Campaign Journal

Felix ran into the mosh pit and was decloaked again, which at this point is less a setback than a personality trait. The crowd swallowed him, the invisibility did not survive contact, and the band was once more reminded that Felix cannot be hidden, only located.

It took the party an embarrassingly long time to notice the chains coming out of the stage and sucking off Orpheus. In their defense, it was dark and loud. If only the DM had said something — some hint, some flavour text, a single raised eyebrow — but no. They found out the way they find out everything: too late, and mid-combat.

And combat was had. Fireballs were thrown, in the direction of problems and, occasionally, allies. The festival became a firefight. Chains, zombies, the wraith still hanging around from last time — everyone got a turn, most turns hurt.

Felix came out of it completely unscathed. Completely. Not a mark on him. Nobody has asked how, and the DM has not volunteered.

It was, in the end, mostly a fight sesh.

They pissed off Demeter. She is not, for the record, a Young Republican — she is worse. Somewhere in the fallout they acquired three sensu beans, accepted a mission for trophies, and declared the whole thing missions pre-accomplished before anyone had so much as left the wheat.

Rogers vibed. Rogers also had a war flashback. The bag filled with a deeply unreasonable number of fire extinguishers, plus medpacks, rope, and bleach — the shopping list of people who have decided the road to hell is paved with good intentions and are packing accordingly.

Dubya got a cape: the Mission Accomplished banner, worn with the confidence of a man who has already won a war that has not started. They rode the trolley to a music festival — zombies in the crowd, a wraith overhead, the whole venue wrong in the way only a cursed outdoor stage can be wrong.

Felix ran into the throng invisible and was immediately spotted, because he had forgotten the instrument on his back. Invisibility does not cover branding.

Then Wick appeared.

The Battle of the Bands was chaos wearing eyeliner. Natural twenties fell like confetti — including one that arrived, suspiciously, only after the DM raised his screen.

Dubya opened the set with a firework bright enough to invent an audience. Ruk Misty Stepped across the stage like a man late for his own tantrum, channeling Jeff Goldblum–grade rage with alarming sincerity. Dubya followed with a Mind Sliver aimed at the strongest mind in the room. Somewhere in the violence, a sweater rode up and confirmed — with empirical certainty — that Rogers has nipples. Rogers, already halfway through a private mythology, decided Mourn was his nemesis and answered with a Divine Smite.

By the final chord, Rogers and Ruk had found the same wavelength. Felix enchanted every instrument within reach. Dubya remained, as ever, the Decider — and nobody argued the point.

MC Moros named them the winners. The other band looked heartbroken; Mourn did not move at all. His guitar simply ceased to exist. For their trouble, My Chemical Neighbourhood took home an obsidian trophy.

After the show, a blonde woman drew mist across their eyes. When the fog cleared, they were standing in a field of wheat.

The Greek gods are real. Hades has placed an emo curse on the modern world. Nobody is entirely sure of the details — it's just how things are now. People call it the Times of the Wet Eyes.

The group met at a Battle of the Bands. Dubya had a guitar. Rogers had his shield, jury-rigged into a drum setup. Felix had an electric keyboard, which does not fit the vibe of the band at all. Everyone is aware of this. Felix is aware of this. The keyboard stays.

By the end of the night they had collectively decided they were a band. The name came quickly: My Chemical Neighbourhood.