Post by Bonnie Blue on Sept 26, 2014 23:31:28 GMT -5
He sees through the eyes of another; walking along a misty path in a realm of shadow. Shapes like trees reach out in the semidark with grasping wooden fingers. Something heavy clutched in both arms; cold and metallic, hidden beneath a tattered cloak. His pace quickens. He senses pursuit. The path runs out at the edge of a broad, fast flowing river of Lethean waters. He is trapped, and the pursuer is almost upon him. No choice left. He plunges into the churning, icy water. The metal drags him down; the current sweeps him away. He sinks beneath the surface and all becomes blackness....
Johnny wakes with a start, covered in sweat and disoriented. Sheets twist around his body like a cottony python. Still panting with high emotion, he sits up, trying to get his bearings. The Inveterate Confederate remembers, slowly: he's in a Motel 6 in Phoenix, Arizona. It's Friday night, or early Saturday morning. WAR looms on the horizon.
Sensing another presence in the room, Johnny's head whips toward the corner, where a tacky pinkish chair is occupied by an older gentleman with iron-gray hair. Slender legs uncross and he sits forward, eyeing Johnny in apparent interest.
Timekeeper: You saw it?
Johnny turns on the light and frowns at the intruder.
Reb: Do you know what time it is?
Timekeeper: Is that a rhetorical question?
Reb: No. I just woke up. What do you want?
Timekeeper: Where is it, Johnny? You were just in contact with the thief... weren't you?
Less a question; more of an accusation. Johnny shakes his head.
Reb: Maybe. I dunno. I was just havin' a weird dream about bein' chased around a... I dunno. A place, but sorta not a place, either.
Timekeeper: One of seventeen thousand shadow realms. Bubble dimensions, to be more precise. Some are highly unstable, but they're a useful way to navigate between realities. If you know what you're doing. Did you see who it was?
Johnny cocks his head to one side, looking at the Timekeeper dubiously.
Reb: Do we have to do this now? WAR is in two days, an' I still got a ton of work to do.
Timekeeper: My power dwindles with each passing moment that the Bell is out of my grasp. Literal Hell -- or as close to it as realistically possible -- will break loose once my power is depleted.
Reb: Can't we do a "Prisoner of Zenda" with it?
The Timekeeper lifts a quizzical eyebrow at Johnny.
Reb: Y'know, let folks see ya with an identical fake? It's symbolic, right? So, if'n folks think ya got it back, they'll start to believe in your power again, an' all's well that ends well. See? I'm a genius. Now, let me go back to sleep.
Timekeeper: It's not quite that simple, else I'd have done that myself. It must be that specific Bell. It projects an aura; even those unschooled in such matters would know in an instant that it wasn't right. You must locate the Bell before WAR.
Reb: Look, I ain't no private eye. I done exhausted all my leads; all I know for certain is it weren't anyone at WCF -- not even Oblivion.
The older man waves a negligent hand.
Timekeeper: The Oblivion Entity is no longer our concern.
Reb: Are you fuckin' shittin' me?! All this time, you had me focused on Oblivion -- an' all of a sudden, he ain't shit to you?!
Timekeeper: ITS attentions are drawn from this world. Something else comes. Something exponentially more terrifying. Even I cannot stand against it. Not alone, and certainly not without the Bell.
Annoyed, Johnny throws back the covers and leaps from the bed. His irritation is much undone by the fact that he's got on nothing but a pair of Confederate battle flag boxers. Undeterred, however, he puts his hands on his hips and stares at the Timekeeper for a long moment.
Reb: You! You got one enemy. A big one, sure. Capital-E Enemy. I get that. But me? Sunday night, I face not one or two -- but damn near the whole WCF roster! 'Sides me, there's thirty-two other folks, every last one focused on winnin' themselves a shot at the World Title. An' in all that mess, there's two I can count on... sorta.
Omega says he'll stay outta my way if'n I stay outta his; fine an' dandy, so far's I'm concerned. An' if -- prob'ly when -- it comes down to me an' him... well, now, that's when ya really wanna pay attention. Whole new words will have to be invented just to describe the heights that me an' Jay are liable to push each other to. I know a kindred spirit when I find one. Or more'n one, as the case may be. I certainly ain't one to say someone else is delusional...
Then there's Doc. My partner. The other half of the New Confed'racy, whom I ain't seen nor heard from in weeks, 'ceptin' that voicemail.
Without really thinking about it, the Inveterate One begins pulling on a pair of jeans.
Reb: Y'know, I still can't fathom what happened, an' maybe that's 'cause I'm lookin' for cause followed by effect. I reckon maybe I oughta be lookin' at the effect an' workin' some other way altogether. It's too much a coincidence that he disappeared the same time as the Bell, but it don't appear he took it hisself. Wouldn't put it past him.
