Fleace's on his way to visit one of the candidate classes, to observe a portion of the third generation Rothbarts. Just shy of completing their final graduating assignments, the youngest was 12, and the eldest in the facility was 14. They've been training since nearly infancy. In fact selection processes were going younger and younger. He recalls he was about 6 when the program was proposed and the first children were selected. His junior, the traitorous Arpeggio, wasn't entered until he was well into being 8 years old, and so he was years ahead of him. Starting younger makes the candidates seem much more susceptible to later training.
He'd yet to see Accelerato--nicknamed Timothy or Tiny Tim by Double--show any sort of skill in real time; he'd seen some fuzzy videos and heard numerous clips from his "best work". But in order for Fleace to get his first leg of his plan onto the ground, he needed replacements for the members he lost in the tower incident.
This Obligato kid, a graduate from the same gen as Accelerato, had a lot of promise as a bassist. Quick and agile fingers, and a wide array of technical skills that even went outside of his Metal status: he picked up a vast repertoire from Jazzers and Traditionals, mostly from the deep American South as well as other Trads from other countries. At the moment, little Tiny Tim was inducting him to the team while Double was opening the doors to let him in on the 15 candidate class he wanted to observe.
That's when he hears the unmistakable sound of emergency klaxons and the speakers burst into static. He frowns, mostly in perplexity.
A flurry of MC personnel and Double comes down the end of the hall.
The elder man waves him over. "Fleace."
"What happened?" he asks, but his tone is more intense curiosity than concern.
"Dunno…everyone's saying its rebellion."
"Oh?" He looks down the hall where a bunch of metal doors begin shutting. He smirks. "How fun."
Double only rolls his eyes. "Well?"
He only smiles and heads down to the end of the hall were MPs and MC personnel were going into pandemonium. He goes to one of the Rothbart instructors.
"What's the matter?'
The instructor seems confused more than anything else. "They just…started…. They're trying to take the building."
Down the other end of the hall in the opposite direction, a classroom opens, and a few young candidates poke their head out, inquisitively. Another instructor shoos them back in but a few refuses to leave the hall to watch. Some are chattering. One young candidate with jet-black hair only watches with hazel green eyes.
Fleace raises an eyebrow. "Who is?" But the instructor is too busy trying to direct the MPs, until Fleace looks at one of the high security Rockers. He gestures at the electric guitar hanging off his back in the ready position. "You."
He looks at him with a look of incredulity.
"Guitar." He holds a hand out. The eyes of the Rocker glance at him, then at Double, then the armband Double is wearing, and he takes the guitar off his back and hands it off. Fleace then points at the door. "Open it."
"You're not going in there yourself," protests the instructor.
"No one else is." Its a statement that's both cold as well as crazily gleeful. he motions at the guard and points to his ears. The man takes out a small tube and shakes out 2 earplugs and hands them off. They're ruby red, and Fleace quickly fits one in, rolling the foam expertly between his fingers and sliding it in before it expands too much. The foam contours to his left ear, dampening the sound to nearly a whisper.
Double motions at them to open it, so they do. They shut it quickly after him.
Fleace can hear the sounds of Metal music fluttering through the speakers that hiss intermittently. They don't have complete control of the PA system, but they don't sound like they need it. He listens.
1 drummer. 3 guitarists. 1 bassist. He thinks he hears a vocalist.
6 total.
He strides down the hall, feeling the sounds of the bass beneath his feet until he comes to another hall with another metal door. There's a few downed bodies in the hall. A security level Rocker, though not the same number as the ones in the first hall. What he assumes are instructors. A few other unidentifiable people. He knelt to one and checks for a pulse, mildly noting the blood from his ears. None.
Fleace clicks his tongue in rhythm, counter to the rhythm he can hear on the other side of the door. The security system was doing its best to isolate the problem by shutting down the halls from the source. But it'd be only a matter of time before they'd find a way to leave. He puts a hand to the metal door and feels the vibrations move through it.
10 yards away at least.
That's when he hears the music stop. There's sounds of movement on the other side, dragging of something heavy like furniture. Then the faint sounds of someone trying to activate the door by way of the keypad and retinal scanners. He puts the other earplug in.
Fleace clicks his tongue again, then shrugs and turns the guitar on to access the wireless speakers. As the door begins to open, he waits for the first one to walk through before unleashing a wall of sound that blasts out of the speakers with deafening volume. It drops that first candidate, tumbling him backwards, and sending him into the two behind him. Its the feeling of a train crashing into the body, the sound of a movie turned up all the way in a surround sound theater. The musical assault of a Metal is always overwhelming and though these children have been training for it since they were able to walk, nothing ever prepares one for the feeling when its directed at oneself. There's a whole different feeling when one wields it.
