I had turned the corner onto 13^th street at 5^th avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and came across five people milling about outside Lucky 13 Saloon, smoking cigarettes.

At least, I assume they’re cigarettes. The people who smoke the other stuff usually walk up a few feet into the darkness.

Not much, Tim, I said, meeting someone here tonight for business.

Tim let the cigarette hang from his lips as he stepped toward me and gave me a hug. He DJ’s here on Thursday nights, mainly because he lives three blocks away and it’s an easy night for him.

“You and your business,” said Tim, “Just flippin’ relax tonight, dude.”

He didn’t say ‘flippin’ either, but by now I’m sure you’ve figured out that I’m applying a filter to my night.

Tim was a mainstay of the underground Metal community in New York City, and Brooklyn in particular. He knew everyone, from Juliya to the boys in Killcode, to Otep, to Marilyn Manson, to Jimmy Duff, to the girls in Kittie, to Sum 41 of all bands, and the list could probably continue indefinitely. But he was happy – I hesitate to say content – doing his local DJ gigs every night of the week.

Thursdays was Lucky 13’s, like I said.

Who’s here, I said, even though I could just as easily go inside and see.

“It’s dead,” said Tim, “Joey James is supposed to be on his way, and I talked to Willow before, she said she was coming out which means Michele probably will, too.”

Willow and Michele were both locals, good kids and talented photographers. Joey James, on the other hand, was an amazingly talented artist who has done work for Otep, Type O Negative, Duff’s Brooklyn, and a bunch of people I’ve forgotten. Not to mention his Los Angeles billboard.

Cool, I said, will see you inside, sir.

I pulled the door open and was greeted with the sounds of ‘The American Dream’ by Walls of Jericho. Good song, but incredibly heavy. I met Chris and Candace when they last swept through New York, and they were cool folks, but she was far too angry on record.

She makes Miss Ivy look like a hippie, if you get my drift.

Hey Jen, I said, as I stepped toward the bar. I kneeled on one of the barstools and leaned over the divider so I could give the girl a hug.

“What’s going on, Knox?” asked Jen, “How’s your better half been?”

Working, I replied, all the time. But she’s off next Thursday and told me she wants to do the Brooklyn tour and see everyone again.

“Cool,” said Jen, getting down to business, “What can I get you?”

Amstel, I replied. That’s my home – away –f rom – home drink, since most bars in NYC don’t carry Dos Equis.

Jen fished the bottle out of the cooler, and in one smooth motion, popped the lid, pulled a coaster from the stack on the bar, and placed coaster and beer in front of me. I dropped a ten and waved her off.

Yeah, the beer was five bucks and I left five for Jen. Tip your bartenders, people.

“So how’ve you been?” asked Jen, “I heard you got hurt.”

Hesitation.

As if talking about it could make it happen.

Yeah, I hurt my back before wrestling at Coop’s, of all places, I said, but I’m fine now. I’m actually meeting up with someone in the biz tonight.

“Cool,” replied Jen, “So we’ll see you on TV again soon?”

I don’t think these guys are on TV, I said, but yeah, I’ll be getting back to work soon which means pain in strange places and more classified crap.

Her eyes went wide.

Joke – things, I said, Pain happens, but it’s just post – match stiffness. Long as I don’t push it, I should be fine.

Tim reentered the bar and made a beeline for his DJ equipment. The song was coming to an end and he quickly changed tracks.

Otep. Crooked Spoons. Of course it is.

So I’m waiting for this guy to come in, I said, he’s this old school journalist that’s gonna be involved with the new group I’m starting with. Has anyone been in here looking for me tonight?

“No, not that I know of,” replied Jen.

I nodded and leaned back to see what was on television. Looks like The Thirst, a truly horrible vampire movie. Lucky’s was always good for a few things: good music and bad movies. But it’s a law of nature, the only thing better than a good horror movie is a bad one.

“Impulse?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, but I knew who it was. Randall Knox, I said, as I turned around, you must be Russel David?

The man in front of me nodded and extended his hand, which I shook.

“Jamison, neat,” said Russ to Jen, which made me chuckle. The bar was fully stocked, but I was always amused whenever someone ordered something other than a beer or a shot.

Let’s move to a table, I said, gesturing to the sea of them in the middle of the floor, and you can tell me what this is all about.

“Basically,” said Russ, “myself and a few partners and investors are bringing Legion back to life. You know the history of the organization?”

Dude, I said, You called me because you apparently knew about me, so you should know the answer to that.

The answer to that, by the by, is that I know the history of any organization that shows the slightest interest in me, and the history of any organization that I’ve got the slightest interest in working for.

Who else is on the roster, I asked.

“Well, we just released some information on Mike Randa—“

I’m in, I interrupted.

“—lls. Wait, what?”

I’m in, I repeated. I want to be a part of Legion.

“Well, alright then,” said Russ, as he raised his glass and clacked it against my bottle, “I don’t have the paperwork with me but I’ll give you a call in a few days.”

Maybe it was strange that all it took for me to want to be part of Legion were the words ‘Mike’ and ‘Randalls’ but it had been two years since I’ve seen him, and had some things to talk to him about.

Nobody knows about this, but before NFW Wrestlestock 2, I couldn’t sleep, so I went wandering though the desert and came across a bonfire, and a man and a woman sitting around it.

Angel, lead singer of Valerian’s Garden, the de – facto headliner of record for the musical portion of Wrestlestock, and Mike Randalls himself. As far as I can tell, nobody knew he was there except for the three of us.

And he might not even have been there; I don’t remember going back to the tent with Rosie, and I couldn’t find the site the next day, so it might’ve just been a dream.

But I don’t know.

They both gave me some advice that night; good advice that’s served me well. I’d like to have the chance to say thank you.

Even if it was all in my head.

Whoever said Spain was a clean and beautiful country was full of shit. Walking down these streets every night after a show reminds you of being back home. So much trash that you feel like you’re walking down an alley in New York City and so many homeless people that you feel like you’re in D.C. It’s hard on the soul knowing that these are the people you’re fighting for, yet when you can’t even get things right in your own country, how are you supposed to help every other one? In this day and age it’s hard to catch a break yourself; breaking your back for over eighteen years at something you’ve devoted your life to. And it’s hard to even catch a decent meal yourself, I’d toss these bums something everywhere I went if I didn’t have to keep it for myself.

