He remembered the first time he had heard Marcel play it.
It had fascinated him, back in Tibet. When they first moved operations there, he had heard it upon returning from the temples.
He remembered the music that had brought him home, to an extent.
Marcel had always been there since his resurrection, and he had still stood by him.
The Contessa had saved his life, and to her he would always be grateful.
Esme had done so much to save him - it was remarkable to think of someone he had met only days ago as a saviour of such magnitude.
Armstrong regained control. The hatred was submerged in the cold waters of his mind, the clarity of old taking helm once more. Wen was convulsing now, his body quivering with black tendrils and his blood becoming pure ichor.
Everett had already lost. Now it was now just a mortal and a god, locked in battle for the last time.
Nyarlathotep made the first move, launching a mass of pitch black tentacles towards Armstrong. He leapt into the air to dodge them, repressing the fiery energy willing him to kill as he focused on the music.
Marcel. The Contessa. Esme. The people who count.
He swooped around the chamber, landing by the controls. They'd been damaged pretty badly, but the steering was still just about functional - he lined up the dirigible with the storm ahead and prepared for the worst...
Esme herself could sense the change in the skies - the energy had lessened, but the threat was still there. The dirigible was headed straight for the storm, and the lighting strikes were becoming more and more frequent. The Contessa was busy configuring the mainframe, preparing for attacks, but even then she herself could tell where the situation was going.
They observed the fluctuations in the psychic plane as the battle raged on.
The air was crisp and cool in Tibet. Marcel sat at the piano - he did not know why, but there was an urge to play - almost like a voice in the back of his mind, willing him to play.
His fingers made contact with the smooth ivory keys, and the music began.
Blasts of lightning were tearing the airship apart - tattered canvas and shattered glass covered the floor as Armstrong zipped from wall to wall, dodging and weaving the razor limbs of ink darkness shooting from the now utterly feral incarnation of the Great Old One before him. Maddened whispers of death and destruction echoed around the ruined chamber as another white hot blast of electricity shot and hit one of the chamber walls.
They were sinking, and fast.
Armstrong reached into his jacket, praying for a miracle.
His fingers touched the iPod. The small, metal iPod.
He drew it, and quickly calculated the events of the next thirty seconds before bounding into action. The tentacles came shooting for him, and he ducked and weaved.
A great rumble of thunder, and an unearthly shriek as he launched a right hook into one of the vast golden eyes of the beast.
He felt the tentacles wrap around his body, constricting tighter and tighter.
He could feel the bloody breath of the old god on his face, and prepared for the worst once again.
He raised the iPod to the skies, and tensed every muscle in his body.