Before the uprising, Sander Cohen was regarded as a genius. He could outshine anyone on any instrument, and could pick up a new one in a matter of hours. There was no-one in Rapture who didn't know of Cohen.
His concerts were the stuff of legend, people vied for the chance to see him live, sometimes fights broke out. On one occasion, a man was killed for his ticket to a Sander Cohen show.
Every year, he would select five students to study under him. This was a coveted position- if you were noticed by Cohen, your life would be changed. You would never want for anything. All you had to say was, "I studied under Sander." and you would have a job, or a discount at the warehouse, or first pick at the new batch of merchandise.
When the revolt began, Sander was teaching a lesson. He had set five grand pianos in a circle, all facing one another, their black tops glistening, and their ebony and ivory keys ready to welcome new fingers in.
Sander opened the door to the amphitheater to let the students in with a grand gesture.
"Welcome, my dears, to my world." He purred, a soft, warm smile gracing his face.
Filing in, the students walked down the isle past rows and rows of lush red velvet seats to take their places on the piano benches.
"Let us begin. We shall start with arpeggios to warm us up, shall we?
A rich symphony of notes sprang from the circle, filling the air with music. Sander closed his eyes and smiled with satisfaction.
The students stopped playing as they heard a crash in the distance, followed by muffled screams and gunshots. Sander sprinted to the door and locked it, "It has begun." He breathed.
His voice trembled, "My students, it seems as though we are caught in the middle of a.."
A student piped up, "In the middle of what, Mr. Cohen?"
"The revolution, my dear."
12 months later
"Play it louder! PLAY IT FUCKING LOUDER!"
Her fingers frantically slammed against the keys as Sander watched. The notes that came from the piano were no longer gentle and welcoming. They were harsh and ugly, warped from time and abuse.
"But please," the student pleaded, "Mr. Cohen sir, I need to stop! My fingers.."
She lifted her fingers from the keys. The nails were cracked, broken and yellowed, the tips bruised and bloody.
Taking her hands in his, Sander caressed her fingers with his own, pale and slender. The warmth was gone from his face, his cheeks were hollow, his skin taught against his skull. What used to be a comforting soft smile had been replaced long ago with rotting teeth behind thin pale-blue lips. In his eyes, where there used to be life, there was now nothing. His eyes of deep green with flecks of hazel that had once sparkled with his soul were blackened and bloodshot. This was no longer the Sander Cohen that Rapture had known.
"A break? You'd like a break?"
"Y-yes.. yes. I mea- yes mister co- mister Cohen sir." She squirmed as Sander tightened his grip.
"A break." Cohen spoke to the empty rows of seats, "She wants a fucking break. Sure, why not. I'll give her a god damn break. Y'hear that, sweetheart? You're getting your fucking break." Sander spit out the words as if they were poison burning his tongue.
The student looked on in horror and agony as Cohen's vice-like grip kept tightening. She wailed as her skin split and her bones cracked. Cohen let go of her fingers and took a step back. Taking a deep breath, Cohen muttered, "There's your fucking break. Now get back to playing!"
"B-b-but Mr. Cohen," she sobbed, "I can't.. my hands.. you've.."
"So that's it? A couple broken fingers and you're done? Done playing for Sander Cohen? No, no one finishes playing for me until I say they're finished. Fucking PLAY."
The student was quivering with fear, "Can't.. can't- can't do it. I can't do it."
"Well then. I s'pose it's time for you to join the others, isn't it?"
Sander took hold of his last students' hair and yanked her up, toppling the bench over with a clatter; the noise echoed eerily throughout the cavernous room. He led the student to the edge of the stage, front and center.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Cohen addressed the chairs once more, "boys and girls. I know that you have been waiting for a very long time to see the finale of this piece."
"Stop! P-please.. I'll do whatever you want, just don't kill me! I haven't seen my family.. my mother.. father.. sister.. Why can't you give me that!?" The students' voice started meek and defeated, but rose to an angry tumult roar. "You FUCKER! You're NOTHING! This is all that's left of your fucking legacy. NO ONE WILL REMEMBER YOU. THE NAME SANDER COHEN WILL BE FORGO- uuf!" Cohen threw her to the ground and gave a sharp kick to her ribs. Her brittle bones caved in, betraying her.