The image of Jesse Ramey continuing to stroll down a Spanish alley way continued; his arms rested inside of his vintage trench coat. And to think, the only coat I can afford is the very one that I wear to the ring every single night. If I’m not careful in a couple of years I could wind up on the unemployment line, and living in a box like the rest of these people. All of the things I’ve fought for in life could easily forget about me with the next new thing that steps foot through that curtain. I’m not getting any younger, and all of the talent coming into this sport just keeps getting younger. Sometimes I wonder if these old bones should just hang up the boots, but then again the thought of eating at a soup kitchen every night isn’t as appealing as it may have been when I was younger.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m good at much of anything really. I haven’t been able to find success in nearly eight years and Lord knows the men I’ve trained haven’t seen any kind of success either. So, what will my legacy really hold? Or will there even be a legacy to be held? Am I doomed to just wonder off into the darkness and be forgotten completely like so many other greats who have stepped into that squared circle; but never quite could escape that glass ceiling?

That was when Jesse suddenly stopped, he had been watching the ground as he walked and pondered. His line of sight slowly adjusted upward as a pair of fancy black shoes caught his attention, standing directly in front of him. The dimly lit alley way had only offered him a view of the shoes standing in front of him though. Jesse brought his hands from within his trench coat ready for whatever was to come, when a hand emerged from the shadows holding an envelope. Jesse took a moment before extending his arm and taking the envelope, the hand retracted into the shadows. Jesse flipped the top of the envelope and pulled out the contents.

“Dear Mr. Ramey, we have been watching you for years. We know of your struggles; and your accomplishments. This road you walk is a lonely one, but we are offering you something more meaningful to do with your life before your end comes. Do you have it in you to climb to the top one more time, or will you let this chance slip through your fingers like you’ve done so many times before? This is an expiring offer; do you have what it takes to be a part of Legion?”

Two years since the TEAM Invitational 64-man tournament, Randalls stood on the outskirts of Sheffield, Texas, at what some would call a ranch. Needing supplies for the week he had decided to drive along Route 349 south to the lone filling station near town. As he drove into the station, it was midday. The sun hung above the old rusted and dusted building, as if to shine a spotlight on an age forgotten, once the highways were made to stretch across the countries as fast as possible… crossing the details off the map, if you will.

The taste of his activities from the early afternoon still lingering in his mouth, Randalls bought a pack of cigarettes from the proprietor. He then gathered basic foodstuffs and filled his gas tank and then went back in to pay.

You looking forward to March Madness? Asked the proprietor.

Pardon? Randalls replied, taken off guard by the sudden small talk.

Basketball. You know, the kids and not the overpaid adults. I’m cheering for Baylor. They’re my team.

Your team? You own them?

Well, obviously not.

You seem awfully faithful to men you don't know...

Well… you just decide to be a fan.

Sounds like misplaced entitlement to me.

Well… alright, I’m not asking you to be one. The man behind the counter said, as he pushed forward the change. It was stacked as if it where a pile of chips. Randalls looked at his change, and then back up at the man. The man behind the counter squirmed slightly.

Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?

Why Baylor?

Wife and I lived in Waco for twenty years until her father passed away. See, he used to own this place.

And you inherited it? Randalls voice was without care, he was indeed still lost in his head after what had happened earlier in the afternoon.

Nah, her father used to own it but after he died… we simply decided to take it over.

So you did inherit it.

No, sir. We just took responsibility for it.

There was a silence as Randalls simply stood there and stared at the man behind the counter. The proprietor squirmed once again, before looking to the side and coughing into his fist.

I had a vision this morning.

Excuse me, sir?

A vision. A spirit walk, I suppose you could say it was a journey. Though I’m not sure what you would call it and shouldn't assume such things.

You not get enough sleep?

Randalls tilted his head at the man behind the counter, and again the man looked out through the window at the gas pumps and coughed into his fist.

It could have been a dream by other accords. Have you heard of Legion? Randalls asked the proprietor, knowing the answer.

No, was the answer.

I didn’t either. But then I saw it all.

All?

One-hundred and twenty years of history. Four points of light, four corners of the mind. Earth, water, fire...and the air. The Constant is air, the Legion is all around us… he’s the earth, the Shepherd is the water, nourishing the world around it… and finally the fire is the Destroyer. Though I do not know the air, I am familiar with the earth, I’ve lived with it's salt. These are the things I know… who I know, but then I saw it… a dog-headed man, red teeth tearing at a grey jay. Wolves at the door. The flood coming, the black moon rising and I wondered to myself if it was up to me.

Oh…kay...

Do I become the Shepherd or the Destroyer… where will the Way lead me?

Sir, you gonna be alright?

Me? I’m going to be just fine. Legion...

Randalls' eyes fixated on his new friend 'causing the man to take a big gulp.

...they know nothing of the their black horizon.

Mehrdad is my cousin, my mother's sister's boy. I used to hang out with him a lot when he lived in Miami. Smoked weed my first time with him. I fucked his girlfriend when we were all 16, but he doesn't know that.

If he had come from my father's side, he would know the importance of King Ahriman Ashtaad, the Farsi Firebrand, the Terror from the Near East, one of the greatest Persian wrestlers of all time and my father. He would know what lacing up the boots means.

As it is, he knows drugs, and he's been in New York long enough to get good connects to the best substances, best clubs, best girls. I appreciate it. I came to New York to party.

I'm standing outside of a high school in some suburb of the City, I already forget the name. I've just finished a show with a podunk outfit known mostly for bringing in washed-up talent to have pity matches with rookies who lost more often by tripping over their own feet than by anything those old geezers did. It's a little cold, a little chilly, and I think I should have worn a sweater under my Carhartt. I shouldn't be smoking, but I can't help it, I've bummed one off one of the other wrestlers even though I didn't stay to say more than Thanks and Where's the bathroom? The light at the end of the cigarette burns bright, angry, when I draw in. I knock my knees, look at the two-lane road that feeds into the high school, the two-story planned residences just beyond, waiting for the car that's supposed to come pick me up.

The thing is, I can't help that I'm good at this wrestling business. Not in the way my dad was. He was a professional wrestler in the strictest sense of the phrase. I just fight. Try and survive. It translates well enough. Eddy Hollidae rides home to whatever hovel he calls his own tonight with a loss, even after having wrestled all throughout high school, trained extensively to be the best, won numerous state championships, went to Washington State University and became a two-time NCAA champion, had been wrestling five years prior throughout the world, had busted his ass in Japan, in the sweltering gyms in Mexico, in Britain, Germany, Puerto Rico, South Africa, but here, in Shittown, NY, he took a loss to Naveed 'cause no man who really calls himself a man is gonna walk right after a kick to the nuts and no human that has a working brain to get caved in will get up after a piledriver onto a chair. It translates because pain is pain, combat is combat, and winning is winning, no matter how you get there.

