An Unlikely Gig

The sun was already beginning its slow descent over the horizon, casting long golden shadows on the cracked sidewalk as Allen made his way toward The Rusty Note. The air in Hollywood felt different, drier than what he was used to, and the sounds of traffic mingled with distant laughter and the occasional honking horn. Palm trees lined the street, swaying slightly in the breeze, like guardians watching over the bustling, strange world of hopefuls and dreamers.

Allen clutched his guitar case a little tighter, his steps quick but uneven. His head was a mess of thoughts, anxiety gnawing at him from all angles. He wasn't used to this—walking toward a goal that felt as big as a mountain when he was barely out of the foothills.

"A thousand bucks in two weeks," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if that would shake away the thought. "You really couldn't have given me something easier, huh, Phanes?"

Of course, there was no response from the god. The system's cold blue interface remained dormant for now, giving him nothing but silence in return.

The Rusty Note came into view at the corner of the block, a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. The sign was a faded, neon mess, with only half of the lights still working, casting a dull glow over the peeling green paint of the building's exterior. It had character, that much was clear. A couple of people loitered outside, one of them puffing on a cigarette, the other chatting on his phone in rapid Spanish.

"Well, this is… cozy," Allen thought with a wry smile. He pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly lit bar. The smell hit him first—a mix of old beer, sweat, and fried food. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't exactly the sweet scent of opportunity either.

Inside, the bar was a sea of mismatched chairs and tables, with a small stage at the far end of the room. A lone mic stand and a stool sat on the stage like they were waiting for someone with dreams just big enough to fill the silence. Allen glanced around, taking in the scene. A few patrons were scattered around, either nursing drinks or chatting in low voices, their faces bathed in the soft glow of neon lights hanging over the bar. Behind the counter, a burly bartender with a bushy beard and a bandana tied around his head was wiping down glasses with the precision of a man who had done this a thousand times.

The place wasn't packed, but it wasn't empty either. A perfect crowd for someone who hadn't performed live in years.

Allen swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and made his way toward the bar, guitar case slung over his shoulder. As he approached, the bartender looked up, his eyes briefly sizing Allen up before he cracked a grin.

"Let me guess," the bartender said, his voice a gravelly rumble, "you're here for open mic night. You don't look like you're here to buy overpriced beer."

Allen gave him a half-smile, trying to muster some confidence. "Yeah. Is it still happening tonight?"

The bartender chuckled, nodding as he set a clean glass down. "Every Thursday, man. You can sign up with Jimmy over there." He gestured toward a skinny guy sitting at a corner table with a clipboard in hand. Jimmy had wild hair that seemed to be fighting gravity, and a tie-dye T-shirt that looked two sizes too big for him. He was scribbling something down on the clipboard, tapping a foot to some imaginary beat.

Allen nodded, muttering a quick thanks before making his way over. As he approached, Jimmy didn't look up, too engrossed in whatever he was writing. Allen cleared his throat.

"Hey, uh… I'm here to sign up for the open mic?"

Jimmy's head snapped up, his eyes wide and a little glassy. For a second, Allen wasn't sure if the guy was fully there.

"Oh! Yeah, dude, no problem," Jimmy said, flashing a grin that was way too enthusiastic. "Name?"

"Allen Rice."

Jimmy scribbled the name down with a flourish, his pen dancing across the paper. "Cool, cool. You're on after this dude Gary, who thinks he's like, the next Springsteen or something. You'll be great, though. New blood always gets some love."

"Springsteen, huh?" Allen raised an eyebrow, half-expecting some wild character to take the stage before him.

As if on cue, a man in a leather jacket with sunglasses perched on his head stood up and marched toward the stage with the swagger of someone who definitely thought he was a rock star. Gary, presumably.

Jimmy leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry, he's not that great."

Allen snorted. "Good to know."

He found a small table near the stage, setting his guitar down and trying to calm his nerves. His palms were sweating, and his heart raced in his chest. He could feel the weight of the quest lingering in the back of his mind, urging him forward, reminding him what was at stake. But beneath that pressure, there was something else—excitement. He hadn't realized it before, but a part of him was actually looking forward to this. It had been so long since he'd played for anyone other than himself.

Gary took the stage, grabbed the mic with a practiced, almost theatrical motion, and launched into an original song that was, frankly, not terrible—but definitely not the next "Born to Run." His voice was gravelly in a way that made Allen wonder if Gary had been gargling whiskey all night.

Allen leaned back in his chair, watching the performance with a mix of amusement and nervous anticipation. He could do this. He could definitely do this. As Gary wrapped up his song, earning polite applause from the small crowd, Allen's heart began to pound harder. His turn.

Jimmy waved him over. "You're up, man. Break a leg."

"Right. Break a leg. Let's hope it's not literally." Allen chuckled, but inside, his nerves were screaming. He picked up his guitar, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped up onto the stage.

The small wooden platform felt like a much bigger stage in that moment, the lights shining down on him making it hard to see much of the crowd. He adjusted the mic stand, taking a breath to steady himself. His hands trembled slightly as he strummed the first few chords, letting the familiar feel of the strings calm him down.

"Uh, hey," he said into the mic, his voice sounding rougher than he'd intended. "I'm Allen Rice. This is… this is a song I wrote a while back."

No turning back now. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the opening notes of the song flow through him, the familiar rhythm steadying his nerves. It was a slow, acoustic tune, something he'd written during one of his lonelier nights in his previous life. The words came naturally, his voice finding its strength as he sang about heartbreak, about finding hope in dark places, about survival.

The room seemed to fall into a quiet stillness as he played. There were no distractions, no clinking of glasses or murmurs of conversation. Just his voice and the gentle strumming of his guitar.

He wasn't sure how long he played, but by the time he strummed the final chord, the silence that followed was thicker than the air in the room. Allen opened his eyes, glancing out at the crowd. They were staring at him, a few with wide eyes, a few nodding appreciatively.

Then, the applause started—soft at first, but growing louder as more people joined in. It wasn't thunderous, but it was real, and that was enough. A genuine smile broke across his face as he stepped back from the mic.

"Not bad, kid!" someone called out from the back, and Allen couldn't help but laugh a little. Not bad. He'd take that.

As he stepped down from the stage, Jimmy gave him a thumbs-up, his grin wide. "Dude, that was sick! You've got something, man. I knew it."

"Thanks," Allen said, feeling a little more at ease now that it was over. "Feels good to be back on stage."

"You're definitely getting the hundred bucks," Jimmy added with a wink. "And maybe a free beer, if you ask nice enough."

Allen chuckled, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten just a little. He'd done it. He'd taken the first step. It wasn't much, but it was something. A start.

As he sat back down at his table, the system pinged in his head, and a translucent screen appeared in front of him.

Quest Complete: First Step into the Spotlight

Reward: 250 Showbiz Points, 100 Dollars

Allen grinned. He was on his way. Maybe Hollywood wasn't so bad after all.