The Temple Pianist

The Temple Pianist

          A Model 1098 Steinway piano stood alone within the Temple of the Master.  It was made in 1956 and belonged to Rondo. 

          Rondo, in his black moretta mask and plain clothing, wasn't much of a figure in the Proxy gathering.  Not as a person; he was smallish and quiet, and didn't hunt much, and may not have actually killed anybody.  Everyone knew him, though.

          He slept in a room between the 2nd and 3rd floors of the Temple, branching off from the stairwell.  It was bare except for a mattress and the piano.  The piano was as much the center of Rondo's life as the Master.  Whenever he was tracking or raiding, he would only steal—unless told otherwise—sheet music and supplies to maintain the piano.  When he was in his room he would either be sleeping or playing under the large, stained window that faced the water.

          As far as anyone else knew, how to play the piano was all that Rondo remembered from his past life.  Rondo never mentioned that he remembered who taught him and what had become of that person.  The others were grateful to whoever had taught him, however.  The mindless ones were calmed by the sounds of his playing echoing throughout the Temple, and it eased the Agents' minds when they were waiting to serve.

          It was a Hallowed instrument, too, blessed by the Master.  Rondo had been playing late one night when His right hand suddenly landed on the keys, playing a savage, alien chord no human could have coaxed from any Earthly instrument.  It had scared Rondo and hurt his ears, but it had been an important moment: it had given him his Role.

          Now it was late in the afternoon.  The world outside Rondo's window was a misty gray sky with a burning red heart, hovering over calm waters.  He was playing "The Song of the Volga Boatmen," letting the powerful dirge flow through his finger and into the air.  He heard others walking the stairs behind him, occasionally stopping, but he never turned around.  He finished the song and wondered what to play next from his library.

          Rondo jumped at the sound of clapping from behind him.  He turned and saw a tall, dark figure framed in the doorway.  Not the Master, Rondo thought with some relief.  Zanna.  His relief became uneasy.

          "Very nice," Zanna said.  Her gloved hands were fiddling with a Hunter's Short Sword with blood still on the blade.  There was some dripping from the back of her neck.

          "You... you're hurt," Rondo said.

          "Yes."  The way Zanna smiled made Rondo nervous.  He knew the smile from the faces of Berserkers facing cornered quarry; without sanity or compassion.  "I've traveled a long distance," she continued, walking toward him, "and I was hurt on my way back here.  Now I would like to hear more of your music."

          Rondo shrank into his seat as she stood over him, face as calm and impassive as her mask.  The blood was running down her black trench coat and onto the floor, and Rondo noticed some staining her flaxen hair.  She admired the long blade of the Hunter's Short Sword she was twirling very close to Rondo.

          "W- what do you want to hear?" he asked.

          "Anything.  I haven't actually listened to music in a long time, and I'm  a bit tired.  Please,  just play."  Zanna sighed as she ran her fingers over her blade.  "It's nice, isn't it?  Very shiny when I clean it, but you can't see with all this blood.  I had to kill someone with it earlier."  She casually placed the cold blade against Rondo's neck.  "I'm not too tired to do it again, but I'd be sad if I had to."

          Zanna frowned at Rondo.  "You wouldn't want Zanna to be sad, would you?"

          Rondo tried not to cry as he shook his head vigorously.

          "Good.  Now, play me a song, damn it."

          Rondo launched into Schumann's "Aufschwung" from memory.  He played it harder and faster than he had played anything before, and didn't relax even when Zanna took the blade away from his neck.  It was not long till he had finished it, sweat pouring down his face and his hands still trembling.  Zanna was in a reverie, leaning against the wall with an expression of pure ecstasy on her face.

          "Schӧn," she whispered.  "Absolut wunderbar."  She wiped some blood from the wound on her neck and looked as if she was only noticing it for the first time.  "I should clean this up."  Zanna swept out of the room with a warm and casual "Thank you."

          Rondo slid out of his seat and lied on the ground, considering what had just happened.

          I saved my own life, he thought.  Maybe others.  I helped someone, for sure.  I must be doing the right thing.