In the seventh grade, when Mehrdad still lived in Miami, he got into some shit with this black kid named Tyrell. Girl that Mehrdad liked started paying attention to Tyrell, I think. Fight breaks out on an alley, shortcut back to our neighborhood, usually deserted. Mehrdad, who has always been a skinny little prick, is getting his ass handed to him. Nobody's here to see this except me. I could have, and I should have, let Mehrdad get the shit beaten out of him, but of course I intervened.

In Miami I learned how to fight. We would get into shit, or I should say Mehrdad would get into shit, or maybe we wouldn't even be doing anything at the moment, selling off pills we didn't have time to take or didn't like the effects of or had just found or stolen, someone would rob us, but whatever happened, we would mobilize, attack. We had to. Earned nowhere near enough to be okay with getting robbed, especially not to get a reputation for that kinda shit. I learned how to fight dirty because that's the only way to do it. Quick. It's not about honor, it's about survival and profit.

It translates directly. But of course, Mehrdad won't understand. I won't make him try to. His heavy black luxury car pulls into the high school parking lot and swings around until it's in front of me. His window lowers and he grins out at me. Mehrdad is skinny all over, still after all these years, never filled out, in his cheeks or arms or torso or nothing. His hair is black, stringy, parted from his face into an effete ponytail. His black silk shirt, delicately patterned with nearblack purple polygons, hangs like a Halloween sheet over his shoulders. He's seen the videos in my dad's house and thinks they're stupid, insists we get out of there as soon as possible whenever he has to stop by.

Mehrdad's picking me up here 'cause if he doesn't I don't have a ride. He's supposed to be showing me this spot he's got an in at. He assumes the black dufflebag is for something illegal or kinky or both, and I say "Let's get back to the fucking City, man." and toss my bag into the back of his car, sink into the passenger seat, and snort a line off of the windowpane he's got prepared. I ask about painkillers, he says he hasn't got any on him. He doesn't ask about why I'm at a high school. He doesn't ask me about what I'm doing in this nowhere. I assume he's forgotten the town's name, too.

"Yeah, my guy at the club, he actually knows your dad," Mehrdad is saying. We're back in the City now. The two hour drive has taken us into proper night, into the Hyatt suite that's being paid for me. Mehrdad has thrown his skeletal body over one of the long seablue couches, bobs his feet idly. I'm stashing my duffle bag away, making sure I've got cigarettes, cash, lighter. I don't change from what I've got on. No need to draw questions.

"Yeah?" I reply.

"Yeah, old Firouz's a wrestling fan," Mehrdad laughs. "Used to watch all those old shows, apparently, with King Ahriman down in Florida. Persian pride or whatever."

"Huh. Weird." I'm looking at my phone. I hadn't checked it for what must have been hours, stuffed it in my bag and forgot about it. I've got a voicemail message.

"Mr. Naveed. We haven't heard back from you yet. Are you still coming to LEGION? We need a tape. Send it by noon tomorrow and we'll be alright. The Church of Fight. You can find it."

One of the people at the head of the company or franchise or whatever the fuck LEGION is. I had barely talked to them before myself, though this message was left by the guy I'd had my phone interview with after they had already gotten a look at my tapes and decided I'd work for them. And yeah, I forgot to call the guy back. I've been busy since I got to the City.

"Yo, EnVee, what's the hold up?"

"I'll be right out."

I close the phone, pocket it. I'll keep my eye out for the Church of Fight if we roll past, but my mind is on the club. Has been on the club. Will be on the club. LEGION is a payday, a means to an end, an end which is coke and X and special K, heroin when I want it, which is not regularly, meth if I'm feeling reckless and broke, poppers for fun, and I'm telling myself as I exit the apartment, flanked by Mehrdad, that LEGION is just a payday, that I'm not doing it because I want to, it's just because I've got good instincts in the ring, because it pays well enough, even though wrestling doesn't pay nearly well enough for the damage I'm doing to my body to justify it to anyone who doesn't already know why I do it.

The EC6, the club that Mehrdad had talked about. The bouncer in black suit and shades reacts when Mehrdad says Firouz's name and perfectly plays the irritated V.I.P. I know the role well enough, grin patronizingly at the bouncer as I glide past him and into the beat of the club. Rolling house, my style. Mehrdad's got the same taste as me, so he avoids hip-hop clubs, rock clubs. The pitch black is inflamed by varicolored lasers, the sea of gyrating people briefly illuminated in hot greens, reds, blues, purples, the DJ presiding, cap turned backwards, skinny but of huge presence in the room, and my arm is already up, pumping in the air, but Mehrdad isn't going to the dance floor and I follow him up a curving staircase to the balcony above.

Upstairs is scarcer, but still peopled. Maybe it just seems more spacious because nobody's dancing. Here, everybody's well-dressed, invariably well-monied, probably well-drugged. I don't feel out of place because I come from money and I know how to get money quick if I need it, which is the same thing as having money. Some of the people here have seen Mehrdad before, look up from their mixed drinks with coked eyes and smile slimly, manic energy focused into gesticulating or cutting lines or laughing as boisterously as possible and shoving people and enjoying themselves. Nobody talks to Mehrdad, even if they smile at him. Their eyes pass over me as if I'm not there.

"Mehrdad!" someone calls, an older voice, deep and masculine. "Ah, and is this the one you said was coming?" Mehrdad grins, approaches a table set into a half-cylinder nook, his arms spread to accept the terse embrace of a portly, middle-aged Persian man that I assume is Firouz. Beside Firouz sits a woman who looks somewhere between his age and mine, good-looking but not beautiful, dressed in a silver dress that didn't hide her cleavage but hid her thighs, wearing enough pearls, gems, and gold that I knew she was marked property.

"I always do what I say, don't I?" Mehrdad says, moving so that Firouz can look at me. Firouz has mirrored Mehrdad's style almost to a T, though he's not in Mehrdad's starvation shape, and though he's allowed a full black beard to grow over his jaw and hide most of his mouth. Firouz holds his hand out for me and I shake it firmly.

