March 13th, 2010
Knowledge is a powerful thing, and with power comes responsibility. This was a firm belief of Benedict Ravion's, a fact that had been drummed into him by experience his entire life; all seventy-seven years of it. If that experience had taught him anything, it was that those close to him had to be protected. The letters he wrote last night had left his office this morning, all in the care of couriers chosen by his own hand, people he could trust. He had written letters to them too and, if his judgement was correct, it would be some time before they were read. His instructions were clear – find the recipients, deliver the notes and wait until each word has been absorbed.
Inside each envelope was two letters – one to the original recipient, one to the messenger; both included further instructions and general advice. A reminder of some things that may have succumbed to complacency over the years. Indeed, life had been good for some years now. "Quiet" was the word.
Too quiet.
But that had all come to an end now. The letters were despatched, the information in his office had been destroyed; a simple task given that none of it was stored electronically. To say that such technology was beyond Benedict Ravion would demonstrate great folly. For one who knows that a day such as this is coming, one would be foolish not to cover all bases and when one knows that electronic data can be seized easily in this day in age, having everything on paper seems like a much more logical approach to personal information security.
"You can't hack a notepad, " Ravion remembered saying to Anathkash Dakari, once. Nihilus had been there too, and he had laughed.
"No, but you... can cut throats for it," he'd said, in that peculiar way he does.
How very true. But not when it's been doused in petrol and cast into the fire. A million throats could be slashed asunder and yet there was no bringing back the words on a page that had become dust.
Benedict Ravion's office looked more like an old gentlemen's study, wall-to-wall bookshelves, an old writing table with plush leather armchairs beside the old fireplace that had most certainly not been for show. No, the fireplace would see the cremation of all the information that Ravion considered dangerous, not only to those important to him but to the world at large.
Everyone had their secrets, but not he.
Not any more.
Ravion opened a tall, slim cabinet in the desk at which he sat and removed a dusty bottle of Macallan 1926 whisky with a short glass. He split the golden foil seal wrapped around the neck with care before holding the bottle up to the light of the brass lamp at his side, the only source of light in the room. The dark liquid inside looked warm and thick. This moment was one that Benedict Ravion had looked forward to for decades. He smiled briefly at the irony of that. The cap screwed-off silently and was placed upside-down on the desk while Ravion enjoyed a whiff of the 60 year old single malt Scotch. He remembered the day he bought it three years ago, and held to the fact that it was the best fifty-four thousand dollars he'd ever spent.
A glass was poured, raised to his lips.
He paused.
Sighed.
"Care to join me?" Ravion called to the darkness, raising his glass invitingly.
With great hesitation, the shadows in the corner by the door came alive as a figure drifted forward. The apparition was an imposing character, though Ravion detected the consternation in his movements, likely due to the shattered belief that he was invisible to Benedict Ravion.
"How long have you known of my presence?" the man calmly asked, moving to the edge of the desk lamp's light.
A small chuckle escaped Benedict Ravion as he sat back in his seat, holding his drink in the tips of his fingers. Still smirking, he shook his head, eyes on the fiery liquid he was becoming increasingly eager to consume. "I've known of this day since before you even knew of it yourself. I knew of it before even The Betrayer did, which is exactly why he won't succeed. Come closer, I have no intentions of..." he paused, swirling the whisky, "adjusting my destiny, shall we say."
Guardedly, the black leather-clad stranger took another step forward, into the light.
Ravion gestured to the chair opposite. "Sit."
The order was followed.
"Would you care for a glass of the most expensive whisky ever sold?" A rhetorical question, as Ravion poured the intruder a measure of Macallan anyway, pushing it across the desk to rest before him. "You are Eidolon, then."
"Yes," he admitted.
"And you are here to end my life."
Eidolon's brow furrowed at the relaxed tone of his mark. "I am."
"You know I won't tell you anything, of course?"
The assassin nodded.
"Good. Drink up, some of us don't have all night, you know," chuckled Ravion.
"You first."
Ravion smiled. "Of course," he said, raising his glass. "Cheers."
Eidolon waited patiently for the man to swallow what he'd supped before taking a drink himself. Caution was always paramount, the friendly marks were the ones to be the most wary of.
"Oh. I have something for you," Ravion said with a smile, reaching for the top drawer of his desk. He noticed the pistol that had appeared in Eidolon's hand. "You won't need that either."
Taking no chances, Eidolon maintained his aim on the older man as he produced a small box from the drawer, placing it on the desk in front of him. With a wry smile he opened the lid of the box and turned it so the contents faced the assassin. Within the box was a black revolver, delicately detailed with fine silver markings that strongly contrasted the destructive power and sheer size of the weapon. The cylinder appeared to be chambered for two bullets only, the ammunition stowed separately in the box. Eidolon holstered his weapon within his long black coat and took one of the bullets, turning it over in his hand. ".357 Magnum?" he asked finally.