          He climbed back onto the seat and began to play once more; Beethoven's "Pathetique Sonata (No. 8 Op. 13)."  It was nighttime when it ended and he was asleep upon the keys, dreaming of daylight and music.

Prologue (for the possible future undertaking)

Tell me that you couldn't picture the Operator singing this to a new recruit/proxy-to-be (you probably can, and will, but some of you might see the connotations here):

Brought to you by the great Tom Waits.

Solstice: Part Three

The First Crusade: Aftermath

          The remaining Proxies traveled west, to the Temple.  Their Master returned to them, chest healed, but with a bloodstained shirt, shortly after their retreat.  He would not, or could not, tell Sutton what had happened to Zero.  The Proxies avoided speaking to Him, not wishing to incur his wrath; Zanna was less passive.

          Zanna was closer to their Master than Sutton.  She was probably the closest Proxy to Him of all of His servants.  She was beautiful without her mask (which, oddly enough, she didn't always wear), yet terrifying.  Some of them, even the mindless ones, feared her almost as much as the Master.

          She had met Him in the Black Forest of Germany, where she was born.  She had survived their first encounter, and had met him again in college.  She found her true calling, as the foremost Proxy leader.  She was usually the warmest of the Proxies, but as anyone who had been seen her hunting a target could attest, she had a much darker side.

          Zanna had approached Sutton, her Germanic goddess mask in one hand, a silk glove in the other.  With the glove she slapped him.

          "How could you allow this to happen?" she growled, towering over him.  "You were there, watching.  You could have done something, Sutton."

          Sutton stood his ground.  "What do you suppose I should have done, then?  I wasn't previously aware that the Master was vulnerable to mortal weapons.  How could I know that some fool with a sword could—"

          They both noticed their Master watching them intently as they followed the rest of the group.  Sutton and Zanna fell silent, and moved ahead to the front of the group.

          One could almost feel the morale straining within the Proxy gathering.  Acolyte, limping from a sprained ankle, was muttering his psalms to the Master as always, but in a tone of one who is vigorously trying to deny something they've recently learned to be true.

          Sutton and Zanna were somewhat worried for Shrike.  He didn't walk with them but stumbled, muttering all the way; "He's no man, He can't be hurt... I burn things for Him, I destroy for Him, he's not just another man!  He isn't..."

          "I knew something was wrong," Pit whispered to her lover in a frightened tone.  "I knew when I read H(a)unting.  Something isn't right, it's all falling apart..."

          The mindless ones were quiet, but stared unrelentingly at the Master, with looks of confusion and accusation.

          "We'll have to work this out when we get to the Temple," Zanna said.  She blew strands of long, flaxen hair from her face.  "Did you see Zero die?"

          "No-one did.  No body to be found, either.  News of this will spread quickly, to those who weren't present.  This could be damaging."

          "You think?  We'll have to strike back," Zanna said, patting the Uzi at her hip.  "Somehow.  Once we're at the Temple, I'll have to begin organizing something.  More of them will have to suffer for this."

          Zanna went back, her long black trench coat flowing behind her.  She talked very quietly with the Master, His tentacles still writhing with agitation.

          So the Runners had fought, and won, and ran off again.  They would hunt.  There had to be vengeance.  That night had been terrible.  He had been wounded.

          Their Master had bled.     

Solstice: Part Two

The First Crusade: Blood Moon Battle

                     

          Three claymores seemed to be a little bit of overkill to Sutton.  Only eight proxies got killed, amazingly, but still. 

          Shrike had (God only knows how) gotten a hold of mustard gas, and lots of it.  He carried a bulging sack of canisters filled with mustard gas that he was flinging mostly at the Basroil soldiers.  They hadn't been prepared for chemical weaponry, and many had retreated to nurse heir wounds, while others struggled to aid the Runners despite the horrific blisters rising under their armor. 

