HALLOWEEN. FIVE HOURS AGO.
B-TOOM.
"Helluva way to start the night off."
Both his pistols were unsheathed, the contrasting silver and black pair of square barrels freed from the crimson-red holsters that bound them while they were inactive and cold. The larger silver sword safely strapped behind his back, the man in red leaned against the alleyway wall, inches from the corner, dodging away from the already subduing explosion. His piercing green eyes steady and relaxed, he was prepared to go back into action again - he just needed mere moments to decide what to do next.
In spite of what happened minutes ago, the man in red breathed slow and deeply. Dry, unscathed, and stoic, his heart pumped slow and steady to the point that he seemed like he was sleeping, or in a coma. The smell of gunpowder reeked on his coat, along with the scent of asphalt and gasoline from the explosion - this man was busy, constantly moving around. But above all, this man in red stood out for this one reason - he was cold. Unusually cold. His body was only slightly warmer than a corpse. His skin barely radiated.
He was cold to the feel, cold to the touch.
This above all, warranted questions.
The man in red shifted his green eyes swiftly. A soft whup echoed from deeper in the dark alleyway. He saw nothing, save the black of darkness, but he knew someone, or something was there. Without a second breath, he whipped his arms into the alleyway, his silver and black square barrels pointing into the darkness. His body followed elegantly behind them, his silver hair streaming close behind him. Behind the barrels, his green eyes pierced the darkness ahead of him.
The darkness replied with a pair of dull, crimson eyes.
"Put the guns down," the pair of crimson eyes asked sternly.
The man in red's green eyes adjusted to the darkness - they had its share of staring into the unknown, and had its share of staring into blacker of scenes. Peeling some layers of shadow away, his green eyes etched a slim, hardened figure behind the crimson eyes, the crimson eyes that coldly replied to his stare.
"I don't ask twice," the eyes said. The guns pointed at them instilled not a shred of fear at all.
The man in red's expression did not change. His eyes slowly revealed the darker crimson that engulfed this figure's form, except for his nose and mouth which were exposed. Horns protruded from the top of the crimson-clad figure's forehead. Though covered in shadow, the letters "DD" were branded square in the middle of his chest.
"Too old to be dressing up for trick-or-treating, aren't you?" the man in red cracked, though his expression remained fixed.
"Too old to be playing Cowboys and Indians, aren't you?" the crimson figure replied, his eyes remaining fixed.
-------------------------------------
HALLOWEEN. EARLY MORNING.
"All right, you want an urban legend? Here's an old one.
"So, like, way back in the 1800's, like 1860's or whatever, there was this real smooth, really rich guy who lived in New York - Samuel Sonata. Some sort of wealthy shipping company owner or something like that - owned the shipping yards that went between Africa and the docks, pushing steel or whatever, right? Anyway, this guy was loaded, this guy had major bank.
"Samuel Sonata had everything, and I mean everything that a guy could ask for back then. Fancy mansion/brownstone, servants, close political association with William Tweed - y'know, that fat dude we learned back in grade school who was all corrupt or whatever - anyway, he was chillin with Willie Tweed, and on top of that, he even had a gang that answered directly to him, unlike most of them other gangs. The Ninth Circle, or something.
"Thing was, though, most of the regular New Yorkers back then hated this guy. The native New Yorkers hated him 'cuz he hired Irish. The Irish hated him because Sonata openly bashed on them. The immigrants hated him because he'd hire Irish for work, taking away their job opportunities - all in all, he was high rollin' business man, but rubbed New York the wrong way. But, no one came out with it because he was so rich and powerful, and he had the Ninth Circle backin' him up too. And back then, the Ninth Circle was the gang not to be messed with.
"Why? Think of it this way - most gangs had thieves, drunkards, poor people, hungry people, people who in general were young, inexperienced, and hotheaded. Pit these guys against a posse of war veterans - crazy war veterans, who probably took part in slaughter, massacre, maybe in some cases cannibalism - figure out who's gonna win.
"So, Samuel Sonata was rolling well, and things were in line even though New York basically had major beefs against him. Then, suddenly, BAM! New York riots. New York became a god-damn war zone. Complete chaos, violence, indiscriminate carnage and destruction. No one was spared. NO ONE. Not even the unstoppable Samuel Sonata.
