Shadow Crusade

Murderer, part 12: Voices in the Dark

2010-08-25T01:59:00.001+01:00

Date unknown

Daroth said nothing. It was clear that Jack's true identity had been completely unknown to the one his kind had dubbed "Crusader of Shadow", Draeden Darksky. The man stood in the light of the burning car, apparently deep in thought after the "great revelation" that Daroth had unveiled to him. The infinite stretch of road that was the replicated scene of Draeden's parents' demise was quiet now. There had been the sound of their car burning and the dormant growl of the overturned lorry's engine, but both were gone now, leaving Draeden and Daroth alone in an eerie silence.

The spirit was not concerned by this. But what worried him was Draeden's reaction. He'd expected fireworks, a shout of rage, fists smashing against the rail separating the road's lanes... instead, the former wrestler said nothing. Did nothing. He simply folded his arms and walked away, head bowed. And thus he had stayed.

Having existed as long as he had, Daroth was not one to be easily confused. He had seen a great many things in his time but no matter how much he had learnt, the behaviour of mortals still surprised him on occasion.

He wondered what Draeden was thinking about.

-#-

2nd February 2008

The cold walls of Georgia Mansion felt as though they were closing in on Draeden Darksky as he lay in bed, struggling to get enough sleep for his match in the Viking Wrestling Federation tomorrow.

It was a cold night in Illinois; the ancient house under siege from wind and rain which hammered against the bedroom window as though it truly sought to enter the building. A draught howled along the corridor outside the room, or so Draeden assumed - there were so many bumps in the night here that the wrestler didn't know what was real any more.

To make matters worse, the voices were cursing his name with all their might. The spirits that haunted him, that followed him everywhere he went, would not let him rest if they could help it. Even after enduring their malice for years now, Draeden was still unprepared for what they could throw at him. They were with him all the time. Every foot he'd put wrong, every bad word he'd say in the heat of the moment they would remember and use against him when he was at his weakest, when the poison they spat at him could burn through his skin to reach him at the core.

If only there were some way to get rid of them.

He was a haunted man... all because he had the gall to survive. In China, Draeden was held prisoner by a criminal organisation named Black Widow. They had taken him in after he protected their leader, Ming Xao, in an attack on the restaurant he worked in at the time; an instinctive act of bravery that changed his life forever. It was Draeden's naïvety, ignorance, and martial arts prowess that had saved them. Xao's bodyguards lay dead around him, the assassins bearing down on what Draeden saw as a doomed old man, victim of some blood-thirsty robbers. The gunshots had ceased long enough for Draeden to risk a peek out from his hiding place in the kitchen; one of the fallen's katanas lying within his reach. As the Dark Spirit assassins delivered their leader's message to Xao, Draeden slipped out of the kitchen and snatched up the sword.

His memory of what happened next was little more than a blur. All he knew was that he had launched himself at the killers, his sword cleaving them asunder before Draeden even realised what he was doing.

It was over in the blink of an eye.

Ming Xao owned his own dojo and offered Draeden residence and training in his gratitude.

In hindsight, had Draeden refused the training then he'd have lived a simple life in China. He'd have stayed in Foshan, probably found another job and perhaps one day learnt to be a chef. In amongst the cacophony of voices in the darkness he heard himself laugh softly at what could have been a completely different life. Maybe one day he'd have owned the restaurant himself. An amusing notion.

Hilarious, even.

Instead, Draeden accepted the offer without a moment's hesitation, going immediately with Xao to his compound in the city. By the time he realised that the old man was a crime lord it was too late, though Xao treated him well. On the other hand, Draeden's teacher, Qing, was a cruel man who preferred to discipline his trainees with violence and anger, and would often deprive them of food and water as punishment for their mistakes. After years of suffering under Qing's brutality, Draeden finally retaliated. Qing's answer to his student's disobedience was to challenge him to a fight to the death; a challenge Draeden foolishly accepted... then somehow won.

Being of little use to Ming Xao due to his inexperience, Draeden was punished, sent to what Xao believed would be certain death in the underground fighting arenas his organisation operated.

The things Draeden experienced in the pits would remain with him forever, he knew. The pits were meant to see his end but, incredibly, he survived. Foolhardy gamblers and independent fighters alike would challenge Draeden to fight, only to be carried away dead or dying. Draeden knew not how he managed to endure an entire year in the pit. In the criminal circles Draeden Darksky became a sensation; a defiant student that killed his master, a Western youth that could be slain by no man. Gamblers lost fortunes betting against him for they believed he had to fall eventually, but the day never came. In the pit he upheld a front of indifference to the blood-thirsty crowds that watched him fight. He hid all signs of emotion, gave no answer to the abuse hurled at him nor did he once raise his hand in victory. Instead he carried the burden of guilt upon his head in secret. He didn't want to take lives, even if those he killed were criminals or willing participants to the death-matches. For every man he killed he felt a small part of his humanity was taken from him. He felt the angry spirits of those who'd died with him when he fought and when he rested. The ghosts cursed him, told him he was worthless, that he'd die in his next fight for sure; they tried to convince him to take his own life to answer for what he had done. Told him to impale himself on his own sword, or not to defend himself when attacked.

They were always there - always wailing, whispering or muttering amongst themselves if not to him directly. Always trying everything they could to bring about his downfall; and as Draeden lay in the darkness of Georgia Mansion, his home, desperately trying to sleep, the voices whispered of what would happen to Draeden when he finally died. They spoke of what they'd do to him when they existed on the same plane as one another, and of how his suffering had not even begun. The loudest of these voices was one named Cong-Chao, a particularly violent participant in the Black Widow pit fights.

Fortunately for Draeden the sleeping pills he'd taken were starting to kick in. He'd taken double the usual dosage since his body was developing a tolerance to it. Now he was becoming drowsy, the voices were fading into the roar of the torrential rain.

Even Cong-Chao's.

-#-

13th June 2010

As the door to the rear porch clicked shut behind Anathkash Dakari and Florien D'nesca, the two men observed their surroundings carefully. They were presented with three doors to go through, one to both the left and right and a set of double-doors straight ahead. Through the glass of the double-doors Dakari could see a huge room with a fireplace and two leather-bound chairs. That room alone was bigger than his loft apartment in Albany.

"If these plans are correct," Florien whispered, holding a large fold-creased sheet of paper in front of Dakari, "then the master bedroom should be through the door on the left. If he's in there--"

"Then be quiet?"

Florien scowled as he reached for his gun, motioning for Dakari to open the door. Dakari's own weapon remained in its holster, concealed beneath his jacket, though his dagger found its way into his hand as he readied himself by the door. Florien switched on the tactical light on his pistol and nodded to Dakari, who slowly turned the handle. The door opened silently and Florien walked in, scanning the room for Arthus Andarion. The bed was made and the room itself looked like it was for display only.

"It's empty," Florien grunted. "Makes sense – if you were expecting attempts on your life would you really sleep by the back door?"

"I suppose not."

"According to the plans there are more bedrooms upstairs. That's where he'll probably be."

With that, Florien crept out of the room, eyes on the floor plans again. This was not going how Dakari had expected. On one hand he was glad to have Florien's help but it didn't make him feel any better about what he was doing. Neutralising evil or not, murder was not in his heart. It was hard to kill a man he didn't even know, had never even heard of... but the assassin who killed Benedict Ravion? If only Dakari knew who he was, or at least where, then things might be different. If he found that Andarion was the one to have killed his surrogate father then this hunt would be fuelled by revenge and not some stupid prophecy, therefore with considerably more enthusiasm.

Even so, this mission was given to him as Mister Ravion's dying wish. That was reason enough to give it his all, though that didn't make it any easier.

Dakari looked at the other man as he pointed his gun at the plans, deciding what to do next. Florien was like a younger brother to him, though he was a bit of an idiot, that much was true, he wasn't stupid and neither was Dakari. He knew Florien was here in a most-likely vain attempt to make sure Dakari survived.

"Why don't we split up?" he suggested, knowing full-well that Florien would be opposed to this. He hoped to find and slay Andarion by himself, as originally intended.

"No way - that's insane," Florien whispered. "We should stick together until we kill the motherfucker. Then, once we're done, we go our separate ways for a while. Lay low. Maybe even get out of the country."

Dakari sighed. "We'll cover more ground that way. This house is huge."

"No."

"Is there even anyone else here?"

"I don't think so."

"Then what's the problem? We're both armed and awake, Andarion won't even see us coming. We should split up."

"Fine. You stay down here and make sure he's not having a midnight snack or something. Kitchen's that way," the taller man hissed, pointing to the door opposite the bedroom. "Keep an eye on the front door too, in case he makes a run for it."

Scratching his beard, Dakari decided this was the best he was going to get. "Alright."

"Be careful! This place is like a maze. And watch your back!"

"I will."

With that, Florien folded his plans and stuffed them into his coat pocket before he went through the double-doors, disappearing in the darkness of the mansion.

-#-

2nd February 2008

When Draeden Darksky opened his eyes he was not quite prepared for what he saw. Stretching out before him was a long, stone corridor with iron torches jutting out from the wall at regular intervals. He couldn't make out what lay at the end, he couldn't see that far. Behind him was a metal door, which he soon found to be locked. This left only the corridor as the path ahead.

So he walked.

His bare feet slapped on the flagstones as he made his way along the corridor, the only sound aside from the crackling of the torches as they burned. He thought he was going to be sick, though he didn't know why. It felt like motion sickness but he couldn't even remember the drive here. He wished he could remember how he arrived; the last thing he remembered was... walking in through the door that was now locked. But before that? He just couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried to think back.

A cold draught washed over him, sending a chill through his body. He was only wearing black track pants and the corridor was so cold he could see his breath in front of him. Rubbing his arms as he walked to generate some heat, Draeden hurried onward. The corridor seemed to go on forever, and wasn't getting any warmer either. His steps were uneven and awkward, his legs stiff and sore despite having been walking for only a relatively short time. He tugged one of the torches free from its fitting on the wall and held it close while he walked in an effort to warm himself further.

Then the torches stopped, he noticed. There were no more mounted on the walls as he walked on, descending into pitch darkness with only the torch in his hands to light the way. Up ahead he heard a faint scratching sound, but as yet could not see what was making the noise.

He pressed on in silence, walking carefully to avoid making noise, more to aid in listening to the scratching.

What IS that?

As he got closer the sound became louder and louder, each scratching noise preceded by a soft thump that he didn't hear before. Draeden's walk was reduced to a careful shuffle as the floor was slick with water, making the smooth flagstones treacherously slippery. He detected the scent of iron in the air over the smell of the burning torch in his hand, all the while the thumping and scratching became louder and louder.

The young man gasped in surprise as he stubbed his toe on something cold, soft and unseen at his feet. He lowered the torch to see what it was but a loud BANG! from in front of him almost made him slip as he recoiled from it. He raised the torch as high as he could reach, the yellow glow reaching something up ahead...

Draeden squinted at the darkness as he continued carefully, one step at a time, eyes dead ahead. Something was moving at the edge of the light, the source of the noise, for sure.

His next step almost saw him fall off balance as his foot clipped something on the floor as he stepped over it, swearing under his breath at the unexpected object lurking in the darkness.

The scratching stopped.

Draeden regained his balance and raised the torch again. The thing that was moving had stopped moving, and so did Draeden. His heart pounding in his chest seemed to become louder than the sound of the torch burning above him. As he leaned forward to see better he heard a low rumble.

A growl.

"Oh shit," he whispered.

He looked over his shoulder to see if he could back away from the growling thing in the shadows but it was still too dark to see. As he looked ahead again the source of the sound had moved into the torchlight. It looked like a man, bony but lithe, crouching low and using his hands to assist his movement. He was naked, glaring furiously at Draeden with inhuman, black eyes; his ears elongated and pointed. The man bared his teeth, snarling at Draeden, who backed away as carefully as he could, trying not to slip on the wet floor. As he moved away, the strange man advanced. His skin was pale and covered in wounds that looked fresh.

"Uh - hello?"

The man roared in answer, his lower jaw splitting in half down the centre to reveal rows of long, jagged teeth and a thin, forked tongue falling between the jaw sections only to withdraw as the gaping maw snapped shut. Draeden's own jaw dropped as his retreat became more panicked. He tried to turn away and run but his feet slipped from beneath him. When he hit the ground his face smashed against the stone floor, chest landing on something large and firm, winding him; the torch falling from his grip, forgotten as he tried to get up. Another primal roar escaped from the creature before it launched itself at him, landing at his back. Draeden turned over in time to see it bearing down on him, mouth agape as it closed in on his throat.

Draeden's hand lashed out and gripped its neck, the creature screaming in frustration, lashing out at him with a clawed hand that slashed four parallel wounds across his chest. Draeden retaliated by throwing a wild punch at the thing's face with his free hand, smashing into its eye. He threw another that glanced across the side of its face, having no effect on the howling monster at all. It forced all of its weight down on Draeden, clawing him again and tearing into his chest and stomach. He couldn't hold it off like this for much longer, the searing pain in his torso sapping what little strength he'd started with. Then, he suddenly realised...

The torch!

His free hand reached out for the source of the light, finding nothing as he blindly searched the ground by his head while the creature snapped at him ferociously. After what felt like forever, Draeden's hand finally closed around the torch and he stabbed the flaming end into his attacker's face. It squealed in pain and jerked back, slipping on the wet floor and crashing into the wall to the side.

Draeden scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the thing, weapon ablaze in his hand. He clubbed it across the face with the burning end again and again as clawed hands raked his back in desperation. He dropped the torch and began to rain punches on the creature as it weakened, howling and screaming in agony. He felt the crack of breaking bone as the thing's eye socket yielded to his fury. His victim fell still, though Draeden slammed his fist into the bloody mess that was once the humanoid beast's face a few more times before falling back and pushing himself against the opposite wall.

It was dead.

Definitely.

Draeden had never beaten anyone -anything- to death before.

Oh shit... oh shit... oh shit...

He couldn't control his breathing. Each gasp was like choking down on nothingness, as if there were no oxygen left in the air to breathe. As he tried to calm himself down he realised he was sitting in a pool of blood - the entire floor was soaked in it. The thing he'd landed on when he fell was the corpse of another of those things he'd just killed.

Oh shit...

His hands were covered in blood from... everything. Everything was drenched in it – the floor, the walls, himself. Just as he began to collect his thoughts he saw a door at the end of the corridor slowly open, filling the corridor itself with torchlight from the room beyond and further revealing the carnage Draeden sat in. The dark end of the corridor was littered with the corpses of those things. Dozens of hairless grey bodies lay slain, dismembered and shredded in a sea of gore.

Too terrified to be disgusted, Draeden picked himself up, trying not to touch anything for fear of getting yet more blood on himself. He used the wall to keep his balance as he edged towards the open door, the light too bright to see inside clearly.

Finally he set foot inside the room, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the well-lit room. A slam! from behind almost had Draeden jump out of his skin, the door behind him now closed. In front was a wooden desk, the chair tucked underneath with a man standing behind it, his back to Draeden.

The stranger was armoured. Draeden saw black chainmail between matching steel pauldrons. His arms were folded in front of him and Draeden could see the hilts of two swords sticking out at his waist.

Shit.

Draeden watched carefully as the soldier turned around, a gauntleted hand brushing a strand of long, blood-red hair away from his weathered, unshaven face. His eyes were completely white, though Draeden felt them fall upon him as he was appraised by this peculiar man. On his chest was an insignia, a red ram's skull on a black background...

"Who are you?" Draeden asked in a shaking voice.

"You are not dreaming, by the way," he said in a low voice, ignoring the question. He laughed softly. "Well, not quite."

"What do you mean? Who are you?"

The stranger grinned. "My name is Maeron Mentari. Welcome to Ayreon, Draeden."

-#-

Date unknown

"Draeden," Daroth repeated carefully, unsure of how to approach him.

The man looked up, snapping out of the depths of his thoughts. "What?" he snarled.

"I am sorry."

"You should have told me about Mentari sooner."

The skeletal apparition nodded. "I know. I feared there was too much for you to learn at once," he said.

"What else haven't you told me?" Draeden demanded, turning on Daroth and folding his arms.

The spirit looked uneasy. "Well..."

To be continued.

Murderer, part eleven: As it is Written

2010-07-18T16:36:00.002+01:00

13th June, 2010

As the trees parted, the night sky emerged and Anathkash Dakari was awash with moonlight, eyes squinting in the sudden bright light.

The approach he'd taken was a rear access road to the country mansion he'd been sent to, nestled deep within the woods south of Walton in New York state. The road, little more than an overgrown footpath, was a massive detour; it would have taken Dakari only minutes to reach the stately home via the front entrance, though that was clearly out of the question.

Discretion was important. There could be no interruption to what happened tonight. No witnesses. There would be no forgiveness of Dakari for what he would do tonight; no-one could possibly understand and he'd never try to explain anyway.

Some things just needed to be done.

-#-

22nd May, 2010

Shyana told Dakari everything. So much so that she completely erased any and all doubts he might have had about her. He couldn't deny her talents, of course; she had already proven herself as a more-than-capable psychic... but now? Shyana knew more about Arthus Andarion and the Crimson Legion than he suspected even Mister Ravion did, and his knowledge of the "otherworldly" (as he called it) was vast.

So Dakari asked about Arthus Andarion and the information Shyana provided him with was chilling to say the least.

Andarion was part of the vanguard sent by the Crimson Legion to prevent any interference to Legion business from what she'd described as "certain parties," which Dakari suspected meant Mister Ravion, Mister Nihilus and anyone else who had a hand in stopping them. There were others but there whereabouts had been tracked as far as Foshan, China, then lost completely. Shyana said that the common belief was that they were dead - each and every one of them... But someone was still co-ordinating the Crimson Legion's movements and that had to be Andarion.

Shyana had reeled off a list of known Legionnaires' names; Corvus Valarian, Rhodri Caladan, Devron Anduji, Maeron Mentari, and others... but Dakari recognised none of them.

"Prob'ly for the best," she'd said. "The less you know, the less desperate they'll be to kill you, love."

Dakari didn't like his chances one bit. This advance warrior of the Legion could probably kill him to start with. Even if he were to succeed and escape alive he'd likely be hunted down by whoever was left anyway, regardless of how much he knew. The way Shyana had said "less desperate" only suggested that they intended to kill him at the first opportunity anyway.

Grim.

In the end, Shyana gave Dakari everything he needed, fear included. Fear brought Dakari down to earth, grounded him from the anger that had fuelled his journey thus far. By no means did rage control his actions, though it served as a constant reminder that he would avenge Benedict Ravion's death once he had carried out out his final wishes. Killing Arthus Andarion.

-#-

Date unknown

"Well... you told him," came a familiar voice from behind.

Draeden Darksky slowly turned around to face Daroth, the skeletal figure simply staring back at him without any hint of emotion. Draeden returned the expression, his keen eyes piercing the darkness beyond the circle of light of the burning car far behind him. The cold road beneath his feet stretched on forever, once again he found himself trapped in a strange world. How far must he walk this time before he reaches the end?

He sighed. "Was what he said true?"

A breeze whipped at Daroth's tattered robes, making the apparition himself seem even less animate, like a model skeleton with rags thrown on. "Regarding your failure? Only if you choose to believe it. You weren't brought here to fight Anathkash Dakari, that much is for sure."

"Anathkash Dakari? You mean 'The Author'?" demanded Draeden.

A soft laugh escaped Daroth.

"What's funny?"

"Ah, I beg forgiveness for my cruelty. I mean no ill will by my mirth, but must admit to finding amusement in this... situation. The most accurate name for this man you despise so much is Anathkash Darksky."

"Darksky?!"

"Yes. Duriel spoke the truth when he described your family's fate. Mother and father died, but infant and unborn sons both survived."

"The Author is my brother? And he was destined to kill me?"

"Hmm, I never did fully explain your presence here," Daroth admitted, rubbing at the space where his nose should have been. Force of habit. "Your spirit is detached from your body, true. Your soul now rests in a... facet of the afterlife. Another plane of existence."

"You already told me that."

"Indeed. Do you not find it unusual that Jack hasn't joined you here? If Jack was an additional personality existing in your head then he'd be in your head here, too."

"What are you saying? That the voice in my head I'd been arguing with for nearly two fucking monthswasn't me going insane?"

"Quite the contrary. Jack's intrusion was to cause your insanity. Or death, whichever you submitted to first," said Daroth, staring into the distance. "He came quite close to success, I understand. But he's still in your head, Draeden. Just not your head here."

Draeden was astounded. "And you couldn't have told me this earlier, because..?"

"I didn't believe it important at the time. You had things to do."

"Had things to do? So what's changed?"

The spirit turned his head to face Draeden, who felt his gaze despite the hollow eye sockets. "First you needed to get here. Now the pawns are moving into place. Now you are waiting."

"For what?"

Daroth shrugged. A peculiar sight, a skeleton shrugging. It reminded Draeden of tossing rice in a frying pan. A mental image he quickly dismissed.

"You don't even know?"

"A more appropriate statement would be 'even I don't know.'"

"Don't be so fucking pedantic," Draeden growled, turning back to the burning car and folding his arms, fuming with frustration at his guide's terrible judgement.

Daroth said nothing for a few moments. "We wait and see what your brother does next."

It was Draeden's turn for silence. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't believe that Daroth hadn't bothered to tell him that his mind had been infiltrated by a malevolent spirit posing as a mental disorder with the intention of convincing him to commit suicide so it could have his body for itself. But then, would he even have believed him? 'Oh, by the way, you're not mad; there was a ghost in your head making you go crazy so you'd hand over control of your mortal body to it. But don't worry about it, it's not important.'

"It may interest you to know Jack's true identity," Daroth offered solemnly.

Draeden looked over his shoulder at Daroth, his face filled with thunder. "You think?!"

-#-

13th June, 2010

From out of nowhere the clouds appeared, bringing with them a torrential rain that obscured Anathkash Dakari's vision even further than the darkness and forestry combined had already achieved. It was as if some celestial force was trying to prevent him from even reaching the mansion, let alone completing his task. Dakari flipped his hood up and soldiered on, the ground beneath him gradually becoming slick with mud, slowing his pace significantly.

On one hand he wished that Just Wrestling hadn't folded, that Jody Monroe hadn't cut her losses and run off with what little money the company had left. This alternative scenario being the case then Dakari would have been in Canada somewhere, hopefully making it third time lucky against Dash Springfield and proving to himself if no-one else that he could beat the man. Twice in a row Springfield had defeated him in what had been described by the media -so he'd been told- as massive upsets, though it looked like he'd never get the chance to repay the favour.

Try as he might, Dakari couldn't shake present business from the forefront of his mind, no matter how much he tried to distract himself. He'd spent so long thinking about it that the mission was ingrained into his brain. The white elephant was killing Arthus Andarion. Truth be told, despite all his own preparation for this day he still felt as if he wasn't ready to do this. He had the weapons, sure; armed with the spectacularly unremarkable dagger Nihilus gave him and a Colt M1911 he'd picked up before he left Albany, Dakari could eliminate Andarion at any range within the house – assuming Andarion didn't see him first.

Which he shouldn't.

At least if Anathkash Dakari were to die then he wouldn't leave anything behind. His writings were worthless to anyone who should find them; so complex was his code that none would likely break it. There was no-one for him to abandon, no-one who depended on him, especially not with the bankruptcy of JUST. Even if his and Jody's relationship was bordering on personal at best, he knew she wouldn't lose any sleep over his disappearance now. Dakari had no pets, no friends, no family and no life to begin with.

Nothing to lose.

The increasingly sludgy path was beginning to drain his strength, the mud closing around his feet and holding him down as if the very Earth sought to swallow him up, to stop his progress. Up ahead he could see lights on the path, an indication that he was getting closer to the mansion and a morale-booster; small though that was, every little helped.

There couldn't have been much further to go, surely.

Finally the trees broke away from the path, which gradually became more paved. The house was there in front of him now, beyond a long swimming pool; none of the lights that he could see were switched on, though there was an eerie glow from the underwater pool lights that illuminated much of the back of the stately home and the raised decked area at the back door.

Dakari's eyes locked on a dark shape moving around by the back door, comfortably strolling to and fro across the decking. A man dressed in a long black coat, who too had his hood up to shelter from the rain, clouds of smoke billowing from his mouth. Dakari could only assume that the man was standing guard, there was no other reason for him being there, besides smoking. Keeping to the treeline, Dakari circled the pool, dagger in hand. The man was completely oblivious to his presence and would likely remain so until it was too late, provided he didn't turn around at the wrong moment. His field of vision would be restricted by the hood, but that didn't matter to Dakari.

He already had his target in sight.

-#-

The cursed rain made keeping watch ten times harder than it should have been. To say that Arthus Andarion expected an attempt on his life would be moot – there were many more who knew of his presence in this world than the Legionnaire would have liked and as such he conducted his activities with the utmost vigilance. Anyone seeking entry would need to do so with care and planning.

He flicked his cigarette at the pool. It fell short, landing in a puddle.

The watcher's boots made no sound on the decking, as they were designed to reduce footfalls for those trained in the ways of stealth. The uneducated might describe him as a ninja, a silent assassin with immeasurable talents in martial arts. He knew of a thousand ways to make a man die in silence and he would certainly not fall victim to some--

The man turned around just in time to lean out of reach of the dagger swung at his face in a horizontal arc, though the roundhouse heel kick to follow cracked him square in the jaw, sending him reeling and crashing into the wooden railing around the deck and then to the floor. Turning over to get up he saw the man descending upon him, the glittering dagger plunging down to perforate his face.

-#-

As Dakari commenced delivery of the killing blow, his victim's hood fell away with barely a moment to spare before being impaled. The knife stabbed harmlessly into the wooden deck beside the downed man's head.

Righting himself and yanking his weapon free, Dakari pushed himself to his feet. "Florien?" he whispered in disbelief.

"Dakari," the man gasped, using the rail to help himself up. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I could say the same. Why are you here?"

Grinning, Florien D'nesca threw his hood back up and straightened his coat. "Same as you, more or less. You never hung around long enough to find out what Benedict said to me in his letter."

"I didn't think, you'd tell me anyway."

"Wouldn't have, at the time. Too angry, or so I'd have you believe."

"You mean at the bar?"

"Yeah," chuckled Florien, placing an arm across Dakari's shoulders. "You had to believe we'd not meet again in order for those watching you to think the same. I figured the best way to do that would be to punch you in the face."

Dakari scowled. "Job well done."

"Yup!"

"To what end?"

"I know why you're here. Benedict explained how this evening would pan out to me long ago. It took me a while to come to terms with it but I am to protect you with my life because for some reasonyou're the only one who can kill Andarion," the taller man said, taking his arm away to shrug dramatically, as was his way. "Don't ask me why, Benedict never explained that."

"How did you know I'd be here tonight? Here and now?"

A sickeningly cheerful smile clung to Florien's face. "You're not the only one who can tell fortunes, you know. This day has been written about for decades. You're about to prove history!"

"Prove history?"

"They already know it's going to happen, Dakari. It's just a case of going in there and doing it. I don't know exactly what's going to happen tonight but it's going to change both of us in ways we can't possibly imagine."

Dakari frowned. "Like from being alive to being dead? That's pretty drastic."

Florien's grin faded. "I sure fucking-- uh, hope not," he complained out loud, quietening down again. "C'mon, we'd better get inside. The camera out here is looping footage but if we make too much noise..."

"If you make too much noise, you mean."

"Whatever. Asshole. Door's unlocked, I got bored waiting for you."

With a long sigh, Anathkash Dakari nodded slowly to Florien. "Then let's get this over with."

-#-

Murderer, part ten: Dead Man's Wish

2010-05-28T12:22:00.001+01:00

21st May, 2010

The joy of his closing victory on Just Wrestling's prestigious tenth tour, "Tour X", had faded away long ago, leaving Anathkash Dakari to stew in his already dour mood.

His head rested against his fist as he sat at the rotten old desk under the sloping roof if his loft apartment, pen spinning in his left hand in time with the cogs in his head. For one who had written dozens of pages each day, the measly half-paragraph he'd scrawled in his unique runic script was terribly demoralizing. The writing made the chaos in his head bearable. Some would prefer talking to someone, but not Dakari. He had no friends to speak of, nor the urge to seek professional help. Nobody had ever believed him anyway, excluding Mister Ravion and Mister Nihilus, though Dakari hadn't seen the elusive Nihilus since Ravion died in March.

The biro pen slipped free of its spinning in Dakari's hand and skittered across the old desk and onto the floor, landing on his Just Wrestling gear bag. He hadn't laid eyes on the small duffel bag for over a fortnight, the sense of impending doom fashioned by Benedict Ravion's letter had long ago drowned out the desire to wrestle again.

Brrrrrr. Brrrrrr.

The strange little noise in the silent attic felt as loud as a tree falling down with only Dakari there to hear it. He almost leapt out of his skin.

Brrrrrr. Brrrrrr.

It was his cell phone from inside the bag. He hadn't thought the charge would last that long.

Brrrrrr. Brrrrrr.

With that in mind, he ignored it. Who would be calling him at this time on a Friday night? Or, more accurately, why was Jody Monroe calling him at this time on a Friday night?

Brrrrrr.

She was the only one with his number, after all.

He waited.

The vibrating had ceased, so that was that.

He reached down for his pen.

BRRRRRR! BRRRRRRR!

The vibrations seemed louder, startling Dakari again. He scowled and pulled the zip open, his hand plunging into the packed duffel bag to seek the phone.

His hand closed on it, withdrew it, accidentally tearing the bag in his zeal to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Dakari, I need you," Jody said.

"What?! But I, er, I mean, we... um, er--" he stammered.

"How'd you like to visit Canada?" the JUST boss interrupted, mercifully halting his stammering.

"Canada?!"

"Yes. For the Just Wrestling Canadian Dream tour - I've been trying to reach you for days, where have you been?"

"Um, nowhere?"

"Nowhere with your cell, you mean. Are you in or not?"

"No."

"Great, I'll -- wait, what? Did you just say 'no'?"

"I've got some personal stuff I need to do first. Sorry Jody," he sighed, genuinely wishing he could help. With Benedict Ravion's business to attend to there was no way he could concentrate on wrestling right now.

"What kind of stuff?"

"I have a lot on my mind, I can't really say."

"Canada is a beautiful and restful place. A change of scenery will make you feel better, I know it."

"No thanks, I'd rather just stay here."

"You're one win away from the JWC! One win! Then another for the absolute glory of the Just Wrestling Championship. How can you turn that down?" she argued, not pulling any punches.

Pity she was wearing the wrong colour gloves.

"Maybe next tour," Dakari muttered flatly.

Jody sighed in frustration. "Come on Dakari, I really need you in on this! Just Wrestling needs you."

Dakari said nothing for a few seconds. He could really use the break... but then gathering his thoughts was just as impossible in his dingy apartment as it would likely be in Canada.

He sighed.

"In."

-#-

Date unknown

Gone, just like that.

The wanderer's sworn enemy, his chance to escape this world, had vanished without even so much as a puff of smoke to mark his escape. He had been within his reach and yet he'd let him slip away... gone without a trace, while he was left without a hope.

Head hung low, the wanderer knelt on the asphalt and considered his options. The deserted road offered little by way of inspiration to the troubled spirit as he argued with himself over his next course of action.

Dust rolled across the road, carried on an unfelt breeze. The wanderer followed the swirl with his eyes until the dirt particles washed against the bottoms of pinstripe dress pants and black loafers. Looking up, the wanderer saw a well-dressed man grinning at him beneath a wide-brim hat, with vibrant green eyes that had locked onto his own.

"Ah, I see things did not go so well between you two, then. Such a shame," he chuckled. "But there's always next time."

The wanderer's eyes narrowed on the apparition. "Next time?"

"I forget, this was the 'next time' for you. Your second chance. You blew it, by the way. He he."

There were days when the wanderer would have sooner torn this creature's head from its shoulders than accept its words as truth. But then, what did he know? He had walked all this way and been presented with a most obvious and simple task to accomplish and he had failed. To exact revenge on those who contributed to his presence here. That was the end goal and he had fallen at the first hurdle.

Now what?

Seeing the impact his words were having on the wanderer, the stranger struggled to contain his glee. "Oh well, time to go back," he said off-handedly.

"Back?"

"Mmm, indeed. Back through those doors you passed through to enter this stretch of road. Back to where I like to call the 'waiting room'. He he."

"Waiting room? Waiting for what?"

"Oh, nothing much, just for eternity to end. You'll love it."

"What if I want to stay here? To unravel this... mystery?"

The man barked a laugh. "You mean this?" he asked, indicating the smouldering car wreck at his back. "That's hardly a mystery."

"Enlighten me," growled the wanderer, much to the stranger's amusement.

"Very well," he managed between chuckles. "This is the scene of a road accident that occurred a little over twenty-three years ago. You wouldn't remember, you were only a year and a half-old at the time. Let's see... well, there was this new car here, it belonged to a man a lot like yourself, actually. He was twenty-five years old, young and strong... his whole life ahead of him. Beside him there was his pregnant young wife, a real beauty to behold."

"Get to the point."

"No rush, Crusader. You have plenty of time, trust me."

Crusader... a moniker he hadn't worn for a long time.

"As I was saying, the couple were with child; one in the womb and one in the back seat. One twenty-nine weeks old and one eighteen months. Now, there was also a driver on the other side of the road and for some reason he lost complete control of his lorry, crashed it through the barrier and straight into the path of our... happy little family. He he..."

"Then what?"

"Why, it appears I greatly underestimated your stupidity. The doting husband and father died. The beautiful wife and soon-to-be mother of two died. But the boys... they went on to surprise us. Oh, how you surprised us, Draeden Darksky. The other too. He he."

"What do you mean, boys? I was the only one to survive that wreck!"

"So you believe. Miraculously, your unborn baby brother survived. But the surprises stopped there as he stumbled unwittingly onto the strange path of destiny while you... you made your own way. Fate's claws grip not your flesh, Draeden, your being here is testament to that. But that never meant that you wouldn't fail, and fail you have," cackled the smartly-dressed apparition, turning to walk away. "Nice try, though. Come, it's time to go."

Draeden climbed to his feet and dusted himself down. "No. I'm not coming with you, Duriel."

Duriel turned back to Draeden. "Ah, you know my name. Then I suppose Daroth told you all about me?"

"Just enough," the wanderer said. "I don't have to listen to you."

"But what if I ask nicely?"

Draeden simply stared at him.

"Or if I insist?" Duriel growled.

"It's clear to me now," Draeden began, ignoring Duriel. "In this place you have no strength, no power over me. I'm sure if you were able to force me then you wouldn't have bothered trying to convince me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

"I am. Because now I finally see the truth."

"Which is what?"

The first genuine smile he'd had in what felt like decades of solitude literally cracked Draeden's bone-dry lips. "I'm free now."

-#-

22nd May, 2010

Anathkash Dakari tipped the contents of his first Just Wrestling gear bag onto his loft bedroom floor, adding plain black pleather pants and matching sleeveless shirt to the myriad debris beneath his feet. Following the clothing came a small plastic bag containing various pieces of paper. Curiosity won over the dark-haired hoarder, beckoning him to investigate the writings in the bag. Mostly notes, it appeared. Dakari had tried to continue writing while touring with Just, but recent events had been... distracting.

Dakari rifled through the folded pieces of paper, unfolding some, ignoring others. He found the scrap paper he'd written Jody Monroe's phone number on, before he'd learnt how to use his cell phone's contact list, smiling faintly at the memory before crushing the paper in his hand and throwing it at the overflowing waste basket beside his desk. As his search continued, he happened across another telephone number he had yet to save in his phone.

Shyana's.

He'd forgotten all about the psychic he'd encountered in England. Dakari took the folded sheet of paper he'd rewritten Benedict Ravion's letter on from his pocket, opening it out to look it over once again. He already knew the outcome of future events; reading about them over and over again was merely an exercise in acceptance, an effort to come to terms with what would be a difficult but unavoidable solution to an unimaginable evil.

Mister Ravion's instructions were simple, the execution had been left entirely up to Dakari...

Nowhere did they say he couldn't seek outside help.

The phone was in his hand and dialling out before his nerves could stop him. Knowing more about his task was not something he could pass on. Anything and everything he could find out about his target would aid him, he knew.

"Hello? Who is this?" a tired voice demanded.

"Um, hi, it's--"

Shyana gasped in surprise. "Anathkash?!"

"Wow, you can do that over the phone..?"

"No, you bloody plum, I recognised your voice! How are you? More importantly, why are you ringing me at this time of night?"

"It's only... Oh."

"Yeah. We're about five hours ahead in our neck of the woods, love."

It was after midnight in Albany. Oops.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I, uh I'll call in the morning, sorry to--"

"Nevermind that; I'm awake now, you may as well tell me what's going on. I'd been wondering what'd happened to you, actually."

"What'd happened to me..?" he asked slowly. "Why..?"

"We had a run-in with your friend... the ghost you saw. Well, he's a bit more than that," she said, talking through a yawn.

"How so..?"

"There's far too much for me to go through with you on the phone. Especially at this hour," she said, then laughed sleepily. "Probably too much to explain in one lifetime! Just be content in the knowledge that you don't want to see him again. Ever."

Dakari sighed. "Fair enough," he grumbled. "I haven't seen him since."

"Me neither. But that's not why you called, is it?"

"No... What can you tell me about a man named Arthus Andarion?"

Shyana fell silent, her breath held. A sinking feeling gripped Dakari as he realised that the information she was to provide would not fill him with confidence.

"Why do you ask?" the woman asked slowly.

"It's important."

"That's not a reason."

"Do I need one?"

Shyana chuckled. "Only if it's important."

His palm met his face; finger and thumb closed around the bridge of his nose while he strained to think as quickly as he could. Shyana obviously knew something; whatever it was he could do with knowing about it too, regardless of what he had to reveal to her to fnd out.

Dakari took a deep breath.

"I'm going to kill him," he said plainly. She could just read his mind, after all.

"Okay," Shyana murmured, "I wasn't expecting you to say that."

The young man smiled a little.

"Why?"

"Er, to fulfill a dead man's wishes?"

"Whose?"

"Benedict Ravion."

Again the psychic fell silent, leaving Dakari to wonder whether he'd said too much. "I see," she eventually muttered. "Then I suppose I'm bound to help you."

-#-

Murderer, part nine: To the End

2010-05-12T17:16:00.000+01:00

8th May, 2010

The space in which Anathkash Dakari sat was a perfect example of abject squalor. The floor was strewn with empty food cartons, sheets of paper and various items of clothing, all black. So dense was the layer of dark attire on the floor one would be forgiven for thinking there was a black carpet down. Sadly, the floor was unadorned by any such luxury. It was almost a shame that the walls were not in a similar state of misleading disarray, though were Dakari's litter able to defy gravity then they may well have been.

Dakari lifted his pen from the page to appraise his work - perfect, by his own estimation. The strange glyphs he had inscribed upon the thick writing paper were known only to him, and with that there was no fear of anyone getting their hands on the specific instructions provided by Mister Ravion. Were that to happen before his task had been completed Dakari could potentially be in a lot of trouble, not just from the law, either. Should an agent of the Betrayer learn of Mister Ravion's plans before its execution...

It didn't bear thinking about.

The bearded man ducked under the sloping roof as he slid out of the tattered office chair at his desk and plunged into the duffel bag on the floor, adding plastic bags filled with miscellaneous junk and yet more clothing to the eighty-something square feet of black debris around him. Once the perfunctory distribution of the bag's contents ceased, Dakari then turned to the mattress at his right and flipped it onto its side. One of the floorboards beneath yielded to his touch, allowing him to reach inside to withdraw a heavy cloth bag that clattered noisily as he placed it down beside himself, allowing the mattress to hit the floor with a soggy thump.

Dakari smiled. This was exactly what he needed.

-#-

Date unknown

I made it.

His mouth echoed the words in his head, though no sound escaped his lips. The wanderer didn't want to speak too soon, though the relief made celebrating his freedom at the top of his lungs a powerful temptation. He settled for not coughing up so much dust his lungs came out to visit.

