~Interview One~

"So you're a real fanatic, huh?" The interviewer sat back, and watched the two women respond to the question.

Skipper laughed uncomfortably, while Carleigh smirked devilishly. "Yeah, that's an understatement. All this girl ever does is listen to Guns N Roses, it's a bit pathetic." Skipper scoffed, and rolled her guilty eyes. "Well, not all the time..."

"Are you kidding? You should see her office at work, it's ALL Guns N Roses. Posters on the walls, pictures. Even while she operates, she blasts Appetite for Destruction so loud that no other surgeon will operate with her." Skipper was sheepish as she studied her petite hands intently, and Carleigh gawked at her.

"See, this is why I don't bring you to interviews," Skipper blushed. "What, you afraid your little 'Rosie' will see this?" Skipper stared at her, before shrugging nonchalantly. "He has better things to do."

"Axl Rose, huh, care to go into that?" "No." Skipper said quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the small room. "So... what don't you like?" Skipper didn't respond.

"Michael Jackson," Carleigh snickered, but again, Skipper remained silent.

Skipper's POV

~Spring, 1987~

"Is... this seat taken?"

The chaos waiting beyond the doors of this bar is somewhat familiar to me; my customary stool at the far right of the counter acts as my second home. I always seat myself at the very end, which allows for any willing participant to take the stool beside me.

"I don't know, is it?"

And so I am never alone when I come to this alcohol-soaked and cigarette hazed bar, sitting pretty like a perfect doll. The same repetitive series of events unfolds every night, but my controversial behavior prevents the spending of my own money on liquor.

"It is now."

This night, the man who has spotted me is actually attractive, with piercing eyes and black facial hair. His sharply defined features greet me when I gaze over at him, his lips pulled into a tight smile. "You don't have a drink," He observes, his voice deep and raspy. I shrugged, "Maybe I was waiting for you to buy me one."

I wink ever so slightly, and dig my teeth into my bright red bottom lip, waiting for his response to this flirtatious behavior. I'd like to think I mastered the 'lip bite,' but I am always searching for a boost to my self-esteem. He grins, cutting his eyes at me, and signaling for the bartender to get me a drink. "What did you want, gorgeous? Perhaps... a cocktail?" I shook my head gently. "Gin. On the rocks."

The man smiles, as they always do when they discover my knack for drinking. "A liquor girl, huh?" "I can hold my own." The bartender, who is aware of my nightly game, delivers our drinks and gives me a wink. My black-haired companion doesn't take notice.

"I see you here all the time," He comments, and slides closer to me when he determines that I'm not looking. "I just never had the nerve to talk to such a... beautiful little thing." He leans closer as I intake a large sip of gin. "So then, why are you here now?" I cock my head, as if I'm interested in this man, and turn back toward the bar.

I laugh as his drunken lips tickle my ear. "Maybe I thought you looked irresistible tonight. Maybe I thought you'd like to come home with me." They always jump to conclusions, it's pretty pathetic really. "Oh, did you think so?" I respond vaguely, watching the ice cubes jostle in my glass.

"Yeah." I grip his hand beneath the bar counter before it can clamp onto my thigh, and smile sarcastically. Right on time, my pager lets out a familiar beep from its position on my waist. "Well, that's too bad." I happily hop down from my stool, and neatly push it back into place. The man frowns with acute disappointment. "What? Why not?" "I've got a surgery." The words roll off my tongue.

I make my nightly exit, ignoring the man's angered grumbling and saluting the bartender.

Sometimes I contemplate my own reasoning for partaking in this game... maybe I like to put men under my spell, just to know that I can.

****

I push the game out of my mind, pulling off my dress and replacing it with a fresh pair of black scrubs. My heels echo as I make my way down the land bridge between the east and west wings of the hospital, smirking as every one clears a path.

"It's Medusa..." "Medusa's coming this way!" "Watch out for Medusa!" It's funny, interns seem to believe firmly in my lack of the sense of hearing. I enjoy their childish nicknames, they serve as daily reminders of the fear I strike into the hearts of many.

I strut down this newly cleared path, and do not slow my pace until I emerge into my OR. "Chief Nelson, we tried following your instructions on this patient," Dr. Ladawn hastily begins to explain, "I thought she was doing fine, but she's got multiple sub-dural hematomas and her vitals are plummeting."

Everyone in the overly sanitized room stares at me desperately with panic weaved into their expressions, while I simply laugh to myself. "Relax, Ladawn. This is why I told you to stick to cardio. Let me scrub in, and I'll take care of it, alright?" My calm words seem to pacify everyone in the room, and I am still laughing as I head to the scrub room.

Once I return, Ladawn has left, and the nurses have rearranged the room to my liking. "We're gonna cut now, 10 blade," I tell one of them, and I am promptly handed my scalpel of choice. "The usual?" Says a nurse, her hand poised next to the boombox on a surgical table. "The usual." I agree, concealing my smile.

Immediately, the whole room is gloriously filled with the sounds of rock, the bone-vibrating sensation sinking into my mind and assuaging me. When Rosie begins to sing about 'the jungle' (whatever that is), I find myself cutting along to the beat.

The scrub nurses just cover their ears.

****

There are a million Chief Roses in the room, yet he is not here. At first I could barely stand to gaze at a picture of him, but as of now it seems that I can't get through my day without at least one look. That feeling grew, until what used to be his office turned into my nest of Guns N Roses.

Sure, I have some spaces set aside for my other sentimental possessions, though they are few in number. My two Nobel Prizes for outstanding discoveries in medicine, photographs of my more... A-list patients. Aside from that, I value nothing but the five kids who bring music to my ears.

