Post by Duncan Ryder on Aug 29, 2022 18:46:54 GMT -5
Tuesday, August 16th - Detroit, MI
Commander Shepard returned to his cabin. He had been successful in the fight against the krogan but it hadn’t gone as he intended. He went into it with a plan, to use his biotics, his skills, his mental superiority to break the bigger, stronger alien down but once the bell had rung that had all gone out of the window.
Wait. What bell?
What krogan?
Duncan was sitting in his locker room. His eyes opened wide as he looked around, taking in the mundane surroundings. He reached for a water bottle and poured some of it onto his face. It was cold and made him gasp. He rubbed it with his hand then shook off the excess like a dog. He was breathing heavily suddenly, like someone left breathless awakening from a nightmare. He realised he couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He remembered walking to the ring. He remembered the match beginning but everything after the first thirty seconds was just flashes, memories he struggled to access despite them only having happened a matter of minutes before. He had had a plan. He had told the world that plan, yet once his blood had gotten pumping he had forgotten all about it. Technique had given way to violence. The adept had given way to the soldier. No, not the soldier, something else, something greater, vaster, darker, colder. Something ancient. Something that didn’t fight, something that destroyed.
Shepard shivered, suddenly cold despite the ambient warmth of the room. Goosebumps rippled across the back of his head and he reached back to it.
Whatever it was, it was still here.
Sunday August 14th - Detroit, MI
Duncan felt a little better having slept the rest of the journey up to Detroit in comfort of his room on the tour bus, but the nature of the episode still had him shaken. He had been calling Craig Joker since they had met, much to the driver’s continued confusion and annoyance, that much had not been unusual. He had also been prone to his flights of imagination, his daydreams, his wanderings into the twenty-second century in which he had cast himself as the galaxy's greatest hero but this, this had been different. Daydream was a flippant phrase. They weren’t dreams, just allowing the mind to wander. This dream, it had felt as real and immersive as any sleeping dream he had ever had and yet he had been awake the whole time. What did you call that?
Hallucination?
Insanity?
He shivered and pulled the covers close around him, even though he had been hot enough during the night to have discarded them near entirely. He rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. It felt like the path to madness.
A path you have already trodden well Commander Shepard.
Duncan screwed his eyes closed.
See your footsteps, imprinted in the dirt behind you Commander. Your boots are covered in ash.
Duncan pushed himself up to a seated position, his back braced against the head of the bed. He needed a distraction. He reached for his phone. Anything to fill the emptiness in his thoughts.
Anything to silence the voice from the void.
The dumpster fire of Twitter would have to do.
He scrolled and scrolled through the same shit as every day. He ignored most of it. Bert’s constant stream of unaware bile held no interest for him. Today though something did catch his eye.
It was a video of a press conference. A woman with long dark hair and a tailored suit spoke to a crowd of journalists that made no attempt to hide their disdain for her, professionalism be damned. He didn’t know her. He’d never even heard her name, but it was different. It would be a worthy distraction for as long as it lasted. Duncan listened to the two sides trade barbs as the woman, who had only been referred to up to this point as Ms. Benson, attempted to present a pre prepared statement. A task she soon gave up on, tearing the statement apart and tossing the pieces to the wind. She went off script.
Her story was unusual. A billionaire heiress forced in professional wrestling against her will by her father, with twenty five victories standing between her and an inheritance.
Duncan almost turned it off. For all that he needed the distraction he had no interest in the squabbles of rich families or the grievances of their spoiled offspring.
But then Johnny was there.
Why the hell was Johnny Hitmaker there?
Johnny launched into a speech with his regular brand of passion and inconsistent volume and Duncan listened. It was the least he could do for a friend.
The woman, Ms. Benson, needed a trainer. Johnny proclaimed his intent to scour the Earth to find one for her.
Perhaps this could be a greater distraction than Duncan had first expected.
Perhaps Johnny would not have far to look.
Tuesday August 16th - Detroit, MI
If this asshole was going to stick his nose into Duncan’s business, then Duncan had no reservations about retaliating in kind, so before the night of EXP 30 was through he would make his presence felt once again.
Shepard disembarked from the Normandy, descending from the landing ramp with determination and purpose. The N7 Crusader shotgun in his hands wasn’t loaded but it would make a suitable mess of anyone he chose to swing it into. His enemies didn’t see him coming, they were too preoccupied with one another. On one side was the broken necked Salarian he’d chased from Omega and caught up to on Poe’s World. On the other side was the reaper, the monster the Salarian had awakened, drawn up from the depths of the planet and in so doing doomed himself and everyone unfortunate enough to be nearby to death.
How are they here though?
This didn’t make sense.
He reached and stood in between them. Before Shepard’s eyes the body of the salarian peeled open like a blooming flower and from within the armoured insectoid form of a second reaper emerged, shedding the alien’s skin like a snake. It grew and grew far beyond what could have ever existed inside the slender alien’s frame until it loomed over the commander, until they both loomed over him. Shepard looked up now at not one but two reapers glaring down at him with the maliciously glowing orbs that seemed so much like eyes. Why had he come here? What was he doing? He didn’t know but there was no time to question it further. Another second of hesitation would see him atomised. Shepard lunged to his left, swinging the empty shotgun towards the leg of the nearest reaper as if he could bludgeon such a thing into submission then-
The bat struck Crash in the guts, doubling him over and driving him to the mat as the air was forcefully ejected from his lungs. A bell rings and Commander Shepard’s fate is sealed.
Wednesday August 17th - Indianapolis, IN
The journey back from Detroit had been a blur. Duncan had tried to sleep that night, tried to sleep the whole journey home but it barely came. He tossed and turned, never comfortable, his mind running through a thousand and one scenarios that all ended with him losing the Final Boss title and in the scant few hours unconsciousness took him he was plagued by vivid nightmares of being turned to dust by the baleful stares of galaxy striding behemoths. Each time he’d wake with a start, dripping with sweat and would start the whole exhausting process all over again. Eventually he had given up. Perhaps being back in his own home in his own bed would help.
He staggered in through his front door like a drunkard, stumbling and crashing into the back of his couch as he was thrown off balance by swinging his kit bag from his shoulder to the floor. His phone rumbled in his pocket. He drew it out but it slipped from his uncoordinated grip and clattered to the floor. He leant on the back of the couch as he reached down to retrieve it. Upon illuminating the screen a little white bird had invaded his notifications. He jabbed at it with his thumb as the facial recognition unlocked. Then a picture filled the screen, a picture of Emily Simms, dressed in white, turned away to best show off the curvature of her derriere. It was just the latest of several such pictures that had appeared these past days, each chased by a second tweet with a tag for Buster Gloves.
“You know people can see these right?” the Wisdom champion says.
“Of course she knows that Buster, you moron,” Duncan slurs into the screen, holding it up close to his face as if by doing so the target of his ire may hear him better. “Why do you think she’s posting them? Just for you?” Duncan let out a short derisive laugh then dropped the phone onto the couch. “Bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he staggered to his bedroom and collapsed face down and fully clothed into the bed.
Shepard awoke. With his eyes still bleary he reached for his personal communicator but though his hand fumbled all over the nightstand he didn’t feel it. With a groan of annoyance he rolled over to look, only to see it wasn’t there at all.
“Where the hell is it?” he muttered irritably. He reluctantly got to his feet and began to scour the Captain’s cabin on board the Normandy. He eventually found it on the couch and scooped it up aggressively, as if the device had misbehaved in some way.
“What the hell are you doing there?” he asked it. The device lit up to display a single message.
“Hey Duncan. You’ve missed our regular calls the last two weeks. It’s not like you. I just want to know that you’re OK. Text me back when you get this.”
The message was marked ‘Annie’, but who on Earth is Annie? There’s no character called Annie in the game. Must be a wrong number.
Do they have wrong numbers in space?