"Naveed, yes? I am Firouz. Come, come, sit down, make a space for him." We sit awkwardly, the woman scooting aside, me glancing at her often, helpless, sitting down between Firouz and Mehrdad. A tall white guy with a buzzcut and a braided beard steps out when Firouz lifts his hand. He fixes me with his stare briefly, trying to scare me, which is his job so I let it slide. "Powder." And the man produces it, sliding the small bag across the table. Like a magician, Firouz unknots the bag and dumps cocaine carelessly on a windowpane that I don't even remember being produced.

Disinterested in the cocaine, the woman shifts her body, rests her chin on her hand, and stares out at the sea of flashing laser light and bobbing heads.

Firouz deftly makes coke lines with a credit card, all the while talking: "How long you been here, Naveed? A week! A whole week and Mehrdad hasn't brought you? Ahh, ha ha ha, come, Mehrdad, you know I tease, and besides, Friday night, best night for partying anyway. I'm not mad! Ha ha, of course I'm not mad! Here, you first, Mehrdad, please! You know Mehrdad helped me set this place up? Yeah, six months ago, he did! Lots of legwork for me. Couldn't have done it without him."

"I just do what I can," Mehrdad says, still slyly grinning, passing straw and glass to me. I snort quick, feel it in my nostril, rub my nose and slide the apparatus along.

The conversation isn't Mehrdad's. He's barely part of it. Firouz has locked on me, wants to talk to me. He starts bringing up my father, King Ahriman Ashtaad. He knows his real name, Ardesh, used to live down in Florida and would go to all the matches. He saw my father put a fan's eye out when the motherfucker was getting too rough and rowdy, which were Firouz's words. Firouz passed the coke to the woman, she declined, he passed to Mehrdad, who now stares out at the crowd the same way Firouz's woman does, interested in the coke but disinterested in our wrestling conversation. I'm not conversing. Not much. I'm really just here, a target for Firouz to let out this Persian wrestling love onto, and I appreciate it because King Ahriman is my father, my idol, the reason why I even looked at a wrestling ring in the first place. I'm not saying anything, trying to keep cool for Mehrdad, snorting coke and passing, ordering drinks, but Firouz knows his shit, knows everything about my dad, about Florida wrestling, about Persian wrestlers in general, old school wrestling in general. While I play the part of the helpless and distressed adoree, I'm drawn in to all this history.

"I'm going down there," Mehrdad says after a while, disgusted, and he disappears.

Cocaine gives Firouz energy, access to memories he maybe thought he had forgotten but now dragged up rabidly. "Uh huh." is all I can say. "Yeah. Wow." Not sarcastically, just stupefied. I can see the woman glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, watching me, without Mehrdad's sneering overbearance, with the chemical erosion of my inhibition, turn into the devoted wrestling fan I am at my core, the ambitious wrestler that is still a hidden part of me. I want to shrink, but the cocaine has made sure I have nowhere to shrink to, no shame to hide behind.

I start to tell stories of my own, half-remembered shit my dad would let slip out sometimes, big shows and the aftermaths. I tell Firouz one where my father met a group of fans outside the ring and he broke one's nose but the others didn't believe he was tough so he broke one of their arms and they still kept coming (and this was with a couple other guys there helping my dad, too, but I don't remember their names) and then he bit one of their lips off and spat it at them and the fuckers scattered.

"King Ahriman Ashtaad!" I shout it loudly but probably not loud enough to get over the pulsing house, laugh, sit down and snort a line. Firouz is howling with laughter like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. I feel good until the woman looks at me again. I try to put her haughtiness out of my head, involve myself in story and substance.

Eventually Mehrdad returns, dog-faced. He's gotten shut down by some chick no doubt. He takes it hard, always has, always will. Firouz grins and suggests we go back to his place, because he has all these old tapes of the Florida territory he wants to show me, and the woman rolls her eyes but she's obviously going to come, and Mehrdad doesn't give a fuck where we go, he just wants to get out of here. Firouz enlists the white guy who'd got the coke to drive and Mehrdad leads him to where he's got the car. Firouz needs to piss, so he excuses himself, allows me to take the final line, and I let it energize me even though I don't have anything to get excited about.

The woman, that saucy, silent siren with the breasts, she's still here, though I was about to forget when she asked me for a cigarette. Marked goods, I remind myself. I agree, we slink out past the monied drug-partiers, avoid the heavy dance scene that I haven't even enjoyed a bit of tonight thanks to Firouz's rambling, into the chilly night. We wait on the side of the road with our cigarettes, myself tugging frantically, needing nicotine, her completely calm, detached, more interested in watching the unused smoke lift than in smoking the cigarette.

"You're a wrestler, aren't you?" she says. Doesn't ask me. I look at her.

"What makes you think that?"

"You know it too well." Her upper lip twitches and I know she isn't impressed.

"Think there's some better way I should spend my time?" I step closer to her.

"Please." She tosses her hair arrogantly, flashes a dirty look at me, turns to the empty road ahead of us. "Wrestlers are fat half the time. Roided up freaks. Or like you."

"Like me?"

"You ain't fat." She smiles, condescending. "But you ain't in shape either."

"You think I can't kick the shit out of somebody if I wanted to?"

"I'd be surprised if you've ever been in a fight in your life."

In Miami I learned how to fight. We would get into shit, Mehrdad or my boy Jani or Press or whoever, we would have to throw down, and I would throw down. Always. I didn't back down because my father always told me, he said if you back down people will hear about it, and the first time will be the last time. And then I got into wrestling, and yeah, I learned that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, sometimes you duck and dodge to get what you want, to get ahead, but it's always like that, in the ring or out. And so I'd learned by the time I got into the ring. I already knew what it was all about.

I take a drag, trying to emulate her calm.

This chick wants to boil my blood.

Dragon's breath billows from my nostrils.

She wants to boil my blood. She thinks I can't cut it.

But there's a way to show her. I'm backed into a corner. I spill it.

"You ever been to the Church of Fight?"

Her eyebrow lifts, intrigued.

In 2005 the world was in his hands, he could do no wrong.

In 2006, he ascended higher, at the very cusp of superstardom, before crashing through the ground.

In 2007, he was the subject of "what if?" questions being asked, rampant speculation about his next moves.

In 2008, people wondered what happened to, and he was spoken of as though he wasn't the best in the world for at least a week.

In 2009, people moved on. He was a forgotten footnote.

In 2010, he moved on.

In 2010, he still lives on, in another body, another soul ready to catch lightning in a bottle one more time.

