10-3 There's a fire!

Gravity was the only thing keeping Skwisgaar's feet moving down the stairs. He dared not give himself the slightest pause, or he would turn around and bolt straight back up to his room. His skin was washed clean of champagne but he could still feel Pelle's hands on him, which made him feel dirty all over again.

Security hoods opened the doors to the great hall as he approached. The small gust of wind from the huge doors brushed over his face and neck, just like Pelle's breath. He bristled and suppressed a grimace. The night was far from over and every industry douchebag would be watching him. With a calming inhale, he pursed his lips into his most regal pout and pulled himself up to his full height.

Show time.

A general murmur from the crowd greeted him as he strode into the main hall. Guests whispered into their drinks and Canapes as he passed, but he would have been more nervous if they hadn't; The worst thing for a crowd to be, is silent. A flash of red blood on Polish snow; He bit the inside of his lip. Ok, silent was the second worst thing.

He scanned the room for Toki clutching a half a bottle of Akavitt, but instead, his eyes fell on an Actress with flowing brunette hair standing a few meters away. She smiled at him and he thought that pushing her dress up on the Haus kitchen counter might be a suitable distraction from his swirling thoughts of the studio couch. Between the Album and dealing with Toki, Skwisgaar hadn't had much quality time with the ladies. In fact, he was trying to remember the last pair of breasts he'd run his calloused finger tips over, when Charles rounded on him.

"Skwisgaar." Charles put a hand on the guitarist's back and guided him across the room, much to the actress's annoyance. "Are you, ah, alright? We need you on your 'A' game."

"Ja, ams fine." Skwisgaar lied. He glanced back at the actress apologetically as Charles pushed him farther away.

They stopped near what looked like a thirteen year old boy with pock marks and a foul attitude.

"This is the label head's son," Charles said and felt the physical deflation of Skwisgaar's lungs, "He had a few quick questions about guitar. You two have fun." He seemed confident that Skwisgaar would stick this conversation out so removed his hand and walked away holding the bridge of his nose under his glasses; They just had to get through tonight.

Skwisgaar stood there with a slight hunch in front of the kid and re-evaluated the speech he had given Pelle only moments ago. Even as a God, it was this shit that kept him in ruby metronomes. The feeling of Pelle's hand on his neck made him clench his back teeth. He crossed his arms against the imaginary touch.

"One day, I'm going to be the fastest guitarist alive." The boy said. Skwisgaar's whole body tensed even more. He tried not to take this as an open challenge but wasn't doing very well at it. "One day, I'm going to be the greatest guitar player ever!" The kid continued.

"Good, goods for you." Skwisgaar managed to get past his gritted teeth. He looked at the greasy, human equivalent of a TV dinner. He was no real threat, he didn't even have calloused fingers yet. Besides, just saying you are going to be the best is meaningless unless you follow through. That's what he had been trying to get through Toki's head for years.

Toki. He scanned the room again but couldn't see him. Murderface was holding his lower back and bragging to some other label-mate band members about his land slide victory for the position as Band Fire-chief. Next to him was Nathan, who was looking very bored and strangely sober. Skwisgaar sighed and not-so-discreetly pulled out his Dethphone. Perhaps he couldn't deal with his own shit and Toki right now, and Nathan had said to come to him in these situations.

[Stuk talkings to Roys tieny Dildo. Can you checks on Toki?] - Skwisgaar, 11:28pm.

He sent the message and watched as Nathan reached into his pocket, read his phone then tapped out a reply.

[I'm stuck talking to Dildos too. Actually, come over here when you're done, they are asking about the Twin Lead? Dafaq?] - Nathan, 11:29 pm.

Skwisgaar shoved his phone in his pocket and crossed his arms tighter, fret fingers tapping his right tricep. Twin lead, pfft. No one knew what they were talking about. They weren't the guitar god of the new age. They hadn't spent night after night in the studio honing those solos to perfection, pushing through all the hate and anger and, and… something else. His fingers pressed hard on his skin.

"So what kind of amps do you use?" The kid asked genuinely.

"Ones whats makes my guitars louder." Skwisgaar replied in just the level of sarcasm that couldn't get him in trouble with Roy later. His mind was back on the album; what was it that people thought they could hear?

It's right there, in the twin lead. Who do you have that much passion for?

A flash of sky blue eyes begging him not to go back to the studio swooped through his mind like a falcon. What the hell had that little dildo been doing down there? He wasn't supposed to be there. No one was.