Thing 'bout Doc is... I love him like a brother, but he is one slippery sumbitch at times. When it suits him. He ain't a bad guy... he just plays by his own set of ethics. As such, he may be one of the only men I can trust -- but he's also one of the biggest threats to me in the ring. Ya get what I'm sayin', Timekeeper?
The older fellow watches Johnny lace up a pair of Wolverine workboots, and nods idly.
Timekeeper: I understand, Johnny. Your friends are your enemies, and your enemies are... still your enemies. But this match doesn't have the same dire consequences...
Johnny finishes tying his boot and grabs a clean shirt from his bag. Then he fixes the Timekeeper with a meaningful stare.
Reb: It does, Timekeeper. Don't ya understand? What I do in the ring echoes out into reality; an', I reckon, vice-versa. There's a term for the phenomenon -- though it escapes me at the moment -- where your focus really does determine your reality. Things from one part of your life start to manifest in other parts, mergin' all of it into this integral whole that feeds into itself, like a star burnin' hydrogen. You oughta understand this by now -- how it's all interconnected.
Timekeeper: I stand corrected...
He looks Johnny over in a new sort of appreciation. Even with the small enhancements the Timekeeper had given the Inveterate Confederate -- a result of merging the timelines of two Rebs -- he had despaired of the boy ever understanding even the most rudimentary concepts of the multiverse. Now he shows promise. The Timekeeper smiles.
Reb: So I got two allies, at least insofar as they ain't gonna go after me on purpose until there ain't no other choice. Assumin' it comes to that. But ever'body else in that ring either got a bone to pick or somethin' to prove. There's the newcomers... Barnz, Salinger, Mazy; mostly unproven. There's that Murdock guy -- he ain't had real good luck since he come aboard, an' I don't know what to think of him anyway. He kinda seems like an ass, an' he's prob'ly preoccupied with that al-Reb fella...
Which reminds me... I vaguely recall someone sayin' somethin' about how I trained him, or I am him or somethin'. I ain't never met the guy in my life, but let me say this -- I ever catch him puttin' hands on a woman, what Murdock did to him is gonna look like a trip to Disneyland. However...
Johnny pauses to take a breath.
Reb: ...Chelsea Armstrong. I ain't generally in favor of men strikin' ladies -- then again, she ain't what I'd call a proper "lady." We been havin' us a fairly genial back an' forth over Twitter; at least on my part it is. I get why she done what she done, an' I can respect it. Reckon I oughta be flattered she thinks I'm in the same class as Corey Black, an' some of the other folks she gone after. An' while I wouldn't mind havin' her on top of me, the ring ain't the place that's gonna happen.
I mean, honestly. She set Alex Richards an' Chase Michaels on me like a couple of attack dogs, then got her licks in after I was down... when it was safe. Ain't gonna be like that again. Not backstage, not in the ring. Yeah, ok, so I underestimated Michaels previously; an' I got my comeuppance for that. Wouldn'ta had no kinda beef with him otherwise, but all sudden-like, everybody wants Johnny Reb's attention; an' they think the way to do that is with a nice, friendly sucker-punch.
Richards, on t'other hand... I'm fair certain that's just his way of sayin' howdy. Ain't sure he really knows better, or cares. He's a little.. y'know, touched.
Johnny taps the side of his head for emphasis.
Reb: That don't mean I'm gonna take it easy on him. He's got enough up there to know the consequences to his actions; guy like Alex Richards, he depends on it. How he gets his kicks, I reckon -- but that's all of us crazy enough to do this for a livin', to some degree or 'nother. Shit, it ain't even him that concerns me. Not as much as... Torture.
If I'd never seen that sumbitch again, it'd still be too damn soon. He made my life a livin' hell for months an' months; all 'cause he couldn't stand to lose his precious title. I give him credit for lightin' the fire that forged me, but it's prob'ly too much. He was in the right place, at the right time, that's all. This is a man who is dangerous simply because of his single-minded dedication to the pursuit of the World Title. This is the man who nearly caused me to fulfill that Neitzschean aphorism 'bout becomin' a monster...
An' that, Timekeeper, is only a fraction of what I'm walkin' into. The last time I participated in a WAR match was the year I walked out -- somehow -- the winner. An' that was after bein' entered somewhere in the first three, an' eliminatin' the most folks. That whole night is still a blur. I recall bits an' pieces, but a coherent narrative? Not so much. That's what adrenaline does; you're so damn pumped, an' ya got tunnel vision... then ya barely hear it when the bell rings. It registers in some distant part of ya, the part that's still civilized an' thinkin'. But I digress...