“Come in, already.” crackled a voice over the intercom. Russel David craned his neck, looking to see just where it was, and gave a bewildered and amused smirk. His was a strange life, as any in professional wrestling ended up being. And this week, it had only gotten stranger.

David stood up from his seat, opened the door to this left and walked into the room.

He had been sitting in that chair, as if he was back in detention at Lord Asquith High because within that slick black envelope that he had received. Within the pictures of old Legion teams, and wrestlers, the manifestos from ages past for a better wrestling world, and a deed to the Cathedral… and what a place that was… where detailed directions to the dark ominous place he had found himself.

With one door that locked behind him, and another that was locked before he had entered.

With a seat that had the word SIT written on it with thick permanent marker.

And then the intercom that he hadn’t even noticed until it had spoken to him.

Russel David squinted when he entered the room, it was dark. Yep, David though, the clan destine atmosphere was heavy.

He knew somebody else was in the room because of the sound of metal tapping on wood. A coin? A pen? A ring?

“Hello.” Russel said into the darkness.

“Russel David.”

“Hello?” Was all he could think of saying in reply, as a reporter this was Deep Throat territory to him, and it actually kind of scared him.

“Sit.” The voice said from the darkness, before adding. “Please.”

Russel David sat down, in the well stuffed office chair, and then looked across the desk at the man in the shadows. At this angle he still could see the man, all that well. There was light coming in the from the window to there right and it shone through the half shut blinds.

“So, you sent me Legion…”

These where the first few words that came out of Russel David’s mouth, before the man in the shadows sat forward, and his face shifted from the shadows, into the light. David was at first, speakless. The man spoke back to him, enjoying this moment. He spoke.

“Hello.”

“But you’re…”

“I know.” was the man's reply, he had a grin on his breath. And it was a mile wide.

“And this…is one of our fine junior penthouses.”

Kenneth Bostom, he of the slicked-back hair and ostentatious suits, stretched his hand out to illuminate the skyline unfolding before him. It was easy to do his job, to sell real estate in New York. Every other day, some nouveau riche European was coming in and signing for one of his penthouses. Where the weakening of the American dollar had hurt some, it had only lined Kenneth Bostom’s pockets with gold.

“The view is pretty awesome,” Nibi Augustin replied. He anxiously grabbed the inside of his pockets. The tan Carhartt jacket had him sweating, but he’d staunchly refused Kenneth’s offer to hang it by the door. That jacket was one of the few Traverse City memories he carried with him.

It reminded him of the time, a year ago, when Alain TwoCrow had jumped him on the way to school (back when Nibi was still occasionally showing up to the rez school). For almost five minutes, Alain had wailed on Nibi for talking to his sister. For five minutes, Nibi had felt the vicious crunch of steel-toed boot against ribcage. For five minutes, Nibi had wondered if the Creator would take his life. And for five minutes, Nibi had worried about getting blood all over his new Carhartt jacket.

“One of the finest views in the world,” Kenneth replied. “What kind of work did you say you do, Mr. Augustine?” He wrongly pronounced Nibi’s last name like the saintly city in Florida. Nibi let it slide. “You’re an athlete?” Nibi knew that Kenneth had some misconceptions about him, but thus far, he’d felt free to be their beneficiary.

“Yep.” Nibi didn’t yet feel comfortable saying much in New York City. They spoke too fast and too wantonly here. On the rez, people had the luxury of choosing their words carefully.

In the pocket of his jacket, Nibi rubbed his small eagle charm. The metal was warm, despite the apartment’s air-conditioned interior. It had been a gift, and now it was a totem that thrust him back into his memories. The sequence started with his mother, Elinor, trying to smile as he returned the bloodstained jacket. And then there were only flashes of Alain’s comeuppance. Nibi had walked up to the TwoCrows’ front door and asked Mrs. TwoCrow if Alain could come outside to fight.

“Are you one of these new UFC guys?” Kenneth Bostom knew very little about anything practical, but he was a fad genius. If it’d been mentioned within the pages of GQ, on Perez Hilton’s blog, or by pop pundit Pat O’Brien, Kenneth knew about it. And he knew that “this MMA stuff” was taking off.

“Nope,” Nibi quipped. Kenneth’s smile leveled off, leaving a puzzled look in its place.

"Strikeforce Fighting?” Nibi shook his head, studying the splendid view of the Big Apple. He could see the Empire State Building, its spire ascending majestically in the midday sun. While Nibi didn’t recognize anything else, he knew that trillions of dollars were made, lost, stolen, and gambled every day in the buildings around him. He’d always known that the world was much grander in scope than Traverse City, but seeing the concrete titans of the free world’s capital hammered home that point.

“Nope.” Nibi had respect for those guys, guys who fought for a living. But having watched Jimmy Snuka, having seen the Superfly Splash (but never live, he lamented), he knew that there was something more that called to him from the squared circle. He would leave the mindless fighting to thugs like Alain.

Mrs. TwoCrow had been blindsided by Nibi’s request, on that hot day last summer. Dumbstruck, she walked into the nearby TV room and told Alain to come to the door. When Alain saw who was outside, Nibi didn’t have to ask politely again. Alain burst through the screen door, swung once, then received the same five minutes of hell that he’d given Nibi. Nibi even checked his watch; once the five minutes had elapsed, Nibi helped Alain waddle to his front door, and walked away without another word.

“So I’d be wrong if I guessed that you were a baseball player?” Nibi turned away from the cityscape, frowning at Kenneth’s unending questions.

“Yep,” Nibi replied.

“Mr. Augustine,” Kenneth started, his voice becoming cross, “exactly what do you do? You can’t be a day over twenty, you don’t seem to be involved with a major sports league, and you don’t say more than one word unless I beg you to. Who are you, exactly?”

“Nibi Augustin,” the youngster beamed back, pronouncing his name the correct way. Knee Bee Uh Gust Inn. It wasn’t a hapless, naïve grin, but his playful side shining through. Kenneth Bostom was finally realizing that the jig was up, something Nibi had known for nearly twenty minutes.

“Oh no,” came a voice from the adjacent hallway. Kenneth and Nibi both turned their heads to see the less maligned member of the TwoCrow family: Aurore.

“What’s got him smiling like that?” Aurore always carried a confident way about her, especially in her voice. Even seven hundred miles and thousands of social conventions away from home, her words demanded attention. Her turquoise jaguar eyes and boastful hips, they also demanded attention. There was more than one reason Nibi had fought Alain over her. “Do you have him smiling like that, mister?”

