A/N: Like Nighttime Company - this is another attempt to delve into the pasts of my characters and see what I can find to bring the story forwards a little. This time I picked on Adrio "Star" Wyatt. Random and awkward, I'm thinking of using this in a roleplay sometime as I'm rather fond of the sixteen year old version of Star.

Emo-Mowgli and the Hole in the Stage

"You'd better stop dreaming of the quiet life

Because it's a one we'll never know

Quit running for the runaway bus

'Cos those rosey days are few

Well stop apologising for the things you've never done

Time is short and life is cruel

But it's up to us to change

In a town called Malice . . ."

Those were lyrics thundering from River Dale for Boy's school theatre, heavily accompanied by thrashing guitars and drums. But there was no old school punk band playing high upon the stage with it's long red velvet curtains. No husky voiced males with red mohecans, dodgy piercings, pinstripe neck ties and arms covered in tattoos. No screaming crowd or bumbling mosh pit. No strobe lights that made you go temporarily blind if you stared at them for too long. No gigantic speakers throwing out the music as loud as they dared without blowing their fuses and no trailing lengths of tangled wire that could cause you to break an arm of a leg if you tripped over one.

There was just Adrio Wyatt and a boombox.

It was four in the afternoon and classes had been dismissed half an hour ago. The only people wandering about the building now were those students in detention or doing extra curricular activities, teacher's who stayed on late to mark books or test papers and a few scattered cleaners here and there that whined at you if you walked over the patch of floor that they'd just spent five minutes mopping.

And, of course, there was the little asian boy who was throwing himself about the stage to the rough chords of The Jam.

"Rows and rows of disused milk

Sit lined in the dairy yard

And a hundred lonely housewives

Clutch empty milk bottles to their hearts

Hanging out their old love letters on the line to dry

It's enough to make you stop believing

Where the tears come fast and furious

In a town called Malice . . ."

It was a regular occurance in River Dale for Boys lately, the thundering music echoing from the theatre and Adrio Wyatt, all five feet and two inches of him, dancing about, singing and shouting, his bright pink Converse beating across the wooden flooring as he fell into the much loved rhythms of Green Day, Bright Eyes or some long forgotten band from the eighties punk year (which happened to be his preferance this evening). His feminine figure twisting and turning and throwing out screams that shattered the air into millions of tiny little pieces. And it seemed that that particular day was no different to any other.

There was the little fellow, natural charcoal hair parted slightly askew and hanging choppy and ragged about his dark face giving him a slight Mowgli impression, the fuschia streaks glinting under the fading beams of the stage lights as he hopped from one Converse covered foot to the other, singing along with the beating music that crashed around him, almost threatening to crush him under its mighty weight, as "A Town Called Malice" faded into "Rat Trap" by The Boomtown Rats.

"Screaming and the crying in the high rise block

It's a rat trap Billy but you're already caught

And you can make it if you wanna are you needing it that much

You're young and good looking and you're acting kinda jolly . . ."

Deep chocolate eyes fluttered closed, soaking in the overwhelming rifts and symphonys that bounced about the walls, vibrating through the floor and causing his heart to pound inside his small chest as he tossed himself from side to side, the heavy black combat trousers that fell over his feet in millions of tattered folds threatening to slip from his hips and fall to the ground.

One shocking pink nailed hand reached down to grip the pretty pyramid belt that was doing a rather poor job of keeping his trousers in place and hitched it upwards in one swift movement, the assortmant of multicoloured bracelets that danced their way up both his arms jingling pleasantly as he did so.

"Billy take a walk, take a walk, take a walk

Billy take a walk, take a walk, take a walk

Billy take a walk, take a walk, take a walk

Billy . . . Take a walk with me . . ."

But pink nail varnish and colourful bracelets weren't the only accessory that decorated the tanned hands of Adrio Wyatt and as he brought up his left palm to brush nimbly through the dishevelled lengths of his hair, a small star in black ink flashed into view on the skin between his thumb and his index finger and it was from that little trait that his nickname had come about.


