Gretchen made her way into the Spiked Pit's parking lot, her dead grey eyes staring unblinkingly in no direction in particular.
The rest of her journey to the Spiked Pit, while mostly uneventful, had seen her body change further. She had shed another two decades or so, leveling off at 24 years of age. Her figure had turned slender and bony, particularly around the limbs, though her figure retained some feminine curve to it, with C cup breasts and a plump rump. Her skin had become pale, almost corpse like, and her makeup helped contribute to this similarity.
She arrived at the door, where the bouncer stopped her.
"Well, you certainly fit the bill of our usual customer, but I'm afraid the Pit won't be opened for a few more hours," he explained.
"I am not to be a patron of this establishment," Gretchen explained, in a throaty, deadpan voice. "I am one of the members of the band you have recently contracted with."
The bouncer grunted. "Right, the boss is waiting for you. You have this agreement to sign off on."
Gretchen nodded, then headed up to Agatha Pierce's office. The owner of the Spiked Pit gave Gretchen a smile; the gesture was not reciprocated.
"You must be the band's guitarist," Agatha said, offering Gretchen a seat.
"Indeed," Gretchen said, giving Agatha a stare that seemed to see right through her.
Agatha gave a nervous grin. Adelinde had mentioned how the guitarist was, in her words, 'fucking creepy', and now Agatha could see why. The owner of the Spiked Pit had become familiar with almost every subset of the Gothic subculture, and even so there was something about the guitarist which unnerved her.
"Alright, I just need you to sign off on a contract, and then you can join Quill and Adelinde," Agatha said, pulling out the contract and a pen. "I have your name down as Gretchen Wilson. Is that correct?"
For the first time since entering the Spiked Pit, Gretchen blinked. "No, it is not accurate at all. I am instead known as..."