"Nothing? I'M nothing? You little goddamn fucker. You don't know what you're talking about. Do you know how fucking long it took me to build this for myself? Longer than you've been alive, worm. No one will forget me. Years from now, when I've died and none of my students walk the earth, people will whisper my name. They will be awed. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'VE DONE FOR THIS CITY. I SAVED THIS CITY. WITHOUT ME THERE WOULD BE NOTHING. I BROUGHT LIFE AND LIGHT WHERE THERE WAS DARKNESS AND DECAY. Sander Cohen will live forever. But you.. ha! I'm sure your family's already forgotten what you look like. Your mother and father slowly losing your image.. did she have brown or red hair? What color were her eyes? What was that thing she did when she was lying? After that goes your name. Everyone who you once knew will forget you and die, and you will die with them."
Cohen took the student by her shoulders and pulled her to her feet, and gently, tenderly took her face in his hands, softly caressing her pale bruised skin. His fingers brushed away the tears falling from her face. In their place were rivulets of clean skin, free from the mask of grime covering her body, as if part of her was trying one last time to escape.
Suddenly his grip tightened; her eyes widened. With a swift, violent twist, he broke her neck. Her body crumpled to the ground. Sander bent to check her pulse- nothing. He held her face to his- was she breathing? No. It was done.
Cohen straightened his back and took a bow, "Ladies and gentlemen! My fine folk, I do hope that you have enjoyed this piece., I know that I certainly did."
Over the next week, Cohen set to creating his last "living" sculpture. In a dressing room behind the stage were the bodies of the other four pupils. The scene was morbid. Their bodies were moulded into grotesque forms- he had replaced their bones with heavy wire. He soaked each corpse in a vat of formaldehyde. After they had been positioned and dried, he painted cloth strips with plaster and covered them in a thin layer from head to toe- but he paid special attention to the heads. He had meticulously cut and peeled off the skin off each of their faces and scalps. Once the plaster had dried, he fit the skin back over to create a horrific mask.
He brought each of them back to the stage and set them, ever so lovingly, aside each piano.
"What. What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you?"
Sander's head snapped to the door- someone had picked the lock. A silhouetted figure stood in the doorway, surrounded by bright flickering light.
"My name, son, is Sander. Sander. Fucking. Cohen. Who are you.. get out! Get out! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!"
"I was going to let you live- I've been kind so far. But that was too much. I can't allow you to get away with that. The newcomer stepped from the doorway into the faded, ash-covered carpet. Straight away, Sander noticed that something was different. He didn't look like a citizen of Rapture. He looked different. His eyes flit up and down the man and they stopped at his hands. One was behind his back- perhaps grasping something? The other was held in front of his chest, palm facing out.
"The fuck are you doing, kid." Sander scoffed, "Get going before I have to hurt you."
The man chuckled, "You, hurt me? That's a joke." His hand began to sizzle. Sparks played across his palm, flew from fingertip to fingertip.
Sander took a step toward him and before his foot hit the ground, he toppled over. His muscles were convulsing as if electricity was flowing through his veins. Lying on the ground, body stiff, Sander watched in horror as the figure walked closer. And closer. The man took his right hand from behind his back. He was carrying a huge wrench. Sanders' eyes widened with fear.
"That's right, you sick fuck. This 's for you."
The man took the wrench in both hands; sparks danced down the handle. The metal began to glow red-hot. He raised it above his head and brought it down on Sander Cohen's skull. It gave on the first hit. He died immediately, but the man didn't stop. He was filled with fury and frustration and sadness. He kept beating Cohen's dead body until it was no longer recognizable as a person.
He pulled the wrench out of the flesh and wiped it clean on a seat.
"Fuck you." He turned to leave and headed to the door but stopped as if he had remembered something important.
"You wanted to know who I am?" The man took a deep breath to steady his voice, "My name is Jack."