“Aurore, I was just telling Mr. Bostom that I’m the first professional wrestler to ever come out of Traverse City.” Kenneth lowered his eyes, his lip curling up in a truly hideous manner.

“Unless Traverse City is another name for El Dorado, I don’t think a professional wrestler,” he spat, saying wrestler in the same voice one might refer to a pedophile, “could afford living in the Fairhaven-Rookwood.” Where others might’ve been careful to stifle a giggle, Nibi laughed out loud at hearing the building’s name again. He didn’t even have enough money to buy all the vowels in Fairhaven-Rookwood, no less afford the lavish suites within. But when Kenneth Bostom had answered the phone enthusiastically about showing some apartments to a young “athlete”, Nibi hadn’t asked questions. He and Aurore had gotten a free lunch and a look around this beautiful high-rise.

“C’mon, mister,” Aurore playfully pleaded, “what’s the difference between Nibi and some UFC guy?” The glint in her eye had Kenneth going for a moment, and not only because his Jdate profile had yet to deliver any potential mates. That glint was well known on the rez as a male mind control device. Aurore, recently eighteen, had a virulent form of nubile sexuality.

Kenneth snapped out of it. He’d heard the horror stories. Wrestlers going crazy from steroids, killing family members. If it wasn’t steroids, it was painkillers. If not OxyContin, then booze. His sneer carried all the discontent he felt at being hoodwinked by this nineteen-year-old “wrestler.”

“The difference,” he scoffed, “is two or three zeroes, miss.” He folded his arms, signaling to the young couple that this tour was over.

Nibi didn’t need another invitation to head for the elevator. Aurore quickly moved in step, sneaking into the cozy, warm space under Nibi’s right arm.

“Why didn’t you tell him while I was looking around?” Aurore had to look up when she spoke to Nibi, being only 5’9.

“Was having fun,” replied Legion’s junior member. “I like the view,” he added, before clamming up. He scratched the side of his head, a sign Aurore knew none too well. He was sneaking off into his own head, often the only place he felt comfortable. She’d long ago come to grips with his internal mechanisms (everyone on the rez knew from the moment seven-year-old Aurore chased eight-year-old Nibi they were destined to chase one another forever).

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” But she still always offered to listen, if he wanted.

“Nothing. Well,” he started, pausing as he came up with a way to say what he wanted, “you think we’ll be okay? We’re not s’posed to be out here. You’re not s’posed to be out here.” Nibi already felt a weight on his shoulders at having uprooted his girlfriend, taken her from the rez, and repatriated her in an alien city. While she’d been sleeping on the plane, he’d spent the ride wondering whether he’d ruin both their lives chasing a specter.

“Okay, new rule. Nibi Langlade Augustin, you don’t get to act like this is a captivity narrative. You didn’t steal me from Mama and Papa. I chose to come with you. This is your dream and I’m not waiting until you wake up to get my time in. So ha!” She punctuated this rule with an emphatic press of the elevator’s down button.

“’Kay, just sayin’.” Nibi liked to think that his general clumsiness with language was due to the clutter in his head. Currently, there were myriad threads of brain activity: finding an apartment, getting Aurore a job to supplant his Legion as-of-now-paltry Legion check, learning how to live independently, trying to teach himself all the things he’d be missing while Alain and dozens of others went to college for free.

But even though life was just beginning to set in, Nibi’s heart pounded at the thought of something else: the premier Battle Royal at the Church of Fight. He’d proved he was more than a regional talent, dismantling everything that Grand Traverse County Wrestling had to offer. He knew he deserved a spot in the ring. But, oh did he feel butterflies at the thought of making his own name, his own life, out of wrestling.

“Alright, well, we’ve got our first rule. Ready to go see what makes those hot dog carts so good that they need one on every corner?” Nibi offered a muted smile, actively admiring Aurore’s glowing enthusiasm.

Ding!

The elevator whooshed to a stop, the doors slipping open. Nibi grabbed Aurore’s hand, both of them stepping into the fine, marble-walled contraption. Nibi lost himself in his thoughts again, as Aurore peered around the elevator’s high five-figure interior.

“You think we could live here someday?” Ever the optimistic wonderer, Aurore was grinning when she finally caught Nibi’s eye. “Someday?”

Nibi nodded wordlessly.

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.

“We’ll be down in Spain for a week but you’ve got Vince’s number if you need to get in contact with us about anything.”

Victoria Jacobs cooed these words, almost as-if she was a mother as well as a fried. Monet simply smiled and nodded curtly.

“Get going already, you’ll miss your fight. You still have to pick-up the kids.” Monet added, and watched Victoria walk out the front door of the Jacob’s estate. Monet walked a few steps across the marble floor and sat at the edge of the landing of the grand entrance. Surveying what was only the beginning of an awe-inspiring McMansion, Monet could only sigh.

She and Chris Sheffield had more or less started in this business together at the same time as Vince Jacobs. Not only that but Monet had a hand in introducing Vince to Victoria…. And yet, as the future Jacobs became successful through the hard times, which also helped make them shockingly grounded outside of the spotlight… Monet Samuel and Chris Sheffield never really made it out of ’96 as a pair.

Though they did become the proud owners of a baby girl, at least, to remember their time together. And by they I mean Monet… as with the dissolution of the relationship, the man who many now knew as Alias drifted into the dark reaches of the world for a time. Monet was left to raise her daughter Izzy as a single mother. Though Monet hasn’t looked to blame Alias… not for a moment.

Not least because he and the Christopher Sheffield she once knew where very different people.

In becoming a referee within the Squared Circle, it gave Monet a chance to reconnect with the Original Pulp Hero. Let him know of the daughter he had inexplicably left behind when he had disappeared all those years ago, back in the days when Monet hadn’t yet even realized that she was pregnant. And Monet believed that reuniting this small family formed within the traveling circus of the Squared Circle… would finally give her life stability. Give her Izzy an anchor.

It was not to be, but thanks to tSC… Monet was able to establish a home, and with it the anchor she had hoped for, for Izzy.

But that was also not to be, as losing the house thanks to occurrences beyond her control left her and her daughter to crash on the couch of a couple of old friends. Though it wasn’t a couch in the literal sense as the Jacob’s had more then a few spare rooms… it was still the embarrassment behind the loss of control that dug at Monet.