Rosie's record collection resides on the right wall of the room. I gaze at it before I turn on the television in the corner, and allow my feet to rest on the surface of the desk.

A yawn escapes me as I lazily flip through the channels, somewhat ignoring the incessant chatter of reporters. Nobody evens dares to so much as knock on my door after a certain time of night. Being chief at the age of eighteen has certainly its perks. I hold a certain amount of celebrity, in this hospital and especially in the outside world. I am virtually untouchable.

"There's certainly a lot going down here at Madison square garden, as fans are gearing up for what is supposed to be a wild concert, put on by none other than the popular rock band Guns and-"

My body locks up, and I sit motionless for a split second before I turn the channel back.

"The band should be coming on any minute now, but with lead singer Axl Rose's tendency to be late, it could be hours before we see the shaggy-headed boys emerge. For fox news, I'm-"

My fingers rush to shut off the television, as I trip over my own scrubs. I manage to remove them, and rip open my desk drawers. Inside, I have stowed clothing for emergency situations such as this one. As I slide a black pencil skirt up my body, I curse myself for being unaware of Rosie's presence, and reapply my makeup in the mirror.

"Daddy? Yeah, I'm not gonna be able to see you tonight." I offer no explanation over the phone to my father, before slamming it down onto the receiver, grabbing my jacket, and racing out the door.

****

"So... you're his doctor?" The security guard skeptically raises one of his bushy eyebrows. He repeats the motion of checking his 'list,' and then examining me. "You aren't on this list. Last name Nelson, you said?"

"Right, see... um... Will- Axl, excuse me, is very secretive with his medical care, you know. He doesn't like many people to know about it, so..." "The man was a surgeon," The guard crosses his arm in a matter-of-fact manner, "Couldn't he do is own medical work?"

"Look, the point is, if you don't let me backstage right now, he's gonna throw a fit. And then who's gonna get in trouble? Me, or the ignorant security guard who didn't let me in?" I intensify my gaze. This seems to do the trick, as the guard moves aside from the heavy door reluctantly. "Alright... just tell Mr. Rose to get you on the list." "Sure, yeah."

I grin as he wrenches the metal thing open, revealing an unfamiliar world of buzzing people with headsets and loud yelling. I do not hesitate to step into it, and disappear into the crowds before I hear the door shut behind me.

I am lost in the torrential current of bodies, being tossed this way and that. One minute it seems that I'm approaching the dressing rooms, and the next I am near the stage crew. I manage to escape this noise, and propel myself into this weird crowd of paparazzi.

It only takes me a few seconds to comprehend my surroundings; the bustling throngs of paparazzi await eagerly the appearance of the band. They line this hallway, which effectively leads to the stage above us. I know I need to get into the hallway, past the ropes holding back the antsy photographers. I start with wriggling my way through to the front of the crowd, and shield my eyes from the blinding lights.

It seems that four of the band members are already in the hallway, pacing, and wildly playing catch with a baseball. They also appear to be completely unaware of the fact that they're being watched- and the screaming crowd waiting outside.

I easily identify them. Naturally, the easiest one to pick out is Slash, with the touch of color in his skin and his long frizzy hair. I need to get the attention of one band member... the rest may follow. As I'm re-positioning my clothing, I get the prickly sensation of being watched. When I look up, my gaze is met by two burning sapphire eyes.

They belong to shaggy black-haired Izzy, who's attention I obviously and easily attracted. He blinks numbly, ignoring the laughter of his tall and blonde companion, Duff. He stiffly makes his way over to where I stand behind the rope. "Wow," Is his first word to me, and I have to swallow down laughter. I guess he spotted me, only because I'm the only black person in the crowd without a camera.

"Hi." I find myself a bit bashful under his intense gaze. "I think I've seen you before," He inquires. "Yeah, we've met." I briefly think back to that stormy night at Rosie's apartment, after I discovered my father. They weren't Guns N Roses yet, but I met them. "No, I mean... on a billboard or something." I'm sure he has, these days I can't turn a corner without seeing myself plastered across one.

"Maybe," I shrug. "Either way... come on over." I blush slightly as he helps me climb over the rope, and I stumble into the hall. It's so open now, and the air is much cooler. Izzy doesn't tear his eyes from me, nodding toward Duff. "This is-" "Duff, yeah." I crane my neck to look up at the lanky man, who gives me a goofy grin. "Wow, Izzy, who's your friend?"

"Curly?" The voice is husky and male, just not deep. I spin on my heel to face the familiar voice. "Um... my name is Skipper." I smirk at the person responsible, who shrugs, tossing the baseball up and down again. "I know, but I'm going to call you Curly." Slash's face is somewhat hidden behind his curtain of curls, but what is visible to me is his toned chest. I force myself to look away, and back up at his eyes.

"Where's Rosie?" He grins, and playfully pushes my shoulder. "It doesn't matter, I'm here." "Oh, shut up," I roll my eyes, as if this is the fiftieth time we've talked instead of the second or third. "So anyways," Izzy brings my attention back to him. "How's it going? You've met Slash?" "Oh yeah, I've met him." Slash winks down at me suggestively, fiddling with his earrings.

"What's this?" The drummer, Steven, tugs at my lab coat, which I forgot I was still wearing. "Oh, nothing, it's-" "Woah, the chick has a knife in her pocket!" Duff snatches a scalpel from my pocket, and Steven tugs the coat away from my shoulders. "Um... okay..."

"Ignore them, they're socially retarded." Slash towers over me, as do the rest of them. I stifle a laugh, and watch with amusement as Izzy joins in on the examination of my lab coat. They stand in a circle of three. I face Slash, who I notice is still gazing at me. "So, how have you been?" "You know, here and there. Nothing much."

"Junior!"

My stomach drops through the floor.

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