The smooth jazz music did little to sooth Dr. Avery's fast beating heart. Everything is so different now, here in his high tower. Trapped. Of course how could he possibly see it that way? He only feels he's doing what's right. Now his hospital is on the line and he can't just wave a wand to solve this problem. People he knows and cares for deeply have gone missing.
The names; all eight of them, written in a letter that lie crumpled beside him on the velvety black couch. The cherries and the dark glass of midnight wine do little to surpass the glass of his solidified mind. If the demons do not sleep tonight then neither will he. Chaos of the mind metal glint in soft night light so dim his eyes droop low in despair.
Only one of those names struck the core. Ms. Jo Wilson.
Brand new OB, but not new to the hospital. Wilson was a former general surgeon who now takes on the role of the one who brings life into the world. Today, she is to be tested. Only her eyes seal so tightly in restless sleep. She's trapped in a nightmare and Schmidt stands alone with the ghosts of what used to be a dance floor. Bachelors and bachelorettes found their match here. Some went home satisfied, others uncertain. A majority of people betrayed those they love in a drunken haze by sleeping with someone they knew wasn't going to be standing at the alter with them.
His hands found the back of a wooden chair and the dust circled in some light above him. A light pointed so prominently at her. A survivor. Light brown hair falls so daintily over her shoulder covering most of the strap of the guitar laid in her lap. Feet poised in stirrups attached to the stage. Four metal rods lay at seventy degrees angels enclosing her in a prisom of sorts.
It was here that artists would sit and look down on those who ran treys, cleaned up garbage, and took orders. The guests would throw themselves at the stage begging for a sheer spray of spit to stain their t shirts they got from the gift shop. The screams as a woman swerved her voice in a southern draw or a man shredded his guitar. Meanwhile a garbage boy can hardly hear the sound of Cimorelli in his ears over music he doesn't like to listen too.
A garbage boy who lies sleeping in a booth along the left wall. Schmidts left.
Levi's center the floor. Behind the sleeping employee is the tarp through which he just walked. Further back is the bar and a cocktail area. The wall stretching behind him is boarded up hiding the outside world. He's not looking at the high shelf dividing him from the front door. He's looking forward at the girl on the stage.
A girl from a different walk of life than Dr. Jackson Avery. A girl who would never be in a relationship with a man like that. A man with power was dangerous but hell, so was a woman. He had the letter in his hand again and the frightful woe of knowing that she wasn't at home, safe, was killing him. There's a price out on his head right now. He couldn't walk out the door if he wanted too. Right?
What awful things was happening to this girl he refused to let himself fall in love with?
I'll tell you.
A green haze illuminated over the tech panel to the right of the staircase and the elevator. A question mark in black on a hanging post card from the ceiling swaying in the light breeze from the drafty vents high up above the second floor. Garbage bags hang like clouds from the pipes and the sky walks for the light and camera men. Stage hands who were seldom heard from. Silent in passing through roaring crowds.
Dr. Schmidt made his way through the square tables, the rectangle high-tops, and the rounded corner booths. He walked past the tarp dividing him from the gift shop and reaching past a cubicle beam that stretched high displaying a mirror on all four sides and seeing his own battered bruised reflection he plucked the tape from it's tie and hold it in his bloody hands.
The releasing of the wire caused a rippling affect throughout the system. Monitors flashed on. Buttons lit up in an array of colors. Camera's revealed all the different locations and the silhouettes of future friends he'd be deciding the fate of. The flourish of a piano rang out 'Poison' by Freya Ridings was dancing in the air around them and it echoed in every room except one. The intro to the song was then silenced and Jo was awakened.
Her body shifted in the chaos so gently as her mind grasped the fact that she was not lying down. Her feet were trapped. Her hands ran along the polished wood of her instrument and the most terrifying feeling wove into her chest. Her eyes landed on bloody Schmidt and she cried out, "LEVI!"
He made his way to the stage and look at her, his eyes catching the irrationally thin lines that separated him from her. He wasn't about to push through them. He'd seen movies where the sigh was a little more of a fi. Where things like this happen. She made the connection and then the reality of what surrounded her rang out in her minds eye like the cry of a new born child.
"It's him isn't it." She said, "The guy from the news. The one all the memes are about? It's him huh?"
Dr. Levi Schmidt only nodded before holding up his little block, "Don't move. We have to find out how to play."
"You're negotiating with terrorists?" She furrowed a brow.
He shook his head vehemently and let out a gruff, "I'm trying to save your life."
How trodden the forces that weigh on them. Pain in a mind set. This is the world today. This is happening and I'm awake. I can't roll over in my sleep and slip into a different world. The blankets can't cradle me. I might die today. Oh but that's an every day thing for the people they work with. I might die.
So how will Jo face the still breathless bone of the grim reaper beneath his hood today? How will the veil reveal it's self?
A gentle hum. A fervent click. A voice. The same voice.
"Hello Jo. The ripple of silence among you is enough to ring in the ears isn't it? You must be very confused. Who? What? Why? No Jo. The question you should be asking is when. When did it all go wrong? When did the choices you made cause this effect to ripple enough to ring in your ears? You have twenty minutes on the clock above you that began the moment the string was released from it's position to play us a song. It must be the exact song of the day or every time you sing a sour note of the wrong tune and melody the devices on your feet release a electric pulse. Fail to sing the correct song and the four pendulums set up around you will create a harmony that dissect you. Think of it like a shriek. Instead of cheers from the audience you'll be experiencing howls from demons that rip you apart." Honestly an incredible feat. I find myself wishing to see the end result. Be a shame to let this trap go to waste but luckily for you my reader our hero disagrees.
Schmidt wipes his face, "Jo what are you hiding?"
Her face furrowed. What the fuck? I don't sing.
She wanted to mention out loud how insane this was. How unfair. Only no. She feared to even speak. What if it hits the jolts anyway.
Dr. Jackson Avery heard her sing. There in his tower he finds himself stalked by the synth waves and a haze that brings him to his knees against the glass of a window that makes up an entire wall. He shivers and shakes as he's hit with these illusions from no where of her pressing her hands to his face and using those lips of hers to serenade and persuade. Is it the wine? When he sees terror on her face he's most certain it's not.