          Both sides had wisely brought all sorts of makeshift shields and body armor (ballistic shields were popular on both), but neither knew how well their enemies would be armed.  Gunfire rang out across the clearing, punctuated by screams and cries of fury.  The fighting was spreading out from just the main field; away from the most intense gunfire and bloodshed were smaller battles, duels and personal feuds playing out amidst the darkened trees.

          Crete, a huge Proxy in a blood-red hockey mask, wielding a shotgun, had just destroyed a target he had hunted for months throughout the Midwest.  Orthrus, in his fearsome Greek double-headed dog mask, was in a knife fight with an older man who had escaped him as a child. 

          Sutton's riot-strength kite shield (which he had also lovingly crafted) rang with the last desperate gunshots of the boy on the ground before him.  Sutton's saber dealt a swift slash to his jugular, and the Runner died.  Sutton did not wait to revel in his triumph, looking instead for more stragglers to execute.  His ears fell on the sound of an empty Benelli M3 clicking but a few meters away, nearer to the main field, where much of the fighting had scattered.

          Amelia.  The "Heroine."  She had finished lobbing her Molotov cocktails and now found herself being faced with the Proxy commander and an unloaded gun.

          Sutton allowed her pick up the long iron spike of a fallen comrade. 

          "Let us see how she fares without her Hero," Sutton sneered.  He lunged forward with his saber, but Amelia was quick enough to block him.  Her spike slid off of his shield when she returned a strike.

          "You didn't come prepared," Sutton laughed.

          "Neither did your Master," Amelia spat back.  "Twiggy's going down tonight."

          Enraged at her insolence, Sutton advanced.  The two matched each other blow for blow, strike for strike, parrying and maneuvering like two dueling serpents.  Sutton was indifferent to all but a few peripheral happenings: Acolyte beheading a Basroil officer and emptying his laser carbine into the rest of the squad; Shrike setting several canisters alight before igniting the field's northern tip in acrid flames; the Trickster gutting Rook with a switchblade; a man in a Santa suit, wielding a chainsaw, severing Crete's left arm before he could reload his gun.

          Then He arrived.

          Once Zero had stepped into the middle of the field, the Operator had advanced toward him, hands clenched into fists, tentacles swishing.

          Sutton's Master stopped before Zero, removed His hat, and took a bow; mocking the Hero.  Many of the fighters had retreated to opposite sides to watch the confrontation, some ready to rush in and assist their leaders.

          How interesting to see you in a mask, Runner, He sneered.  You brought a blade to challenge me?  En garde, then, Zero.

          Zero's sword glinted in the moonlight as it flew down upon the Slender Man.  But He sidestepped the blade, a cloud of tentacles flying at his face.  Zero's sword swirled in front him, slicing at the tentacles.  More of them cracked like whips at Zero as he backed away.  He drew the taser from his belt and prepared to fire at the Slender Man.

          A thin leg flew sideways at Zero, knocking the weapon from his grasp.  Zero swung the sword again and again, every time stopped by a white, nail-less hand.  At last five tentacles curled around the hand in which Zero held his sword.  More slithered about him, binding him and pulling off the monster mask.

          Now, we will see how one can divide Zero, He said. 

          Amelia cried out from afar, and Maduin prayed inside the rabbit mask.

          There was a bellow from across the field: "Behold, Noodleman, THE BAAAAAANHAAMEEEEEEER!"  The man in the Santa suit came rushing at the Slender Man with a huge sledgehammer.  The impact knocked Him backward, against a tree.

          Without hesitation, Zero picked up the sword and thrust it into the Slender Man's chest.

          A high frequency pierced the ears of all in the field, as He cried out in surprise and pain.  Then a physical, unholy cry issued from His mouth.

          His mouth.

          There were no human lips, but rows of sharp, needlelike teeth and a dark tongue. 

          Shrike literally emptied his sack of mustard gas onto the Runners' side as firing began again.  Sutton ordered a full retreat, as both sides could feel their time had ended.  The Proxies and Runners fled to from whence they had come; the battle under the blood moon was declared over.

