Friends In Dark Places - Part One: Know Me Better, Man
Jan 15, 2016 18:46:30 GMT -5
Nathan Saniti likes this
Post by Non Compos Mentis on Jan 15, 2016 18:46:30 GMT -5
Somewhere outside of Quincy, Illinois a truckstop diner found itself possessed of a man who had no car for their burgers. Nor did he care for the self-proclaimed “best pecan pie in the state” that the exhausted waitress barely advertised with her over-tired, over-rehearsed words. He asked for coffee, he asked for a quarter-pounder and he asked for a quiet seat.
To that quiet seat Non Compos Mentis went and quietly sipped at his black, sweet java, awaiting what he was sure would be a disappointment of a meal. It was only a couple of weeks removed from Christmas and while many had partaken in a season of indulgence, he had partaken in a season of secrecy and seclusion. The best pecan pie in Illinois would be just as underwhelming as the worlds greatest chilli-con-carne he'd found in Albuquerque, the burger would be as mediocre as every one from Portland to Fresno.
In the traditional winter hiatus from PCW, NCM had spent his time attempting to track Calder and other members of The Order across the country. His last meeting with the werewolf Foss had caused him to doubt everything he knew, everything he'd felt for months. By the beasts' words, somewhere, in one of their clandestine holes, The Order had Ezra.
The hiatus was coming to an end though, and time was running short for any kind of breakthrough. No matter how close he came to a member of Calder's organisation, they proved to be a wild goose chase. Sitting in that truckstop, Mentis knew he'd be going back to Greenville with nothing to show for his efforts.
It was then that he spotted a single leg, clothed in a sleek black suit, extended out into the aisle. Such an odd sight it was in the middle-of-nowhere diner that Sean investigated further, lifting his eyeline above the booth to see the stern man with a shock of copper-coloured hair. With a glance out of the window, Mentis judged the assorted vehicles in the parking lot and decided none of them belonged to this prim and proper individual. He couldn't even remember if the man had been there when he'd walked in or had arrived after. He had simply... appeared.
It was almost certain, Mentis thought, that this man was a member of The Order. He surely was no regular for this setting and his manner was too alien for almost anywhere Mentis has enountered... except perhaps the mysterious covenant he had been pursuing. If he was, then Mentis knew he was surely surrounded by now, the only option was to find out why the man had come so close without attacking him head-on.
With his coffee in hand, Sean left his seat and walked across the diner. The man watched him over a pair of steel-rimmed glasses and as Sean approached he spoke in a clearly British accent. “Come in and know me better, man.”
“Trust an Englishman to quote Dickens.” uttered the North American champion as he stopped in his tracks in front of the gentleman.
“'Tis the season, after all. Take a seat, Mister Rhodes.” The Englishman gestured across from him and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Should I assume I don't have a choice?” asked Mentis, shifting his weight uncomfortably, knowing that whatever the answer was he didn't have a single other reasonable option.
The gentleman raised the slightest hint of a grin before replying. “You certainly have a choice, but I can assure you it is in your benefit to take a seat.”
NCM acquiesced to the man's request and placed his coffee on the table before taking a seat directly across from him. The suited stranger stared straight ahead, as if gauging the actions of Mentis very carefully. He looked to be around forty years old, roughly the same as Calder. Perhaps they'd been friends, perhaps they'd risen through The Order together. “So you're Order, that much is obvious. A little unusual for Calder to send a lackey instead of turning up himself...”
“Mister Rhodes, perhaps I should introduce myself properly?” The agent of The Order interjected with a more pronounced, and amused, grin. “My name is Altman, I am a Cleric in The Order, in fact the Cleric of our mutual acquaintance... Eira.”
The mention of one of Mentis' most trusted colleagues in PCW knocked him back. Eira had dragged him back to PCW after a year away, she'd allied with him to face The Black Hand but after so long that fight had been neutralised by the powers that be. Now Eira had announced her departure from PCW, this couldn't have been coincidental timing. Altman wanted something he couldn't get from Eira anymore. “As much as I trust her, that name doesn't buy you anything.”