He wasn't "Adrio Wyatt" to anybody in school apart from the teachers and even some of those had taken to calling him by his prefered name lately. That's not to say that everybody in the entire school knew of this little feminine asian boy, who's parents were persistant on throwing him into an arranged marraige that he didn't want, for over half of them hadn't even noticed him in the whole three years that he'd existed there, but to those that did, he was "Star".

"Star The Gay Fucker" if you want to get technical about it.

For it seemed that dear homosexuals were frowned upon by the larger, more arrogant boys and with parents who were against all same sex relationships and boys at school who teased you for the same reason, being who you wanted to be was somewhat difficult for Adrio and thus, the only escape that he had found was the performing arts.

In theatre you could be whoever you wanted to be and the audience didn't insult you as long as you entertained them. In dance you could express yourself through jumps and turns and nobody laughed at what you looked like because they were too busy trying to discover what your piece was about. In music you could play whatever you liked and sing about whatever you liked and there was no one there to tell you that you were wrong as long as you sounded good and what you were saying was true to yourself.

And thus the boy had taken to stealing himself away into the theatre every night after school for a bit of freestyle escapism where nobody could barge in and tell him to turn his music down, or tell him to stop acting like a puff and take off all those stupid bracelets. In the theatre after school he could be himself . . .

Now, his navel piercing glittered and shimmered in the spot lights beneath his cropped black t-shirt that read "The Early November" in brilliant white lettering and the boy smiled, relishing his freedom and his happiness as "Rat Trap" gave into The Undertones' "Teenage Kicks"

"Are teenage dreams so hard to beat

Everytime she walks down the street

Another girl in the neighbourhood

Wish she was mine, she looks so good . . ."

Then he vanished.

All of a sudden there was no little Emo-Mowgli prancing about the stage and singing along with the long retired punk scene. The stage was empty all apart from the boombox tucked away to one side and in the centre of the stage there was a gaping black hole where somebody had ragged the trap door from its hinges and poor Adrio Wyatt had been so far away into his land of colourful flowers that he hadn't noticed.

Star stared blankly up at the hole six feet above above him where the light filtered through in one long beam of orange. A mixture of surprise and amusement wavered slowly across his thin face as he blinked up at where he had so foolishly fallen through the stage.

Only he, Adrio "Star" Wyatt, could be so stupid as to fall through a gaping hole in the middle of the stage.

Only he, Adrio "Star" Wyatt, could manage not to see such a big disaster waiting to happen.

Only he.

Shaking his head in spite of himself, he slowly drew himself up from where he had fallen, thankfully the whole of the little room beneath the stage was covered with stacked cardboard boxes stuffed with props and costumes and thankfully it had been those that he had fallen onto, otherwise he might have broken his back for sure.

"I wanna hold her, wanna hold her tight

Get teenage kicks right through the night . . ."

Groaning softly he dusted himself down, watching the gigantic billowing dust clouds which rose from his clothes with wide eyed amazement. But he didn't have time to stand around and marvel at such odd little things, he had to find a way to get out of there. Big brown eyes were turned upwards to the trap door and he sighed miserably. How the hell was he supposed to climb all the way back up there? He was five feet and two inches tall and there was that stupid hole some six feet above him.

A sudden thought flashed through Star's mind and asthough to clarify the point a large black spider scuttled up his scrawny arm. Adrio shrieked in terror, batted the spider away with the back of one slender hand and then stood there, heart pounding wildly in his chest. But it wasn't pounding because of the music this time, it was pounding due to fright. And Star came to the conclusion that if he didn't get out of there soon he might just as well die of complete and utter arachnophobia.

"Help!" he squeaked, his light accented voice barely more than a whisper, "Somebody, please help."

And still, the guitars went on as The Undertones rang loud and clear through the theatre of River Dale for Boys . . .

"I'm gonna call her on the telephone

And have her over 'cos I'm all alone

I need excitement, oh I need it bad

'Cos it's the best I've ever had . . ."