Must do, and who is Duncan anyway? His name was Commander Shepard. Commander-
He hesitated.
Why couldn’t he remember his name?
“Shepard,” he said to himself reassuringly, “everyone just calls me Shepard.”
He dropped the communicator again. He had things to be getting on with. No time to waste on foolish pursuits like this. The whole damn galaxy was at stake.
Why did you say game?
What?
Game. You said there’s no character called Annie in this game.
You think this is a game?
I didn’t say it. You did.
This isn’t a game to me. This is everything to me. Everything…
…who are you?
Friday August 19th - Indianapolis, IN
Another restless night was brought to an end as Duncan was roused from a half sleeping state by the sound of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He groaned as he rolled over to retrieve it. Duncan swiped his finger across the screen to accept the call then put it on speakerphone and set it back down before rolling back to stare up at the ceiling.
“Hello?” Duncan groaned.
“Oh thank god. You’re alive.”
Duncan frowned. “Who is this?”
“What kind of question is that? It’s me you idiot.”
Duncan scanned his brain to match the loud and belligerent voice to a face. A few moments later he made the connection. “J-Nay?”
“Huh? Why are you saying it weird? It’s Johnny.”
“How did you get this number? This is a secure channel for Alliance Naval personnel only.” Shepard said sternly.
“I’m not in the mood for messing around right now Duncan!”
“Who’s Duncan? This is Commander Shepard. You need to get that pressure suit of yours fixed J-Nay. You’re so loud.”
“Is this a joke to you Duncan?”
“I said, it’s Commander Shepard. Why are you such an angry little volus today?”
“Oh, well, Commander, now you mention it, I’m angry because you missed the meet and greet I booked you for that you were supposed to be at three hours ago!”
“What meet and greet?” Shepard asked, “Commander Shepard may happily sign a few autographs when he meets fans while performing his duties but he hardly has time for meet and greets.”
“Knock it off! Commander Shepard may not but Duncan freaking Ryder definitely does.”
Shepard’s head swam for a moment and he felt dizzy despite already being laid down. “Wait, wait,” Duncan said through squinted eyes while he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I remember. Where was it again?”
“At the comic book store you dolt!”
“But that wasn’t until tomorrow,” Duncan protested.
“I think I know what day it is. It was today!”
“No, no, no, you told me Saturday Johnny, I clearly remember that.”
“It is Saturday!”
“What?”
“It’s Saturday! Today is Saturday!”
“Stop messing with me Johnny. Even if it was Saturday it’s like eight am. The meet isn’t until eleven.”
“It is Saturday and it’s two in the afternoon!”
Duncan rolled over and checked his phone again. Johnny was right. It was Saturday. Two pm.
Friday August 19th - Indianpolis, IN
Saturday August 20th - Indianapolis, IN
“What the…” Duncan said then trailed off in the confusion. “I’m sorry Johnny, I just…I don’t know. Somehow I…what did I do yesterday?”
“What the heck has gotten into you Duncan?”
“Honestly Johnny, I wish I knew.”
“Do I need to send someone to come and check on you?”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m just tired is all. A little stressed maybe.”
“Right. Well. I’ll smooth things over with the store owners, see if they’re willing to reschedule. Get your head back on straight Duncan, you’re making me look bad.”
“Yeah, of course. Sorry,” Duncan said then rolled over to end the call, “your concern is deeply touching,” he added once no one could hear him.
Duncan rolled over onto his back again. He stared at the ceiling for a moment then closed his eyes. He considered trying to sleep again but he knew it wouldn’t come, he was awake now. May as well get on with it. He got to his feet and walked through to his bathroom and as he switched the light on he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It made him pause. He touched his fingers to the top of his left cheek and winced.
“When the hell did I get a black eye?”
Sunday August 21st - Indianapolis, IN
These days Duncan did most of his training alone. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he had chosen to settle down in Indianapolis of all places to be close to the so-called home of Level Up and cut down on travel time, only for there barely to have been a show in the city since he’d moved in. He often wondered if he should have settled in Los Angeles or Chicago, somewhere where he had more roots, more available training partners, but he had made his decision and he was in position to change it now. He had enough on his plate without adding the extra stress.
He had a couple of people he had met over the past year though who he would meet up with when schedules aligned and it so happened on this day that they had.
Chad Colt was something of a local hero on the Indiana indie scene, beloved for his passionate, vocal and utterly unwavering support for the local NFL team from which he had even gone so far as to draw his ring name and even had their logo, a blue horseshoe, tattooed on his chest. He stood around an inch shorter than Duncan but equally as broad and muscular through his chest and arms. Chad was the younger of the two by a fair margin as well but despite the gap the two had found themselves to have a tremendous amount in common. Neither had grown up as wrestling fans. Both had long held aspirations of becoming professional athletes in other fields. For Duncan it had been rugby, for Chad, the hope of one day playing for his beloved Indianapolis Colts. Duncan’s aspirations had eventually been dashed simply by not being up to standard but for Chad it had been injury that had ruled him out, the violent tearing of nearly every ligament in his left knee scuppering his dreams as he stood on the brink of being drafted to the NFL. Both had fallen into professional wrestling as a new pursuit, a new way to refocus their athletic energies, to compete and forge new dreams of championships and glory.
To this end though the two had been trained in vastly different ways. Chad had come up in an American system that had played to his strengths as a linebacker, deceptive speed and explosive strength, he ran through opponents like a runaway freight train. Duncan, by comparison, had been trained by Brits versed in the classics of catch-as-catch-can and folk wrestling. It was this style, of the intricate exchange of holds and counters that Duncan had fallen in love with fifteen years ago. It was what the two of them typically worked on when time allowed, Duncan attempted to impart a measure of elegance and technicality to the in ring work of the stampeding colt.
The two of them had met in a private gym, not really much more than a small industrial unit on the outskirts of the city that had had a ring built inside it. The two of them had been trading arm wringers for wrist locks, headlock takeovers and headscissor counters for around thirty minutes when something occurred to Duncan. Of how jumbled and erratic he had felt these past weeks, since Super Adventure Island really but worst of all since EXP 30, this was the calmest, the most collected, the most himself he had felt in that entire time. It was like the familiar intricate manoeuvres acted like a form of meditation to him, centring his mind and reminding him of who he truly was. He had grown old, as all things did, but for a time he remembered a young man called Duncan Ryder.
Sometime in Mid-Autumn 2007 - London, England.
The Thames Valley Wrestling School was situated in an utterly unextraordinary warehouse unsurprisingly placed a short distance from the banks of the River Thames. For all its ordinariness though, to the eyes of Duncan Ryder, recent university graduate and failed professional rugby aspirant, it was as imposing as a fortress. He stood transfixed for a time, staring up at the walls as if he would be expected to scale them in the face of burning arrows and buckets of hot oil if he were to be granted access inside.
“You just gonna stand there or you coming in?” a voice called out in a broad London accent, startling Duncan and making his head snap around in search of the source. He found it, a rotund balding figure standing in a small doorway at the far end of the building.
Sheepishly Duncan slung his kit bag over his shoulder and jogged over to the newcomer. He opened his mouth to speak but the man cut him off.
“Do I know you?”
“Um, that depends. I spoke with Mr. Jones on the phone a couple of days ago.”
“Thas me. Oh yeah yeah, I remember. Declan was it?”
“Duncan. Duncan Ryder.”
Mr. Jones sneered a little, “alright double o seven, I heard ya the first time. Come in then.” Jonesy turned and walked back inside, not waiting or looking back to check if he was being followed. Duncan followed and for the first time immersed himself in the world of professional wrestling. Immediately his senses were assailed. Everywhere he looked there were people of all shapes and sizes, men and women, tied in all manner of knots that were unfathomable to his untrained eyes. He heard the sounds of exertion and the coaches giving instructions in what could as well have been a different language for all Duncan knew. He smelled sweat and maybe a little blood in the air. The whole place felt like it buzzed with violent energy, but it was controlled, guided, sophisticated even. As he stared gormlessly around the room taking it all in, Duncan realised something. He was already hooked.