He pauses, licks his lips.
The child gets to his feet and glares as his two companions, a guitarist and a bassist, also rise, their instruments clutched in almost comically small hands. They feel sick and nauseous from the wall of sound, but it doesn't even budge them a step.
"Who the fuck are you?" snaps the lead child. But he doesn't wait for Fleace to answer--and actually he doesn't even try to--and raises a handgun he's no doubt stolen from one of the security members on their side.
Fleace grins at him. He can't help but think that it looks ridiculous. "Oh my stars, how cute is this….? Better put down the gun, its not for little babies, kiddo."
The child squeezes off a shot but his small frame can't control the recoil enough to get a good shot. Fleace takes the opportunity from the miss to dash in, and swing the guitar. He nails the boy across the arms, hitting him hard enough to nearly break his arms. Its a sickening noise of flesh versus wood. As he drops to the ground with a short mewl of pain, the 2 guitarists quickly get to work and play a wall of chest kicking notes. He skids to a stop and counters them with his own guitar. He's not more than a yard away from them.
They hold their music for a few measures before one of them lets go of his bass and claps his hands over his ears. He goes for the one still up, because while going for the blood in the water is his usual M.O., taking care of the one still up is more important. He gives him a kick to the gut and the small guitarist collapses onto his guitar. Its the first time the candidate has felt the force of an adult striking him with their full strength, and its shocking. He's only been used to his peers.
The bassist tries for his instrument again, but Fleace is faster and palms the boy on the top of his head and slams him against the wall. To his credit, the candidate sends a kick to him hard and nails Fleace in the shin, but it doesn't make a difference. 3 more slams gets him to drop the bass finally, but he clings to consciousness. Barely.
"So whose brilliantly idiotic idea was this?" he asks with a voice dripping with scorn. The bassist doesn't answer, but its mostly due to the fact he's probably suffering from brain damage from the slamming.
He moves to a better candidate for speech, the guitarist, but as he reaches down to pick him up, he sees the first child go for the gun again. He drops what he's doing and kicks him in the back of the knee, but he keeps going, trying to crawl towards the weapon with obviously broken or sprained forearms.
"I'll give you credit," Fleace says, with a smirk. "You got guts." He picks the gun up, and the boy goes for it. They wrestle for it, but its for show on Fleace's end before he finally decides that he isn't going to stop even if he was reduced to stumps for limbs, so he jams the gun against his chest and pulls the trigger twice, rapidly. Bang-bang.
He drops, but his eyes are still fixed with a wrathful glare as the lights begin to die out with his hissing and rattling last breaths.
The Metal gave him a short exhalation of regret for the waste of talent there. But the feeling was quickly washed away with the sound of a furious drum solo. Its not bad, but Double was better even after he'd gone temporarily deaf one year. So he picks up the guitar and begins to play again, furious, fast, intense. He plays and plays hard, not taking his eyes off the bassists before him, watching them try to fight back, but its like Sisyphus if the stones were three times his size. He plays until he sees them go still, and the drum solo begins to falter. They're both bleeding from the ears.
He stops, listens. Silence. Removes his earplugs. He surveys the hallway and slowly walks down the hall. There's blood from gunshot bodies on the floor. Maybe 5 or 6 people, and nearly all of them are security. The room he passes to his left has several adults laid out on the floor. The speakers in the room are much larger than most practice rooms, standing at nearly the height of the room itself. The plate glass window that divides the room is shattered. He picks up a shard and observes cooly the dead bodies on that side too.
He hears movement, so he dives back into another solo, this time using that piece of glass as a pick to make the guitar wail. It screeches but he hears another sound too, which was the sound of the cheap metal strings beginning to fray ever so slightly beneath the glass. He walks as he plays, passing more rooms with dead bodies, until he comes to the third room where the drum kit is located.
The drummer is trying his best to keep up but the sounds are slicing into his ears. He's not alone, because a second lead guitarist kicks the door against him to try to interrupt him, and plays just as hard and fast, except he lacks the technical solidarity to match the notes. Its sloppy but its not bad for a 12 year old.
Fleace barely hesitates in his assault until the drummer, his hands on his ears, finally collapses off his seat and writhes in agony. That's when he finally stops.
"I'll ask you then…" he says smugly. "Whose idea was this to think you could take a building with 5 band members?"
The drummer doesn't answer, but the guitarist tries to play again before Fleace reaches over, grabs the neck of the guitar and wrenches it from him before bringing the instrument down on the boy's shoulders. He stops just short of beating him to unconsciousness.
