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Gabriel had spent more time pondering during these last few days than he had his entire existence. It was a weird way to cope, sure, but he wasn’t quite sure what else he could do. He may have had limited time left, but that didn't mean he had anything important to do before the light left his body. Ironically, what the angel pondered most wasn't the council, nor his missing God, nor even the Machine who forced the truth into him with lightning and nails. It was the instrument in front of him that occupied his thoughts.
Why was there a pipe organ in Heresy?
It was something he’d always known was there and had promptly taken advantage of for his myriad moping sessions both before and after fighting the Machine. But why was it there? It wasn’t as if anyone other than him used it, the sinners didn’t really have the capacity to play, their withered sinew and frail bones were not as dexterous or strong as they were while alive. It wasn’t for the machines either as it’d been there millennia before the machines were even created. (Gabriel consulted a terminal for that information, something he never would’ve done prior to getting his ass thoroughly beat. He still wasn't quite sure how to feel about the interaction.)
It wasn’t obviously made for anyone. And yet it was made, and it sat in front of him.
Of course if there were to be a pipe organ somewhere in Hell it’d be in Heresy. The pipe organ was usually built into grand places of worship. The irony of Godless sinners forced to listen to an instrument primarily played in praise of the Lord was delicious. The instrument itself was fascinating, the little keyboard visible was only a fraction of its actual size. The pipes and machinery ran through the sprawling architecture of Heresy, various bells and whistles controlling airflow and pressure, a colossal rube-goldberg machine with each cog working in harmony to produce something beautiful and holy.
He thought of himself that way once. Right hand of the Father, tool of the council, beloved and admired. He was a part of something bigger than he could fathom. Heaven was mechanical, each angel a piece of the organ, himself a valve perfectly molded to carry out the will of God, whether that be in song or slaughter. He didn’t notice when the latter became more prevalent than the former. As Judge of Hell, his justice was supposed to be blind, but the cloth over his eyes belonged to the council, conveniently warping the sinners before him into ugly irredeemable monsters deserving of eternal damnation. He’d crushed both the peaceful Lust Renaissance and the violent Greed Insurrection with equal force.
Sisyphus was right, of course. Minos’ misplaced trust did nothing to slow his inevitable execution. The cloth left Gabriel’s eyes eventually, but it was eons too late, and the corpses of both Kings were still on full display in the layers they’d ruled. He could theorise on what he could've done differently, but it was futile. He was still sitting on the bench staring at the pipe organ in front of him with hours left to live.
Ah, right, the pipe organ.
The Father created Hell. If The Father created the pipe organ in Heresy it was well beyond anything it had been originally. Hell had a tendency to turn every foreign object into its own collage of dread and ruin. The terminals of human creation, warped and changed beyond their original purpose. The mining facility above the gates filled with blood and rust. The people damned within Hell beyond recognition. It was no real stretch to think Hell might’ve sculpted a pipe organ of its own volition. The thought made Gabriel shudder, trying not to dwell on the materials of its making as he lightly ran a finger across the keys. He’d spent enough time in Hell to mostly brush off the visceral feeling of disgust and, oddly, being watched.
He had always felt surveilled, the eye of the council was a sweltering spotlight on you at all times, expecting you to act out, looking for reasons to punish you. Even when they couldn’t see him it was present, the feeling persisted after they were all killed. But Hell was different. The feeling was never strong enough to be constantly conscious of it, but quite easily pinned down once one figured out what that feeling actually was. It was a warm, impassive surveillance with a hint of curiosity that reminded him ever so faintly of the Machine. Gabriel would never feel comfortable being watched, no matter how used to it he got, no matter the kindness and adoration in the eyes watching. It made an empty room feel inherently unsafe. But sometimes it was nice to have someone to play his organ to.
When did he start thinking of it as his organ and not The Pipe Organ That Makes Up The Majority Of Heresy’s Total Mass? Who knows? Gabriel sure didn’t, and he didn’t care enough to try and figure it out. He only had an hour or so left to live, it could be his for that time, and then it’d belong to no one once more. He almost wished the Machine would come back to Heresy so he could play a song for it, even show it how to use those skilled, blood-stained digits to make beautiful music absent of screams. He never got to finish the one he played prior to his complete defeat after all. He was so full of hatred then, and now he just felt nothing. Or rather, so many things they all cancelled each other out. Guilt, rage, fear, joy, peace. Maybe he was a coward, but he was glad to die so soon, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d manage on his own in a hostile wasteland with only his own thoughts and Hell’s omnipresence for company. Of course there was always the Machine, but… he just couldn’t. There was something stopping him from hunting it down and spending his last moments with it. He figured he didn’t deserve any comfort in death, not with what atrocities he’d committed in his lifetime, how many lives he’d ended. Besides, the only thing he was worth to the godless piece of metal was the fuel in his veins.
To say that his feelings toward the Machine were complicated would perhaps be the understatement of the century, right up there with ‘Hell is warm’ and ‘Everyone is doomed’. A nasty concoction of hatred and inadequacy and gratitude and admiration bubbled furiously inside him at all times. Both he and the Machine were built to carry out their respective creators' will under threat of their own life. He read it in the terminal’s files, the Machine had to keep killing to live. And yet the Machine had singlehandedly demolished the ivory tower he called home, emerging completely unscathed and saving him in the process even if it was realistically too late. The Machine had not killed him, whether this was a mercy or curse still remained unknown to Gabriel. He’d like to think the Machine enjoyed their battles together as much as he did. It really was a shame he would not be around to entertain it again.
One last song perhaps? Machines were drawn to music, another fun fact he’d gained from his interaction with the terminal. If no one else, Hell and the terminal not far from here would enjoy it.
Gabriel wandered over to said terminal, its display flickering on and playing a little tune for the angel as he approached. Less than 20 minutes remaining. He wished he were surprised by how quickly the time flew by, but he knew that time worked differently in Hell. That, and being stuck in his own head worked wonders for killing time. He trudged back to the organ stool and sat down, armor clanging as he slumped forward and took a deep breath. Air on G String it was.
Any trained organist would’ve shuddered at Gabriel’s performance. His tempo sped up seemingly at random, missing some notes entirely as he inelegantly knitted his knotted tangle of emotion into the music. On top of that, his posture was atrocious. (He didn’t bother taking off his boots, why would he? Perhaps the various scrapes on the pedals could be the only mark he’d leave in this nightmare independent of the council. It was his pipe organ, after all, which meant his rules.) None of this mattered to Gabriel, who had summarily given up on perfection midway through his battle with the machine. All that mattered was the way he lost himself in the sweeping chords. And then, just as it began, it was over.
And there was no one there but himself. Even Hell had averted its gaze for his pathetic grand finale, the death of a failure of an angel was clearly just too uninteresting. The room felt cold, which was odd considering Heresy’s normally moderate temperature. Perhaps it was a side effect of the light leaving his body. He shuffled off the bench and collapsed to the floor. It was over, and all he had to do was wait.
And wait he did. But the last remaining minutes ticked by and Gabriel was still collapsed on the floor, shaking. He couldn’t even die like he was supposed to.
And that thought opened the floodgate for every single wretched emotion he had been holding back.
He screamed. It was the only thing he could do.
And it rang through the architecture of Heresy, as beautiful and as haunting as his pipe organ.