"Eager For Oblivion"
Oct. 23rd, 2024 07:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Eager For Oblivion"
4/22-4/24/2024
I.
In the doorway to the rec room, Jocelyn Garimara paused. "Is that Oblivion again? I hate that bloody band."
Timothy looked up from the couch but made no move to change the station. The KDF rec room had a satellite hookup with hundreds of international channels feeding to the huge super-definition screen. So sharp it was like looking through a window at a scene within reach, the image showed a stage with lasers criss-crossing overhead through colored smoke and a band plucking melancholy guitars in a minor note. A plaintive tenor voice was singing,
"The moment before the plunge
When the great weight eases
Is like the fencer's lunge
As the epee point frees you...."
"What the Hell is that crap?" the Australian woman went on, coming over to drop down next to her teammate. "I thought you liked Metal, Tim. You know, hard and loud and rude. Real down and dirty rock."
"I do, mostly." Looking more boyish than his actual age of thirty-four, Timothy Limbo was a thin wiry man with a mop of butter-yellow hair over a friendly face. Off duty, he was relaxing in grey sweatpants, slippers and a T-shirt that had been black years ago but was now a mild beige. "But this band, their songs are just weird. The more I listen to them, the more I wonder if they're saying what I think they're saying."
"They're damn catchy, I'll give them that," Jocelyn said. A few years older than Tim, she had the smooth deep brown skin and thick straight hair of her clan from the Northwest. Her wry smile eased up a face that was too often glum. "A few seconds of listening and this song plays in my head all day, whether I want it to or not."
"I started reading all the lyrics, Joss, and dang! They're dark. All about how unbearable life is and looking forward to going to sleep forever. I mean, the band IS called Oblivion. Their biggest album is EAGER FOR OBLIVION."
She sat up straighter and gave him a questioning look. "Are you just bored because we haven't had any missions lately? What are you getting at, Tim boy?"
"Maybe I'm reading too much into it, I dunno. But it sure seems to me that they're sort of promoting suicide as a way to solve all your problems."
All levity evaporated from her manner. "That's not a great message to be sending to young people."
Tim sighed and turned the sound way down. "I've been thinking about this band for a few days. They're not the biggest act right now, they're way down on the sales list from Paige Polar and Lil Blast, but they're getting bigger. I would have thought parents' groups would be in an outraged uproar over a pro-suicide band but I guess not."
"I figure parents and teachers have given up by now, kids can listen to whatever nonsense they like. Tim, I don't like the idea of a pop group encouraging suicide... that's just evil!... but it's not really what our team was founded to fight. We've got our hands full with the Midnight War."
Timothy leaned forward again, propping one elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his palm. "I know, I know, we mostly chase creatures of the night but still this bothers me."
The song was winding down and the laser lights swung away to leave four silhouettes with bowed heads. Across the screen appeared red Gothic letters NEXT BIG SHOW AT KEYSER STADIUM - BUFFALO NY - APRIL 24! and then, abruptly, there was a brief flash of a horrible face like a laughing skull covered with white flesh and the name MALACODA. Both Jocelyn and Timothy leaped to their feet without realizing it.
"A Nekrosan!"
"An ALBINO Nekrosan, oh my God!"
Timothy fumbled with the remote, managed to roll the video back and froze the image. "It's not a Human in a mask. It can't be!"
Unclipping her Link, Jocelyn snapped several photos of the leering image. "That made me heart miss a beat. Come on, Tim, let's show Sable. I think we've got our next mission."
For once, they did not find their team captain behind her desk in the front office. Timothy and Jocelyn trotted up the wide central staircase to the conference room on the second floor but it was also empty.
From down the hall, they heard her voice call, "You two looking for me?"
It did not surprise them that she had heard their soft footfalls on carpet from twenty feet away. Sable's enhanced senses allowed her to follow a moth in a darkened room. Tim and Jocelyn smiled at each other and walked down to the open door of the Gallery.
This was the one room which had been left almost unchanged from the way Kenneth Dred had left it. High-ceilinged, airy, with extra windows to let in natural light, it displayed a dozen original oil paintings, sculptures on bases and a long French tapestry. None of these were related to the Midnight War. Dred had collected them purely for their beauty.
Sitting on a bench, Lauren Sable Reilly had been regarding a charcoal sketch of a young girl holding a baby fox. She glanced up as they entered. "You caught me taking a break. Paperwork all day every day. What's up?"
Sitting down on either side of her, Timothy and Jocelyn quickly summed up their thoughts about Oblivion. Being shown that ghoulish face captured on the Link clinched the urgency for their captain.
"Nekrosim are always bad news," Sable said. "They are not the most potent sorcerers in the Midnight War but they are the most morbid. Their whole culture is death-oriented. Every time a Nekrosan comes into the world from their realm, it means people will die. Obviously, you two will be at that concert tomorrow night."
"Are you coming with us, captain?"
"No, I'm afraid not. I have to go with Galvan and Jin to Androval. Some diplomatic ceremony about their status we can't get out of if we want to keep Galvan as a member. But Carlo is free tomorrow. With the Eyeless Helmet helping, you should be able to send Oblivion into, well, oblivion."
II.
Brian Lieberman unlocked the door with the electronic card and stood staring at the hotel room in bemusement. He had managed six bands in his career and never dealt with one like Oblivion. The room had not been trashed. Four pairs of shoes had been kicked off against the wall just inside the door. Four jackets were piled on a chair. That was it. Two members of the band were stretched out on the twin king-sized beds, one was sitting on a chair in the corner staring down at his feet. The fourth stood by the window that looked out at nothing more intriguing than a parking lot.
At forty-eight, Lieberman had long accepted that good looks would not be one of his gifts. Short and dumpy, given frizzy black hair that would not be tamed, armed with a large potato-shaped nose, he had given up on easy romance and put all his energy into star making. At least his bank account was healthy, he had an imposing twenty-room house and drove an immaculate new Mazda. His biggest worry now was why these guys were acting this way.
