The young man felt like he'd walked onto another planet. It was so quiet here. No sound of human voice or movement, just the rustle, caw, and growl of animals come to feed on the dead.

The place looked like death, and smelled like death, and if Sam didn't know any better he'd think he wandered into Hell, or somebody's nightmare, or something. It was all too awful to be real. The bodies... the scorched earth, and the burnt-out hulk of what was once some grand palace of metal... he knew he'd have bad dreams of this place for a long time.

Sam looked again at his notes- investigate Mordland, find what happened to the people who go to pay their respects. Many had come since the night of the fire. Very few had come back, and the ones who had were too traumatized to speak of what they'd escaped from. People were believing the old stomping grounds of the world's most famous band were haunted, cursed. Honestly it wasn't the job that Sam would have taken, but freelance reporters take what they can get.

He hoped he'd get out of this alive.

Sighing, he suddenly stopped and snapped a few pictures. This was curious. There was a small assemblage of bodies here that looked much fresher than most, and each was mostly unharmed- killed, seemingly, by a single bullet shot through a vital place with incredible precision. As odd as that alone was, they seem to have been dragged from where they'd fallen. Another look told a possible reason why- they'd fallen on what seemed to be five graves.

Sam blinked in recognition. The names on the homemade headstones... these were the graves of Dethklok. Someone here had buried them. But was that person alive?

"...hello...?"

Dumb move, Finch. Real dumb. Way to call attention to yourseOH SHIT.

A bullet rips through his baggy jacket, grazing his arm and splashing his sleeve with blood. Looking up, panting, he catches the tiniest flash up in a high tower of the ruined building... dear lord, a scope?

A sniper, here? But...

Forget it, idiot, just run!

Long legs start pumping furiously, the skinny young reporter running for his life. He made it to cover, caught his breath. Kept running, ducked into the looming ruins.

A regular person would probably just leave, and Sam was sorely tempted to. But he was also a very curious young man, and maybe if he could unravel the mystery of who was killing visitors to Mordland and why... well, he'd have one gem of a story on his hands, one any paper'd pay really good money for an exclusive scoop on. Now, if he could just make it to that tower...

...check that, if he could just make it to that tower alive...
--------

That was stupid. It was an easy shot, the fool had been certainly drawing attention to himself. But he'd gotten away... and worse, was now treading in his inner sanctum, threatening to find him up here.

Perhaps it'd be for the better. He hadn't seen a live human face up close in days. Oh, the redheaded young man would have to DIE, unfortunately, and perhaps it'd be a bit more difficult face to face, but if shooting someone when you could see the whites of their eyes, after you'd spoken to them... if it was worse? He could go with that. The worse the better.

The blood was getting thicker on his hands. He could barely look himself in the mirror sometimes. But he did not regret. This was all for a reason.

It had been a hard trek up here- the elevators, of course, were out and the stairway had been half collapsed and half blocked with debris. He'd become very attuned, though, to navigating the perilous stair, and the climb was worth it- this place was one of the least touched by fire he'd found, there were many places to store the large cache of food he'd managed to salvage from the kitchens, and the view... the view, and therefore the range, was magnificent.

It should be. After all, it was his own office.

Sitting down, his rifle across his knees, Charles takes a deep drink from a glass of Courvoisier. He will wait on the boy. It might be an interesting diversion.

"...hey... hey, Ofdensen... you're being a real dick, you know."

Oh. Oh, fuck, not again. He wasn't listening. This wasn't real, it wasn't, it couldn't be. They were dead. He was going to fix that, but for now, they were dead. He'd buried them himself...

"...leave me alone... don't you understand, this is for you..."

"...can't believing you. You're beings selfish ands... ands dumb."
"I know we SCHAID some dumb sctuff, but we don't... we don't WANT thisch."

Charles could almost see him... pale and broken, limbs bent and angled horribly, leaning against the doorframe. His normally luminous green eyes flat and dead. The others stand behind him- burnt, broken, bleeding from gunshot wounds, all staring at him with accusing lifeless eyes...

"You has to stoppings this!"
"Yeah, dood, you're stronger than this, c'mon!"

"...please leave... stop haunting me, I told you... it's my fault it came out this way, just... just let me fix it!"

