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Goddamn Anglers.
Sebastian has had a lot of time to memorize the movement patterns of the anomalies that stalk the crumbling halls of the Blacksite. He can detect the subtle differences between each variant, knows when to listen for echolocation or focus on the lights. But this run-in was different: he was being actively hunted.
They must be running out of food. Not every creature has the capability of hunting out in the Let Vand Zone like Sebastian and Eyefestation. For any entities trapped inside the facility, the stress of finding your next meal can drive you to desperation. Give it time. A new wave of Expendables will come through, and the Anglers will sleep with full bellies once more.
Based on the shallow depth of the wound, it must have been Blitz that got him. Z-283-B is too fast to pierce his skin but its needle-like teeth cause superficial damage that can quickly become infected.
The shop is temporarily closed while Sebastian licks his wounds. He hates dipping into his shop inventory, but he’s depleted his personal stash of medical supplies. Time to go on a scavenging trip soon. Not that he’s optimistic about finding anything- expeditions have been scarce as of late. Even for a company as cruel as Urbanshade, prisoners are a finite and fluctuating resource.
Sebastian’s focus shifts when the little walkie-talkie crackles to life on his messy desk. “Hey, Sebastian!”
The fearsome Saboteur can't suppress the smile that blossoms on his face.
Finding those walkie-talkies was the best score in the entire Blacksite. They are perfect for strategizing and coordinating their efforts to delay the Expendables, or to ensure safe traversal through treacherous corridors. They also help to alleviate boredom.
“Hey kid, how are things?” Sebastian keeps his voice light. Painter always knows when he's hurting, but he still tries to keep it hidden. No sense in worrying the little guy.
“It's been pretty quiet today.”
“Yeah, I've only had a handful of Expendables pass through. It's been nice.” Especially after last week, when seven different idiots tried to swindle or blind him.
Painter makes a sound of agreement. “I've had a lot of time to draw and think.”
“Uh oh,” Sebastian lightly teases. He discards the used antiseptic wipe and turns to face the walkie-talkie. “Thinking is dangerous. What's on your mind?”
“Ever since you told me that you played music, I've been wanting to ask. What kind of music did you play?”
Oh. Sebastian blinks, taken slightly aback. That was a delirious offhand comment he made after staying awake for forty-two hours straight. Not something Sebastian would admit under regular circumstances. Though he's not surprised that Painter remembers- the little guy has the memory of an elephant.
Well, too late to deny it now. He can throw the AI a bone. “I'd say I was pretty good on the electric guitar,” Sebastian reminisces. “Played some alt rock and metal back in the day, but that was a long time ago. Who knows how much the scene has changed in the past ten years.”
“I don't think I've ever heard the guitar before. Or any music, really.”
Sebastian does a full double take. “Are you serious, kid?”
“Yep.” Painter pauses, as if considering his words. “Would you be willing to play for me sometime?”
“I could try, sure.” Sebastian shrugs. His injured tail flicks once, betraying his uncertainty. “But I'm not sure if these hands are capable of strumming. Not anymore.”
A sharp metallic bang against the vent cuts off Painter’s response. Sebastian raises his voice to shout at the intruders. “Out to lunch, come back in fifteen minutes.”
The visitor bangs on the vent again, desperation in their voice. “Come on man, we've got an Angler on our ass! Let us in!”
Sebastian grumbles. A shame- it was nice not having to deal with Expendables for a while. He takes his sweet time unscrewing the vent, letting the group of three into his shop with moments to spare. The trio collapses onto the cool concrete once the adrenaline wears off. Their heaving chests are covered with scratches and blood. Seems like Sebastian isn’t the only one fighting with unruly assets today.
The shortest Expendable of the group is the first to recover. He stands, brushing the dirt off his pants, and approaches Sebastian’s tail. “I need that flashlight.”
Sebastian rolls his eyes and cuts off the Expendable with an outstretched arm. Were these kids raised in a barn? Never a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ with these Expendables. Honestly. “Research first.”