The members of Oblivion were all in their mid to late 20s, all presentable and even handsome in a lanky artistic way. One album had gone platinum and one gold, although they had not had a breakout hit that would cement national recognition. And yet, here they were, moping about forlornly just a day before a big performance.
A uniformed bellhop wheeled in a chest-high chrome serving cart. Lieberman tipped the man started lifting lids off the trays. "Come on, you bums. Hot roast beef sandwiches. Spicy chicken wings. Pepperoni pizza. Beer, champagne, Mountain Dew, all stuff I know you like."
By the window, the drummer Barry turned his head. He was wearing oversized round-rimmed glasses. "I don't want anything."
"You have to eat SOMEthing today," Lieberman coaxed. "You don't want to be too weak to go on stage, do you?"
The oldest bandmember, lead singer Dennis, sat up on one of the beds and swung his legs over. "He's right, you know. We can't spread the Warning if we can't perform."
Reluctantly, all four of them started picking at the food. Lieberman poured cold beer into red Solo cups for them. After a few minutes, the taste and aroma stirred the natural appetites of four healthy young men and they began eating normally. Watching them, their manager felt genuine relief. His job involved a certain amount of caregiving but it was mostly trying to put brakes on the drinking and drug use.
After the band had eaten most of the food and polished off the beer and some soda, Lieberman felt confident enough to bring up his concerns. As they wiped their faces and hands, he said, "That's better. I was starting to get worried you boys were taking this Warning thing too far."
Dennis Wynne looked up and frowned. The vocalist had pale hazel eyes in a long mournful face that their fans loved. "What, you still think this is a gimmick, Brian?"
"I was there when you started coming up with the whole backstory, Dennis."
"It's all too true. I wish to God it wasn't. Before Winter settles in, thousands of the Old Ones will break free from the Spaces Between Spaces. Every human being will lose their minds completely. Cities will burn to the ground. Poison rain will fall. Parasites will eat through our heads! We're all going to suffer agony before we die."
"You don't really believe that's true!" yelled Lieberman, "It's just the backstory you came up for your songs. What's wrong with you all?"
"Our Man showed us the truth," Dennis answered calmly.
"He showed us our duty to spread the Warning," added the drummer.
Putting down a beer bottle, the lead guitarist Gordon spoke for the first time. "That's why our songs advocate ending your life painlessly, quietly, with dignity. The more fans who kill themselves, the more who will be spared the agony that's coming."
Stupefied, Brian Lieberman opened and closed his mouth without being able to produce words. He fell rather than sat down on a chair.
Dennis sounded sympathetic toward their manager. "Poor old sod, you don't understand, do you? I think the problem might be you haven't met Our Man yet." He went over to the wall adjoining the next room and rapped three times. "I say, Master, would you come over here, please?"
Opening the door to the hall, the singer of Oblivion gave Lieberman a gentle smile. "Our Man will make everything clear, Brian, you'll see."
Stepping in through the doorway came a gaunt figure wearing mundane pants and an oversized black hoodie with the cowl pulled forward to hide the man's face. All the band members lined up and said respectfully, "Thank you for coming."
"What is this? Some con man is playing you boys? I have good lawyers! I'll straighten this out right away...." But his words broke off in a gasp as Malacoda threw back his hood to reveal that face.
III.
Sable pulled back the chair at the head of the long oak table in the conference room and sat down. Three members of her team were present. Joining Jocelyn and Timothy was Carlo Ventura.
At twenty-three, Carlo was the youngest and least experienced member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation, and yet in some ways the most powerful. He looked like a gentle poet of a boy, thin to the point of seeming frail, with a full head of curly black hair and large dark eyes in a bony face. One might take him for a college student who put up with bullying. But Carlo was the Sorcerer of Truth. He had bonded with the ancient Eyeless Helmet crafted thirty thousand years ago by the immortal Eldanarin themselves. He tended to keep to himself, reflecting and meditating, but when he stepped up for a mission, the implications were fateful.
"I call this meeting to order," Sable said simply. "We're dealing with a new Midnight War threat. Evidently a popular band called Oblivion has been promoting the appeal of suicide to their fans, particularly a vulnerable age group of early teens. The band has also identified themselves with an image of what appears to be a Nekrosan named Malacoda."
Timothy Limbo spoke up, "I've searched our computer files, our paper records and Kenneth Dred's own compilation book FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE. Nothing about any Malacoda. I've also called some of our associates with an interest in the Nekrosim and they don't know anything about him either. His skull face turns up on T-shirts, posters and car decals but everyone thinks he is only an imaginary mascot."
Seeing everyone turn to her next, Jocelyn said, "It's no secret that there has been an epidemic in teen suicide and self-harm the past few months. Cable news shows, online videos and social media are raging about it. Of course, no one has a clue what to do. They blame everything from microplastics in our bodies to violent games to global climate change. Bloody fools, those are all useless scapegoats. And every day the toll goes higher."
"One thing puzzles me." Sable had leaned back in her chair, forefinger resting on her chin thoughtfully. "This group Oblivion seems like such an obvious bad influence. Why isn't there a huge demand to break the band up, maybe press charges? Their songs are barely disguised suggestions to end your life, after all."
"It is sorcery," said Carlo. "We must not underestimate Nekrosan warlocks. Their spells are not as potent as those of the Darthim but they are still a grave threat in a more subtle and devious way. I perceive that Malacoda's magic is protecting the music group from outright criticism. He blurs and fogs the minds of those who would attack Oblivion."
Sable did not comment for a long moment. "This is all conjecture, my friends. We certainly do not have any substantial evidence. It's possible that the image of Malacoda is a coincidence, just some artist with a morbid imagination who happened to draw what a Nekrosan looks like. And yet.. I trust the instincts of each of you. When all three of you feel something malevolent is underway, I'm inclined to act."
