Heart of Steel

[Author's Note: Sorry I've been away for so long, everyone. School work has kept me busy. Here is Part One of a story I've been working on for a while. This is still a rough draft, but I do hope you enjoy it. Reviews are welcome.]

Chapter 1: An Ancient Sign of Coming Storm

An eerie echo emanated forth from what seemed an endless void, yawning open in every direction, silent yet eternally present. The echo solidified into a faint, wailing scream, a cry of agony and terror, a protestation against one's grim fate. As the cry droned on in unheeded desperation, a crackling sound swirled out of the mist to surround and bolster it, a cacophonous torrent of static noise, dissonance in its purest form. Then, from nowhere, over this amalgamation of torment, came the laughter: low and grim, then rising in fervor, pitch, and volume to a maniacal crescendo that seemed to shake the unseen boundaries of this abysmal prison. And then the drums kicked in with a blazing blast-beat, the dissonance settled into a tremolo-picked guitar riff, the atmosphere and ambience of this void became an artfully played synthesizer swelling and fading into the mix, creating atmospheres perfect for this grimly operatic piece, over which soared, howled, shrieked, and gurgled the haunted vocals.

Necrosadist's album spun in the CD-CHANGER of Tristan's sizeable stereo. The unit had cost him a good sum of his birthday money two years ago, and had earned him the raised eyebrows of his parents when he'd carted it out to the car. / A/ /sixteen/ /year-/old,/ they said, /doesn't need a big stereo system for anything useful./ Sixteen year-old Tristan disagreed. Looking back on it, eighteen year-old Tristan disagreed, too.

Flopping back on the couch, brushing a black strand of hair out of his eyes, he let out a contented sigh as the sounds of the biggest local black metal band wafted over him like the scent of a fine wine that only the most discriminating of tasters could truly enjoy. The band, in Tristan's opinion, captured the symphonic elements of Emperor, the raw bombastic sonic smiting of Burzum, and the theatricality of Mayhem's stage presence, all in one perfect, evil package.

"Lo, into the void I walk," sang the seemingly-agonized vocalist, "and into its depths did I stare. Plunging in shadows my chains ripped asunder, and mountains I crumbled without care."

Tristan loved this part of the song. He leapt onto his couch, bringing up his hands into the mighty air-guitar pose. Up-turning his clean-shaven face, letting his long black hair flow out behind him, he sang along:

"And as from the moorings of mortality, I so blissfully tore. Now into the skies of wicked ascension, I gracefully spread, MY, WINGS, AND... SOAR!!"

The last word erupted from a deep scream into a heart-stopping operatic note, which Tristan strove to match. / Those vocal lessons are paying off,/ he thought, /this doesn't hurt my throat at all./ He sang along with reckless abandon in the privacy of his own abode, knowing no one would see him being so... natural, no one would challenge him for his bold, wild abandon.

Tristan was not usually quite so gregarious, not so outwardly expressive. He often found himself channeling his desire to leap about, to sing and perform, into his writing or his private thoughts. But today, this time, this place, was different. Firstly, he was home, in his off-campus apartment, away from prying eyes and scornful words. He was free to be silly, crazy, normal by his own standards, to be what he felt compelled to be. But one reason made today even more specifically special, more a reason to cut loose and relax. And that reason lay on Tristan's coffee table, the one his parents had provided when they helped him furnish his apartment for college.

Tristan hopped down from the couch, his bare feet padding softly on the carpet as he landed lightly on the balls of his feet, like he always did. / Silent/ /landing,/ he told himself proudly, /silent, cat-like, and deadly, for I am the warrior./ This brought a smile to his face, a creepy smile to others perhaps, but a smile of joy to Tristan. Leaning over, he picked up the piece of paper from his coffee table and looked at it again, looking at it once more as if to assure himself that it was real. / Necrosadist, live at The Den, September 31st, 9:00 pm./ And today was that very day.

Tristan's heart beat faster just thinking about it, his blood stirred within him an anxious fervor, a need to move wildly and revel in the excitement. Tristan was not a big guy, by any stretch of the imagination. At a roughly average height and a slender build, he was nowhere near the mighty barbarians hailed in his beloved heavy metal anthems. His pale skin and long dark hair did fit him in nicely with the metal crowd, though his hair was well-cleaned and not the least bit greasy. Tristan was much too picky to let his hair become matted and repellent. It just wasn't in his nature. The very thought made his skin crawl.