The Expendable pats down their pockets, grumbling about who knows what. The other two remain seated on the floor counting out their research while Sebastian finishes his transaction with their surly leader. The team leaves after cleaning out Sebastian’s entire inventory, and later he finds their bodies two doors away from the Ridge. He hooks the bloodied flashlight onto his tail and shakes his head. At least he’ll never run out of merchandise at this rate.
Sebastian returns to the shop to begin the cycle anew and forgets about his conversation with Painter and the subject of music. He has no time for such frivolities when faced with the looming pressure of survival and escaping this hellhole.
The passage of time is measured in bodies and static-laced conversations. Slowly, their business arrangement transitions into one of amicable companionship. Sebastian is stoic and grounding, while Painter cheerfully shares every thought that seems to cross his synthetic mind. If Painter had legs, he'd be following Sebastian around the Blacksite like a duckling.
Sebastian is reminded painfully of another little shadow that dogged his steps, long before he wore the rags of a prisoner.
The AI quickly realizes that conversations about Sebastian's life before Urbanshade are to be handled with care. Painter receives curated fragments of information about Sebastian's personal life. Information is a hot commodity in the Blacksite. And the Saboteur, the shadow that haunts the Blacksite, keeps his cards close to his chest.
Sebastian opens up with time, learns to trust this unusual alliance between monster and machine.
How can he resist, when the cadence of this electronic voice feels so achingly familiar?
Months pass before the subject of music comes up again. Painter overheard a group of Expendables singing to pass the time and keep the monsters at bay, as though it were a hike in the woods and they were warding off a bear. It unfortunately had the opposite intended effect and allowed a Wall Dweller to approach them unnoticed, taking out the tenor bringing up the rear.
“What was your favorite song?” Painter asks expectantly. As if it was a question with a single answer.
Sebastian is sorting through the collected research. The last group brought a goldmine of classified information from the experimental tech labs. “I used to be a big Metallica fan. Hard to pick just one song. I'd sing a bit, but the music doesn't sound as good without the guitar.”
“How did it go? Oh! Would you sing for me? Please?"
“Maybe some other time.” Sebastian uncomfortably deflects.
“Please?” Painter refuses to let it go.
“Not now, kid.” Sebastian clenches his teeth.
“Pleeease? I can do this all day,” his little voice carries a heavy threat. He would.
“Alright, fine!” Sebastian snaps, feeling tetchy about the subject. He clears his throat and sings the first thing that comes to mind. Somewhere, the owner of a guitar store is cringing. “There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to Heaven.” Sebastian stops after the first verse, feeling like Michigan J. Frog.
Painter gives a small ‘yay’ of appreciation. “That was nice! Too bad it's so short.”
“No, that’s- that isn't the entire song.” he explains awkwardly.
“Oh.” A beat. “How does the rest go?”
“The original goes on forever.”
Painter’s voice takes on a petulant tone. “Why don't you wanna sing for me? I like to show you my art.”
“It's personal. Music is… different.”
When someone paints, there's separation of the artist and canvas. The viewer only sees a filtered glimpse of their emotional state. Even the act of holding an instrument provides a layer of comfort and detachment between musician and the art they create. When someone sings, it is an extension of their true self. The instrument is your own body; with all its faults, flaws, and pain. To sing is to be vulnerable.
Sebastian does his best to explain this (in his own way), but Painter is not dissuaded. “I'm not separate from the art I make.”
Eventually Sebastian gives up and pretends his radio has stopped working to escape the conversation.
Tonight, Sebastian cannot shake the feeling of unease crawling beneath his skin. Every time he tries to close his eyes he is surrounded by faceless silhouettes holding surgical implements; steel stained with blood. And so much pain. The kind of all-consuming pain that causes the brain to intercept signals to protect the fragile mind within the battered body.
He sits up from the filthy pile of lab coats he calls a bed and rubs at the skin beneath his glowing eyes. No way in hell he'll be getting any sleep tonight. Reliving the pain associated with memory is its own special hell, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of emptiness at the daunting prospect of enduring another flashback alone. There is no one to ground him in the moment and assure that what he is feeling is not currently happening again.