"As soon as the riots hit, Sonata was one of the first - the neighborhood around him, from 76th to Main St. to even the Four Points, all raided his mansion, killed this guy's kids, raped and pounded this guy's wife to death, beat the living shit of his mistress, took him out on the street, and lynched him on a damn lamppost. And, just for good measure, they drenched him in kerosene and burned this guy to death.
"Hardcore stuff, huh?
"The legend has it that his flaming body burned and lit the chaotic street at night in red, and burned throughout the entire riots until the last day. And all throughout, people could hear him scream, usually faintly in latin - tyrannus a nox noctis, ultio a mi hostis.
" 'Lord of Darkness, revenge on my foes.' "
"On the last day of the riots, when the army finally got control of the city, Sonata's body was never found. Oddly enough, nobody from the Ninth Circle was ever found, dead or alive. Officially, the story goes that the gang split up, and Sonata's body probably burned to ashes. However, the rumors - and thus the legend said otherwise.
"While Sonata was burning to death, he made a deal with the devil - his soul at the services of Satan and hell itself, in exchange for revenge against his enemies, against the people who destroyed him. Basically, against New York - its neighborhoods and classes of people that brought him down.
"And on the last day of the riots, the Ninth Circle took his body and disappeared. The legend varies here a bit - some say that the Ninth Circle weren't human, but a group of wandering devils and demons sent by hell itself, others say that they were merely really weird, cannibalistic folks, but you know, whatever.
"Because of this, as New York went back to normal again, and as time passed by, many people say that especially during Halloween, the Night of Devils, Samuel Sonata's body can be seen, ever so slightly, at the exact spot he was lynched and burned. New Yorkers also say that late at night, from the minute Halloween begins, the Ninth Circle stalks the shadows and alleyways across the neighborhood, doing the bidding of their masters - Sonata, or the Lord of Darkness himself. Why they stalk the neighborhoods, or why Samuel Sonata haunts, the legend doesn't say. Some think that they are ghosts living the lives they once had before New York turned to shit. Others say that they are trying to bring their master, Sonata, back to life.
"Still others, however, hold this theory - and this is the one I find really cool. They say that Sonata's deal with the devil is that Sonata actually does some of the dirty work for hell. Sonata and the Ninth Circle haunt the living, purging the holy, recruiting the evil, yadda yadda, etcera, all that hell shit. In exchange, when the time is right, the devil would grant Sonata his revenge - massacre, destruction, and murder of all his enemies, of the neighborhood, once they would prosper.
"Thus, the legend of the Spirit of Sonata."
Tony took a large swig from his coffee cup.
"Bullshit," said Jack, sitting across from him. "I thought the Spirit of Sonata was like, some sort of musician or something like that."
"I thought Sonata was a woman," said Danny, sitting next to Jack, stuffing a large bite of pancake in his mouth.
"I'll bet you twenty it's true," Tony said.
"Nah, screw that. I'll bet you the bill you're full of it," Jack said.
"Who we gonna ask?" Danny muttered through a stuffed mouth of bacon and egg.
Tony rubbed his chin. "Authoritative source. We gotta ask someone who knows their shit. Um, hmmm . . ."
"I got this," Jack interrupted. "Waitress! Yo, waitress, come on over for a sec, we got a question to ask you!"
The waitress moved her way across the particularly empty diner and stood in front of the three.
"How may I help you?" asked the waitress.
"The Spirit of Sonata legend - musician, woman, or some rich dude?"
The waitress shrugged. "Isn't it some sort of song or something?"
"Ah, shit," Tony said. "We gotta find -"
"The Sonata Legend is, for the most part, true."
Tony, Jack, Danny, and the waitress turned to find the speaker, who was sitting just behind Tony at the corner of the Diner.
"You got most of the legend down," the speaker said again, his silver long hair partially covering his green eyes.
"That so?" Tony remarked, craning his head across the booth to see him.
"The story's good for the most part, except for two things. First, your Latin's off by a longshot, though you got the translation down ok. Secondly, the Ninth Circle ghosts? They're not demons. They're Sin-Eaters. Not a big difference, for the most part, but Sin-Eaters are more shadowy and evil-like than demons."
The silver-haired man stood up from the table, his money already left on the table as he made his way out of the diner.
"And how the hell do you know all that?" asked Jack, half-coyly.
"Let's just say that I know these things," the silver-haired man said. He nodded to the waitress. "Thanks for breakfast."