"Ofdensen."

The shambling corpse-Nathan drags himself forward, his flat eyes boring into Charles'.

"Come on back to us. We're waiting for you."

Cold, broken arms reached for the CFO, and in a blind reaction, he threw his half full brandy glass at the vengeful spirit of the vocalist.
---------

"Aw, DUDE. Seriously."

Well, this was a twist. He slipped into the tower room half expecting to be shot, and instead found himself splashed with what smelled like very expensive Cognac. He just hoped his camera hadn't gotten wet.

That initial shock out of the way, Sam looked around the room. It appeared to be a very stately office, a bit smoke damaged in places but otherwise not bad at all, considering the state of the other rooms he'd been through. There was also a man inside.

He was probably once very put together and maybe even handsome. At the moment, though, he looks like the kind of person you'd expect to find in a tower sniping at greiving metal fans, sort of- his hair is mussed, what was once a very nice suit dirty and torn and spattered with blood. His face is weary and unshaven, his glasses a bit bent and cracked in one lens.

For the tiniest second, Sam swore he saw sorrow and fear on that face. But as soon as he thought he saw it, it was gone, replaced by the coldest look the young reporter had ever seen.

"...who are you?"

"You've walked into my parlor, boy. I ought to be the one asking the questions. If I were you, I'd be telling me who YOU are."

"Um... I'm Sam. Sam Finch. I didn't come here to make trouble, I just wanted to find out what was going on. Um, I'm a reporter."

There's a tense silence. The man behind the desk eyed Sam with all the scrutiny a leopard would his prey. The young journalist swallows hard.

"I came to, um... there's been a lot of..."

Oh, way to be cool and professional there, Finch.

"Charles Foster Ofdensen."

"Pardon?"

"My name. You asked it, didn't you? You aren't a very good reporter if you can't even keep track of what you've asked."

"Sorry."

Geez. Despite his haggard appearance, there was something about the man that made Finch feel like he was in school and he'd come to class without his book report. Clearing his throat, he tries to get back on track.

"Mr. Ofdensen... what HAPPENED here? Everyone wants to know that, and everybody who comes to find out never comes back in one piece. There's something going on, something big..."

"There was a fire. A terrible fire. And an attack by the Revengencers. Dethklok... they died. Everyone died. Everyone but me. It was my fault- it was my job to be prepared, and I wasn't prepared enough. I shouldn't be alive."

The CFO laughed bitterly.

"Ultimo hombre, as they would say in Spanish. Last man standing. That's me. And I've only myself to blame. But that's alright. I'm going to fix it."

"Mr. Ofdensen? Unless you're one hell of a one-man contractor, I don't think there's any fixing this."

Sam sighed softly. He thinks he remembers the man's name and face now. He must have been... no, he was almost certain... he was Dethklok's manager. No wonder he was so messed up, especially if what he'd said about being the sole survivor of whatever disaster'd taken place here was true.

"Hey... why don't you come on back with me? This ain't no place for the living, man. Just... put the rifle down..."

He'd have to ask later why on earth he'd been sniping people... for all he knew, it was some sort of messed up flashback, like some war veterans got. It'd make sense. Sam just couldn't help but genuinely feel bad for the man, though, despite all logic saying that this was a horrible idea.

"Perhaps... perhaps you're right. Sam, did you say your name was? Yes. It's been ridiculous of me. Come here, boy, give me a hand."

Sam exhales. All's well that ends well, and maybe the manager'd be willing to talk to him more openly later. Crossing the floor, Sam approaches Charles, who oddly seems to be humming... was... was that a showtune?

i'd do anything... for you, boys, anything... yes i'd do anything...

It was like watching an animal spring. No sooner did Sam approach than he found himself gripped by the wrist and forcefully thrown toward the huge window, with no time to so much as steady himself before a brutally graceful roundhouse kick slams into his chest, sending him crashing through the smoke-tinged glass and to the ground below.

Charles watched his decent with a hard, cold, remorseless gaze, and didn't even blink when he hit the ground.

...anything for you.

It had to be enough by now. Perhaps, perhaps not. The only way to be sure was to continue until Selactia returned.

The killings will continue until I get what I want.