Toki had it all now. Everything of Skwisgaar, laid bare. He'd torn through the last layer of his soul, found his deepest, darkest, most shameful secret and watched it twist him around its little finger. And the worst part, Toki had actually come to his rescue. No, that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was he'd been so relieved that he had. Humiliation bubbled in the back of his throat, or perhaps that was remnants of Akavitt, there wasn't really any difference.

His fingernails on his right hand dug into his left tricep as his fret fingers continued the silent song on the other.

"How many strings do you take on tour with you?" The kid asked. Skwisgaar looked at him. What the hell kind of question was that?

"How many packs or how many strings by demselves?" He asked back pointedly.

"How many strings by themselves?"

Damn, trapped by his own question. He didn't know the answer, why would he? That was like asking how many women he'd had writhing in his sheets, or how many practice sessions he'd had or times he'd yelled at Toki for not playing better. He clenched his back teeth together again. Fucking Toki. He really couldn't think of how many fights they'd had. He could count the number for Nathan and Pickels, even Charles, but not Toki, there'd been something like…

"One millions." Skwisgaar said. It sounded like a good number. Sounded about right for the many years they had been playing together. But not just playing together; They had been living together, eating together, finding their way through this foreign country, together.

"So what kind of leads do you use? Do you use wireless?"

Skwisgaar was thrown, the kid had finally asked a good question. He'd recently sent off for a new shipment of custom guitars, one of which he was more eager to get back than any of the others. "Well dat ams actually intrestings. I has been messings around wit"

"I'm gunna go." The kid said abruptly and ran off into the crowd.

Skwisgaar didn't even bother to look where he had gone, he just stood, arms crossed, and brooded over the lack of appreciation. A large part of the progress in music technology had come from Dethklok's own research labs. Not to mention Skwisgaar's own willingness to push guitar tech to its brink. Just look at the show they had just played hundreds of feet in the air! That sort of thing doesn't just happen.

He thought back to their first show in Tampa; now that was a crappy set up. Toki's cable was so loose it fell out half way through the show; or he'd stepped on it. No surprise if he had, Toki was so nervous that night.

Skwisgaar's fingers twitched again over invisible strings as he remembered Toki pacing back and forth, clutching at his guitar's neck and peaking out through the curtain every few seconds. He remembered looking at him and thinking back to his own first show in some friend's lounge room for a birthday party. Toki was popping his performance cherry on a real stage to a real crowd, he must be freaking out. Empathic butterflies fluttered around in his own stomach. "Dont's worry, Little Toki." He said then placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Just follows my lead".

His fingers stopped tapping on his bicep; On those invisible strings, he had been playing Toki's part.

"Jesus Christ, Skwisgaar! You look like your favourite groupie just got married." Pickles's reassuring hand reached high to land on his shoulder as he pushed a beer bottle onto his chest. Seems like Charles decided against re-building the champagne tower.

Skwisgaar remembered to breathe then reset his features. "Pfft, likes dat has ever been mattering." He forced a half smile and sipped his beer, desperately trying to wash down the anxiety of the evening. "Has you seens Toki?"

"Nah, not for a while. Probably passed out somewhere, I wouldn't worry about 'im." Pickles didn't sound convinced. "Geeze, just look at these industry douchebags." He said through the chain-link fence of a fake smile. He looked around the room in disdain. "All o' them with their greasy palms out for their cut of our money. And we have to throw them a party. What bullshit. Just dancin' for the cracker. Dancin' for the feckin' cracker." He turned to Skwisgaar, "So where'd you disappear to?"

Like a half-mechanical drunken angel, Dick Knubbler fell through the crowd and stumbled in front of them.

"Congrats!" He took Pickels's hand with both of his and shook it, "Hugs all around, congrats!" Across the room, two hoods were carefully taking a large water-filled cube down to the lower levels.

"What's that?" Pickles asked Knubbler.

"Oh that's the master record, they're just locking it up in the vault." He cupped his hand to yell over the crowd at them. "Hey! Careful with that boys, that's our livelihood!"

"Should we scream 'secret vault' at the top of our lungs like that?" Pickles questioned under his breath.

"It's a party, I don't give a fuck!" Knubbler threw his hands in the air and gave a hedonistic 'Whooo'.

"Hey, we are puttings our valuables in de secret vaults, everybody checks it out!" Skwisgaar was unable to hide his contempt for every industry douchebag in the room, even Knubbler at this point; Although he was still thankful for the distraction.