Monet had sat up from the landing and made her way into the ornate kitchen, which was rarely ever used, where she poured herself a glass of red wine. She still had a few hours to relax before picking Izzy up from dance class. The wine within the glass seemed almost black in the spring light of the late afternoon.

Sliding out through the expansive living room area, and out into the back yard, Monet decided to sit poolside and dip her feet in the crystal blue water. Suddenly a chill went up Monet’s spine as an oddly familiar voice came from within the shadows at the side of the house.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” The voice said.

“Who…” Monet started, twisting her body at her waist as she did.

“An old friend.”

“I might not have many of those, but you’ll have to be more specific.” Monet was quick to return, pushing the raven black hair from her eyes.

“An old friend of Legions.”

“Legion?” Synapses fired in the back of Monet’s brain as she remembered the name from her father’s time in the business, how he used to talk about… this… Legion.

“You’re tired aren’t you?” Questioned the voice once again.

“Maybe.” Monet shrugged, kicking the water, she thought of looking for the source of this voice… but knew enough that the person would disappear, “And I’m sure you have a plan to fix that?”

“As long as you can still wrestle.”

“I haven’t wrestled inside a ring since 1994.” Monet’s eyes drifted to the middle distance. Remember her days as Freefall.

“Does that mean you’ve wrestled outside of one, since?”

Monet smiled to herself. This could be taken a number of ways. Well, there was that one guy she brought back home from the blind date who wasn’t her blind date… then again, their was also that stupid prick who tried to take her purse and ended up tasting her purse. “A woman does what she has to do.”

“And how did it feel?”

A quiet hung in the air.

“… Good. Great.”

“Good. Then… you are Legion.”

Legion, it must be a league though… what kind of fed? What kind of people?

“And what do I get in return?” Monet smiled to herself. It would be the last time she would do so, for a good while.

“You’ll get your daughter back.”

The conversation continued, rules where set and stakes were made… but Monet would hear none of it. Each word after those five specific ones really only pierced her at the heart. Blackening her heart, as they did.

Time: 3:45pm

Date: 2/25/10

Location: West Point, New York

The snow had just begun to fall, as the recruits flowed out of their dorms and filled the seats of the football field. They were bundled up in their warmest attire and were willing to brave the freezing temperatures to hear today's guest of honor speak. A man in a custome made red, white, and blue World War II style army jacket sat in the middle of a massive stage before them. The murmuring of the large crowd cused the area to rumble, but it was brought to an end, as a sargent took the microphone.

"Attention," the gunnery sargent commanded, drawing all eyes to him. "We are pleased to have this man speak to you all today. You may know him from his many USO tours and television commercials, but you may not know that he served in Iraq and Afganistan and was once a student just like all of you. Ladies and Gentleman, Major Gunnar Van Patton!"

In unison, the mass of humanity rose to their feet and saluted the blond-haired soldier, as stood up and stepped to the microphone. He returned the gesture to them all and couldn't help but smile, as he began to speak.

"At ease."

The recruits returned to their seats and GVP looked over the crowd.

"I would first like to thank y'all for letting me speak today. It's not very often that I get to speak to fresh young minds like yers and it sure is an honor to do so. Y'all are the future of not only the Army, but of this here country. Despite what ya see from the... let's call a spade, a spade... propaganda from the Army, I started just like y'all. I was once a green recruit that didn't know the first thing 'bout life let alone the Army. This life, the military life, is like nothing ya'll ever dealt with before. Y'all are here because y'all are smart and/or talented. Yer the picks of the litter. That's a given. Each and every one of ya brings something special to the table. Y'all wouldn't be here if the Army didn't see something in ya that could better this here country and help defend it from all those who look to harm it. And defend it you will, as y'all are the next generation in a long, storied group of patriots. A group that's very origins date back to the very first conflict of the Revolutionary War."

He points off into the distance in the direction of the well-known river that flows through New York state.

"Each and every one of ya has placed yer hand upon the chain that once stretched across the Hudson to stop British ships from entering. It is a reminder to us all that we have no weakest link. We are the United States Army. We are the foundation for the greatest military the world has ever seen. We wear the colors of this country, so all know who they're dealing wit. Red, white, and blue are three colors that make any nation stop and take notice, as the best have arrived. Keep that in mind when yer instructors crack down on ya. They're not doing it for themselves or for the fun of it. They are doing it to show ya what yer capable of and to give ya the means to achieve the greatness we all expect ya to obtain. A level of greatness that no other country can compete with. We don't lower our standards. People come here from all across the world to prove they're the best at what they do. We must prove we are the kings of this here mountain. Therefore, yer instructors will not settle for second best and neither should you."

He adjusts his coat, as a strong breeze blows through.

"They dedicated their lives to making this country the pinnacle of the world and your dedication to that greatness can be seen right now. Trust me, I'd rather be curled up with someone in front of a fire right now, much like y'all would. However, yer here in the frigid cold, listening to a veteran turned spokesman talk about things that many of ya have bought into. That shows dedication and that's something that can't be taught. Admittedly, I'm no preacher. Though, most of the good ones have an accent like mine. Y'all have bought into the army life or ya wouldn't be here. Ya don't need to be told how 'super cool' the army is."

He fakes a smile and gives a goofy pose with a thumbs up, which gets a few scattered chuckles from the crowd, breaking their silence..

"I'm not here for that. I'm here to inspire ya to be more than what ya believe ya can be. I stand before ya a boy that the Army way turned into a man. I am proof that with hard work and determination, this way of life can lead y'all to great things. With those uniforms on, we're equals. Despite what rank each of us has, we are still brothers-in-arms and due to that, I'll be honest with y'all. My life was not one of those wonderful ones y'all see in the movies or on TV. My mother was addicted to drugs and my father walked out on us when I was still just a pup. Soon after, he was put in the slammer for robbery. Not exactly the types ya look up to. With no real parents to speak of, I was a ship lost at sea. It took my uncle stepping in to save me from the tsunami that could've destroyed all hope for me."

GVP took a second to look over the crowd before continuing.

"My uncle was a colonel who served in Desert Storm and ornry as hell. On his ranch, that one-eyed soldier took that foul-mouthed, disrespectful boy and gave him structure along with a role model that he could look up to. Ya see, my uncle was well-known as a drill instructor. He was one of the best that the Army had and with him, ya succeeded or ya died trying. He used to make me do so many pushups that I swore I had pushed Texas a little closer to sea level. He drove me to strive for levels that I didn't know I could reach. Hell, when I decided to follow his lead and join the Army, book camp was a breeze. They couldn't do anything to me that I didn't get ten times worse at home."