“So what’re you looking to get out of training here?” Mr. Jones asked without looking back and stopping to correct the form of an ankle pick that was executed to his left hand side before Duncan could respond.
“I think I’ve just decided. I want to be the champion of the world.”
“Champion of the world? Ha,” Mr. Jones laughed derisively and tapped the arm of a man with a buzzcut and a menacing scowl walking past him, “you hear that Johnny? New kid here says he’s going to be champion of the world.”
The man with the buzzcut looked Duncan up and down appraisingly then snorted disdainfully before walking off.
“I’m going to do it Mr. Jones. I promise you that. One day, just you watch me.”
“Yeah, yeah, slow your horse, kid, let's teach you how to apply a wrist lock first shall we and stop calling me mister. Everyone here just calls me Jonesy.”
Thursday 25th August - Indianapolis, IN
The event had gone on through the afternoon and was continuing into the early evening. Johnny had managed to smooth things over with the comic book store owners and they had rescheduled the meet and greet. Midweek wasn’t as good of a time to do it as the weekend had been but Duncan was due to travel out to Combat Evolved with the Normandy on Saturday. In turn he had stayed far longer than had been expected of him, even past times when it seemed the crowd was done, waiting late so people would have a chance to come and see him after they got out of work.
“It’s alright Duncan. We appreciate your time. You can go though. It’s time we closed up the shop anyway,” said Barry, the store owner.
“You sure, I don’t mind waiting a little longer.” It was true. Since his last training session with Chad something had changed in Duncan’s mind. He was calmer, less tense all the time. He was sleeping better and in his improved state of mind he had enjoyed this kind of up close personal fan interaction in a way he had not been able to since Super Adventure Island, perhaps even before that. He wasn’t ready for that to end yet.
“I’m sure. I’ve got a cat back home that’s gonna tear the place apart if I don’t get back and feed him soon.”
“OK,” Duncan said, like a child reluctantly agreeing to do something they didn’t want to. He got up from behind the table that had been set up for him and walked over to Barry, extending his hand. “Thanks for inviting me back. I’m so sorry I missed the original day. I just-”
“It’s alright, Mr. Hitmaker explained everything.”
“He did? Oh, well great, and as for money, you don’t owe me a thing.”
“That’s not the deal I agreed with your agent.”
“I know, it’s the least I can do to make it up to you though. You let me worry about Johnny. Maybe you’ll have me back again soon.”
“Well, I think I just might,” said Barry, shaking Duncan’s offered hand. “You have a good night now, and good luck with your match on Tuesday.”
“Thanks, I don’t normally say this but I think I’ll need it.”
With that Duncan made his way outside. His van was parked in the alleyway behind the shop and he made his way back there. When he reached the vehicle though he found a stranger leaning against it.
The man was lean, gaunt even, practically malnourished from the look of him. He wore a brown three piece suit but it was ragged and ill fitting. He had a sharp nose and chin and his hair was thinning and turning grey. He smoked a hand rolled cigarette as he leant back against the van, one foot raised and resting on the back tyre.
“There you are,” the man said, “should have known you were a professional. Duncan Shepard is it?”
Duncan frowned, “Um, yeah, were you looking to get something signed because I don’t have a pen on me.”
The man chuckled. There was nothing cheerful about it. “No, I’m not looking to get anything signed,” he said as he pushed himself up off the van, flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of his boot. “You had me worried. Way you disappeared, after a performance like that. I was worried I was never going to find you again. Then I’m just walking about and there you are, face stapled to a telegraph pole telling me exactly when and where to find you. Of all the luck,” he said with a sly smile.
Duncan’s frown grew deeper, “Sorry, um, do I know you? I don’t think we’ve met.”
The man chuckled his humourless chuckle again, “Do you know me? Come on, don’t be like that.”
Duncan shrugged a little, “I’m not being like anything. I’m sorry, maybe you can jog my memory.”
The man stroked his chin and peered at Duncan, as if he were trying to decide whether he believed him or not. “You really don’t remember, do you.” Duncan shook his head. “Figures,” the man continued with a nonplussed shrug of his own, “you were wasted.”
“Wasted?” Duncan asked, panic in his voice, “what do you mean wasted?”
“Hammered, smashed, tanked, wrecked, pissed I think your fellow countrymen like to say. You were drunk.”
Duncan shook his head, “No, no, I’m sorry mate, you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t drink. Haven’t touched a drop in almost two years.”
“Is that so?” the man asked, almost mockingly and he took a few steps towards Duncan, “well then it won’t hurt so bad if I were to-” the man jabbed Duncan under his left eye. Duncan immediately winced and stepped back a few paces. The man was looking at his fingers, rubbing off the layer of concealer Barry’s girlfriend had put on him when he’d arrived to cover what remained of his black eye. “I suppose you don’t remember how you got that then either.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then let me tell you a story. It all began in the final hours of Friday night.”
Shepard was in the Captain’s cabin again. He felt like he was here an inordinate amount of time recently. He felt like he needed to get out more, to attend to the crew, to the galaxy he had sworn and made it his mission to protect. Any time he left though his mind grew fuzzy. His memories were jumbled and hazy, missing long lengths of time that he couldn’t account for. It had been that way ever since he had escaped the ambush that had been sprung upon him on Byzantia.
He should have gone to Dr. Chakwas by now. Perhaps he had taken some kind of brain injury during the fighting but he hadn’t brought himself to do so. He was afraid to. He wasn’t sure if that meant that he was afraid of what she might find if allowed to properly examine him or that he was afraid of what people might think of him if he admitted to them what had been going on, what he had been feeling and experiencing. He was Commander Shepard, first human Spectre, hero of the galaxy and he had to remain that no matter what.
Besides, he was pretty sure it wasn’t an injury.
Whatever the reason though, staying holed up in here, on his own, making excuses about tactical reports and strategic simulation analysis meant he wasn’t expending anywhere near the amount of energy he typically would and where once he would fall exhausted into his bed at the end of a day, fast asleep as soon as his face hit the pillow, recently he had been lying awake for hours at a time begging for sleep that constantly eluded him. This night he had given up trying, for now at least and stepped over to the viewing portal that looked out into the darkness of space.
“You know there’s one thing you used to do that would get you to sleep every time.”
Shepard shivered and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck.
“I’m not really in the mood to grapple with the thresher maw right now.”
“Not that. Have a little drink. There’s a bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy down in the mess hall. Go and get it, it’ll take the edge off.”
Shepard shook his head, “No. No, I don’t drink anymore. I have to stay sharp, alert.”
“Tell me Commander, do you feel sharp and alert right now?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” Shepard said defiantly.
“You do? Then tell me Commander, who are you talking to?”
Shepard stopped. He backed away from the viewing portal and waved his hand over the control to close it off.
“I’m not out there Commander. I’m in here. Now, go and have a drink, or don’t. Perhaps you’d rather just stay here and go insane instead.”
Shepard looked at the door, weighed up the values of two evils, then headed out towards the mess hall.
Friday August 19th - Indianapolis, IN
His name was Kyle Burden and there were two things in life he enjoyed above all others, violence and easy money. Not his own violence, he was too scrawny to indulge personally, on a level playing field at least, but he had always enjoyed watching others inflict violence upon one another from a safe distance with a good view. He used to wander the streets at night. He had memorised the kicking out time of every bar in Indianapolis and he’d be waiting there, waiting for the drunks to get sent on their way, only to take up their grievances, imagined or otherwise, with one another right there on the sidewalk. In time though the drunks had grown to bore him. They were too weak, uncoordinated. Too many would be fights turned out to be little more than slapstick farces once the fists started being flailed wildly. On the opposite end of the scale he found the world of professional combat sports too clinical, too sanitary and clean. Their actions were too precise. They fought to win. Kyle wanted to watch people fight to hurt one another, nothing more, nothing less. So years ago he had decided, if he couldn’t find the entertainment that suited him out in the world, he would have to make it himself.
