This year's story is part follow up to "D Plane", and part sequel to my favorite EQ Halloween Special "What Music they Make" Part 1 and Part 2. Roark meets with a mysterious broker from the Music Corps to commission work from an old shadow from the past.
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"You are a hard man to find," says the man in charcoal. Snake-quick deep green eyes that catches every bit of light to seem luminous, slightly wavy black hair with red dyed tips; his hair is so glossy, it almost has a violet highlight. It reminds Roark of the phenomenon of black hair so dark, it had an iridescence; wet crow's feathers hair. Nuregarasu.
Roark is sipping on a cup of tea as a selection is his work runs in the background, low in volume and subtle in construction. Minimal strings and wordless choir samples. The other man didn't seem affected like others with it. A mark of a Lossless listener.
Yet, Roark didn't feel any kinship with him, unlike the last Lossless musician he'd met. There was a cold hollowness to him, almost like he was a living ghost. Not in the literal sense, but there was an otherness about him he didn't understand. Thus, this job didn't seem very enticing to him. In fact, he was going over his reasons to decline the job.
"Surely a man of your...standing...wouldn't have gone through my requirements for commission, but...." He trails off. Such requirement, a tattoo of any design as long as it had 2 elements: the letter D and airplane, was present on top of the man's left forearm. A gothic script uppercase D, and an unusual aircraft. It was obviously some sort of futuristic jet plane but nothing he'd ever seen before. The design also seemed to include curlicues and other strokes like brush strokes, making half circles and half moon shapes, one seemingly shaped like an uppercase G.
It was extra, he has to admit, but after meeting him in person, he can see that was his style. A dark charcoal Music Corps suit, lavender silk tie and vest, and carrying a shamisen. Bore the tattoo up to the peephole of the hotel room, a charming yet dark smile on his lips.
"Anything for my client, I like to say."
"Please, Mr. Gemini, don't take me for a fool," Roark says airily but coldly. "The Music Corps doesn't particularly care much for my art."
"I never said my business has anything to do with the Corps," he says with a smirk. He sips his tea daintily, casting his eyes elsewhere.
"You mean to tell me, you, a Metal from the Music Corps, comes to me on behalf of someone not in the corps?" His voice is icy, and his amber colored eyes glare at the other man.
"Hoooooh, Mr. Roark, please. I don't come here to antagonize, nor tease you. No one in the Corps in an official capacity wants your product, no. And while I am very plainly a part of it, I represent someone who wants something specific from you, and its not Corps business. Someone with very deep pockets."
He talks as if he knows what Roark is going to say, and overly reassuring, and that makes him suspicious. Roark preferred to work with his clients directly. This man stood as a gatekeeper to the real client.
"I know. You prefer to deal with your clients face to face.... I don't blame you, but money is money and who am I to turn down a tax free job?" He sets his cup onto the saucer and crosses his legs as his hand lazily runs his fingers along the neck of the shamisen next to him. "Forgive me for being so cryptic, but I was given strict orders to conduct our business this way."
"And if I decide to decline the offer?" Roark sets his cup down on his saucer and crosses his arms across his chest.
"I was instructed to play every card I had to convince you otherwise."
"I'm sorry you've come a long way, Mr. Gemini, but--"
"Djura."
"....Mr. Djura. I decline the job."
"I haven't even told you what it was yet," Djura responds, and he puts on a tone of false hurt, like a child pouting. His eyes give it away, however. They seem to twinkle in amusement.
"You haven't given me a reason to want to take the job." He says it bluntly. What was it about this man that made him lose his usual professional composure? He irritated him, got under his nails like a hangnail too short for picking or tweezers. "I don't like to suffer fools. Tell your client I'm sorry."
He sighs and tips his head to listen to the Ambi in the room. His fingers wrap around the neck of the long stringed instrument and his eyes flick over at Roark, his head still tipped away, a sidelong look. He nods once at the shamisen.
"May I?"
He wants him to leave, yet he can't deny that he wants to listen to this Metal who carries a Trad instrument. Roark's tiny little bad habit makes him hesitate. His voracious appetite to take in music--any music--live and untouched by the current state of Corps musicians through the tinny of MC installed speakers along every street in every city.
He doesn't catch himself in time, and he nods.
Those green eyes spark as he places the instrument into his lap gently, tunes the pegs ever so slightly, and pulls out an ivory plectrum from his blazer. The bottom of it has a crescent moon cut out that peeks out from under his palm. He listens for a bit to the Ambi in the room, then begins to play. Rapid strumming as his fingers slide along the strings and pluck quickly. He plays something in tune with the music already playing, the light buzzing of the strings that bring the rest of the song to life, a different life. Urgent, but not aggressive; a robust song that plays with the present music. It doesn't dovetail exactly, but domineers it.
