Don Mattrick: Noble Prophets of Frankie and bs angel, I have brought the incompetent. Frankie: You may leave, Don Mattrick. Don Mattrick looks up, surprised. Don Mattrick: But I thought- Frankie: And take Zynga with you. Don Mattrick hesitates, and then bows again. Don Mattrick: (whispering) Release the prisoner. The Brutes drop Marty to his knees and rise, leaving the room. Marty touches the Mark of Shame on his chest. Frankie: The Council decided to have you hung by your entrails and your corpse paraded through the city. But, ultimately, the terms of your employment are up to me. Marty: I am already unemployed. Frankie: Indeed. Do you know where we are? Marty: The Mausoleum of the Composer. Frankie: Quite so. Here rests the vanguard of the Great Journey. Every Composer, from first to last. Each one created and consumed in times of extraordinarily shitty music. bs angel: The Taming of the Wubstep, the Wub Rebellion . . . Were it not for the Composers, Halo would have broken long ago! Marty: Even on my knees I do not belong in their presence. Frankie: Halo's destruction was our error, andwe rightly bear the blame. But the Council was . . . overzealous. We know you are no heretic. This is the true face of heresy, one who would subvert our faith and incite rebellion against the High Council. Frankie presses a button on his chair, and a miniature hologram of an Alex Seropian appears. Alex Seropian: Halo sucks! Open your eyes, my brothers! They would use the faith of our Forefathers to bring ruin to us all! The Gaming Industry is- Frankie cuts off the hologram. Frankie: This heretic, and those who follow him, must be silenced. bs angel: Their slander offends all who walk the Path. Marty: What use am I? I can no longer compose songs, lead riffs into ballads- Frankie: Not as you are. But become the Composer . . . And you shall be set loose against this heresy, with our blessing. A large container pod floats into the center of the room, opening to reveal an ancient Macbook Pro surrounded by white light. Marty stares at this for a moment, before turning back to Frankie. Marty: What of the Council? bs angel: The tasks you must undertake as the Composer are perilous, suicidal. You will die, as each Composer has before you. The Council will have their corpse. Marty rises, and walks toward the Macbook. He pauses before it, and looks to the pods containing the corpses of the Composers who fell before him. He reaches up and takes the headphones of the Composer, and places them upon his head, then looks to the 343 executives. Marbiter: What would you have your Composer do?