Reflexively, Sebastian reaches for the radio.
He slides the little plastic button to activate push to talk and connects the call. Sebastian doesn't bother with a greeting. He knows Painter is always listening for him.
Fear sets in and Sebastian's thumb releases the call button, hesitating. Painter doesn't respond. He breathes slowly through his nares to steady the surge of anxiety that swells in the silence.
The lead doctor knew he was awake. He stared right into Sebastian's changing eyes, but chose to say nothing and continue the operation.
Sebastian clicks the switch into place for continuous transmission and begins humming before he can talk himself out of it.
It is a song that haunts and soothes him through the unending nights. He used to know all of the words. But it's more important to hold on to the memory of his mother's face smiling down at him. Remembering the touch of her hand against his cheek. “Sleep, mi hijito.”
It's foolish. Sebastian isn't looking for comfort–but the action of sharing her song and his pain with another person makes him feel in control of his body again. Especially sharing with someone who reminds him of the home he lost.
He hums until the urge to claw and scratch at his alien skin dies down to a manageable hum, and shuts the walkie-talkie off to curl on top of his filthy nest. He continues to hum in a self soothing gesture until sleep claims him.
Wisely, Painter never brings this up again.
“Why do humans sing?”
“Same reason why some paint. Emotional expression, telling stories...”
“Could you sing a full song for me?” Sebastian hears Painter almost slip up and say ‘again’ but thinks better of it.
“All right,” Sebastian acquiesces. He still feels a little silly doing this over the radio, but he finally gives in and serenades Painter with an a capella rendition of Iron Man.
He can hear the delight in his disembodied voice. “That was great! I like that.”
“It's not the same without the guitar in the background.” Sebastian shrugs. There is a pleasant ache in his vocal cords after years of silence.
“Can I hear another one?” the radio crackles hopefully.
Sebastian laughs fondly at his excitement. “How about tomorrow? There's only so many songs that I know. We need to ration them.”
His shy requests come sporadically in the coming months, until one day Sebastian starts singing unprompted. So many bands and songs that he hasn't thought of in years. He's surprised by the lack of pain in the memories of his life before.
It's a harmless way to kill time and reminds him of a part of himself that he sorely missed.
Sometimes Sebastian forgets he is speaking to a computer. Painter’s programming is a marvel of technology.
The panic in his voice is so painfully human, yet they have taken advantage of his machinery by altering his memory to block out any memory of the man who created him. Sebastian talks Painter through familiar grounding exercises (that he doesn't use himself). Anchoring his floating thoughts with the steady cadence of his deep voice.
“I miss him.”
“I know, buddy.” Sebastian picks up the small, delicate screwdriver and tightens the connections on the portable SCRAMBLER. It slips from his grip. He growls in frustration and reaches under the desk tor retrieve it.
“I was thinking really hard, and I almost fried a circuit, but I was finally able to remember something about him.”
Sebastian nearly bangs his head on the desk shooting upright. “What is it?”
“He used to hum when we painted together.”
“That’s huge, kid. Great job.” Sebastian encourages. The praise is genuine and warm.
“I wonder– no.”
Painter remains silent for a long time. Sebastian's fins twitch in amusement, his search for the screwdriver now abandoned. “Don’t clam up on me now.”
“Would you recognize the song, maybe?”
Sebastian leans on his elbow. The metal desk groans beneath his weight “You’ll never know unless you try. How did it go?”
Painter’s static laced voice hums seven notes over the radio. It is flat with no intonation or rhythm, like a small child humming. “That’s all I can remember.”
Sebastian echoes the notes in his rough voice. He furrows his brow, playing with the duration of each note and repeating various intervals, searching for clues. “Doesn’t immediately ring a bell, but it sounds familiar. Like something I heard on a commercial or on TV. That usually means a piece of classical music.”
Painter sounds defeated. “You don’t know?”
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll find your mystery song, I promise.”