The wanderer realised that there wasn't too much to get excited about. There was every possibility that he'd simply traded one exhausting prison for another, that he'd stepped out of the dusty wasteland and into a tarmac wasteland instead. Beneath his feet, the sturdiness of asphalt felt unusual after becoming accustomed to the sandy dirt he'd been walking on for what felt like weeks.

Solid ground. What a peculiar thing to miss.

No crunching of bones with every step he took, no more did crowds of the dead gather around to watch him struggle, to watch him suffer as he dragged himself step by step towards what he could only assume was his goal. The uncertainty was what he hated the most; not knowing where he was going, nor what he'd find when he got there was frustrating, more so when even getting there was such a monumental task.

This was the next leg of his challenge. As with all things in his life, he would see this through to the end.

He resumed his journey.

-#-

9th May, 2010

Sleep had crept up on Dakari in the usual swift, unexpected manner that it saves for those who do not seek it. The candles on his desk had burned away to nothing, and so when he awoke he did so to complete darkness. The hard floor beneath him felt unusually cold, he observed as he lifted himself from it, wary of banging his head on the sloping ceiling. Completely disoriented, Dakari reached out but felt no ceiling, no walls and no furniture. A cool breeze washed over him and with it came the sinking feeling of dread - he was not where he thought he was.

Fumbling in the darkness, Dakari withdrew his cell phone from his pocket and switched it on. He was not surprised when the device displayed no signal, though it would do as a makeshift torch. In front of him he discovered some sort of metal barrier, fastened to the ground by steel and concrete. Painted lines alongside it suggested that he was on a road. Confirmation of this came in the form of a set of headlights illuminating the whole area around him, a large vehicle heading towards him. Dakari blocked the light from his eyes with one hand, the other waving to catch the driver's attention.

The lorry sped past on the other side of the barrier, the driver grinning wildly at him as he passed by.

With a sigh, Dakari brushed his greasy hair from his face and considered his next move. His surroundings were so surreal he didn't believe he was really there, but the dirt from the ground he brushed off his face was remarkably vivid.

The screech of tyres along the road snatched his attention. He saw another set of headlights blotted out by the lorry as it smashed through the barrier and into the path of the other car.

Impact.

Of the headlights he'd seen, only one remained and it spun in the air with the car to which it belonged before slamming into the ground and rolling onto its side.

Dakari ran towards the commotion, but deep down he knew there was nothing he could do. The orange glow of flames from the car guided him along the road as he jogged towards the wreckage.

With or without you
With or without you
I can't live
With or without you
With or without you

The sound of the car's radio reached Dakari's ears and he instantly recognised it from a dream he had thought nothing of weeks ago. The relevance of all this was still unknown to him, but what he did know was that three people were killed in the crash - a young couple and their baby son. Four, counting the pregnant woman's unborn child. As Dakari approached the upside-down old Escort, he could hear a baby's cries, weak and desperate, but the boy was alive in there. He sprinted the rest of the way, sliding down beside the car and looking in through the windows.

With or without you
With or without you
I can't live--fzzzt

The radio died. With it, the baby's cries ceased. Dakari frantically aimed the light from his phone into every nook and cranny in the stricken car but it was completely vacant. No baby and no parents. No corpses; nothing.

This had to be a dream.

"YOU!" roared a voice from the darkness.

Dakari leapt to his feet in surprise, his phone doing little to reveal the identity of the shadow looming over him. An unseen kick sent the phone skittering into oblivion; a second attack, aimed at Dakari's head was telegraphed by instinct and deflected. The young man darted back out of reach and awaited the charge. It came, but with minimal warning; his attacker driving a shoulder into his gut and lifting him into the air with ease, though Dakari was able to land on his feet instead of being slammed onto his back. Two savage knees to the face sent his attacker reeling, though he didn't wait to come back for more, landing a fist in Dakari's face. A second, swift though it was, was too predictable for the expert martial artist. He caught the fist and stepped past it, smashing his attacker in the face with an elbow-headbutt combination.

He heard the man flop to the ground, breathing heavily.

"Had I not walked a thousand miles I'd have fucking killed you by now," the assailant growled from the ground, spitting somewhere.

"But why? I don't even know who you are," Dakari replied, confused as to the identity of the stranger.

"I forget, you don't see as I do."

"What do you want from me?"

"What do I want?!" the man shouted. "I want revenge! I was in control until you interfered, until you fucked everything up for me! You and that fucking book, you wouldn't leave me alone..." A long sigh came from the ground where the man still sat, seething with rage. "You were the death of me. And I'm going to destroy you. This is my last task, I know that much. I've come all this way... just to see you die."

"Wait! What book?"

"What do you mean, 'what book'? The book you shoved in my face day after day, the book you had sent by the crate-load to my home. I'll never forget the sight of the damned fucking cover, thanks to you," he growed. "It was the book you wrote... Shadow Crusade."

The recognition that had lurked on the horizon of Dakari's understanding finally dawned. "But... you aren't dead!"

"Fuck you! I've seen the world that we're destined to visit once we're gone! I've seen the nightmares that wait for us on the other side of existence and let me tell you - they aren't pretty. I - FUCKIN' - DIED!"

"But... you..." Dakari stammered, struggling to find an explanation.

"But me WHAT!?" the stranger spat.

"You're still alive... I... I couldn't get through to you in time before... before..."

"Before what?"

-#-

Anathkash Dakari lurched into the waking world, the familiar surroundings of his loft room all around him, tears streaming down his face.

"Before the prophesy came true," he whispered.

Murderer, part eight: Emergence

2010-05-11T01:30:00.001+01:00

Date unknown

Being watched was not a pleasant experience, the wanderer knew. In this instance the unease was magnified tenfold for each extra pair of ghostly eyes that observed his plight. With each step forward a new soul joined the crowd that lined his path like spectators at some deathly marathon. No-one blocked his path or sought to distract him; if they did, he couldn't hear them for the sound of the bones that cracked and fell to dust beneath his feet. Those who surrounded him were of all shapes and sizes, the apparitions becoming increasingly ragged and decomposed as he continued onward. He felt the harsh gaze from the empty eye-sockets of skeletal spirits the same as from those with eyes to speak of.

The watchers' intentions were unclear. Their expressionless faces leered from beyond the murky shadows all around him, though the wanderer couldn’t be sure whether they meant to appear menacing or whether they simply wanted to attend a miniscule part of what had been a truly boundless journey thus far. Maybe they were curious about who he was, where he was going?

Can't be much further...

His legs wobbled with each step, ablaze with agony. His spine felt like a gorilla's xylophone; the wanderer marched on hunched-over in an attempt to rest his back while continuing onward, the change in position providing relief from the pain for a short time. He withheld any signs of his anguish from the crowd; for some reason he assumed that their suffering here would have been far greater than any pain he had endured.

Looking back, his own life had been a terrible one and ceased at the edge of a mere twenty-four years. His youth, supposedly a time when one should be care-free, ignorant to the evils of the world. His had been marred by violence, poverty and death from the day he was born. His adult life had been short and unimaginably unpleasant. Everything he tried to do had failed; everything that didn't involve fighting, that is. Everyone he'd ever loved was dead.

Almost.

That fiendish apparition that had approached him so many miles of this desolate world ago, Cong-Chao, was just a vile reminder of the life he'd once had; when he'd fought to survive against what felt like impossible odds. He'd killed Cong-Chao in a fight to the death before he'd even had a chance to raise his weapon. He was a savage human being, a rapist and murderer. Watching the blood spurt from this foul man's sundered throat was the first and last time the wanderer had taken pleasure in killing. He'd felt the grin crawl across his face as the crowd in the underground arena erupted in rage, their pit-hero falling to his knees at the feet of the slave he was supposed to slaughter.

Oh, the disbelief in their cries. The gurgle of screams bubbling through blood served the same purpose as the ring announcers that would announce my victories in years to come.

The wanderer snorted at the thought of comparing forced murder to professional wrestling.

Then again, that too had a part to play in the death of me.

For the first time since stepping foot in these strange lands the wanderer felt the caress of the wind flowing over his body, cooling him down. He had stripped down to the waist long ago, his torn black shirt tucked into his similarly ragged pants. The gentle breeze was refreshing but gave wings to the dust, throwing muck into the wanderer's face. He fought on through bloodshot eyes. As he squinted into the wind, a cloud of dust burst out of the fog and engulfed him entirely.

-#-

Date unknown

"Are you still here?" hissed Duriel as he grinned at the back of Daroth's head.

The rotten robe-clad skeleton glanced over his shoulder at the man in the black hat. The thought of a smile flashed across Daroth's bone face as he did so. "Of course. See how the storm has settled already?"

Sure enough, the sky before him was clearing, the colossal black clouds that had rained lightning over the seas since the night Daroth had sent the wanderer into it had now withered away and fallen to silence. Behind the dispersing clouds, the sun was rising, giving the sky a burnt red glow.

Duriel cackled. "Sated. After feasting on the soul of your 'knight'."

The other spirit said nothing. He simply folded his arms and shifted balance from one leg to the other.

"Or do you think he made it beyond the surf and saltwater?" Duriel continued. "I don't. He he."

Daroth ignored him. "How did your meeting with the assassin go?" he asked, allowing himself a chuckle of his own. "Did he believe you?"

"Of course he did!"

"Mmm. I hope so, otherwise he won't be where he's meant to be when he should... will he?"

Duriel bared his jagged teeth. "You should concern yourself with your own..." he slowed, waving a black hand in thought, "'champion', or whatever you choose to call that pathetic soul you've found."

"Indeed. I suggest you do the same," Daroth replied without turning around. The spirit at his back growled in frustration. When he looked over his shoulder, Duriel had gone.

-#-

6th May, 2010

Defeat.

A misery that was not inflicted upon Anathkash Dakari this night as he retreated from the ring area victorious. His opponent, Aaron Nothings, crumbled under the might of his determination and the streak of losses had been broken.

If only this had been the extent of his worries.

Jody Monroe almost leapt out of her seat in surprise as Dakari burst into the commentary box she was using as an impromptu office. She cursed his name despite him appearing almost as shocked as she was.

"Christ, Dakari, haven't you heard of knocking?" she moaned, rearranging the documents on the table beside her in a flustered manner.

"Sorry," he said, shuffling out of the room again.

"Where are you going?!" Jody demanded.

"Um, back to the locker rooms?"

"Why? Did you actually want something, or did you just come along to see if you could give me a heart attack?"

"No... I wanted to talk to you."

Jody held up both hands in an overdramatic shrug. "Then why are you leaving?"

Dakari's mouth opened and closed a few times as if some words were supposed to come out, though nothing did.

"Doesn't matter," the JUST boss said. "We may as well make use of this time since you've interrupted my work. I was going to call you after the show anyway."

"Oh," Dakari said flatly. "Why?"

"No, you first. Have a seat."

The only chair in the room that was anywhere near Jody was immediately beside her. Dakari dragged it a couple of feet back to accommodate what he considered to be a "respectful distance" from Jody before he sat in it. Most would assume this to be a snub on Dakari's part but Jody was getting used to his unusual behaviour and took no offense, instead smiling inwardly at how awkward the young man was around her. When he sat down he avoided eye-contact and although that was not unusual, he was clearly more agitated than usual.

"What's bothering you?" she asked.

The rookie looked like he was about to say something, then withdrew. He tried again, with more success. "I... I may need to take a leave of absence," he said, finally.

"Leave of absence? Three days before the final show of our tenth tour? I don't think so, Dakari!"

"No, no, I don't mean now, I mean after. Like, after the tour. There's some things I, erm, have to do. Family things," he prattled.

Jody said nothing at first and she could see Dakari struggling to bridge the gap by saying something but he'd run out of steam for the coal-fired communications engine in his head.

It was painful to watch Dakari squirm, even for Jody. Her face softened as she could see the toll his inner turbulence was taking. "Anathkash. That's fine. You know how Just works. I haven't even started making arrangements for our next tour yet; as far as Just Wrestling is concerned you can take all the leave of absence you need – once this tour's obligations are met. Okay?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"Good. As much as I've had my doubts about you, you've turned out to be quite popular, particularly with our die-hard fans. You know I'll call you when I need an idea of numbers for the next tour. If you're not ready by then, fine. We'll just have to see when the time comes, won't we?"

"Yeah."

"I watched your match tonight."

"You did?"

Jody watches all of the matches. Shhh. "Yeah. You seemed to be more your normal self tonight. You performed well, but I think there's still something bothering you. Or is it this 'family thing'?"

"Yeah. Um, that's what's bothering me. Nothing to worry about," he lied.

"Excellent. Was there anything else?"

"Uh, no. All good."

"Glad to hear it. Well, that's just about all I wanted to say anyway," Jody said. Her eyes met Dakari's. "Good work tonight, Anathkash. I'll see you on Sunday."

-#-

Date unknown

The huge gateway appeared suddenly, emerging from the dust as the wanderer carried on his journey, step by agonizing step. Twin giant stone doors lurked ominously up ahead as he approached. They were a lot further away than they seemed at first, though the very sight of them breathed renewed vigour into the exhausted spirit. His hair dangled in greasy strands that had tangled themselves into his beard, both thick with the dust carried on the powerful gale. Looking up through stinging eyes he halted suddenly.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The door was opening.

Have I finally made it? Or is this too good to be true?

There was only one way to find out, he conceded, and broke into a run. The wanderer heard the gut-wrenching SNAP! of bones breaking and looked over his shoulder. His way back had been blocked, the watchers barring the way and coming up fast behind him, a wall of groaning corpses lumbering towards him, clambering over one another in their desperate haste.

His legs carried him as fast as the pain would allow.

Only a few dozen metres to go.

Murderer, part seven: Safety

2010-05-06T15:17:00.001+01:00

Date unknown

The wanderer stared at the figure approaching him; his expression had hardened to one of distaste, though this could have just as easily been at the agonizing sound of crunching bones that collapsed underfoot as coming face to face with this ghost. He would have disbelieved his own eyes had his recent experiences not broadened his mental horizons, for now he was faced by the apparition of a man he'd certainly not expected to see again.

"You've been lost to us for a long time, slave," the grinning warrior said in Putonghua, arms folded across his tattooed and blood-soaked chest. The source of this stain, a tear in his throat, reminded the wanderer of the first and last time this man had crossed his path. It had been a brief meeting.

"Cong-Chao," the wanderer muttered in the same tongue. "I remember you."

"So you should. There are a few of us here, since you... disappeared... we've been gathering. Awaiting your return."

"Why?"

Cong-Chao laughed suddenly. "Why? To resume haunting you, of course. For your crimes. Make you pay."

"Don't you think you caused me enough misery while I was alive?"

"As you can see, life does not end after death, slave."

A moment of silence lingered over the two men as they watched one another, Cong-Chao beaming with malice as the traveller anticipated an outburst of aggression from him.

It never came.

"You'd best be on your way," the Chinese spirit chuckled. "Things to do."

"Indeed."

"Watch your back. We'll be around."

"And I'll be waiting for you. If you had been watching me for the past year you'd know I've destroyed beings far more powerful than you. I killed you in life; I'll kill you again in death."

The smile had faded from his old enemy's face, the expression replaced by one of disgust; the wanderer didn't see it however, for he had already started walking away. "We'll see. Good luck on your travels, slave."

-#-

3rd May, 2010

There was a small element of pleasure that Anathkash Dakari found in another day passing without seeing the furious Florien D'nesca. Whatever the contents of his letter, Mister Ravion's instructions obviously didn't require any proximity to Dakari which was a relief. Behind Florien's veil of drug abuse and criminal behaviour lurked a good heart, Dakari knew. If you sidestepped the tough guy act then he was... bearable.

Otherwise? He was an asshole.

Still, the man was gone and Dakari was not likely to see him again without Benedict Ravion to bring his two students back together. He'd certainly not be seeking him out himself, that was for sure.

Dakari found himself looking for the best in things, during these dark days. With the demise of his surrogate father came an unshakable slump in effort in all things - his wrestling career suffering the most. In retrospect, there wasn't really much in his life that required his concentration anymore. In fact, he didn't have much in his life, save for the "destiny" that Mister Ravion had described in his letter. Once that had come to pass it probably wouldn't matter anymore anyway. Blood would be shed and the end of all this could begin.

What does one do when one has spent their entire life preparing to face their destiny... then faces it?

Well that all depends on the outcome of that encounter. Whatever eventuality Fate decides to dole out will be met in due course.

For now Dakari had to continue with the day-to-day menial tasks. The anticipation was agonizing but Dakari had spent his life waiting for one moment, lurking in the shadows for his "time to shine". And shine he would, with the radiance and fury of a thousand suns his task would be complete and then...

And then...

Who knows?

The waters of the Upper Bay were unsettled, the morning sun dancing frantically on its surface. Hudson Riverdance? Powerful winds threatened to dislodge Anathkash Dakari from his perch atop the warehouse beside the Teardrop Memorial, the height enough to make even him a little edgy.

The sudden, violent vibrations from his pocket didn't do his nerves any favours. Dakari withdrew the cell from his pocket as he shuffled away from the drop.

"Hello?" he shouted over the wind.

"Jesus Christ, Dakari, are you in a wind tunnel or something?" Jody Monroe asked.

Dakari looked up to the open sky. "No."

"I can barely hear you!"

"It's windy."

"Well get into some shelter, then! I can't carry on with a conversation like this!" she complained.

Dakari flipped the hood on his jacket up and cupped his hand around the phone. "Better?"

"Slightly. What's wrong with you?" she asked suddenly.

The rookie paused, the interference from the wind made him unsure of what Jody had actually said. "What's wrong with me? Um, nothing, why? What do you mean?"

"I noticed you've not been yourself lately. I just don't want my whole touring roster having nervous breakdowns."

"T-the whole roster..?"

"Forget it. I take it you're already aware that our next show is in Jersey City."

"Er, yeah. I'm at the Teardrop Memorial."

"You-what? Ear drops?!"

"No, the Teardrop Memorial!"

"Oh. What about it?"

"I, um, wanted to, er, see it?"

"Well, why don't you?"

"I... I am."

"Good," Jody said, sounding slightly confused. "Do you need to know who your opponent is or have you managed to work out how to use a computer yet?"

Dakari said nothing.

"Didn't think so. You're facing Aaron Nothings, second to main-event - should be a real crowd pleaser," the JUST head chuckled. "Two complete delinquents in one ring, very entertaining."

"Two delinquents? What do you mean?"

"You really thought I wouldn't hear about that brawl you had in Alamosa? You and that... that lunatic you brought with you to the signing day could've caused me a major headache!" Her tone was rising with each word. "Don't make me regret my decision to keep you on board at Just Wrestling. It's a mistake that's easily undone!"

Dakari paused and scowled. He uncovered the microphone to the wind, holding the phone away from his face. "Sorry Jo--… can't hear..... say--… call you back!" he yelled, feigning interference before slamming the flip shut.

He turned off the phone and jammed it into the pocket of his black combats, frowning into the wind.

-#-

Jody Monroe took her Bluetooth headset off and threw it down on her desk, the hands-free set skittering away and falling onto the floor. Her other hand pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. She took a deep breath and let her mind drift back to the last vacation she managed to take. The villa balcony; sand, sea and sangria. The warmth of Mediterranean sun caressing her face as she gazed across the beautiful seaside scenery.

She released that breath, with the holiday imagery in her mind.

Ahh.

Such frustration from one man. Well, she knew that was an overstatement, it was more like half a dozen men. Dakari, Harrison, Balboa and, recently, Johnson to name but a few of the men that had graced the Just Wrestling ring with their presence and trashed Jody's good nights' sleep with their problematic behaviour.

She felt the moment of relaxation fading away the more she thought about it. Within seconds, it was gone.

Did Dakari really think she didn't know he just hung up on her? The strange man was so distant; the only tool she had to keep him in check was the threat of losing the job he'd had to deceive her to secure. The truth was, had Jody not been abandoned at the helm of the company and left desperate for talent, she'd have turned Dakari away in an instant once the wild fabrication had been discovered. She hated liars, but he'd already proven himself an entertaining and talented individual by the time she found out. If only she'd paid more attention to the events of the west-coast-based wrestling company, The Experts. The man Dakari had pretended to be was the figurehead of The Experts, after all.

She should have known.

She wondered suddenly about one vitally important detail that hadn't occurred to her in the past – if Dakari only claimed to be trained by All-Star Wrestling in order to support his false identity... who trained him to wrestle? Not that wrestling factored in his matches very heavily, true; but he had to have learnt what he knew somewhere. But, on the other hand, how could he have been trained to wrestle but know absolutely nothing about the business at the same time?

The scruffy enigma was a curious one indeed.

Jody had been uncertain as to whether the reports of the bar fight she'd seen on the internet actually regarded Dakari. He was such a quiet man, not the wrestling type by any means; bar fights and the like were not the kind of activities she suspected he'd be involved with, but after his reaction to her accusation on the phone there was no doubt. Had formal charges been raised then disciplinary action would be unavoidable. It was well that, on this occasion, there was no proof.

Anathkash Dakari was safe in his job... for now.

Murderer, part six: Voidwalker, From the Depths

2010-05-06T15:13:00.000+01:00

Date unknown

With each step taken a new cloud of silt arose to obscure the wanderer's vision in his already murky surroundings. His hands flailed in a hopeless effort to clear the way but the sand simply wove itself around his arms, between his fingers. There was no chance of moving fast in the depths of the great sea he found himself in, it was truly a wonder he was even able to move forward at all.

His mission was to cross the Void, destroy the Betrayer. Daroth had helpfully informed him that this task would not be as easy as it sounded, but the reward he had been promised would be worth it. A gift sought by many, but one that no-one believed it was possible to achieve.

A second chance.

He would earn that prize. The huge beasts that slithered unseen through the murky waters around him would seek to deny him that which he would achieve. The agents of the Betrayer would stop at nothing to destroy him.

They would not succeed.

With each step forward his goal drew nearer.

-#-

March 15th, 2010

"It is done," Eidolon growled into the cell phone as he threw his trench-coat down on the hotel bed.

The dim light from the bedside lamp drowned in the sea of black in which the assassin was bedecked, save for the glimmering sharpened edges of the throwing knives strapped to his chest. Eidolon's face hardened as his employer relayed his instructions to him, and the death sentence of his next target was set in stone.

"Of course. I'll see to it."

The phone was flipped shut and thrown to land beside the coat. This was a dirty business Eidolon had gotten himself into. It was almost a shame he was so good at it.

He he he...

Eidolon's pistol was in his hands and pointing at the shadow by the hotel room door.

"Step out! NOW!" he barked, taking a step back.

With a chuckle the intruder stepped out of the dark corner, though that didn't help Eidolon. The man was dressed head-to-foot in black, his hat obscuring his face.

"Who are you!?"

"Unimportant," hissed the man. "But what is important is the name of the one you seek to kill. Correct?"

"Why would you tell me that? And why should I believe you?"

"Let's just say that we will both have... mutual benefits from his death."

"The name?"

The man grinned from beneath his hat, wicked sharp teeth gleamed in the darkness. "Anathkash Dakari."

"I'll take this into consideration. Now leave."

"As you wish," grinned the apparition, opening the door and stepping out of the room.

Eidolon reached for the holster at his waist and paused, looking back to his leather coat. He turned it over and put his hands into the inside pocket, removing the box containing the revolver Benedict Ravion gave him.

With a sigh, Eidolon sat on the edge of the bed and placed the box down beside himself. The revolver waited inside. He opened the ornate box and lifted the weapon out, feeling the weight of the pistol in his grip, and peered through the sight. The delicate appearance of the intricately carved black cannon was offset by its own bulk, Eidolon observed. He popped the curious two-chambered cylinder and scratched the stubble on his chin. Why only two chambers? Aside from the superficial beauty of the silver etchings in the gun it was really no different from any other Colt Anaconda, excluding the unusual and highly inefficient cylinder.

There had to be a reason for it. Whatever it was, it wasn't likely Eidolon would ever find out.

-#-

April 19th, 2010

As Florien's hand plunged into his jacket pocket, the Colorado Sports staff tried to make themselves as invisible as possible, sidling behind shelves and sales displays in an effort to avoid the next violent outburst from the aggressor. The young man smirked and produced an envelope from his pocket, thrusting it towards Anathkash Dakari, who eyed it critically.

"What's this?" he asked.

"You think I have x-ray vision?" snarled Florien. "Open it."

Dakari frowned at him. "I'll read it later; we need to leave."

-#-

April 19th, 2010

Anathkash Dakari glanced at the beer bottle placed down in front of him by the grinning Florien and looked back at his letter. The shorter man slumped into the leather sofa, a Bud of his own in his hand.

"You like how I took out that security guard?" he asked between swigs of beer, the faint echoes of an almost-forgotten Italian woven into his words.

"Very good," Dakari drawled with disinterest before sliding an envelope across the table to Florien, who took it in one hand and turned it over. "For you."

"What's this?"

"It was inside the message you gave me."

Florien put his drink down to open the envelope. He withdrew a folded sheet of thick writing paper.

His eyes scanned the busy bar, then fell on the reading Dakari. He was pressed into the corner as much as possible, legs crossed beneath him on the leather settee. The wrestler had insisted on finding the most out-of-the-way seating to occupy and read his letter. Florien noticed his expression of horror when he first lead the man into the bar, when the door was pushed aside and the mass of people within were revealed to him.

It had been a few years since he and Dakari last met; Florien could tell he hadn't changed a bit. Same old Dakari, ducking from the eyes of the world and slinking through society like a panicked mouse; unseen, unheard, unknown... except when he emerged from his shell and wrestled in front of a couple of thousand people. He had always been reserved and shy; why he'd decided to expose himself to thousands of people at a time while cuddling greasy men for their entertainment was beyond him. He was a fighting prodigy, why would he waste his time with wrestling?

Still, he knew better than to try and argue Dakari's unusual behaviour. He had an explanation for everything; it was as if each time he did anything it was after great consideration. The conviction with which he conducted his life was enough for Florien to cast his doubts aside and simply accept what Dakari was doing, whether he thought he was right, wrong, or extremely fucking weird.

Whatever.

The younger man scowled at Dakari and unfolded his letter. When his eyes met the page and the two words written upon it were read he could almost feel his blood boil. A vicious sneer crossed his face momentarily as he looked to the other man; he didn't notice the malice pouring out of Florien now as he was still reading his letter, though he must have felt eyes on him as he looked up.

"What?"

"Nothing," Florien snarled. "You gonna drink that or what?"

Dakari looked at the beer momentarily, then back to his letter. "I don't drink. Have it."

"Still? I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You don't know how to have fun. Lighten up, you miserable fuck."

With a frustrated sigh, the rookie wrestler turned his focus from his letter. "The one who was the closest thing to a father I've ever had was murdered a couple of weeks ago. Now is not the time for fun. You spend too much of your time having fun; you're irresponsible, immature, and above all - you're an idiot. So pardon me if I don't have the patience to deal with you right now."

Florien launched to his feet and threw an angry finger at Anathkash. "Fuck you, Dakari! I'm grieving too!"

"I never said you weren't. What I'm saying is, you've lost focus. Your dedication to your duties is clouded by your pursuit of fun and entertainment."

"That's what you think?!" he roared. The voices in the background quietened down as the bar's patrons turned to eavesdrop. "So what's all this wrestling shit all about? What the fuck do you call that, huh?"

"Keep your voice down," Dakari growled, pointedly glancing at the onlookers and lowering his voice to barely more than a whisper. "I seek the Betrayer. You know that."

Florien barked a laugh before taking a drink of Dakari's beer. "So you say... so you say. But you, you see me drinking and having fun sometimes and just assume it's all I do. Maybe I'm trying to find the Betrayer at the bottom of each bottle, ever think of that?"

"I'm at least working the correct industry. You're being a fool. Sit down before they throw you out."

"They can't throw me out, you know that!"

"They'll try."

"Good for them. Fuck them!"

"Stop it. Read your letter, it's important."

"I've fucking read it already, Dakari. Stop telling me what to do."

"I will, as soon as you stop being an asshole!"

"You first, you fucking dick!" Florien screamed.

Dakari shook his head as the bar's bouncers approached from behind the furious Florien. "Keep shouting, then. Let the doormen see you out."

"You cunt. I'll catch up with you later."

"Oh, fuck off then, Florien; you prick."

That was the last straw for Florien D'nesca. His wild punch threw him out of the bouncers' reach and into the empty space Dakari once occupied. The wrestler had rolled aside, then flashed a kick into the side of Florien's head, knocking him into a sideward stagger that saw him fall to the feet of one of the doormen.

Dakari snatched his letter from the table and folded it up, tucking it into his jeans pocket. Just when he thought the scuffle was over, Florien obviously had other ideas. His foot lashed up from where he lay on the ground to kick the doorman in the face. He took the blow and rained fist after fist down at Florien to subdue him, but the considerably smaller man had no intentions of giving up, despite the beating he suffered. He grabbed the bouncer's next fist with both hands and wrapped his feet around his head, dragging the big man off-balance and rolling to the floor, using the momentum to throw himself upright. His foot stomped down on the bouncers face once, twice, and once again in quick succession before the other doorman could clobber him in the face with a savage punch that sent him flying over a table hastily vacated by young men.

The bouncer grabbed Florien by the back of his jacket, but was met by an elbow repeatedly smashing into his face until he released him. As he spun around, Florien threw a punch at the bouncer who soaked up the blow and floored him in turn with a solid headbutt that landed with a crack!

"Idiot," Dakari muttered, shaking his head. He ran towards Florien and hopped over him, stepping up onto the empty table and flipping back over, kicking the bouncer in the face with both feet.

Both men hit the ground.

Grabbing Florien, The young wrestler pushed himself to his feet, dragging him up beside him.

"We should probably go," Florien blathered.

-#-

Wiping the blood from his face with his jacket sleeve, Florien walked ahead of Dakari.

Dakari wasn't surprised by his outburst. Two years younger was Florien, though he behaved like an enraged adolescent. This had always been his way, though Dakari hated him for it. He had never taken his training seriously, much to the frustrations of Mister Ravion and Mister Nihilus. The lack of attention he paid during his education was clear in the brawl they had just escaped from; there was no reason why Florien couldn't have wiped the floor with both doormen, save from the fact that he was angry and he had forgotten much of what he had been taught over the years.

For Anathkash Dakari, his knowledge had been branded onto the surface of his brain, waiting at the forefront of his mind for easy access. But for Florien... his mind was a haze of booze and drugs. While Dakari endeavoured to avoid breaking the law wherever possible, Florien treated the law with about as much respect as he had for any other rules – none whatsoever. Rules were made to be broken; a criminal record was just a means of keeping score.

Florien was dangerous; despite his size and inexperience he threw his weight around as if he were made of lead and that brought him trouble by the boatload.

"I think the fucker broke my nose," he complained, having apparently forgotten their disagreement that caused the brawl in the first place.

"Serves you right," Dakari grunted. "You should control your temper."

"The only thing around here that needs control is your mouth."

Dakari shook his head. "Thanks for the message, Florien. I dearly hope I never have to see you again."

"Huh?" Florien spun around.

Dakari was gone.

-#-

Date unknown

The fluidic air was thinning out; the clouds of dust thrown into view with each and every step were becoming smaller. A faint crunch could be heard as the wanderer's feet met the seabed beneath him; he no longer felt the presence of the malignant beings as they glided unseen though the dense waters. Perhaps they had not been aware of him as he meandered across the silt wasteland. Although he could see and feel his own body, maybe they couldn't? He didn't know if he was as an apparition in this world or a solid manifestation. The water flowing against him made him feel pretty solid, but traditional sensibilities meant nothing after what he'd seen.

The fact that he took this journey on the instruction of a skeletal ghost bedecked in robes was enough for him to abandon his former apperceptions of reality.

CRUNCH!

The wanderer looked down. Beneath his feet was some sort of crockery or something sticking out of the sand, which now appeared to be dry. He looked up. All around him was black, though not necessarily darkness; the ground ahead was dotted with flecks of white and gray. Kneeling down, he pushed the sand away from around the broken object and discovered, to his horror, that he had crushed a skull underfoot. His eyes slowly scanned the ground ahead and the wanderer continued onward at a crawl, inspecting that which he found buried beneath the surface of this strange place. More bones. All bones. All of it. Fingers and femurs, sections of spinal columns and skulls littered the ground.

With the sea gone, the wanderer took a deep breath of air and enjoyed how easy it was on his lungs. Breathing water was like trying to drink mud when expecting wine. A wholly unpleasant experience.

Sadly, the relief of fresh air was of little comfort to the wanderer as he sat on the ground and turned what he presumed to be a humerus over in his hands, perplexed as to whom they belong. This barren graveyard troubled him deeply. Was it the final resting place of others who'd sought the same prize? Or had he simply ambled onto dry land and walked into an ancient cemetery?

He had no idea.

"You're the last one I expected to see here," a voice from behind whispered.

The wanderer looked back... and sorely wished he hadn't.

Murderer, part five: A Pawn on Horseback

2010-04-20T13:06:00.001+01:00

14th March, 2010

The glass was relatively unremarkable at first glance, but John Rhodes had a good eye for these things, an attention to detail he had forged from his years of experience as a detective in the Virginia police force. He was fit to burst from the moment his rubber-gloved hand closed around the snifter from the desk opposite the corpse he'd been sent to investigate. As the modest vessel was raised higher into the air, into the afternoon sunlight, the grin that had begun to take shape on Rhodes's face became broader.

"What's that?" asked Curtis, peering over his partner's shoulder.

Rhodes said nothing, simply pointing to the rim of the glass, allowing the grimy lip-mark do the talking.

"That's... You think it could be the perp's?"

"Maybe not, but it's a fuckin' good lead, Mike. Hell, it's all we've got," Rhodes sighed. "But the thing is, it isn't gonna be the vic's. So whoever's had their mouth all over this thing is gonna have some explaining to do."

"No shit," Mike Curtis grinned. "This could be our lucky break."

"Could be."

-#-

April 16th, 2010

"We need to raise your profile. This is the first show of the tour and you're headlining it. Big deal."

Anathkash Dakari said nothing in response. His eyes had fallen to the space between Jody Monroe's waist and outstretched arm as she leant against her desk; her other hand waved around with enthusiasm, reminding Dakari of a conductor guiding his orchestra through an intricate symphony.

Needless to say, the young rookie had no idea what Miss Monroe was talking about.

He chanced a glance at her face. She wasn't looking at him anyway; her eyes gazed upwards while she spoke as if longing for her dreams to be realised. Dakari didn't know what these dreams were, fame and money probably, but he knew she'd scramble over anyone else in the business to reach them, himself included.

And she wore some savage heels.

By now everyone knew what'd happened to Joe Balboa. The Brawler. His family. Some said he'd paid the price for his own stubbornness while others said he'd suffered to satisfy Jody's greed. There were some pretty big mouths backstage. Dakari had never been one for talking, but he sure knew how to listen.

Except for right now, apparently.

Jody's eyes met Dakari's for a mere instant before the scruffy man hastily looked away, scratching his beard as a distraction. "What did I just say?" she demanded.

Shit. "Uh, you were saying that, um, the... profile? Raising it?" he ventured feebly.

She nodded slowly. "That's absolutely right... or at least it would be if this was ten minutes ago!" she fumed.

Again Dakari remained silent, now rubbing his chin through his unruly facial hair. A grimace flashed across Jody's face as she watched him, desperately avoiding making eye contact with her as if his life depended on it.

The JUST boss straightened up, tugging the creases from the front of her blouse. "Oh, another thing – that awful beard must go. And would it kill you to at least wash your hair? I'm having some bedraggled tramp tarnish the image of this company," she griped, moving around her desk to sit in front of her computer. "You look like a hobo. Don't make me start billing you as such."

Dakari frowned and nodded.

"If you think you're going to be a main event superstar you'd better look the part, don't you think?"

Another nod.

"Good. You have more adoring fans to meet. Fans of JUST, maybe, but you'll do."

-#-

Date Unknown

Daroth watched as the young man marched into the water. He didn't slow with the storm-driven tide that surged around him, nor could the freezing cold gale that assaulted him from all directions hinder his movement, it seemed. It was not long before the Crusader of Shadow's head disappeared beneath the surface.

Gone... but not for good.

With that thought in mind, Daroth turned around and walked away from the stony beach to ponder the events to come. Underfoot, rocks and gravel crunched; the clapping of the skeletal apparition's shredded clothes slowly died out as he came to the small ridge separating the sand from the tree line of the vast forest.

A final glance over his bony shoulder, a habitual sigh escaping imaginary lips. The Crusader would fare well, he thought. Much depended on it, or so it was written. Turning to once more face the way ahead, Daroth was not surprised to see a familiar figure waiting for his attention.

"I see you send your knight to his demise," the black-clad figure chuckled, grinning wildly beneath his hat. The jagged teeth disappeared as the expression turned to a bitter snarl. "You'd do well to remember that he's just a pawn on horseback, Daroth. He he."

"As much as I enjoy our encounters, Duriel, I feel that your gloating is somewhat akin to counting your chickens before they're hatched."

The newcomer nodded. "I knew you'd think so. My success will be all the sweeter then! The Crusader of Shadow will perish in the Maelstrom of Souls, the Broken One will die before he even gets the chance to face the Betrayer and your efforts will be for nothing. You have risked too much this time, Daroth. Your knight will not survive."

"You are a visionary for optimism as ever, Duriel. What makes you think the Crusader will be defeated?"

"Only once before has anyone made it through the Maelstrom. This mortal of yours stands no chance."

"This 'mortal of mine' is driven by a sense of duty and honour, a more substantial force than that of hate and anger," Daroth explained, watching his fellow spirit continue to beam menacingly. "I should know; it worked for his father, if you recall. The apple does not fall far from the tree with these matters, you know that. Even if he is so dissimilar to his brother."

Duriel grunted. "He will be succumb to his fate, mark my words."

"We shall see."

-#-

19th April, 2010

Although he was not getting used to how desperately unpleasant these meet and greet sessions were, Anathkash Dakari found it reassuring that he had so many supporters in Just Wrestling's fanbase. There was a pile of photographs of himself at his side with varying themes. He'd flicked through them while waiting for the sports store's doors to open; there was one of him mid-somersault, about to land Metamorphosis on Impulse. Another was of him standing on a JUST ring's turnbuckle, ready to fly; while another picture showed him standing next to the towering Grendel, shortly after they'd defeated Frank Dylan James and Cameron Cruise. It was an excellent picture, considering it'd been taken candidly. He'd almost forgotten how monstrous his tag-partner had been, and how close they'd come to winning the Lethal Lottery tournament.

There was always next year.

It occurred to him as the last of the JUST fans made their way out of the store exactly how much the tables had turned. His standing with both Jody Monroe and JUST swung from a reluctant and suspicious acceptance of his employment, shifting to title shots, merchandise signings and meet and greets representing the brand. His next match was important. Skylar Montgomery needed his third victory to achieve his own title shot, but that wasn't why this match was important to JUST. Jody had voiced her intentions of making something of a spectacle of Tour X's first main event.

Skylar Montgomery, a wrestler with more losses under his belt than Dakari had matches. So far he was riding on the crest of his longest winning streak in his JUST career – 2; while Dakari's own had ended at three, courtesy of John Johnson. Could The Imaginary Man snatch a victory from Dakari? Or will the methodical martial artist send the argumentative lunatic packing?

Whatever the hype, whatever the claims made on the JUST website, Dakari had no intentions of losing to Montgomery. Another three wins were what he needed to face Johnson again, and the first of those would come tomorrow.

He rubbed his palm across the stubble on his face. His bald face felt... weird. In fact, so did the rest of him. He hadn't seen or heard from Mister Nihilus in some time now, but that alone wasn't cause for concern. It was only a matter of time now before the Betrayer would unexpectedly emerge from the shadows to put an end to him. Dakari wished it would happen sooner rather than later. There was revenge to be had, and the longer he had to wait for it the more intense that desire became.

All around him JUST and Colorado Sports staff rushed around to clear up the promotional material that surrounded Dakari; the cardboard cut-out of himself that had loomed over him for the past couple of hours was finally removed, relieving Dakari to no end. He watched his likeness as it was carried away under someone's arm, the image of himself disappearing feet-first through the store's entrance made him smile.