But now was a time for rejoicing, for Necrosadist was only three short hours away. Tristan had to prepare himself for the show. To that end, he strode into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes and entering the small bathroom. He worked the shower knobs until a warm stream issued forth from the showerhead, and then he stepped beyond the curtain and let the water surround him.

Tristan always loved water, ever sense he was a child he'd loved it. Swimming, running in the rain, even bathing. Water was so relaxing, so comforting. When you floated in it, it was like you were being held, cradled by an unseen but benevolent presence, kept safe and comfortable. Now, in the shower, he simply stood as if in a trance, his hands mechanically moving through his long, thick hair, letting the hot water wash it out. The sensation was pleasurable beyond compare.

When he felt clean, Tristan stepped out of the shower, firmly turning the knobs to ensure the stream entirely ended and didn't continue with that irksome little trickle that would so annoy him later. After drying off, he enshrouded himself in his black bathrobe and walked briskly into the living room, shivering in the cold air. From over his bed, his poster of Milla Jovovich from a promotion for the movie UltraViolet stared down at him, menacingly. He smiled up at her, even as she brandished an automatic weapon in the general direction of his CD tower. From another wall, Manowar's faceless Immortal Warrior held aloft a flag on a poster festooned with flags of the world's nations. This soon had Tristan humming the chorus to Manowar's "Warriors of the World" as he opened his closet to procure his attire for the night.

Heavy metal fashion was, to the outsider, paradoxical. If heavy metal fans, these metalheads, listened to this music to rebel, why did they all want to look the same? How could they criticize others for following a crowd when they looked similarly themselves? Tristan and any other knowledgeable headbanger knew that this view was full of shit, like those people who unleashed such gems of wisdom as: /tattoos are so popular now, the rebellious thing to do is to not have one./ Metal, for its fans, was a source of solidarity, it was something that linked them all together. They were alienated from the mainstream culture, but like moths to a light they were drawn to metal, for it espoused their views, intrigued their intellects, made real their fantasies. They wouldn't all be grouped together listening to the same music if they didn't share at least something in common, and an aesthetic naturally arose from, or perhaps helped stimulate, this fact. What good was a subculture that so based itself on rebellion that it had to rebel against itself? Metal wasn't founded on rebellion, it was founded on individuality, independence, a ferocious speaking of one's mind, and barbarian warriors fighting demons and evil wizards. If that happened to be rebellious, so be it.

Tristan mused on these facts as he laid out his clothes on the bed. Black jeans, a sleeveless black shirt sporting a Slayer logo on the front, studded leather wristbands, a gleaming silver bullet-belt, and of course, his black, steel-toed boots. Add to that the silver Thor's hammer pendant which he never removed, and Tristan was entirely geared up for the glorious events of the evening.

Tickets were only $15, and Tristan had managed to scrape that cash together selling some old movies and books at a local used bookstore. It was all worth it, all going to pay off in just a little while. Tristan couldn't believe it was really happening: his first heavy metal show, and with his favorite local group no less. With that in mind, he pocketed his wallet, cell phone, and apartment key, and strode boldly from his apartment, locking his door and double-checking its security before he stomped down the stairs in his heavy boots.

Tristan was not normally so publicly confident. But everything was different tonight. The atmosphere charged him, his clothing was his armor, metal was his fuel and his objective. He was strong this night, despite his lack of actual muscles, he was ready to be heard despite his shy demeanor, he held his head high despite his tendency to keep his eyes downcast. This night was different, it would all be different from here on out. He could sense it.

Chapter 2: Caught in A Mosh

The bus screeched to a halt, its breaks wordlessly begging for attention from a mechanic, from anyone with the capacity to repair them. The doors swung open and Tristan exited the vehicle amidst a stream of others, some dressed similarly to him, some less so. With a loud roar, the bus trundled off on its route, belching a cloud of foul-smelling exhaust behind it as it clattered along.