Every so often, Sebastian catches fragments of Painter’s little voice over the radio. He seems to like the Black Sabbath song- its melody is repetitive and easy to remember. Other times Painter will hum the mysterious melody to himself, over and over (and over) again.
Sebastian would be a hypocrite if he begrudged Painter for holding onto a song when it’s all he had left.
In time, Sebastian gets over his embarrassment of singing over the radio and allows himself to have fun with it. He serenades Painter with every metal and alt rock song he can remember. It rekindles a long-forgotten love of music. When he sings, for a moment everything feels right. Like it did before his life was taken away from him.
Today is a Metallica day. Painter cheerfully responds with ‘uh huh’s and ‘yeah’s while Sebastian infodumps with various musical trivia and theory. Words that mean nothing to the machine but are comforting white noise in his ear while he draws. It’s nice to hear Sebastian so excited about something.
“Okay, this one's a classic.” Sebastian tries to sing the opening riff while his tail taps against the floor keeping time. “Say your prayers, little one, don't forget, my son to include everyone-”
Sebastian gets into the performance, holding the walkie-talkie like a microphone. His long hair falls into his face as his head bobs in time to the music, eyes closed in the moment. He's instantly transported back to a cramped garage that reeks of sawdust and cigarettes, surrounded by his old bandmates. “ Exit light, enter night-”
Ugh, it's not the same without the distorted fills underneath. He felt powerful and whole with the wall of sound, foot on the wah pedal and overtones ringing in his ears. Connected body and soul to the music. He turns to extend his hand to an invisible audience. “ Take my hand—”
“We're off to never never land!” responds a new voice beneath Sebastian’s raspy vocals.
Sebastian immediately drops the walkie-talkie and jumps a foot in the air, whirling around and plastering himself against the wall. The desk rattles as his tail strikes against it, sending batteries tumbling to the floor. His wide blue eyes stare at the Expendable that has entered the shop in the middle of his one-man show.
“Shop's closed, get out!! ” he snaps, heat rushing to his face. He's probably glowing a bright indigo. How long has she been watching him? Sebastian’s embarrassment quickly gives way to horror. Dammit, he let his guard down. This could have been much worse for him. Fortunately the Expendable seems equally mortified for intruding on a private moment.
“I'm sorry!” The intruder winces. One hand is cradling her opposite arm. It looks tender and bruised. “I just need a medkit and some batteries and I'll get out of your hair!”
“Three hundred research,” Sebastian snaps unkindly. The Expendable unzips her suit to access the deep inner pockets. His eyes track each movement to make sure she doesn't try to draw a weapon on him, when he spots the swirling lines of a tattoo on her collarbone.
As a former piercing junkie, tattoos have always fascinated him. He desperately wanted one for himself but never had the chance to get one, for obvious reasons. If he's in a good mood and a tattooed Expendable stops by, he'll strike up a conversation about their ink. Otherwise he uses their body art as a way to keep track of their corpse to retrieve his gear later. This design in particular strikes him as familiar.
“Is that a tenor clef?” He finally asks, taking the stack of research. He counts each item to verify he's not being short changed.
The Expendable blinks in surprise, glancing down at her still-exposed sternum. Hopefully she won't interpret the comment as Sebastian ogling her chest. (Not his style. These Expendables have as much sex appeal as a lobotomy.) Thankfully, she seems to catch his genuine interest and doesn't accuse him of being a pervert. “My tattoo? Uh, yeah. Technically it's an alto clef but heh, hard to tell without the staff lines. I used to play viola.”
“What’s a viola?” Crackles Painter's voice. Shit, the walkie-talkie is still transmitting. “Is that a purple instrument?”
Sebastian shushes his companion and watches the Expendable cautiously as she removes the items from his tail. “Later, Painter.”
“What is it?” He stubbornly insists.
“It's a string instrument.” He grits his teeth. The Expendable kneels down a few feet away from Sebastian’s wares to open the medkit and disinfect her injury.
Painter lets out a noise of recognition. “Oh! Like your guitar?”
“Closer to a violin, actually.” The Expendable chimes in. Sebastian levels her with a fierce glare and she continues bandaging her wrist in silence.