Johnny picks up the keys to his Ranchero off the top of the dresser, then moseys toward the motel room door.
Reb: Let's see if'n we can't track down your thief. Seein' as that's what you're here for, an' all.
Smirking just slightly, the Timekeeper follows Johnny outside, closing the door behind.
Johnny wakes with a start, covered in sweat and disoriented. Sheets twist around his body like a cottony python. Still panting with high emotion, he sits up, trying to get his bearings. The Inveterate Confederate remembers, slowly: he's in a Motel 6 in Phoenix, Arizona. It's Friday night, or early Saturday morning. WAR looms on the horizon.
Sensing another presence in the room, Johnny's head whips toward the corner, where a tacky pinkish chair is occupied by an older gentleman with iron-gray hair. Slender legs uncross and he sits forward, eyeing Johnny in apparent interest.
Timekeeper: You saw it?
Johnny turns on the light and frowns at the intruder.
Reb: Do you know what time it is?
Timekeeper: Is that a rhetorical question?
Reb: No. I just woke up. What do you want?
Timekeeper: Where is it, Johnny? You were just in contact with the thief... weren't you?
Less a question; more of an accusation. Johnny shakes his head.
Reb: Maybe. I dunno. I was just havin' a weird dream about bein' chased around a... I dunno. A place, but sorta not a place, either.
Timekeeper: One of seventeen thousand shadow realms. Bubble dimensions, to be more precise. Some are highly unstable, but they're a useful way to navigate between realities. If you know what you're doing. Did you see who it was?
Johnny cocks his head to one side, looking at the Timekeeper dubiously.
Reb: Do we have to do this now? WAR is in two days, an' I still got a ton of work to do.
Timekeeper: My power dwindles with each passing moment that the Bell is out of my grasp. Literal Hell -- or as close to it as realistically possible -- will break loose once my power is depleted.
Reb: Can't we do a "Prisoner of Zenda" with it?
The Timekeeper lifts a quizzical eyebrow at Johnny.
Reb: Y'know, let folks see ya with an identical fake? It's symbolic, right? So, if'n folks think ya got it back, they'll start to believe in your power again, an' all's well that ends well. See? I'm a genius. Now, let me go back to sleep.
Timekeeper: It's not quite that simple, else I'd have done that myself. It must be that specific Bell. It projects an aura; even those unschooled in such matters would know in an instant that it wasn't right. You must locate the Bell before WAR.
Reb: Look, I ain't no private eye. I done exhausted all my leads; all I know for certain is it weren't anyone at WCF -- not even Oblivion.
The older man waves a negligent hand.
Timekeeper: The Oblivion Entity is no longer our concern.
Reb: Are you fuckin' shittin' me?! All this time, you had me focused on Oblivion -- an' all of a sudden, he ain't shit to you?!
Timekeeper: ITS attentions are drawn from this world. Something else comes. Something exponentially more terrifying. Even I cannot stand against it. Not alone, and certainly not without the Bell.
Annoyed, Johnny throws back the covers and leaps from the bed. His irritation is much undone by the fact that he's got on nothing but a pair of Confederate battle flag boxers. Undeterred, however, he puts his hands on his hips and stares at the Timekeeper for a long moment.
Reb: You! You got one enemy. A big one, sure. Capital-E Enemy. I get that. But me? Sunday night, I face not one or two -- but damn near the whole WCF roster! 'Sides me, there's thirty-two other folks, every last one focused on winnin' themselves a shot at the World Title. An' in all that mess, there's two I can count on... sorta.
Omega says he'll stay outta my way if'n I stay outta his; fine an' dandy, so far's I'm concerned. An' if -- prob'ly when -- it comes down to me an' him... well, now, that's when ya really wanna pay attention. Whole new words will have to be invented just to describe the heights that me an' Jay are liable to push each other to. I know a kindred spirit when I find one. Or more'n one, as the case may be. I certainly ain't one to say someone else is delusional...
Then there's Doc. My partner. The other half of the New Confed'racy, whom I ain't seen nor heard from in weeks, 'ceptin' that voicemail.
Without really thinking about it, the Inveterate One begins pulling on a pair of jeans.
Reb: Y'know, I still can't fathom what happened, an' maybe that's 'cause I'm lookin' for cause followed by effect. I reckon maybe I oughta be lookin' at the effect an' workin' some other way altogether. It's too much a coincidence that he disappeared the same time as the Bell, but it don't appear he took it hisself. Wouldn't put it past him.
Thing 'bout Doc is... I love him like a brother, but he is one slippery sumbitch at times. When it suits him. He ain't a bad guy... he just plays by his own set of ethics. As such, he may be one of the only men I can trust -- but he's also one of the biggest threats to me in the ring. Ya get what I'm sayin', Timekeeper?
