" ?"

-It began with A, creeping up to a sharp. Jimmy's eyes danced on the white keys, taking him higher to B, and for a moment he felt Instructor Ling lean forward, lightly patting him on the back in encouragement. Grinning, he dropped his left hand all the way down to low C, letting it linger on the key and his feet battled the pedals. For a moment the tempo lost him, and he froze, but the Instructor pressed a firm hand on his shoulder and almost immediately he began again. A into a sharp, to B then low C, and back to A again. He repeated this over and over again, marveling as what was once a forced, jerky movement seemed to lock in place, becoming a fluid repetition. Over and over, until he felt his knuckles beginning to thicken, like he were playing in tar. His fingers turned to lead, but still he played, faster all the while. Possessed by this tiniest of phrases he persevered, despite the Instructor's insistence he move on to the next lesson. He'd lost whatever authority he held over the spirits in his fingers, and was now just another member of the audience, dull eyes trying desperately to chase after movements it could not understand. He watched the thumb stretch out to tap the middle A, the little finger curling to hit a middle F, and a frantic smashing of the A sharp with his forefinger that he could not comprehend- it hurt him, but not in the sense that he'd somehow bruise his note...that wretched pitch a creeping, fork-tongued voice in his mind told him was a fraction off from 466.164 Hertz..it refused to leave. His foot now a wing tipped deadweight anchored to the sustenuto pedal, he was trapped in this perpetual motion, unable to stir from the trance the consistent pounding of A had left him knew then at the piano what he knew again years later, sitting by his phone in silence. He was a slave.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

No answer. He hung up again- the fourth time tonight -and went to bed. Perhaps tomorrow, he told himself.

John Shi awoke on the way home only once- his students were wandering aimlessly through the passenger aisles of his shuttle, poking at the sleepy elders and throwing whatever they could find at each other. The low rumble of his voice calling to the oldest of them was enough; immediately, they lined up at his seating aisle, arms at their sides.

"Forgive us, Master."

"You've got knots in your queue. And look at your clothes! Don't you want to look presentable when we go see your father?"

"Of course, Master! We mean no dishonor! Please forgive us! I shall never again commit such crimes!"

"Crimes? Stupid boy. Wash your face and sit down. The rest of you, fix your tunics and behave yourselves like men. You have been trained to be respectful, and so you shall be. When he was your age, your father was already well into training his Sup Ying Kuen, an achievement he would have committed you all to match had I not offered to train you myself! Your hard styles are child's play to a man trained to tear one's very soul from the body. Do not dare show your face if you intend to act this way around him. Understood?"

"Yes, Master! A thousand pardons!"

"Forgive us, Master!"

"Never again, Master!"

John Shi to the shipping crews, on the dotted line, and in the office...Shi Wu Ren to his disciples, on the cold temple floor, and in the heat of battle. A student in the deadly arts, he'd perhaps met his successor years ago, and now again journeyed back to Earth for the chance to find the one he dubbed the heir to his Hung Gar Gung Fu. He need only to see him again, alive and well, to keep his final promise and be free of this world. But first, sleep.