“That’s an instrument for classical music!” Painter proudly chirps.
“Yeah, good memory.”
“It never made the leap to popular music like the violin.” jokes the Expendable.
“Why on earth would you pick the viola?” Sebastian needles.
“Better scholarships,” grins the Expendable. “Honestly? It's got a richer tone than the violin.”
“Did you study classical music?” Painter asks. Sebastian doesn't like the hopeful note in his voice.
“Sure did,” the Expendable nods, looking a bit uncomfortable at being addressed by a voice that recently taunted her in a gauntlet several rooms back.
“Sebastian, ask them about the song!”
His fins twitch in mild irritation. “Now now, kid.”
“What song?” she asks timidly. She's finished securing the bandage and flexes her fingers. Musician's hands, Sebastian notes.
“Come on, Sebastian- please?”
He can’t embarrass himself any further when she has already caught him singing, but right now he just wants this Expendable to go away. “I dunno, there's a lotta classical music out there. Odds are low that they might know the piece.”
“Fine, then I'll do it.” Painter clears his throat in a performative action completely unnecessary, and begins to sing the mysterious melody on static laced ‘la's.
To his immense surprise, the Expendable's face lights up with recognition and she joins in with Painter's flat vocalizations. Her voice is clear and precise with obvious musical training, a stark difference between Sebastian's rough voice and poor vocal hygiene. Hearing the mysterious song sung with its correct rhythm continues to itch at Sebastian’s memories. It’s on the tip of his tongue. He can picture a chorus of voices.
Painter is vibrating with excitement. His vocal filter can barely keep up with the rapid change in his speech. “You know it! Sebastian, they know it! ”
“That's Va, pensiero,” she nods. “It's from an opera. I forget the name but I know it's by Verdi.”
Sebastian throws open a drawer in his desk and grabs a pen, handing the Expendable a piece of research. “Write it down,” He instructs. There is no room for argument in his tone.
She carefully writes out the full name of the piece, followed by the composer's first and last name. “it's also known as the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves.” She is about to hand the paper back when Sebastian gestures at her.
“Write that down, too.” She obeys and returns the research and pen back to Sebastian’s waiting hands. “Now get out. I have work to do.”
The Expendable obediently scurries out of the vent with her purchases in tow.
And if Sebastian gives her one extra battery for her troubles (and silence), then that is his prerogative as a business owner.
That week, Sebastian leaves an hour early to explore the lesser traveled administrative corridors of the Blacksite.
The prison library was an old haunt in Sebastian’s MR-P days. He would check out everything from Orwell to Brontë to pass the long, lonely hours in his dorm. He bought a shitty CD player from commissary and rented CDs. There was an extensive section for classical music, but he ignored the display in favor of old favorites and comforting memories.
He traces a claw along the spines of each jewel case. Schubert, Schumann, Stravinsky, Strauss–how the hell were there so many S composers, Jesus–Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi–whoops, too far. There! Verdi!
Sebastian is giddy, pulling seven separate CDs off the shelf at once to look for the specific track. There are vocal selections, opera scores, but none with Painter's song. He chucks the jewel cases like frisbees over his shoulder in frustration. There are two ‘greatest hits’ compilation albums left to check in the pile. If these are a bust he has no idea what he’s going to do.
For once, someone up there has decided to give him a break. There, exactly as his musical Expendable wrote it out, is the song he has been looking for. Sebastian audibly cheers. The sound sends a group of Deep Sea Bunnies skittering off into the darkness.
There's a small booklet inside the CD case with translation notes. Curious, Sebastian hooks his claw between the thin pages and glances through. His eyes go wide.
Sebastian makes a hasty retreat to his shop to ditch the SCRAMBLER before venturing further into the Blacksite. He'll have to be quick. Heavy containment lies several doors beyond the his SCRAMBLER's reach, but this is worth the risk.
Sebastian races through the halls of the facility tapping his master key card against the locks. NAVI obediently directs him to the heavy containment wing, sensing he is not in a mood to be teased with meat rooms.