"Oh, I turned up a couple more things," Timothy said. "Oblivion used to be a band called the Hodads. That's slang for people who hang out at surfing sites but who don't have boards. They played a twangy retro-surf music that had a cult following. One minor hit, "It's Always Summer In Malibu" got used in a TV ad. Then, almost overnight, their music changed. They became Oblivion and signed a new contract with their distributor. The white skull face was on their first promotional material."
Sable straightened up, placing both palms flat on the table. "Here's our course. Tomorrow morning, I want the three of you to drive up to Buffalo. Take the Mustang. It's about a six hour drive on I-80 West."
"Not the way Jocelyn drives," Timothy had to interject. "Four hours plus a few speeding tickets."
"Shush."
Sable continued, "...and you will need time to locate SPAC, where the concert is being held. It's also our standard procedure to rent a nearby motel room for a case. So the more time you have up there, the better."
"Any cover story?" asked Tim. "Or do we simply poke around and stir things up?"
"I'm having Frank fabricate three backstage passes for you," Sable said. "Don't ask me how he taps into the event's files when they're not online. That Trom tech is scary if you think about it too much. But you should be able to get in before the concert and meet Oblivion."
"AND Malacoda," added Carlo.
IV.
The Schuylertown Performing Arts Center was a cluster of low modernistic buildings that included a restaurant, a local history museum, a children's playground and urgent care rooms with medical staff on duty. The concert venue itself seated eight thousand and the gentle grass-covered slopes had high quality speakers and video screens on poles. Another five thousand were allowed to enjoy the concerts under the stars.
Timothy pulled the dark green Ford Mustang into an open slot toward the middle of the parking lot. "Quite a few empty places," he said. "Oblivion isn't selling out the place."
"I don't think I've ever been this far upstate before," Jocelyn said, unbuckling her straps. "We're right near Lake Erie, right? How come our cases never take us up by the Great Lakes?"
"There are focal points for the Midnight War. Gralic force tends to collect and focus in nexuses." Carlo Ventura got out of the back seat. He was wearing all white, slippers and tights and a long-sleeved jersey that emphasized how gaunt he was. In one hand he lifted a canvas gym bag.
Looking out over the rows of multi-colored vehicles, Timothy suddenly said, "Say, Carlo. I've been wondering something about your powers. All the suicide and self-harming that goes on, why can't you stop it? Your light from the helmet heals and restores. Why can't you cure everybody?"
"It's far beyond me, Tim." Carlo's voice was usually somber but now he sounded positively stricken. "I channel the light that shines on Elvedal. It breaks curses, lifts burdens and restores the natural state but only what has been done by gralic force. Does that make sense?"
"I guess. I'm sorry to hear it, though."
"So am I, my friend. Alcoholism, mental illness, racism... these are all beyond the power of magic to abolish. I wish it wasn't so."
Timothy was wearing his usual outfit of motorcycle boots, jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket. He drew that jacket closer around himself as if cold. "Yeah. Kind of sorry I brought it up."
"You have a good heart and meant well," said Carlo. "Listen, my friends, I can sense gralic force in the area, heavy and malicious. We are needed here."
"Damn straight," Jocelyn muttered. "My Red Spectre is aching to burst loose. I feel like I've got her on a leash and I need both hands." Before closing the car door, she pulled out a light windbreaker and shrugged into it. She was wearing slacks and a blouse in subdued Earth tones. "Can't bring the anesthetic dart guns or most of the usual gadgets, I'm afraid. Our Links can pass as regular phones."
"And one more thing," Tim added. The red and blue plastic tags which hung around their necks said PRESS and ALL ACCESS in large letters, and had a security bar code. "Having a Trom on our team is such a help. I wonder if Frank could fabricate me a pass to get backstage at a Paige Polar concert, I'd like to meet her."
"I don't see where she's all that hot," grumbled Jocelyn, adjusting her pass so it was clearly visible on her chest. "Okay, let's get to the bottom of this mess."
Before leaving Manhattan, they had studied a diagram of the Performing Arts Center and walked directly to the rear of the stage area. A tour bus took up five parking spaces, and several panel trucks had workers unloading gear. No one seemed to notice them until they neared the mundane green metal door that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Leaning up against that door was a middle-aged man in the black slacks and light blue dress shirt of the security team. He was thick around the middle and going bald but still seemed very tough.
Jocelyn held up her pass and waited while the guard scanned its code. "We're from the GREAT LAKES RECORD, the Sunday Arts and Entertainment Section. Our editor called yesterday."
"Wallll, I wasn't told but y'all seem serious and professional enough. I am gonna have to check you real quick for guns or knives and anything sharp. Turn around, son. There you go. Nothing personal, miss, I'm using the back of my hand. All right, you're clear. The band is in the big room to the left."
"Thank you, sir," Jocelyn said, going in through the door he held open. "We should be about fifteen or twenty minutes at tops."
The corridor seemed crowded with equipment and crates along the walls, numerous bundles of color-coded cables hanging from the ceiling, crew members hustling back and forth. Tim whispered, "I'm surprised he didn't even ask to look in your satchel, Carlo."
"Sagehelm has a reassuring presence," Carlo told him. "Very useful."
At the end of one corridor was a pair of solid wooden doors without markings of any kind. Jocelyn stepped up and rapped sharply with her knuckles but she was already opening the doors as a disinterested voice from within said, "Come in."
The four members of Oblivion had none of their instruments at hand. The guitars and the drum kit were already on the stage above this floor, and the musicians would make last minute adjustments before the curtains parted. Instead, they were sitting in a circle on folding chairs and scrutinizing their phones.
"I'm telling you, bros, the numbers just don't add up. We should be getting three times as much in royalties. Someone's hemorrhaging the cash flow...." Dennis glanced up at the intruders, "You're not from GUITAR LIFE, are you? We already gave them an interview."
Jocelyn extended a hand, and the singer shook it warmly enough. "No. We have some surprises for you lads."