The night sky was dark, the air cool but not cold. The city, the more developed area of the Pine Ridge community, bustled about its night-life all around him. And there, only a few feet away, was the long line snaking its way toward the entrance of The Den, Pine Ridge's venue for "alternative" performers. That is, anyone who wasn't seen as "marketable" by the media powers-that-be. Checking and double-checking his right front pocket for the ticket, Tristan moved forward and took his place at the back of the line, behind two tall, bulky guys in Cannibal Corpse t-shirts.

"Fucking line!" one of them growled unhappily. "This sucks."

"Been here forever!" the other agreed.

"Hey man," the first guy said to Tristan, "you see this fucking line here?"

"Uh yeah," Tristan replied, doing his best to sound like them, deep-voiced and intimidating, "yeah it's going nowhere, man. Fuck this shit."

The two men agreed rather vocally.

Slowly, despite his companions' statements to the contrary, the line did in fact wind its way past the ticket-taker and into the club's dim interior. When Tristan reached the ticket taker, he had a brief moment of panic as he scrabbled in his left pocket for the ticket, before recalling it was in his right pocket and handing it quickly to the man at the door, who admitted him with a short nod and a grunted utterance of no particular meaning.

The interior of The Den was illuminated with simple, unimpressive lights. The building was packed, wall-to-wall with leather-clad metalheads in all shapes and sizes. A girl in a skin-tight leather top rode astride a hulking man's shoulders as he plowed his way up to the stage to stake out a prime place in the impending mosh pit. Tristan looked on in awe until a teenager of about his height, but twice his muscle-mass, slammed into him with jarring force.

"Hey, wake up man," the other boy said, "you're going to get yourself trampled just standing around all zoned out and shit."

"Oh yeah, sorry. Thanks, man." Tristan replied in his best Cool, Laid-Back Concert Attendee voice.

"No sweat," the other kid said, "let's get up front, you and me bro, come on."

Without any further warning, the kid, a blonde haired teen in a Celtic Frost shirt, dug into the crowd, elbows out. Tristan, experiencing this all for the first time, followed along, trying his best to look imposing and as if he knew what exactly he was doing. Then at last, he was near the stage, touching it, in fact. His mind boggled at the fact that Necrosadist would be so near to him, personally. Could this really be happening, was this all not some dream of roaring fans and stifling air? And then, the lights went out and the crowd went silent.

Slowly, a red glow washed over the audience like some infernal wave bathing them in its unearthly essence. There, on the stage, figures emerged, backed by the red glow, taking up positions on stage, seen only as shadowy forms, wraiths in the glow. Then, as the light began to grow brighter, the roaring of the crowd returned, increasing in volume until the stage erupted in an inferno of light and sound, to a tumultuous reaction from the crowd as Necrosadist launched into a fast-paced track.

Tristan couldn't believe it. How was it possible that they sounded even better live than on their albums? The clarity of the guitar, the pummeling drums resonating in his rib cage, the mind-blowing synthesizer work, and those terrifying lead vocals being barked, shrieked, and sung into the microphone mere feet away from where Tristan stood. The crowd went wild, and Tristan found himself fighting for his balance, elbows extended to fend off pressing attacks from all sides. For a moment he stood there, a pillar amidst the tide, and then he was swept away, riding the current of the pit in haphazard directions, flailing about, heedless of the firsts, elbows, and knees that jabbed at him and of those he returned.

The band, in perfect form, filled Tristan with their sound as though it were a liquid and he a vessel; everything else was pushed out. His social anxieties, his claustrophobia, his discomfort with crowds, his concerns for the future. The music at once seemed to anchor him in the "here and now," so to speak, and yet removed him from his own limitations. It was as if all that existed was the mosh and the metal, and Tristan could not be happier. Was this what those people who writhed about and spoke in tongues felt at their tent-revivals? Probably not, because no one here was trying to show off for anybody.

The big guy with the scantily-clad girl atop his shoulders bludgeoned Tristan in the side of the head with his elbow, and sparks danced behind the smaller man's eyes. But it didn't matter, what was this pain, what did it concern him?! /I am the warrior,/ he assured himself, /I have a heart of steel, I am invincible here./ And the music that both infused and surrounded him did nothing to dispel that notion as he fought to clear a space and began to headbang in the classic "windmill" style, his hair spinning as his head completed one quick circuit after another.

"Rock on, man!" said Celtic Frost Shirt, taking up a position by Tristan's side.

