“I remember the moment.”
“What did you see?”
The lose tinkering of piano keys distracted Ian for a short while, feeling his hands naturally caress the chipped wood board of the instrument that sat barren and covered with dust in the center of a great warehouse. The ivory keys were cold to the touch, but Ian’s mind was running too fast for him to keep up with what he was doing, and before long, he was slipping out of bursts of McCoy Tyner.
“I’d have my saxophone with me instead,” He chuckled, enjoying the rhythm of his fingers dancing over the keys. “But I came here afterwards.” The last word to leave his tongue left a sour taste in his mouth. He wasn’t ready to come to terms with himself.
“Why did you come here?”
Ian shrugged, just letting the music pour through him, the improvised solo turning into cacophonous dissonance that he wasn’t even paying attention to himself. “I came here to play the piano instead of the saxophone.”
He was getting nowhere, and the harsh winter cold was seeping in through the cracks in the boards over the sliding doors and windows. The actual building hadn’t been used in years, due to the bankruptcy of the construction company that had owned it. Ian didn’t mind getting caught inside – he could just vanish at will with the powers of insanity gifted to him through the Void.
His fingers slowed down, now finding the repetitious movements boring and played-out. “Maybe I should play the saxophone.” He sighed, looking down at the browned, drying blood on his white shirt. It had soaked through, making the cotton stick to his body. His hands were still caked with the same gore, leaving red fingerprints across the white keys in front of him.
“Why did you come here?”
Ian spun around on the player’s bench, standing up and clapping his hands. “I’m not even sure why I’m alive, why would I know why I’m here?” he asked the empty space behind him, looking around for something to occupy his hands.
“Are you hiding from them?”
“I suppose I am in a way.” Ian answered. “Not that I couldn’t take a few more bullets, but I really don’t want anyone to die on Christmas Eve.”
“You mean anyone else.”
“Alright, there’s no point in being a dick about it.” Ian scowled. “You’re making me want to go kill more people, God. Do you ever stop being a pain in the ass?”
There was no reply from the nothingness in the room.
“Great, did I hurt your feelings?” Ian growled. “Because I could do a lot worse to a lot more people, just to spite you.” He looked around. “But you already know I’m not going to, so eat me!” He shouted, collapsing back down on the bench and putting his head in his hands. His hair was sweaty and matted, despite the freezing lake winds outside.
“They had to die…” Ian sighed, trying to talk himself through everything as his mind started to slow down enough for his consciousness to catch up. “A fat load of nothing you did to hold me back, you bastard.” He grumbled begrudgingly.
“I’m not the one who determines that anymore.”
“Oh you’re not, yeah? Like you ever were when you were in my position?” Ian scowled. “This has to slow down…I have to know how to stop myself. Tonight’s victims may have been gangbangers, but what about tomorrow night, or after that?”
“You have to be sated.”
“As much as I don’t mind murder,” Ian shook his head, “When I’m forced into a head-place where people must die, I just don’t get as much liberty as I need.”
“There’s no honor in killing. You’re better off if you stop using right and wrong as such arbitrary terms, and start using them through your own eyes. You have experience no one else has, and you know more than almost anyone in these dimensions.”
Screaming in frustration, Ian picked up the nearest cardboard box with considerable weight and pitched it across the open warehouse, glass bottles inside shattering on the floor and sparkling like the snow outside in the ambient moonlight.
“I’m not a God, I’m just a Prophet.” Ian growled. “I’ve killed, sure, but I won’t let you tell me that it’s up to me whether they deserved it. I just-”
“Obey the Void, right?”
“Hey, jackass, you’re not making this easier.” He looked out at the piles of crates as a whistling gust of wind flew through the boards. On a whim, he reached to his side, his hand finding the grip of a submachine gun. “Does it have to be so brutal?”
“No. But some people need to experience your power. You should use other means too; you have plenty.”
“I know what you mean.” Ian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not feeding you.”
“You don’t have to. In fact, all you have to find is your Handler.”
“My Handler?” Ian asked.
“Every Prophet has one. Because we tend to get dangerous, the Void elects a single person in each dimension to be able to influence you enough to where the Void quiets down.”
Ian looked around. “Who is it? Where are they? I need them now, so don’t play with me.”
There was nothing but silence.
Ian shouted again, and held out the weapon before lighting off a clip into a wooden crate. The weapon ground with enough pressure to expel thirty-two rounds in the span of a few seconds. He took deep breaths, watching steam form from the end of the barrel in the cold air. Everything was still again, and nothing hurt.
“I’ll find them, you bastard.”
On top of the piano laid a rapier, beautiful in its own macabre nature. The scabbard was made out of what appeared to be bone, with a matching substance making up the half-sphere guard on top of the hilt. The other parts of the handle were made from twisted silver, leaving only a small space for a hand to fit. A single eyeball floated to the surface of the bone handguard, moving about the disc and looking around. It only blinked as it looked at Ian.
“I won’t even need you, Occam.” Ian addressed it.
Part II/? of the Void Mythos.
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