As White began playing the piano, Dumas shifted restlessly in his chair, expecting to be bored.  He’d never enjoyed classical music.  But the sad and ethereal melody whispered in his ear like the voice of a lost lover, reminiscing about times long past.  Dumas stopped squirming.  Unbidden, a small smile appeared on his face as he watched the two silver figures dance.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Shh, Baby.  It’s okay.  I’m here now.</span><br/><br/>Two men, almost polar opposites of each other -- the cynical soldier and the hopeful hero, bound together by their fear and and their loneliness.  An awkward seduction initiated by the hero.  A forbidden affair carried out in secret.   A ring bought and given, making promises that the cynic’s mouth still couldn’t speak.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Shh, Baby.  It’s okay.  I’m here now.</span><br/><br/>On his screens, Dumas could see people’s shocked expressions when harsh notes interrupted the idyllic dance.  But he’d known it was coming.  It always came, didn’t it?  A shack deep in enemy territory.  Instead of the hostages it was supposed to contain, only a trip beam, noticed a second too late.  Strong arms shoving him through the open door.  Then he was flying through the air, his back ripped open by exploding debris and fire. As he landed, his body twisted all wrong.  But he could see the hand lying on the ground near him.  Just the hand.  Still wearing the ring.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Shh, Baby.  It’s okay.  I’m here now. </span><br/><br/>When the medics had finally reached him, they thought he was screaming because of the pain.<br/><br/>Transfixed, Dumas watched the show come to its poetic conclusion.  But in his case, the monster hadn’t slunk away, ashamed and defeated.  It didn’t care if the people it slaughtered were heroes or cowards.  It didn’t care if they died defending those they loved or betraying their comrades.  It just went on forever, indifferently devouring everything in its path.<br/><br/>As applause erupted throughout the club, Dumas released a breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.  He felt shaky and jagged inside.  Had he misjudged White so completely?  No pampered fop could write and perform something with such deep emotional resonance.  Music like that came from a heart familiar with pain.  So what was White’s pain?  Did it have something to do with whatever Chester was planning?  As if answering those unspoken questions, Chester’s avatar directed Dumas’s attention to an isolated spot in the club -- whatever was about to happen, it was apparently going to happen there.  And Dumas wouldn’t miss it for the world.