Inside the sanctuary, up in the creaky choir loft, Gwen peered down at the street, watching the retreating officers.  She smiled to herself; urban legends, no matter how local, have their advantages, she discovered.

Exhausted and ragged as she had become, she was delighted to have come across this place; there was just something about the perfect, divine silence that could come over a church.  Not only that, but it had a fairly decent piano.  She spent the better part of a week here and there attempting to tune it, but finally it reached its "it'll do" standard.

Satisfied, she sat down.  "God," she muttered, folding her hands, "give me the strength to play halfway decently, if only for You."  Gently she placed her fingers on the velvety ivory.  She savored the feeling for a moment, then started into Rachmaninoff's "it" prelude.  It was quite fitting, given her surroundings; the piece always sounded like huge church bells to her.

Gwen relished the last chord as the lofted ceiling fought to hold onto it for just one second longer.  Then she began into another piece; the only one she managed to learn to sing and play.

"I love a piano..."

She played the next few chords, sighing to herself, "oh, how true that is..."

"I love a piano...
I love to hear somebody play on a piano,
a grand piano. 
It simply carries me away. 
I know a fine way to treat a Steinway,
I love to  run my fingers o'er the keys,
the ivories..."

She would've continued, had a sudden clatter from below not startled her.  She scanned the pews, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.  Then, as she peered over the far edge, she noticed a white plastic disk at the foot of the stairs to the loft.  Carefully Gwen slunk down the stairs, considered the disk a moment, then picked it up.  By the weight she immediately recognized it as a frisbee, of all things.  It had a nice feel to it, and a bit of a milky glow all its own in the faint stained-glass light.  She turned it over in her hands curiously, surprised to find writing on the back:

Now's probably a good time to make it over there.  Remember, nothing'll happen if you keep avoiding it.

"Why does that advice sound so familiar?" she mumbled to herself.  She glanced up, shocked to see another glowing frisbee sail in through the cracked window on the other side of the church.  She snatched it out of the air, smiling as she did.  "I still got it," she said happily, turning the frisbee over.

By the way, do you remember your "buddy" from the paper?  He's found his way over, and has caused a bit of trouble.  Think fireworks, break-outs, and a recently-interrupted speech.

Gwen bit her lip, now ticked.  "So that's who's been making this more difficult than it had to be," she hissed.  "Spock-eee," she added under her breath, emphasizing the almost-unbearably horizontal "ee," a trademark blight on the Northeastern brand of English.

She squeezed the frisbee in frustration.  They'd worked on the same section of the underground arts newspaper in the States; and boy, how he chaffed her, constantly turning in late segments, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but it was his certain affinity for explosives that really ticked her off.  "I'm all for a little kaboom here and there," she'd say, "but you, Spockee, are way too enthused to light the fuse."  He'd always cringe when she said his name like that.  She could control how horizontal her speech was, but she'd exaggerate it, mostly to annoy the poor guy.

Oh, there'd be a bit of hell to pay for his shenanigens, making her life more difficult...

But she became distracted from her annoyance, catching eye of the disk in her hand.  "Who in the world...?" she questioned, striding to the cracked window.  Peering outside, she could see nothing unusual, but she felt a sudden chill.  "Well," she thought aloud, "who has an association with both advice and frisbees?"

Gently the realization hit her.  "Of course..."  She shook her head, smiling.  "The connection with old poetry advice, and with Ultimate... it all makes sense."  She swung her coat over her shoulders, muttering reverently, "Wherever he is, he's still hard to pin down, that slippery 'Loo..."

The End

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