At least, until someone snatched the table he was sitting at from under him, then he frowned.

A hand landed on Dakari's shoulder and he almost leapt out of his folding metal seat. It was Jody.

"See? Now that you're clean I can touch you without fear of catching anything," she said, though Dakari couldn't tell if she was joking or not. "You might notice that we're clearing up here, you should probably leave. You have a busy day tomorrow!"

"I do?" he asked, standing up. His chair was whipped away as soon as his weight was removed from it.

"Of course! Don't make the mistake of underestimating Skylar Montgomery. Maus and Edmunds did, and it cost them both," explained the JUST boss, casually adding: "Plus, the Elite Championship contenders' match is tomorrow too. You're double-booked."

"Double-booked?!"

"I did mention this to you earlier."

Dakari didn't remember this. "So I have to face Skylar Montgomery after fighting another four guys?"

"Not just any four - you've got John Johnson and James Varga to face!"

"How is that supposed to make me feel better!?"

"It's not, I just thought you should know." Discussion over. "There's nothing left for you to do here, you may as well leave," Jody said, walking away.

Anathkash Dakari was dumbfounded by the brief exchange. He was pretty sure that he'd just been told he was double-booked, with a match against the Just Wrestling Champion and another against the Just Wrestling Underdog in the same night. His concerns had been beautifully side-stepped by the JUST boss and he wasn't sure how she'd done it. It appeared that she had also managed to escape the building before he realised, thus avoiding any chance of another confrontation.

Now the young man stood with the goings-on of a store shutting down for the night all around him; his fans had left and his chair had been swiped from beneath him. All that was left was to nonchalantly sidle towards the door and leave, only it looked like departing quietly was going to be impossible.

At the door a hooded man was arguing with the burly security guard. Dakari couldn't make out the man's face, but he was no size compared to the guard.

"He's just there! I need to give him this!" the hooded man argued.

"Sorry sir," the guard drawled, "store's closed. Try at Plachy Hall tomorrow."

"No! I don't need his damn signature or anything, I need to give him this!"

"No. Store's closed. Please leave."

The guard began to push he door shut but the smaller man kicked it to smash into his face. The guard staggered back, the other employees frozen in place as the intruder walked in and dropped the big man with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head. He turned his attention to Dakari, a wicked grin forming beneath the black cloth hood. Dakari's knives were already in his hands as the man calmly walked towards him, pushing his hood back from his head.

The blades disappeared.

"Florien?"

Murderer, part four: Sound Advice

2010-03-31T15:43:00.000+01:00

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.

Murderer, part three: Forgotten Humanity

2010-03-29T03:57:00.000+01:00

14th March, 2010

"This look familiar to you?" were the first words Detective Mike Curtis's uttered to his partner, John Rhodes, upon his arrival at the head office of Nihilus Ravion Publishing Company and scene of the murder of one Benedict Ravion.

The other detective scowled at him. Nothing looked familiar as he had yet to even step into Ravion's office. "Give me a friggin' minute, I've just got here. What are we looking at?"

A bitter smirk crossed Detective Curtis's face. "See for yourself."

Rhodes pushed past him, passing through the tall, mahogany-panel double-doors into the extravagant office. His eyes immediately fixed on the corpse of Benedict Ravion that still remained seated at his desk. One particular trait displayed by the corpse leapt out at Rhodes as being especially important, and not just in terms of the victim's cause of death either. Behind him, Curtis cracked a smile before he popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth, the anticipation of his partner’s reaction making him fidgety.

"I knew we'd find somethin', John." Mike's voice was almost brimming with satisfaction.

Rhodes said nothing. He had seen three other decapitations in his entire career – all twenty years of it. One caused by a motorcyclist colliding with an 18-wheeler in the mid-90's, another was the murder of a college student at the beginning of last year, and the third was a lawyer murdered by a maniac with a samurai sword five months ago, almost to the day. The student's killer had been caught, so there was no way there could be a link to that, but for two men to be executed in such a way within six months of each other was too coincidental for the detective's liking.

"The lawyer," Rhodes began slowly, "Israel Kali Arcadie. Do we still have a list of his business associates?"

"Yeah. Since you were takin' so long to get here I took the liberty of lookin' into that already. Seems our last headless victim worked with the Nihilus Ravion Publishing Company on contracts and such."

"Legal consultant?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

-#-

24th March, 1987

The tan Mark III Ford Escort wobbled back into its lane on the motorway, the driver correcting his path after turning his attention to the car’s radio for too long. He pushed his black Ray-Bans back up the bridge of his nose and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, leaving the pregnant woman seated in the passenger seat to adjust the radio. She found another station in the midst of some inane, drawling radio show. In the middle back-seat their 18 month-old son chattered to himself, legs and arms waving around, safe and secure in his baby chair. His mother turned awkwardly in her seat and smiled back at him as he gurgled happily.

"Not long now, sweetheart," the black-haired lady reported to the baby, who simply reached out for her, still smiling. She held his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze and cheered to the boy's laughter, causing him to chuckle even more.

Turning back to the radio dial she soon found another station.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate
On a bed of nails she makes me wait
And I wait without you...

"Oh, it's that new song," she said. "I want to get the tape, the album sounds good. U2 isn't it?"

The driver looked at her for a second with a contented smile on his face. "I think so. No problem, we'll see if they have it in when we get to Manchester," he promised.

A few seconds pass between them as the song continues. The blue Spring sky gave the illusion that it was a warm day on the last stretch of the M67 motorway. It wasn't unpleasant, the sun was out but it was by no means particularly warm beyond the confines of their Escort. There weren't many other vehicles on the road at this time of the afternoon either.

With or without you
With or without you...

"So what do you think of the car, Mel?" he finally continued.

"I like it! It's a lot bigger than our old one," Mel said, running a hand along the leather-look plastic interior. "It's really posh. I just hope it was worth the money."

"It should work out cheaper than our old one since it won't need to be repaired every five minutes. And fuel-wise it works out at seventy miles per gallon!"

"Is that good?"

"Yeah, because it's diesel. That's why it's a bit louder than the old one."

"A bit? I just thought there was something wrong with it."

He laughed suddenly. "No, no, there's nothing wrong with it! It's a new car!"

"It's just a bit loud, that's all."

"It'll be worth it for the money we save, trust me. The bloke who sold it to me showed me all the statistics and testing results. It's definitely worth it."

"Well, if you say so. Money's going to be tougher when -- OH!" she cried, holding her stomach. "There he is, kicking me! Jesus, Kash, he'll have my insides black and blue before he comes out!"

"Won't be much longer, now. Just another two weeks to go, babe."

"I don't know how much longer my insides can take it!" she joked.

"Well I suppose it just means he's healthy if he's able to do that."

"OW! He'd better save his energy!"

Kash's brow furrowed. "What for?"

"Well I did all the work for the last one, this one can help me out this time!"

They both laughed. Even their son joined in from the back seat.

"Fingers crossed, babe."

And you give yourself away
And you give yourself away
And you give
And you give
And you give yourself away...

"I love you," Mel said, leaning over for a kiss.

"I love you too," Kash responded, meeting her lips with his own.

The sound of their son crying broke into the moment and made them both look to see what was wrong. His eyes were shut tight, mouth agape, bawling loudly.

"We're nearly there, son," Kash said softly. "Not far now!"

He smiled at his wife as they turned back to face the road. The lorry hit their car almost head on, mostly impacting the driver's side and collapsing that entire section of the vehicle as if it were made of paper. The Escort was thrown into a violent mid-air spin, debris launched in all directions and glass from the windows became the air in the car. The truck skidded on the road behind them and tipped over while the Escort's front end finally crashed down onto the tarmac, followed almost instantly by the side. It then rolled onto its roof and was still, save for a single wheel that spun freely on its axle. The steady flow of blood pouring from the twisted metal onto the road beneath would have quelled any perceived chance of the occupants' survival.

Four lives, crushed instantly.

The sound of the radio crackling into life again broke the deathly silence; the only sound on the road. Passing vehicles stopped in the hard-shoulder to offer whatever assistance they could, but for the driver and passenger, there was nothing anyone could do.

With or without you
With or without you
I can't live
With or without you...

From somewhere inside the wreckage a wailing, screaming noise escaped, and with it Anathkash Dakari was propelled from his restless slumber. The screeching alarm on his cell phone was more than efficient, jerking him into awakening faster than was absolutely necessary; though on the other hand, he wasn't too ungrateful for the interruption to the nightmare he was having.

The hotel room seemed a lot smaller than it did when he went to sleep.

Dakari clawed at his ragged beard with one hand and brushed errant strands of hair from his face with the other, his eyes sore and blinking in the half-light sifting through the white venetian blinds. He reached for the screaming cell and went to cancel the alarm, but the device beat him to it and switched off by itself, displaying the time as 21:21, March 24th 2010. In nine minutes' time it'd resume its shrill song and remind Dakari that the day is beckoning for his participation, to which he'd tell it "Piss off."

Today at least.

Phone in hand, Dakari flopped back into the warm clutches of the bed and closed his eyes again. Today was the day of Just Wrestling's third show of the March Madness tour, in North Carolina. Fortunately the card was already well-stacked and didn't require his participation, meaning he could focus his attention to the events of the last ten days or, more specifically, the murder of Benedict Ravion.

The old man had been his unlikely tutor when he was a child. There wasn't much Dakari remembered about his childhood, but Benedict Ravion was an unforgettable character, as were the lessons he taught. In public he was haughty and aloof, and an aggressive businessman willing to step on anyone who got in his way. This cold exterior was simply a front to dispel any interest in his true identity; nobody wanted to make friends with someone so uninteresting and disconnected.

No, Mister Ravion's icy visage was reserved only for those unknown to him. To those inside of his personal circle, Mister Ravion was the perfect gentleman; he was polite, patient and warm, the perfect teacher. Dakari did all he could to prove himself as the perfect student and if he was fairly certain of anything in life it was that, and his mentor's pride and unwavering faith in him was never a secret by any means. Outwardly, Dakari posed as a mere apprentice, learning how to run the Ravion family business when Mister Ravion and Mister Nihilus "retired".

The three of them knew that there was no chance of anyone "retiring" from their line of business. At least, not in the traditional sense. They wouldn't be doing the job anymore, that much was certain.

Dakari shed no tears for his beloved mentor, even though Mister Ravion had been the closest thing to a father that Dakari ever had. And now he was gone, just like his real parents... whatever happened to them. But at least there was no mystery surrounding Mister Ravion's death. Not for him and Mister Nihilus, at least. No, they knew exactly who was responsible for that, and there was no doubt in Anathkash Dakari's mind that these people would suffer the terrible wrath that he and Mister Nihilus would cast upon them. Consequences would come, the answer would be swift and unforgiving; Dakari swore this with the essence of his being. There was no fear or hate behind his promise, only acceptance of both what has and what shall come to pass.

Tranquility in its most peculiar form.

At least Benedict Ravion was at peace.

Nobody can take that away from him now.

Nobody.

In that silence, Dakari contemplated the worth of his information and, in doing so, reminded himself of the danger that it could bring him.

Correction: would bring him.

Had brought him.

Mister Nihilus had told him to carry on as if nothing had happened, so when Jody Monroe called to advise him of her booking decisions for Just Wrestling, he had almost panicked. Almost. Instead he'd tried to sound disappointed, aggrieved that he'd have less work than he'd counted on.

He'd acted as if he were inconvenienced.

Apparently he'd been a little too convincing, since Jody had called him back and informed him that he and "Normal" John Johnson were to participate in a five-man match, battling for contendership of Primetime Central's Elite Championship... whatever that was. He didn't particularly want to do it, but after he'd made such a song and dance about not being booked for Just Wrestling he found it impossible to tell Jody that it wasn't going to happen. Especially since she made it sound like she'd gone to so much effort to get him the match, despite only being off the phone to him for less than ten minutes while she made the arrangements.

Jody Monroe was a smooth talker. It was almost as if she knew the exact tone of voice to use when she wanted him to do something. She knew it was no good trying to force Dakari to do her bidding with mere anger, like she probably did to the other roster members. No, that wouldn't work. All she had to do was ask him nicely. That was all. No amount of shouting, screaming, bitching, moaning, threatening or harassment; just straight-up asking. Miss Monroe did have an unpleasant knack of making it sound like her life depended on Dakari taking this match, and winning it to boot, which made the possibility of declining simply cease to exist.

Now, winning, that was something Dakari was proving himself to be more than capable of. He was in line for a Just Wrestling Championship match after all, something he'd be returning from the Elite Championship match for. Straight out of one match with "Normal" John Johnson and right back into another. He'd overheard mention of a "cattle match" while backstage during the tour of Britain and never truly understood the meaning of it until he was roped into this "One Shining Moment" match; even the name suggested that he would not achieve any better than this. Probably an unintentional interpretation but one taken by Dakari none the less.

The cell phone in his hand began shrieking, just as it had done precisely nine minutes ago, only this time Dakari was not surprised by the sudden noise. It helped to not be having a bizarre nightmare at the time.

It was 21:30.

Interestingly, Anathkash Dakari's mind had deemed it important that the time the first alarm went off absolutely must be exactly 9 minutes before what he considered an "even" time of the hour – quarter-past, half-past, quarter-to, or on the hour. It was vital to him, for no reason that he would care to explain, that the second, post-snooze alarm went off at one of these times.

If one were to observe Anathkash Dakari as he went about his days, one would discover a great amount of peculiarities.

He kicked himself free of the sheets, the soft cloth sticking to his jeans and the soles of the boots he'd slept in, and climbed out of bed. Moving to the bathroom, he inspected each ear with an index finger while he staggered haphazardly towards the light he'd left on before going to bed. In the mirror he saw a weathered face with dark, bloodshot eyes, the windows to a soul that had never found rest. His greasy, shoulder-length black hair and equally unkempt beard-cum-overgrown stubble spoke volumes of self-neglect, and with it was the long-forgotten sense of personal hygiene. The fact that some people might find this particular trait of Dakari's unpleasant was not one that had ever crossed his mind. He wasn't even indifferent to it, just completely unaware that anyone would have an opinion about it. His pale skin was creased with worry-lines, making him look significantly older than his years, which was again something that had not crossed Dakari's mind. Looking at himself in the mirror each day was something he did simply because he felt like he should; he never actually washed his face, nor took into account the fact that he desperately needed to shave or at least start taking sleeping patterns seriously.

Anathkash Dakari was an unusual man, living a strange life in difficult times.

He wasn't doing too bad, considering.

-#-

Date unknown

"Is this really the only way?" one of the two figures said as he folded his arms and shifted his balance from one leg to the other, his eyes cast out to sea.

The other simply nodded, the tattered rags he wore as clothes lashed against his thin frame with the strong sea winds. This one was taller than the other, despite the noticeable hunch in his back.

In silence they stood, the only sound was that of the water crashing against the rocks further up the coast, momentarily drowning out the howling gale. Before them the sea lapped in relative calm over the sand while the clouds seemed to charge across the sky in pursuit of one another.

A world in tumult.

The one who had spoken before took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "How far must I go?" he asked.

"All the way," rasped the tall figure cryptically, extending a bony finger towards the distant, stormy horizon.

It was the first speaker's turn to nod without another word as he watched the ebb and flow of the tide on the stony beach. He wiped a lock of hair from his mouth and tucked it behind his ear, an exercise of both habit and futility - the wind saw to that.

"Are you ready?"

"Does it matter?"

The tall one laughed at that, but not unkindly. "I suppose not."

Once again they slipped into silence. The black clouds at the edge of the sky flashed and a score of heartbeats passed before the storm's fury was heard by the two men.

"Never a good sign," said the long-haired one.

"Pay it no heed. The storm can't touch you where you're going."

"I wish you wouldn't say it like that."

Another soft laugh. "My apologies. I forget my own humanity sometimes. You could be going somewhere far worse."

"Thanks. I feel tons better already."

The horizon flashed again, the clouds dancing with the erratic electric illumination.

"How will I know when I've made it?"

Daroth's fleshless face slowly turned to his companion. His bared teeth giving the unintended impression that he was grinning, which added an involuntary, twisted humour to his words. "Oh, you'll know when you get there... Trust me."

And then came the thunder.

Murderer, part two: Woes for Another Day

2010-03-19T13:53:00.000Z

December 15th, 2009

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Rhodes sighed. "Three weeks and this is what we got to show for it? Fuckin' nothing?!"

With a shrug, Curtis rose from his seat at the front of Rhodes's desk and lit a cigarette.

"People don't just fuckin' disappear like this, Mike! They just don't!" Rhodes roared, throwing his arms into the air.

"You know that ain't true, John. But if we don't find somethin' soon then Captain Buck will assign us to something else and this'll be over - for now at least. Let's face it, we've made almost no damn progress and there's no way Pushard will give us access to forensics without new evidence," Curtis grunted, sucking down half of his cigarette in one draw. "Buck ain't gonna be happy when we tell him that the three weeks he's given us to find somethin' has produced fuck-all."

"Yeah, don't I know it."

The pair fell silent. Curtis stabbed his cigarette out in an old metal takeout carton on Rhodes's desk.

"It's not often I concede defeat Mike... But we haven't got shit on this guy."

-#-

March 15th, 2010

The streets of Norfolk, Virginia were surprisingly vacant, though it was no wonder that of the two thousand-plus people jammed into the Chrysler Hall at Dakari's back, none of them were outside. By now, the Bronx Barbarian and Violence Jack would be smashing seven shades of shit out of one another, backstage banter had indicated that it would be something of a spectacle and was not to be missed. Unless, of course, you're Anathkash Dakari. His interest in the other matches on the card was minimal, though he couldn't deny that Jody had sold the main event well after hearing the buzz backstage and the roaring excitement of the crowd, even from outside. Dakari could see the webcast of the event afterwards... should he find someone to show him how to, that is.

His escape had been meticulously planned, seeing him wait out the pre-main event break in the restrooms while the punters settled for the big match before sidling through the swanky modern bar with his head down into the foyer. As anticipated, the front entrance of Chrysler Hall was relatively empty and he exited the building without being recognised. The venue staff couldn't care less who he was; they would have seen many more interesting and famous people than he pass through these doors, but that didn't bother him. Craving for the affection of the fans (or indeed the "heat" he'd heard about) was not in his nature; they could take him as they liked, though he'd be lying if he said he'd enjoy being booed.

Rounding a corner, the Just Wrestling venue disappeared behind Dakari's back and his immediate wrestling woes were forgotten...

...only to be replaced by yet another, of a much more sinister nature.

Up ahead of him in the empty street stood a lone figure dressed similarly to Dakari, entirely in black... only atop his head was a wide-brim hat.

Dakari's eyes widened in surprise beneath the hood of his coat at the sight of this mysterious figure, this shade, turning to face him; the hair on the back of his neck stood on end atop a spine that was wracked with a sudden, violent shiver. Both of his hands dipped into pockets and closed around switchblades concealed in self-stitched compartments within each pocket, thumbs prepared to unleash the folded steel and rend flesh from bone.

Like that would help, but each to their own.

The figure lurched forward and hurtled awkwardly towards Dakari, who had yet to see the terrible grin that lurked beneath the mysterious spirit's hat. As it drew nearer, Dakari shrugged free of his backpack and withdrew his weapons from his pockets, the blades snapping into place.

In hindsight, Dakari presented himself as being a lot more confident of the situation than he truly was. In reality he was shitting it, and knew for a fact that ghosts generally couldn't be stabbed to death.

Would that be re-death?

Good job it wasn't the ghost, then.

The man hastily halted himself at the sight of the knives and held his hands up defensively. He reached for his hat and pulled it away to reveal his weathered, pale face.

Dakari's knives were lowered. "Mister Nihilus?"

"Anathkash. You are as... wary as ever," the man mumbled, replacing his hat and lowering his hands.

"What are you doing here?" The rookie wrestler's eyes narrowed on him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"We... have to talk."

"About what? What's going on?"

"Come."

The older man began to limp away, beckoning for Dakari to follow him. He did, snatching up his back and jogging to catch up to the man. As Dakari fell in alongside him on the sidewalk, Nihilus put a hand inside his long coat and withdrew a newspaper, handing it over to the young man.

Dakari unfolded a copy of the morning's Richmond Times and scanned the cover. "What am I... looking... for..." He began, then slowed to a stop as he saw a side-headline atop a front-page column.

Successful Richmond Businessman Murdered in Own Office

Dakari's eyes averted from the article to Nihilus's solemn face and back, putting pieces together. "It's Mister Ravion, isn't it."

It was not a question, but Nihilus nodded anyway. "Which means the Betrayer knows more... than he should. We are in... danger, you and I. He will be looking, yes, for me; once he finds me he will come for you. Do you... understand?"

"If he killed Mister Ravion then he'll try to kill you too! We have to stop him first!"

"The Betrayer did not personally kill Benedict Ravion, he sent an agent to do this for him. He is... rash... and cruel and violent, yes, but the Betrayer is... no fool though; his involvement will never be revealed and he will never risk compromising... himself."

Dakari stared at the side of Nihilus's head for a moment as they walked. It always took longer for the peculiar character's words to sink in because of the way he spoke, the seemingly random pauses in speech constantly threw Dakari off. He often found himself interrupting the man by accident.

"So we wait for this agent to come, then kill him," Dakari growled.

"Benedict sought to do just that. The Betrayer visited him at the end of last year, did you know that?"

"No."

Nihilus sighed - a strange, wheezing sound. "We were the last... of our kind, Benedict and I. In the event of my death it is necessary for you to undertake... certain tasks."

"You're not going to die, Nihilus."

"What a naïve statement. I've lived... too long already, Anathkash. I came to terms... with death... a long time ago. A long time ago," the older man repeated, more to the world at large than the young man walking at his side.

For all his scars and wrinkles, gasping and limping, Dakari knew that Nihilus's outward appearance was one wrought with deceit; a web of lies held together this image of a skinny old bag of bones when in reality this man could probably kill every single man and woman that had ever entered the JUST ring with nothing more than his bare hands, Dakari included. Dakari liked to think he was in the same vein as Nihilus, but both of them knew he had a long way to go before he could start truly believing that.

Dakari had a natural affinity with fighting, despite his relatively small size. He was not overly muscular but there wasn't an ounce of fat on his body either, and his speed and agility more than made up for his height and weight disadvantages. Nihilus was only a few inches taller than him and didn't look to be any heavier. How he managed to do what he did was completely unknown to Dakari, but manage he did and with awe he inspired.

"Benedict waited for his killer to come but he never... did. He finally came for him two nights ago while Benedict was at head office in Richmond. The only place... yes... the only place the Betrayer knew that he could be. Where he visited him before. Yes, and then he sent his killer to... despatch him. Poor Benedict," Nihilus muttered.

"Do you know who he is? The killer?"

"Yes... and no. It is not so simple, for he is like us. He will never be caught. What are you doing?" The question caught Dakari off-guard, particularly since he wasn't doing anything at all.

"I- I- what? What? What am I doing?" he stammered. "What do you mean?"

"You were at the Chrysler Hall building. There's a wrestling... show... there. I gather you were on it."

"Yeah. Should I stop wrestling until this guy is dead?"

"No. Absolutely not. The Betrayer would know that something is wrong. You would stand out, yes, out like a sore thumb. At the moment he is still unaware of who you are and that is the way I intend to keep it," the older man said, scowling at the sidewalk. "But he will find you eventually. Do not rest... easy. They are coming."

"It's possible that I've met this agent of the Betrayer."

Nihilus stopped walking, his eyes still on the ground. Dakari stopped a step and a half later, and nothing was said for several heartbeats.

The pale man's eyes met Dakari's. "Really?"

"Well, maybe. I don't know. It looked a lot like you, which is why I was ready to stab you. Same hat and coat. But it laughs, and I can't see its face – just a grin. I saw a medium in England who said it was a ghost and nothing to worry about, and I haven't seen it since. But it's odd that I only saw it last month and now Mister Ravion is dead." Dakari said, scratching his long stubble nervously.

"Could be nothing," Nihilus mumbled, walking on. "But... could perhaps be not. Grinning and laughing you say? Hmm. It is perhaps well that I have... something to give you. If the Betrayer has sent his agent to you already then it may help you while I... cannot."

The strange man unbuttoned his coat and reached inside, lifting out a particularly unremarkable short dagger sheathed in an equally uninteresting scabbard. He drew the blade free from the sheath and turned it over in his hands before pushing it back inside and offhandedly passed it to Dakari.

"Try not to draw attention to it, yes, and most won't notice it's even... there."

Anathkash fully unsheathed the weapon. It wasn't any more imposing than his flick knives. "How?"

"You know I can't explain that," he grinned. A gruesome sight, as his teeth were in worse condition than Dakari's. "But I can tell you it will be of more help to you than those... ha, toothpicks you have. Should you need to use it... at least."

Dakari put the blade away and clipped it to his belt beneath his trench coat, as he did so Nihilus stepped into his path to face him.

"I must leave you now, I have... already exposed myself for longer than I'd have liked."

"But how will I contact you?"

"You will not. I will come to you again, as I have done today... and we will talk more, should we need to. You know already what it is that you must do, Anathkash."

"It's not as simple as that!"

"Sadly... it must be. Farewell Anathkash Dakari. Do not let shadow misguide you."

And that was that. Nihilus walked away and Dakari watched him go, his curious limp carrying him at an unexpectedly high speed along the street until he disappeared out of sight. The wrestler looked again at the blade on his belt and wondered what made it so special.

With a mental shrug he headed back on the path to his hotel. Woes for another day.

Murderer, part one: The Shade of Menace

2010-03-15T13:09:00.001Z

November 23rd, 2009

Detective John Rhodes's office reflected his personal life almost perfectly in that it was a complete mess. He was convinced that his computer hated him so much it'd divorce him too, joining the club with his two ex-wives and countless "friends" who had all stabbed him in the back for a variety of reasons. As such John was all alone now, mostly of his own choosing, his refusal to be emotionally wounded again.

An uncommon sound distracted Rhodes from his work - his personal cell ringing from inside his desk drawer. He thought to ignore it at first, but when he couldn't resist finding out who was calling him he had to take a look. His hand shifted to the drawer and opened it. The cell lay beside a small metal box; inside which was a pistol that he had stripped down to several pieces. John's eyes locked-on to the box for a moment before shifting to the phone. Seeing the name he flipped the phone open and raised it to his ear.

"Dad? Is everything okay?"

A moment's pause. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just making sure you're all right," said the old man, with a cough.

"I'm in the middle of a pretty big case, dad. A murder. I can't tell you any more about it than that," John explained. He laughed. "But you probably know as much about the case from the media as we do from our investigation."

"That's bad news son," his father commented. "Just be careful."

"You know me."

"Exactly. You're a calamity to yourself, always have been. Don't take risks. I'll see you around."

The line went silent, the call had ended. Before John could inevitably overthink the conversation and his dad's unusual concern, the door opened. Detective Mike Curtis waved his own cell phone in the air as he entered the office, smiling.

"What is it? Tell me you have some good news..."

"Yeah, actually I do. I had one of my buddies at NYPD look at the CCTV footage..." Curtis began.

"Okay..."

"He recognises our suspect from footage relating to an unsolved murder four years ago. Says he remembers it clear as day, without a doubt. That same guy just walks into the hotel room and -get this- shoots Ronald Wilkins in the head.

"Wait, the accountant Ronald Wilkins? Who was killed in the--"

"The Club Quarters hotel at Memorial Plaza, yeah," Curtis interrupts. "I saw it in the papers too, kinda big deal at the time. The boys in New York are thinkin' these are contract killings connected only by the killer himself. I'm inclined to agree with 'em since our guy has no link to Wilkins."

"And you've confirmed that, right?" Rhodes asked warily.

"Yeah. Ryan's been through everything he can find on 'em twice. No record of comms between the two by any means we can trace."

"Shit. This's gotta be bigger than just some random murder. This's been planned, pre-meditated. The guy's walking in and out of places like a ghost leaving bodies where he's been and no evidence of him even being there... except for the CCTV footage," Rhodes muttered to himself. "We should start looking for similar cases. Imagine if we actually get this guy – through him we could bring down a lot of bad fuckin' people."

-#-

March 9th, 2010

Anathkash Dakari was disappointed for several reasons. First and foremost, he and Grendel had lost the Lethal Lottery tournament, joining two other teams defeated by a single, extremely determined veteran of the business; likewise the battle royal he fought in. These matches marked the end of the Lethal Lottery tour and his first genuine wrestling experience.

Aside from this he was also mildly disappointed that the spirit that had visited him in Portsmouth had yet to reveal itself again. Shyana had suspected that the ghost was grounded in the southern hotel; she appeared to be correct, so Dakari didn't expect to see it again. He wanted to know what it had wanted, why it had revealed itself to him that night, but it looked like he'd never find out. He had enough on his plate without adding ghost-hunting to his list. He remembered again the face of the spirit, the wicked grin with jagged teeth that lurked in the darkness of the room. It had featured in his dreams of late; always behind him, laughing, waiting for him to turn around so it could strike.

From his seat upon the railing of his Stoke hotel room's balcony, Dakari almost didn't hear the subtle ringing of his phone for the wind, rain and traffic; the tumultuous sounds both in reality and in his mind. When he did, he plucked the infernal device from his pocket and unfolded it slowly to avoid dropping it, forgetting this would answer the call. Seeing the call timer tick on he raised the phone to his ear with great uncertainty.

"Hello?" he ventured.

"Despite my better judgement, I've decided to ask you to participate in the next Just Wrestling tour." He recognised Jody Monroe's frustrated voice instantly. "First show is booked for the fifteenth of March in Norfolk, Virginia. Can you make it?"

"I- I wasn't expecting you to call," Dakari admitted.

"No, and neither was I. I don't like liars, Dakari, but I can't argue with the reviews. A lot of people were impressed by your performance, you might prove to be an asset to Just Wrestling yet. Make us some more money and I'll think about forgiving you."

"Well, uh, thanks... of course I'll accept. Who is... erm, headlining?"

"Back Alley Brawler and Violence Jack. Keep it to yourself for now, the card hasn't been released yet. When it is it should generate a lot of interest, I'm working up a suitable gimmick for the match as we speak."

He blinked. Wrestling talk meant very little to Dakari. He knew of The Bronx Barbarian of course but nothing about this Violence Jack, save for a little about his performance in the GTT tournament. Where that knowledge came from was unclear, as he didn't recall any interest in the Primetime Central event. Must've been something he heard backstage sometime. And what was a gimmick match? He didn't know, so he asked; "Gimmick match? Like masks and outfits and stuff?"

"Masks?" Jody asked incredulously. "No, like a hardcore match or ladder match. I'm thinking along the lines of a street fight."

By now Dakari was really confused. "A street fight? But how will the people inside see?"

He didn't get an answer; the last he heard was an exasperated growl as Jody slammed the phone down.

"H-Hello?"

-#-

March 12th, 2010

He he he he...

Shyana threw a nervous glance over her shoulder at the echoing laughter that filled the otherwise empty street. The night seemed to have fallen heavier here, upon the road to her home. The windows of the houses around her were dark and she was entirely alone as far as the shadows would reveal.

Her pace quickened, heeled boots clacking faster on the pavement. Shyana held her handbag tightly and the laughter returned once again. The dark-haired woman spun around to see who was there. An empty street greeted her.

"I've never killed a Vindicator of the Ancients before," came a rasping voice, immediately behind Shyana.

She turned around slowly. The menacing figure towered over her, a wicked grin flashed in the moonlight beneath a wide-brim hat.

"First time for everything. He he," the silhouette cackled.

The woman was paralysed by fear and could only look on in horror as the shade seemed to expand to engulf her with darkness, tendrils of night reaching out for her. Shyana's bag fell forgotten to the ground and the ghost's laughter filled the evening air.

The vicious laughter was silenced as an explosion of movement from Shyana's left left crashed into the dark figure and lifted him from the ground, driving him into the middle of the road with a wet crunch. The sound was repeated as the colossal newcomer landed fist after fist on the Vindicator's attacker, the huge sword on his back scraping against the asphalt.

"Talac?" Shyana gasped.

Her guardian looked over his shoulder at her, then turned to resume his assault. He was thrown into the air with a crack as his victim snatched the opportunity for a counter attack. The shade rose into the air as Talac landed on his feet, dragging the behemoth sword from its fastening over his shoulder. The white-eyed man turned to Shyana. "GO! RUN!"

The woman's jaw flapped while she sought to argue, but she knew there was nothing she could do but become a casualty in this battle. Talac didn't wait to tell her again, instead he launched forward to strike the ghost with his blade. The shade's dark appendages swatted the blow aside and wrapped around Talac's throat, lifting him into the air. Talac spluttered through his black hair, grasping at the tendrils that choked the life out of him.

He he he he...

Shyana heard the vile laughter as she ran up the street. Her home was protected by various protective wards, she knew she'd be safe there.

But Talac...

She stopped and looked back. A foot met the spirit's face, interrupting the mirth that had grown louder with the impending demise of Talac. Another hard kick was enough for the tendrils to withdraw; the shade was reeling.

"RUN!" Talac repeated, seeing Shyana just standing there, watching.

"Yes, make her run, Rosul'talac. Make her prolong the inevitable... he he he..." the spirit taunted, lashing at Talac with its threadlike arms, knocking him to his knees, arms raised in defence.

There was nothing she could do but run.

Shadows of Memories, part two

2010-02-28T14:30:00.000Z

November 19th, 2009

The dark lab was a grim environment indeed. The various models of the human anatomy -mainly bones- dangling from the walls and ceiling, along with x-rays of a collapsed skull hung in front of the wall-mounted lightbox did nothing to brighten the mood of the large, open room. Beyond the microscopes, testing equipment and scientific apparatus was the room's only source of light - a computer screen; sat before it was the chubby shape of Toby O'Hara, Virginia Police Department's answer to Greg Sanders.

The man peered over his hefty shoulder at the sound of Detective Rhodes pushing past a chair as he traversed the maze to see him - a feat easier said than done. "Ah, Detective," the scientist began. "Been waiting for you!"

"I'm sure you have," Rhodes grunted as he stepped over a box full of folders, "considering I called you about fifteen minutes ago to tell you I was coming."

"Aha, touché!"

Rhodes sighed. "So what happened?"

The scientist stretched his arms so his hands were free of his oversized shirt's cuffs, then flexed his fingers. He then cracked his fingers and stretched them too. "This," he began in a grand tone, "is what happened!"

He pressed a button on the computer. A computer-generated representation of the hotel room appeared in bird's eye view. Inside the room was a very basic stick figure representing the victim, outside was the killer, marked green and red respectively. The red figure walks to the door and appears to knock. The green answers but as soon as the door opens the red figure forces its way in, the green victim backing away.

"Check this out, this is where the attack starts," Toby said, pointing at the screen. "Ready?"

"Yeah... I guess."

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!"

He pressed another button. As soon as Toby initiated the simulation the red figure is clearly seen reaching to his waist. He unsheathed a sword with one hand and cut the victim once with an upward left-to-right slash in the same fluent motion, then his other hand met the weapon and brought it down again right-to-left as the green figure backed away. The simulation paused.

"As you can see, the victim is trying to get away from our killer samurai. We can tell by the depth of the second wound compared to the first," Toby explained. "But those wounds weren't enough to kill, they were barely glancing blows; if the killer had intended to cause mortal wounding right away then he had every opportunity to do it – but he didn't. Suggests to me there was some talking going on."

"How do you know for sure that he did this? I mean exactly like this? How can you tell?"

"Oh, there's a lot of factors... blood splatter, footprints, various fibres in the carpet... tons of stuff!"

"Great. So if this didn't kill him, what did?"

Toby indicated to the screen and unpaused the simulation. By now the green figure had fallen over and crawled back to the bed while the killer advanced on him. The victim reached under the bed and produced some kind of stick.

"The golf club from the case notes," Rhodes muttered.

"Yep."

The sword sliced straight through the middle of the golf club.

"As easy as that?"

"Oh yeah, that sword was really sharp. Watch."

The murderer stepped to the victim's side and chopped down at his neck. The first blow didn't slice straight through so the red figure repeated this motion several times before decapitation was achieved. Apparently satisfied, the killer walked away from the body, stopping by the door to wipe the weapon clean and sheathe it again before he left.

"That's incredible."

"Yeah, pretty good huh?"

"You could say that," Rhodes grunted. "So that's what happened, what do we know about the killer?"

"Well, based on what we found at the crime scene we think the killer had a height advantage of maybe three or four inches. The victim was five feet seven with his head attached, that'd make the killer about six, maybe six-one, six-two. We've found skin particles and hair at the scene but we're not finished tracing them back to their owners; the cleaners in this place are pretty good, they didn't miss much, but we've traced all but two of the samples back to previous guests," Toby said, gradually slowing his speech to a mumble. "I don't think either of them are gonna help though."

"Why not?" asked Rhodes, narrowing his eyes on the fat scientist.

"Oh, I dunno. Just a hunch I guess."

"Right. Let me know when you find out about those samples, I'm gonna go look at the security footage again."

* * *

February 23rd 2010

The sign, in an old gothic print, read "Belladonna's Collectibles" yet Dakari didn't need to spend long in the store to realise that his trip to The Potteries Shopping Centre may have been in vain. The store smelt of some sort of woody incense and was completely vacant, save for himself and the woman reading a newspaper behind the counter. The shelves were lined with odd trinkets; mostly shite, Anathkash surmised as he picked up a skull candleholder with a blunt in its mouth and a cannabis leaf stamped on its head. He replaced the item and continued his amble, still not quite sure as to what this visit would achieve. The dusty articles looked to be worthless monetarily and of no use mystically.

I'm totally wasting my time here.

"Young man," the woman said without looking up, "is there something in particular you're in need of?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. What do I say?

The newspaper rustled as it was folded up and placed on the counter. "I see. You have a problem and you're not sure that there's anything that can be done about it. Right?"

"You, uh, you could say," Dakari muttered.

"Mmm-hm. Come here so I can see you. You're on my blind side."

Blind side? He did as he was asked, despite his scepticism. As he drew nearer he saw what the woman was talking about when she said he was on her 'blind side'. Her right eye's iris was a faded yellow-grey colour and, no doubt, completely without sight. He couldn't see her pupil at all. He looked away and tried not to stare, instead his eyes scanned the end of the shop he was walking into.

The shop was poorly laid-out and shoplifters must cause nightmares for this woman as the high shelves behind him left zero visibility for CCTV. The area near the counter had several waist-height tables clumped in a very movement-restrictive group, each was covered with more... well... crap.

The woman that addressed Dakari looked at him carefully. He observed that she must've been no more than thirty years old, despite the premature streak of grey in her otherwise midnight-black hair. Her clothes were unusual to say the least; she wore a dress of varying shades of deep purple, low-cut but loose-fitting, and an array of rings on her fingers, all with stones of various colours. Her wrists were similarly decorated - the left wrapped with a paisley bandanna and fishbone bracelets on top, the right with a single oversized bracelet that looked to be made of copper. Dakari found her oddly attractive, even with that curiously cloudy eye. She stood up slowly, both hands resting on top of the cash register, her good eye on Dakari.

"I have a feeling that I can help you," she said plainly.

"What makes you think I need help?"

"You have a... haunted look about you."

His eyes narrowed on the woman. "Uh... what do you mean?"

She laughed out loud.

"What?!" he demanded.

"So much scepticism!" she chuckled. "My name is Shyana."

"Dakari."

"A pleasure, Anathkash."

Alarm bells rang in the young man's head. "How did you know that?"

The smile faded from Shyana's face. "You are quite the enigma, Anathkash. You're hard to read."

"You expect me to believe that you're reading my mind?" he asked incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"No, you got me," she said in a flat tone, "I actually read the name tag on your jacket."

He looked for the tag, then sighed and looked back at Shyana. There wasn't one. "Right."

"You're twenty-three."

"Good guess."

"Size nine shoes."

"Nice try, they're size ten."