It hadn’t been hard to find a venue. A bar with a basement big enough to fit a few dozen men with space still for fists to fly and an owner happy to let it out a few nights a week for a cut of the profits. Then he just had to fill it. He had thought that might be the difficult part but it turns out it was easy to find people inspired by a particular 1999 movie that wanted to beat the hell out of other guys for no other reason than to vent their great many frustrations with the world and their own pathetic meaningless lives. He thanked this great nation he called home for that. So it was that Kyle Burden had been running an ‘underground boxing club’ on the outskirts of Indianapolis for several years.
This Friday night was the same as any other. The basement was packed with half drunk, frustrated, angry and impotent men all waiting for their turn to victimise another human being for their own failings. Kyle was more than happy to make the necessary arrangements and manage the books and the odds for those that wanted to place a wager or two along with it.
One such fight had just ended and it was going to take a little while for his assistants to scrape one of the poor saps up off the floor so Kyle went for a smoke. He was about halfway through his cigarette when his attention was drawn by the sound of clattering trash cans. At first Kyle assumed it was a cat or racoons or something but out of the shadows of the alleyway and into the moonlight stumbled a man. He was tall and broad shouldered, heavily muscled. Even drunk out of his mind as he clearly was there was something in the way the man carried himself that Kyle recognised. He had the poise of a lion. This was a man attuned to violence.
“Nice evening isn’t it friend?” Kyle said as the lion stumbled towards him.
“Do you know where my ship is docked?” the drunk asked him.
“Your ship?” said Kyle, stifling a laugh, “oh yes, I know exactly where your ship is. It’s just down the stairs here. Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Thursday August 25th - Indianapolis, IN
“Then what happened?” Duncan asked. His hands were balled into fists, so tight his knuckles were turning white. He felt violated. All he wanted was to reach out and snap this man’s neck like a twig.
“Then, Duncan Shepard, you put on a show of exquisite violence the likes of which I have never seen. You beat up three guys, three,” the man held up three fingers to emphasise his point, “so badly my guys had to go and dump them outside the ER. In return the best any of them could manage was to hit you with one, lucky, punch.” the man playfully mimed a looping right haymaker that stopped just as it would strike Duncan’s left eye.
Duncan swatted the hand away and the man backed off, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
“Easy there, big guy.”
“Suppose I believe any of this?” said Duncan, “that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why go through the trouble to find me again? What do you want from me?”
“I wanted to extend you an invitation to return of course. I’d hate to think I’d never get to see such a display again but all you left me with was a name and it wasn’t one I thought I’d be able to find you with on Facebook.”
“A name? What name? Please tell me I didn’t ask you to call me the Dashing Destroyer?”
The man chuckled, “Dashing Destroyer? Fitting but no. You told us to call you-”
Saturday August 27th - Route 70, between Indianapolis, IN and St. Louis, MI
Duncan was coming to hate these journeys. For the apparent luxury the tour bus he had affectionately dubbed Normandy possessed he now found it nothing but stifling. For the long hours on the road he was cooped up in the back he felt trapped, claustrophobic, stifled. With each passing minute he grew more restless and agitated. He tried to distract himself. He tried to sleep but he couldn’t do either. All that kept running through his head was the word the man in the alleyway had said to him.
Over and over it repeated, whispering in the back of his skull.
Monday August 29th - El Paso, TX
Duncan stood in the dark. There was no scene imposed behind him, not even the spark of distant stars. A single low light was just enough to outline his body and shimmer off the Final Boss championship belt that he carried slung over his shoulder.
Duncan: So, we’re finally here. Combat Evolved.
His voice is low and measured.
Duncan: Who’d have thought Bert that just three shows after your triumphant return against Wank you’d be here, facing me. Who’d have thought Joey Crash that in just your second match since I left you broken and unmoving in the depths of hell that you’d be here again, facing me.
Duncan’s voice slowly becomes more impassioned, louder and fiercer.
Duncan: Now there has been more than enough talk from you Bert. It feels like you haven’t taken a second in the past six weeks to just shut the hell up but that time is going to come. You hear that?
Duncan pauses and holds up one finger.
Duncan: Silence. That’s the sound you’re going to make when Combat Evolved is over, finally you will be silent, because there will be nothing left for you to whine about. It won’t matter anymore that you slipped by me last year at TriForce Heroes, it won’t matter that you took your tainted win over me to get you here. None of it will matter anymore, because when all is said and done it will be clear to you, me, everyone in the back and every fan watching in the arena or at home that the only pretender to the Final Boss Championship is you.
Duncan tuts and wags his finger.
Duncan: Don’t think that I’ve forgotten about you though Joey Crash. Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me that you’re the only reason Bert is here at all. Without you sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong I’d have broken the little rat in two weeks ago and left him for the husks, but no, you did stick your nose in. Your actions fuelled Bert’s incessant braying for the past four weeks. Your actions meant that this championship I have sworn to uphold and uplift has to be sullied by association with that man child who brings nothing to the table but the bad smell and unearned narcissism.
Duncan chuckles humorlessly.
Duncan: Perhaps you’re wondering then, Joey, why when I hold these grievances against you did I ensure your place in this match as well? It’s simple, to teach you a lesson. Noses that get stuck where they don’t belong, noses that get stuck in my business get broken. That’s just for starters Joey. Before the night is out I promise you I will break the nose you stuck in my business, I will break the hands you laid upon me and just like when we met in the depths of hell I will render you to ash and cast you into the wind.
Duncan: Bert, you have lessons of your own you need to learn. Lessons like discretion, like humility, like patience, but these are not the lessons I am going to teach you. Tomorrow night Bert, I’m going to teach you that fragile little men shouldn’t bark at world bestriding behemoths. That when dry brittle twigs stand in the path of the hurricane, they get broken. That’s what I’m going to do to you Bert, I’m going to break you. Everytime you called me pretender is a bone snapped. Everytime you lauded your tainted wins over me is a ligament torn. When night is over you are going to wish that you had stayed retired. You’re going to wish you had stayed in Florida with your cushy teaching job because as the mess Joey Crash made of you when he took this title from you, is going to feel like a stubbed toe compared to the mess I make of you tomorrow night.
Duncan: Because tomorrow night we leave no room for doubt. Tomorrow night no one gets away with slipping past the true challenge in search of easier prey. Tomorrow night I prove what I have been saying, what I have been promising since I won this title, that I am the Champion the Final Boss title deserves, that Level Up Wrestling Deserves, that the world deserves.
Duncan: Tomorrow night, combat evolves. Tomorrow night, violence evolves. Tomorrow night, I evolve and what I choose to leave of the both of you will signal the approach of what is coming. You will be the forerunners of what I become and Level Up Wrestling will never be the same again.
As he finishes speaking a red wireframe image of an insectoid creature with a single baleful crimson eye appears in front of Duncan. There is a deep reverberating wailing noise and the video comes to an abrupt end.
Tuesday August 30th - El Paso, TX
Duncan Shepard stood out of view at the top of the entrance ramp. Any second now his music would begin and he would step out in front of the crowd at the Don Haskins Center and fight with all he had to defend the championship belt that was strapped around his waist. The belt that was the sum of all he had fought and striven to become. The belt that was the fulfilment of a vow made to a mentor long since passed. Any second now he music would play.
A chill ran up the back of his neck and he reached back to rub it.
“You’re going to show them who you are out there,” said the voice that whispered in the back of his mind.
“I’m going to show them,” Duncan whispered out loud.
“Say it. Tell them who they’re going to face tonight.”