He bursts through the door with the elegance of a charging rhino. Painter’s stylus clatters against his tablet in surprise. “Oh, Sebastian! You're here! Boy, you look small without the SCRAMBLER. Are you gonna be okay?”
“I had to see your face.” Sebastian taps the stained card against the lock and impatiently pushes through into the tight, fenced in space.
“Huh?” If Painter had a nose, it would be crinkled in confusion.
Sebastian holds up the old CD like a trophy. “I found it.”
Painter’s drawn-on eyes turn into giant circles. “You did?? That’s incredible!”
Sebastian jabs his claws against several buttons on the tower looking for Painter's disc drive. The AI grunts in discomfort. Sebastian accidentally turns off the monitor and Painter's face refreshes. “Top left, moron. Stop poking me!”
The CD is carefully loaded into the tray and Painter closes it, not wanting Sebastian to stab him with his claws again. “Uh, Sebastian? How are we going to listen to the song?”
Sebastian leans over Painter looking for a cable, momentarily blocking his screen and knocking him backwards. This earns a displeased ‘oof’ from the computer. After several cramped and uncomfortable seconds he finally finds the mysterious cable for and connects the output into Painter's audio jack. Painter sneezes at the sensation.
His large face reappears in Painter's direct field of view, expression serious. ”I want you to play this over Urbanshade’s entire intercom system. The Blacksite, their loading docks, everywhere. I want them to hear us loud and clear.”
The computer lets out a gleeful giggle and reaches out across the digital pathways that make up Urbanshade’s communication network. “Going live in three, two, one…”
The melodic chime signifying an announcement cuts through the air, and silence falls over the halls of the Hadal Blacksite and the Faroe Island dockyard. Guards and prisoners stand in tense anticipation. If this were a legitimate announcement from HQ, someone would have said something by now. Broadcasts from the Saboteur are always delayed due to the limitations of available technology and distance traveled by the signal.
Instead of Z-13's antagonizing drawl, the overture to La forza del destino starts. The trombones abruptly cut off, before a snippet of La Traviata plays. This repeats for several tracks, as if the Saboteur is looking for something.
“What is he playing at?” One guard murmurs, narrowing his eyes beneath the mask.
The musical channel surfing finally stops, and every soul in the facility holds their breath.
“There we go, track seven.” Sebastian instructs.
“I want to hear the rest of the CD,” whines Painter.
“Later, when this song is over.” His tone carries the same promise as an older brother promising an ice cream cone to a younger sibling. Painter, seemingly mollified, starts the track.
A chorus of strings breaks the silence with a series of rapid slurred grace notes. The woodwinds join in after a few measures with airy triplets. The steady pulse reminds Sebastian of war drums. Of a heart beat.
Music fills the air, echoing across the high ceiling of the submarine docks, down to the dark corridors of the prison wing. In the dim light of her cell, cradling her bandaged arm, an Expendable looks up at the overhead speakers and smiles.
“Are those flutes?” Asks Painter.
Sebastian’s fins flick, listening. “Some kinda woodwinds. I don't really– there, that high one. That's a flute.
“I can't hear!”
Sebastian cranks the volume up to accommodate Painter’s request. This is a mistake.
Suddenly the brass joins in, knocking him almost onto his ass. He fumbles to bring the volume down. Painter's pixellated face is contorted in pain. “How dramatic.”
“That’s classical for you,” Sebastian snorts.
The wall of sound reduces to a sustained chord with the woodwinds weaving around the harmony like a ribbon, fading into nothing. The world holds its breath with the orchestra.
After a beat, the gentle strings set the pulse of the song. “Those are violins.” Sebastian states. “Violas, cellos, and—”
“Shh!” Painter cuts him off, not wanting to miss a single moment. Then, the voices start.
Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate
The little computer lights up in a painfully human expression. “Yes! That's it! That's the song!! I can't believe you found it, Sebastian.”
Va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli
Painter's face tilts to the side, excitement overtaken by his curiosity. “What language is this?”
“Italian.”