"Hey, you're Australian, ain't ya?" Dennis asked with a grin. "One of our first tours."
"You bet. Full-blooded Abo girl."
"Oh, I thought that was a rude word. We're not supposed to use it."
"I've been called much worse, believe me. Dennis Farley, you're the unofficial leader of this group. Remember when your songs were all about surfing and driving hot rods and chasing beach bunnies?"
All the band members smiled. "Sure," said the drummer. "The Hodads! Seems like another life."
"A better life..." mumbled the lead guitarist.
Carlo Ventura placed his gym bag on an unused chair and unzipped it. "I know why you changed direction. Why you turned to the darker corners of Human nature. Who led you astray."
As the band watched in understandable confusion, Carlo unfolded a long silk cloak shot through with fine golden threads. He fastened its collar at his throat and let the heavy material fall to cover him like a shroud. Finally, he raised a Corinthian-influenced helmet crafted of the palest gold imaginable. There were no openings for the eyes, only outlines etched into the metal. "There is more to Malacoda than you realize."
"If..you..only..knew!" hissed a voice from the open doorway.
For one frozen instant, everyone stared at a gruesome face like a skull tightly covered with taut white skin. Under heavy brow ledges burned hot pink-irised eyes. A bony hand clawed dramatically as the Nekrosan screamed, "Hold them! Hold them down!"
Reacting instantly, the band members full-body tackled their visitors and brought them down to knock over chairs and a table. Even Kumundu training failed at that moment, since there had been no clues of hostile intent until the musicians were already in motion. The Eyeless Helmet went spinning out of Carlo's hands.
Pinned down on her back with the drummer and bass player sprawling on top of her, Jocelyn barely restrained her Red Spectre in time. To release the gralic apparition in those circumstances would have burned the musicians into halves and killed them instantly.
For a full three seconds, everyone struggled in a confused tangle. Jocelyn had it worst, since so much of her concentration was taken up by keeping her Red Spectre from bursting free. Tim rolled and got the lead guitarist off him, then leaped up and dove headlong through the doorway. Malacoda was nowhere in sight. It had only been a few seconds. Tim drew on his own gralic ability and four barely visible little tornados materialized and shot away in different directions. He saw and heard whatever these manifestations witnessed. The Caspers whirled down corridors and spun into open rooms but found no sign of the Nekrosan.
As the tiny whirlwinds returned to him and blinked out of existence, Timothy sagged with disappointment. He saw Carlo and Jocelyn crowding up behind him. "I don't know HOW that creep got away! I sent my friendly ghosts after him almost immediately."
Hearing the excited babble of voices from the band, the three KDF members came back into the room and closed the door. Jocelyn gestured for silence and after a few minutes calmed everyone enough to start explaining. "This is going to be a lot to take in, mates. Malacoda is not just a human being born with a freaky face or a burn victim or anything. He comes from a whole realm of people who look like him. And he was using Black Magic to affect your minds."
Surprisingly, after some discussion, the band accepted this news. "I knew something was wrong," the drummer Barry said. "I've been in a fog the past year. I never felt more than half awake."
"He's been controlling our minds, like with witchcraft?"
"That's it exactly," Jocelyn assured them. "It's a bit subtle, it takes weeks to gradually insinuate itself into your heads. And the effec has limits. Nekrosan dominance works best when it amplifies traits already in your mind. Malacoda couldn't have inspired you guys to create these songs if you didn't already have some dark tendencies."
"Yeah, who doesn't have a dark side? But now I'm really torn up," said the singer. "I feel stained. Soiled. Like I will never be happy again."
Timothy lightly clapped him on the shoulder. "Aw, people heal from incredibly bad trauma. I have faith in you guys. You didn't get to be a successful band without believing in yourselves."
Off to one side, Carlo Ventura raised the gleaming golden helmet and it caught everyone's attention. "I can offer temporary relief from cares and grief," he said, staring at where the eyeslits should have been in that metal faceplate. "But you must cooperate freely and of your own will."
VII.
The light show had started ten minutes earlier, building in both complexity and brightness. The crowd had stopped becoming restless and settled into their seats, knowing this meant the band was tuning up and preparing to start the show. Outside the venue, the fans sat on blankets on the dewy grass and whispered expectantly to each other.
Then, a strange figure stepped through the side of the curtains and stood in the center of the stage. A tall thin man dressed all in white, a heavy gold cloak reaching to his ankles and a golden helmet covering his head. He let the cloak drape him, concealing his body so that he seemed to be a gleaming pillar in the stage lights.
"I ask only that you open your spirits to the light," he said without preamble. "Have faith in yourselves. Tomorrow will not fail you." With that, the metal helmet seemed to turn clear as glass and light shone from it to fill the everyone's sight. Warm as sunshine, pure as mountain water, the golden light rushed over the crowd in a cleansing wave that made them catch their breaths.
As the light faded without leaving after images, the crowd found themselves smiling at each other, feeling relief as if an oppressive weight had been lifted. On stage were two guitarists, a drummer and a singer. They were the members of Oblivion but something had changed. Lively energetic chords twanged, the drums galloped and the vocalist burst into familiar words from years ago.
"It's always summer in Malibu
There's always good friends waiting for you
Today the waves are twenty feet high
There's a surfer girl smiling for every guy
It's always summer in Malibu..."
Backstage, hearing the crowd roar in surprise and delight, Jocelyn bent a finger at Carlo and Tim, leading them toward the exit door. All three were grinning so widely their cheeks hurt. They knew this was temporary. Deep problems had no easy solutions. But for now at least the shadows had been driven back.
10/23/2024
4/22-4/24/2024
I.
In the doorway to the rec room, Jocelyn Garimara paused. "Is that Oblivion again? I hate that bloody band."
