Wired

by anaallen44

Nack reminisces his music ridden past, and how it contrast to his now ruthless present. Read somewhere Fang playing the piano and killing someone with a piano wore was suppose to be an original idea for the comics, but was taken out for the violence and comic rating.

Entering the rich establishment had been a breeze, as was hacking and shutting off all electrical security. Allowing him to freely walk the high halls past twinkling chandeliers and towering paintings of the properties owner. Intricately decorated windows lined the hall allowing moonlight to sweep in lighting his path to his destination at the halls end. Entering through the large heavily decored mahogany door a large room filled with antiques and pristine furniture filled every corner of the room. The combination of it all brought about a sense of grandeur and elegance, the prestige items of which ironically were the main reason for his presence.
Walking through the room he inspected the pricey items, each remained spotless and shined in the moon's ray. Traversing he looked to the detailed consistency shown throughout the whole house, even the wooded flooring gave the look of a hand carved quality. Nearing the rooms end gave notice to the glossed surface a grand piano, a deeply familial instrument. Walking towards he traces his gloved fingers atop its closed top board inspecting the cleansed untouched condition and its polished surface he concluded it was used for display if anything else. Seating on the piano's partnering bench he hovered his gloved appendages above its shining keys readying himself he took a deep breath. Moonlight filtered through overlooking windows brightening his being and reflecting the piano's framework.
A chord echoed the room. Another followed then more as the disjointed notes of an untuned piano came together creating something new. Closing his eyes he focused on the sounds created. Changing his beginning slowed tempo as years of muscle memory-guided his hands to quicken their pace over the keys creating a sound very much familiar to his youth. Memories flooded his mind, his mother. She being the one to introduce him to the piano at a young age to which he immediately fell in love with the stringed instrument. Long gone were the days of struggling to copy the familiarity of his mother's hand moving gracefully across the various keys. He now played in confidence and with the same grace as she once had.
Skilled hands once used to create music and keep the smile on his bedridden mother. Now calloused and scar-riddled from years of handling equipment and heavy artillery. Yet this change in priorities hadn't changed his pinpoint precision and perfectionism in all which he associated with. The pure memory slowly denigrates as he hears a car pull up. Slowing his playing to a stop he stands from the bench and peeked out the window. Watching as his paycheck drunkenly stumbles up the staircase to the doors.