Thursday August 25th - Indianapolis, IN
“You told us to call you-”
August 25th, IN August 30th, TX
Man: Harbinger Duncan: Harbinger
Commander Shepard returned to his cabin. He had been successful in the fight against the krogan but it hadn’t gone as he intended. He went into it with a plan, to use his biotics, his skills, his mental superiority to break the bigger, stronger alien down but once the bell had rung that had all gone out of the window.
Wait. What bell?
What krogan?
Duncan was sitting in his locker room. His eyes opened wide as he looked around, taking in the mundane surroundings. He reached for a water bottle and poured some of it onto his face. It was cold and made him gasp. He rubbed it with his hand then shook off the excess like a dog. He was breathing heavily suddenly, like someone left breathless awakening from a nightmare. He realised he couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He remembered walking to the ring. He remembered the match beginning but everything after the first thirty seconds was just flashes, memories he struggled to access despite them only having happened a matter of minutes before. He had had a plan. He had told the world that plan, yet once his blood had gotten pumping he had forgotten all about it. Technique had given way to violence. The adept had given way to the soldier. No, not the soldier, something else, something greater, vaster, darker, colder. Something ancient. Something that didn’t fight, something that destroyed.
Shepard shivered, suddenly cold despite the ambient warmth of the room. Goosebumps rippled across the back of his head and he reached back to it.
Whatever it was, it was still here.
Sunday August 14th - Detroit, MI
Duncan felt a little better having slept the rest of the journey up to Detroit in comfort of his room on the tour bus, but the nature of the episode still had him shaken. He had been calling Craig Joker since they had met, much to the driver’s continued confusion and annoyance, that much had not been unusual. He had also been prone to his flights of imagination, his daydreams, his wanderings into the twenty-second century in which he had cast himself as the galaxy's greatest hero but this, this had been different. Daydream was a flippant phrase. They weren’t dreams, just allowing the mind to wander. This dream, it had felt as real and immersive as any sleeping dream he had ever had and yet he had been awake the whole time. What did you call that?
Hallucination?
Insanity?
He shivered and pulled the covers close around him, even though he had been hot enough during the night to have discarded them near entirely. He rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. It felt like the path to madness.
A path you have already trodden well Commander Shepard.
Duncan screwed his eyes closed.
See your footsteps, imprinted in the dirt behind you Commander. Your boots are covered in ash.
Duncan pushed himself up to a seated position, his back braced against the head of the bed. He needed a distraction. He reached for his phone. Anything to fill the emptiness in his thoughts.
Anything to silence the voice from the void.
The dumpster fire of Twitter would have to do.
He scrolled and scrolled through the same shit as every day. He ignored most of it. Bert’s constant stream of unaware bile held no interest for him. Today though something did catch his eye.
It was a video of a press conference. A woman with long dark hair and a tailored suit spoke to a crowd of journalists that made no attempt to hide their disdain for her, professionalism be damned. He didn’t know her. He’d never even heard her name, but it was different. It would be a worthy distraction for as long as it lasted. Duncan listened to the two sides trade barbs as the woman, who had only been referred to up to this point as Ms. Benson, attempted to present a pre prepared statement. A task she soon gave up on, tearing the statement apart and tossing the pieces to the wind. She went off script.
Her story was unusual. A billionaire heiress forced in professional wrestling against her will by her father, with twenty five victories standing between her and an inheritance.
Duncan almost turned it off. For all that he needed the distraction he had no interest in the squabbles of rich families or the grievances of their spoiled offspring.
But then Johnny was there.
Why the hell was Johnny Hitmaker there?
Johnny launched into a speech with his regular brand of passion and inconsistent volume and Duncan listened. It was the least he could do for a friend.
The woman, Ms. Benson, needed a trainer. Johnny proclaimed his intent to scour the Earth to find one for her.
Perhaps this could be a greater distraction than Duncan had first expected.
Perhaps Johnny would not have far to look.
Tuesday August 16th - Detroit, MI
If this asshole was going to stick his nose into Duncan’s business, then Duncan had no reservations about retaliating in kind, so before the night of EXP 30 was through he would make his presence felt once again.
Shepard disembarked from the Normandy, descending from the landing ramp with determination and purpose. The N7 Crusader shotgun in his hands wasn’t loaded but it would make a suitable mess of anyone he chose to swing it into. His enemies didn’t see him coming, they were too preoccupied with one another. On one side was the broken necked Salarian he’d chased from Omega and caught up to on Poe’s World. On the other side was the reaper, the monster the Salarian had awakened, drawn up from the depths of the planet and in so doing doomed himself and everyone unfortunate enough to be nearby to death.
How are they here though?
This didn’t make sense.
He reached and stood in between them. Before Shepard’s eyes the body of the salarian peeled open like a blooming flower and from within the armoured insectoid form of a second reaper emerged, shedding the alien’s skin like a snake. It grew and grew far beyond what could have ever existed inside the slender alien’s frame until it loomed over the commander, until they both loomed over him. Shepard looked up now at not one but two reapers glaring down at him with the maliciously glowing orbs that seemed so much like eyes. Why had he come here? What was he doing? He didn’t know but there was no time to question it further. Another second of hesitation would see him atomised. Shepard lunged to his left, swinging the empty shotgun towards the leg of the nearest reaper as if he could bludgeon such a thing into submission then-
The bat struck Crash in the guts, doubling him over and driving him to the mat as the air was forcefully ejected from his lungs. A bell rings and Commander Shepard’s fate is sealed.
Wednesday August 17th - Indianapolis, IN
The journey back from Detroit had been a blur. Duncan had tried to sleep that night, tried to sleep the whole journey home but it barely came. He tossed and turned, never comfortable, his mind running through a thousand and one scenarios that all ended with him losing the Final Boss title and in the scant few hours unconsciousness took him he was plagued by vivid nightmares of being turned to dust by the baleful stares of galaxy striding behemoths. Each time he’d wake with a start, dripping with sweat and would start the whole exhausting process all over again. Eventually he had given up. Perhaps being back in his own home in his own bed would help.
He staggered in through his front door like a drunkard, stumbling and crashing into the back of his couch as he was thrown off balance by swinging his kit bag from his shoulder to the floor. His phone rumbled in his pocket. He drew it out but it slipped from his uncoordinated grip and clattered to the floor. He leant on the back of the couch as he reached down to retrieve it. Upon illuminating the screen a little white bird had invaded his notifications. He jabbed at it with his thumb as the facial recognition unlocked. Then a picture filled the screen, a picture of Emily Simms, dressed in white, turned away to best show off the curvature of her derriere. It was just the latest of several such pictures that had appeared these past days, each chased by a second tweet with a tag for Buster Gloves.
“You know people can see these right?” the Wisdom champion says.
“Of course she knows that Buster, you moron,” Duncan slurs into the screen, holding it up close to his face as if by doing so the target of his ire may hear him better. “Why do you think she’s posting them? Just for you?” Duncan let out a short derisive laugh then dropped the phone onto the couch. “Bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he staggered to his bedroom and collapsed face down and fully clothed into the bed.
Shepard awoke. With his eyes still bleary he reached for his personal communicator but though his hand fumbled all over the nightstand he didn’t feel it. With a groan of annoyance he rolled over to look, only to see it wasn’t there at all.
“Where the hell is it?” he muttered irritably. He reluctantly got to his feet and began to scour the Captain’s cabin on board the Normandy. He eventually found it on the couch and scooped it up aggressively, as if the device had misbehaved in some way.
“What the hell are you doing there?” he asked it. The device lit up to display a single message.
“Hey Duncan. You’ve missed our regular calls the last two weeks. It’s not like you. I just want to know that you’re OK. Text me back when you get this.”
The message was marked ‘Annie’, but who on Earth is Annie? There’s no character called Annie in the game. Must be a wrong number.
Do they have wrong numbers in space?
Must do, and who is Duncan anyway? His name was Commander Shepard. Commander-
He hesitated.