Timothy looked up from the couch but made no move to change the station. The KDF rec room had a satellite hookup with hundreds of international channels feeding to the huge super-definition screen. So sharp it was like looking through a window at a scene within reach, the image showed a stage with lasers criss-crossing overhead through colored smoke and a band plucking melancholy guitars in a minor note. A plaintive tenor voice was singing,
"The moment before the plunge
When the great weight eases
Is like the fencer's lunge
As the epee point frees you...."
"What the Hell is that crap?" the Australian woman went on, coming over to drop down next to her teammate. "I thought you liked Metal, Tim. You know, hard and loud and rude. Real down and dirty rock."
"I do, mostly." Looking more boyish than his actual age of thirty-four, Timothy Limbo was a thin wiry man with a mop of butter-yellow hair over a friendly face. Off duty, he was relaxing in grey sweatpants, slippers and a T-shirt that had been black years ago but was now a mild beige. "But this band, their songs are just weird. The more I listen to them, the more I wonder if they're saying what I think they're saying."
"They're damn catchy, I'll give them that," Jocelyn said. A few years older than Tim, she had the smooth deep brown skin and thick straight hair of her clan from the Northwest. Her wry smile eased up a face that was too often glum. "A few seconds of listening and this song plays in my head all day, whether I want it to or not."
"I started reading all the lyrics, Joss, and dang! They're dark. All about how unbearable life is and looking forward to going to sleep forever. I mean, the band IS called Oblivion. Their biggest album is EAGER FOR OBLIVION."
She sat up straighter and gave him a questioning look. "Are you just bored because we haven't had any missions lately? What are you getting at, Tim boy?"
"Maybe I'm reading too much into it, I dunno. But it sure seems to me that they're sort of promoting suicide as a way to solve all your problems."
All levity evaporated from her manner. "That's not a great message to be sending to young people."
Tim sighed and turned the sound way down. "I've been thinking about this band for a few days. They're not the biggest act right now, they're way down on the sales list from Paige Polar and Lil Blast, but they're getting bigger. I would have thought parents' groups would be in an outraged uproar over a pro-suicide band but I guess not."
"I figure parents and teachers have given up by now, kids can listen to whatever nonsense they like. Tim, I don't like the idea of a pop group encouraging suicide... that's just evil!... but it's not really what our team was founded to fight. We've got our hands full with the Midnight War."
Timothy leaned forward again, propping one elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his palm. "I know, I know, we mostly chase creatures of the night but still this bothers me."
The song was winding down and the laser lights swung away to leave four silhouettes with bowed heads. Across the screen appeared red Gothic letters NEXT BIG SHOW AT KEYSER STADIUM - BUFFALO NY - APRIL 24! and then, abruptly, there was a brief flash of a horrible face like a laughing skull covered with white flesh and the name MALACODA. Both Jocelyn and Timothy leaped to their feet without realizing it.
"A Nekrosan!"
"An ALBINO Nekrosan, oh my God!"
Timothy fumbled with the remote, managed to roll the video back and froze the image. "It's not a Human in a mask. It can't be!"
Unclipping her Link, Jocelyn snapped several photos of the leering image. "That made me heart miss a beat. Come on, Tim, let's show Sable. I think we've got our next mission."
For once, they did not find their team captain behind her desk in the front office. Timothy and Jocelyn trotted up the wide central staircase to the conference room on the second floor but it was also empty.
From down the hall, they heard her voice call, "You two looking for me?"
It did not surprise them that she had heard their soft footfalls on carpet from twenty feet away. Sable's enhanced senses allowed her to follow a moth in a darkened room. Tim and Jocelyn smiled at each other and walked down to the open door of the Gallery.
This was the one room which had been left almost unchanged from the way Kenneth Dred had left it. High-ceilinged, airy, with extra windows to let in natural light, it displayed a dozen original oil paintings, sculptures on bases and a long French tapestry. None of these were related to the Midnight War. Dred had collected them purely for their beauty.
Sitting on a bench, Lauren Sable Reilly had been regarding a charcoal sketch of a young girl holding a baby fox. She glanced up as they entered. "You caught me taking a break. Paperwork all day every day. What's up?"
Sitting down on either side of her, Timothy and Jocelyn quickly summed up their thoughts about Oblivion. Being shown that ghoulish face captured on the Link clinched the urgency for their captain.
"Nekrosim are always bad news," Sable said. "They are not the most potent sorcerers in the Midnight War but they are the most morbid. Their whole culture is death-oriented. Every time a Nekrosan comes into the world from their realm, it means people will die. Obviously, you two will be at that concert tomorrow night."
"Are you coming with us, captain?"
"No, I'm afraid not. I have to go with Galvan and Jin to Androval. Some diplomatic ceremony about their status we can't get out of if we want to keep Galvan as a member. But Carlo is free tomorrow. With the Eyeless Helmet helping, you should be able to send Oblivion into, well, oblivion."
II.
Brian Lieberman unlocked the door with the electronic card and stood staring at the hotel room in bemusement. He had managed six bands in his career and never dealt with one like Oblivion. The room had not been trashed. Four pairs of shoes had been kicked off against the wall just inside the door. Four jackets were piled on a chair. That was it. Two members of the band were stretched out on the twin king-sized beds, one was sitting on a chair in the corner staring down at his feet. The fourth stood by the window that looked out at nothing more intriguing than a parking lot.
At forty-eight, Lieberman had long accepted that good looks would not be one of his gifts. Short and dumpy, given frizzy black hair that would not be tamed, armed with a large potato-shaped nose, he had given up on easy romance and put all his energy into star making. At least his bank account was healthy, he had an imposing twenty-room house and drove an immaculate new Mazda. His biggest worry now was why these guys were acting this way.
The members of Oblivion were all in their mid to late 20s, all presentable and even handsome in a lanky artistic way. One album had gone platinum and one gold, although they had not had a breakout hit that would cement national recognition. And yet, here they were, moping about forlornly just a day before a big performance.