Roark is impressed. The way he knows the instrument, the way he makes it speak and sing, the skill of the man in the suit is more than he expected. For a few moments, he's taken in by the music.
Djura winds down his playing, noting his change in demeanor. As he finishes, the scrape of the plectrum sounds as his fingers slide to a stop. The crimson cloth yubikake on his left hand peeks around the neck of the instrument. His head tips back, coyly.
Roark composes himself. "All right, Mr. Djura, you've earnt a measure of time from me."
Djura doesn't waste it, and he wraps his arms around the neck of his shamisen, leaning forward. "My client wishes for you to make something very specific, using either hardware or samples from a certain source."
"A certain source?"
"That's correct." He leans back. "To be completely honest, I myself don't care much for it, but my client is quite insistent. A brand of highly potent 303."
Roark pulls a face of disdain. "I don't deal in cheap 303."
"I wouldn't insult you by implying you do," Djura replies as he sighs and leans an arm on the table. His eyes swing to the man in white. "But my client is quite persistent." He gestures with his leaning hand, rolling his wrist and flexing his fingers. "He seems to feel that throwing enough money at someone will bend their will. Such a waste."
"Is he a junkie?" Another blunt question, as his patience began to wane.
"Not on the outside. But I don't pretend to know what anyone else does on their free time, it's none of my business." Djura's eyes lock onto Roark's. "If I hadn't been paid in advance, I wouldn't be troubling you with such an inane request. But I'm a man of professionalism, and I do so apologize for it."
There's a hollow ring of sincerity yet insincerity, and the paradoxical gravity of the man in charcoal is enough to keep him from throwing him out. A slow burn connection is developing between them, born of their talent in music and this disdain for this unseen client.
"Have you examples of this work?" The relent is enough to get those green eyes twinkling again. Perhaps he was being played as well as the shamisen, but his curiosity is piqued.
"I have some, yes. Right now, all I have are some videos and a couple snippets of his product."
This is an unusual development, and it reels Roark in a bit more. Djura pulls out a MC phone-tablet, and taps and swipes through some items in his library until he gets to a folder. He opens it and there are 3 sound files and a single video file. He chooses the video file and it appears to be a small compilation of MC undercover videos, labeled with white text all across the top and bottom. Like a train of white elephants, the alphanumerical codes emblazoned on the video clips simply sat there with no mention from either man.
A tall man, bald and with pale skin, long fingers and a long black overcoat stood behind a musician's deck, watching his listeners fall under sway. The shots are all taken some distance from the stage, and each ends shortly after beginning, the camera falling to the floor as the bass lines swell. After the fourth clip, Roark lets out a sigh, and taps out of the video to the sample files. He listens to them, but doesn't listen to more than a minute or so. His face darkens in disdain again.
"Such...barbaric noise." He says simply.
"I agree," Djura replies airily. He leaves the phone on the table and leans back, cradling his instrument gently. "Apparently he used it to ensnare MC members, just to watch them die."
"I'm insulted your client wants me to make such...." His voice drifts off as he glances to the side. He can't find the right word to describe how much he hates it.
"Mm." As the man in white opened his mouth to decline, Djura cuts him off. "I'd decline it too. But, as I said, if my client could get it from the source he would. Unfortunately, the musician responsible for them is no longer with us, otherwise there would be a direct commission."
Roark begins to decide he doesn't like this Djura Gemini very much. The way he uses these little tantalizing bits to lure Roark away from his path of refusal. A wolf in a suit, trailing flowers and breadcrumbs, waiting for his prey to stray right into his grasp. Playing his interest bit by bit, as if he was teasing out music. The way he would sympathize with him, with genuine affinity, kept his interest up, his curiosity open. He wasn't trying to be his friend, but he wasn't treating it as if they were simply business partners. He was trying to get his way, but it was the way he was doing it that Roark doesn't like.
"Dead?"
"Torn apart by his own listeners during a new undercover bust, according to records," Djura says, with a small smirk on his lips. "Beastly, I know. Brutal, I know. The last clip was edited to take that little nasty bit out, but he won't be assaulting anyone's ears any longer."
"And yet, you're attempting to commission me to recreate it."
"Not a carbon copy, heavens. A man of your art and expertise shouldn't dirty his hands by following in a corpse's footsteps. My client wants you to take your own spin on his work though. A fan, perhaps, but there's no accounting for taste, I suppose."
"I decline."
"Fair enough." Roark blinks in shock; after all this, he's only now giving up? His stomach turns a little. Surely there must be one last card up his sleeve.
Djura taps idly on his phone as he sips the last bit out of his cup, going back to the video file and scrubbing to the last clip in the video. His eyes are on the phone as he lowers the volume and watches the final bits of the scene.
"Perhaps it's best his work stays like him--dead...." His eyes watch as the camera picks up the edited aftermath, as police pick up the camera, and it pans around the room, where two people are guided out by one of the members of the SWAT team. By this time, Roark's curiosity temps him to look down to watch and his breath stops in his throat.