Why couldn’t he remember his name?
“Shepard,” he said to himself reassuringly, “everyone just calls me Shepard.”
He dropped the communicator again. He had things to be getting on with. No time to waste on foolish pursuits like this. The whole damn galaxy was at stake.
Why did you say game?
What?
Game. You said there’s no character called Annie in this game.
You think this is a game?
I didn’t say it. You did.
This isn’t a game to me. This is everything to me. Everything…
…who are you?
Friday August 19th - Indianapolis, IN
Another restless night was brought to an end as Duncan was roused from a half sleeping state by the sound of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He groaned as he rolled over to retrieve it. Duncan swiped his finger across the screen to accept the call then put it on speakerphone and set it back down before rolling back to stare up at the ceiling.
“Hello?” Duncan groaned.
“Oh thank god. You’re alive.”
Duncan frowned. “Who is this?”
“What kind of question is that? It’s me you idiot.”
Duncan scanned his brain to match the loud and belligerent voice to a face. A few moments later he made the connection. “J-Nay?”
“Huh? Why are you saying it weird? It’s Johnny.”
“How did you get this number? This is a secure channel for Alliance Naval personnel only.” Shepard said sternly.
“I’m not in the mood for messing around right now Duncan!”
“Who’s Duncan? This is Commander Shepard. You need to get that pressure suit of yours fixed J-Nay. You’re so loud.”
“Is this a joke to you Duncan?”
“I said, it’s Commander Shepard. Why are you such an angry little volus today?”
“Oh, well, Commander, now you mention it, I’m angry because you missed the meet and greet I booked you for that you were supposed to be at three hours ago!”
“What meet and greet?” Shepard asked, “Commander Shepard may happily sign a few autographs when he meets fans while performing his duties but he hardly has time for meet and greets.”
“Knock it off! Commander Shepard may not but Duncan freaking Ryder definitely does.”
Shepard’s head swam for a moment and he felt dizzy despite already being laid down. “Wait, wait,” Duncan said through squinted eyes while he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I remember. Where was it again?”
“At the comic book store you dolt!”
“But that wasn’t until tomorrow,” Duncan protested.
“I think I know what day it is. It was today!”
“No, no, no, you told me Saturday Johnny, I clearly remember that.”
“It is Saturday!”
“What?”
“It’s Saturday! Today is Saturday!”
“Stop messing with me Johnny. Even if it was Saturday it’s like eight am. The meet isn’t until eleven.”
“It is Saturday and it’s two in the afternoon!”
Duncan rolled over and checked his phone again. Johnny was right. It was Saturday. Two pm.
Saturday August 20th - Indianapolis, IN
“What the…” Duncan said then trailed off in the confusion. “I’m sorry Johnny, I just…I don’t know. Somehow I…what did I do yesterday?”
“What the heck has gotten into you Duncan?”
“Honestly Johnny, I wish I knew.”
“Do I need to send someone to come and check on you?”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m just tired is all. A little stressed maybe.”
“Right. Well. I’ll smooth things over with the store owners, see if they’re willing to reschedule. Get your head back on straight Duncan, you’re making me look bad.”
“Yeah, of course. Sorry,” Duncan said then rolled over to end the call, “your concern is deeply touching,” he added once no one could hear him.
Duncan rolled over onto his back again. He stared at the ceiling for a moment then closed his eyes. He considered trying to sleep again but he knew it wouldn’t come, he was awake now. May as well get on with it. He got to his feet and walked through to his bathroom and as he switched the light on he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It made him pause. He touched his fingers to the top of his left cheek and winced.
“When the hell did I get a black eye?”
Sunday August 21st - Indianapolis, IN
These days Duncan did most of his training alone. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he had chosen to settle down in Indianapolis of all places to be close to the so-called home of Level Up and cut down on travel time, only for there barely to have been a show in the city since he’d moved in. He often wondered if he should have settled in Los Angeles or Chicago, somewhere where he had more roots, more available training partners, but he had made his decision and he was in position to change it now. He had enough on his plate without adding the extra stress.
He had a couple of people he had met over the past year though who he would meet up with when schedules aligned and it so happened on this day that they had.
Chad Colt was something of a local hero on the Indiana indie scene, beloved for his passionate, vocal and utterly unwavering support for the local NFL team from which he had even gone so far as to draw his ring name and even had their logo, a blue horseshoe, tattooed on his chest. He stood around an inch shorter than Duncan but equally as broad and muscular through his chest and arms. Chad was the younger of the two by a fair margin as well but despite the gap the two had found themselves to have a tremendous amount in common. Neither had grown up as wrestling fans. Both had long held aspirations of becoming professional athletes in other fields. For Duncan it had been rugby, for Chad, the hope of one day playing for his beloved Indianapolis Colts. Duncan’s aspirations had eventually been dashed simply by not being up to standard but for Chad it had been injury that had ruled him out, the violent tearing of nearly every ligament in his left knee scuppering his dreams as he stood on the brink of being drafted to the NFL. Both had fallen into professional wrestling as a new pursuit, a new way to refocus their athletic energies, to compete and forge new dreams of championships and glory.
To this end though the two had been trained in vastly different ways. Chad had come up in an American system that had played to his strengths as a linebacker, deceptive speed and explosive strength, he ran through opponents like a runaway freight train. Duncan, by comparison, had been trained by Brits versed in the classics of catch-as-catch-can and folk wrestling. It was this style, of the intricate exchange of holds and counters that Duncan had fallen in love with fifteen years ago. It was what the two of them typically worked on when time allowed, Duncan attempted to impart a measure of elegance and technicality to the in ring work of the stampeding colt.
The two of them had met in a private gym, not really much more than a small industrial unit on the outskirts of the city that had had a ring built inside it. The two of them had been trading arm wringers for wrist locks, headlock takeovers and headscissor counters for around thirty minutes when something occurred to Duncan. Of how jumbled and erratic he had felt these past weeks, since Super Adventure Island really but worst of all since EXP 30, this was the calmest, the most collected, the most himself he had felt in that entire time. It was like the familiar intricate manoeuvres acted like a form of meditation to him, centring his mind and reminding him of who he truly was. He had grown old, as all things did, but for a time he remembered a young man called Duncan Ryder.
Sometime in Mid-Autumn 2007 - London, England.
The Thames Valley Wrestling School was situated in an utterly unextraordinary warehouse unsurprisingly placed a short distance from the banks of the River Thames. For all its ordinariness though, to the eyes of Duncan Ryder, recent university graduate and failed professional rugby aspirant, it was as imposing as a fortress. He stood transfixed for a time, staring up at the walls as if he would be expected to scale them in the face of burning arrows and buckets of hot oil if he were to be granted access inside.
“You just gonna stand there or you coming in?” a voice called out in a broad London accent, startling Duncan and making his head snap around in search of the source. He found it, a rotund balding figure standing in a small doorway at the far end of the building.
Sheepishly Duncan slung his kit bag over his shoulder and jogged over to the newcomer. He opened his mouth to speak but the man cut him off.
“Do I know you?”
“Um, that depends. I spoke with Mr. Jones on the phone a couple of days ago.”
“Thas me. Oh yeah yeah, I remember. Declan was it?”
“Duncan. Duncan Ryder.”
Mr. Jones sneered a little, “alright double o seven, I heard ya the first time. Come in then.” Jonesy turned and walked back inside, not waiting or looking back to check if he was being followed. Duncan followed and for the first time immersed himself in the world of professional wrestling. Immediately his senses were assailed. Everywhere he looked there were people of all shapes and sizes, men and women, tied in all manner of knots that were unfathomable to his untrained eyes. He heard the sounds of exertion and the coaches giving instructions in what could as well have been a different language for all Duncan knew. He smelled sweat and maybe a little blood in the air. The whole place felt like it buzzed with violent energy, but it was controlled, guided, sophisticated even. As he stared gormlessly around the room taking it all in, Duncan realised something. He was already hooked.