A uniformed bellhop wheeled in a chest-high chrome serving cart. Lieberman tipped the man started lifting lids off the trays. "Come on, you bums. Hot roast beef sandwiches. Spicy chicken wings. Pepperoni pizza. Beer, champagne, Mountain Dew, all stuff I know you like."
By the window, the drummer Barry turned his head. He was wearing oversized round-rimmed glasses. "I don't want anything."
"You have to eat SOMEthing today," Lieberman coaxed. "You don't want to be too weak to go on stage, do you?"
The oldest bandmember, lead singer Dennis, sat up on one of the beds and swung his legs over. "He's right, you know. We can't spread the Warning if we can't perform."
Reluctantly, all four of them started picking at the food. Lieberman poured cold beer into red Solo cups for them. After a few minutes, the taste and aroma stirred the natural appetites of four healthy young men and they began eating normally. Watching them, their manager felt genuine relief. His job involved a certain amount of caregiving but it was mostly trying to put brakes on the drinking and drug use.
After the band had eaten most of the food and polished off the beer and some soda, Lieberman felt confident enough to bring up his concerns. As they wiped their faces and hands, he said, "That's better. I was starting to get worried you boys were taking this Warning thing too far."
Dennis Wynne looked up and frowned. The vocalist had pale hazel eyes in a long mournful face that their fans loved. "What, you still think this is a gimmick, Brian?"
"I was there when you started coming up with the whole backstory, Dennis."
"It's all too true. I wish to God it wasn't. Before Winter settles in, thousands of the Old Ones will break free from the Spaces Between Spaces. Every human being will lose their minds completely. Cities will burn to the ground. Poison rain will fall. Parasites will eat through our heads! We're all going to suffer agony before we die."
"You don't really believe that's true!" yelled Lieberman, "It's just the backstory you came up for your songs. What's wrong with you all?"
"Our Man showed us the truth," Dennis answered calmly.
"He showed us our duty to spread the Warning," added the drummer.
Putting down a beer bottle, the lead guitarist Gordon spoke for the first time. "That's why our songs advocate ending your life painlessly, quietly, with dignity. The more fans who kill themselves, the more who will be spared the agony that's coming."
Stupefied, Brian Lieberman opened and closed his mouth without being able to produce words. He fell rather than sat down on a chair.
Dennis sounded sympathetic toward their manager. "Poor old sod, you don't understand, do you? I think the problem might be you haven't met Our Man yet." He went over to the wall adjoining the next room and rapped three times. "I say, Master, would you come over here, please?"
Opening the door to the hall, the singer of Oblivion gave Lieberman a gentle smile. "Our Man will make everything clear, Brian, you'll see."
Stepping in through the doorway came a gaunt figure wearing mundane pants and an oversized black hoodie with the cowl pulled forward to hide the man's face. All the band members lined up and said respectfully, "Thank you for coming."
"What is this? Some con man is playing you boys? I have good lawyers! I'll straighten this out right away...." But his words broke off in a gasp as Malacoda threw back his hood to reveal that face.
III.
Sable pulled back the chair at the head of the long oak table in the conference room and sat down. Three members of her team were present. Joining Jocelyn and Timothy was Carlo Ventura.
At twenty-three, Carlo was the youngest and least experienced member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation, and yet in some ways the most powerful. He looked like a gentle poet of a boy, thin to the point of seeming frail, with a full head of curly black hair and large dark eyes in a bony face. One might take him for a college student who put up with bullying. But Carlo was the Sorcerer of Truth. He had bonded with the ancient Eyeless Helmet crafted thirty thousand years ago by the immortal Eldanarin themselves. He tended to keep to himself, reflecting and meditating, but when he stepped up for a mission, the implications were fateful.
"I call this meeting to order," Sable said simply. "We're dealing with a new Midnight War threat. Evidently a popular band called Oblivion has been promoting the appeal of suicide to their fans, particularly a vulnerable age group of early teens. The band has also identified themselves with an image of what appears to be a Nekrosan named Malacoda."
Timothy Limbo spoke up, "I've searched our computer files, our paper records and Kenneth Dred's own compilation book FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE. Nothing about any Malacoda. I've also called some of our associates with an interest in the Nekrosim and they don't know anything about him either. His skull face turns up on T-shirts, posters and car decals but everyone thinks he is only an imaginary mascot."
Seeing everyone turn to her next, Jocelyn said, "It's no secret that there has been an epidemic in teen suicide and self-harm the past few months. Cable news shows, online videos and social media are raging about it. Of course, no one has a clue what to do. They blame everything from microplastics in our bodies to violent games to global climate change. Bloody fools, those are all useless scapegoats. And every day the toll goes higher."
"One thing puzzles me." Sable had leaned back in her chair, forefinger resting on her chin thoughtfully. "This group Oblivion seems like such an obvious bad influence. Why isn't there a huge demand to break the band up, maybe press charges? Their songs are barely disguised suggestions to end your life, after all."
"It is sorcery," said Carlo. "We must not underestimate Nekrosan warlocks. Their spells are not as potent as those of the Darthim but they are still a grave threat in a more subtle and devious way. I perceive that Malacoda's magic is protecting the music group from outright criticism. He blurs and fogs the minds of those who would attack Oblivion."
Sable did not comment for a long moment. "This is all conjecture, my friends. We certainly do not have any substantial evidence. It's possible that the image of Malacoda is a coincidence, just some artist with a morbid imagination who happened to draw what a Nekrosan looks like. And yet.. I trust the instincts of each of you. When all three of you feel something malevolent is underway, I'm inclined to act."
"Oh, I turned up a couple more things," Timothy said. "Oblivion used to be a band called the Hodads. That's slang for people who hang out at surfing sites but who don't have boards. They played a twangy retro-surf music that had a cult following. One minor hit, "It's Always Summer In Malibu" got used in a TV ad. Then, almost overnight, their music changed. They became Oblivion and signed a new contract with their distributor. The white skull face was on their first promotional material."