"Oh, I forgot. You bought them in America so the size there would be ten. You bought them from the Good Feet Store in Albany three years ago, if that's any help."

Although he refused to believe, Dakari was stumped. She was right of course, and he knew that no matter how determined he was not to acknowledge that she was reading his mind like a Spot the Dog book, even if she claimed it wasn't that easy, she knew it as well as he did.

"Good," she said, sounding suitably satisfied, "I'm glad that 'disbelief' nonsense is over with. I'll try not to pry, that'd be rude, but you must forgive me if I pick up on a thing or two. Some of your thoughts are very discreet and I have to look for them. Others are like writing it on a flag and waving it in my face..."

She tugged the front of her dress up a little. Dakari's eyes widened.

"Don't worry about it."

Dakari didn't know where to put his face. Well... he had an idea but dared not think it. "I... uh, right. Sorry."

"My fault, I suppose. So, you're here for a reason - tell me what that is. And don't tell me you're here for ornaments or essential oils or I'll go through that brain of yours with a fine-tooth comb!"

Dakari's horrified expression incited another burst of laughter from the woman.

"I'm only joking, love. I knew there was something important before you even came in. It's seven at night, I usually close at five. What's wrong?"

The young wrestler frowned. "I saw a ghost."

"When?"

"Two days ago. In Portsmouth."

"Portsmouth? Oh, the wrestling, silly me."

"Hey, you said--"

"Flags in my face, remember?" she interrupted.

"Yeah, right. Um, so it visited me in my hotel room. I saw its reflection in the window but when I looked behind me it was, er, gone," Dakari explained. "I heard it laugh."

Shyana's relaxed aura disappeared when he mentioned the laughter. Her eyes hardened on Dakari who recoiled from the look as though she'd struck him. "What did it look like?" she asked.

"I dunno. Black. And it had a hat."

"Have you seen it since?"

"No."

"Good," she muttered, sitting back down and rummaging in a drawer beneath the counter. "It might be grounded in Portsmouth."

"I hope so."

She disappeared under the counter entirely, her voice muffled. "Me too. How long are you in Stoke?"

"I don't know. It's the last show of the tour so I'm free after Sunday."

Shyana emerged holding a card. She held it out for Dakari. "Take this, and promise you'll call me if you see it again."

He took the card. "I will," he said, looking at it. "Tarot readings?"

"Yeah," the psychic drawled. "Keeps the punters coming, y'know?"

* * *

As the troubled young man left the store, Shyana sat back down behind the counter and sighed, brushing loose hair from her face.

"Why do the haunted ones always come to me?" she moaned.

From the shadows at the back of the store emerged a man. He was little more than a dark shape, clad head to foot in black. Long black hair emphasised his pale complexion, his purely white eyes settled on the back of Shyana's head. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"About the shade?" she asked without turning around. "He doesn't need to know that it's following him, he's nervous enough. It can't hurt him, it doesn't have the power."

"And if you're wrong?

Shyana shrugged. "How often am I wrong?"

The pale man rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"Less of that," the psychic chided. "He'll be fine."

"I hope you're right, Vindicator."

Shadows of Memories, part one

2010-02-28T14:00:00.000Z

November 14th, 2009

"What have you got for me?" Detective Rhodes asked as he closed the office door behind him.

Curtis, his partner, was there already. He was sat in one of the two chairs facing the head of the Virginia P.D.'s crime-scene investigation division, one Malcolm Pushard. Rhodes hated the man, his matter-of-fact attitude and obsessive attention to detail were qualities he neither admired nor shared, thus the men remained at loggerheads; the fact that Rhodes could see these traits in every aspect of the office made him feel angry by simply being there.

Pushard visibly bit back a snide comment on Rhodes's tardiness and answered him. "Cause of death, sequence of events leading up to death and the murder weapon," he drawled.

"I'm assuming that when you say you have the cause of death you mean it wasn't anything to do with his head no longer being attached to his body?"

"Not quite," Pushard muttered, throwing the case file onto the desk.

Rhodes picked the file up and leafed through it without sitting down. He settled on a page and read it carefully, scanning the lines with his finger while Pushard grunts impatiently. "Lungs full of blood," he mumbled at last.

"I'll save you the headache; the victim died because his lungs filled with blood. Based on the wounds inflicted, vic drowned in his own blood as a direct result of his throat being cut—"

"Either that or he died while his head was being sawed off."

"That's what we're thinking, yeah."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ. So what was the weapon?"

"A long, slightly curved blade. New, probably never been used before as the wound showed no sign of notches in the blade or, either that or it's well-maintained."

"What, like a kitchen knife?"

"No. More like a katana," Pushard said. He noticed Rhodes's confused expression, then added: "A samurai sword."

"Great. So he was killed by ninjas?"

"Samurais are not ninjas. Take the report, there's a full account of what we think the sequence of events were and it's given us some insight on the perp too."

Rhodes nodded and continued reading.

"And when I say 'take the report' I mean you should have it in your hands while you leave my office."

* * *

Unknown date

The skies were clear; cloudless and calm, a relaxing visage indeed. The boat rocked gently with the waves of the ocean that stretched to each horizon. Over the side of the one-man craft there protruded a fishing rod, the line hanging into the sea, completely unattended. The boat was empty otherwise. Why the boat was here and who it belonged to -- these things were a mystery. Had it been washed away from the safety of its dock, or had the fisherman to whom it belonged simply been consumed by the insatiable depths? This much was unclear and the truth would never be uncovered.

It was well that there was no-one around. Just the sky, the sea and the boat. And the fish, of course.

And those fish were biting...

The rod wobbled in its place of resting, a notch in the boat's side. Something had taken the bait and without the fisherman on board to reel it in it had nowhere to go. Nowhere but down. Bubbles broke the surface as the fish struggled, fighting in vain with the anchored tether.

Suddenly the water beside the boat erupted as a figure burst through the surface, grabbing the side of the boat. The boat began to capsize but the man threw himself into the craft and tipped it back with a splash. He gasped for air as he lay on his front, eyes closed behind a veil of thick black hair that had wrapped itself around his face; his soaking-wet clothes clung to his body in tatters, by which fresh wounds were exposed to the sea air. His chest heaved with the effort of forcing the water from his lungs, with the effort of breathing and the freedom from the clutches of the sea to do so once again. And so he lay for quite some time, allowing the air to flood into his lungs. Occasionally he would cough a wad of salty phlegm into his seaborne sanctuary with a groan that was discomfort and relief rolled together.

The castaway's hand gripped the side of the tiny vessel and he looked over the side with bloodshot, yellow eyes. Despite his situation, the clear sky was very relaxing and looking at it eased his troubled heart, but his mind still posed the question...

Where am I?

* * *

February 21st 2010

The pen flicked free from Dakari's hand as he woke suddenly, the stylus clattered across the dresser and landed on the floor with a thump. He was in the Hotel Ibis -top floor- at the corner of the building just like he always preferred. The night had set in and it was raining once again, weather that Dakari was rapidly growing weary of after having spent so long in Albany, where he believed there'd be snow tonight instead of this constant, depressing rain. He rose from his seat at the makeshift desk and stretched as he moved towards the balcony window, looking out to the Portsmouth Guildhall, where he had wrestled only four days ago. Or, rather, where he had attempted to wrestle. His contribution to the bout was abysmal, at least in his own eyes. They had won, but that detail was irrelevant. His mind was elsewhere, far away from the ring.

Specifically, he thought of Jody's words, and his own future. His fate was in her hands now and there was nothing he could do about it. She had not attended the show on Thursday, at least not as far as he was aware; he had been unable to find her at any rate. But what else could he say to her? He could neither justify nor explain his actions to himself, never mind to the woman who was mindful of the interests of her business and not of his own. If she had discovered the truth so quickly then so could anyone else, should undue attention be drawn to it -- a detail Jody had spelled out for Dakari in plainest black and white when they'd last spoken.

"If anyone finds out about this incident, Just Wrestling could be in serious trouble," she'd said using that same fierce tone of voice she'd intimidated him with during their first meeting. "You should've told me the truth from day one."

"I couldn't, I--" he'd tried to explain.

"I don't care," was the growled response. "This could cost us – and by 'us' I mean 'you ' – a lot of money. Probably your career too. Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"You could go to jail. I'm surprised you're not there already, at this rate. I can't believe you lied to me, I even asked you if you had anything like this you needed to tell me! And you said no!"

"There isn't anything!"

"Right. What about past convictions? Or, worse yet, current ones? You know I only had to ask everyone else this once, right? You're not a fugitive are you?"

She'd spat 'fugitive' at him as if it were poison. Oh, she was furious. He'd denied all accusations, of course, but she still didn't believe him and probably never would. He knew that answering her – no matter how truthfully – was completely redundant now, as were the answers themselves. Fortunately by this point they'd both recognised this fact; Jody's assault came to an abrupt halt, her resolution was even further from his expectations.

"It's no good arguing about it now, Dakari. The fact is, you've proven your abilities in the ring and you're helping us sell tickets – for now. If you jeopardise that again – God help you. In the meantime, there'll be no more of this 'being mysterious' or 'out of contact' any more. When I call you you will answer that phone. That means if I need you for any reason what-so-ever, as long as you're under contract with Just Wrestling you'll do as you're damn-well told, understand?"

He'd nodded.

"And no more lies!"

Dakari had opened his mouth to speak, but was shot down instantly.

"No. Look, I don't really care if you can explain why you did what you did or not. You said you haven't, so anything else is a fabrication. It's done and there's nothing you nor I can do about it. If you do anything that could potentially harm this company and its reputation again then I'll turn you over to the authorities. Got it?"

He remembered how awestruck he was at having been completely and utterly verbally destroyed. He'd never been spoken to in such a way in his life, and thus his feeble response was a feeble "Yes," though it was no less sincere for it.

He couldn't allow what she was threatening to happen.

He needed this.

"Never," he muttered as he bent down to pick up his pen. He retrieved it; when he stood upright again the air in the room seemed to become cold and a shiver rolled through Dakari, in its wake the hairs on his arm stood to attention and the clear plastic pen in his hand had steamed up with condensation somehow. He looked to the window again to ensure it was closed and his eyes locked on the dark shape that was stood there, looking into the hotel room.

Dakari's breathing stopped and his mouth was agape with surprise. There was someone there on the balcony watching him. He couldn't make out the face, it was too dark; nor could he move to switch on a light or find a weapon as he was paralysed by fear. As Dakari watched the smile form beneath the wide-brim hat the stranger wore he heard the low, deathly cackle echo all around him. It was then that a terrible realisation dawned on the aspiring young wrestler, the fact set alight his mind yet he could not move to confirm his fears.

The apparition was not on the balcony beyond the window.

It was behind him.

The Strange Path of Destiny

2010-02-18T14:07:00.000Z

November 12th 2009

"I'm confused."

"Not that any of this makes sense to me either... But why?"

" A lawyer. One that has never dealt with anything outside of a small claims court," Detective Rhodes mumbled, scratching the stubble on his chin. "I can't imagine his profession having anything to do with this but I can't think of any other reason for... this kind of brutality."

The two men were alone in the hotel room. Almost. Detective John Rhodes and his partner Detective Mike Curtis surveyed the scene in silence for about the hundredth time today. The décor was neutral, cream walls with coffee carpets and upholstery with modern, pine furniture. A nice place to stay the night, if that's all you're staying for. The corpse lying at the bottom of the bed hadn't fallen there. There was blood everywhere – the floor, the ceiling, the walls... But the most remarkable detail about this murder was that the victim was headless.

"We'll worry about the 'why' later, John. You know as well as I do that sometimes there isn't even a reason for shit like this," Curtis reasoned. "But I tell you what – I bet this wasn't cause he wanted the guy's cell phone."

John barked a laugh devoid of humour. "Yeah, I'd put money on it."

A knock at the door made the two men turn. Without waiting for an answer, the door opened and a young man's face appeared in the gap.

"You guys finished contaminating my crime scene?" he asked.

* * *

Rain against battered the thin window pane like a badly-choreographed Riverdance routine, the sound of which served only to distract Anathkash Dakari from his writing and put his mind back onto the path of his fears, his worries.

He couldn't focus.

He couldn't think.

All he could think of was the conversation he'd had with Jody Monroe after his match on Thursday in Arbroath. That, and how lucky he'd been. Everything would have been gone in an instant. Everything. All that he had achieved so far would have been taken away had certain circumstances been different, ever so slightly different.

Guilt had tugged at the corner of his mind ever since Jody confronted him immediately after the match, catching him alone backstage, as Grendel had disappeared before the final pin was even made. When Dakari's eyes had locked onto Jody's he'd known instantly what the words to escape her mouth were going to be and each one struck his heart like a hammer of stone.

"I know what you've done," she'd said.

So had he.

Panic

2010-02-11T14:07:00.000Z

It is a well-known fact that where there is water, there is life. The Arbroath skyline served to attest this certitude; the rooftops of the shops and houses within Dakari's view danced by the light of the moon to the frantic tune of the cloudburst, giving the coastal town's scenery a surreal quality that had already begun to ease his assiduous mental state as he had hoped.

The tiles of the Westport Pub's roof clattered underfoot as Dakari shifted his weight from one side of the apex to the other. It was well that the wind's contribution to the evening's symphony was tranquillo, else Dakari may have become unanticipatedly unperched and, shortly afterwards, a hell of a halcyon heterotaxis. Fortunately for him the rain had not made the bar-cum-hotel's tiles too slick and his boots easily found purchase on the steep slope.

Coming soon was the moment Anathkash Dakari had been waiting for -sunrise- and with it, the calming, warming sensation that would purge his soul of unrest.

At least that's what he liked to believe.

* * *

Earlier that day...

The pen lay on the bedside table, completely untouched as it had done since Dakari had arrived. He travelled light, carrying only a change of clothes and his wrestling attire with him as he toured the UK. The contents of the small backpack were neatly folded and separated by plastic carrier bags to avoid confusion when it was time to change as it would be impossible to pick out the correct raiment amidst the sea of black within. Black jeans and black t-shirt, exactly the same as he wore now, along with black pleather pants and a matching vest. His amateurish gear had earned him some unpleasant remarks from others in the locker room, particularly so since he wrestled in the same boots as he walked the streets in. New boots would come soon, he didn't want to wreck his Doc Martens after all.

At the instruction of Jody Monroe, Dakari had invested in a cell phone. It wasn't long before he realised his error, the device now meant that his employer was able to contact him at any time. Being contactable at all was something Dakari had never been comfortable with, which was why he didn't own a computer, PDA, or anything else of the sort. He didn't even have a fixed phone line at home, so the notion of telephone conversation was alien to Dakari.

Buying the phone in the first place was a learning experience. Walking into a phone shop with a clueless expression was apparently akin to wading into an AA meeting soaked in peach schnapps. The ordeal ended in Dakari walking out of the shop holding something that looked like a television remote with a television built-into it, feeling just as clueless as he had been when he'd entered. Irrespective of this the thing made calls, something Jody confirmed for him on what felt like a daily basis.

The pretentiously dramatic default ring tone alerted him to another such occasion.

"Hi Jody," he drawled.

No answer.

The ring began again, almost deafening him. Dakari's jolt of panic saw the phone thrown into the air. When it hit the wooden floorboards the ringing stopped and Dakari sighed with relief...

...until he heard Miss Monroe demand a response from him as the phone lay on the floor. He swore.

"I heard that!" Jody scolded.

"What? How?"

"Ever heard of speakerphone?"

"No," he muttered. "I don't like cell phones."

"They're a necessary evil. They also bring you out of the stone age, Dakari. You know I have two cell phones?"

Dakari paused for thought, trying to determine why anyone would ever want more than one of these awful creations. A futile attempt. "Why?"

"One's personal and one's business, obviously," she explained. "So I'm sure you can get by with just one."

"Okay."

"Do you know where you're going on Thursday night?"

"Yeah, I went to see it."

"Good. Just don't walk in through the front entrance this time, okay?"

He scowled at the reminder. "Yeah."

"Good. Listen," she began, the severe tone leaving her voice, "there's something else I need to speak to you about but someone's just walked into my office. It's important. I'll call you later."

The phone bleeped, presumably to tell Dakari that the call had ended. He remained silent in fear of the call still being connected, instead of simply picking it up off the floor and hanging up; he reasoned that answering the call didn't work when he tried that, so hanging up probably wouldn't either. The crash-course the salesmen had given him in the shop hadn't prepared him for speakerphone either.

Bastards.

Jody troubled him now, what did she want to talk to him about? What was so important? And who had come to see her, was that related? Questions began to flood his head now. Just when he was beginning to think he had this wrestling business in the bag. His match this week was against the two men he'd already beaten on his own and now all he had to do was defeat them again, only this time he had Grendel for support.

Why wasn't anything ever simple?

What did Jody want? It could've been nothing. It might even be something as simple as the matter of his boots, but Dakari didn't think so. This was something much more important. Something his career might very well be hinged upon. Hopefully not, though Dakari was never that much of an optimist.

A knock at the door snatched his immediate attention and thoughts of his career's impending doom fell behind in the list of Dakari's woes, overtaken by the need to know who this sudden visitor was and what they wanted from him. The polite knock came again as Dakari crept towards the door, staying low to distribute his balance and reduce the sound of his footfalls. He slid the bolt in the door shut with a tiny clik and a sense of relief washed over him.

This was short-lived. The door handle began to turn and Dakari jerked back from the door, using his hands to balance as he darted away in silence. He could feel his frenzied heart beating in his throat, his fingers pulsed with the flow of what now seemed like a mixture of RFNA and kerosene now roaring through his veins. The rattle of the door handle ceased and he heard a voice call out with a single word from the other side of the door.

"Sorry!"

Dakari hurried back to the door and pressed his ear against it. The sound carried through the thin wooden door well enough for him to hear the stranger walking away along the corridor. The bolt was slid aside and Dakari opened the door a crack, just enough to watch the woman try the next door along and walk into the vacant room. She was carrying a bucket and a mop.

He closed the door and sat with his back to it while he attempted to slow his breathing.

It was just room service.

Journey

2010-02-04T14:06:00.000Z

Though it had been this way for many weeks, Dakari found that the words did not come to him so easily anymore. That he was writing his own life story was untrue, a feeble fabrication forced from him by Jody Monroe upon their meeting in Albany. He hadn't expected her to ask him what he'd been doing until now, about his writing, and as such he threw at her the first thing he could think of. The truth was that he simply wrote that which entered his head, else the words would collect in his mind and stay there. If he didn't let it out somehow then he'd end up with a headache. It had been his therapist's idea at the time to make a note of these thoughts as they came to him in order to determine whether there was any sense to the constant stream of words, or if perhaps some pattern were to emerge from it. Unfortunately it seemed more like a by-product of an excessively active imagination in the young Dakari, as opposed to some kind of celestial communiqué.

At first.

As time went on, Anathkash Dakari gradually collected the information presented to him like a paper-trail of newspaper articles, piecing together what was nothing more than a series of jumbled-up sentences to begin with. He began to notice the same key words crop up repeatedly. A theme. Over the course of many years amidst the nonsense in his head, Anathkash had managed to piece together something that was not only comprehensible but terrifyingly... prophetic. The words meant nothing now, not since what was vaticinated had already occurred, but had Anathkash been able to decipher the messages sooner then it could have been possible to manipulate future events. His therapist had simply explained it away with psychology, telling Dakari that he had subconsciously wanted the words to make sense and, because of this, they formed a connection to what made sense to him at the time.

The only flaw in this logic was that the things that had occurred had not happened to him. These were things he learned of later, much later, with slight variations.

But it was largely accurate.

Of course it wouldn't be precisely accurate, that was impossible; there was so much room for error on his part. Even a few words incorrectly interpreted, taken out of context, even simply misheard – all could've resulted in him being lead utterly astray.

He had, of course, tried to contact the one whom his revelations were directly associated but he was not met with the same enthusiasm for the findings as Anathkash had. In fact, his last attempt at direct contact had not gone well at all... He would have to persevere.

Later.

Dakari had other issues to deal with at present, the most pressing being his trip to Northern Ireland for the Just Wrestling show in Belfast tomorrow. He was set to take on a member of both of the other victorious teams from Thursday night in Croydon, a task most daunting. His memories of All-Star Wrestling were shaky at best; before last week he hadn't wrestled in years and yet when the time came he and his peculiar partner, Grendel, emerged as the winners, despite his lack of confidence and experience. He couldn't remember anything about actually how to wrestle. It was as well that Jody hadn't asked him to demonstrate or even explain something as simple as a Hammerlock, since he couldn't possibly imagine how to do one, much less describe it. How exactly he managed to achieve a win over two established wrestlers when he was a mere clueless "rookie" was beyond him, though Grendel appeared to see something in him that he couldn't.

Maybe he knows...

It wasn't unreasonable of Anathkash to assume that someone else knew something he didn't. His memory recently was a mess; he had completely forgotten years of training in both martial arts as well as having signed up to a wrestling tag-team tournament for a promotion he'd never even heard of. His heart sank when Jody uttered those words, "Have you even seen a Just Wrestling show?" Of course not, he wanted to yell. I've never even heard of Just Wrestling and I can't even explain to myself why I'm here, nevermind you! But, alas, he rarely spoke his mind in such a blunt manner.

The Norfolkline ferry he'd boarded from Birkenhead in Liverpool was a pleasant vessel and seven of the eight hours' estimated crossing time had gone by without incident. It had been difficult to find a quiet place to, well, hide from the other passengers as the ferry was full, at least as far as he could tell. Their presence made him uncomfortable, he was not used to spending extended periods of time with other people, especially those he didn't know.

He was reminded of his experience in Fairfield Halls, as if he could ever forget it. Stepping out from behind the curtain had been the most terrifying moment of all; his music played and he knew at that moment that there was no going back. He couldn't turn away and wash his hands of the whole thing. Fifteen-hundred people! The thought of pushing the curtain aside and making his way to the ring was... traumatic. Anathkash was not a "people person". Whatever posessed him to sign up to a wrestling company was not with him any longer and now he'd been left to deal with the consequences on his own.

But why didn't he challenge it?

Why did he meet with Jody Monroe to finalise his application?

It was obvious that Dakari wanted to do it, otherwise he'd have abandoned the foolish concept before that point. Otherwise he wouldn't be sitting on a boat on his way to a country that he was previously happy to accept as a place he'd never visit in his life. Were it not for Just then there would have been no reason for him to ever be here.

Still, the fight had awoken something inside Dakari. Despite his hesitation and unwillingness to participate in the future Just events he was scheduled for, he still had that urge to fight again. Taking out Mercer with his listed finisher, 'Metamorphosis', was exhilarating and impossible to describe, were he asked to try.

The café around him was probably the quietest place on the ferry. There were no private rooms since the crossing was a relatively short one, so isolation was impossible. The upper decks were packed despite the cold air and there was no other place on board that Dakari could lurk in comfort for an extended period of time. The other passengers mostly ignored him, though his unusual appearance attracted more than one glance his way. His pale skin and charcoal hair were an awful contrast, giving him the appearance of a walking corpse. While in London he had bought some new clothes and simply threw away the ones he wore earlier. Now dressed head to foot in black, Dakari found that he drew more attention to himself now than when he wore the scruffy old clothes he had owned. Avoiding contact with anyone was the best way to go about this journey.

The coffee he'd bought to justify his presence in the café had gone cold long ago, forgotten to his apprehension of Thursday's show. So overbearing were his fears that his writing had even taken a back seat to the turmoil in his mind. Maybe wrestling was what he needed. Maybe this was a good experience for him.

He couldn't concentrate long enough to keep a single thought in his head for longer than a few minutes.

He couldn't wait to get off this boat.

He couldn't wait for it to be over.

Metamorphosis

2010-01-28T14:01:00.000Z

The shadow cast across the crooked old wooden floor wavered in the light of at least a dozen candles, all melted directly into the antique study desk, a variety of colours that had mingled together at the base to form a grim rainbow of wax. The tiny attic was bleak, a moth-eaten mattress lay in the corner nearest to where the slope of the roof met the floor; a duffel bag was set down on the wooden boards, that had been hastily pulled open with half of the contents strewn in the vicinity. There was a boot, a leather jacket, some mismatched gloves and pieces of paper covered in writing on both sides amongst the debris.

The desk itself was a mess. Aside from the candle-wax defacement there were more papers atop that covered most of the surface; some had been knocked onto the floor to join the sheaves from the bag, the rest towered high upon the desk. A row of empty ball-point pens had been stabbed into the end of the desk, presumably done by he who cast the shadow that covered the small loft room and its decrepit contents.

He was writing. Quickly. He'd fill an A4 sheet and push it straight off the side of the desk, cast aside the instant it was complete. Greasy, shoulder-length hair hung down around his face. One would think that it'd obscure his vision but the pages he'd filled in spite of this obstruction suggested otherwise. Regardless, the man brushed his hair out of his face with a single sweep of a grimy, bony hand -his right- while the other continued scribbling. The southpaw wrote from right to left, apparently to avoid smudging his scrawled script, which did not even appear to be in English; symbols unlike any other ever written. This was not Chinese, or any similar Asian script, nor was it even that of the ancient Egyptians, hieroglyphics. Unique to this man, there was only he who knew what the strange runes represented.

This knowledge pleased him. His grin reflected this, the expression revealing a dentist's nightmare.

As the markings on the page faded with the dying ink, the pen was raised, taken into a fist and slammed point-first into the desk alongside the other depleted styluses. The writer replaced the stricken pen with another from the top right-hand drawer in the desk, resuming his writing immediately, his head low to the desk. He smiled in satisfaction at his work while he wrote, his face was covered in stubble - he had not shaved in some days now, though usually a long, black beard clung to his face like fuzzy limpets on a sunken ship. He felt as though he'd always preferred to keep the beard. Not any more; thus it was gone.

The writer peered through errant locks of hair at the stacks of paper before him and the smashed pens that jut out from the desk which, combined with the thick amalgamation of various waxes and inks, were beginning to look like a brutal slaying of some craft-work creation come-alive. It was as if the writer had murdered something that, during the course of his work, he had produced like a by-product of his unusual but unyielding creativity.

In a way, that wasn't far from the truth. Not the collective corpse of wax and pens, of course; he was thinking more of something physical he had perhaps produced, something he had previously considered as an art reduced to nothing more than the smouldering remains of what it once was. Whatever it was, he couldn't put his finger on it, the subject of his subconscious thoughts naught more than a faint memory that seemed to slip further away the harder he tried to grasp it within the clutches of his mind. His thoughts seemed not his own this night. He was not tired, just distracted; distracted by notions of what the future held in store for him; the revelation that was to dart away from his reach a moment too soon, a mere instant before recollection could sweep away the dust from the cover of this tome of knowledge that eluded him so deftly.

Whatever it was, it couldn't have been important.

If only he was wrong.

-#-

And wrong he was not.

Although not normally one to rush for anything or anyone, the uncouth young man power-walked from the bus station as nonchalantly as possible; he adjusted his trench coat as he marched to cover as much of the untidy clothes he wore as he could before distractedly shooing away the scruffy dog that had followed him from the bus station. He was on his way to meet his employer, after all. Had to look his best.

Unfortunately, this was the best he'd look.

The sun had slithered from the sky many hours ago, the darkness that he slipped through, combined with the mild air gave the illusion of a late Spring evening and thus increased his haste. He knew the building he sought wasn't far away now and he gauged he'd only be around fifteen minutes late, which wasn't so bad. He just hoped he hadn't fallen at the first hurdle but at the same time he wasn't even sure as to why he wanted to do this, and that wasn't very motivating. His cover story was in place of course; even if he knew his true reasons for what he did, it was unlikely that they'd understand. They'd never see the beauty of his motives through his own eyes. Of course, whatever his reasons were he must have simply forgotten. One did not suddenly reignite the burning urge to find a company to wrestle for on a whim. This was serious, and whatever he had in mind would be extremely important. More important than his writings and, perhaps, more important than even he himself. If only he knew why...

That dog was following him again. He tried to discretely wave it away, hissing at the animal to scare it away. The hound simply maintained its distance and the young man gave up. It would get leave while he was meeting... Oh, what was her name again?

He turned the corner and powered on; having then seen the building up ahead on his left his thoughts were focused back onto this belated meeting. He would've thought of an excuse but he wasn't too concerned about it, he'd heard that this Just Wrestling bunch needed all the talent they could get. Now, had he been paying attention to his surroundings however, he would have been more likely to have seen the figure watching him carefully from across the street. As the office door closed behind the writer, the figure stepped back into the shadows and again became one with the darkness.

-#-

The office was pretty desolate, even for commercial premises. Some personal effects lying around here and there while several dated desktop PCs whirred noisily, forming a droning computer-choir that reminded the writer of the noises heard inside a submarine for some reason. The place was definitely dank enough.

There was a smartly-dressed woman scowling at him over her monitor. "You're late," she called, looking back at her machine. "Who're you?"

The man sidled through the office towards her. "I'm Anathkash Dakari."

"Then you're extremely late."

"But," he began to protest, looking at his watch for backup. It was apparently the same time as it had been when he got off the bus. "Ah. I see."

As he approached her desk, he noticed the woman look him over and frown before turning back to her work. He thought he heard her mutter "Not another one," but he wasn't sure. She brushed black hair behind her ears and swivelled her chair around to face him.

"I'm Jody Monroe. Take a seat."

He did as he was told, for the sake of his health.

"I have some questions regarding your application. You're not homeless, are you?"

"No."

"Alcoholic?"

"No."

"Drugs?"

"No!"

"Amazing. Then why do you look like something Judas Crippen dragged in?"

"Who's Judas Crippen?"

She sighs. "Have you even seen a Just Wrestling tour?"

"I don't have a TV."

"We aren't ON television!" she snapped. "Why have you applied to join our tour?"

"Because I can wrestle and I need money." Although this was a lie. He wanted practice.

"So there's no ulterior motive? No heinous crimes for which you're evading the law?"

"Nothing like that, no."

"So you just want to wrestle?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well, All Star Wrestling cleared you as being fully trained, but that was five years ago under the ring-name Dr—"

"Last time I wrestled, yeah," Dakari blurted.

Jody simply scowled at him for the interruption before continuing. "What've you been doing since?"

"I decided to write."

The look on her face suggested that she was getting frustrated. Dakari also suspected that she didn't believe him. The sheaves of paper in his bedroom were testament to this truth. "This is like getting blood out of a stone. Would you care to elaborate, Mister Dakari?"

"Apologies. I decided to write a book about my life experiences," he lied. "I've put rather a lot of work into it."

"According to this application you're 22 years old," she muttered, eyeing him incredulously. "That's correct?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"You look older."

"Tough paper round."

Not good enough. "What have you written about for all this time? You haven't lived for very long."

"That doesn't mean my life hasn't been interesting up until now," he countered.

"Right," she muttered, still not convinced. "So what can you do? Your application said something about martial arts?"

"Yes. I'm well trained in various martial arts, including Ninjitsu and Capoeira."

"You've been training for years, then."

"Yes."

She paused and looked him dead in the eye. He avoided breaking contact for the sake of sincerity, but the steely, gaze was one of distrust and business-like appraisal, one that Dakari didn't enjoy. "Can you get to England?" she said, eventually.

"You don't fly us there, then?"

"No."

He sighed. "Gotta spend money to make money, right?"

"Yeah," Jody grunted distractedly without looking up from her computer screen. "Get that from the printer."

The aged machine sounded as though it was screaming out in pain as it spewed forth a sheet of paper. The noise of the printer beside them was deafening. "What's this?"

"It's the list of dates and locations for the tour in the UK, as well as details of your first match. It's also me leaving you no excuses for not getting in touch with me in future. You see those contact numbers? Use them. Understood?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"You will be," she said with a wry smile. Despite that, there was still that edge of malice to her voice.

Dakari didn't doubt her.

He made an exit with more haste than when he had entered, bidding the woman a hurried farewell as he shuffled outside, closing the door behind himself. The chill of the Winter night struck harder than it had when he'd arrived. He was unaware of the time, though surely he had not spent so long speaking to Jody..?

“Anathkash Dakari?”

Dakari spun around defensively, his eyes searching the dark for the one who had spoken. He looked at the towering shadow that approached him, and nodded. "Yeah. Who're you?"

A voice like whales regurgitating in the deepest, darkest pits of the ocean answered. "I, little meatsack, am your only hope for the near future, and your deepest despair as well."

Meatsack? "Is that so?" he replied cautiously as he squinted through the darkness in an effort to make out the face of the stranger. "And how might that be?"

An ugly sound soiled the night air...laughter, with absolutely no humor behind it whatsoever. "Before you stands The Avatar of Agony, The Prophet of PAIN ..." A miasma of menace seemed to seep from the shadows. "I am Grendel, The Living Nightmare!”

The night paused, as if on cue.

"You are the most fortunate and unlucky of souls, to be paired with me as I make my return to the wretched inclines of humanity. "

Dakari looked at the printout in his hand. This man was to be his tag partner in the tour? "I'm failing to see the fortune in this. Why am I so lucky? I can understand why I might not be, but..." he said, trailing off into a distracted mumble.

Again, that disturbing chuckle... "A victory in this upcoming farce is assured for you, by virtue of your mere ring-side presence. Your only responsibility is to stand by, and bear witness as I wade through the dregs of humanity to once again deliver the Gospel of PAIN!"

"So that's what this is all about? Do you approach me to let me know that you don't need my help in this tag match in..." he paused to look at the printout. "Fairfield?"

There was an awkward moment; the kind of moment that happens just before a rhino charges.

"Have you ever injured another purposefully? Have you ever hurt a living being just for the sake of hurting that individual?" The silence was as thick and uncomfortable as the night. "Have you ever inflicted pain upon another intentionally?"

"I have fought before. I fight to win, and sometimes pain is a necessary evil."

The monster in the shadows paused, as if in contemplation. "An acceptable answer, meatsack. Would you also concede that sometimes pain is a necessary good? ...... "

"I can't see what benefit pain could be to anyone, save from those who inflict it."

A quick, snort of exhaled breath from the nose, as if in disdain...or frustration. "Pain to you is a tool to be used at your whim and convenience. Inflicted and enacted and to be exploited on your command." The huge figure shook its huge, shaggy head and continued. "You, Anathkash Dakari, I thought would be different. There is something ...unique about you."

"Unique? What... what are you talking about?" Images lurked at the edges of Dakari's consciousness, the carrot on a stick that had lead him further away from what he knew, what he was comfortable with. It had already lead him to this point, to stand before this belligerent behemoth that spoke of suffering as though it were a way of life on its own, as opposed to how he perceived it - merely an aspect of living.

"I know not, and the fey aura surrounding you is …unfamiliar… to me. And I must thank another who was first to recognize it" The creature that called itself Grendel shifted his attention away from Dakari's face to the forgotten dog that sat at his bare feet.

Dakari follows Grendel's eyes to meet those of the ragged hound at their feet. Behind those sorrowful eyes was a soul that felt as old as time itself, a soul that Dakari felt could reach out and touch his own.

The giant continued. "Our warm-up against the afterthoughts called 'Mercer' and 'Styles' shall be my second lesson to you, young Dakari. I shall demonstrate and indoctrinate and mentor you, and show you the holy message of Pain. " The streetlights flickered, all of them of a sudden. "You and I are bound by fate and irony - a combination to be both feared as well as celebrated."

Momentarily, Dakari turned away from the light, the sporadic strobe hard on his sensitive eyes. He looked back, one hand shielding his eyes, to where Grendel stood. The light revealed a chilling figure; the bestial apparition of Grendel's form now illuminated, released from the darkness long enough for Dakari to see the masked monster that addressed him.

The figure was gigantic and feral and the kind of unholy threat that uncaring parents used as bedtime fodder to frighten their unruly children. Filthy bare feet. Filthier leather pants that might once have been weathered-black beneath the accumulated grime. A filthy, hairy, scarred, muscular frame above that. And all topped off by the most unusual, disturbing face Dakari had seen. Long, silver hair fell back behind the hideous, beast-like visage. The lights disoriented him enough to cause him to question what he was seeing, but this looked almost exactly like a giant wearing wolf/bear/gorilla mask. It opened its mouth and Dakari saw white teeth; each perfect, impeccable tooth had been manually filed – through a long time and unspeakable ungodly agony – into ivory daggers.

“PAIN is a force, to be endured and to be respected, honored. Can you hope to harness the fitful Wind of a hurricane? Can you honestly endeavor to stop the seizures of Earth when she chooses to quake?”

The night and shadows wrapped Dakari like an uncomfortable, unfamiliar womb.

“Your FIRST lesson in Pain, little meatsack…” And a very large part of the shadows excused itself from the rest and darted forward in a leap born of feral grace and agility; a strike of a large, predatory cat, perhaps. A titanic fist slammed into Dakari’s chest in specific and direct line to his heart like an icy battering ram…

“Huh”

His chest spasmed and his extremities shook of their own accord. He felt like he was being frost-bitten from the inside out… he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath,,, He’d never felt ANYTHING like this…

But he locked his knees and remained standing…

…

The streetlights flickered again and settled into a particularly unhelpful shade of gray.

Grendel was gone.

Anathkash Dakari's stomach felt like it was about to explode; the resulting eruption of bile lashing onto the sidewalk as would that of a drunk on his way home was not to be, though the young man was not entirely certain he'd escaped that possibility yet. More importantly, this night marked the metamorphosis of Anathkash Dakari from a man who wrote to the fighter that he was born to be.

Haunted, part three: Calm Before the Storm

2009-06-09T01:13:00.000+01:00

November 14th, 2009

As Draeden Darksky carefully closed the hotel suite door behind him he considered how he could've gone about things differently. Maybe it wasn't necessary for Israel to die. True, but then what else would he have done this afternoon? And, more importantly, what was he to do now? Here he was in Chesapeake, only a few hundred kilometres away from where he was supposed to be, with nothing to do. Such a calamity. He thoughtfully slid his sword into the sheath hanging at his waist and continued his contemplation.

Then, his cell phone began to ring. Unexpected; the whole sequence of events that followed seemed almost surreal from the moment he began to hear a tinny version of Für Elise from the phone's speaker in his inner jacket pocket. As much as this was not the ideal time for a call - what with Draeden was trying to plan the rest of his day and all - he rolled with it; the passionate piano-play entered his movements and he almost pranced along the hallway as he enjoyed the tune, phone in hand, before finally answering the call.

"Draeden Darksky speaking," he jovially answered.

"This is Eidolon," the soft voice of the caller replied.

* * *

Bedsheets were cast aside as the sudden disturbance wrenched Draeden from his formerly pleasant slumber; a direct contrast to the beautiful piano composition that delicately escaped the mobile phone at bedside. Brushing aside the travel brochures piled atop the device, Draeden hurriedly answered the call before it went to voicemail.

"Yes, what, hello?" he babbled sleepily.

"This is Eidolon," the soft voice of the caller replied.

"Ah," Draeden said, relaxing back into the thick pillows. "I was just thinking about you."

"How discomforting. I am calling to advise you that the piper has ceased to play."

"Oh, good! Did he tell you anything useful before he put down his pipes?"

"He said you should speak to Benedict Ravion of Nihilus Ravion Publishing to find out where he plays next."

"'Where he plays next'? I thought you said he'd ceased playing?"

Were it possible to hear someone's eyes roll, it would have been at this moment. "You know what I mean."

"I clearly do not, Eidolon," Draeden argued. "You should be more consistent."

"Clearly," Eidolon growled, "I should be more selective in choosing my clientèle. I am calling from a secure location, your cell phone is not so safe for you. I do not mince my words, I select my expressions with care to protect you, the client. When the sky falls down, it lands on you -not me- understand?"

"So Arcadie is dead and I need to see Benedict Ravion, right?"

A sigh from Eidolon. "Right."

"Very good. Any last words? From you to him I mean -not you otherwise you'd be dead- like the last thing he ever heard on Earth before he died?"

"What?"

"You know, like a catchphrase or something, like in the movies. 'See you in Hell mother fucker,' that kind of thing," chuckled Darksky. "You know what I'm talking about."

"You really are a little soft in the head, aren't you?"