“So what’re you looking to get out of training here?” Mr. Jones asked without looking back and stopping to correct the form of an ankle pick that was executed to his left hand side before Duncan could respond.
“I think I’ve just decided. I want to be the champion of the world.”
“Champion of the world? Ha,” Mr. Jones laughed derisively and tapped the arm of a man with a buzzcut and a menacing scowl walking past him, “you hear that Johnny? New kid here says he’s going to be champion of the world.”
The man with the buzzcut looked Duncan up and down appraisingly then snorted disdainfully before walking off.
“I’m going to do it Mr. Jones. I promise you that. One day, just you watch me.”
“Yeah, yeah, slow your horse, kid, let's teach you how to apply a wrist lock first shall we and stop calling me mister. Everyone here just calls me Jonesy.”
Thursday 25th August - Indianapolis, IN
The event had gone on through the afternoon and was continuing into the early evening. Johnny had managed to smooth things over with the comic book store owners and they had rescheduled the meet and greet. Midweek wasn’t as good of a time to do it as the weekend had been but Duncan was due to travel out to Combat Evolved with the Normandy on Saturday. In turn he had stayed far longer than had been expected of him, even past times when it seemed the crowd was done, waiting late so people would have a chance to come and see him after they got out of work.
“It’s alright Duncan. We appreciate your time. You can go though. It’s time we closed up the shop anyway,” said Barry, the store owner.
“You sure, I don’t mind waiting a little longer.” It was true. Since his last training session with Chad something had changed in Duncan’s mind. He was calmer, less tense all the time. He was sleeping better and in his improved state of mind he had enjoyed this kind of up close personal fan interaction in a way he had not been able to since Super Adventure Island, perhaps even before that. He wasn’t ready for that to end yet.
“I’m sure. I’ve got a cat back home that’s gonna tear the place apart if I don’t get back and feed him soon.”
“OK,” Duncan said, like a child reluctantly agreeing to do something they didn’t want to. He got up from behind the table that had been set up for him and walked over to Barry, extending his hand. “Thanks for inviting me back. I’m so sorry I missed the original day. I just-”
“It’s alright, Mr. Hitmaker explained everything.”
“He did? Oh, well great, and as for money, you don’t owe me a thing.”
“That’s not the deal I agreed with your agent.”
“I know, it’s the least I can do to make it up to you though. You let me worry about Johnny. Maybe you’ll have me back again soon.”
“Well, I think I just might,” said Barry, shaking Duncan’s offered hand. “You have a good night now, and good luck with your match on Tuesday.”
“Thanks, I don’t normally say this but I think I’ll need it.”
With that Duncan made his way outside. His van was parked in the alleyway behind the shop and he made his way back there. When he reached the vehicle though he found a stranger leaning against it.
The man was lean, gaunt even, practically malnourished from the look of him. He wore a brown three piece suit but it was ragged and ill fitting. He had a sharp nose and chin and his hair was thinning and turning grey. He smoked a hand rolled cigarette as he leant back against the van, one foot raised and resting on the back tyre.
“There you are,” the man said, “should have known you were a professional. Duncan Shepard is it?”
Duncan frowned, “Um, yeah, were you looking to get something signed because I don’t have a pen on me.”
The man chuckled. There was nothing cheerful about it. “No, I’m not looking to get anything signed,” he said as he pushed himself up off the van, flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of his boot. “You had me worried. Way you disappeared, after a performance like that. I was worried I was never going to find you again. Then I’m just walking about and there you are, face stapled to a telegraph pole telling me exactly when and where to find you. Of all the luck,” he said with a sly smile.
Duncan’s frown grew deeper, “Sorry, um, do I know you? I don’t think we’ve met.”
The man chuckled his humourless chuckle again, “Do you know me? Come on, don’t be like that.”
Duncan shrugged a little, “I’m not being like anything. I’m sorry, maybe you can jog my memory.”
The man stroked his chin and peered at Duncan, as if he were trying to decide whether he believed him or not. “You really don’t remember, do you.” Duncan shook his head. “Figures,” the man continued with a nonplussed shrug of his own, “you were wasted.”
“Wasted?” Duncan asked, panic in his voice, “what do you mean wasted?”
“Hammered, smashed, tanked, wrecked, pissed I think your fellow countrymen like to say. You were drunk.”
Duncan shook his head, “No, no, I’m sorry mate, you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t drink. Haven’t touched a drop in almost two years.”
“Is that so?” the man asked, almost mockingly and he took a few steps towards Duncan, “well then it won’t hurt so bad if I were to-” the man jabbed Duncan under his left eye. Duncan immediately winced and stepped back a few paces. The man was looking at his fingers, rubbing off the layer of concealer Barry’s girlfriend had put on him when he’d arrived to cover what remained of his black eye. “I suppose you don’t remember how you got that then either.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then let me tell you a story. It all began in the final hours of Friday night.”
Shepard was in the Captain’s cabin again. He felt like he was here an inordinate amount of time recently. He felt like he needed to get out more, to attend to the crew, to the galaxy he had sworn and made it his mission to protect. Any time he left though his mind grew fuzzy. His memories were jumbled and hazy, missing long lengths of time that he couldn’t account for. It had been that way ever since he had escaped the ambush that had been sprung upon him on Byzantia.
He should have gone to Dr. Chakwas by now. Perhaps he had taken some kind of brain injury during the fighting but he hadn’t brought himself to do so. He was afraid to. He wasn’t sure if that meant that he was afraid of what she might find if allowed to properly examine him or that he was afraid of what people might think of him if he admitted to them what had been going on, what he had been feeling and experiencing. He was Commander Shepard, first human Spectre, hero of the galaxy and he had to remain that no matter what.
Besides, he was pretty sure it wasn’t an injury.
Whatever the reason though, staying holed up in here, on his own, making excuses about tactical reports and strategic simulation analysis meant he wasn’t expending anywhere near the amount of energy he typically would and where once he would fall exhausted into his bed at the end of a day, fast asleep as soon as his face hit the pillow, recently he had been lying awake for hours at a time begging for sleep that constantly eluded him. This night he had given up trying, for now at least and stepped over to the viewing portal that looked out into the darkness of space.
“You know there’s one thing you used to do that would get you to sleep every time.”
Shepard shivered and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck.
“I’m not really in the mood to grapple with the thresher maw right now.”
“Not that. Have a little drink. There’s a bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy down in the mess hall. Go and get it, it’ll take the edge off.”
Shepard shook his head, “No. No, I don’t drink anymore. I have to stay sharp, alert.”
“Tell me Commander, do you feel sharp and alert right now?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” Shepard said defiantly.
“You do? Then tell me Commander, who are you talking to?”
Shepard stopped. He backed away from the viewing portal and waved his hand over the control to close it off.
“I’m not out there Commander. I’m in here. Now, go and have a drink, or don’t. Perhaps you’d rather just stay here and go insane instead.”
Shepard looked at the door, weighed up the values of two evils, then headed out towards the mess hall.
Friday August 19th - Indianapolis, IN
His name was Kyle Burden and there were two things in life he enjoyed above all others, violence and easy money. Not his own violence, he was too scrawny to indulge personally, on a level playing field at least, but he had always enjoyed watching others inflict violence upon one another from a safe distance with a good view. He used to wander the streets at night. He had memorised the kicking out time of every bar in Indianapolis and he’d be waiting there, waiting for the drunks to get sent on their way, only to take up their grievances, imagined or otherwise, with one another right there on the sidewalk. In time though the drunks had grown to bore him. They were too weak, uncoordinated. Too many would be fights turned out to be little more than slapstick farces once the fists started being flailed wildly. On the opposite end of the scale he found the world of professional combat sports too clinical, too sanitary and clean. Their actions were too precise. They fought to win. Kyle wanted to watch people fight to hurt one another, nothing more, nothing less. So years ago he had decided, if he couldn’t find the entertainment that suited him out in the world, he would have to make it himself.