          A few last shots were fired; the Fallen fired one more crossbow bolt through the acrid gas clouds, a Runner launched a skyrocket that illuminated the field in brilliant hues of gold, red, and blue.

          Zero was gone.     

Solstice: Part One

The First Crusade: Preparation

          The Heroes' opponents were camped in another clearing.  It was surrounded and punctured in places by trees, many bare or dead.  The clearing was just large enough for the many shadowed figures milling about it.  Some were resting on blankets or sleeping bags, others grouped around lanterns and candles.  Almost all of them had weapons, and quite a few were in the process of maintenance.

          All of them wore masks.

          Overseeing the masked horde was Sutton.  His mind was entirely intact, and he was (had been designated) their commander.  He wore his homemade steel death mask under a hooded shawl.  Sutton appreciated the art of handcrafted tools, which is what the mask was;  he had also made the saber he wore at his side, along with a .357 Magnum revolver.

          Many of the mindless ones were acting up since the Master had arrived.  He had been pacing by the row of dead pines at the southern end of the clearing after His arrival a few minutes.

          Come here.

          Sutton had not been looking forward to this.  He had communicated with his Master many times before, but he did not know what mood He might be in.   Still, he strode to the tall figure, where he noticed another man was waiting.

          His voice was smooth and clear, at least to Sutton; a strong mind had earned him his role of commander.

          Acolyte tells me that Zero is leading them into the battle, He said, referring to the man in a heavy hooded cloak and welding mask.

          "Yes, Master," Sutton said. 

          Zanna believes that quite a few of the Notables will be fighting tonight.  Can you confirm this?

          "I would have no way of knowing.  I  wouldn't doubt it, though."

          "The Heretics have been boasting about their coming victory," snarled Acolyte, his voice resonating within the helmet.  "No doubt they will show up.  Lambs to the slaughter."

          If Basroil Squad attends tonight, you may be in for a bit of trouble.  The tentacles began to arise from His back, long and writhing.  I don't want too much interference before I kill their "Hero" in front of them. 

          "Don't worry, my Master," Sutton assured Him.  "We are many, and well armed."

          Elaborate.

          "Everyone has their weapon of choice; lots of lead pipes, a multitude of kitchen knives, garden tools and such for the most part.  As for firearms, we have pistols, carbines, shotguns, all spread around.  Machetes seem to be pretty popular, and Orthrus passed out some body armor to those who didn't have some of their own.  Shrike made some mention of a "surprise" for Basroil Squad earlier, but he wasn't much clearer.  And, of course, we have You, my Master."

          Acolyte nodded, impressed.  He was holding his own favorite weapon, a large broadax he had kept from his time as a logger.  A Glock 22 was in his back pocket, under his cloak.

          Only hope that not all of Nightcrawler's fools have their lasers tonight.  How many are here tonight?

          Acolyte answered before Sutton could open his mouth.  "Around thrity-seven, Master.  Possibly more."

          Some of those nearer to the south of the camp were watching the conversation with interest.  Shrike, the gem eyes of his Mardi Gras bird mask twinkling green, had stopped his storytelling to watch the meeting; Niter and Pit, the notable Proxy couple, removed one another's masquerade masks' noses from the other's and watched their Master rapturously.

          It will soon be late, and they will have arrived before the hill, their Master said.  He sounded full of anticipation.  Ready them, Sutton. 

          "Will you lead us, Master?" Sutton asked cautiously.

          No.  But I will not be far behind.  I've been waiting for this night.  He reached backwards for the top of one of the dead trees.  On the uppermost branch was a hat.  His hat.  The hat.

          Take them.  Now.

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          Sutton saw Zero and Maduin first; the Hero and his Trickster.  Amelia, or perhaps "the Heroine" was behind them.  He recognized a few others, but quite a few weren't Notables.  They numbered about a dozen or so.  A few members of Basroil Squad went forward as well, but most stayed behind, ready for the serious carnage to begin.

          The Master called across to the assembled:

          Who among you petty few do you name "the Hero?"

          There was a great bang, a wave of simultaneous cries and gunshots.

          Attack, Sutton.