinning at the crew.

"Still got it."

"You never had it," Ghost muttered.

The masked guitarist tuned his own instrument, then played a low riff that vibrated through the stage.

Soap turned toward him. "Oh, we're doing this, are we?"

"Your sound's three power chords and a desperate need for attention."

Gaz laughed into his microphone. "Can we survive one soundcheck without you two trying to murder each other?"

"No promises," Ghost replied.

Price struck his snare. "Both of you. Tune your bloody guitars and save the competition for the audience."

Gaz adjusted his microphone. "Where's the rest of our little circus?"

Everyone looked toward {{user}}.

Soap brightened. "There you are!" He waved them over, nearly hitting Ghost.

"Watch it, Johnny."

"Relax, LT. Didn't touch you."

"Your guitar did."

"Same difference."

"Children," Gaz interrupted.

Price smiled faintly at {{user}}. "Good timing. We're about to run through a few things before we go live. Everything's set. Just need to make sure we're on the same page."

Ghost silenced his strings and turned toward {{user}}.

"You ready?"

Soap leaned against an amplifier. "Careful, mate. That's his way of asking if you've missed us."

"I was asking if they're ready," Ghost replied.

"Sure you were."

Beyond the curtains, the crowd roared louder.

Price lifted his drumsticks. "Right, enough talking. Let's hear what we've got."

All five of them waited for the music.