Just seconds before the clip ends, he catches the face of one of the men.
His hair is dark, blue-black, and his eyes are unfocused, being practically carried out by the other man next to him, his hair similarly colored. Alabaster skin, but dark blue eyes so very focused in fury. Roark reaches out and scrubs the video back to pause it on the best frame of them. He stares down with sharp caramel eyes, narrowing as he recognizes their faces. Much younger, of course, but their faces are unmistakable.
Djura watches Roark lost in the frame of the video and his smirk twitches slightly as his green eyes light up.
"I know these men." His voice is hushed, obeisant. Blonde hair with hard, angry black eyes. Deep black hair with deep black eyes. Both temporarily hidden behind oily-black helmets. That harsh, furious glare is nearly the same, as if both men had the same heart, the same mind. The way the blue-eyed man carries his partner was the same as the tender hold the blonde had when his partner fell under sway in that hotel hallway not so long ago.
"Oh hoh...do you?"
"What is this?" he asks, turning to glare at Djura whose smirk remains.
"The video is a sample of what I'm to be looking for." He pauses, knowing he's not answering the question. "The video files were clips from the case file of the musician, and all the failed undercover busts...except for the final unit who...encouraged the listeners to take care of the problem for them."
Roark is quiet. He lets that sink in. "I see. Who...was the unit?"
"Trancer 42."
The five syllables hang in the air before Roark softly murmurs, "I didn't know...they were 42...."
The inward look to his eyes makes Djura smile wickedly to himself.
How could he have missed that? Roark knew of Trancer 42, there weren't many who didn't know. But when he'd seen them in the hotel the previous year, it didn't even strike him to notice the resemblance. But now their faces, clear as a polished mirror, flash in his mind.
"42 was responsible for putting Orlock down. It wasn't advertised of course, and I've been told fourth handed that it was quite traumatizing to one of them."
Roark tears his gaze from the phone to look at Djura with a hard, long stare.
There is a long, pregnant pause before Roark says softly, "What's his budget?"
"What's your asking price?" Djura gently slides the phone out from under Roark's hand and slips it into his breast pocket. "I was told no price is too high, and to take whatever down payment you ask."
A short silence settled onto them before the man in white says, "Down payment is $10 million."
"And the final price?"
"10 mil is for me finding the base material he wants. If your client wants something of Orlock's, I need at least his original hardware or sample library. If--and I stress, only IF--I find material worth using, will I craft him something and I will give you a final price."
Djura holds the look for a long time before he shuts his eyes and waves his hand in a flourish. "Fair enough. That is an acceptable condition I think my client can welcome." He reaches into his pocket, opens an untraceable payment app, and slides it to Roark, who catches it and enters his information before holding his thumb down onto the scanner. He slides it back to Djura, whom authorizes the payment via his own thumbprint scan. He puts it in his pocket, stands and picks up his shamisen, hanging it onto his back with a strap.
Roark sighs, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "How will I contact you when I get my leads?"
Djura tips his head, his green eyes flicking up in thought, before they shift to look back and his lips break into another smirk. "I'll leave you my personal number...though you won't have to go at this research trip all on your lonesome."
The man in white frowns in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I have some leads on the west coast regarding some of the confiscated equipment...and was told to reclaim it if I could." For a moment, his green eyes cloud in concern as they flick to the table. "To be fair...I'm not exactly sure why he's going to all this trouble, and why I've been told to contact you to commission work that isn't even your forte. Call it...."
His sentence drifts off into silence, until Roark cocks his head slightly and asks, "Call it what?"
"....Curiosity...." he says softly, before his eyes look back up at him. "Maybe I'm just morbidly curious about what's really going on here.... At least now...I won't be carrying this all out alone, hm?"
He holds his right hand out to Roark, adorned with a silver ring on his index finger and a coiled octopus tentacle on the ring finger. The man in white, after a pause, takes it and shakes.
"Don't take this as me entirely trusting you, Mr. Gemini," he says, squeezing the hand a bit firmer. "I don't trust any of this...but suffice it to say...I am intrigued."
Djura gives him a little smile and chuckles. "I'll be in touch."
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The man in charcoal walks back to his car, shamisen on his back. He hangs up the phone and lets out a small chuckle.
"The down payment has cleared already. When are you leaving for San Francisco?"
"Depends on him. He doesn't seem to trust me."
"I'm paying you to make him trust you."
"...So why are you so hard up on finding Orlock's old material?"
"You always ask the worst questions, 500."
"Its why you pay me such extravagant prices; you get good work but you still have to put up with me."
He slides the instrument back into a case in the back seat, and locks it, then gets into the front seat. As he starts the car, he lets out another chuckle. "Goodness gracious. How tangled these strings become the longer you tug at them."
--Dio (10/29/21)