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Commentary by a Fallen man
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G’morning. Henry Oscard, at your service. But not right now. Right now, I’m slumped against a wall, trying not to puke on myself. Why? We’ll get to that.

If there’s one thing the Fallen Council likes, it’s a guy on their side who does two things. The first, is that he gets rid of their enemies. The second, is that he never asks for a promotion.

That fits Durante Truson to a tee. The Council can’t get enough of him. He’s happy where he is as long as he gets to do what he does ‘best’. Sick bastard. I hate the f---er. Wanted to kill him the second I heard ‘im gush on about ‘his art’ and ‘his works’ and all that crap. It couldn’t have been worse, considering I had seen just what his ‘art’ was not too long before...

In case your wondering, I’m the same guy who told him off when saving his ass from a KPD officer; called him an idiot and politely informed him that, when in physical pain, a person usually screams. How the hell can he not know that?

My work in the Fallen consists of guard work. I’m one of the lucky bastards who gets to guard the inner sanctum of the Fallen Tower, where the Council itself resides. Lucky in the sense that nobody gets this far, and if they do, then they usually ain’t much of a threat when they stagger to the doors...

Everybody disregarded him the second he was brought into the Tower. Just another suit that wore shades in the dark. Then he asked us to help him with a few trunks he had brought along with him. So some of the guards, including yours truly, did help him out. These trunks were damn heavy, usually needed two, sometimes three to carry ‘em. In about a half-hour, we had brought all but one. He went back to get that with some other guard.

Another guard had asked if he kept dead bodies in them before he had left. Durante didn’t hear ‘im. So I took out a few lockpick tools, and opened one up. Turned out he had been half-right.

Now, I shoulda noted earlier that these trunks were too small to hold actual human bodies. But they held human bodies anyways. The bodies looked mangled and the bones looked broken at first glance, but that wasn’t the case. We all took a closer look, and saw that the bones couldn’t be moved too well. We wondered what had been done, when we noticed three things.

First, these bodies were in shallow pools of their own blood, though they bled only from their mouths, and maybe one or two other places. Keep in mind that we didn’t see one skin break, all stretch marks aside.

Second, each body looked to be victims of extreme birth defects, the kind that really can’t really be extracted from a pregnant gut unless it’s by C-section. That got us wondering, as anybody with common sense could deduce that nobody could possibly survive to the ages these bodies had grown to with defects so ridiculously disgusti... debilitating...

Third, the people inside the trunks were still f---ing alive.

We could see their eyes rolling around in their heads, their tongues lolling around their mouths (or at least what we assumed were their mouths, as I think that teeth are supposed to remain in two f---ing rows), drool coming off their chins, their hearts beating, their lungs gasping for breath, flailing whatever they could flail around, legs, arms, spinal vertebrae, whatever. We heard them, goddammit. They breathed with heavy rasps, tried to scream at us, tried to tell us something. I was the only one who got it. ‘Kill him.

Somehow, I just didn’t get it. At first. My guess’s that seeing something completely new and abso-f---ing-lutely disgusting as this had a toll on my thought processes.

So he goes in, shows the Council his work, and explains what he thinks the ultimate artform is. Two hours later, presto, he’s bona fide Fallen.

You still with me? Good. This is where it starts to get sick.

It’d been a week since I told the bastard off, like any good person into anatomical correctness should’ve. It had also been two days since he brought some kid to the hospital for treatment of, what, a gunshot to the leg?

I had decided to have a ‘talk’ with him. Talk as in I was carrying a very special Desert Eagle with me, loaded with one bullet, and no clip. (if you’re thinking if I went to the scene of a recent murder where the victim was twisted in ways that matches a string of other recent murders and where our artist friend was seen running from with a wounded college student in his arms, and lifted a certain piece of evidence off the scene, you’re damn right; in case you haven’t noticed, I’m into irony) I had a false story planned; if I was questioned, I would say that he was secretly planning to go after one of the Council, and that I was nipping the problem at the bud.

I know, wouldn’t f---ing work. I work for The Fallen, goddammit. But it woulda been worth it, just to blast that s---head’s brains all over the wall.

I got to his room, overrode the security code, and stepped in.

Durante sat on a chair moved to the middle, tie and suit coat off, doing what seemed to be massaging some kid. Guy, couldn’t of been older than fourteen, real shrimpy, bet I coulda seen all his ribs if he took off his shirt.

At first, I thought he was a pedophile, and was ready to put the spare clip I had brought with me to use, just to jam a few more bullets into his ass for good measure.

