Mercykill is on their way to fame as the newest metal band to hit the big time in Japan. But from fame to crushing sorrow takes but an instant.

Excerpt:

An electric melody rolled out across the crowd, the sound like liquid silver, bright-toned, sad, the stage still darkened.

Excitement rippled through the sea of fans, played on the stage of faces, lights flickered across them, revealing painted hair, leather clothes, lace, velvet, wild makeup.

The guitar’s lonely melody was abruptly joined by the bone-vibrating thrum of a bass, the sharp crack of drums and the lights came up on stage, bright as a lightning flash.

A roar from the audience drowned out the music for an instant, the sound making the concrete walls of the venue vibrate with the sound.

A crescendo of glittering notes, rose over the noise of the crowd, the opening melody of the band’s first song rising like sparks from a bonfire.

Onstage the guitarist stepped forward, bathed in a pool of light, red and black streaked hair, red and white painted face, slim body encased in leather from neck to toes. Only the dancing white of his fingers against the inky darkness of the guitar were visible.

Behind him his bandmates were playing, the drummer in a floor-length dress that was a confection of black taffeta, dove-grey lace and pearls, blue hair elegantly styled. The makeup that turned good looks into incredible beauty was perfect.

To his right, their bassist moved to the music in a pair of micro-shorts in black velvet, high-heeled patent leather boots and a violet velvet crop top with long pointed sleeves that looked like vintage 1960s era clothing. A torrent of violet hair that reached almost to the bassist’s waist sparkled with motes of silver glitter. A bar of violet broke the perfect geisha-white of the bassist’s pretty face.

This was their first major appearance since they’d signed with indie label Poisoned Dragon Recording Company.

They were just the opening act for a well-established band, but they didn’t care. They were playing to twenty thousand people, the biggest audience they’d ever had. And, even more thrilling, the whole thing was being recorded for later broadcast on a couple of pay per view stations, including Music Alive in the States.

It was their dream come true and Takeshi, whose stage name was Kei, felt his veins filled with the power of such an accomplishment. They played better than they’d ever played before, song after song leaving the listeners wanting more, the crowd’s roar a drug to the man who’d dared to dream of fame.

Fame. Right here in their grasp.

And they’d saved their number one hit for last.

As the roar of the crowd slowly died, anticipation of their next song silencing the fans, the guitarist saw movement at the corner of his vision. Backstage. A man and a woman. He didn’t know the man, and he couldn’t see the woman clearly with the lights in his eyes, but if they were there, they must have permission.

While he couldn’t tell who they were, he could see they were arguing.

But that wasn’t any of his business at the moment. He had work to do. Work he loved. Wouldn’t have traded for anything in the entire world.

Music flowed from his hands in a glissando of notes that fell like brittle tears on the crowd. Slow. Sad.

He stepped forward to the microphone, the opening lyrics to their biggest-selling single pouring from his lips.

"Iku tokoro wa shiranai.

Hana, the drummer, echoed the words in chorus with Maki, the bassist, their voices blending smoothly.

Over their heads the huge display showed falling rose petals, the English translation of the lyrics in bold lettering; the display provided for the English speaking audience that would later watch the broadcast.

A change in lighting resolved the woman into the familiar figure of their handler--the manager for their band. She stood there in her all her tatter-lace beauty, black mascara artfully streaking her cheeks. Sadness incarnate. Gothic Lolita, her makeup turning her face white as death.

But he still didn’t know who the man standing there with her might be.

It didn’t matter. They were no longer fighting, and Kita was watching them with adoration in her wide eyes, hands pressed together in front of her breasts.

He could feel her love even with most of the width of the stage between them.

Their hard work had paid off. Hers. Theirs. Together.

Pride and love burned in his chest as his voice soared into the next verse.

Rose petals changing to falling rain on a sere and dead garden, the words streaming across the display as he sang them.

Kei glanced sideways, trying to see Kita, wanting to make sure the man was leaving her alone. But they’d either moved away, or the lights onstage kept him from seeing them. This wasn’t the time to be distracted. They had to be perfect. Nothing less was acceptable to Kei. He focused on the song, fingers sliding and fluttering across the guitar, creating music.

Hana echoed the lyrics alone, and Kei wondered what the hell Maki was doing as the translation rolled over their heads. Can you ever love me again, the rose petals falling in an endless rain. He turned his head to look and found the scantily-clad bassist was looking backstage, frowning.

It had to be their relative positions to the lights, because when Kei tried to see what was going on he couldn’t, the area too dark in relation to the pool of light bathing him, lighting him for the adoration of the crowd.

"Kokoro ni hi wo modoremasu ka," he sang the words, putting all the hurt and emotion in his voice that he could, letting his voice break slightly the way he’d recorded it the night his last girlfriend had walked out, unable to handle the fact that he wouldn’t put an end to his first love: his band. Overhead the words were emblazoned across the setting sun, Can the sun shine in my heart?

It was working, too. Kei could see a few of the girls right in front of the stage had tears running down their faces. One of them held up a sign that read I will always love you, Kei.

He fought the smile, but he couldn’t fight the upwelling of emotion.

This was what they’d always wanted. Fans. Fame. Notoriety.

They’d finally arrived as a band, finally had more than just a concept and good music. They had fans. Adoration. Love. And the notoriety that came from being the sort of band they were: visual kei, their look and sound blending to create what they were.

Mercykill .

And this song, ‘Mou Hi wa Nai’-- ‘No More Sun’-- had always been their best because it was the one that most deeply touched them and those who listened to it, as any ballad of love lost tended to do. It had even hit the European charts, coming in for one brief, bright week at number fifty-three in the top one hundred before falling off the charts.

But they’d done it. Mercykill had cracked the top one hundred in Europe.

Kei kept on singing, Hana’s mellow voice and Maki’s slightly sharper counterpoint backing him up. Whatever had distracted the bassist had only caused a tiny mistake, one Kei could forgive considering how well the night had gone.

As the last strains of the song died, he glanced at the girl with the sign. She was weeping, her lips still managing to form the refrain with Hana and Maki.

The last notes faded, lost in the screams of the audience as the lights went out.

Elation filled Kei as the trio hurried offstage to make way for the main act.

But they’d had their first taste of the big time, and Kei found himself wondering what had happened to Saya, the girl whose departure from his life had caused him to write ‘Mou Hi wa Nai’, which had been their first real hit and got them their contract with Poisoned Dragon.

The roar of the crowd as the main act took the stage made Kei shiver. The screaming had been loud for them, but compared to this unbridled adulation, it paled.

Someday, he told himself. Someday soon.