"Did you honestly think a little ragtag Lil Rascals pack was really gonna get anywhere?" he asks him. He's pretty sure he's asking a rock because he knows he's stuck the boy in the head a few times. So he reaches down and picks the candidate by the front of his button down shirt and drags him to the drum kit where he reaches down and grabs the drummer by the arm. He drags them both to a toppled speaker and drops them both on it. The drummer tries to get up so he stomps a foot down on his chest to pin him.
Briefly, the tower flashes in his head. Felipe's weakened body against the speaker. Heart fluttering as hard as it can. The glassy look in his black eyes as he slipped into unconsciousness.
The guitarist feebly moans incomprehensibly. His eyes aren't focusing beneath the sheath of blood on his face from his beating.
Fleace leans into the drummer with half his weight, crushing him. "You both have 10 seconds to make a good case for making a mess."
The drummer struggles for air and coughs. "Our…team…."
Fleace lets up on the pressure a little. "What's that?"
"This was our team…to show…everyone…."
But Fleace comes to 10 in his head. "Time's up." It takes him seconds to replace his earplugs. He puts his hands to the guitar, and starts scraping that piece of glass against the strings as hard as he can. Its a frenzy of noise that explodes from the speaker, and it even takes himself a second to adjust to it, even with the earplugs in. The cacophony that charges through their small bodies is irregular, no tonality or harmony. He alternates the noise with power chords, devoid of a meter, random.
He watches them writhe, screams drowned out by the sound and the earplugs. He pauses, then dives in. Repeats this pattern without pattern. The guitarist is the first to go, and blood gushes forth from his nose and mouth. The tiny jerks in his body are merely reactions to the music, and not life. His eyes are dead. How satisfying.
The drummer hangs on, clawing at his foot as his body lurches and twitches desperately. His eyes are such a light color of blue, they look like water, and they're dilated so much the color is like a ring around a black hole. Then there's a sudden jerk in his body as his head drops back. Fleace sees a sudden pop of blood from the ears. He's shattered his eardrums, and that's satisfying too.
He pauses to survey his work. The drummer's chest is struggling to move beneath him, what little life in him is being focused into keeping him breathing.
There's movement in the corner of his eye but before he can turn, there's the feeling of something across his neck and a sudden weight that yanks him back slightly, off the drummer. Fleace stumbles back a little and tries to crane his neck to see, and the feeling across his neck tightens. He drops the guitar and reaches.
He registers he's in a rear naked choke, and his next thought is actually one of amused surprise. One of the hands makes it to his ear and one of the earplugs is removed. The uneven rush of noise and air tickles a little. He arches forward, but the grip doesn't change, and he knows he hasn't much time before the other person gets the "upper hand"--or arm as it were--so he straightens and backs up full force into the nearest wall, smashing his attacker against it. The grip loosens slightly, so he steps forward a little and suddenly the arms release him and he hits the wall without the attacker between them.
He whirls around, coughing slightly and rubbing his throat.
A young boy, probably around 13 years old. Thick jet-black hair cut in a neat rounded haircut. Hazel colored eyes that burn intensely.
He removes the other earplug. "Damn fine hold, boy…but you have no clue who you're messing with, do you?"
He's silent for a little while, then his voice comes out low and furious. "I'm going to kill you."
Its such a ridiculous sentence, and its said with such grave seriousness that he begins to laugh. "Is that right? Son, do you see what I just did? I could kill you with one hand broken."
"187."
He isn't wearing his armband, but Fleace is amused. "That's right."
But the boy launches into another attack, scooping up a mic stand and swinging it at him cleanly. He's learnt staff fighting well, and Fleace parries and ducks it. He has a measure of good strength, because it does sting a little to block the stand. He catches it under his arm and locks it, so the boy drops it, scoops up a guitar and without waiting, begins to play. Fleace winces because he's been backed up to a still standing speaker and takes a moment to cover his ears before pushing off the speaker and reaching for the guitar.
The boy is nimbler, and backs up, navigating the debris of the room magnificently and though shaky in his execution, he's talented. Supremely so. The intent to kill is marvelous.
Fleace goes for his dropped guitar and they duel. He notices that the boy has snatched up a piece of glass as well to use as a pick. Power chord after power chord, wrestling for solos until there's a loud twang.
The boy has snapped his first 2 strings, but he merely realigns himself and keeps playing. Fleace noticed he didn't even blink, his eyes full of hate and death. suddenly he drops playing and moves toward him, slinging the guitar off towards him. Fleace parries with the one he has until the instruments smash to pieces, and the boy keeps coming, going back for the mic stand and swinging it with the precision of a staff fighter.
Suddenly there's a new figure in the room, who dashes between them, and sends the stand flying with a kick. He swings and arm and there's a distance sound of wood meeting flesh, a hard rap against bones.
The boy, disarmed, seems surprised for a second before glaring. He's clutching his hand. "What are you doing?"