He took another large sip of his beer and thought briefly of Pelle in the cold, dank of the Mordhaus dungeons. He wished the hoods could swing by his cell on the way down just to rub the perfectly analogue master record in Pelle's, by now, purple and swollen face.

Charles would have to release him eventually since Hammerstorm were also signed to Crystal Mountain Records; But not until suitable 'persuasion' had been administered to keep his mouth shut. The thought of jumper leads attached to Pelle's nether regions made Skwisgaar smile for real. The music industry was a brutal business.

Speaking of Charles, where was he? Skwisgaar looked over the heads of the party goers. If there were more idiots he would make him talk to, he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Dance for his cracker, then curl up in bed with a good vodka and that brown haired actress. He hoped Toki had just passed out somewhere. He'd have to face him in the morning, but at least tonight couldn't get any worse.

Scene # 3 - Attacked

Midnight struck and a shock wave rippled through the beams above the great hall. Every cocktail glass shook, every plate wobbled. The guests gasped as the boom from whatever had hit the Haus filled the entire room drowning out the music. Pickles stumbled and grabbed onto Skwisgaar. He looked up at the guitarist with dread filled eyes. Danzig.

Another volley sent everyone in the room to their knees. The sound beat hard at their ears, attacking their balance and making their heads feel like they would explode. Skwisgaar forced himself to his feet and looked around the room franticly for his band mates.

Flames erupted from the wall where the force had hit and Muderface's voice pierced through the screams.

"Stay calm and Lay low." He said over his megaphone, adopting his role as band fire-chief. "I will usher you to safety."

Knubbler made a run for it, pushing at the exit with the other guests but stopped and turned to Pickles.

"The Master! Save the Master!" He yelled across the room.

"What?!" Pickles rubbed his eyes, smoke was filling the room.

"The Master RECORD!" Knubbler said as part of the flaming ceiling fell between them.

Pickles and Skwisgaar looked at each other. The master record. They silently weighed up the importance of saving their life's work versus their actual life. Then Nathan barrelled through the crowd towards them Like a professional NFL football player.

His eyes darted from Skwisgaar, to Pickles, to Murderface on the other side of the room, then back to Skwisgaar. "Where the fuck is Toki?!"

Panic finally hit Skwisgaar full force. He dropped any form of composure letting a flurry of snow-speak melt into the hot air of the room. His eyes darted around frantically for the long chestnut hair of the idiot Norwegian.

"The Master!" Knubbler hollered before he was swept out the door with the river of silk dresses and singed dinner jackets.

"Fucks de Album! I have to gets Toki outs of here!" Skwisgaar tried to push past Nathan but found his arms were pinned on both sides.

Pickles looked into Nathan's grim face and a silent plan was agreed between them.

The outer corners of Nathan's eyes dipped as he looked at his guitarist. "This album, it's too important. It's bigger than us, there's something else behind it, some kind of power we don't understand." Nathan's face was completely serious. "I know I'm not the only one who feels it. This Album, it's our masterpiece."

"And it wouldn'ts be without Toki!" Skwisgaar pulled at Nathan's hold on him, "So get de fucks out of my way!"

"HEY!" Nathan squeezed tighter as he watched Pickels's Asthma get the better of him. "You're not the only one who cares about him, OK!?" Another beam fell from the ceiling, Nathan's hands trembled and he released his hold slightly. "We're running out of time, we need to work as a team. I'll find Toki, but I need you to get the Master and," His face turned grave as Pickles held his middle as he coughed. "And Pickles out of here in one piece."

Skwisgaar's chest tightened and released rapidly. Work as a team, huh? He was certainly more nimble than Nathan but the smoke was already slowing him down. Nathan defied the flames and powered on. He was Toki's best chance.

Pickles began choking again. Nathan looked to him with a longing to protect him too. Skwisgaar realised that he was putting Toki in Nathan's hands, but Nathan was putting Pickles in his. He raised his head and looked into Nathan's emerald eyes, tipped with steel. He clasped his hands on Nathan's arms, mimicking Nathan's grip on him.

"You don't stops till you finds him." He gripped the vocalist at full strength, "You finds him and gets him out safe." Pickles coughed and Skwisgaar glanced behind him, "and I does de sames for Pickle."

Nathan looked at Pickles, then back to Skwisgaar and nodded curtly. He released Skwisgaar, then turned towards the flames. Skwisgaar watched Nathan sprint into the smoke, hoping his act of bravery would warrant Odhin's protection. Pickles was still struggling to breathe. He ushered him down the stairs and away from the haze invading his lungs.