"That's not very nice, Eidolon. You did use the sword like I asked, right?"

"Of course I did," Eidolon snapped. "Except I'm not as efficient at using a sword as you might be. I'm used to shooting people, it's my preferred method on account of being faster and easier. I know you specified a cut throat but you'll have to settle for beheading."

"Beheading?!" Draeden gasped. "Why that's just terrible! An execution, they'll say! Oh well, could be worse - he's dead, that's the main thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah, right."

"Good news! Well, you'll be paid very soon; I'm authorising the payment as we speak," Draeden lied as he shifted to a more comfortable position in the silk sheets. "But I will probably require further use of your skills somewhere along the line. Except there is a special one, I'll be doing that myself. Well, jolly good; enjoy your money Eidolon, I'll be in touch!"

He snapped the flip-phone shut and threw it onto the bedside table which it skimmed across like a pebble on water, before it landed on the floor. Ignoring this, Draeden turned over in his bed and shut his eyes in an attempt to resume that dream he was enjoying before he was rudely interrupted.

* * *

November 24th, 2009

"I just don't understand it," Alice moaned into her hotel room phone. "How can he go from hating the guy to being completely obsessed with finding him again? It just doesn't make sense."

Back home in California, Mike Newman shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he just had a change of heart or something. Maybe all he's trying to do is understand why this guy has been harassing him. Or maybe he just wants to break his jaw, I don't know."

"Oh God, you think he's doing all of this just so he can hurt the guy?"

"Hell yeah," Mike agreed, "if I were him I'd have knocked him out for screwing up my match, screw the guy I was fighting – Hannibal Cage, I think? Fuck him, I'd kill that bookworm mother fucker to death, man."

"I know but I mean, God, what if he gets arrested or something?"

"Then he gets arrested - big deal, babe! That's him and not you. Remember, with all the money Draeden Dorksky has he could buy the best lawyers in the country to represent his ass. You really think he'd stay behind bars for long? No fuckin' way."

"I know but..."

"Look, as long as you're nowhere near him when it happens then you'll be alright. Fuck Draeden Darksky; that asshole is trying to ruin wrestling anyway – so let him make things difficult for himself. If he beats the shit out of some fuckin' guy who stalked him once then good for him, but if he starts throwing his weight around someone's gonna knock his ass out. Just don't let him anywhere near you, okay?" That last sentence was almost pleading, the voice of insecurity lurking behind the burly brawn of machismo, the nagging worry that this man with more money than Mike could ever hope to amass in a hundred lifetimes would take his woman away from him.

"Hey, don't worry about that. I know jiu-jitsu remember?" Alice said reassuringly.

Mike scoffed. "Yeah, and he doesn't know jiu-jitsu and like ten other martial arts on top of that too, right? Just stay away from him. If you need me to I can fly over to be with you; I'll get time off work, call in sick, whatever; just say the word. If you need me, I'm there."

"Of course I need you Mike, but I have to get through this and I don't think I'm in any danger or anything. You could lose your job if you call in sick. Draeden will control himself, he's more focused on finding this author than anything else. You know he lost his GTT Tournament match?"

"You're shittin' me."

"No, seriously. Wyatt Connors beat him, I couldn't believe it. But it was like he wasn't even there, like in his body I mean. Lights were on but nobody was home, you know what I mean? Like a ghost in the ring."

"Yeah, I think so. I'll have to find it on YouTube since I didn't feel like paying thirty dollars to watch your prick boss wrestle."

"It was weird. I remember seeing videos of him in Viking Wrestling, before all of this Experts stuff. Before he was CEO, I mean."

"Yeah."

"He was so focused on the match it was unreal, it was like there was nothing else going on in the rest of the world, other than what was going on in the ring. I think he has mental problems," she said suddenly.

"Whoa, really?"

"Yeah, really. Like, he talks to himself a lot; I don't just mean a few words when he's pissed off or whatever. I mean he argues with himself. All the reasoning that goes on in his head he says out loud. It's like there's another person in there that's trying to convince him to do it his way instead."

"That's weird," Mike grunted. "You're really not making me feel any better about you hanging around with this asshole."

"I'm not hanging around with him, he's my boss. I'm his personal assistant. It's not like I can avoid him if I want to keep my job, although so far that seems to be filing stuff I've already filed before and fetching coffee. So yeah, he's an asshole, but he pays me a lot for getting coffee and moving documents around an office. So he's a useful asshole right now."

Mike said nothing.

"Besides, now that GTT is over with we'll be coming back to California soon. He's meeting with some head guy at Nihilus Ravion on Thursday morning, so we're flying tomorrow. We should be back in Hayward on Monday."

"But that's almost another week!"

"Yeah but after Thursday I might be able to get the first flight back, so I might see you Saturday."

"I've got my fingers crossed," Mike said in that Tom Green voice.

* * *

November 26th, 2009

The Nihilus Ravion Publishing Company headquarters was a relatively small building just behind the main street in Richmond, Virginia. Being their head office it stood to reason that Benedict Ravion would be there. Indeed, that was the location that Alice Bowman had been tasked with calling to arrange the meeting between Darksky and Ravion himself. So far everything had gone smoothly; they'd arranged the meeting, found the office's location and now approached the reception desk.

Draeden Darksky had a no-nonsense air about him today, something that Alice found unusual. Normally his attitude was one of indifference, self-amusement was his priority and anyone in the vicinity would become a victim to his mockery, her included. But not today. He imposed upon the receptionist with a stern expression and announced that he had arrived to meet with Benedict Ravion, as scheduled. The girl was propelled from her seat to show Draeden the way to Ravion's office as if carried on the wings of some invisible force of nature, her enthusiasm likely fuelled by The Experts' CEO's intimidating demeanour.

Alice enjoyed watching her boss when he was like this. He was dynamic and commanding; he became a man worth working for instead of the foolish and immature young man he came across as most of the time, which was probably all a front to cover up his insecurities. His initial devious behaviour aside, Draeden had been shit on. He'd placed himself in a difficult position to extract revenge of a scale that most men wouldn't have the balls to even think about, let alone execute the whole thing on their own.

In its entirety, the office was a pretentious collaboration of laminate mahogany, brass and crème. This didn't surprise Alice. She was familiar with the tastes of rich businessmen and, due to her research, that of Benedict Ravion. The man was of Italian descent; rich, deceased parents handed down a fortune, a wealthy estate and a thriving business. His partner in crime, Mister Nihilus, was a mysterious man indeed. His family history was untraceable and no documents describe his past activities. Even her contact in the publishing house itself was unable to tell her anything helpful about Nihilus. Still, contacting Nihilus might not even be necessary; it was possible that Ravion might provide the information Draeden needed.

Somehow, as they approached the heavy double-doors to Ravion's office, she knew this wasn't going to be so easy.

* * *

Thirty seconds. That's all it took for Cynthia to show in visitors that were inconsiderate enough to arrive on time. Benedict Ravion always considered punctuality an art. There was a brief time between being too early for an appointment and being bang on time that he deemed not just simply appropriate but an ideal time to turn up. It depended on the function of the appointment in most cases, simple one-on-one meetings required only a minute or two’s earliness to fall into the narrow realm of politeness he regarded so highly, however meetings with particularly impulsive and aggressive men like Draeden Darksky required a little more time to adequately slip into the mindset of such an angry individual.

Benedict already knew that Darksky would be angry when his personal assistant, the pleasant Miss Bowman, called to request the meeting. He knew what the meeting was about, too. These pesky artists that Nihilus insisted on acquiring caused the business no end of stress and Benedict a world of inconvenience. He would be quite happily enjoying a Friday afternoon tipple by now; but no, Draeden Darksky had to turn up and argue with him over use of his likeness in a book that some anonymous loon chose to write. The fool would have been satisfied with a written apology from the Nihilus Ravion Publishing Company had it not been for that demented writer following Darksky around and demanding to speak to him about it, like a subservient dog that longed for his master’s approval.

Since Cynthia had buzzed Benedict to warn him of Darksky’s arrival he had cleared away the 40-year old brandy he was looking forward to and with it the documents that littered his desk and would require his attention later in the afternoon. The room was now pristine, spotless and perfectly tidy. There was no unsightly clutter, not a speck of dust left behind by the ever efficient hygiene executives (cleaners) that were employed by the company to ensure the offices were spick and span at all times, as was Nihilus’ wish. The display cabinets containing various business-related awards and display documents gleamed with the prestige of their contents, the mahogany desk and book shelf radiated warmth, knowledge and power. Benedict was even proud of the solid brass nameplates on both his door and the prism-shaped one that sat on his desk. Such devices amused him. As if anyone could be unaware of his identity.

This was probably why the writer Nihilus had chosen to protect troubled him so.

Such thoughts whizzed around his mind as he looked over the room to ensure that everything was in order, then relaxed once more.

Serenity is mine.

Twenty-six.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

The huge double doors at the far end of the room swung open and Cynthia stepped aside to grant two smartly-dressed individuals passage into the room.

"Draeden Darksky and Alice Bowman to see you, Mister Ravion," she chirped. Benedict liked her. Not a single thought went through her head that didn’t revolve around her hair or her nails. So refreshing from the stuffy types that came in; ironic though that thought was, Benedict did not consider himself one of those grey, old-fashioned men like Nihilus and his subordinates, but the truth was that Benedict was just like the rest of them no matter how strongly he disagreed.

"Wonderful, wonderful," Benedict said amicably, rising to greet his visitors. He shook Darksky’s hand first, then Bowman’s. "Good to see you, glad you could make it." Though there'd be Hell to pay if you hadn't.

"A pleasure," Darksky said with a confident tone.

Next came the loaded question that Benedict had been dying to not have to ask. "What can I help you with today?"

"I'm glad you asked," Draeden said with a smirk, after a pause. "There's a small matter of an author for whom you published a book named Shadow Crusade. Are you familiar with it?"

"Ah, yes, I know of the book but I have yet to read it, I'm afraid. I understand it's a classic."

"Oh, yes. A classic. I'd like to contact the author directly regarding this, if possible."

Something was wrong. This wasn’t the kind of exchange he'd expected from a man that'd displayed psychopathic tendencies on live television. This troubled Benedict. "Oh, but for what purpose? As his publishing company I'm sure you can understand that we're reluctant to allow another provider to... pull the rug out from beneath us, shall we say."

"Of course, I understand. No, in truth I planned to speak with the author about potentially working with us at The Experts for creative purposes," Darksky explained. "Obviously this wouldn't take anything away from yourselves as a company."

"I see, well, let me have a look – I may be able to put you in touch with him," Benedict said as he half-heartedly leafed through an address roller inconspicuously placed in the middle of his desk. He had no intentions of giving Draeden Darksky any contact details, but looked like he was searching anyway. "Ah, it would appear that my associate, Mr Nihilus, is the one looking after this particular author. I'm afraid he's out of town at the moment, I do hope this isn’t urgent."

"Actually, I'm in somewhat of a hurry. Perhaps I could contact Mr Nihilus directly?"

"I regret to say that he's on very urgent business. He must not be disturbed, Mr Darksky, under any circumstances."

"Fair enough – well, why don't you have him call me when he's available?"

"Capital idea, Mr Darksky. Is there anything else I can help you with? My schedule is rather tight, I must admit," Benedict chuckled.

Darksky smirked. What a horrifying expression. "Not at all, you've been more than helpful Mr Ravion. I am extremely grateful for your time."

"You're quite welcome," Benedict said, rising once again. They shook hands once again and the older man held the door for Darksky and Bowman to exit the office. Slumping back into his leather chair, Benedict sighed in relief. The conversation with Draeden Darksky that Benedict had been dreading for weeks had finally been and gone; in hindsight, it went rather smoothly – as well as he could have hoped for. He certainly would not be complaining that the man had simply accepted his explanation for Nihilus's absence and left without a fuss.

That would simply not do.

Lifting his desk phone off the receiver, Benedict dialled reception. "Cynthia, is Mr Darksky gone?"

"He is, Mr Ravion."

A slight pause, then... "Really?"

"Yeah," Cynthia confirmed with a giggle, no doubt twirling her hair between her fingers as usual. "Is that you done for the day, Mr Ravion?"

"No rest for the wicked, my dear," he chuckled again as he lifted his brandy out from a drawer in his desk.

The blonde airhead giggled once more. "I'll let you get back to work then!"

Benedict placed the phone receiver down and then lifted it again immediately, dialling a new number into the keypad.

He waited.

"Nihilus. Yes, he was here... Oh, yes... yes, he'll be back."

* * *

Draeden's fists were clenched as he marched back to the car, Alice noticed. That was not the outcome he'd hoped for, but at least he knew he couldn't tear Benedict Ravion apart to find the answer, as if he were some sort of meaty fortune cookie. Or, more importantly, at least he hadn't tried. He politely held the car door open for Alice to get inside first, and then followed her in. The Mercedes CLS550 was brand new, paid for by The Experts of course. The seventy-three thousand dollar vehicle was of little comfort to Alice despite the soft leather interior as Draeden looked fit to burst.

Strangely, he kept his cool and instructed the driver to take them to their hotel.

Alice was in turmoil. Her employer was like a ticking time-bomb at the best of times, his fuse was short and the detonation was catastrophic. This was the calm before the storm; there was no question of that. But when was the storm going to come..? There were clouds on the horizon yet the lightning had yet to strike.

She couldn’t take the silence anymore.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him weakly.

"Deliberating, deliberating..." he muttered distractedly.

"About what?"

"About whether or not I should have Benedict Ravion killed," was his grim reply.

"No! You – you can't!" Alice cried; her eyes wide in horror at Draeden's blasé response.

"Calm down, I was joking!" he said, cracking the grin Alice was coming to fear. "Like I'd have someone killed. Pshaw! Silly girl. Looks like we're going home early, Miss Bowman... Got plans?"

"Just at the weekend; I haven't spent any real time with my fiancé in weeks so we're going to rent a boat, go sailing for the weekend."

"Sounds like fun," Draeden conceded.

"Yeah, it should be great. What about you?"

"Not a lot. Hit the gym, you know how it is," he muttered. "If you have spare time on Sunday you should make use of your employee benefits and get tickets to Rival Factions. I'm destroying Black Death this month. Bring your boyfriend. I think you'll enjoy the show. I'll get revenge for him setting my fucking desk on fire!"

Alice could see those clouds on the horizon again, only this time she could hear the thunder.

"Well, I probably won't make it but I hope you win!"

"Oh, you're dead right."

* * *

"You are not dead."

"What?"

"You are not dead," Daroth repeated. A crash from the kitchen alerted Daroth and Draeden to Ronan's eavesdropping.

Sure enough, the red-faced bearded man shuffled into the living room, a damp tea towel in his hand. He looked sorrowfully at Draeden and sighed deeply. "I'm sorry lad, I didn't mean to listen in. Walls are thin and—"

"Ronan, stop," Draeden interrupted, placing a hand on his uncle's arm. "We've discussed nothing I'd keep from you anyway. You may as well stay in here and stop hiding in the kitchen. This is important; you should know what's happening."

"What did you mean when you said he could see you for what you really are?" Ronan asked Daroth who, in his eyes, smiled softly.

"Ah, Ronan. You always knew I was unlike the other mortal souls here. I travel where and when I please without fear of the evil spirits and demons that seek to lead innocent souls astray; I was here long before you and I will continue to roam this place after you're gone. I am Daroth, The Voidwatcher and this is my realm. Draeden," he began, turning from uncle to nephew. "I have something that belonged to you, in a manner of speaking."

From beneath his tattered robes Daroth dragged a long, black sword. It seemed to absorb light; it had no refraction, no real definition of a blade as the edges could not be seen. It was simply a shape, a hole in space and time where Draeden knew a sword should be; a shadow where the blade once was.

"Of course, like you, this weapon is missing its body. There is no blade and yet it will tear through your enemies like it would in the mortal realm," the wraith continued, holding the sword up to the light of the fire as if looking upon it for the last time. As it turned out, he was; he handed it to Draeden point-down, who took the blade in both hands. "This may refresh your memory a little."

As Draeden's fingers closed around the leather-bound grip of the sword, Daroth's own released the weapon to him and he felt its weight and balance in his palm. It seemed almost weightless, highly unusual for a longsword such as this. He was unaware as to how he knew that. He spun the weapon at his side and felt the breeze of a sword that, in essence, wasn't there. "That's eerie," he said.

"Because you are in an eerie place. This weapon was alive, Crusader. You'd best treat it with respect."

"About 'Crusader'. What does that mean?"

"In life you were a wrestler. Your ring-name was 'Crusader'; that you chose this name was… intriguing. This confirmed our belief that you truly were the Crusader of Sacrifice, the warrior prophesised to bring about the destruction of the Crimson Legion."

Both Ronan and Draeden looked at the skeletal figure with blank expressions.

"The Crimson Legion," Daroth growled in frustration, "was an army of souls that had escaped from Hell and sought to crush a world similar to your own. I believe you've been there."

"Ayreon," Draeden muttered.

"Yes. Good. You were named the Crusader of Sacrifice because you were destined to end your own life in order to kill the one named Apocalypticus, the leader of the Crimson Legion; this was almost the case. This is where we intervened. You made yourself so… potentially useful to us that we decided to change a few things; particularly, the side in which your heart lay, so that when you drove your sword – this sword – through your chest to impale Apocalypticus you successfully killed him but you survived. A moment of genius, if I may say so myself…"

"You were behind that?"

"I was but a part of it. A bigger picture; as are we all."

"I'm not sure whether to thank you or two slice you in half," Draeden grunted.

"I am not sure that you should do either since it is not outside of my power to disintegrate this entire farmhouse and everything in it. You will most certainly not survive that, Crusader. The completion of your task was thanks enough, so that shan't be necessary."

Draeden studied the murky yellow bones of the apparition, searching for emotion. "Was that a joke?"

"I try."

"So why are you still calling me 'Crusader'? That part of my 'destiny' is finished, isn't it?"

The bones of the Voidwatcher creaked as he turned towards the blazing fire once again and clasped his hands behind his back, the worn floorboards groaning underfoot. "You are still the Crusader. You always will be. Your destiny is not over, it has simply changed. This leads me to your task. Your time as the Crusader of Sacrifice is over. You are now the Crusader of Shadow. Your path will be a dark one."

Haunted, part two: To the Death

2009-06-08T01:12:00.000+01:00

The latch snapped into place as the door closed abruptly, serving as the exclamation point to the chorus of boos that had trailed behind the man who called himself Draeden Darksky as he exited the ringside area of the sports arena. The hatred of The Experts' CEO died down to a dull roar beyond the steel door to his back, drowned out momentarily as the echo of the slamming door faded in the cold, vacant corridor.

Draeden was still now, save for the slow and steady heave of his chest as he sought to manage his heart rate with deep, controlled breaths. His eyes were closed, his mind was focused - focused on the victory he had just achieved moments ago. But that was all over now, though this was almost the case for his stay in the GTT tournament too.

I was foolish. This physique was not developed by lifting weights and running treadmills; it was developed by a lifetime of fighting. Something I've never done before. Not by way of my fists, no. Were I a normal man in a normal body I'd have been knocked to the ground and defeated in seconds, but not like this - not with the machine I've become a part of. With it I am strong, resilient. I am a weapon, deadly. I am a force to be reckoned with. Or, at least, I will be.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Draeden didn't notice the streak of blood that stretched from his wrist to the tip of his ring finger, the worthless donation a courtesy of Josh Marquez and the glancing blow to Draeden's face that threw him off balance and almost cost him the match. Probably the slightest impact he had suffered throughout the fight, but it had been nearly enough to turn the tide away from his favour – and that was absolutely unacceptable. He hadn't flown all the way to Washington D.C. to be knocked out of this tournament in the first round. In fact, he hadn't come to be knocked out at all; the naïvety of the conception that he might actually win the whole thing was lost on Draeden Darksky and his cast-iron will that was unshaken by his near-complete inexperience in such matters.

On the other hand, if I don't get control over this then, well... This may prove to be a little more difficult than I had initially anticipated...

The fighter was so deeply immersed in his own mental monologue that he didn't hear the footsteps approach him from the front, his eyes locked shut tightly, deeply concentrating.

A single foot fall penetrated the subconscious barrier and gave Draeden's dormant perception a rousing slap.

His eyes opened and a triumphant grin replaced the mask of focus that marked his inner reflection.

"I'd wondered why you weren't interested in me seeing your match," came the mocking accusation from the source of the footsteps.

"I didn't think you were interested, Miss Bowman."

The woman gave a wry smile and folded her arms. "Yes, well, I'm here strictly on business matters... Mister Darksky."

"So I see," he mumbled, looking her up and down. The dark blue jeans, heeled boots and white spaghetti vest top said otherwise. "But what I must confess to wondering is whether you came back here to speak to the other wrestlers... or am I just special?"

"Oh, you're special alright!"

Draeden simply scowled, inciting a ditzy giggle from Alice. "I'm just kidding! So what're you doing now?"

"Standing in a corridor How about you?"

A faux frown. "I was thinking about going for drinks after this, but that all depends on how grumpy my boss is!" she joked.

"So that's why you're really here, Miss Bowman?"

"Of course not! I only came to see you take a beating. I've got to say, you really didn't let me down!"

* * *

The nearest bar was exactly that - near; so much so that the pair had chosen to walk there once Draeden had gotten changed. He was not normally inclined to bother with walking when there was a convenient limousine available but since Alice had suggested it, claiming the air would do him good, he had agreed to send his driver away. It was a pleasant evening; the night had not yet set in and they were provided with enough light from the sky alone to navigate the District of Columbia's streets on their short journey.

They had not encountered any wrestling fans so far, which disappointed Draeden as he secretly wished one of them would see him in the street and confront him, initiate a shouting match or a brawl. Wrestling fans took everything so seriously. The lawsuit he'd have on his hands when he punched them senseless would be very expensive for The Experts. Most of the fans would be either in the arena they'd just left, or in their homes hurling abuse at their television screens after his victory tonight. The Experts' CEO was not a popular man these days.

As Draeden slipped out of his train of thought he saw that, around one hundred yards further up the block, there was a collection of tables and chairs on the sidewalk. A few people were sitting at one table while a waiter handed them their drinks from a silver tray, brightly-coloured fruity cocktails with red and white parasols that mirrored those sheltering the tables they sat around. "Is that where we're going?" Draeden asked with a contemptuous sneer.

"Uh, yeah, why?"

He shook his head in dismay. That wasn't what he called a bar. His idea of a good bar was a place where you got soaked with alcohol from the instant you walk through the door because drinks are served by acrobatic bikini models doing cartwheels across the bar. He had yet to find a place like this, but he hadn't had time to look very hard given all of this Experts business. All that could wait. Revenge was the driving force behind Draeden now, the vision to incite a revolution that would bring the business to its knees while he sat at the head of it all upon his throne built from the bones of the wrestling promotions he would leave in tatters while he basked in the glorious aftermath. Such a triumph would be difficult to achieve, but that didn't make him second guess himself. A lesser man would question what he was doing; he would sometimes wish that he'd never amended the contracts he came across in The Experts' warehouse during the Extreme Tournament - the papers that would give him complete control over the entire company. Draeden was not that weaker man. That lone, deceitful act would prove to be the killing blow that wiped out The Experts' chance of further success in the wrestling world, the financial poison injected into corporate veins that would eventually ruin everything, that would spread to the promotions beneath The Experts and take them out of the picture too.

And thus Draeden Darksky's terrible fury would never be forgotten. The Crusader of Sacrifice had risen from a fathomless grave of oblivescence to become the Hand of Fate, whose clawed grip firmly held the blade that would sunder the wrestling world forever; conversely, his place in the history books would be sealed in the process and his enemies would be so very sorry they ever forgot about him in the first place. This had probably been achieved already, he didn't think there was any chance that his deeds so far would be disregarded any time soon but that was no reason to give up now.

It was then that Draeden realised he'd been ranting to himself in his head, deftly ignoring whatever Alice said in response to his contempt for the bar in which they now stood. He caught the tail end of what she said last, which sounded like "So are we staying here or would you rather go elsewhere?"

"We might as well stay, on account of us being here already," he said, his words slick with sarcasm.

Alice didn't bite. "Okay," she beamed, turning to the bar to order her drink.

Draeden scowled.

* * *

Somehow the castaway felt a certain familiarity to his situation, though it was not due to the revelation of the giant's identity, an enigma that had chewed at the edges of his curiosity with the timorousness of a nervous child's tugging of its mother's sleeve. No, this was something more; something from his memories that he hadn't come to understand yet. All in due time, the stabbing pain in his head swiftly reminded him that patience would be a virtue.

Although the light was on, the room was not particularly bright. The dark wooden walls absorbed much of the illumination, the corners and recesses in the walls were still murky and no doubt home to many various many-legged crawling horrors. Scuttling beetles and spiders made the young man's flesh crawl, goosebumps leapt to attention at the very thought of the tiny traffic that likely raced around the floor, walls and ceiling while he was none the wiser.

Disgusting.

Another concern of his had gripped him by the throat and refused to let go – well, two in fact. He had learnt now that his name was Draeden Darksky; he had also learnt that he was in this strange place because he was dead. Being dead struck a chord with him. His mind caught the scent of a familiar odour but was unable to track down the path it had taken. That he had died before was obviously impossible, though considering that option felt like brushing shoulders with understanding before it edged out of his reach, and that frustrated him. Draeden didn't like to be kept in the dark, it seemed. And yet, before him stood a wealth of knowledge that waited to be consulted for the answers and he had not asked Ronan anything, he realised.

With that in mind, Draeden opened his mouth to speak, to enquire and learn. He closed his mouth again and looked awkwardly at his surroundings, reconsidering his question.

As if reading Draeden's thoughts from a book, Ronan spoke first. "There will be much you wish to ask," he mumbled quietly through his beard, not making eye contact with the younger man. "But you must ask me about these things in the presence of the warm fire. I'm getting old, lad."

Draeden contemplated the senselessness of the remark as he followed Ronan to the living room. The floorboards groaned in protest against the weight of the men combined, creating an eerie cacophony of complaining carpentry that trailed them to the other end of the old farmhouse. The wooden floor was partially covered by a well-worn green rug that looked like it probably had never seen better days, as if it had been old forever. The fire was already blazing, Ronan gestured for Draeden to sit in a scruffy armchair beside it, which he did, while he himself slumped into the sofa opposite with an almighty groan from both man and furniture alike. This was the only sound to escape the burly farmer for quite some time as the two men simply sat in silence, avoiding each others' gaze as if to make eye contact would be to cause the ceiling to fall in.

Finally Ronan spoke, yet to avert his eyes from the tattered edge of his old rug. "What were you going to ask me before?" he asked.

"I hadn't decided," was Draeden's instant response. Instant, because it was true. "But I will ask this: who are you? Are you my father?"

"I am your father's brother."

"What can you tell me of him?"

Ronan's cheek bulged where a smile bunched the muscles. The smile itself was hidden behind the thick brown, greying beard that covered most of his face. "He was... a proud man. Smart, honest," he said, absently clawing his facial hair with broad fingers. "Short-tempered, too. And really stubborn. If he didn't believe in somethin' then there was no chance of gettin' him to do it."

"'Was'?"

"Yeah, well. Him and your mother, they died when their car spun off the road in the winter, couple months after your second birthday. Then you came to stay with me cause there were nobody else to look after you."

Although he said as much as he felt, which was basically nothing, Draeden instantly questioned his own reaction to the news that his parents were dead. He knew he was meant to care, but since he knew nothing about them he couldn't put their names to faces, therefore he couldn't miss them. This was his logic, but he still knew he was meant to feel... something. He was also aware that he should say something at this point, but what? "Oh," he managed, knowing he'd already failed to say something suitable.

Instead of taking offence or being upset, Ronan threw him an unexpected explanation for his thoughts. "I don't suppose you remember them, really. You were just a kid. Only a touch over two years old, you were; I'd be surprised if you even remembered what they looked like. Didn't have any pictures of 'em here, your father and I didn't always see eye to eye and I'm not much one for havin' photos cluttering up the place anyhow," muttered Draeden's uncle, still pawing at his beard.

"Why not?"

"Oh, I've never liked clutter. Don't like stuff on the walls, that's what the wallpaper's for."

"I meant why didn't you see eye to eye with my father," Draeden corrected, a half-smile creeping across his face. He was already developing a fondness for his uncle.

"Aye, of course. Sorry. Your grandma wasn't well and I couldn't afford to fly over to see her cause of the crops. If I'd left 'em alone I'd have lost everything, this place included. I had no money to fly back neither. Everything rode on that season's crop, and if she'd lasted long enough I'd have gone back to see her, gone to say goodbye. But she just couldn't hang on no more," he whispered, his voice had grown quieter as he went on, his eyes still fixed firmly on the floor. He cleared his throat, his voice returning to normal volume. "Your dad wasn't happy about that. I wasn't neither, in truth, but there was nothing I could do about it. Damn well broke my heart. He didn't see it that way; I had put my farm before my own mother in his eyes, and that was that."

Draeden nodded slowly as the two drifted into silence once more. They had yet to make eye contact until Ronan looked up and did exactly that, though he was not first to speak. "You never spoke afterwards?"

"Nah," grunted Ronan. "Stubborn, like I said."

"Are they... are they here?" Draeden asked, tentatively.

A long, sorrowful sigh from Ronan answered Draeden's question without words, though he continued anyway. "Not that I've been able to find. This isn't like the other side. It's smaller. I've searched. I'm pretty much alone here. There are... others, but for the most part they don't want to talk. I think they've gone mad."

"Mad?"

"Aye, obsessed like. It's why I answer the door with my gun y'see, they're dangerous. One of 'em nearly had my eye out with a knife, Hector nearly ripped the bastard's arms off," he growled, clenching his fists. "Had the gun at the door for a long time now. Long time."

"What is this place?"

"I've been here years and I still don't know. Heaven? Nah. Hell? Could be. Maybe it's purgatory, the last chance to prove yourself before you go to wherever you're gonna stay, if you believe such places exist. Even so, I wonder what you did to end up here. You were a good kid." He thoughtfully resumed the religious habit of combing his beard with his hands.

"I was?" was Draeden's next question. He scratched his stubbly chin, subconsciously mirroring his uncle's idle actions.

"Aye. Y'know - polite an' helpful. That sort of thing. You used to help me around the farm an' that. Collect fallen fruit. I remember when a tangerine fell on your head from the orchard, you were convinced I'd chucked it at you," he chucked. "You wouldn't believe me like; you were just as stubborn as your dad was."

"I think I remember. Hector ran off with it in the end, didn't he?" Draeden ventured, the wolf-like dog looking up attentively.

"Aye, he did. So what do you remember? Before here, I mean."

"Nothing much. Apart from what you've told me, I know next to nothing." He hesitated, then said, "Did we ever go to the beach? Was there ever an accident where I nearly drowned when I was little?"

"Nah, we never really got away from the farm. Why?"

"I just seem to remember something similar happening to me at some point when I woke up on the shore before I got here."

"Maybe that's how, y'know, you, um--"

"Died?"

"Aye," Ronan sighed, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "That. Along with the rest of the Darksky boys."

"You might be right." Despite his uncle's obvious discomfort, Draeden didn't remember anything about his life to make him sorrowful for losing it. As far as he knew he had lost nothing. Whatever life he'd had before was gone from his mind, all he was able do now was to learn as much as possible about this world he'd entered and discover why he was there. If Ronan was right and Draeden had woken up in Purgatory, where he'd have his last chance to prove himself worthy of ascension, then he'd have to find out what was required of him.

It was then that Draeden accepted his death; and with it the challenge to come, whatever that may be. Just as, unbeknownst to him, he always would.

* * *

Although the document-packed leather-bound journal turned no heads in the busy bar when Alice Bowman inadvertently slammed it down on the small round table, Draeden still flinched at the noise despite watching it happen over the rim of his glass. He swore under his breath as he resumed his interrupted sip of Jack Daniels on the rocks. When he put the glass down he kept his hand around the thick bottom of the glass and eyed the black journal critically. "What's that?" he grunted.

Smiling brightly, Alice sat down in the chair opposite him and opened the journal in front of her, turning it round for Draeden to see. "This," she began in a grand tone, "is everything we have on the author."

There was a pause while he examined the two pages' worth of notes, pictures and references to larger documents and video footage with descriptions of what relevant details they contained. "Is that it?" he asked sarcastically.

Digging into her bag, Alice continued to smile. "Almost," she said, producing a sheaf of papers stapled together. "And since finding this document, that information in there is now completely worthless. I had this sent over from the office; it's the contract between the author and Nihilus Ravion Publishing, the company that printed Shadow Crusade. The document is signed by Valerie Magnus on behalf of NRP and by a man named Israel Kali Arkadie on behalf of the author."

"Arkadie... who's he?"

"He's the man who may well lead you to the author."

"Where is he?"

"If our sources are correct then should be at a conference in Chesapeake."

Draeden sighed and cupped his hands over his face in frustration, covering his eyes, nose and mouth. "Where the fuck is Chesapeake?" came his muffled voice from behind the veil of fingers.

"It's about 200 kilometres south of here," Alice answered sweetly, ignoring Draeden's impudence.

The Experts' CEO simply nodded while a grin formed beneath his hands. Things were finally falling into place; a hard-earned yet no less glorious victory tonight and now a lead on the author that he could follow up almost immediately.

Almost too good to be true...

* * *

A light tapping on the hotel room door alerted Israel to the presence of a visitor, a rare occurrence for a man such as he. Israel was not, by any means, a popular man. In fact, most of the people he knew disliked him greatly; being a lawyer did nothing to improve matters. He was the perfect character to be a lawyer of course, hence his success. He was cunning and ruthless, an incredibly believable adjuster of truths and a master manipulator with no moral compass. So adept at persuasion was he that he had convinced himself long ago that the people that hated him, loved him; that his miserable and solitary existence was entirely satisfying when, in truth, it was not; and that he was something of a deity amongst men despite his unimpressive physique and his non-existent fighting skills. He was also a firm believer in that what he did on a day to day basis – bending the facts to keep men with more blood on their hands than blind butchers out of jail – was for the greater good. He was giving these men a chance to try and turn their lives around, to make things right!

It was probably just room service checking to see if he was in so the cleaners could come. Well he'd have to tell them to leave him alone, he was much too busy with his work (surfing the web) to be interrupted by some vacuum cleaner-wielding harpy now. Rising from the desk beside the bed, Israel Kali Arkadie folded the lid of his laptop shut, lest the lowly cleaners see his sensitive documents (pornography) and moved towards the door, his bare feet padding making no sound as they cross the soft crème carpet. A tip he'd picked up from Die Hard – take off your shoes and claw at the carpet with your toes, worked a charm. Israel hated flying, he reflected upon hearing another knock at the door, almost as much as he hated dealing with annoying cleaners.

Adjusting his expression from "frustrated scowl" to "inconvenienced but mild-mannered and polite", he turned the handle of the door and pulled the wooden gateway aside.

"Oh," he said, surprised. "Hello there."

Silence.

"Um, can I help you? Are you here to clean the room?"

The man that stared back at him clearly was not, yet the question rolled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Still, the stranger did not answer.

"Uh, okay then... Well I-I'll j-just be, uh, going inside now," Israel babbled nervously as he backed away from the peculiar man who was grinning at him now. He slowly pushed the door shut again but it seemed to be jammed on something. Looking down, Israel realised that the man's foot was in the way of the door. The stranger's eyes followed Israel's own as he looked from the polished black cowboy boot, up the black denim-clad leg to the leather-belted waist where a black shirt was neatly tucked into the pants. Poking out from inside the long leather coat the man wore was what looked like the handle of a sword.

His eyes flew to meet the stranger's own, and staring back at him was a cold gaze that froze him to the very core; the abject terror that gripped him made movement impossible and his throat was drier than a nun's--

"Are you Israel Kali Arcadie?" the shorter man suddenly asked.

Israel opened his mouth to speak but the aforementioned dryness prevented such action. He resorted to a simple nod which the stranger accepted as his answer.

"Then it is time for you to die."

There had been a soft whisper of a draught through the room while the door was open, a sound that carried with it the voice of the birds and the cars outside, but even they had fallen silent just in time for the utterance of those words; fallen silent so that the words would reach Israel untouched, untainted and thus completely unmistakable. Even so, Israel couldn't believe what he had heard. "Wh-what?" he stammered.

The time for words had passed. The swordsman reached for his blade and Israel reacted by attempting to slam the door shut, though this failed as the stranger put his arm in the way and forced the door open again, the sword flashing free from its scabbard and slashing across Israel's thorax, a spatter of blood was cast into the air and soiled the expensive carpet upon landing; the blade whirling in the air and cutting downwards to tear another crimson score across its victim, carving a neat "X" shape in Israel's chest.

Superficial, the wounds did little to Israel other than cause him to stagger backwards and fall down; shock gripped his body in an iron vice that allowed no sound to escape his mouth, the option of screaming for help had been taken from him by the sly monster that was intimidation. He managed to haphazardly push himself backwards along the carpet towards the bed where his luggage was. Beneath the bed was his suitcase and his golfing bag. He rolled into a prone position to reach for it as the stranger closed the door behind him, pain racking his chest from the sword tracks. Israel withdrew his trusty 7 iron, his salvation, and rolled onto his back. He was ready now for the fight, or so he convinced himself. In reality he never stood a chance. The golf club was sliced in half when Israel raised it to parry; if the chop had been intended to kill then he'd have been slain where he lay.

Instead, he lived still; blade hovering menacingly over his throat. "What is it you want!?" he cried, his throat burned with agony and fear.

"Who wrote Shadow Crusade?" the swordsman demanded simply.

"Wh-what?"

"The book, Shadow Crusade – who wrote it?"

"I don't know! S-speak to Benedict Ravion from Nihilus Ravion! He should know, he's met the writer! I-I had nothing to do with it! Please..!"

The grin never moved from his attacker's face. "I see. Thanks for your time," he said calmly, before pushing the sword tip into Israel's throat. The stabbed man tried to scream but his voice choked on blood and steel, instead he let loose a sickening gargle that changed to a gurgling cough when he tried to inhale again. The blade was removed and the stranger turned and walked away, leaving Israel gripping his throat with both hands, desperately attempting to stop the his life force from flowing out through the hole in his neck.

Draeden Darksky was right, he mused as he wiped his blade on Israel Kali Arkadie's jacket. This was too good to be true.

But unfortunately for Israel, no-one is too good to die.

* * *

Waking abruptly, Draeden jolted in bed at the door suddenly opening. The source of the disturbance, his uncle Ronan, grinned happily at the doorway.

"There's someone here I'd like you to meet," he bellowed in excitement.

Draeden blinked sleepily. "I just had the strangest dream."

"You can tell me about it later, lad. C'mon, get up! Plenty of time to sleep later, Daroth is waiting."

"Daroth?"

"Come on; best not keep him waiting!"

And, with that, he was gone. The sound of the big man bounding along the creaky corridor was not something Draeden could ignore, it shook the rickety old farmhouse from the foundations to the roof; Draeden worried that the ceiling would come down on his head one of these days.

He had slept in his clothes; he was too tired and the bed was too cold to bother removing them. Besides, not having to get dressed always saved time. Looking at the tattered clothes, Draeden wondered where they'd come from. The pants were tied at the waist by a cord and were a murky brown colour, as was the shirt. The shirt had a wide v-neck and was fastened by a frayed string. Both had tears and patches missing. Ronan had given him an old pair of suede shoes that were far too big for him, but kept his feet warm regardless. He slipped his feet into them and walked out of the room, scratching an itch on his head as he walked and tangling his fingers in hair.

Subconsciously stepping on the quieter floorboards as he walked, Draeden fought to unpick a knot of browny-blonde hair as he made his way to Ronan's living room. As he entered he saw Ronan first, but what he saw next shocked him.

Daroth.

The skeletal apparition turned away from the blazing fireplace to face Draeden, the gasp that escaped his lips must have caught the creature's attention. Draeden instinctively scanned his surroundings for the nearest weapon, but saw nothing. He looked back at the grinning figure by the fire. His clothes were completely ruined, much like the young man's own; yellowed, leathery flesh hung from the bones beneath the tears in the formerly fine apparel. A bony hand reached up to the skinless face and itched at the bottom of a nose that was no longer there.