Then I realized that it only looked like he was massaging him; he was actually holding the arm in place while twisting the shoulder in slow circles.

F--- me, that’s worse.

Seeing it gave me an instant full-body shiver. It was like he had twisted the corner of a napkin, with a whole lotta matter converging at this one point - the kid’s arm.

All that thought happened in three seconds. The next ten were spent asking him just what in the hell he was doing, and getting an answer; he had found another willing subject.

Now I hadn’t noticed when I walked in, but the kid was smiling.

What was that? Smiling? Yes, f---wit, smiling. Why? Don’t ask me. Maybe he was a masochist. Maybe he was just f---ing nuts. Maybe Durante had convinced him that he could indeed grant beauty (if I hadn’t been involved in the first place, I’d be in a bathroom laughing my ass off right now), and that pain was just a part of it.

Crock. Of. S---.

That’s what I said when Durante spewed on about his art being the ultimate form of beauty. Of course, seeing this kid actually smile through this was the equivalent of taking said crock of s--- and using it as a replacement for both my shower water and my favorite steak sauce. I eat a lot of steak, in case you’re wondering.

I asked the kid if he wanted to be one of Durante’s subjects. He very slowly nodded.

I looked at Durante again. Even he seemed a little uncertain, uneasy, like he knew there was something off about the whole thing, though he sure as hell couldn’t figure out what it was. Turns out this kid had walked right up to him and said ‘I want to be one of your subjects.’ Apparently no one had done this before. As if people would actually ask to be turned into freaks of art, no, not f---ing likely.

So I leave, slump against a nearby wall, and try not to puke on myself.

I kept telling myself that the kid didn’t know what he was getting into, that he didn’t know he was gonna die, that he didn’t wanna die. But I kept thinking how pathetic a world was where someone who hadn’t even experienced the prime of their lives yet wanted to get off the ride. Remember Henry, he doesn’t know what he’s getting into, he doesn’t know he’s basically committing suicide...

And then I heard the kid start screaming. Except it sounded like he was enjoying every f---in’ second.

I got what Durante meant by ‘enjoying their singing’ now. He liked to listen to them scream. Ha ha, very funny. May I blow my goddamned head off now?

That leads us to our present predicament. If there’s one thing the Fallen Council likes, it’s a guy on their side who gets rid of their enemies, and never asks for a promotion. Durante fits that. And, though the Council wants more people just like him, they figure they oughta protect the ones they have now.

Some message gopher finds me, and hands me a letter. A few minutes after he goes, I look at it. It’s a specialty notice. I open it, and read.

Remember how I said I dig irony before? Well, scratch that. I don’t now.

So, I sit there for the next half-hour. The screaming stopped about fifteen minutes ago. Durante comes out of his room, sleeves rolled up, and a frown on his face. He slumps down next to me, putting his forearms on his raised knees. You might wanna turn up the volume, ‘cause you ain’t gonna hear a thing for a while.

The f---er breaks the silence after... aw, f--- it, I’m not keeping track of time. “He didn’t make a good subject.”

I just look at him, with my mouth hanging open slightly, just in case I do finally puke. Why waste it on the floor, I say?

“And I didn’t like how he sang. There was something... off-key about it....” He looks at me. “What’re you here for anyway?”

I raise up the letter. “I’m your new bodyguard.”

“...Oh....” He frowned.

Apparently, the Paralyzation Node that they had follow him around everywhere wasn’t enough protection. And, as he can’t fight worth s--- (or doesn’t want to, as I think you know exactly how quick a fight would go if this guy used his talent against somebody who posed a threat), the Council must’ve thought it would be a pretty good idea to have someone take whatever shots he’d have coming. F---ing wonderful. I wanted to put the bastard out of my misery, and now I have to make sure he stays around to ensure other people’s misery.

Ain’t life grand sometimes?

Don’t you dare answer that f---ing question.

My idea on killing him on the spot is done for. Can’t make it look like a job-related accident, or I’ll get most of my lower torso handed to me on a silver platter, drenched in my favorite steak sauce, just to stick it to me. This f---ing sucks to no end.

.....

I’m going to have to tell him awful clearly that I have no interest in becoming a subject of his. I’d like to be buried in the casket I bought for myself last month, thank you....



Written by Ren
Start - 05/08/2002
End - 05/17/2002

Because we needed commentary on Durante’s unusual way of thinking. And because I needed a plot device [read: excuse] to slap Commander on him when I power him up.
 

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