Mile 15

Chapter 1: In Which Marty Fights a Terrible Foe

A set of double doors opened somewhere within the darkness.

All of the sudden, the stuffy, black hallway was filled with light spilling in from the outside. From within that light, the silhouette of a person gradually materialized out of the glow. They took a heavy step into the hallway, allowing the double doors to swing shut behind them.

As soon as they were sealed in the dark and windowless indoors, the person removed a pair of sunglasses from their nose. They were well dressed, with a fashion sense that bordered between professional and casual. Their footsteps on the stiff grey carpet held a rhythm of authority, and their stern expression was an indicator of this person's strong mind. They were certainly a force to be reckoned with.

The person didn't stop walking until they reached a solid-black door. Above it, the word 'Recording' was proudly declared on a glowing red sign. Although the walls were mostly soundproof, the slightest tap of a drumbeat could be heard somewhere beyond. After a moment of thinking, the person glanced away from the sign, and pushed through the door without any more reservation.

Immediately, the air was filled with a loud and repetitive instrumental, causing the person to flinch. Inside the studio, surrounded by an assortment of abandoned instruments, a man was clutching a microphone. The noises coming out of his mouth were rather horrible. They were probably supposed to be song lyrics, but he was doing such a poor job of singing that it was impossible tell what the original music was supposed to sound like. It seemed as though the "singer" had all the passion in the world, but none of the talent needed for his craft. Oblivious to the pain of the newcomer, he continued belting out into an unlucky microphone.

With a heavy sigh, the person left the man to continue his noise-making. As they entered the production room, they found that the glowing dials and buttons on the soundboard had been abandoned. Unplugged cords and forgotten papers were strewn about, cluttering up the space. Nobody was supervising the "singer" during his performance, leaving him to wail on his own. It seemed as though the entire production team had given up at this point.

Other than the unfortunate excuse for a musician on the other side of the glass, there was one singular person left in the studio. She was sprawled out on the black leather couch, looking as though she would rather be anywhere else. The woman was in her mid-twenties. Disheveled brown hair stuck to the side of her semi-attractive features, and her expression was rather weary. A brown paper bag was clenched in her hand, doing a poor job of disguising a bottle of alcohol within.

Seeing the newcomer, she raised her head. The person who had just entered the room was none other than her manager. But despite this, she didn't even bother to behave in a respectful manner.

"You here to watch the show?" she asked lazily.

"What on earth are you doing?" the manager asked. "Are you drinking in the studio?"

"Hey, at least I showed up," the woman replied.

"Where's everyone else? They were scheduled for a recording, weren't they?"

With a slight groan, the woman rolled sideways onto her feet. Although she was obviously drunk, she was still able to speak clearly and stand up on her own.

"Everyone else went home. Nobody's here 'cuz none of us are actually interested in doing this album anymore." She placed a hand on the manager's shoulder. "Let's just make single releases outta the three songs we've already got and call it a year, hm?"

"Absolutely not!" the manager replied, shoving her hand away. "Do you know how many contracts I've already signed for you, Russ? We could lose thousands of dollars,"

"Eh. Not my problem,"

Russ stumbled over towards the soundboard and smacked her hand down on one of the buttons. Instantly, her voice was broadcasted over the speakers in the main recording room. She had finally put a stop to the caterwauling on the other side of the glass.