"Ah, Draeden," Ronan proudly announced, "meet Daroth. He says he may be able to help you, find out what you're doing here."

Awkwardly, the figure bowed to Draeden. "A pleasure," he hissed.

Draeden's eyes turned to meet his uncle's. The giant was smiling at him. "Don't you see that..?"

"See what, lad?"

"He's dead."

Ronan burst out laughing, his booming voice echoing in the tiny living room. Neither Draeden nor Daroth looked amused, though it was difficult to read the expression of one who does not have any skin or muscles on his face. "And? In case you hadn't noticed, so are we!"

"No, I mean he looks dead. Where's his skin?"

"What are you talking about?" Ronan asked, looking quizzically at Daroth. "What do you mean 'where's his skin'? I mean, he's a bit pale, sure. But he has skin, Draeden. Look at him."

"Interesting..." the skeleton chimed in, pre-empting Draeden's protest. "The Crusader sees differently to you, Ronan."

"'Crusader'?" both Draeden and Ronan ask simultaneously.

"Ah... of course, the memory loss. Ronan, may I speak with your nephew privately? I must... refresh his memory."

The young Darksky was worried. He couldn't read Daroth's eyes for he had none – and thus he gave no hint as to his intentions. Whether his intentions were good or bad, he had to know either way. With a frustrated frown, Draeden nodded to Ronan, who in turn nodded to Daroth and marched to the kitchen. Daroth's empty sockets turned to face Draeden, who remained standing while the skeletal character leant comfortably on the fireplace.

"What are you?" Draeden asked, not wasting any time.

Bony fingers stroked a non-existent beard while Daroth contemplated the answer to such a broad question. "Perhaps, Crusader, it is easier for me to explain to you what I am not. I am neither mortal, nor strictly human. My presence is not completely synchronised with this world, which is probably why one such as yourself can see me for what I really am," he explained. "I, in the simplest terms, am an ancient ghost. I command great power. There are many of us and we... need you."

"You need me? Why?"

"Because, unlike most humans, you have the uncanny ability to defy destiny. That is a very helpful ability. A lot of human beings we enlist into our service end up being run over by cars or mauled by wild animals," Daroth went on, waving his arms dramatically, "or suffer other such trivial deaths. We already suspected as much, based on your... extraordinary survival during your young adulthood."

A grimace momentarily crossed Draeden's face. "What was so extraordinary about it?"

"Oh, let me see... could it be the fact that you killed four Chinese gangsters with a kitchen knife to defend an unarmed old man, who just happened to be a regular in the restaurant you worked in? Maybe. Or perhaps it was the countless fights to the death you survived on a daily basis? People tried to murder you every day, Crusader. And you remember none of this?"

"It all sounds... familiar," Draeden admitted. "But I don't see it. How could I survive that?"

Daroth cackled softly to himself, habitually clearing his throat afterwards. "That is exactly what we thought. You continued to... live, despite being fated to die so many times. You have been at war all your life and inexplicably you have continued to survive. That's how you caught our attention. And even after you fought what should have been your final battle... well, we may have had something to do with you getting through that one. Stabbed through the heart – does that sound familiar?"

"Yeah, it does. Did I... I did it to myself?"

"Ah, it's all coming back to you, then," the apparition said, turning his back on Draeden to face the fire. "There is much for you to remember. There will be much that you wish you had never known, that you'd never done. Things you will miss. You will remember someone saying these things to you before. In Connecticut."

"Connecticut? No, I don't remember that," Draeden muttered.

The skeleton shrugged. "You will. Most of it, anyway."

"Uncle Ronan said you could help me."

"Ah, yes. It will be a beautiful arrangement, actually. We help you... and you help us."

A scowl crossed Draeden's face. Somehow he'd seen this coming. "Well, that depends.

"Upon what, Crusader?"

"Well, it all depends on what you are offering me and what you want in return. It sounds like I've been playing your games for a long time. I hope the exchange is acceptable, otherwise I'll not be helping you."

There was anger behind Daroth's formerly emotionless voice. "Oh, I think you will."

"Really? Because to me it sounds like my 'life' was a shitty series of near-death experiences, a miserable existence littered with tragedy and torture. And best of all, I don't recall any of it, except for what you've reminded me about. If what you're saying is true then I'm not surprised I'm dead. Did you know I woke up here washed up on the beach? Uncle Ronan thinks I may have died at sea. Sounds like I had a damn good reason to throw myself overboard," Draeden snarled.

That wicked chuckle from Daroth instantly filled the young man with dread. "Oh, Crusader, no... You most certainly did not kill yourself. There was no drowning either..."

Draeden glared at Daroth in silence while he waited for him to finish.

"After I tell you all about it, you will wish to help us. I guarantee it."

Haunted, part one: Consigned to Oblivion

2009-06-07T01:11:00.000+01:00

The ocean is not often perceived as an entity of mercy, yet the mystery of what lies beneath the waves is often so alluring for some that they cannot help themselves and risk its wrath regardless. For those, the ocean bears no forgiveness. To set foot in the infinite kingdom of the sea is to invoke the kind of power that land-dwellers could not hope to conquer, the kind of remorseless brutality that could brush a city from the land and condemn it to the great depths forever in one single, terrible swipe of a watery claw. A proportionately minuscule display of raw, unchained might; the consequences of which would ripple in the waters of time for centuries while the land-dwellers seek to recover, to make sense of it all, and the ocean will continue to observe them in disdain.

To say that the ocean is entirely vengeful or malevolent would be a foolish statement. It has provided a home to countless different species over the course of time, in turn providing the land-dwellers with food for millions of years - as it will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. The sea has been known to, on occasion, guide home souls lost in its kingdom; to return the innocent to the shores from whence they came.

This was one of those occasions.

As the tide withdrew from the sandy shoreline it left behind a single, large object that one could easily disregard as debris when viewed through the veil of night that lay upon the smooth beach. Perhaps it was a piece of driftwood, discarded by the sea; the bloated bones of a seafaring vessel finally come to rest upon land? Not today. These were bones of another kind, contained within a sack of flesh and blood.

The tide rose again and washed over the body like a child retreats from the corpse of a small mammal after poking it with a stick.

The sea gave the body one final nudge. This seemed to be enough to rouse the man into rolling onto his side and to half-cough, half-puke a few mouthfuls of water onto the sand beside him, leaving him more exhausted than before. With great determination the castaway pushed himself to his hands and knees and continued to empty his stomach of the salty sea water a few mouthfuls at a time, an exercise punctuated by a momentary pause to gasp for air while the ocean gently washed over his hands and legs. The flood of regurgitated water seemed to be over, the man now breathed as carefully as possible to avoid another bout of vomiting, but it never came. He sat back on his legs and looked up to view the landscape before him.

The situation he found himself in had begun to feel like an everyday occurrence and that was not a thought that was reassuring for him. As he surveyed his surroundings he let his mind wander to the past, to recall why this felt so familiar to him. Thinking back to this relatively recent memory caused a pain behind his eyes that stung like a thousand needles jabbing his brain with increasing severity. He mentally flinched from the pain and the memory was lost to him once again, like a trout free from the fisherman's barb it disappeared into the murky depths of the unknown once more.

He surveyed his situation through stinging, bloodshot eyes. There were three options that the castaway could see through the haze at this time - follow the shore to his left or right, or go straight ahead over the small rise before him and find out what lies beyond. He thought he could hear trees swaying in the breeze but the sound of the tide, coupled with the water in his ears, made it difficult to say for sure. With trembling hands, the forward motion began. One wobbling arm supported his body as he lifted his weight from his legs and leaned forward, placing another hand down on the sand a few inches in front of the other. His fingers grip the sand as if seeking to drag himself forward, but he does not find it as the sandy beach offers no purchase for the horizontal climb. Squinting through the darkness, the man could see that the moon-lit rise was only a few metres ahead. Get that far now; worry about the rest later.

* * *

Draeden Darksky was a busy man of late. After becoming the Chief Executive Officer of The Experts, life seemed to have become one long stream of paperwork. That is, until he paid an exorbitant amount of money to hire someone else to do it for him and he was able to once again devote his time to plotting revenge against those who sought to remove him from the head of The Experts.

There was, of course, also the matter of the author who had become something of a nemesis to Draeden since his return to the US. It was because of the anonymous man's harassment of Draeden that he was eliminated from the Extreme Tournament and this iniquitous deed would not be without answer... as soon as Draeden discovered the stranger's identity. Unfortunately for Draeden he possessed neither the skills nor the resources to track down the writer of the only book ever to cause great misery to Draeden Darksky. "Shadow Crusade" was the name. Draeden had refused to read it, despite the dozens of copies piling up at his house in Chicago, sent by the author himself - purely because this would fulfil the devious author's wishes; doing so would mean another victory to the man and Draeden was not willing to let that happen under any circumstances.

It had been a while since Draeden had heard from the mysterious stranger, the last time being when he showed up at the tournament in his match against Hannibal Cage, causing the distraction at a vital moment when Draeden's concentration was required the most. "Never again," whispered Draeden bitterly as he replayed that moment in his head.

"Sorry?" came a soft voice from the other side of Draeden's sizeable office; the face of Alice Bowman had looked up to him from where she knelt on the floor by the filing cabinets, brushing a lock of dark hair from her view.

"Nothing," was Draeden's grunted reply. The personal assistant turned her attention back to the stacks of files and folders that surrounded her without another word, further cementing the confidence Draeden had in his selection of the young woman as his PA. Alice didn't bother him with her opinion unless he requested it, which he didn't; she simply performed her tasks without questioning the outcome or his motives which was exactly the kind of unerring loyalty that Draeden required from her. It had been a month to the day that he had taken the raven-haired woman into his employ and yet, despite the time that had passed thus far, he knew virtually nothing about her. He assumed that she liked to read as he had seen her with her nose buried in a book of some sort every time he'd passed her desk on his way out of his office. Alice wasn't often tasked with any real work; the ludicrous salary Draeden had arranged for her as his personal assistant was purely intended to waste Experts' money and to allow him to select the personnel in his immediate environment to suit himself.

Draeden didn't go to meetings and generally ignored the goings-on of The Experts as much as possible, leaving the real work to the people who actually knew what they were doing, like Alice. As much as Draeden was an intelligent man who commanded a surprising wealth of knowledge, despite his relatively uneducated background, he was not a businessman and as such he had no idea how to handle the affairs of even a small company, let alone one of the scale of The Experts. His deft evasion of any work relating to the everyday happenings of The Experts was wholly intended to hurt the company even more and was apparently successful, according to his frantic underlings who were still desperately trying to keep the business afloat despite the financial damage that Draeden inflicted upon the business on a daily basis.

As The Experts' CEO put his feet up on his desk, Alice placed the folder she had in her hands on top of an open filing cabinet drawer and sighed.

"Something bothering you?" Draeden asked her, spinning a pen in his hand.

"No, just this filing is taking forever. Jesse Gunn's PA left a real mess and Spike never had the chance to clean it up," she complained. Then, turning to Draeden, she said: "You want to get some coffee?"

"Would love some." He made no move to get up, assuming the young woman intended to bring him some.

"I meant - would you like to come with me for some?"

Draeden looked up from his pen spinning and his eyes met the smiling young PA's own, an expression he did not reflect. "Sure."

* * *

Having reached a semi-vertical state a few metres ago, the man staggered amongst the trees. He felt as though he had done so for hours already, the constant struggle onward slowly sapped what remained of his strength and he found that his resolve was weakening at the same pace as his body; a pace much quicker than his legs could carry him. The onward battle was a losing one and was becoming increasingly hopeless with each step forward. Any attempt to delve into his thoughts to take his mind from the pain simply made it worse, that stinging agony that repulsed him from his own memories had rattled him to the core and made his journey all the more arduous.

Despite the pain in his mind, the man still knew a little. He knew he could beat this. He knew that he had endured more than this laborious task could throw at him and that there would be rest for him soon. He knew that the forest would not be safe, otherwise he would have crashed onto the wet, green forest floor and slept beneath the great canvas of leaves, but such an option was non-existent unless the choice of freezing to death or being mauled by a wild animal had suddenly become acceptable. He had to find shelter. Had to.

Had to.

* * *

Draeden had perhaps gotten ahead of himself when he had praised the usefulness of his PA and her ability to distance herself from him on a personal level by avoiding asking too many questions. Perhaps this simple requirement was too much to ask. Perhaps it was time for a new PA. It had been a month and the two had barely shared a conversation, yet Alice Bowman had unexpectedly invited him out of the office for coffee. Obviously nothing too formal, but still, this troubled Draeden. They had found a table away from the other customers in a little café across the street from Legacy Towers. Draeden awkwardly peered into the mug in his hands as Alice sat opposite, the pair bound in total silence.

Alice took up the challenge and swung a verbal ice-pick. "This isn't really your kind of environment, is it?"

"Not really," Draeden muttered in response.

"At Legacy Tower, I mean."

"Hmm."

"So... what is?" she persevered. "I mean, I know you're a wrestler too and stuff, so you'd feel most at home in the ring or something, right?"

"No."

"Really? Why?"

"It reminds me of darker days, when times were not so... easy."

"Wow, what do you mean?"

"Nothing. Look, the ring is not a magical 'sanctuary' for me. I'm not that much of a cliché. Yet."

"Then where?"

As much as Draeden was disappointed at Alice's sudden interest in his personal life he couldn't help but admit to himself that he was, at least in a small way, fond of the woman's presence, and not just because of her beauty. He would consider keeping this one. For now. "I'm only in this building because my contract requires me to conduct business in some way, otherwise I'd be in Chicago wreaking havoc on the VWF for their treachery," he said, finally.

"Why has that suddenly become your driving force? You joined the Extreme Tournament, you represented VWF and said nothing the whole time. Why now?"

"I had... a change of heart," he said, smirking because he knew that nobody else could ever know what really happened that day. "I put a lot into this company. The least I'd earned was a little respect and Spike Johnson's conduct pushed me too far."

Alice leant across the small lacquered dining table. "You're going to destroy this place, aren't you? Financially, I mean," she whispered.

"Such is my intention, Miss Bowman," growled Draeden as he sipped his lukewarm coffee, a scowl covering his previous expression of amusement. "And just by announcing such an intention I have already caused chaos. The investors don't want their money to be anywhere near The Experts because they know it's a sinking ship; company stock value plummeted the instant I publicly promised to see the demise of the company they owned a small piece of. I will bring this place down; there's no question of that. It's just a matter of when." He set the empty coffee cup down on the dining table before rising to leave. "Thanks for the coffee."

* * *

Could it be?

Was that... a light?

A faint yellow glow had caught the wanderer's attention and he staggered towards it with renewed vigour. He had marched on through the forest for many hours, pressing on through hunger and a kind of fatigue that he never knew existed after escaping the jaws of death once more. His memory had not opened to him yet, but he somehow knew that this was not the first time he'd walked away from something that should have seen his demise. Being washed ashore as he now found himself had happened before, but he couldn't think back to try and recover his lost experiences.

The light drew closer as he staggered on. At first he thought it was coming towards him and he was surprised to discover that it was his own momentum that had increased, the hope of salvation revitalising his weary body enough to shift up a gear and drive on despite his exhaustion.

Bigger and brighter with each step, the yellow light was behind the row of trees a dozen or so desperate steps away.

The castaway limped on.

* * *

Draeden had gotten ahead of himself. He knew this now; Alice would have to go. She had no talents that he could not easily replace, even if she was easy on the eyes. If he found someone more skilled for the job then this would serve as an excuse to waste more money on their salary anyway.

The Experts' CEO kicked his feet up onto the modern pine and brushed steel desk and pondered. His mind was a shambles at the best of time, lurching from one thought to the next like a wounded deer staggered through the forest in a desperate attempt to escape its hunter. For some reason this thought pleased Draeden momentarily as he conjured the image of The Experts and the associated promotions reeling from his attack, his very own financial crisis inflicted upon them as his brutal revenge.

"What about all the people who will lose their jobs? Thousands of people will suffer," he recalled Alice saying as he walked out of Café Nero. He had laughed in response. So many large companies going down at once would have much greater consequences than initially intended, he realised.

Good.

No, Draeden would not fire Alice Bowman. The innocence he had read on her face, optimistic words spelled out by naïve lips at that moment - he enjoyed it. The problem was that he wasn't keeping the girl occupied enough to distract her from asking him questions he didn't want to answer. She was becoming interested in who he was because she was not stimulated. The solution was simple; it was so obvious he was amazed he didn't think of it straight away. Hire another PA. Another overpaid idiot on the books, another drain on The Experts' resources, all the while he got to keep Alice Bowman out of his hair. It was perfect.

Draeden Darksky smiled to himself as he spun his pen.

* * *

The squat wooden farmhouse offered another obscure glimpse into history that so far only served to confuse the freezing-cold man further, though desperation offered even less. He practically fell into the old wooden door before thumping it with the bottom of his barely-closed fists, stepping back and barely balancing on weary legs to await an answer. Inside, a dog had started barking. The animal sounded huge.

As he gazed at his surroundings the more it seemed like the tiny glade the farmhouse sat in had become its prison, the dilapidated home locked in by the forest that surrounded it like a silent army marching upon a defeated enemy that still had one trick left up its sleeve. The trees loomed in the darkness, the shadows and leaves conspiring to block out the sun, to prevent ascension to the Heavens. It was as if the place the castaway now stood in were a subterranean world all of its own; an isolated, verdant Hell.

Could there be truth in this? Had the presumably shipwrecked man truly died and awakened in this place, this afterlife consisting of freezing, wet misery?

Before his thoughts could decline any further into despair, the barking stopped abruptly. The stranger watched the door and listened as a security chain slid free, the bolt knocking against the door frame.

The door creaked open.

A burly man, probably in his mid- to late-forties, filled the opening. He gripped an old-looking rifle by the barrel in one hand while the other clawed at a thick, greying beard as he eyed his visitor suspiciously. A brown and black dog that was truly as big as it had sounded padded over to sit beside his master, the beast's midnight eyes locked onto the visitor's own while he panted in anxiety, the urge to rip the stranger to shreds in defence of the giant that towered above him was only a mere gesture away from manifesting in reality, outside of the animal's eager mind.

"Who're you?" he asked, the deep voice booming in the wet man's skull. The shaken expression he received in response was not satisfactory, so he tried again. "I said - who are you?"

"I don't remember," the castaway admitted in a hoarse whisper.

The owner of the home looked frustrated. "Then where'd you come from? How'd you get here?"

A gesture back in the direction he thought he'd dragged himself from was all the explanation he could offer the man. "That way."

"Nothing but sea that way, lad. Try again."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Come forward so I can see you proper," muttered the man as he took his weapon in both hands. The castaway did as he was asked. "You look familiar."

"So do you. I recognise this place from... somewhere."

"You also look wet."

"I am."

"And cold," he added.

"Yes."

A sigh, followed by a gesture to follow the man into the house. "Come in then. Fire's on."

* * *

"Here, drink this," rumbled the bearded man, handing a chipped mug to his visitor as he sat on the floor in front of the fire, soaking in the warmth and wrapped in a thick woolly blanket. He slumped into a chair, groaning with the effort, and leant his rifle against the arm, his wolf-like dog sniffing at the stranger's back. "Hector, come! You dunno where he's been."

That name, Hector, echoed through the castaway's head. Images of the past flooded into his mind's eye and the pain that came with it was unbearable, enough to force a muffled scream from his lips as he wrapped his arms around his head in agony.

"What's the matter with you?" the man asked, leaning forward with a stern look upon his weathered face. "Tea too hot for you, eh?"

The huge man's words fell on deaf ears; the only sound the stranger could hear was the piercing screech of his brain as it struggled to remember. He saw the house, the one he was in right now, but different and from afar, as if looking down from a hilltop. Brighter. It was pleasant outside; the amber sun up there amongst the soft clouds in the sky, lush green fields surrounding the property with rows of lemon and orange trees on a small rise behind the farmhouse. The door to the house swung open and Hector leapt down the front steps, barking excitedly, spinning on the spot; the sound of the castaway's suffering was forgotten for now, though he didn't realise it. At the door stood the bearded man. He looked more youthful, his full beard reduced to a mere goatee, the lines on his brow gone. He was smiling. Instead of the gun he held now, the big man carried a long staff. Upon seeing it, the stranger was reminded of an injury the giant had sustained while working... farming. Yes, he was a farmer. The name "Ronan" appeared at the forefront of his mind as he looked into the calm eyes of the man oblivious to his presence. The stranger felt himself slipping away, the world he looked in on growing more distant. Beside the man a child appeared, a boy of maybe five or six years of age. Ronan's huge paw settled on top of the kid's head and ruffled his unruly hair playfully. They watched in silence as the sun slid down towards the horizon with unnatural haste.

The world became shrouded in darkness.

* * *

An A4 envelope was slipped onto the desk beside Draeden as he doodled a sword of some sort on a business document that, at some stage, had been marked as important. Without looking up, the suited young man took the envelope and re-opened it - Alice had already investigated the contents prior to bringing it to Draeden - before tipping the contents out onto the desk. A letter fell out.

"What's this?" Draeden asked, frowning at the well-presented correspondence on his desk.

"It's from PTC. It's an invitation to their seventh GTT tournament," explained Alice, picking the letter up and handing it to him to read. "The invitation is an open one, you should select some wrestlers to send over to represent The Experts. It's kind of urgent, they wrote to us about this two weeks ago but you were, uh busy."

"Busy?"

"I think your exact words at the time were, um, 'I don't give a shit.'"

"Ah. So what's GTT?"

"It's a great opportunity to put The Experts out there and get some exposure for our wrestlers, not to mention--"

"How many?" Draeden interrupted.

"H-how many what?" Alice stammered in surprise at the sudden, spry splicing of sentences.

Draeden grunted. "How many wrestlers-- oh, nevermind, it says here..."

Alice politely waits for him to reveal the answer.

"How many?"

"What? How many what?" Draeden asked, distractedly.

"How many wrestlers do they want?"

He passed his PA the letter. "Here, see for yourself."

With an exasperated sigh Alice took the letter from Draeden, skimmed it over. "Five?"

Perfect. "Aye. Fancy that."

"Who are you going to choose to send?"

"I'm not going to send anyone. Contact the promotions, tell them there's four spots at the tournament available to Experts talent, first-come first-served," Draeden mumbled through hands cupped over his face. "If anyone complains about short notice, tell them to fuck off."

"Only four? Why?"

"Because one spot is full, Miss Bowman. Mine."

Alice's eyes widen with surprise, making Draeden grin. "But don't you have to be here?"

"Yes and no. I only need to be here to oversee what goes on and relay my instructions to you. On the other hand, we could call it a business trip and you can come with me to wherever this tournament is."

A moment of silence passed between them while Alice hastily sought an excuse to decline. The thought of spending any longer with Draeden Darksky after their brief but unpleasant exchange in the café yesterday was not an agreeable concept.

"I- I don't think that would be... appropriate?" she tried.

Draeden scowled. "You foolishly misunderstand my intentions, Miss Bowman. You'll be communicating with my office here and relay my instructions. I need someone I can rely on to do this - unfortunately that's you. You won't be required to attend the events nor be in contact with me outside of working hours. When you're not on the clock you can please yourself. I just need you around to make sure nobody fucks up what I'm trying to achieve here. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get together whatever you need from here, we'll leave tomorrow for... where?"

Alice scanned the letter. "DC. The event is being held at the Verizon Center."

"I see," he grunted, pausing for a moment's thought. "Don’t we have a helicopter or something?"

"There's a helicopter on the roof but I don't think we can fly all the way from Hayward to Washington in it."

"No, but it can take us to the airfield where our corporate jet is, right?"

"You don't like driving, do you?"

"Not in the slightest," he said cheerfully.

* * *

When the castaway opened his eyes he traded one darkness for another. The room he was in was pitch black and it felt like he was lying on a bed as whatever was beneath him was soft and the closest thing to comfort that he could remember experiencing. He must've passed out at some point, as he didn't know how he got into the dark room. Sitting upright made his head hurt, but it was a necessary evil. His eyesight sliced through the darkness; he was aware of the absence of light but his vision was barely impaired by it now, allowing free movement around the room. An almighty creak from the floorboards alerted Hector, who began to bark excitedly. Another two wobbly steps, another two groans from the old farmhouse and he had made it to the door. The battered, round handle turned in his grip but the door didn't open - it was locked.

Breaking the door down did not sound like a bad idea, except for the fact that the castaway didn't feel up to knocking down a kitten with a tank, let alone a solid wooden door with himself. Fortunately the matter was taken out of his hands as the door was pushed open from the other side by the burly bearded man. He clicked the light on, blinding the castaway momentarily.

"I know who you are," he said in a low tone, looking at his guest with sorrowful eyes as the stranger squinted at him through narrow, bloodshot eyes. "And I think I know why you're here."

"When I passed out, or whatever happened to me, I saw you. Your name is Ronan."

"Yes."

"We lived here?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Why am I here?"

"Because you're dead, Draeden."

Extreme Tournament: Final

2009-06-06T01:08:00.000+01:00

The scene fades back to ringside, where the carnage has been cleared, and Melinda Brown and Spike Johnson are stood, to massive cheers. In the middle of the ring is a table, covered in a red cloth, and with the contract seen in Melinda Brown’s hands laying on it. The crowd cheer once more as Melinda holds a microphone up.

MB: As you all know, since Jesse Gunn left this organisation down and out as far as having a boss and having any money goes, we have been on the search for a new Chief Executive Officer. Last week I announced live on air, that before our Deathmatch main event, we would see Spike Johnson here, the man who is responsible for the entire tournament, crowned the new CEO.

A loud pop from the fans as Melinda smiles widely, and Spike raises a hand to the fans. A chant for him starts, however it soon dies down as Melinda calls for silence.

MB: Well now, that time has come. On the desk is a contract, and with one signature, it will allow Spike to become the head of the Experts… so, without further ado, over to you Spike!

He smiles widely, and takes both a pen and microphone from the desk, before bringing the microphone to his mouth.

SJ: Wow, this is really an honour for me… you know, I’ve built my career as a booker based on the excellent work I’ve seen in places like the VWF, the TFWF, SCW and G-2. For myself, and I guess on behalf of the Experts, it is an absolute privilege to be associated with these companies, and that they allow their wrestlers to compete in our events… but hey, you’re not here to see me get all blubbery are you?

Another big cheer from the fans as Spike laughs a little and clicks on the pen.

SJ: Let’s get this officially done, and then we can see that amazing main event!

The crowd begin to chant ‘main event’ as Spike leans over the table and flicks through the pages of the contract, briefly checking that they’re the same ones he reviewed earlier. He finally gets to the last page, the one he needs to sign to make himself CEO… and a look of horror draws over his face. He stares at the page, before looking up at Melinda with anger.

SJ: W..w..ha… is this some kind…of…joke?

He looks down at the contract, and Melinda does too, a look of concern and bewilderment taking hold.

MB: I..I…what…er

Both speechless, suddenly anger fully takes hold of Spike and he holds the contract up as he screams in her face.

SJ: IS THIS SOME KIND OF FUCKING SETUP?!

Briefly the camera catches sight of the contract as the fans are shocked and confused… the contract is already signed! Quickly the technical team get to re-playing that last bit of footage with the signature, and as the plasma screens cut into life with that footage in slow motion, a stunned silence hits the warehouse.

(Image: http://img8.imageshack.us/img8/2968/contracty.png)

“Astronomy” quickly hits the speakers, and the fans remain in their stunned silence as the curtain parts and Draeden Darksky steps out with a microphone in hand. He stands just at the entranceway and smirks to the crowd as he walks down the aisle and climbs into the ring. He and Johnson stare down, and Spike shouts at him as the music fades.

DD: Calm down, Spike. That’s no way to speak to your new CEO.

Massive heat from the crowd as Darksky takes the contract from Johnson’s hand and raises up the page with his signature for all to see.

DD: As you saw earlier, Melinda here left that contract out on the side. I'm no fool. I know an opportunity when I see one. I saw the contract just lying around and just had to take a look, and I read this very interesting section contained within, just near the end of the document...

He begins to read from the contract.

DD: ‘The following signature and printed name entitles the bearer to fulfil the role of Chief Executive Officer of the Experts.’ There’s no mention of Spike Johnson here anywhere. Why would I pass up the opportunity to get the ultimate revenge on the The Experts and become their boss?

The crowd boo loudly at Draeden, who ignores the abuse as Melinda and Spike back away from him, in full realisation that he’s played them, and played them well.

DD: You see, you’ll all remember that I, Draeden Darksky, was presumed dead a few months back. I had been a mainstay for this place; I’d competed in all events I could, I’d helped to keep one of your flagship stakeholders, the VWF, alive by being their poster boy. I'd made a fortune for both VWF and The Experts. I did everything that was asked of me - AND MORE - for you people, and yet when the newspapers printed the news that I’d died, did any of you care? No. Not one of you selfish bastards gave a damn.

The booing for Darksky becomes almost too much to be able to hear him over the top, however he perseveres.

DD: A little voice in the back of my head said, "you know what Draeden, why don’t we test these people?" I signed up to his very tournament; a move that, when some people saw my name in the brackets, they were confused. And yet, a matter of days before round one, when Spike Johnson found out I was supposedly dead, what did he do? Did he host some kind of memorial for me? Of course not! "Sorry for the mix up, here's a drunken Russian instead!" So there I am, standing outside this shabby excuse for an arena, thinking, "do I return to this? Or should I remain in the shadows?" But when I find out that this Russian guy’s too drunk to even wrestle, I make my decision, take action. DRAEDEN DARKSKY RETURNS!

His words are met with a chorus of boos from the crowd.

DD: And yet still, nobody cared...

His tone changes as he looks down, scowling; then at the fans, at Spike Johnson and Melinda Brown.

DD: Each and every one of you shrugged it off as if I was just another of the pathetic wretches that dragged their worthless carcasses through those curtains with the expectation that I’d never make it. The nearest it got to any interest was having that jumped up prick interviewer try and grab a few words from me. Was I going to waste my breath on him? No. But then I got eliminated. I'd make outlandish claims that this wasn't my fault, that I got screwed out of the tournament by elements out of my control. It was my fault that I allowed some outside interference to stand in my way, something I should have dealt with prior to the event.

He waves his free hand dismissively.

DD: Irrespective, no-one cared, no-one even mentioned it… so I began to forge my plans in the furnace of fury that burned inside of me. I had to make use of it before it consumed me, before I was burned to the core by my own hatred. I wanted my revenge and it had to be swift, brutal. At first I planned on ruining your main event; if you didn’t want to give me the respect I have earned tenfold in this organisation, then why should I show any to your big main event in return? Or anything else, for that matter?

He turns, and eyes the contract on the desk.

DD: But then, as if guided by the hands of destiny, that document fell into my path like a leaf in the road that the rest of the drooling, Neanderthal-like morons in this building would simply ignore, an incredible opportunity for change that would be missed. So why interfere with one match when I could cause untold amounts of chaos to any match I please? Why do something that might be remembered by a few diehard fans when I could do something that would leave the legacy of Draeden Darksky forever scarred upon the calloused skin of the history of professional wrestling? But then I thought: Why just ruin The Experts… when I could ruin each and every one of the companies associated with it?

Monster heat for Darksky as his face twists into a bitter smirk.

DD: As ever, I am underestimated. I'm a good thinker, Hayward, quick and cunning. I revised my plans of attack, re-thought my strategy. I’m in charge now, I have full command of the Experts and I’ve already amended a small rule to the contract; no longer can the board of directors overrule anything I say. My power is absolute; The Experts is under my total control... and I will bring it to its knees. I will crush this organisation in the palm of my hand and I will cast away the dust that remains to be carried away by the wind, gone forever! I'll send the VWF, HIW, TFWF, APW, PWR, SW, EW, SCW, G-2 and now SCCW along with it too! I will drag you so far down all that will remain is for you to beg for mercy as I lay waste to all that you have worked for...

He smirks sickly and surveys the audience as a few items get thrown at him, including food wrappers and drinks. Darksky turns to Spike Johnson.

DD: As for you, you’re out of here. I never want to see your face in my ring again… Spike Johnson, YOU’RE FIRED. But not just that, I’m going to sue you for every damn penny you’ve got; the damages of being so cruelly left to rot should be enough to get a few thousand dollars out of you. Your everlasting legacy will be that you paid for the downfall of The Experts, and for that Spike - I thank you.

Johnson screams at Darksky, and runs at him, looking to physically vent his anger, however the sly Draeden manages to lift him up and plants him through the table with a spine buster! The crowd go crazy with hatred for Draeden, throwing everything they have at him as “Astronomy” hits again, and he backs out of the ring and drops to the outside, exiting the main warehouse as Melinda tends to an out-cold Spike Johnson.

Draeden reaches the stage, and raises his hands in the air, however suddenly his music gets replaced with “Perfect Strangers”, and entrance theme familiar to fans of the Experts…

EV: No it can’t be…

JR: That’s…

BLACK DEATH! The crowd go nuts as the Experts legend emerges from the curtain with a grin on his face and looking better than ever! A look of horror spreads across Darksky’s face as he turns, and immediately Death slams a fist into his mouth, and Darksky responds with one of his own. An all-out brawl ensues; Darksky, Death, Darksky, Death, Darksky, Death. The rights keep coming as suddenly Black Death nails Darksky with a punch to the gut, and he locks in a side headlock before grabbing at Darksky’s legs and flipping him over, nailing the Black Death Driver (Reverse Fisherman’s Brainbuster) onto the concrete floor!

EV: YES!

JR: NO! He just nailed our new CEO with that vicious Black Death Driver!

EV: It looks like when the Experts needed a hero the most, Black Death’s returned to fulfil that role!

The crowd go wild as Death stands over Darksky, breathing heavily and raising his hands. The scene slowly fades out to a re-cap of Georgie Nickles and Hannibal Cage’s paths to the final as the crowd’s cheering slowly disappears from hearing range.

(Credit to Russell Gritton of ewexperts.com for the Extreme Tournament 2009 results)

Extreme Tournament, part four: Determination

2009-06-05T01:07:00.000+01:00

"There is no impossibility to him who stands prepared to conquer every hazard. The fearful are the failing."
-Sarah J. Hale

4th August, 2009

Determination is an edge that is as sharp as it is curved. There are few armours that can protect against it and to wield it in the correct manner is an art form in itself. There weren't many men out there that could claim to be in the same predicament that Draeden Darksky now found himself in. He had seen his name on TV, in newspapers, on the internet. They all announced his death in small print, a miserable little obituary to inform the world of his demise. From the day he stepped upon Irish soil, Draeden became determined to remind the world that he existed, to give them a reason to remember until there was no-one left to recall his name. A petty and selfish pursuit? Perhaps. But if he had snatched the very dominance of Kartheon, the world upon which he strode, from the clutches of the Crimson Legion then he had already achieved something beyond amazing.

Or maybe he had simply stabbed some idiot with red hair to death. Either way, the world had certainly received Draeden's dues, paid in blood, well in advance.

All this was irrelevant now. As much as such events had only occurred less than three months ago, Draeden had to move on. There was no sense in dwelling on something that had happened behind closed doors. With Caladan missing and the rest of the world completely oblivious to what really went on in China, Draeden needed to shift his focus.

The Extreme Tournament was the perfect opportunity for this. He was already scheduled to fight, in error maybe, but his name had been on the paper. His replacement was incapacitated; he was too drunk to even stand, never mind wrestle one of the top performers in the world and win. If this opportunity had been left to Dimitri Sergeyevich then he would have made a mess of the whole thing and the opportunity would have been wasted. There was no hope of Dimitri winning this tournament. The weak and the inferior were now gone, all that remained in the competition were the smart and the talented. Draeden felt fortunate to fall into both categories; blessed with the wit to accurately gauge his opponents' worth, to identify what needed to be done to achieve victory. Combined with his combat prowess, Draeden was potentially unstoppable.

'Unstoppable.' A word that had been used many times to describe the current holder of the True Expert title, the very title Draeden aimed to walk away with himself at the end of this tournament. Level One, a man with everything to lose in this competition, was not likely to take this tournament lightly. Draeden expected to see him in the finals, but first he would have to advance that far himself. A worry for another day, then.

This week he was to face Hannibal Cage, a man of which Draeden Darksky knew next to nothing. A trawl of the internet had uncovered very little, certainly nothing of any use to Draeden. Cage had entered the tournament as an independent competitor and had not identified any promotion as his home. All he had to judge the worth of the man as a wrestler were the achievements he knew of. Cage had beaten both Ness and Jose Ramon, both TFWF superstars. Ness had also performed in VWF for a short time, Draeden was well aware of his skills – the man was certainly not to be discounted as a weak opponent. As for Ramon, his star-studded TFWF career spoke volumes.

Hannibal Cage was not an opponent to be trifled with.

Draeden would just do as he always did. There was no reason for him to do any different. His win to loss ratio in VWF was testament to his abilities in the ring, as was the fact that he had gotten this far in a tournament against some of the best the business had to offer, particularly after being away from wrestling for almost a whole year. He had stepped onto the shores of America and marched right back into the competition, into the fire, and done what he did best.

Fight.

And win.

Exactly what he'd continue to do.

Once he won the True Expert title he didn't know what he'd do. That's when everything would change. Would he simply treat it the same way as he'd treated the VWF Cabo Wabo Middleweight Championship – with utter indifference? The fact of the matter was that Draeden Darksky could, and would, defeat anyone that came his way. He didn't need a championship to prove that. His abilities had saved his life in the past. In China, Draeden had killed men in order to stay alive. Silly titles meant nothing in comparison to such a brutal requirement. Still, this was his business now. Winning shiny gold belts in comparative cuddle-matches and pillow fights for huge piles of money.

The amount he'd raised so far was easily enough to live on for some time. He could take his fortune and go back to England. Find his family there, maybe retire altogether. Buy a farm. At twenty five years of age he'd seen enough to last a dozen lifetimes and he was already fed up with this one.

"Yes indeed, this life is terrible, is it not? Why bother?" came Jack's bitter voice, almost lost amongst the chaos in Draeden's head. The taunting grew louder as Jack struggled to be heard. "Why, you might even say that there is no hope. Just give up. I would. What you hope to achieve is beyond your reach. Even if you manage to beat this Hannibal Cage then whoever wins the other quarter-finals match will overcome whatever pathetic efforts you can put forward. As if you could win a tournament of this calibre."

Draeden rolled from the bed onto his feet and peered around the darkness, ignoring the voice and focusing on his own thoughts. The competition. The winning. Moving on to the semi finals. Semis to finals. Finals to victory. It was there within his grasp, there was no reason why he couldn't just reach out and take it, as was his full and true intention. For with the True Expert title he cemented his place in history. Even if only for a small time, it'd be long enough. Then the world would truly know his name.

"Some of the best wrestlers in the world have entered this tournament, just what exactly makes you think you can beat them? Especially when you don't even know if you can beat Hannibal Cage. Who is he anyway? You don't even know!" Jack continued. "If you can't beat some unknown who is, admittedly, less of a failure than you are, what exactly do you think you're going to get out of life?"

Draeden grabbed his pants from the floor in the pitch black room, the comfortable baggy jeans he'd worn earlier today. The creases would fall out with his movement. Irrespective, he would move in the darkness with no-one to see, thus he did not wear a shirt. He walked out of the room and headed for the stairs. At the balcony Draeden stood and looked over the vast, empty hall.

In Ayreon, he and Maeron Mentari had looked over the same balcony, had walked down the same stairs and into the hands of the Ancient Ones who had sought to guide them to their deaths in China. His hatred for the meddling Ancients flared, his grip on the wooden bannister tightening.

The voice that cried out for his blood was getting louder, more intense. His other thoughts were being drowned out by the stream of insults. "Good, good, even someone as stupid as you knows when it's time to cut their losses. You can climb, so over you go. Over the balcony. Let the angels guide you to the stones below where lies your sanctuary! You stand now at the gateway to the future, why not take the final leap and get it over with? No need to waste time with all this tournament nonsense, what use is a name for yourself when all you have to look forward to is death? There it is! In your own words, Draeden – 'reach out and take it'. It's yours for the taking, go ahead, it won't bite."