Sable straightened up, placing both palms flat on the table. "Here's our course. Tomorrow morning, I want the three of you to drive up to Buffalo. Take the Mustang. It's about a six hour drive on I-80 West."
"Not the way Jocelyn drives," Timothy had to interject. "Four hours plus a few speeding tickets."
"Shush."
Sable continued, "...and you will need time to locate SPAC, where the concert is being held. It's also our standard procedure to rent a nearby motel room for a case. So the more time you have up there, the better."
"Any cover story?" asked Tim. "Or do we simply poke around and stir things up?"
"I'm having Frank fabricate three backstage passes for you," Sable said. "Don't ask me how he taps into the event's files when they're not online. That Trom tech is scary if you think about it too much. But you should be able to get in before the concert and meet Oblivion."
"AND Malacoda," added Carlo.
IV.
The Schuylertown Performing Arts Center was a cluster of low modernistic buildings that included a restaurant, a local history museum, a children's playground and urgent care rooms with medical staff on duty. The concert venue itself seated eight thousand and the gentle grass-covered slopes had high quality speakers and video screens on poles. Another five thousand were allowed to enjoy the concerts under the stars.
Timothy pulled the dark green Ford Mustang into an open slot toward the middle of the parking lot. "Quite a few empty places," he said. "Oblivion isn't selling out the place."
"I don't think I've ever been this far upstate before," Jocelyn said, unbuckling her straps. "We're right near Lake Erie, right? How come our cases never take us up by the Great Lakes?"
"There are focal points for the Midnight War. Gralic force tends to collect and focus in nexuses." Carlo Ventura got out of the back seat. He was wearing all white, slippers and tights and a long-sleeved jersey that emphasized how gaunt he was. In one hand he lifted a canvas gym bag.
Looking out over the rows of multi-colored vehicles, Timothy suddenly said, "Say, Carlo. I've been wondering something about your powers. All the suicide and self-harming that goes on, why can't you stop it? Your light from the helmet heals and restores. Why can't you cure everybody?"
"It's far beyond me, Tim." Carlo's voice was usually somber but now he sounded positively stricken. "I channel the light that shines on Elvedal. It breaks curses, lifts burdens and restores the natural state but only what has been done by gralic force. Does that make sense?"
"I guess. I'm sorry to hear it, though."
"So am I, my friend. Alcoholism, mental illness, racism... these are all beyond the power of magic to abolish. I wish it wasn't so."
Timothy was wearing his usual outfit of motorcycle boots, jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket. He drew that jacket closer around himself as if cold. "Yeah. Kind of sorry I brought it up."
"You have a good heart and meant well," said Carlo. "Listen, my friends, I can sense gralic force in the area, heavy and malicious. We are needed here."
"Damn straight," Jocelyn muttered. "My Red Spectre is aching to burst loose. I feel like I've got her on a leash and I need both hands." Before closing the car door, she pulled out a light windbreaker and shrugged into it. She was wearing slacks and a blouse in subdued Earth tones. "Can't bring the anesthetic dart guns or most of the usual gadgets, I'm afraid. Our Links can pass as regular phones."
"And one more thing," Tim added. The red and blue plastic tags which hung around their necks said PRESS and ALL ACCESS in large letters, and had a security bar code. "Having a Trom on our team is such a help. I wonder if Frank could fabricate me a pass to get backstage at a Paige Polar concert, I'd like to meet her."
"I don't see where she's all that hot," grumbled Jocelyn, adjusting her pass so it was clearly visible on her chest. "Okay, let's get to the bottom of this mess."
Before leaving Manhattan, they had studied a diagram of the Performing Arts Center and walked directly to the rear of the stage area. A tour bus took up five parking spaces, and several panel trucks had workers unloading gear. No one seemed to notice them until they neared the mundane green metal door that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Leaning up against that door was a middle-aged man in the black slacks and light blue dress shirt of the security team. He was thick around the middle and going bald but still seemed very tough.
Jocelyn held up her pass and waited while the guard scanned its code. "We're from the GREAT LAKES RECORD, the Sunday Arts and Entertainment Section. Our editor called yesterday."
"Wallll, I wasn't told but y'all seem serious and professional enough. I am gonna have to check you real quick for guns or knives and anything sharp. Turn around, son. There you go. Nothing personal, miss, I'm using the back of my hand. All right, you're clear. The band is in the big room to the left."
"Thank you, sir," Jocelyn said, going in through the door he held open. "We should be about fifteen or twenty minutes at tops."
The corridor seemed crowded with equipment and crates along the walls, numerous bundles of color-coded cables hanging from the ceiling, crew members hustling back and forth. Tim whispered, "I'm surprised he didn't even ask to look in your satchel, Carlo."
"Sagehelm has a reassuring presence," Carlo told him. "Very useful."
At the end of one corridor was a pair of solid wooden doors without markings of any kind. Jocelyn stepped up and rapped sharply with her knuckles but she was already opening the doors as a disinterested voice from within said, "Come in."
The four members of Oblivion had none of their instruments at hand. The guitars and the drum kit were already on the stage above this floor, and the musicians would make last minute adjustments before the curtains parted. Instead, they were sitting in a circle on folding chairs and scrutinizing their phones.
"I'm telling you, bros, the numbers just don't add up. We should be getting three times as much in royalties. Someone's hemorrhaging the cash flow...." Dennis glanced up at the intruders, "You're not from GUITAR LIFE, are you? We already gave them an interview."
Jocelyn extended a hand, and the singer shook it warmly enough. "No. We have some surprises for you lads."
"Hey, you're Australian, ain't ya?" Dennis asked with a grin. "One of our first tours."
"You bet. Full-blooded Abo girl."
"Oh, I thought that was a rude word. We're not supposed to use it."
"I've been called much worse, believe me. Dennis Farley, you're the unofficial leader of this group. Remember when your songs were all about surfing and driving hot rods and chasing beach bunnies?"
All the band members smiled. "Sure," said the drummer. "The Hodads! Seems like another life."