The older fellow watches Johnny lace up a pair of Wolverine workboots, and nods idly.
Timekeeper: I understand, Johnny. Your friends are your enemies, and your enemies are... still your enemies. But this match doesn't have the same dire consequences...
Johnny finishes tying his boot and grabs a clean shirt from his bag. Then he fixes the Timekeeper with a meaningful stare.
Reb: It does, Timekeeper. Don't ya understand? What I do in the ring echoes out into reality; an', I reckon, vice-versa. There's a term for the phenomenon -- though it escapes me at the moment -- where your focus really does determine your reality. Things from one part of your life start to manifest in other parts, mergin' all of it into this integral whole that feeds into itself, like a star burnin' hydrogen. You oughta understand this by now -- how it's all interconnected.
Timekeeper: I stand corrected...
He looks Johnny over in a new sort of appreciation. Even with the small enhancements the Timekeeper had given the Inveterate Confederate -- a result of merging the timelines of two Rebs -- he had despaired of the boy ever understanding even the most rudimentary concepts of the multiverse. Now he shows promise. The Timekeeper smiles.
Reb: So I got two allies, at least insofar as they ain't gonna go after me on purpose until there ain't no other choice. Assumin' it comes to that. But ever'body else in that ring either got a bone to pick or somethin' to prove. There's the newcomers... Barnz, Salinger, Mazy; mostly unproven. There's that Murdock guy -- he ain't had real good luck since he come aboard, an' I don't know what to think of him anyway. He kinda seems like an ass, an' he's prob'ly preoccupied with that al-Reb fella...
Which reminds me... I vaguely recall someone sayin' somethin' about how I trained him, or I am him or somethin'. I ain't never met the guy in my life, but let me say this -- I ever catch him puttin' hands on a woman, what Murdock did to him is gonna look like a trip to Disneyland. However...
Johnny pauses to take a breath.
Reb: ...Chelsea Armstrong. I ain't generally in favor of men strikin' ladies -- then again, she ain't what I'd call a proper "lady." We been havin' us a fairly genial back an' forth over Twitter; at least on my part it is. I get why she done what she done, an' I can respect it. Reckon I oughta be flattered she thinks I'm in the same class as Corey Black, an' some of the other folks she gone after. An' while I wouldn't mind havin' her on top of me, the ring ain't the place that's gonna happen.
I mean, honestly. She set Alex Richards an' Chase Michaels on me like a couple of attack dogs, then got her licks in after I was down... when it was safe. Ain't gonna be like that again. Not backstage, not in the ring. Yeah, ok, so I underestimated Michaels previously; an' I got my comeuppance for that. Wouldn'ta had no kinda beef with him otherwise, but all sudden-like, everybody wants Johnny Reb's attention; an' they think the way to do that is with a nice, friendly sucker-punch.
Richards, on t'other hand... I'm fair certain that's just his way of sayin' howdy. Ain't sure he really knows better, or cares. He's a little.. y'know, touched.
Johnny taps the side of his head for emphasis.
Reb: That don't mean I'm gonna take it easy on him. He's got enough up there to know the consequences to his actions; guy like Alex Richards, he depends on it. How he gets his kicks, I reckon -- but that's all of us crazy enough to do this for a livin', to some degree or 'nother. Shit, it ain't even him that concerns me. Not as much as... Torture.
If I'd never seen that sumbitch again, it'd still be too damn soon. He made my life a livin' hell for months an' months; all 'cause he couldn't stand to lose his precious title. I give him credit for lightin' the fire that forged me, but it's prob'ly too much. He was in the right place, at the right time, that's all. This is a man who is dangerous simply because of his single-minded dedication to the pursuit of the World Title. This is the man who nearly caused me to fulfill that Neitzschean aphorism 'bout becomin' a monster...
An' that, Timekeeper, is only a fraction of what I'm walkin' into. The last time I participated in a WAR match was the year I walked out -- somehow -- the winner. An' that was after bein' entered somewhere in the first three, an' eliminatin' the most folks. That whole night is still a blur. I recall bits an' pieces, but a coherent narrative? Not so much. That's what adrenaline does; you're so damn pumped, an' ya got tunnel vision... then ya barely hear it when the bell rings. It registers in some distant part of ya, the part that's still civilized an' thinkin'. But I digress...
Johnny picks up the keys to his Ranchero off the top of the dresser, then moseys toward the motel room door.
Reb: Let's see if'n we can't track down your thief. Seein' as that's what you're here for, an' all.
Smirking just slightly, the Timekeeper follows Johnny outside, closing the door behind.