"And what of you, Jack? Where do you go?" Draeden whispered. "Why do you want this?"

"Why do I want this? I've told you before, Crusader. I'm you. I want what you want, need what you need and see what you see. I see that there is not much worth looking at, apart from that Alexandra of yours. You could take her with you, add her soul to the swarm which surrounds you. They're coming too, you know. I suppose that in some respects I see more than you do, for when you look in the mirror you don't see all the faces of the ones you've killed. The ones that you'll have to answer to when you reach the other side. You see, this is the easy part. It may seem hard, more so to others than I, I agree, but once you take that last step that's when the real challenge begins. You like challenges. So ascend from this physical world of primitive battle and dive head-first into the greatest challenge of all."

"Which is?"

"To answer for your sins. You'll need all the help you can get, I mean it. Go and get Alexandra. Open her throat, release her soul from her body and take it with you to the great world beyond this one. Beyond Kartheon, beyond even Ayreon, lies another place completely unlike this one. Jack will take you. I am your guide," Jack sneered. "All you have to do is take that final leap. Swan-dive into the unknown and you will be rewarded. The next challenge waits for you. Go and show it who Draeden Darksky is."

"Let me finish the one I'm working on. I hate to leave a job half finished," Draeden muttered, walking away from the balcony, towards his bedroom. "No good starting something I know I can't finish, right Jack?"

"Your cowardice will be your downfall, Draeden. It will come to you like a knife in the back and I will do nothing – NOTHING! – to stop it! Understand? Nothing! Your failure will follow you wherever you go and one day it will stab you so hard you won't know what hit you. And this time you won't survive. No chance! Not again!"

The screams continued and Draeden did everything he could to ignore them as he lay back down in bed, closing his eyes. He didn't need sleep, he needed peace.

Death was not the only answer.

First he would win the Extreme Tournament, win the True Expert title and seal his place in the pantheon of the world's greatest fighters.

"Then we shall see."

* * *

5th August, 2009

Draeden's eyes snapped open. The sweat that lathered his face was a cold one, enabled by the great discomfort he had felt while submerged in the murky, troubled waters of a restless slumber. A sudden patch of air turbulence had jostled him back into the waking world at the most opportune moment he could have wished for; an instant before impaling himself with his own sword. Flashbacks of the Crimson Legion's last stand in China, an ambush gone horribly wrong. A number of lives were extinguished that day like candles in the wind; Draeden served as the almost poetic gentle breeze that would put out those lights forever.

All was as prophesied by the Ancient Ones, the eldest and most powerful souls to pace the earth; to cross the border between life and death in order to preserve that which shall be. The guiding force behind all things, the Ancient Ones would watch from afar and channel their energy to wherever it was needed most. It was them who had directed the maelstrom of malevolence in Draeden's direction, creating a head-on collision that struck the rest of the world with the impact of a damp cushion.

Precisely as intended.

No-one in the world would ever learn of what happened that day. There would be no survivors. Only the one known as Apocalypticus was destined to walk away from the whirlwind of destruction that the Ancient Ones had cast before them, but that outcome was not to be. Even the best-laid plans suffered mishaps that entities as powerful as the Ancient Ones were unable to prevent. Proof, then, that Fate was not as easy to manipulate as they had expected. A being even the Ancients could not understand, could not bend to their will.

Because of their arrogance the Ancients had made a terrible mistake. Their very existence had been a secret for countless millennia, their souls forged at the birth of the world. Their power lay in what was not known of them, if their presence in the world were to become common knowledge then their ability to subjugate history even as it was written would soon dwindle into nothingness, damning the Ancient Ones to the confines of the past they had been so determined to maintain absolute dominance over.

They had known that the true Apocalypticus, Rhodri Caladan, would escape the annihilation the Crusader of Sacrifice would bring upon the Crimson Legion. What they had not expected was for the Crusader himself to walk away from the battle. A final, desperate attempt to correct the fault that would become their undoing was to erase the thoughts of the vulnerable, weakened mortal they had already cast into the abyss. They threw the Crusader of Sacrifice to the wind once more.

And again he survived their betrayal.

Draeden remembered that night well. He was regularly reminded of it by vicious, vivid nightmares that reflected the brutality of the Legion as if it were happening to him yet again. The scarred, pale arm of Maeron Mentari wrapped around his neck in a deadly grip that was overshadowed only by the shattered sword descending towards his jugular. Had he wasted but a moment, Draeden would have worn his blood on the outside, his life force drained from his body via sundered throat, staining the grimy concrete floor of the old Chinese warehouse that would become his deathbed. Draeden was not a man known to go down without a fight. His own blade slid free from its scabbard, the tip rested against his chest and, with one savage thrust, Draeden slew his enemy at the cost of his own life.

A toll that remained unpaid.

The thought of being punctured by a length of sharpened, folded steel was not one that appealed to anyone, least of all Draeden. Fortunately for most, this was a sensation that remained a dull but unpleasant mystery, one that would never unfold into an occurrence they'd survive to speak of. Regrettably, Draeden was not one of those fortunate enough to make his way through life without being subjected to such a horrific and agonizing experience as being stabbed. In the heart no less, or at least where his heart was supposed to be. A minor detail that had saved his life. A birth defect, something most would look perceive as a disability. Dexterocardia. Faulty genes be praised!

The reason for Draeden committing an act of such extreme vengeance was unknown, even to him. Refusal to accept defeat, he assumed. Bloodlust, claimed Jack. Either way, the choice had been made and, somehow, it had turned out to be the right one. Fate had certainly smiled upon him that day. With yet bloodier hands, Draeden Darksky marched on.

Another patch of turbulence shook Draeden from his reflective thoughts, making the disturbance a welcome one. Jack had not bothered him for a few hours and there was no good reason to waste that peace by dwelling on the past.

He had left on his weekly excursion early after convincing Alexandra to join him. Seeing the sights of Hayward was not exactly a matter of excitement to Draeden but it was an opportunity to get Alex out of the mansion. She hadn't left the grounds of Darksky Manor in months and although Draeden himself wasn't much of an outdoor person, Alex was. To reconnect her to the outside world would be a lifeline he couldn't ignore, especially knowing now that she secluded herself within that haunted old mansion every day, and that her only source of human contact was a Mexican housemaid who spoke English as well as an armadillo could read Braille.

Alex was more than familiar with interstate flight. She and Draeden had flown across the country together with All-Star Wrestling on several occasions, though not as often did they fly from one side of the country to the other, as they were in this instance. The familiarity did not particularly encourage Alexandra, who had thus far spoken very little. Draeden didn't know what bridge she had to cross but he had vowed to cross it with her. After all, it was partially his fault she was in this mess. If he had stuck around and supported her instead of flying off to China at a mere moment's notice then things might have been different. She didn't hold anything against him of course, his mission was important. Deep down he knew that too, but that didn't prevent the sight of Alexandra's horrified expression at his suggestion invoking a sense of guilt that burned him to the core.

But was he doing this out of love or guilt? A bit of both, he supposed. Anyone who said they'd never done something out of guilt was full of shit.

Draeden looked to his right. Alexandra sat in the window seat there, looking terribly uncomfortable. "You should have woke me," he said when she met his eyes.

"How often do you sleep? I'm not going to interfere with such a rarity," was her abrupt answer.

Draeden smiled. Same old Alex, even after everything she'd been through.

"More nightmares?" she asked.

"Aye."

"What about?"

"China. It's been playing on my mind a lot recently."

"Well even if you never really died there, the rest of the world thought you did. That's got to take its toll on you somehow. You said you saw a news report about it in Ireland?"

"More about the fuck-up with the card for the tournament. That is, me being on it." He paused and noticed that Alex was gripping the arm rest of her seat tightly. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'll be happier when we land, get to the hotel," she said, releasing her hold on the seat.

There was not long to go.

* * *

6th August, 2009

"Hannibal Cage? Who's he?"

"I don't know," Draeden said distractedly as turned the black leather hat over in his hands. "I hear he's a bit of a dick, but then this is coming from the people who call me a Lord of the Rings wannabe. Fuckers. Which do you prefer?" he asked, pointing to another hat. He placed the one in his hands on his head.

"Well fuck them. It doesn't matter if he's a dick. He could be a Pokémon fanatic. As long as he doesn't use Fire Blast in the ring. That one," Alexandra said and nodded to the hat on Draeden's head. He left it there and angled it downward. "Are you done? Can we go back now?"

"Yeah," he muttered, heading for the checkout at the other end of the shop which was otherwise completely empty. It was one of those stores that catered to a particular style, apparently one consisting of a great deal of leather and suede. Cowboy hats and boots lined the walls with chequered shirts, jeans and suede coats hanging on rails in the middle. It was a spacious shop with laminate-wood flooring, plenty of mirrors and embedded lights, suggestive of the great expense for any item purchased within.

Draeden was not one for spending massive amounts of money on frivolous articles such as jeans and shoes, but his hat was an important item. Although his old hat, a Friesian cow-print cowboy hat, had cost him almost seven hundred dollars from some Swedish fashionista-cum-downright-fucking-swindler, Draeden's sense of humour had transformed somewhat following recent events since its initial purchase. Like a prune in the Sahara, Draeden's jocular approach had shrivelled into something entirely less fun than it used to be, and as such the cow-print had he'd formerly been renowned for wearing was a mere thing of the past. Having said that, he would certainly not throw the hat away, should he happen across it once again.

No, this black leather cowboy hat would do fine. It was comfortable and functional, a shield against the sun, not a fun gimmick. He handed the hat to the girl behind the till and retrieved his wallet. It was just some nylon piece of shit he'd picked up in an airport, to add contrast.

"That'll be two... Hey, wait; you're Draeden Darksky! You here for the tournament?"

Draeden smiled. "Could be. I do have a 'falls count anywhere' match, you might do well to lock up your doors."

The girl giggled. She couldn't have been any older than eighteen with carrot ginger hair and a green top. What an annoying laugh, Draeden thought. "What's it like to come back from the dead?" she asked.

"I couldn't tell you, I didn't die," he grunted in response, the smile now gone from his face. "It's a case of mistaken identity, I wasn't the guy that died in China. Can I just pay for my hat now?"

"Uh, yeah, of course. Sorry. That's two hundred and fifty dollars please, Mr Darksky."

He handed over cash. "No need to apologise. It's the only question I've heard since I came back. I don't know anything about this dead guy they found, I just took a trip to China - that's all. And call me Draeden, everyone's so formal these days."

Taking the money, the girl smiled. "Yeah, I know... I'm Faye!" They shook hands. "It must suck for everyone to think you're dead."

"Yeah Faye, just a bit," he muttered as he took his receipt. Placing the new hat upon his head, Draeden ambled out of the shop with Alexandra following sheepishly behind him. Draeden offered a wave over his shoulder to Faye and, with that, he forgot about her entirely.

As they stood outside, Alex snapped the price tag off the back of Draeden's hat. "That might help," she said. "So can we go now? I want to head back, I've got a headache."

"You don't have a headache," Draeden said, looking her in the eye.

"I do!"

"You're agoraphobic."

"What? That's ridiculous!"

"Then why are you sweating like that?"

"It's hot! It's the height of summer, there are no clouds in the sky. I'm from Finland. We don't get a shitload of heat out there, remember? I'm not exactly used to it. I have a headache."

"Bullshit. You lived in Thailand and Japan, you're used to the heat and you never complained before. You're not used to it because you never go outside. Look at how pale you are, your skin hasn't seen the sun in weeks," Draeden persisted.

"Oh, this coming from Captain Sun-Tan?" she countered. "Get the fuck out."

"Who said I liked the sun? I don't tan, I burn – you don't. Don't change the subject. I saw the look on your face when I suggested you come out here, you were horrified."

"Who'd want to come to Hayward? Not me! Particularly not to see you get the shit kicked out of you in some fucking dump of a warehouse?" she said dismissively, looking over Draeden's shoulder for a cab to hail to take them back.

"You're even turning down work--"

"Look, if it's about paying rent then I'll get work, if that's the problem just fucking say so! No need to be a dick about it!"

"I don't give a fuck about the rent! You spend your own money on your own shit, you're hardly a drain on my resources and I make enough on my own not to need any rent from you. If you remember, you forced me to take money from you because you felt bad about not giving me anything, so back the fuck off!"

She sighed. "Look, I just don't particularly like to go out these days. I prefer to stay in. I can read, go online, sleep a bit. I'm alright. It's not a big deal."

"When was the last time you actually went out and did some shopping or something?" he demanded.

"I order everything online. Can we have this argument in the hotel? I'm tired."

Draeden sighed and gave in. "Fine."

"What about you? When was the last time you slept? Don't tell me you're such a sneaky ninja that I don't hear you pacing all night."

"Apart from the hour I got on the plane... Sunday?"

"You look like shit," Alex said as she nodded.

"So you keep telling me," he grunted in response. "Some pair we are."

Alexandra managed to catch the attention of a passing taxi and it stopped at the side of the road for them. "Yeah, an agoraphobic and an insomniac. Fucking excellent."

* * *

It was a cold night in Hayward. As usual, Draeden was unable to sleep, plagued by the inherently deranged rantings of Jack. He had taken to counting the cracks in the paving stones of the street from the balcony as a distraction, a passive act which could attest to his incredible night vision. He had managed to subdue Jack's ramblings to a whisper in the back of his head allowing for clearer thought processes.

Alexandra had kept the copy of 'Shadow Crusade' that had been sent to Draeden. He was reminded of this by the book resting on the table on the balcony where she had been reading it. It transpired that she had actually ordered it for him, in an attempt to get him to read something instead of sitting around and listening to Jack's running commentary all the time. He still refused to read it but despite his disinterest Alex insisted on filling him in on the details. The book was about a man destined to save the world. He began life as an orphan boy, cast out of his village, taken in by the street folk of a great all-conquering nation's capital city. The kid's eyes were pure white, probably a birth defect, but the people of his village were superstitious, God-fearing idiots who thought he'd been cursed by the Gods. What a crock of shit. So far he'd been trained by the homeless people to steal and avoid capture by the law, then been drafted into a military training school to be taught how to read, write and fight. He still didn't see why this was of any relevance to him, nor why the author was in such desperation to make him read it.

Why bother when Alexandra would summarise it all for him?

A noise inside the suite caught Draeden's attention. He turned around and went back inside, closing the sliding glass door behind him as he did so. There were no lights on, Draeden left it that way as to avoid disturbing Alex.

The hotel suite was two separate bedrooms connected by a lounge in the middle with a sofa, TV and an internet access point; there was a step up to the front door. Draeden immediately noticed the piece of paper on the floor, it had probably been slid under the door while he was outside.

"What's that? Interesting! A note maybe? I wonder if it's for you!" Jack babbled. "Of course it is! Who'd send you that?"

Draeden ignored him and picked up the paper. It was actually an envelope. He opened it but there was nothing inside, the words were written on the inside of the envelope itself. With a sigh, Draeden pulled the envelope apart, ironing out the creases with his fingernail to straighten out the paper. Now turned the right way round he could see the writing properly; though the writing was large it was hard to make out the cursive writing. He squinted at the paper.

"It says 'open the door'."

Draeden sighed. "Yeah, thanks Jack. Well spotted." He carelessly threw the note to his side and peered through the peep hole in the door, there was no-one in the corridor outside as far as he could see.

"Could be dangerous. Best be careful, Crusader," Jack sniggered.

The door swung open silently. The whole corridor was deserted. Draeden stepped out of the room and listened carefully. The sound of someone's television a few doors away could be heard, but otherwise there was nothing, and certainly not anyone creeping around posting notes. He went to shut the door, and that was when he noticed the package that had been taped to the outside of it. The package was square-shaped, wrapped in brown paper. Draeden had a pretty good idea of what it was. He tore it from the door and ripped the paper from the top half of the package.

Sure enough: 'Shadow Crusade'.

Well enough was enough. Draeden took the book and stormed towards the elevator, tugging the door shut behind him. He pushed the button and waited, watching impatiently as the lift crawled from the floor above, down to Draeden's. When the lift arrived, a man was waiting inside and looked at him with a strange expression.

"Going down?" he asked. He was carrying a small case, wearing a dark brown jacket and black jeans, black t-shirt. Draeden nodded and he pressed the button for ground floor.

The music being piped into the lift was soothing, much to Draeden's annoyance. He didn't want to be soothed. He wanted to stay angry so he could take it out on whoever was unlucky enough to be at reception at the time. That nut-case author had crept into the hotel and stuck the book to the door. How ridiculous, these places were meant to be secure and not so that any old idiot could just walk in wherever and whenever they pleased. It was only then that he realised that he was wearing only his tracksuit pants and no socks, shoes or shirt. No wonder the man in the lift with him looked at him strangely. At the ground floor the man walked out of the lift and headed straight out while Draeden went to the reception desk and angrily slammed the half-wrapped book down on the counter. The young woman sat on the other side nearly leapt out of her skin at the sight of a furious Draeden Darksky and the sound of him almost destroying the hotel armed only with a book.

"Uh, c-can I help you?" she asked after recollecting herself.

"Yeah, who took this book to my room?" he demanded, holding the cover up for her to see.

"I, er, I don't know. We don't deliver books to rooms. If something turns up down here for you then we call your room. In the morning."

Draeden sighed. "Well someone's just stuck this to my door. Like 10 minutes ago."

"That wouldn't have been us, sir."

"Well who was it then, the book fairies? Santa come a few months early? Look at the CCTV, I want to find the asshole that taped this to my door, this shit isn't funny any more. Second floor, room five."

"I didn't see anyone, let me look," she said as she pushed a few keys on her computer, the screen out of sight beneath the desk. Draeden ducked under the folding counter top and moved around to her side of the desk to see. "You're not supposed to be around here!"

"Don't care. Show me."

"Really sir, I--"

"No, look, I really don't care. The faster you look, the faster I go away. I'm not supposed to be here; you're not supposed to let random people come in here and start messing with people's rooms either. Get on with it," he growled.

The woman got to work. She pointed to the screen, as if Draeden couldn't see. "There! That's the view of the corridor on your floor, there's a man..."

The man in question walked along the corridor, straight past room five. He disappeared into a room at the top end of the hall.

"Fast-forward," Draeden muttered. "We'll rewind if we see him."

As commanded, the receptionist fast-forwarded the CCTV footage. A man is seen, very quickly, going to Draeden's door and bending down before zooming to the fire exit.

"That must be him!" she said, rewinding. The pair watched as the man shot past in reverse, then again as he walked calmly to the door, slapped the book onto the door and pushed the note under in one fluent motion before straightening up and walking off. He also entered the fire escape.

"Are there any other exits, like fire escapes?"

She thought. "None he could have used without alarms that'd go off, sir."

"Can they be disabled?"

"Not really, only from here. Unless they were smashed... but it'd take a lot of work to break one and they're alarmed for that as well."

"The roof?"

"No."

"And no-one has left via the front?"

"Apart from that man you were in the lift with, no."

"The man on the tape was wearing a long black coat and a baseball cap. Couldn't have been him. What room did he go into? He must still be in the building..."

"I can't really show you that, sir! Customers' details, including their rooms, are confidential! I shouldn't really be allowing you to be here and look at these tapes!" protested the receptionist.

Draeden scowled. "So you can't show me the log book either?"

"No. Sorry sir."

"Fuck's sake. Are there any rooms on the ground floor?

"No, there aren't sir..."

"And are you all booked up?

"We have three rooms spare, sir, one on each floor. I can move you if you'd like, so this man can't bother you?" she offered.

"No, no point..." he grunted, more or less to himself as he headed away from the reception desk; thoughts raced through his head, options, potential answers... So much to think about. So little sleep to catch but plenty of things to do to fill the time. Draeden continued to turn things over in his head as he strolled around the reception area, wondering what to do next. By the door was a small table with a bowl containing packs of matches with the hotel's logo on the front, the paper matches that were torn from a strip and lit on the back of the packet. He took one and stuffed it into his pocket before marching over to the lift. It was already there so he stepped right in, pressing the button for the next floor up.

A few moments of listening to the relaxing music passed by as Draeden waited patiently, an idea forming in his mind. There was a bong! as the lift reached the first of the three floors, the doors slid open and revealed a corridor that Draeden could've easily mistaken for that of his own floor.

He took the matches from his pocket, tore one out and turned over the packet.

Struck the ignition surface. The paper match flared into life.

He held it up to the sprinkler.

It went out.

How anticlimactic, he thought.

He tried again, this time the fire causing the desired reaction from the fire alarms – that being them going off. Immediately, someone's door opened and the terrified face of a young man popped out. He stared at Draeden in his trackies.

"There's a fire y'know," he growled at the man. "Better hurry before you get burned to death. Very unpleasant."

The man disappeared and started screaming at the other people in his room to get out. Draeden headed for the fire exit and watched as the people came pouring out of their rooms to gather safely outside. He watched from the fire exit as people ran down the stairs from the rooms above, he could also see who was leaving the rooms on this floor. He hadn't seen the author yet. Soon, everyone was accounted for on the first floor, it seemed. One room had not been opened, the guests had fled from the fictional fire as fast as their feet would let fly. As he left the floor and headed up the fire escape he pushed past a small group of people, one of them was Alexandra.

She grabbed him and pushed him against the wall. "What the fuck did you do!?" she yelled. "What now!?"

"Nothing!" he lied. "Honest!"

"Oh, that's bullshit! Why do you insist on setting fire to hotels?"

"I didn't set the hotel on fire, I promise. Just go outside, I'll catch you up - soon!"

Alex frowned at him. "Just be careful."

"Yeah, yeah," he dismissed, guiding Alex down the stairs with a gentle shove. The man he was looking for hadn't gone down yet. A worried-looking elderly couple headed down the stairs, they appeared to be the last. "Anyone behind you?"

They paused and looked up. "No," the woman said. "I don't think so."

"Good. Go on, go! There's a fire you know!"

The couple hurried on. Draeden lingered a moment longer, he had to be quick, there was work to be done before the emergency services showed up. Nobody else came from above and he had not seen the mysterious author. Time to work. Draeden ran up the stairs and ducked out of the stairwell at the third floor. He looked at all of the doors, all but three of them were left ajar.

"Oh, isn't this exciting!" Jack said with glee as Draeden ran at the first door, smashing the door in with his bare foot.

The door splintered at the lock and swung open, the lights were on inside but no-one was home, not in the lounge nor the single bedroom. The suite was almost identical to Draeden's own in terms of layout, only with a single bedroom instead of two. Same fancy wallpaper above the dado rail, a soft red colour on the bottom. The rail itself was crème, as was the skirting board along the bottom of the wall with matching coving at the top. Same generic furniture, too.

Clothes and such were left lying where they'd been dropped in the bedroom. There was a case half unpacked in front of the wardrobe. No, not this one. Not this room. He hurried out and further along the corridor to the next.

"You must've been a fireman in a past life! Or a burglar. Probably a burglar. Actually, I remember you stealing things in a Las Vegas hotel," Jack continued.

"Be quiet Jack, I'm busy," Draeden snapped.

"Touchy."

His words were true, only Draeden didn't have the luxury of an empty hotel that time. Still, it was a necessity, as was this. Draeden backed up against the door opposite the one he aimed to destroy for a decent run-up. He launched forward, the door succumbed to the might of his foot. In this room the lights were off, so Draeden clicked them on. Everything appeared untouched, ready for the next set of guests. He checked the bedroom. Exactly the same. Next one.

"You'll never win the tournament if you keep doing stuff like this every night. You should go back to bed."

Fuck that. Draeden had the energy for both. It was only Thursday, he had two days to rest and recover from this.

This would be it, the room he was looking for. The room with that bastard author inside. He'd grab him by the throat and beat the answers out of him. In fact, he'd beat the shit out of him regardless of whether he told him what he wanted to know. There was more to this than a pushy author looking for publicity for his book. People that wanted publicity put their names on the stuff they wanted to be known for.

"Logically, he should be in this one," was the obvious, as stated by Jack.

"I know," Draeden growled under his breath.

"Of course!"

Draeden swore as he glared at the final locked door with malicious intent. Behind it lurked the answers and he would not be prevented from getting them. He wasted no time charging at it, hitting this one shoulder-first. The door collapsed under the force and Draeden staggered to avoid falling over the wreckage. This room was empty too, it seemed. He hurried into the bedroom. It was empty...

...almost.

On the bed was a long black coat and a hat, the same as the man in the CCTV footage had worn. On top of the hat was a note. He snatched it and glared at the words, written in the same handwriting as on the note that was pushed under his door. Draeden squinted at the writing while in the back of his mind a bitter cackle became louder and louder.

Recognition dawned on Draeden.

The man in the elevator... that look. Him.

Written upon the note were three simple words: "The game begins."

Extreme Tournament, part three: A Man's Worst Enemy

2009-06-04T01:05:00.000+01:00

"Wherever we look upon this earth, the opportunities take shape within the problems."
-Nelson A. Rockefeller

23rd July, 2009

"What's it about?" Draeden asked, looking at the cover of the paper-backed book in his hands.

The woman standing in front of him had introduced herself as Helen Harris from some publishing company Draeden had never heard of. She smiled politely. Draeden already disliked her. "It's an epic tale of one man's plight to save the world," she said.

Draeden eyed the woman suspiciously, leaning against the frame of the open front door and leafing through pages of the book. "Sounds pretty uninteresting."

"Well, I gathered that your interest lies in fantasy fiction, Mr Darksky," she persisted. "Please, keep that copy. You don't have to make your decision now. The author was very insistent that we contact you about it and, as you should well know, it's best not to judge a book by its cover. After all, there wasn't a great deal of people predicting your progression past round one of the Extreme Tournament now, was there?"

"They thought I was dead."

She shrugged. "Irrespective, my point remains."

"Indeed. It remains moot. Good day to you," he said as he pushed the book back into her hands and backed away to close the door.

"Please, take my card. If you reconsider?" the woman almost pleaded, extending a hand, a small card between her fingers.

"I won't."

The force of the door slamming shut was enough to cause an echo that boomed throughout the huge open hall. Draeden was growing more and more frustrated with all of the marketing reps knocking on the door and ringing the phone. He had received piles of mail, some junk, some fan mail, some hate mail. The rest of it was correspondence from the persistent companies that were desperately trying to get his face on their commercials, his mark of approval on their packaging. The vultures circled him now, more so than ever since his apparent death. Draeden was running out of patience.

"Another one?" came a soft voice from Draeden's right. It was Alexandra, freshly out of bed in her dressing gown.

Draeden looked at the time on his watch. 08:19. "Yeah."

"What was it this time?" asked the young woman as she beckoned Draeden towards the kitchen.

"They wanted me to read some book and write a review on it," he said, following her lead. "As if wrestlers can read."

Alex smiled at him as she pushed the kitchen door open. "Might do you some good to read something instead of sitting around the house brooding."

"I'm not brooding. I'm mentally scarred."

She didn't take the bait, but as she opened the cupboard with the coffee she turned and threw him a grin instead. "No, I mean it. You're just sitting around the house doing nothing all day, then going out on the weekend to the Extreme Tournament." She spat the last two words like a bitter taste from her mouth.

Draeden scowled. "I'm not reading that crap."

"Just do it! It's something to do, other than be miserable. You've already perfected that, do something else."

"No. If I accept it they'll ask me to do a review on it."

"Take it, read it, then write a paragraph slating it so they can't use it; job done, hilarity ensues," laughed Alex, filling the kettle.

"No. If I do this one then the rest will want me to do whatever the hell it is they want me to do and they'll think I might do it. Which means they'll hassle me more. I really can't be bothered. I don't wanna open children's' hospitals and shopping centres. I want to be left alone."

"But a book is something good to be involved in. I mean, involvement in literature is better than opening malls and doughnut franchises. It's something intellectual and interesting, raise your profile a bit!"

"I don't give a fuck about my profile. I'm doing this Extreme Tournament thing. I don't even want to do that. I'd much rather slip away into the kind of obscurity that only time can grant me," he argued. "The sooner the world can forget about Draeden Darksky, the sooner Draeden Darksky can get on with the rest of his life in peace."

"Yeah, well, other people give a fuck about you and your profile. Have you seen the pile of fan mail you have? There's people out there who were overjoyed to find out you're actually alive. Maybe you should have a look through that, if not the stupid book."

Draeden said nothing.

"What was it called, anyway?"

"What?"

"The book. What was it called?"

"'Shadow Crusade'."

* * *

26th July, 2009

Becky Hellian, down and out. Time to leave via the rear fire escape again, nice and quiet with no attention drawn. His jaw felt about an inch out of joint, a sore spot on the right side where Hellian had cuffed him. She was a tough fight, nothing like Swing last week. No, this one stood a chance, knew Draeden was coming. Not that this changed anything in particular but at least she wasn't expecting a drunken Russian, otherwise she'd have been seriously surprised.

The door swung open on rusty hinges, squealing like a stuck pig and alerting everyone standing outside that Draeden was there. The whole crowd turned around simultaneously and Draeden was awash with camera flashes; reporters barrelled towards him, elbowing one another aside for a chance to speak to the dead-but-not wrestler. He hated these people and resented the fact that they were more interested in him after he'd 'died'.

"Draeden!" the first reporter barked, reaching for him over the head of a photographer. "What really happened in Chi-"

"Was this all just a gimmick," another interrupted, "or are the rumours--"

"Why did you go to China?" called another, pushing to the front. He was nudged aside by a taller man that stuck out to Draeden like a sore thumb, his black hat obscuring his face.

The stranger stepped into the space Draeden commanded, where the others would not dare to step, and walked alongside him. "Why won't you read my book, Mr Darksky?" he said calmly.

Draeden glanced up at the taller man as he followed him and chose to feign ignorance. "What book?"

"'Shadow Crusade'. I sent someone to see you about it."

"I don't remember," he lied.

"I think you do. You said it sounded uninteresting. You should read it, I think you'll be… pleasantly surprised."

"I don't have time."

"You have lots of time."

"Not for this," Draeden said, pushing aside a photographer that strayed into his path across the car park, almost sending him flying with the brunt of his frustration.

The man hurried ahead and stepped in front of Draeden, forcing him to stop. The stranger thrust the book into his hands. "Take it!"

Draeden scowled at him and looked at the book in his hands. 'Shadow Crusade', by… wait, there was no author's name. "Who are you?" Draeden asked the black-clad man.

"Read it and you will find out."

Clearly displeased, Draeden held the book back out to the curious author. "No. I'm not playing your fucking games."

The author didn't take the book. Draeden dropped it, the man made no attempt to catch it and the tome fell onto the asphalt. Pushing past the man and continuing on to wade through the crowd of journalists, Draeden swore under his breath. He looked over his shoulder and the man was still there, watching him walk away; the sight very of him caused a string of expletives to escape his lips.

"Well, that sounds more like the Draeden Darksky we know and love, am I right?" Jack chuckled in the back of Draeden's mind.

"Not now."

"Ah, why not? Now's a good time; maybe you'll be too preoccupied in speaking to me to kill anyone? So maybe not a good time for you, but a good time for the people in your vicinity?"

Draeden eyed the reporters as they thrust microphones and questions in his direction, the camera flashes were beginning to hurt his eyes.

"Mmm, just look at all the people you could kill. You've got that sword haven't you? Cut 'em! That'll get rid of them, they'll run at the sight. Isn't that easier?"

"That is not the way," Draeden muttered.

"Oh, but it is! It's your way, Draeden, not mine. I see them, you know. Them. You know who I mean."

"I don't."

"Now who's playing games? I know your thoughts because they're mine too. Don't lie to me. You can't. You know they're there, you feel them watching you every night. You feel their eyes burning holes in your body and your skin is weakening. It wasn't so bad before; you could shut out their cries, turn away their accusing tones with your ignorance. But the voices grow louder with each one you collect, with each one you add to be your own torment. Eternal torment. You know they won't go away. They won't be released until you die. They'll haunt you forever, Draeden."

The voice referred to the faces Draeden saw when he closed his eyes, the faces of the men and women that died by his sword in China; the people he slaughtered in the name of entertainment.* "I know," he whispered.

(* http://bit.ly/zHB8e refers)

"Quite a burden you bear," remarked Jack.

Draeden realised now that he had stopped moving. He had left the confines of the warehouse's car park. The crowd encompassed him now, a seething mass of flesh and false pretences; people claiming to be interested in his story. The bastards, they were only interested in the money his words might bring.

Where the hell was his cab?

As if on cue the vehicle sped around the corner and Draeden watched it as it bombed along the road towards him. The journalists scurried away from the roadside to avoid the hasty driver, clearing a path for Draeden to enter the cab. The car hadn't yet come to a complete halt when Draeden grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, the duffel bag he carried taking point upon entry.

"Airport," he barked impatiently.

The driver wasted no time in accelerating away from the scene. They had not even rounded the corner at the end of the industrial estate before the driver became inquisitive. "Wow, so you must be famous or somethin', huh?"

"No. Just drive." He looked over his shoulder out of the rear window. There, a man in front of the ambling press and watched him as he drove away.

It was the author.

* * *

27th July, 2009

The keys clattered as they landed in the stone bowl atop the small table by the front door which slammed behind Draeden with more force than he'd intended. Apparently Alexandra had lubricated the hinges. The commotion summoned the woman from the dining room to the right, she was holding in both hands what looked like a bowl of porridge.

"You're back early," she grunted.

"Yeah. What's this?" Draeden asked, lifting a small square package from beside the bowl. He shook it.

"Well, the wrapping is still on it and my x-ray vision doesn't work at this time in the morning, so I don't fucking know, funnily enough."

He frowned and tore at the edge of the packaging, ripping the flap of the bubble-wrapped envelope off. "It's a book," he groaned.

Alex took the package from him and pulled the book out of its packaging. "It's that one you were talking about on Thursday."

"For fuck's sake. Bin it," Draeden said as he headed for the stairs, leaving the book in Alexandra's hands. She withdrew it and looked at the cover. There was some kind of coat of arms; a white shield with an inverted red cross flanked by a fire-breathing dragon at one side and a roaring tiger at the other. Alex sighed and pushed the book under her arm, heading for the dining room with her porridge.

"Definitely ordered the right book," she muttered.

* * *

31st July, 2009

Patrick Martin of the Hayward Daily Review had drawn yet another blank. No-one in the whole city was able to give him any relevant information and the whole task set upon him was becoming more akin to a monolith of failure as the days went by. Since Darksky's amazing reappearance on the 19th of July it had fallen to him to learn more about the elusive man. Attempts to contact him directly had been impossible. Letters sent to his home in Chicago had been ignored, as had been the several messages left for him on his last known cell number. Being a modest 5'3" Patrick hardly leapt out of the crowd at Darksky when he had waited for him outside the warehouse that the Extreme Tournament was being held in. When he had tried that exact tactic Darksky had elbowed him aside with minimal effort and even less consideration; a small, fleshy bump on the road home. He knew that to try and grab Darksky would be suicidal given his disdain for people in general, let alone a pushy reporter.

He'd witnessed the brief exchange between Darksky and the man with the book; he presumed that the man was trying to get an autograph and was brutally shot down. Patrick would have to try a less direct approach at contacting this man, but how?

With a long sigh, Patrick placed his bag down beside his desk and flipped open his notebook. While he waited for it to boot up he pressed the play button on the Dictaphone from his pocket and lay the device down beside the computer. He hated the sound of his own voice but it saved taking inaccurate notes.

"How exactly would you describe Draeden Darksky, personality-wise?" he heard himself ask. A moment of silence passed.

"Hard to say," said The Experts' light technician he'd interviewed recently. His name was Robin Tobin. Unusual, else he'd have forgotten it. Ironically irrelevant since Tobin's name would be omitted from any published article to preserve the anonymity he had requested. He wondered what the man was afraid of. "We don't speak to many of the wrestlers, y'know? They do their thing, we do ours. Apparently Draeden just turns up before his match, wrestles, then leaves. He doesn't speak to anyone, none of the ring crew, interviewers, least of all technicians like me. What we do is purely for the crowd and cameras..."

He'd had more to say but nothing of any value to Patrick. He wound the tape on. The next interview he'd recorded was with one of The Experts' ring crew.

"I dunno if he was on hands-free or something but, like, he was talkin' to himself maybe? Sounded like he was arguing, I dunno who with though," he had said. Ryan, Patrick thought his name was. "Just while he was waiting to fight last week. Only time he ever spoke to me was, like, when he first showed up, y'know, the first round. He asked which way the ring was and I was like, 'dude, ring seats are that way' and he was like, 'no, I need to get to the RING'. I was all like, 'shit man, the ring? It's right over that way', y'know? And off he went, man. Fucked up or what?"

The only thing Patrick thought was 'fucked up' was the fact that he couldn't find any information about this man following his disappearance from the VWF in September and, even then, the VWF refused to provide any information as to his whereabouts at the time. No, he needed to find the fan that had approached Darksky in the car park on Sunday night. He seemed to hold the man's attention for longer than thirty seconds. He must know something... but who was he?

Patrick sighed and switched off the Dictaphone, cutting himself off mid-question.

A monolithic task this would be indeed.

* * *

1st August, 2009

A man's worst enemy is often himself. Draeden Darksky had discovered this fact a mere matter of weeks ago, the inescapable diatribe from the darker recesses of his consciousness had taught him the meaning of self-loathing. The voice that had claimed to be an aspect of his conscience berated him constantly and had done for the whole month, without fail. What interested Draeden was the fact that, in Ireland, it spoke with a voice of reassurance with his preservation apparently in mind. Now that Draeden was in no immediate danger the vocalization of his guilt sought to punish him.

The battered duffel bag landed on the bed of the fine hotel room and Draeden thought back to this time last January, when he still worked for the Viking Wrestling Federation. The very same bag had landed on a tatty old sheet that covered a bed that looked like it'd been a participant in a crack-fuelled gang-bang. Draeden remembered the peeling wallpaper with the damp patch where the roof had leaked, the flaky paint from the ceiling that had transferred to the floor, the carpet that looked like it was covered in dandruff. It had been all he could afford at the time, twenty-five dollars for the night.

For the amount of sleep he'd gotten he may as well have crawled into the skip out back and bought himself a new cowboy hat. He would have to look for that when he got home, come to think of it. The cow-print hat had eluded him for some time now and he knew he hadn't taken it to China with him.

"So," Jack muttered, cutting into Draeden's reminiscence, "who do you get to beat up this week? You're alone now, you can talk to me. You should talk to me when there are people around. They'll be too afraid of you to come near you."

Draeden sighed. "Chester Addison."

"Who's that?"

"I don't know. I've never knowingly met him."

"So you won't feel bad when you gut him?"

Draeden sighed.

"What? I simply echo your own sentiments," Jack said innocently.

"Not quite."

"No, quite. Remember, I'm you. You're I. Your thoughts are mine and vice-versa, as much as it disgusts me to admit it. Tell me, how much are you going to hurt this one? It must be frustrating to know that--"

"Why do you keep asking me questions when you already know my thoughts?"

"I enjoy the conversation."

Somehow Draeden didn't believe him. Could this be a limitation to Jack's knowledge? "Huh, right."

"So what do you have in mind for this one, if not cutting him to shreds? Choke him a bit? Break his nose maybe, get a little blood flowing, liven things up a bit? Maybe you should go out now, get some blood on your hands before the match. It'll help you relax. Don't worry, you won't get caught. You're too good for that," Jack hissed. "You could probably get a few people. It's dark, a Saturday night. Should be a few drunks out there on the street. Easy. Don't deny yourself this simple pleasure, Draeden. Start denying yourself these things and you'll simply cease to exist! A shadow of your former self, you could say."

In silence, Draeden walked to the motel room door and flicked the light switch off. Plunged into darkness he waited for his eyes to adjust before returning to the bed where he sat down.

"What are you doing?" demanded the voice, the tone one of annoyance.

Draeden took a deep breath and, after a few moments, released it again. "Relaxing."