"A better life..." mumbled the lead guitarist.
Carlo Ventura placed his gym bag on an unused chair and unzipped it. "I know why you changed direction. Why you turned to the darker corners of Human nature. Who led you astray."
As the band watched in understandable confusion, Carlo unfolded a long silk cloak shot through with fine golden threads. He fastened its collar at his throat and let the heavy material fall to cover him like a shroud. Finally, he raised a Corinthian-influenced helmet crafted of the palest gold imaginable. There were no openings for the eyes, only outlines etched into the metal. "There is more to Malacoda than you realize."
"If..you..only..knew!" hissed a voice from the open doorway.
For one frozen instant, everyone stared at a gruesome face like a skull tightly covered with taut white skin. Under heavy brow ledges burned hot pink-irised eyes. A bony hand clawed dramatically as the Nekrosan screamed, "Hold them! Hold them down!"
Reacting instantly, the band members full-body tackled their visitors and brought them down to knock over chairs and a table. Even Kumundu training failed at that moment, since there had been no clues of hostile intent until the musicians were already in motion. The Eyeless Helmet went spinning out of Carlo's hands.
Pinned down on her back with the drummer and bass player sprawling on top of her, Jocelyn barely restrained her Red Spectre in time. To release the gralic apparition in those circumstances would have burned the musicians into halves and killed them instantly.
For a full three seconds, everyone struggled in a confused tangle. Jocelyn had it worst, since so much of her concentration was taken up by keeping her Red Spectre from bursting free. Tim rolled and got the lead guitarist off him, then leaped up and dove headlong through the doorway. Malacoda was nowhere in sight. It had only been a few seconds. Tim drew on his own gralic ability and four barely visible little tornados materialized and shot away in different directions. He saw and heard whatever these manifestations witnessed. The Caspers whirled down corridors and spun into open rooms but found no sign of the Nekrosan.
As the tiny whirlwinds returned to him and blinked out of existence, Timothy sagged with disappointment. He saw Carlo and Jocelyn crowding up behind him. "I don't know HOW that creep got away! I sent my friendly ghosts after him almost immediately."
Hearing the excited babble of voices from the band, the three KDF members came back into the room and closed the door. Jocelyn gestured for silence and after a few minutes calmed everyone enough to start explaining. "This is going to be a lot to take in, mates. Malacoda is not just a human being born with a freaky face or a burn victim or anything. He comes from a whole realm of people who look like him. And he was using Black Magic to affect your minds."
Surprisingly, after some discussion, the band accepted this news. "I knew something was wrong," the drummer Barry said. "I've been in a fog the past year. I never felt more than half awake."
"He's been controlling our minds, like with witchcraft?"
"That's it exactly," Jocelyn assured them. "It's a bit subtle, it takes weeks to gradually insinuate itself into your heads. And the effec has limits. Nekrosan dominance works best when it amplifies traits already in your mind. Malacoda couldn't have inspired you guys to create these songs if you didn't already have some dark tendencies."
"Yeah, who doesn't have a dark side? But now I'm really torn up," said the singer. "I feel stained. Soiled. Like I will never be happy again."
Timothy lightly clapped him on the shoulder. "Aw, people heal from incredibly bad trauma. I have faith in you guys. You didn't get to be a successful band without believing in yourselves."
Off to one side, Carlo Ventura raised the gleaming golden helmet and it caught everyone's attention. "I can offer temporary relief from cares and grief," he said, staring at where the eyeslits should have been in that metal faceplate. "But you must cooperate freely and of your own will."
VII.
The light show had started ten minutes earlier, building in both complexity and brightness. The crowd had stopped becoming restless and settled into their seats, knowing this meant the band was tuning up and preparing to start the show. Outside the venue, the fans sat on blankets on the dewy grass and whispered expectantly to each other.
Then, a strange figure stepped through the side of the curtains and stood in the center of the stage. A tall thin man dressed all in white, a heavy gold cloak reaching to his ankles and a golden helmet covering his head. He let the cloak drape him, concealing his body so that he seemed to be a gleaming pillar in the stage lights.
"I ask only that you open your spirits to the light," he said without preamble. "Have faith in yourselves. Tomorrow will not fail you." With that, the metal helmet seemed to turn clear as glass and light shone from it to fill the everyone's sight. Warm as sunshine, pure as mountain water, the golden light rushed over the crowd in a cleansing wave that made them catch their breaths.
As the light faded without leaving after images, the crowd found themselves smiling at each other, feeling relief as if an oppressive weight had been lifted. On stage were two guitarists, a drummer and a singer. They were the members of Oblivion but something had changed. Lively energetic chords twanged, the drums galloped and the vocalist burst into familiar words from years ago.
"It's always summer in Malibu
There's always good friends waiting for you
Today the waves are twenty feet high
There's a surfer girl smiling for every guy
It's always summer in Malibu..."
Backstage, hearing the crowd roar in surprise and delight, Jocelyn bent a finger at Carlo and Tim, leading them toward the exit door. All three were grinning so widely their cheeks hurt. They knew this was temporary. Deep problems had no easy solutions. But for now at least the shadows had been driven back.
10/23/2024
no subject
Date: 2024-10-23 11:39 pm (UTC)Malacoda is debuting here because I need a few new bad guys. Not only is he a Nekrosan, he's an albino and so he looks even more like a living skull than the rest of his Race. He's going to be up to no good in a variety of ways.
The band Oblivion is a sort of anti-Linkin Park. I actually hadn't listened to that band until the death of Chester Bennington. Reading about his suicide led me to try some Linkin Park songs, many of which were about self-harm. "One More Light" crushed me for a day or so, and which still hurts to listen to. I've been lucky in many ways, and having someone close to me taking their own life is something I have been spared (and am grateful for). So this story shouldn't be interpreted as any lighthearted dismissal of the problem. (And I don't think bringing back the Beach Boys genre is a solution, except maybe in some vague symbolic way.)