It hadn’t been hard to find a venue. A bar with a basement big enough to fit a few dozen men with space still for fists to fly and an owner happy to let it out a few nights a week for a cut of the profits. Then he just had to fill it. He had thought that might be the difficult part but it turns out it was easy to find people inspired by a particular 1999 movie that wanted to beat the hell out of other guys for no other reason than to vent their great many frustrations with the world and their own pathetic meaningless lives. He thanked this great nation he called home for that. So it was that Kyle Burden had been running an ‘underground boxing club’ on the outskirts of Indianapolis for several years.
This Friday night was the same as any other. The basement was packed with half drunk, frustrated, angry and impotent men all waiting for their turn to victimise another human being for their own failings. Kyle was more than happy to make the necessary arrangements and manage the books and the odds for those that wanted to place a wager or two along with it.
One such fight had just ended and it was going to take a little while for his assistants to scrape one of the poor saps up off the floor so Kyle went for a smoke. He was about halfway through his cigarette when his attention was drawn by the sound of clattering trash cans. At first Kyle assumed it was a cat or racoons or something but out of the shadows of the alleyway and into the moonlight stumbled a man. He was tall and broad shouldered, heavily muscled. Even drunk out of his mind as he clearly was there was something in the way the man carried himself that Kyle recognised. He had the poise of a lion. This was a man attuned to violence.
“Nice evening isn’t it friend?” Kyle said as the lion stumbled towards him.
“Do you know where my ship is docked?” the drunk asked him.
“Your ship?” said Kyle, stifling a laugh, “oh yes, I know exactly where your ship is. It’s just down the stairs here. Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Thursday August 25th - Indianapolis, IN
“Then what happened?” Duncan asked. His hands were balled into fists, so tight his knuckles were turning white. He felt violated. All he wanted was to reach out and snap this man’s neck like a twig.
“Then, Duncan Shepard, you put on a show of exquisite violence the likes of which I have never seen. You beat up three guys, three,” the man held up three fingers to emphasise his point, “so badly my guys had to go and dump them outside the ER. In return the best any of them could manage was to hit you with one, lucky, punch.” the man playfully mimed a looping right haymaker that stopped just as it would strike Duncan’s left eye.
Duncan swatted the hand away and the man backed off, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
“Easy there, big guy.”
“Suppose I believe any of this?” said Duncan, “that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why go through the trouble to find me again? What do you want from me?”
“I wanted to extend you an invitation to return of course. I’d hate to think I’d never get to see such a display again but all you left me with was a name and it wasn’t one I thought I’d be able to find you with on Facebook.”
“A name? What name? Please tell me I didn’t ask you to call me the Dashing Destroyer?”
The man chuckled, “Dashing Destroyer? Fitting but no. You told us to call you-”
Saturday August 27th - Route 70, between Indianapolis, IN and St. Louis, MI
Duncan was coming to hate these journeys. For the apparent luxury the tour bus he had affectionately dubbed Normandy possessed he now found it nothing but stifling. For the long hours on the road he was cooped up in the back he felt trapped, claustrophobic, stifled. With each passing minute he grew more restless and agitated. He tried to distract himself. He tried to sleep but he couldn’t do either. All that kept running through his head was the word the man in the alleyway had said to him.
Over and over it repeated, whispering in the back of his skull.
Monday August 29th - El Paso, TX
Duncan stood in the dark. There was no scene imposed behind him, not even the spark of distant stars. A single low light was just enough to outline his body and shimmer off the Final Boss championship belt that he carried slung over his shoulder.
Duncan: So, we’re finally here. Combat Evolved.
His voice is low and measured.
Duncan: Who’d have thought Bert that just three shows after your triumphant return against Wank you’d be here, facing me. Who’d have thought Joey Crash that in just your second match since I left you broken and unmoving in the depths of hell that you’d be here again, facing me.
Duncan’s voice slowly becomes more impassioned, louder and fiercer.
Duncan: Now there has been more than enough talk from you Bert. It feels like you haven’t taken a second in the past six weeks to just shut the hell up but that time is going to come. You hear that?
Duncan pauses and holds up one finger.
Duncan: Silence. That’s the sound you’re going to make when Combat Evolved is over, finally you will be silent, because there will be nothing left for you to whine about. It won’t matter anymore that you slipped by me last year at TriForce Heroes, it won’t matter that you took your tainted win over me to get you here. None of it will matter anymore, because when all is said and done it will be clear to you, me, everyone in the back and every fan watching in the arena or at home that the only pretender to the Final Boss Championship is you.
Duncan tuts and wags his finger.
Duncan: Don’t think that I’ve forgotten about you though Joey Crash. Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me that you’re the only reason Bert is here at all. Without you sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong I’d have broken the little rat in two weeks ago and left him for the husks, but no, you did stick your nose in. Your actions fuelled Bert’s incessant braying for the past four weeks. Your actions meant that this championship I have sworn to uphold and uplift has to be sullied by association with that man child who brings nothing to the table but the bad smell and unearned narcissism.
Duncan chuckles humorlessly.
Duncan: Perhaps you’re wondering then, Joey, why when I hold these grievances against you did I ensure your place in this match as well? It’s simple, to teach you a lesson. Noses that get stuck where they don’t belong, noses that get stuck in my business get broken. That’s just for starters Joey. Before the night is out I promise you I will break the nose you stuck in my business, I will break the hands you laid upon me and just like when we met in the depths of hell I will render you to ash and cast you into the wind.
Duncan: Bert, you have lessons of your own you need to learn. Lessons like discretion, like humility, like patience, but these are not the lessons I am going to teach you. Tomorrow night Bert, I’m going to teach you that fragile little men shouldn’t bark at world bestriding behemoths. That when dry brittle twigs stand in the path of the hurricane, they get broken. That’s what I’m going to do to you Bert, I’m going to break you. Everytime you called me pretender is a bone snapped. Everytime you lauded your tainted wins over me is a ligament torn. When night is over you are going to wish that you had stayed retired. You’re going to wish you had stayed in Florida with your cushy teaching job because as the mess Joey Crash made of you when he took this title from you, is going to feel like a stubbed toe compared to the mess I make of you tomorrow night.
Duncan: Because tomorrow night we leave no room for doubt. Tomorrow night no one gets away with slipping past the true challenge in search of easier prey. Tomorrow night I prove what I have been saying, what I have been promising since I won this title, that I am the Champion the Final Boss title deserves, that Level Up Wrestling Deserves, that the world deserves.
Duncan: Tomorrow night, combat evolves. Tomorrow night, violence evolves. Tomorrow night, I evolve and what I choose to leave of the both of you will signal the approach of what is coming. You will be the forerunners of what I become and Level Up Wrestling will never be the same again.
As he finishes speaking a red wireframe image of an insectoid creature with a single baleful crimson eye appears in front of Duncan. There is a deep reverberating wailing noise and the video comes to an abrupt end.
Tuesday August 30th - El Paso, TX
Duncan Shepard stood out of view at the top of the entrance ramp. Any second now his music would begin and he would step out in front of the crowd at the Don Haskins Center and fight with all he had to defend the championship belt that was strapped around his waist. The belt that was the sum of all he had fought and striven to become. The belt that was the fulfilment of a vow made to a mentor long since passed. Any second now he music would play.
A chill ran up the back of his neck and he reached back to rub it.
“You’re going to show them who you are out there,” said the voice that whispered in the back of his mind.
“I’m going to show them,” Duncan whispered out loud.
“Say it. Tell them who they’re going to face tonight.”
Thursday August 25th - Indianapolis, IN
“You told us to call you-”
August 25th, IN August 30th, TX
Man: Harbinger Duncan: Harbinger
Feb. '22 - Jul. '22
2022
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