"I believe so."
Eidolon nodded and replaced the bullet. "Why?"
"You will need it, and soon."
The smile on Benedict Ravion's face would prove to be one that'd haunt Eidolon for the rest of his days. He could see no malice in it, only the pleasure of satisfaction. Satisfaction of a mission complete, the realisation of a purpose that had successfully reached conclusion.
"I appreciate the consideration," Eidolon said, folding the lid shut. "But I don't understand why you're inclined to help the man who is about to see you die."
Knocking back the last of his drink, Ravion placed the glass on his desk and turned it around with his fingers. " A staggering wealth of knowledge rests here," he muttered, as his index finger met his temple. "I know a lot of things, Eidolon. Things that a man such as yourself couldn't extract in a million lifetimes of wringing necks, slitting throats and pulling triggers. Exactly as I knew you'd be here tonight. Now, don't misunderstand me; I offer no insult to your skill. You're good at what you do and that's why The Betrayer sought your employ. You are the best, the very best. I have been watching you; the police know nothing of you, and I am greatly amused by their desperation to identify you."
As Benedict Ravion poured himself another drink, Eidolon allowed himself a moment of pride.
"Now, I know you killed Mister Arcadie. He sent you to me. Now I must send you on to my colleague, Mister Nihilus."
Eidolon's contented smirk faded, replaced by a firmer expression though he still said nothing.
"You will find him in due course, mark my words, but know this – your path shan't be an easy one. Now, take the gun. It will be vital to your destiny."
"Where will I find Nihilus?"
"That would be telling," Ravion laughed, sipping his drink. "It's time for you to do what you came for, Eidolon."
Eidolon's previous hesitation quickly slipped away now that he was back on familiar ground. It was time to complete his task and leave. He stood up, pushed back his coat and withdrew the katana his employer had supplied him with which to extinguish the life of Israel Kali Arcadie, and now Benedict Ravion.
Ravion's eyes were on his drink now. He swallowed the last of the contents of his glass and placed the empty vessel down on the desk before screwing the cap back onto the bottle. "I would appreciate it," he began, without looking at Eidolon, "if you would be so kind as to leave the bottle behind. I'm sure my associate would enjoy the last of it. He's had his eye on it since I bought it."
The assassin moved slowly around the table, sword in hand, like a predator stalking its prey. Moving in for the kill. "As you wish."
The prey nodded. "Farewell, Eidolon."
"Goodbye, Benedict Ravion."
-#-
March 31st, 2010
Today was a challenging day for Anathkash Dakari in many respects. Although he was not overcome with sadness for the murder of Benedict Ravion, there was a void in his soul now, a place that the man had once filled. It was a discomforting feeling to know that Mister Ravion was gone, despite him not seeing his old teacher for several years now. The sudden appearance of Mister Nihilus after almost a decade of absence troubled Dakari, the mysterious man's words even more so than his presence.
This would be Dakari's first appearance in public since the last Just Wrestling show earlier in the month, the day after Mister Ravion died two weeks ago. The flames of anxiety burned in Dakari's veins as he sat behind the folding table, looking down the line of loyal Just fans waiting to meet him in the Champs Sports store. His apprehension was nothing to do with the promise of The Betrayer's assassin coming for him, no, his biggest concern right now was getting through this crowd of fans. They weren't necessarily interested in Dakari himself, but it was Dakari who would be shaking hands, signing things and posing for pictures. He loathed the thought of what he'd looked like when a stunning young redhead posed for a picture with her arms around him. No doubt his facial pigment had matched her hair, particularly since he hadn't expected her to fling herself at him as she had done. Afterwards he'd sat down to sign a t-shirt, but had to stall the young fan with small talk before he did so because his hands were shaking too much for him to write his inspirational message to the boy.
Of course, "inspirational message" referred to whatever crap Jodie had told him to write, prior to the event. He'd sneakily written a few "unscripted" messages of his own on the Just merch placed in front of him ever since he saw a teenager, pale-faced and shy, approach him for an autograph. The kid was terrified of him, though he knew he wasn't unique to instil such fear in the kid. The young man was exactly like him, in that respect. The concept of "people" petrified him. Socialising was his kryptonite, conversations and unfamiliar faces were what lurked at the edge of his mind and made opening the door to the outside world seem all the more like a nightmare.
On the photograph of himself he'd been presented with to sign, Anathkash Dakari wrote his message to the youth, who walked away looking quite perplexed. He looked up to Dakari from the message he'd written. Dakari offered him a thumbs-up.
"The only dreams you have to fulfil are your own. Go forth and embrace your destiny with your head held high," he wrote.
Sound advice.