Soon, the two teenagers had a crowd of hair-spinning headbangers gathered, all facing outward in opposite directions as the band launched into a blistering fast song called "Tales of Ancient Deception." The mosh pit around this shield wall-like enclave of headbangers began to form into the visually astonishing circle pit: metalheads continuing to mosh as they all ran in a circle with Tristan and his headbangers as the hub of the wheel. Truly, it was glorious to see that improvised coordination, that perfect, primal flow of the circle pit.

"Going up!" came a loud voice in Tristan's ear.

Before he could react, the two guys from the line were hoisting him up between them, and were quickly joined by others from the hub of the circle pit. Tristan was lifted up on all of their hands, he was being passed along. He was /crowd/ /surfing!/ The audience churned beneath him like a black ocean, yet he rode strong. Necrosadist's singer looked out at him. Tristan quickly flashed the "Devil Horns" symbol, coined by Ronnie James Dio during his career, a metal salute returned by the singer on stage. To Tristan, there could be no greater honour than this: to have exchanged Devil Horns with this singer whose work he so loved.

Then the crowd lost interest in holding Tristan aloft and he was let down, gaining his feet again shakily and striking out toward the stage once more, sweat stinging his eyes, his hair a tangled mess. But that was not a setback, it was an encouragement, it was all part of this metal ritual, it was all meant to be. With a mighty, metal scream, he plunged into the pit once more, gleefully reveling in the fray. / How/ /is/ /it,/ he asked himself, /that I can plunge into a pit of violent strangers, but I can't get up the courage to ask a girl on a date? By the Gods, I don't make any sense /sometimes./

But this question was gone from his mind as quickly as it had come, banished by the beauty of the synthesizer as it took over the sound for a melodic bridge in one of the bands longer epics: "Fate's Condemnation." The crowd began to clap and chant in rhythm with the double-bass drum, Devil Horns filled the air, and the ritual was clearly at its height of momentum. The singer walked to the edge of the stage, microphone in hand, and he spoke.

"You mother-fuckers always put on a show for us," he proclaimed, "and it never fails to please. This is our last song of the night, so let's put this night down in a blaze of glory!"

With that, the music erupted again and the vocalist's voice soared to a nigh-inhuman pitch. The lights blazed, the crowd surged like a tide somehow unleashed in every direction at once. The room was thick with the smell of sweat adrenaline, and pot smoke. In a daze, Tristan spun, whirling in circles, aimless in direction, only moving as he was carried by the power of the metal. And then, with a final roll of the double bass, a swell of the symphonic keyboard, and prolonged notes from guitarist and vocalist alike, the song came to a crashing end. Two hours of music gone by, and it had felt like only a moment.

"Thank you Pine Ridge," roared the ever-energetic front man, "you never let us down! Goodnight."

/It's/ /over,/ Tristan dazedly thought, /it's over just like that./ The crowd quieted down and began a steady, surprisingly calm exodus of The Den, making for their cars, taxis, or other means of transit. Tristan stepped out of the concert hall, and was amazed by the chill in the air. Had it been hot inside? Had he been so wired on adrenaline that he'd not noticed the sweat pouring down his face and moistening his shirt? /Apparently/ /so,/ he mused, shivering slightly as he looked for a northbound bus with the number designated for his route. But just as he finally discerned that bus in the darkness, it's doors closed and it pulled away from the stop, leaving him waiting for another.

"Fuck," he muttered eloquently, clutching his Thor's hammer pendant by compulsion, "fucking bus."

Turning momentarily away from the bus stop, Tristan saw three girls getting into a car. Like much of the audience, they were dressed in black, but otherwise he got little in the way of a visual on them. One of them saw him glance over at them and then turned to say something to her friends. / Crap,/ Tristan sighed, /I was just looking in that direction, now they'll think I'm some kind of freak who watches girls... get in cars, or something./ But the girl who'd noticed him did not come back with some reproachful quip. Instead, she beckoned him over with a hand motion.

"Hey," she called, "you need a ride?"

"Huh?" Tristan dumbly asked, his ears still ringing from the show.

"A ride!" she repeated.

"Oh, oh yeah!" he replied, picking up the pace. "Yeah I just missed my bus home, I could definitely use a ride if you're going north."

"Good thing we saw you," said one of the other girls, who sat in the backseat, "the buses just made their last run for the night."