Many instruments decorated the walls of Mordhaus. The band members had developed a nasty habit of smashing them in little fits of rage, which was often, so Charles had ordered the hoods to keep spares close at hand. Skwisgaar pulled a Gibson Explorer from the wall of the stairwell. Its calming vibrations extended past its crisp tone to its usefulness as a blunt weapon. Pickles took some drum sticks from the wall as his weapon of choice.

They crept quickly down the stairs, almost cat like, making sure that each step was solid before taking the next. They reached the security door and Pickles pressed his thumb to the panel. It beeped open on bio-metric recognition and they hurried inside the vault. The Master record was a tea chest sized tank of luke-warm pink fluid with a second clear box inside containing metal cylinders; each a burnt water song.

"How the hell are we gunna get this great, big thing out o' here in all this fucking chaos?" Pickles stroked his goatee quickly in anxious thought.

Two sets of footsteps echoed in the stairwell and his musings were disrupted. Skwisgaar's neck hair bristled as his hackles curled up as tight as a yard wolf's.

The green shine from their assailants' eyes cut through the firelight; the same colour as the eyes of the deranged fans at Slaughter Fest. The same eyes as that bitch who tried to kill Toki. He gripped the guitar neck tighter as a warmth grew inside him.

It started in Skwisgaar's gut and pushed its way out into his chest, his arms, his legs. A dark, heavy, smoldering blackness ignited within him and every muscle in his body screamed for him to fight. To protect the Master, to protect Pickles, to fight for his Haus, his band, his art.

"Gets behind me." He said to Pickles and brought his guitar up and over his shoulder to serve as a war hammer.

He stared straight back into the green glowing dots. The eyes of trolls from caves in the mountain side, of sea serpents from the depths. He channelled all his Viking ancestors as he brought the instrument down and across in a sweeping motion to connect with the attacker's side. Ribs cracking under his blow invigorated him. Pickles tried to gorrot the other with his drumstick, realising that, perhaps, it wasn't the best weapon to pick given the circumstances. Skwisgaar brought his Gibson up again and swung hard into the man's stomach as Pickles held him in place. The zombie crumpled over like an accordion at the shoes of the drummer.

"Damn! That went all the way through him." Pickles said and put a hand to his own gut, feeling the residual blow.

"And de necks am still staights." Skwisgaar marvelled as he inspected his guitar for damage, his arms still shaking from the impact.

The black flames coursed through him. He could feel his own fire, his own hate again. Hate for these zombies, for the fans who attacked them, for anyone who dared raise a hand against his band, his home, his family. This was the fire that made him jump into bar fights Nathan started, or slag off a reporter who dissed Murderface, or hurl hot cookies at the camera man who wouldn't get out of Pickles's face on Celebrity Bake Off. This fire didn't burn for his own ambition. It burned for someone else; dark and fierce.

Pickles turned and walked over to the tank. "There is no way we can carry this outta here. Not if it, and us, wanna get out in one piece." He exhaled long and slow in deliberation, "Fuck it. looks like there's no other option here." Carefully, he dipped his hand into the warm water of the containment tank and lifted out the metal silos that made up the master record. He brought one up to his face, popped the top, and chugged it down. He grimaced and shook his head involuntarily before taking the next of twelve and chugging that one too.

One of the green eyed militia groaned on the floor. Skwisgaar brought his weapon down on his back and he lay still again. He thought of Charles barking orders to the hoods; of Murderface leading the shrieking guests outside; of Nathan, barrelling through the flames above, searching relentlessly for Toki. His heart sank. How many of these Rambo wannabe dicks had Nathan been fighting as he ran down corridor after flaming corridor searching for Toki? Sweat trickled from his forehead and he blinked the hot salt from his eye.

He looked to Pickles, panting and chugging, doing his part to protect their legacy. Skwisgaar blinked again and wiped the sweat from his brow. He could do this, he could protect Pickles and the album. This was a one time special show and he had a new part to play. He brought his axe up to rest across his shoulders as he stood guard over the drummer. These were deeds that would earn protection from the Gods, if not for him, then for the rest of the band.

"Last one." Pickles panted, "Come on you fucking Irish dog. You can do this!" He said to himself and forced the last song down, shaking the empty canister in victory when he finished. With a hand on his belly, Pickles carefully stepped over the two guys on the floor impersonating bear skin rugs and followed behind Skwisgaar as they got the hell out of there.