American Symphony

Freedom Fighter (2/2)

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Alfred took a deep breath as he glanced at his reflection, letting out a shaky breath. He expected someone, anyone to burst through the door, demand to know why he was posing as a singer.

He glanced at the door, furrowing his brow when nothing came. They probably left. They had to had figured it out by now, right? They couldn't—

Alfred's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Sir?" he heard his bodyguard's voice. "Sir, you got 5 minutes until your set starts again." the man said.

"Thanks, Rob." Alfred said, looking at his reflection once more. Maybe they didn't know, but they would soon. One of his costumes made sure of that....not that that had been his intention. It just worked out that way.

The American stood and shook out his nerves, shedding his revolutionary jacket and looking to his costumes on the rack. He smirked at one, grabbing the worn leather jacket he was so used to wearing and shrugging it on.

It was a familiar feeling, the fabric quelling his nerves. The jacket was like a security blanket for him, and one of his most prized possessions. It was the first time he'd be wearing it for a general performance rather than a closed one, so they hadn't really begun to sell replicas in mass yet.

That meant that anyone who saw him wear it before....

Well, I think you get the gist.

The nation swapped his white pants out for some black ones with torn patches and pulled on some old brown leather boots that only went halfway up his shin, rather than putting on his black ones.

He grabbed his dog tags off the table, slinging them around his neck. He was to far away for anyone to read the name, plus he liked the extra touch.

Alfred stood and looked at his mask. The ultimate shocker would be if he were to come out on stage without it— then everyone would know who he was, but he'd never be able to get any nation work done again.

No, the mask would stay on.

He detached the side feathers so that the mask just looked like the top half of a bird skull with a small beak-shaped bit that would rest on top of his nose. The mask came around and end on stop of his head, successfully pressing Nantucket against his head.

The American grabbed it and put it on, nodding at his reflection and walking to his door. He pulled it open and smiled at Rob, jogging down the hall and back to his stage manager.

She fuddled with a headset and put it on him, whispering a "break a leg" to him.

He smiled at her and rubbed the back of his neck. "Let's just hope no one breaks em' for me." he chuckled, nerves beginning to get to him.

"You'll be fine, Al," she replied, glancing at the secondary act as they came off. "You're on." she smiled.

Alfred nodded and jogged out onto the stage, hands in the air and waving at his fans.

"Hey, guys! Didya' miss me?" he called out, smile wide as cheers erupted form the crowd. He risked a glance at the G-8, who were staring at him with wide eyes.

He knew the jacket would be the thing to do it.

"Well that sounds like a resounding yes!" he laughed, shoving a hand in his pocket as he spoke animatedly with the other.

He walked up to his guitarist and smiled as he was handed an electric guitar with the American flag printed on it. He nodded at him and turned back to the crowd, who went crazy at the sight. He slung the strap over his shoulder and smiled, gripping the neck of the instrument loosely.