The Monster War Tour

The people queued up outside the gates, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Some were crying. Some were shouting, swearing, others were struggling against their bonds and captors, but were soon knocked back into conforming when one of the "men" escorting them would point a rifle to their head. Musically talented mothers screamed as their children were pulled away from them, shouting, "She can sing, please, believe me, give my daughter back!" Elderly people were pushed fiercely to keep up, some falling to the ground. David Bowie looked up from the dust, pure hatred shining in his mismatched eyes as he looked up the Controlled. They hauled him to his feet and made him walk on.

The people were kept in their groups- the bands were pushed along together, the solo artists alone. A person with bright pink hair reached out as far he could, not very far due to the handcuffs, and tried to brush fingers with a man in a band.
"Davey," The pink-haired man croaked, before he stumbled back into line after being hit hard on the side of his head. One solo artist was kicking the Controlled who was holding her arm, hard. Her brown hair was wild and messy as she tossed her head.
"Let go of me!" She yelled in a strong, london voice, "Get OFF!"
"Kate!" An American girl with dyed blonde hair shouted at the struggler, her grey eyes wide with terror, "Don't fight them, please!"
Kate Nash swore loudly and continued to kick. There was a gunshot and she screamed as blood spurted down her leg, staining her yellow leggings. A Controlled had shot her in the hip. Tears trickled out of her eyes and down onto her smooth cheeks.
"We will keep you alive," It said in a cold monotone, speaking the words of its controller, Sovereign, "Because you have a good voice. Stay in line!" It commanded at a higher volume, turning sharply to Avril Lavigne who was trying to rip her pleated, netted skirt to slow the bleeding from Kate's hip.
"Thank you," Kate choked, before she was dragged away into a different line.

There was a long string of teenagers, tied to each other by their hands with thick rope. A great percentage of them were clad in emo style, but many others were wearing other fashions or no fashion at all. A girl with relatively short brown hair, coloured slightly red-pink was looking straight forward, a blank look on her face. Tears were pouring silently, smudging black eyeliner that rimmed her blue eyes. She looked completely empty, like nothing mattered anymore. She blinked as she was dug in the back, being instructed to move faster. They were marched through gates into a huge, muddy field, littered with tightly packed caravans, trailers, tents, parked cars and buses, all sinking into the thick mud. People were sent off together, bands in with bands and solo artists scattered together in random grouping. Up to fifteen people could be squashed in a small car or a two-person tent, the better your talent, the better your accommodation. The girl with the dyed red-pink hair was shoved roughly into a small, dark, mucky caravan, along with two other girls her age, and a man who see could not see in the bad light. She crawled along on her knees through the caravan, every inch of her aching. She got shakily to her feet and found a light switch. A dim, flickering yet adequate bulb turned on. Her eyes widened, and she leapt forward to hug and quickly kiss the two girls in shocked relief.
"Alexa! Claire!" She gasped, "I'm so glad you're alright!"
They both looked frightening in the light; Alexa's chocolate brown hair looked black and lank, framing her white face, and Claire's own blonde locks were sticking up at odd angels, and her glasses were cracked.
In the joy of being reunited, the three friends had forgotten the other person in their presence. He stepped slowly into the light and looked at the children. They stopped and looked up at him, and their hearts thudded with fear when they saw who it was.

Marilyn Manson looked down upon them with his thick rimmed eyes, his small pupils fixed on them. His face was deathly white, his lips deep red, but he looked wrong. He looked scared and lost, not the man their had heard of and found freaky back in the days when things had been normal and life had been easy. His makeup was smudged, making his whole face looked blurred, incomplete. He was wearing a white shirt, splattered with mud, his black tie loose and crumpled.
"Hello, Mr. Manson." Said Alexa acutely. He narrowed his eyes, but then opened them normally again. He sighed.
"Call me Brian," He said, surprising them all, "I don't suppose it matters, we're all equal now aren't we, all scum at the feet of Sovereign. What are you names?"
"I'm Alexa," Said Alexa. The others said nothing, so she went on, "And this is Caitlin and Claire. They are probably stunned that you told them to call you Brian."
"Why, are they fans?" He asked, peering at them, struggling to focus in the bad light.
"No, you just scare the shit out of them."
"Oh."
Caitlin looked at him, and met his eyes. There was a sudden softness in them that made her feel more comfortable. She managed to get out the words in her mind,
"We're not scum. And neither are you. I can't believe all the government and stuff knew about the threats all the fucking time and didn't stop Sovereign!" She spat angrily, "I don't want to be able to sing or play guitar, I'd rather just live in the ghettos with the Controlled watching me! I want... I want my family..." She gulped for air and started to cry. Claire put her arms around her and shushed her quietly. Marilyn, or Brian, stood up and said firmly,
"You listen to me. We're not going to sit here and let them kill us off. We are going to rise up and fight, I don't know when and I don't know how, but we'll find a way. I promise."