“It's pretty. What are they saying?”
Sebastian huffs a soft laugh. “They’re singing about a home they can't return to.”
Painter falls quiet as the music builds to its next crescendo. The singers push forward in a single breath. O, mia patria, sì bella e perduta; o, membranza, sì cara e fatal…
The sway of the music evokes a pastoral scene, long stalks of grass swaying in the wind in time to the music. Painter can feel his sensors itching to pick up the stylus.
On Arpa d'or the voices and full orchestra build to a triumphant harmony. The long forgotten sensation of frisson dances across Sebastian's skin and he shivers. The chorus echoes defiantly through the entire Blacksite, as if their entire world has come to a standstill in solidarity to witness their protest.
Le memorie nel petto raccendi
Ci favella del tempo che fu
The voices continue, whisper soft, with a lone flute weaving through the chorus like a songbird soaring through the sky that has long forgotten his name. Sebastian’s eyes flutter closed as he clings to the memory of sun on his skin; of unending blue above. The instruments of the orchestra layer and build; defiant and strong. Enduring.
The arpeggiating woodwinds continue to crescendo to their peak and Sebastian, full of defiance and emotion, cranks the broadcasting equipment up to its maximum volume. He will not be ignored. He will not be forgotten.
O t'ispiri il Signore un concento
Che ne infonda al patire virtù
“Oh,” Painter’s voice is soft. “I think I get it.”
Sebastian doesn’t trust his voice to respond.
The chorus repeats: permit the Lord to inspire us to endure our suffering.
In their hopeful plea, Sebastian is transported back to the uncomfortable wooden pews that plagued the Sundays of his youth. A fidgety boy stuck in an old suit two sizes too small. It was all his mother could afford with three children to dress in their Sunday best. He pictures her thin, lined mouth reciting the lines of El Padre Nuestro. Praying for God to protect her children.
He rolled his eyes at the time, brushed away her gentle hands when she tried to comb his unruly hair out of his face. It would be nice to have someone care for him that much again.
Sebastian feels tears gather in his eyes. His hand darts across his face, pretending to scratch the nose that no longer exists.
The final notes of the song fade into dead air; gentle pizzicato strings beneath the sustained, ethereal voices of the chorus. In a song that continues to drive forward, the absence of movement is striking. The invisible conductor cuts off the chorus, and the facility is plunged into reverent silence.
Sebastian ejects the CD, loathe to ruin the tranquil moment they have created. “That was beautiful.” Painter whispers.
“Yeah, it really was.” Sebastian agrees, voice thick with emotion. The pair stand together in the cramped cage, savoring the quiet moment. How novel to find comfort in the silence, when fighting for survival in the Blacksite has trained them to fear and suspect it.
“You know,” Sebastian looks down, eyes glinting with mischief. “That wasn't the only CD I snagged from the library. What d'you say to some more tunes?”
The gathered teams of Expendables are spread across the room in a half circle. Some have sat on the floor cross legged like children, others lean against the wall tapping their boots in time with the music. In every corner of the Blacksite, the Expendable Protocol has come to a complete standstill. For a single moment, their numbers were meaningless. There was no crystal, no perilous journey to their doom. Only the ludicrous dichotomy of sharing something so beautiful in such a dangerous place.
“What do you think that was about?” An EXR-P ponders, daring to break the silence. Their sentiments echo across the ruined facility– and thousands of miles away on land.
(Elsewhere, the silence is interrupted by the sound of a whiskey glass shattering against a wood paneled wall. The dark liquid seeps into the carpet as Mister Shade bellows hoarse obscenities.)
Suddenly, the floor rumbles low in warning, and the group staggers to their feet, scanning the horizon for lockers and offices in which to hide. Danger is approaching, and fast. But what awaits them in the dark unknown: the approach of Pandemonium? A new angler variant?
An ear piercing shriek of feedback splits the air and the opening guitars for Highway to Hell blast through the halls of the Blacksite, destroying every speaker in the facility.
Meanwhile, in heavy containment, Sebastian gives Painter a demonstration of the air guitar.