B-TOOM.
"Helluva way to start the night off."
Both his pistols were unsheathed, the contrasting silver and black pair of square barrels freed from the crimson-red holsters that bound them while they were inactive and cold. The larger silver sword safely strapped behind his back, the man in red leaned against the alleyway wall, inches from the corner, dodging away from the already subduing explosion. His piercing green eyes steady and relaxed, he was prepared to go back into action again - he just needed mere moments to decide what to do next.
In spite of what happened minutes ago, the man in red breathed slow and deeply. Dry, unscathed, and stoic, his heart pumped slow and steady to the point that he seemed like he was sleeping, or in a coma. The smell of gunpowder reeked on his coat, along with the scent of asphalt and gasoline from the explosion - this man was busy, constantly moving around. But above all, this man in red stood out for this one reason - he was cold. Unusually cold. His body was only slightly warmer than a corpse. His skin barely radiated.
He was cold to the feel, cold to the touch.
This above all, warranted questions.
The man in red shifted his green eyes swiftly. A soft whup echoed from deeper in the dark alleyway. He saw nothing, save the black of darkness, but he knew someone, or something was there. Without a second breath, he whipped his arms into the alleyway, his silver and black square barrels pointing into the darkness. His body followed elegantly behind them, his silver hair streaming close behind him. Behind the barrels, his green eyes pierced the darkness ahead of him.
The darkness replied with a pair of dull, crimson eyes.
"Put the guns down," the pair of crimson eyes asked sternly.
The man in red's green eyes adjusted to the darkness - they had its share of staring into the unknown, and had its share of staring into blacker of scenes. Peeling some layers of shadow away, his green eyes etched a slim, hardened figure behind the crimson eyes, the crimson eyes that coldly replied to his stare.
"I don't ask twice," the eyes said. The guns pointed at them instilled not a shred of fear at all.
The man in red's expression did not change. His eyes slowly revealed the darker crimson that engulfed this figure's form, except for his nose and mouth which were exposed. Horns protruded from the top of the crimson-clad figure's forehead. Though covered in shadow, the letters "DD" were branded square in the middle of his chest.
"Too old to be dressing up for trick-or-treating, aren't you?" the man in red cracked, though his expression remained fixed.
"Too old to be playing Cowboys and Indians, aren't you?" the crimson figure replied, his eyes remaining fixed.
-------------------------------------
HALLOWEEN. EARLY MORNING.
"All right, you want an urban legend? Here's an old one.
"So, like, way back in the 1800's, like 1860's or whatever, there was this real smooth, really rich guy who lived in New York - Samuel Sonata. Some sort of wealthy shipping company owner or something like that - owned the shipping yards that went between Africa and the docks, pushing steel or whatever, right? Anyway, this guy was loaded, this guy had major bank.
"Samuel Sonata had everything, and I mean everything that a guy could ask for back then. Fancy mansion/brownstone, servants, close political association with William Tweed - y'know, that fat dude we learned back in grade school who was all corrupt or whatever - anyway, he was chillin with Willie Tweed, and on top of that, he even had a gang that answered directly to him, unlike most of them other gangs. The Ninth Circle, or something.
"Thing was, though, most of the regular New Yorkers back then hated this guy. The native New Yorkers hated him 'cuz he hired Irish. The Irish hated him because Sonata openly bashed on them. The immigrants hated him because he'd hire Irish for work, taking away their job opportunities - all in all, he was high rollin' business man, but rubbed New York the wrong way. But, no one came out with it because he was so rich and powerful, and he had the Ninth Circle backin' him up too. And back then, the Ninth Circle was the gang not to be messed with.
"Why? Think of it this way - most gangs had thieves, drunkards, poor people, hungry people, people who in general were young, inexperienced, and hotheaded. Pit these guys against a posse of war veterans - crazy war veterans, who probably took part in slaughter, massacre, maybe in some cases cannibalism - figure out who's gonna win.
"So, Samuel Sonata was rolling well, and things were in line even though New York basically had major beefs against him. Then, suddenly, BAM! New York riots. New York became a god-damn war zone. Complete chaos, violence, indiscriminate carnage and destruction. No one was spared. NO ONE. Not even the unstoppable Samuel Sonata.
