Call me Ahab.
The city at mid-afternoon looks like it will just crumble at any moment. Bring it on. Being in other countries such as Canada, England, and Spain makes you realize just how disgusting this cesspool of a continent appears. The same is true for all who inhabit it. Little ants, running around their concrete pathways, using technological toys that either made them feel like they matter or completely shut out the world.
All of them, on the verge of extinction. Neutered cats. Nothings. Their deaths are imminent, and they don't even have a clue. And neither do those who have signed on with Legion.
Doughty drew closer with each step. I could almost feel myself being pulled, as if by an invisible rope. There was no going back now.
I'd been walking for the last thirty minutes, after having taken a break from walking the city streets to eat alone and review the dossier. The wait gave me plenty of time to do just that. Forty-five minutes just to get a table. Another thirty minutes for food to arrive. It was an odyssey unto itself. On any other day, the thought of stabbing someone's throat with a broken beer bottle would've been bouncing around in my head as if it were nothing more than the happy refrain of a song. Would I really do it? Probably not. It's not that I'm morally against stabbing. Hell, I once stabbed someone during a wrestling match. But we're veering off point quickly.
The dossier.
Thumbing through and scanning papers quickly about the staff -- Russel David, James Boyd, Sonja Duke, the Fourth Man -- wasn't all that interesting at the moment. There would be plenty of time for that later after the meeting. Eventually, one name on one piece of paper stopped my progress.
One name.
Five letters.
Alias.
Just upon seeing the Pulp Hero's name, the left side of my lip curled into an unconscious snarl. Clutching my fork with a clawed right hand, I couldn't help myself from stabbing the four metal points right into the black letters on the white sheet of paper.
Ours was a war that began many years ago. And it has not gone well for me. Constantly, Alias upstages me. It's driving me to the verge of madness. Alias has become my white whale, so I have become Ahab. Conquering Alias is my life's work.
Oh, but it didn't end there. After turning over the Alias page, another dark chapter of my life slapped me in the face.
Mary-Lynn Mayweather.
We aren't strangers. I owe her pain. Her (and High Flyer) cost me a world championship. Just seeing her name made it feel like that royal fuckover happened yesterday. I hate yesterday almost as much as today, but not quite as much as tomorrow.
More names floated past my eyes. I know of many of them, but haven't competed against any of them before.
Rune Winters? That beast? Hope he brings his shovel.
By the end of lunch, I knew all the players. I knew all the pawns.
Now it was time to meet my contact. The one who's trying to manipulate the entire outcome of the game before it even begins.
Doughty and Everit.
Church of Fight.
I had arrived.