He laughed aloud just thinking about it.

"Never in a million years, would I have thought I'd be standing here in front of y'all, today. Without him in my life, I would not have made it here. That's the honest to god truth. He was more than an uncle. He was a role model, the father I needed, and the hero I wanted to be. Honestly, I joined the Army to be like him. I knew how he became that man and for me to become the same man, I had to do my duty. I had to swear to give my life to protect the land and people that I love. My uncle would have dove infront of a speeding bullet for a stranger, as it was his duty to protect all those around him, stranger and family alike. Despite the assumptions y'all may have made, when I called him a one-eyed soldier, he didn't lose his eye in the war. He lost it saving a family from a structure fire. The pressure from a burning room caused a door to expode and a piece of the door caught him in the eye. I asked him why he did it. Ya know what he told me? 'A man worries about others first.' That's the type of man he was and the man I wanted to be."

He said that with pride, fondly remembering his uncle.

"I'm not telling ya to go out and be superheroes like Batman or Spider-Man, which I reckon is funny coming from a guy who made his career by looking like a real-life Captain America."

That got another giggle from the crowd.

"What I am talking about is being more than just a great soldier. Be a great person. Be someone's role model like my uncle was for me. Y'all do that and greatness is the only option. With that, I'll let y'all grunts get back to the nice warm dorms. Ya can bet yer ass I've got some hot chocolate calling my name. Thanks for listening and stars and stripes forever."

GVP snapped into a salute and the many in attendance did the same. They all stayed standing until GVP left the stage. Upon doing so, a man in a black coat met Gunnar Van Patton just as he reached the steps leading to the ground.

"For you, Mr. Van Patton," the man announced and handed him a large envelope.

"Thanks ya, partner," he replied with a dazzling white smile and began to read the contents. "Hmm... A chance to get out of this horse and pony show and take on some real competition. Sounds like a good time to me. Well, daggum! Would you look at that. Looks like I could get myself a rematch with Alias out of this. Now, I reckon that's worth the price of admission right there."

GVP looks to the messenger and nods his head.

"Saddle up, boy. I'm in."

More than anything, his body knew he didn’t want to be there. As the elevator door slowly pulled open and he stepped out, a chime echoing in his ears from the contraptions arrival on the third floor, he felt this wave of nausea come over him. For a split second, he thought about turning back around and going back down to the base floor, stepping out of this wicked building, and leaving town forever. The only thing keeping him here though was the letter burning a hole in his pocket. It was that letter that forced his legs to take the seventeen steps to the receptionist desk. A cute blonde thing sat behind the wooden oak desk, with her eyes, blue, fixated upon her computer screen.

He cleared his throat, signaling his arrival. She turned towards him and her eyes immediately turned apologetic.

“Oh, so sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. Can I help you out with something?” her voice was whispery, and for a second, the man wasn’t so certain she had actually spoken a word. Another moment passed by as he studied her facial features and found this primal rage almost leaping out of his throat. He managed to repress it, and nodded his head.

“I sure hope so,” he said a little more flirtatious than he had intended it to be. She glanced over at him, and noticed the bags under his eyes, his unshaven beard that looked like it had been growing for months now, and the state of his hair would have to be discussed another day. This man was certainly no man she would ever go out with, but underneath it all, she wanted him. He exuded a certain way about him that it was simply undeniable.

“Did you have an appointment?” her question was quickly followed by her opening a blue planner with rows and rows of dates and times.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to be meeting with Russel David. Told me this was his office?” the man spoke in the same tone as before, nice and steady, though sounding far too at ease with himself. The woman’s eyes scanned through the pages of notes at her discretion, and finally ran into the date that she was looking for.

“I see an appointment for a David Noble? Would that be you, sir?” She was uncertain at first. He simply nodded his head. “If you just go down to the end of this hallway, and then turn a left, you will be in our conference room. Mr. David will meet you there in just a few minutes. It seems like he’s running just a few minutes behind.” David didn’t even mutter another word as he strolled down the hallway and the woman’s eyes were glued to his back.

He wore a pair of blue jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed in quite some time. The black leather jacket he wore didn’t look like it was who he was, and his entire disheveled look seemed to be a person who was looking for a way out of either this life or this world. Either way, he was here now, and there was nothing she could do about it. Meanwhile, David stepped into the conference room and sat down in one of the leather chairs. His eyes wandered around the room and every bit of him wished he wasn’t in New York City. He had spent a few years here before and it was almost as if the city had sucked out his soul.

The only reason he was here was because of the letter in his pocket. With the seconds ticking by him, he pulled it out and read it once again. This was his tenth time in as many days.

David,

Craig told me about your situation and I know what you’re feeling. Yet, I’ve been in your shoes before, multiple times, and have been in much worse situations. Time to drag yourself out of it. You still have something left to give, even though it seems like everything worthwhile has been taken away from you. Now, it’s just time for you to figure out what that is. I don’t know if this is the right direction for you, but go to this address and I think it will help you find yourself. Sometimes, life has just a funny way of getting you to where you ultimately must be. This just might be it for you. I’ll be seeing you soon.

- Alias

He folded the letter up and before he could put it away, a man entered the room; a man he could only assume was Russel David. Russel was dressed to the nine’s, sharp suit, and it was obvious that this man knew his way around. He extended his hand towards Noble and David slowly took it. “Good to meet you, Mr. Noble. I was rather surprised to hear that someone of your skill had lost his way. I hope to give you that way back.”

“I don’t know if I have that much of a choice, you know? Anyways, whatever the contract is, I’m prepared to sign it. I don’t think I have much else to lose, you know?”

Russel was a little taken a back. “I guess. You don’t care what it requires?” Noble had lived by so many rules before in his life, and with his carefree attitude now, he just simply didn’t care. He just shrugged his shoulders, “Simple enough,” Russel finished up. “I will get you those contracts and look forward to seeing you soon. If you just stop by my secretary on the way out, she will find out where you’re staying and the contracts will be to you tonight.” Noble just stood up and started to make his way to the door. Before he could step through the threshold though, Russel stopped him.

“David, you mentioned that you didn’t have much of a choice. Why is that?”

Noble stopped for a second and looked back at Russel.

“Because it’s either this or death.”

With that, Noble walked down the hallway and left Russel to himself, wondering what it was that troubled this man so much.