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Meanwhile

Alexandra closed the book, her fingers saving the page she was on as she turned it over and read the summary on the back cover. The words were misleading, they did not match the contents of the book. She opened the pages again, scanning hastily through the words she had read in alarm.

Something about this was not right, but then no-one said that this book was a work of fiction, had they?

Extreme Tournament, part two: Heavy Heart

2009-06-03T01:04:00.000+01:00

"We are still masters of our fate.
We are still captains of our souls."
-Winston Churchill

July 16th, 2009

The great wooden doors that should have been so familiar seemed alien and unwelcoming to Draeden; the cold, lifeless wood naught more than a guardian to repel him just like it would all others who sought entry to Georgia Manor. Draeden noticed the new name plaque beside the doors, a delicately designed brass panel screwed onto an elegant, carved mahogany back. The plaque read "Darksky Manor".

He wondered how long that had been the case.

Though he had been gone for not even a year everything seemed so very different and... not his. The huge house didn't feel like it belonged to him, even the garden had been replanted since he'd left. It was well maintained, Alexandra Raikkonen was a keen gardener. He remembered her talking about all the things she wanted to do with the monstrosity of greenery that surrounded the mansion – plant some trees, put up some hanging baskets, even a sheltered barbecue pit around the back for those lazy Sunday afternoons was in her sights. He wondered if she'd had that fitted yet and his belly growled longingly at the thought. Ciaran's sea rations weren't exactly edible; the man apparently expected them to be on the waves for weeks, or so it would seem, and it was the kind of food for that seemed to have been mummified long before being packaged.

The puppeteer of hesitation grinned and tugged at Draeden's arm strings as he reached out to the door knocker, a dragon with a heavy ring in its teeth. Fear gripped his throat, suffocating his words, sapping his will.

What would he say?

What could he say?

There was little more to be said than the truth. As unbelievable as it was, the truth it would have to be. There was nothing else he could offer his friend other than the solid, pure truth. Without the truth he'd be lost, a fact that was clearer to him than any other now.

A deep breath was taken.

He knocked.

* * *

July 19th, 2009

As the bald man marched past, awash in a sea of silence from spectating superstars, each surprised at his apparent survival of suicide, struggling to succumb to the suggestions the now-suspicious sources of such formerly solid, sensible speculations, Sergeyevich supposed. He was clearly too drunk to speak his thoughts out loud, as this rant in his head would have broached his lips as a similarly intoxicated snake seeking peace in a library. He considered the news, the papers, the TV, experts and eye-witnesses, all claiming to have seen this man dead.

And yet there he walked - Draeden fucking Darksky. Allegedly dead as a dodo, evidently not.

Wait… what about the match?

"I are wrestleses time now, da?" Dimitri managed to slur, only drooling a little in his drunken stupor.

His friend, Aleksandr, looked at him sadly. "Nyet, is too lates comrade. Darksky has fight."

Dimitri vomited into a worn old tyre by his side and pushed himself away from the splashes of vodka-laced spew. Not that it mattered anyway.

"He win?"

"Da."

A curt nod. "Goodses. Agh, gets me outsa heres Aleks... I not feels so goods."

* * *

July 16th, 2009

An eternity seemed to pass while Draeden waited for an answer. What if she was out? Or had sold the property and moved away? So many options, so many possibilities, all of them seemed increasingly likely the more they presented themselves for his consideration. At this rate there would be no-one home. Maybe if there was no answer to the door he could check round the back, maybe come back later or hang around until she showed up.

A thousand thoughts hurtled through Draeden’s head, so much traffic that he was getting a headache. He imagined Alexandra rise from her seat in front of the fire in the old ballroom, close the book she was reading after saving the page with a scrap of card from some junk mail and move towards the huge doors that separated the area that had become the living room from the massive hall. He felt her deceptively fine hands close around the door handle, twist and pull; one of the mighty oak doors swinging open for her to step through. Bare-footed, she crossed the open, empty hall; cold stones underfoot but she paid no heed as she never wore socks or shoes indoors, not even in the winter. The draughty old place caressed her raven hair with a gentle breeze that made him feel warm inside despite the deathly chill that gripped his bones. She reached for the front door, hand gently gripping the handle...

Draeden held his breath, expecting the door to open at any moment.

But it didn’t.

He waited a little longer. Maybe she’d chosen to finish the sentence she was reading?

Still nothing. Maybe the whole paragraph?

The page?

No.

Perhaps she’d forgotten her keys. The great doors were always locked, the mighty oak would move for no-one without keys. She used to forget them all the time. But did she still?

He waited a little longer, but still nothing.

He tentatively reached out with his right hand for the door knocker again, the menacing face of the dragon staring back at him with the fury of a thousand suns in eyes cold and dead in reality. His fingertips touched the cool brass.

The clatter of the iron key being haphazardly shoved into the lock was enough to make Draeden’s hand flinch back in surprise.

He was a bag of nerves.

Throughout the whole journey he had not once been afraid – not since he got his memory back. He wasn’t concerned about fighting Kyrian, or leaving the research facility on a boat that even Robinson Crusoe wouldn’t dare put to sea, much less cross the Atlantic in. Not that crossing the Atlantic was his intention, but that’s what they did none the less. Neither of them had batted an eyelid at the concept, nor had they panicked when the boat began to sink. At no point had Draeden felt a single shred of fear.

Until now.

The door was finally opening, the gap becoming wider and wider. Draeden closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

This was it.

He breathed out.

Opened his eyes.

What the…

Before him stood a broad Hispanic woman in a floral dress and a white pinny. She was drying her hands on a towel. "Hello, can I help?" she asked politely.

"Uh, hi, I'm looking for Alex," Draeden said in an awkward tone, unsure of how he should ask to see the lodger in his own house.

"Can I ask your name?"

"Of course. It's Draeden."

The maid gave him a strange look and nodded, motioning for him to wait. Draeden had no intention of going anywhere. He peered into the mansion through the slowly closing door and noted minor changes – a red runner carpet on the stairs, large plants standing on the floor in huge stone pots, a carpet matching the stairs leading to the old ballroom. Probably a drop in the ocean in comparison to probable changes to the rest of the place. He almost wondered what else had been done, were it not for the deafening roar of the abject terror that screamed in his ear in a frequency that travelled in a jagged line to his heart.

Suddenly the door swung open and there before him stood Alexandra Raikkonen, a baseball bat in hand, the furious urge to use it glinted in her eye, raised the hairs on Draeden's neck.

"Just who the fuck do... you.." she started, trailing off into silence as her eyes locked onto Draeden's own, the unmistakable golden irises sundering the doubt in her heart, cementing in place the knowledge that the man she looked upon was none other than Draeden Darksky.

And just like that, the hate and the rage was gone. The aluminium bat hung loose in her grip for a moment longer before clattering to the floor and rolling noisily down the three steps to the driveway before coming to a halt in the sandy gravel.

A time that was too long passed them by, the two tortured souls gazed upon one another as if they had stumbled upon a doppelgänger.

The young woman launched forward and threw her arms around Draeden's neck, almost knocking him off balance. Not quite the reaction he'd expected, though the bat was halfway right. He held her close and felt her feet lift from the ground, her tears fall upon his neck.

"This can't be real," she whispered. "Can't be."

* * *

July 19th, 2009

No-one followed Draeden through the former offices that composed the backstage area of the warehouse-cum-arena. There was no-one to approach him to ask where he had been for the past year, his demeanour had already seen to that possibility. He hadn't heard the fire exit door slam against the outer wall of the warehouse in his haste to open it, the ringing in his ears now blocked out all sound. The roar of the crowd, the crash of bodies against the warm but unforgiving canvas: the source of his deafness. Or maybe it was his brain trying to make it all add up, trying to shut down non-essential senses in a biological collaboration that would aid him in identifying why he'd just exposed himself to the entire world. The only reason he could bring himself to consider was his sheer, bull-headed stubbornness; his refusal to lie down, to deny eternal slumber as an acceptable alternative to anything but survival.

Still, it was too late to second-guess himself now. He had made the call, he had walked through that ragged curtain and the very sight of him had taken Stevie Swing in a metaphorical choke hold that didn't let go. It had cost her the match.

In hindsight there was an element of unfairness surrounding his match. Who wouldn't have been surprised at the sight of a dead man marching forward, as if lurching forth from his own grave? Irrespective, ghosts couldn't wrestle, Draeden knew this fact first-hand and Stevie Swing was not a stupid woman. She knew this well enough herself and yet her reactions were not quick enough. Draeden dismissed this as the behaviour of an inexperienced, inferior opponent.

Draeden had studied the tournament brackets on his way to Hayward. He worked out that his opponent next week was to be the winner of the match prior to his own - Becky Hellian from the VWF, his former "home" promotion. He wondered if he was still contracted to them. Probably not, seeing as he'd apparently died. There had to be a get-out clause for that in his contract somewhere.

Wrestling on a regular basis did not appeal to Draeden at the moment. He needed a break.

Soon.

His work was not yet done.

His work... To resurrect himself, to become alive once again. The government and its cast-iron grip around the throat of the media was what had killed him in the eyes of the world; the government and the corpse of another man buried in his name. Fuck the bullets, the arrows and the blades, the only thing with his name on that mattered in this world of mass media coverage and instantaneous international communication was the stone-bound obituary that rested atop the pile of disturbed earth under which lay his rotting corpse; the resting place that awaited him once his path in this world ended. Knowing now that there was more to this world than initially met the eye, Draeden had a little more faith in the existence of an afterlife though he was more haunted by the thought than he ever had been before.

It was time to leave. The press may well show up yet and the haggard young fighter didn't relish the thought of answering questions right now. He stood up, bones crunching under newly-awakened muscles that had been in their element in the fight. They had become as liquid, giving his motions a fluency that had kept his opponent reeling – a brutal combination of kicks and elbows had flowed out of him like the broken banks of an overflowing river, unleashed in the heat of the moment.

But now the heat was gone and Draeden felt like he had been working with borrowed time. Maybe he was. He really didn't know about that, but he was running out of time for getting the hell away from the warehouse. He had a flight to catch in a few hours, he certainly intended to be on it.

* * *

July 16th, 2009

"So let me get this straight," Alex started, placing her empty teacup down on the table beside her armchair. "You and Caladan killed Adraloth and lost the Nightblade, then you found Mentari and killed him and yourself with your own sword? But then you didn't die, because your heart wasn't where you thought it was; the government turned up and took you away to a secret off-shore lab near Connecticut so they could probe your brain for knowledge of Ayreon and the whole thing was conducted by the Crimson Legion, who are actually manipulating the US government into this so they can get away with their research; all the while you think the US government is going to hunt you down and kill you under instructions from the Legion, who don't even have a leader anymore because you killed the fuck out of him; then you end up in Ireland, because you decide to go on a nautical adventure, where you get into a fight with a wrestler from TFWF and someone else who's supposed to be dead, and now that you're back you want to go away again and wrestle some stroppy lesbian on the other side of the country? Tell me exactly what it is you've been smoking so I can go out and fucking buy some, because that shit is fucked up."

"That's pretty much the long and short of it," he replied in a flat tone, looking at the cold stone walls. These walls used to be adorned with a variety of decorative weapons; swords that could have once been used to cut men to shreds, dented shields that had deflected attacks and protected the wielder. Not in Draeden's time here, however. No, they had belonged to Marius da'Silva, a former owner of the mansion.

Alexandra shook her head and sighed. "I don't know why I missed you. You bring me headaches. Migraines. All these crazy stories."

"'Stories?' After everything we've been through, you don't believe me?"

"Oh, I never said I didn't believe you, the truth's not in question at all! You have an uncanny knack of having all these shitty things happen to you and then you just go ahead and forget to stop and recover from the last thing and walk straight into the next."

"I'd forgotten how much complaining you do."

"Yeah well I've got almost a year's worth of gripes to throw at you so you'd better God damn listen!" she berated, smiling sleepily.

Draeden did not reply, he simply looked back at her with soft eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," Alex said coyly.

Draden's face slowly cracked into a smile of his own. "I missed you."

"Yeah, I missed you too."

There was a silence borne of tension. Alex sensed it and said, "So when do you leave for the Extreme Tournament?"

"It's on Sunday, so Saturday morning."

She sighed and returned her attention to the teacup, swirling the dregs of Darjeeling around the bottom. "Right."

"I'll be back on Monday. Probably permanently, I don't see myself winning this," Draeden muttered.

The woman seated before him rolled her eyes. "No, you'll be back there the next week. You'll be back because you won't lose, despite everything you've been through. But Jesus Christ, you look like shit…"

"Thanks," he interjected.

She ignored him and continued, "…but there isn't a doubt in my mind that you can win that tournament. But why are you doing it? I thought you didn't care about the True Expert title anyway? Let Level One or whoever has it these days keep it."

"I don't care about the title, but everyone in the world who watches wrestling will see that I'm still alive, that I'm not dead." He shifted uncomfortably in the leather armchair. His muscles ached, they had barely been used since May. "Have you heard from Caladan?"

"Yeah, once. I think he left a note at the door. It said, 'The Crusader of Sacrifice will not be returning from China. Upon a bed of stone he lies, sheets of crimson. A broken heart, impaled on the manifestation of his soul, of his purpose, slain by his own hand to guide a world shrouded in darkness to a brighter future. His journey is at an end now, his mind is at peace; the price is paid in blood and the Crusade is over.'"

"You memorized that?"

"I couldn't stop reading it. I got it on the 2nd of May; it was pinned to Marius' knife. I knew what it was saying but I didn't know what it meant," she said, trying to articulate her thoughts but failing, she suspected. "Y'know?"

"I know what you mean. It meant that, in death, I had succeeded in stopping the Legion." He sighed. "But seeing as I'm still alive then the prophecy can't be complete and the Crimson Legion will still succeed."

"In what?"

Draeden shook his head. "I still don't know. I suppose I'll find out, these things have a habit of coming back to haunt me."

A few minutes of silence passed between the two friends as they both stared into the fire.

So many feeings to share, so few words with which to do so.

* * *

July 17th, 2009

Draeden walked the surprisingly long distance to his bedroom in complete darkness. It was not familiarity of the place that guided him safely to the room but his unnatural ability to see in the dark. A perk of having weird yellow eyes, he supposed. He probably should have switched the lights on for Alex but he just didn't think, he was that used to leaving the lights off and Alex always went to bed before he did anyway.

His mind raced. He wondered what the world had in store for him now that he was free of the Ancient Ones' prophecy. But was he truly free?

Yes.

Because he would walk his own path from now on. To Hell with Destiny. But this path, in what direction did it lead? Would it take him into the shadows or into the light?

He would soon find out.

No.

He would soon decide.

There was no doubt in his mind that, after his appearance on Sunday night on live television at one of the most eagerly-anticipated wrestling events of the year, Draeden would soon be noticed.

The young fighter opened the door to his bedroom. It was exactly as he had left it, only dustier. At the back of the room in the middle of the wall was the four-poster bed that had some long-forgotten coat of arms motif carved into the foot rest. Beside this were two mahogany bedside tables. A visitor would note that there were no lamps and would discover that the light hanging from the ceiling did not work, the bulbs had expired long ago. These had gone unnoticed by Draeden due to the lack of their necessity. Along the wall to the right was a display case containing an array of weapons with which Draeden was trained in the use of. Daito, naginata, sai, nunchuku, kama, shuriken; instruments of death he had collected since moving to America all those years ago. Handy, should an intruder try to steal all of his stuff, though the last time that'd happened there had been no use for the tools.

Draeden rolled onto the bed, ignoring the unsettled dust in the air. He remembered that night all too well. The former kidnapper of the woman in his care had returned to... to what? Kidnap her again? Kill her? Draeden didn't know and would never find out, though it was not a question that lurked at the forefront of his mind awaiting an answer. He had sent the man packing with a fresh gash across his face, had Draeden simply killed Bonez where he stood then his trip with Samantha Emerson to Legacy Plaza would've been somewhat uneventful. No rush to the rooftop of Legacy Tower, no dramatic showdown between Alex McGregor, the Crimson Shadow, and his attempted murderer.

"Oh, but how much fun would that have been? There was almost two deaths that day, remember? You almost cut that Liam Yoshio to shreds. No fooling around for you, oh no," came the familiar voice in its usual mocking tone. Draeden ignored it. "You know, you might have a serious problem. You just can't help killing people, can you? It's all you have ever known and all you will ever be – a killer! One day you'll see that. One day you will realise that there will be no peace for you and you must succumb to your, shall we say, 'violent tendancies'. After all, who walks away from a life of competitive slaughter and into one of yet more fighting? Me, now I would have stopped all that right there. Go to college, get a proper education. Get a job that didn't involve hurting people because all this fighting is just making me si--"

"Shut up, Jack," Draeden said in a low growl.

"Ah! You can't shut me up, old friend, you should know that!"

"I'm not your friend. I don't even know what you are."

"Well, I suppose you're right there, in saying that I am not your friend. I'm simply you, the part of yourself you've repressed for your whole life. I'm the voice of reason when you seek to unsheathe your sword and the punching bag for the reasoning of what you do. I'm the blood on your hands, the nagging feeling of regret that you ignore when a corpse lies at your feet. Now I'm here, here to teach you that what you've done is wrong."

"I don't need you to teach me anything, I know that all those deaths in China were wrong. It was by my hand that those men died."

"But what was it you always told me? You didn't make them fight you. They walked to their deaths willingly, didn't they? And if you died someone else would simply take your place in the eternal cycle of the arena pits. Hah! You almost had me going – almost! But you can't convince me, you can't blind me to the truth behind your lies. You loved killing people. You still do, I feel the tingle of joy as it reaches out me in your mind when you even so much as think about and it disgusts me. What about those people in Connecticut, hmm? You haven't felt an ounce of remorse for them since you killed them all."

"I didn't kill anyone! Only Kyrian, and he was Crimson Legion. He had to die. Him and all of his kind need to be removed from this world."

"And the cycle begins again. You cling to necessity over reason as if it were your saviour, your guiding light, but in reality it just enables you to enact this violence. Within you is the same twisted reasoning that turns men into wife beaters and child abusers. The sooner you start thinking it's a necessity the sooner you'll start blackening eyes. You might as well just walk right back down those stairs and put your fist to Alexandra's face; prepare her for the life she'll have to submit to if she wants to be around someone like you," Jack said in a matter-of-fact tone. Draeden tried to ignore him but there was no escaping the voice in his mind. "Beaten and bloodied, she'll still love you and she'll be so scared of what you'd do to her if she tried to leave you that she'd be by your side forever, flinching in terror every time you raise your hand, jumping at each and every shadow and loud noise. She'll be a wreck, but she'll still worship the ground you walk on. Just like she does now. Why don't you go downstairs and take her? It's what she's waiting for after all. It's what she wants. Oh, she might fight you at first, but she'll give in eventually, once you soften her up a bit and--"

"No!"

"--after a while she'll expect it. She won't leave, she'd nev--"

"Shut up!"

"--eave you, she loves you! She'd love to be your human punch bag, give her what she wants, exactly what she expects--"

"No!"

"...from a murdering piece of shit like you!"

"Fuck you! Get out of my fucking head! Get out! GET OUT!" Draeden had curled into a foetal position, shouting into his knees to muffle his cries while the laughter in his head continued. His hands covered his ears but he couldn't shut out the bitter cackle of a twisted mind. "You aren't me. You're nothing like me."

"Oh, I am you. I'll help you survive all this, I'll guide you through every challenge you ever face. But you will not forget the evils you have committed. Murderer."

And the laughter was gone.

* * *

July 25th, 2009

The path ahead seemed longer than before, reflective of Draeden's subconscious wish never to leave the mansion, his sanctuary He had said his farewells to Alexandra and made promise to return after the match as soon as he was able, a promise he fully intended to keep. It would be harder this time, he knew. His arrival was anticipated now, it was known by all that he'd be there which made him vulnerable to those who might seek to cause him harm.

He was not looking forward to this.

The huge cast-iron gate at the end of the gravel path seemed so much further away than it had done previously. They marked the beginning of Draeden's newest plight, the commencement of his next challenge; beyond them awaited the cab that'd take him to the airport that'd see him safely to California for his next battle in the Extreme Tournament against Becky Hellian. He still had no idea who she was and still had no inclination to care. He would make this as quick and painless as possible, then come back home.

He reminded himself that he took no pleasure in this.

The duffel bag in his right hand grew heavier and heavier the further he walked, the more steps towards his goal he took the more difficult it became. Ignoring the anchor he dragged alongside himself Draeden carried on moving forward, sparing a glance over his shoulder to the great mansion at his back. The open portal to the building dwarfed Alex as she stood, arms crossed, watching Draeden leave.

He wished he could walk right back to her and never leave again.

The gate swung open with ease and clanged shut with Draeden on the other side.

He looked back to the mansion with a heavy heart, one final time, before getting into the taxi. Alexandra was gone now, and the empty windows of Darksky Manor waved him goodbye.

Extreme Tournament, part one: New Beginning

2009-06-02T01:02:00.000+01:00

"This are nice, comrade, very nice," Dimitri said, smiling at the air steward. His name was Stuart. Did that make him an air Stuart? Ha. "Last times I in air was in Antonov AN-124. Not so comfys like this!"

The steward was clearly uninterested, but he said anyway, "Oh, really?"

"Da, is like fly on bus with wings. Eighty-eights passenger, drunken pilot, drunkener co-pilot and Jeep in cargo holds. Smooth ride, pitys in big circles," he said, demonstrating the circular motion with his hands, almost battering the sleeping Rasta-looking man to his right in the side of the head.

"I see."

"Nothings like this at alls. How longs to Californias, comrade?" Dimitri asked the bored man, who looked at his watch.

"We land at three-fifteen, so about an hour, sir," Stuart drawled.

"Wow, reallys? This faster thans AN-124! You nots carrying Jeeps in hold, nyet?"

"Uh, no sir, no we aren't..."

"Alrights then, this are probably whys. Can you gets me a vodka?" he asks with a grin.

The steward looked at the one he'd just brought. "But, uh, you still have this one."

"By time you walks away I will have finishes. Do you having bottles, comrade? Save times for us all."

"We sell miniatures at four dollars apiece, sir."

"Apiece! How much for all of one?"

The steward laughed. Dimitri did not. "No, seriouslys."

"Oh, uh, apiece means 'each.'"

"Oh. Whys you not say that?"

"I thought you knew that."

"It clear I did not, mutak*. Are tryings to make fool of me, eh? Fucking racist capitalist pig bastard! I fucking kill you!"

(*Russian: "asshole")

The few other passengers look over, disturbed by the racket while Stuart tries to keep the peace and avoid a scene. "Look, sir, it was an honest mistake. I'm not trying to offend you. I promise. I just assumed you'd know what I meant by 'apiece.'"

"Is dirty capitalist word, I stab to death with own spectacles if you says again. Understandings?" Dimitri growled.

"I understand and apologise, sir."

"Apolo-whats?"

"Apologise. It means--"

"I KNOW WHAT FUCKING APOLOGY IS! You thinking I not know this? I just not hearings you! Get out of face before I learning you how to fly without the plane, da?"

"Da, uh, yes sir," Stuart stammered as he backed away slowly. After turning round and walking away up the aisle, he sighed a sigh of relief.

The man who was sleeping opened an eye and looked at Dimitri. He sat upright and pushed his hoodie off himself, tucking it down beside himself in the chair. "What you have do thats for, Dimitri? You gettings us into troubles!"

"Gah, bullshits! I not get us troubles Aleksandr, just having funs," Dimitri protested. "Is probably most interestingly thing is happen to kid in months. Give him somethings to talks about!"

The dreadlocked man barked a laugh, then hiccupped. "Da, somethings to talk to therapist about after you makings him terrify for life!"

"Spoilsport, Aleks! You needs drink more, becoming miserable in old ages."

"Miserable nothings, Dimitri! You threaten to kill him, he just a kid!" argued Aleks. "Oh, what the fuck am I sayings, who cares? Hey, will he brings you that vodka? I harass hims too when he get back. Uh oh."

The man's head flopped down and his eyes closed. Dimitri blinked. It was as if he was asleep. "Aleks?"

No response.

Dimitri looked to his other side. There was a man there, he startled the Russian. "Agh! Where dids you comes from?"

The man looked to be in his mid-thirties and extremely unhappy with his life. He frowned at Dimitri and showed him his ID. "Stan Temple, US Air Marshal. Any problems I should know about, sir?"

"Me? No comrade, minding own businesses," Dimitri chuckled innocently.

"I heard the contrary, sir. Now, if you'll just like to continue the rest of the flight in a peaceful manner you won't have to do it in cuffs. Y'hear me?"

"I am hearings you."

"Good. Don't let me catch you causin' trouble again."

"Oh, you won't!"

The Marshal turned away.

"For longs," muttered Aleksandr. "So whys do we have to goes to Californias?"

"Aleks, is obvious! Prestige! Golds! Moneys! I don't really knows! All The Rick is tells me that I have to go because guy booked to fight not able to go."

"Oh, why nots?"

Dimitri shook his head. "Ah, he are deads. You remembers other month when VWF get fan letter about dead superstar?"

"Dimitri, I not remember why we having conversations. But go on," the dreadlocked man said.

"Well it letters about for Dreaded Dusky or somethings. This shit all his fault, if he nots dead then maybes we sits at home in Chicago drinkings fine vodka, eats pizza and reminisce abouts glory days of Motherland," moaned Dimitri, throwing back the glass of vodka.

"Like whats we are do every other weeks, Dimitri."

"Yeah wells..." Dimitri literally throws the vodka glass back over his shoulder, prompting a surprised cry from a passenger a few rows behind them. "Nothing goings to brings him back from beings deaded now, comrade. Inconsiderate bastard could at leasts have nominate someone else to do wrestle match insteads of me. What a motherfuckers, eh?"

"Bastard," agreed Aleks. "So what are plan? Who is to face in first match in place of lazy mutak who too deads to fight, huh?"

"Some guy called Stevie--" Dimitri began, interrupted by a noise beside him.

"I said, 'hey asshole!'" the big man that was standing there shouted.

Dimitri looked up at the large, bearded man that stood at his side, stooping down under the low ceiling. "Oh, helloes asshole, what cans I do for you?"

"You threw your fucking glass at my wife!"

"I assures you, comrade, that this are not truth."

"What the fuck!?" the man screamed in disbelief. "I fucking watched you! I fucking sat there and watched you throw that shit. Now you'd better fucking apologise or you'll be wearing your ass for a hat!"

The Air Marshal appeared behind the angry gentleman. "What's goin' on here? You again! Didn't I tell you to behave?"

"Some sense at last! Officer, this fucking Commie threw his drink at my wife!"

Dimitri and Aleksandr both turned around in their seats and saw the woman in question angrily scowling at them from a few rows back. Dimitri turned back to the husband.

"Hmm, I have something else I like to throw at wife of yours," he said.

"Ah yes, definitely the six outs of tens. I would hit it," added Aleks.

The raging husband moved in for the kill but the Marshal grabbed him. "Hey! I'll fucking kill you, fucking God-damn Eurotrash!"

"Alright, alright, seven outs of tens!" Aleks amended. "Does this qualifys for 'would plough like there are no tomorrows,' Dimitri?"

"Now that's enough!" the Marshal shouted.

Dimitri ignored him. "Nyet, that are eight. Nine is 'would hit like iron fist of Stalin' and ten is 'would needs Chinook to pull me out of that!' She are definitelys not tens."

"Ah, how coulds I forget! But what are sevens?"

"I'm warning you," the Marshal, uh, warned.

"Hmm... I think is 'would happily get into fight on plane for,' Aleks."

"Ah, I gets you comrade," replied his friend, nodding slowly. Aleksandr's fist launched past Dimitri and thumped into the angry husband's stomach, doubling him over. Dimitri smashed his knee into the man's face as he stood up, throwing a punch at the Air Marshal. The Marshal took a glancing blow to the jaw, knocking him off balance while the husband staggered and fell.

"Now whats?" Aleks shouted.

Dimitri pushed the off-balance officer over. "Run!"

The pair darted towards the front of the plane, their audience of horrified passengers simply watched them pass. Dimitri slid past an air hostess, narrowly avoiding knocking her over.

"That's an eight!"

They reached the cockpit but didn't stop running. Dimitri slams into the door... and bounces right off, landing in a heap on the floor. Aleks jumped over him to avoid standing on him and hit the door himself. He turned around and helped Dimitri to his feet.

"Fuck and hells Aleks, do doors usually nots open when you slams into them?"

"Only on TV it seem, or with ram of batterings."

"Bastard, if only we haves the ram of batterings." They looked up the aisles. The Marshal was coming. "We need plan quick!"

Behind them, the door opens and a pilot sticks his head out. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Aleks grinned and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him out of the cockpit and throwing him onto the floor. "Quick Dimitri, get ins!"

They hurried into the cockpit and slammed the door behind them. The co-pilot turned around. "You shouldn't be back here!"

"We know!" they yelled.

* * *

"In other sports news, the brackets for the Extreme Tournament, hosted by The Experts, were announced yesterday; the competition promises to be the most violent yet. Spike Johnson, the man behind the brutal wrestling tournament..."

Draeden stopped listening to the TV and returned his attention to the large glass in front of him.

"You jus' gonna stare at that? You're meant t' drink it, so you are, not examine it," the barman complained.

Draeden had travelled further north-east to Cork since his encounter with Scorpio and Jason Blade. A blessing, as here in one of Ireland's major cities he could actually understand what the locals were saying. "I'll get there," was his eventual response.

"When? Christmas? Ha ha!"

The young man looked up to the barman and smiled. Something he had not done in some time. He took a long drink of the black stout and almost spat it back into the glass, were it not bad etiquette. It was free, after all.

"Well?"

"Nice," Draeden managed, "very nice. What is it?"

"Me own make. Called Shadowbrew," the barman proudly announced. "Cool, eh?"

"Very cool. What's in it? Is that... chocolate?"

"Agh, you guessed my secret ingredient! Don't tell no-one, alright?" The man grinned. "Not even that lassie o' yours, eh?"

"Er, no. Don't worry about it."

The two men fell silent; the barman returned to the sports pages of his newspaper and Draeden’s eyes fell upon the chocolatey Shadowbrew, his thoughts wandering to whether dying of thirst would be preferable to chocolate beer. It was likely.

His ears pricked up at the sound of his name being mentioned. He looked up to the television.

"…in a controversial mistake that has received a lot of bad press in the short time since the match was announced. Spike Johnson made the following statement to address the blunder."

The screen then showed a static image of a skinhead with a goatee and pierced ears with another voice, presumably Spike’s since it sounded like a dog eating gravel, piped in. "It has been brought to my attention that there has been an administrative error between my team at The Experts and The VWF. Draeden Darksky was booked in advance to participate in the Extreme Tournament and had not been removed from our list of participants upon his death, causing him to appear on the card for the Extreme Tournament that was published on the 12th July 2009. The card has since been amended and The VWF are sending Dimitri Sergeyevich who will fight in his place. I offer sincerest apologies to Draeden’s friends and family for any offense or upset this mistake has caused."

* * *

The trap door slammed shut behind the two Russians and they crawled along the access duct underneath the passengers’ seating area, parachutes in hand.

"Was nice of pilot mans to give us parachutes," Aleks commented. "Remember Kosovo?"

"Da, that were good times! But pilot gived us parachute because he frightened when you says you would 'wring his scrawny capitalist scum neck.' That was probablys what changed his minds for him," Dimitri said with a grin as he crawled towards the rear of the plane.

"Whats are he said to do with wheels again?"

"Override landings controls. It wills make wheels of plane drop and give us space to gets out."

"Ah yes. Times to fly again, da?"

"Indeed comrade! We should find cases too."

"Da, can’t waste all of vodkas!"

* * *

"Don't you have a key?" the Air Marshal growled at the pilot as the man banged on the cockpit door.

The lanky pilot stopped and produced a key card from under his shirt. "Oh yeah!"

The Marshal facepalmed.

* * *

The news report continued while Draeden looked on in sheer amazement. The newsreader, tidily dressed in a pinstripe suit, spoke the words Draeden had never expected to hear in the flat, matter-of-fact tone that newsreaders used in situations like this – describing deaths, accidents, tragedies. The usual.

"Draeden Darksky died in what could only be described as a 'ritual suicide' conducted in Foshan, China. He was discovered on the 4th of May this year with another man who has not yet been identified," the woman revealed.

She may have continued speaking but Draeden stopped listening. His picture was on the screen. He heard movement behind him and looked over his shoulder. Jennifer Archer stood watching the screen, a look of horror on her face. Her eyes broke away from the screen and met Draeden’s own. The barman saw this and looked to the screen, then back at Draeden.

"Fuckin' hell," he mumbled.

But Draeden and the doctor said nothing. Archer could not look away from Draeden’s face. The harsh, unbreakable expression that had covered his face over the past few weeks had faded away, all that remained was the sorrowful, hollow gaze of a man who had just learnt of his own mortality. To Draeden, it was one thing to die on your own terms and another entirely to find out that you have been killed. Slain, now, by false media coverage fed out by whatever government agency is pulling the strings in the operation he and Jessica had been part of, Draeden knew not what to do next. He could slip back into the shadows and live the rest of his life in peace... or he could clamber into the light and expose the government that condemned him to death for the sake of research.

But what would that achieve?

He saw Jessica's lips moving but heard no voice. He could hear nothing, in fact.

"Now there's something you don't hear every day," came Jack's voice, a whisper in Draeden's mind. "What do you suppose we do now? If we show our face now we'll be killed, surely. But if we don't... then we will have nothing. All that work, the fighting, the pain. For nothing. Can you live with that? I know I can. Jason Blade and Scorpio won't hold their silence forever. Sooner or later they'll talk, and they'll all find out we're alive. And then our problems will begin anew. Will you deal with that? How can you?"

Draeden ignored Jack and shook himself out of the trance he'd entered, regaining eye contact with Archer. "Wh-what?"

"I just asked if you were okay, that's all," she said, her face was the very picture of Draeden's own thoughts. "You must be... God, I don't know how you must feel right now."

"I'll live," he replied, allowing himself a humourless chuckle at the irony of that statement. "But I need to get to Chicago. Quickly."

A voice from behind Draeden made him turn slowly. "I might be able to help you out there, fella..."

Draeden's eyes narrowed on the barman.

* * *

So the two Russians made it to the cargo bay and back; they had dragged a suitcase full of vodka along with them. The two men checked each others parachutes with the military precision by which they were trained so many years ago, tugging on loose straps to secure the packs. Dimitri unzipped the case and pulled a bottle of vodka out. He unscrewed the cap and dropped it onto the landing gear hatch.

"Ready comrade?" he asked.

Aleksandr nodded.

"Then we go. Open hatch!"

"Uh, Dimitri," Aleks began carefully, "I not knowings how to do this."

"WHAT?!"

"I thoughts you were goings to do this bit."

"Shits and piss! I has not any idea! So what does we does now, Aleks? Dids you bring C4? We can blow hole in bottom of plane!"

"Uh, that nots probably good idea Dimitri. You know, make plane crash... Americans do not likes terrorisms these days."

"Fine, you thinks of somethings better!"

"Well, uh, whys don't we maybe break little doors for wheel to go outs of, then climbs out? That not makes plane crash, right?

Dimitri sighed. "You'd betters hopes not, Aleksandr!"

"Don't worry, will be fines! You just see!" Aleks promised, climbing down onto the landing gear hatch. Holding onto the wheel itself, Aleks jumped up and down, slamming his weight down on the doors. The doors began to buckle.

"Is working, Aleks!"

"Great! How are much more does you thinks it need?"

Dimitri looked at the bent doors.

"Maybe a few more time!"

"Okay!" the man said before leaping up and smashing his feet onto the doors again. "Just say whens I ..."

"Aleks!" Dimitri shouted as the small trap door burst open, Aleksandr disappearing from sight. Dimitri ran over and looked out through the hole. He could see nothing, just a small black shape slowly getting smaller. The remaining Russian crossed his arms and dropped head-first out through the hole and into the great blue sky.

* * *

Maybe this wasn't it. Maybe China was the start of a new beginning, the opening paragraph of an entirely new story.

Maybe this one will have a happier ending.

The start hadn't been too bad so far. Fairly happy, in fact. Apart from Draeden finding out that the world had been informed that he was a dead man. This occurrence had all but killed him in truth. He would've happily forgotten about everything right there and then, but three things made this impossible - Jason Blade, Scorpio and Alexandra Raikkonen. Blade and Scorpio were amazed to see him alive and Draeden now knew why, but Alex had no idea he was here. She had no clue that he was alive; as his only true friend Draeden owed it to her to let her know what was happening, in person. She had to hear the truth from him.

On the first page of this new book Draeden had washed ashore in the safest place he could possibly be. Ireland. The furthest away from any of his troubles as physically possible, given the circumstances. Another stroke of good luck. The woman who'd helped him to escape from his captors in Connecticut had survived too and, for some reason, she had stuck with him despite her better judgement. Anyone in their right mind would have run as fast and as far as possible to escape the nightmare that had followed Draeden all his life. As much as Draeden had been a creature of solitude for the majority of his life, he needed her help now more than ever, at least until he got back on his feet, and that meant going back to America.

With another turn of a page, Draeden had found himself in a peculiar little bar near Cork. He couldn't recall seeing a sign on the outside of the building, but the name of the place was irrelevant. Ciaran O'Donnell was the name of the proprietor, a young man with amazingly good business sense and an adventurous spirit. After recognising Draeden Darksky (only after he was announced dead, but whatever) he offered to sail Draeden and Archer to America on his boat. As much as this was a mighty task, Ciaran didn't seem to mind.

"I'd always wanted to go to the aul U.S. of A., y'know? Somethin' me aul man wanted to do but 'e never managed. Well I got a boat, an' not some scruffy aul fishin' boat neither," were the smiling man's words. The comment about the boat stirred anger in Draeden for some reason, but he ignored it. "Aye, I'll take you guys where you're goin', no bother. 't'll be fun."

And so it was decided. The three would leave in the morning for the States.

The thought of getting on another boat and setting off onto the Atlantic sent a chill down Draeden's spine, but he was not one to shy away from that which scared him to his core, not anymore. He had stared death in the face, felt the icy touch of skeletal hands closing about his own to lead him into the next world, beyond Earth, Ayreon and Kartheon, and whatever else existed on this plane. No, he was going somewhere else, but not yet. Death had been denied this prize, the one it had sought for so long - Draeden Darksky. The unkillable Crusader of Sacrifice. It was a bit early to be saying things like that, too early at 25 years of age. He reminded himself to look back upon this moment if he ever saw 50 to maybe speak that thought out loud. Maybe then he'd get away with it. If he didn't it wouldn't matter so much, then. No need to tempt Fate, that particular demon would please itself regardless of what he said.

Well not this time.

* * *

By now, Jane Rice thought she'd seen everything. As a news photographer she had come into contact with a lot of unusual sights and, naturally, she had taken pictures of them. But this..? Well this just took the biscuit.

A steady flow of dripping clear liquid fell from the suitcase. Jane had allowed some to drop onto her hand. She smelt it.

"Petrol?"

Kennedy Park's visitors had gathered around the bizarre but amusing sight, though none of them seemed inclined to investigate further, excluding Jane. She had thought that the people would have rushed to help the two men, but she herself wasn't sure what to think. They both appeared to be asleep. They certainly weren't dead, as the one with the suitcase kept muttering about 'destroying the capitalist scum' and the other lifted the empty bottle he clutched to his face and tried to drink from it.

Maybe sleep was what they needed.

Whatever. The important question that bounced around in Jane's mind was why these two men were hanging from a tree by their parachutes.

* * *

Standing on the rickety wooden dock, Draeden looked out towards the sea and scratched his stubbly head. He hoped it wouldn't be long before the hair grew back, this look was not him. The waves crashed against the sea wall behind him as the wind accosted him with unending vigour. Draeden ignored the great ocean's threat to him. If this boat were to sink then he'd simply have to walk the rest of the way across the sea bed. Nothing was going to stop him from reaching his goals.

Alexandra Raikkonen.

And the Extreme Tournament.