"As soon as the riots hit, Sonata was one of the first - the neighborhood around him, from 76th to Main St. to even the Four Points, all raided his mansion, killed this guy's kids, raped and pounded this guy's wife to death, beat the living shit of his mistress, took him out on the street, and lynched him on a damn lamppost. And, just for good measure, they drenched him in kerosene and burned this guy to death.
"Hardcore stuff, huh?
"The legend has it that his flaming body burned and lit the chaotic street at night in red, and burned throughout the entire riots until the last day. And all throughout, people could hear him scream, usually faintly in latin - tyrannus a nox noctis, ultio a mi hostis.
" 'Lord of Darkness, revenge on my foes.' "
"On the last day of the riots, when the army finally got control of the city, Sonata's body was never found. Oddly enough, nobody from the Ninth Circle was ever found, dead or alive. Officially, the story goes that the gang split up, and Sonata's body probably burned to ashes. However, the rumors - and thus the legend said otherwise.
"While Sonata was burning to death, he made a deal with the devil - his soul at the services of Satan and hell itself, in exchange for revenge against his enemies, against the people who destroyed him. Basically, against New York - its neighborhoods and classes of people that brought him down.
"And on the last day of the riots, the Ninth Circle took his body and disappeared. The legend varies here a bit - some say that the Ninth Circle weren't human, but a group of wandering devils and demons sent by hell itself, others say that they were merely really weird, cannibalistic folks, but you know, whatever.
"Because of this, as New York went back to normal again, and as time passed by, many people say that especially during Halloween, the Night of Devils, Samuel Sonata's body can be seen, ever so slightly, at the exact spot he was lynched and burned. New Yorkers also say that late at night, from the minute Halloween begins, the Ninth Circle stalks the shadows and alleyways across the neighborhood, doing the bidding of their masters - Sonata, or the Lord of Darkness himself. Why they stalk the neighborhoods, or why Samuel Sonata haunts, the legend doesn't say. Some think that they are ghosts living the lives they once had before New York turned to shit. Others say that they are trying to bring their master, Sonata, back to life.
"Still others, however, hold this theory - and this is the one I find really cool. They say that Sonata's deal with the devil is that Sonata actually does some of the dirty work for hell. Sonata and the Ninth Circle haunt the living, purging the holy, recruiting the evil, yadda yadda, etcera, all that hell shit. In exchange, when the time is right, the devil would grant Sonata his revenge - massacre, destruction, and murder of all his enemies, of the neighborhood, once they would prosper.
"Thus, the legend of the Spirit of Sonata."
Tony took a large swig from his coffee cup.
"Bullshit," said Jack, sitting across from him. "I thought the Spirit of Sonata was like, some sort of musician or something like that."
"I thought Sonata was a woman," said Danny, sitting next to Jack, stuffing a large bite of pancake in his mouth.
"I'll bet you twenty it's true," Tony said.
"Nah, screw that. I'll bet you the bill you're full of it," Jack said.
"Who we gonna ask?" Danny muttered through a stuffed mouth of bacon and egg.
Tony rubbed his chin. "Authoritative source. We gotta ask someone who knows their shit. Um, hmmm . . ."
"I got this," Jack interrupted. "Waitress! Yo, waitress, come on over for a sec, we got a question to ask you!"
The waitress moved her way across the particularly empty diner and stood in front of the three.
"How may I help you?" asked the waitress.
"The Spirit of Sonata legend - musician, woman, or some rich dude?"
The waitress shrugged. "Isn't it some sort of song or something?"
"Ah, shit," Tony said. "We gotta find -"
"The Sonata Legend is, for the most part, true."
Tony, Jack, Danny, and the waitress turned to find the speaker, who was sitting just behind Tony at the corner of the Diner.
"You got most of the legend down," the speaker said again, his silver long hair partially covering his green eyes.
"That so?" Tony remarked, craning his head across the booth to see him.
"The story's good for the most part, except for two things. First, your Latin's off by a longshot, though you got the translation down ok. Secondly, the Ninth Circle ghosts? They're not demons. They're Sin-Eaters. Not a big difference, for the most part, but Sin-Eaters are more shadowy and evil-like than demons."
The silver-haired man stood up from the table, his money already left on the table as he made his way out of the diner.
"And how the hell do you know all that?" asked Jack, half-coyly.
"Let's just say that I know these things," the silver-haired man said. He nodded to the waitress. "Thanks for breakfast."