The newcomer spins a drumstick over his fingers and stands in front of Fleace, guarding him. "That's enough, Acciaccato." He pronounces it quickly, smoothly, "Ax-ya-catto".
"Get out of my way, Fieramente."
The boy turns from him and Fleace realizes with bemusement that they had the exact same face. "Are you all right, Master Allegro?"
This throws Fleace harder than wasting a room full of children. "Excuse me?"
The boy with the sticks, Fieramente, merely gives him a calm if blank look. "Are you injured badly?"
"Did you call me master?" asks Fleace. He wants to hear it again.
"Indeed."
There's a click of a pistol and they both look at Acciaccato, who has found a firearm from a dead guard. He's aiming for Fleace and the elder Metal knows this boy won't have a recoil problem.
"Get out of the way, Fier," he says calmly is enraged. "He killed my team."
"They deserved to be taken care of, Acci." He doesn't move except to point a pistol he'd brought with him.
"They were going to separate us."
"That's the point of graduating from the program. You knew this going in."
"We did our time together. There was no reason to separate a team that perfect."
Fleace raises an eyebrow. What the boy had said was true; Rothbart graduates were rare put not he same team, so as to spread out the talent pool to teams needing the precise nature of a walking musical weapon. Exceptions could be made (after all Fleace's new team itself was somewhat of an experiment of entirely made of Rothbarts now), but to have a single generation of Rothbarts make one team was currently unheard of. There weren't many to spare to do so, despite the fact the pool of acceptable graduates had gone from the mere 5 in his first generation to over 50, from a pool that had now expanded from 100 candidates to 200.
Only now, this rouge team of 6 was now reduced to 1 in the space of just under 15 minutes. Certainly a waste of resources, Fleace admits, but based on the carnage that had occurred before he took care of the problem, the boy wasn't far off from his assessment of his own talent.
"Like like you, boy," Fleace says. Acciaccato only glares at him. "There aren't many people who think they could just walk over and take the country's best Metal by himself."
"Go to hell," snaps the boy as he fingered the trigger.
Fieramente fires a single warning shot, grazing his brother's hair. Neither boy moved, but it made Acciaccato narrow his eyes at him. "I won't let you harm Master Allegro. He acted as he should in the situation."
Fleace smirks. "I like you too, boy." He looks at Acciaccato. "Shouldn't you check to see if that's loaded first?"
The boy blinks, and broke his concentration long enough for Fleace to take Fieramente's gun and aim. He composes quickly, but the elder man shoots the gun from his hand quickly.
"Now then, let's be reasonable, boys." He relaxes his aim and leans against the wall. "Talent like yours shouldn't be wasted…your talents were misplaced. Metals you may be, weapons you were to become, but weapons don't turn on their owners…." Acciaccato glares at him monstrously. "But despite this, I think I can reason with a clever boy like you."
The twin refuses to say anything.
He cuts to the chase. "I want you. I need a guitarist like you. You're sloppy now, but you have promise. As well as the fact that you have a lot of balls to say you want me dead and to try. Valiant effort, boy! I like that."
Acciaccato spit at him, though he misses by miles since he is halfway across the room. "Go to hell. I'd sooner swallow my tongue."
"I like your fire. And I don't no for an answer. You want to be in a perfect Metal team? You got it. You won't have a better band than this one, I guarantee."
"Fuck you."
Fieramente only gives his brother a withering look. "Don't be a fool, Acci."
Fleace nods at the nearer twin. "I want you too. I need a drummer, and I think you're him."
"I am honored you think so." He has an even toned voice, calm, deadpan face. "And I am honored to accept."
"You can't be serious!" cries Acciaccato, and his even-toned enraged voice finally cracks. "He destroyed my team! He's nothing but a wild monster!"
"And I could not ask for a better mentor to be a Metal," returns Fieramente calmly. The twin turns to Fleace and bows his head. "We accept."
"You can't speak for me! I'm the eldest!"
Fleace laughs. "My God, I am going to love this." He smirks at Acciaccato. "Boy, if you join me, how else will you have the opportunity to fulfill your grand lifelong goal? Certainly keeping your enemy so close will be better than not, am I right? Like I said. I won't take no for an answer."
"We haven't graduated yet," Fieramente says and its the first break in his calm demeanor as a bit of concern creeps into his voice.
"I can expedite your graduation. But that's not the point. Welcome to 187, boys. I'll send my HM in shortly.
Acciaccato dashes at Fleace but Fieramente cuts him off, grabs him and slams him to the floor, pinning him with one arm, and holding him by the throat by the other. Fleace turns from the door and curiously eyes them.
"Don't worry…I'll convince him," the younger twin says calmly. Fleace lets out a chuckle.
"Oh my, this certainly is going to be a good team."