“I know you have a distrust of The Order, and having reviewed the information we have on you and everything Eira has spoken to me about I think you are within your rights to feel that way. But I am not with Cleric Calder, I am not part of his.. agenda with you.”
Altman seemed genuine in his words, but nothing to do with The Order could be taken on face value. “Again, those words don't buy you anything with me.”
“Very well, I understand this is not a comfortable situation for you so I'll make it as plain as I can.” Leaning back in his seat as if to steel himself and compose his thoughts, Altman took a moment and began to explain his real reason for being in front of Mentis. “Recently I became aware of a... disturbance in the order of things within The Order. A shifting of certain sands that has been worrisome. The centre of that disturbance seems to be Cleric Calder himself. His actions in the last couple of years have defied the laws of The Order and his continued service makes me believe there are powers at work that threaten our status quo.”
“Even more reason for me to go about my own business.” If the Order was facing a seismic shift is its make-up, perhaps a dissension of powerful forced then why should I, Mentis thought, put myself in any further danger? Perhaps they would rip themselves apart while he sat and watched with a smile on his face and a North American title over his shoulder.
“Certainly, you can continue fighting your petty fights against small fish like Justin Kaard and deluded movie stars with ambitions of presidency, while you run around trying to find a way to get vengeance on Calder.” After the PCW hiatus Mentis was scheduled to face Mikey Wright once more. After the farce that cost Mentis his International Title and left him fighting Justin Kaard for always two whole months, there was certainly no love lost between the two men. But he was also a member of The Black Hand, and for Altman to call him a 'small fish' was no small detail. “Or you can join me.”
“You know, at one time those petty fights were the most important thing in my life. Then you guys came along and ripped my life to shreds. You think I'd join The Order again? Willingly?” It was arrogance, thought Sean, to have such a request after they'd torn him apart as a person and stitched him back together with the surgical subtlety of a chimpanzee.
“You misunderstand me, Sean. I'm not asking you to join The Order again, I'm asking you to join me and help me find out who is pulling Calder's strings. And in exchange, perhaps I can be of assistance finding your young 'friend', Ezra Colne.” This time Sean leant back in his seat, knocked back by the insinuation of duplicity from the Cleric but most of all by the name of the man that had been much more than just a friend. A Guardian, yes, but as Eira could testify the bonds of that connection spread far wider than guidance. Altman knew the power this simple association had over Sean, and in his face was a curious mixture of compassion and calculation.
Mentis tried to conceal his emotions, to keep what little cards he had close to his chest. The mere mention of Ezra shocked him and it took all his composure not to reach over the table and make pretend that Altman was Mr Showtime. “And just why would you want my help? I've spent the last however many months trying to find a way to get rid of one of your Clerics. Shouldn't I be public enemy number one in The Order? I should just let you tear each other apart.”
“As unsettling as it is to admit, Calder is right about certain things. You certainly possess a power similar to that of the Seeker, Murdoc. While you aren't what Calder wants you to be, you are one of the few who could face the same challenges and survive.” There were few who had ever rivalled Murdoc in toughness, even Grand Slam champions like Mikey Wright couldn't hold a candle to his ability to take a beating and keep pushing forward. But while NCM was one of those few, he knew it wasn't quite enough to justify what Altman was asking. ”And as with our mutual friend I believe you are tied to a key point in this situation. Whatever the reason may be, Eira and yourself found yourselves in a hotspot of activity. Pure Class Wrestling has been the centre of quite a maelstrom and I have reason to believe that is still ongoing.”
“The Black Hand? Sadistic disappeared after he lost to Grimm and everyone else seems to have their own agenda. Stormm's nursing his business concerns, Grimm's nursing his World Title and Showtime... well he's nursing his ego as usual. Making pretend that he controls PCW now, playing his presidential charade, still treating the International Title like a joke.”
Altman took his eyes off Mentis for the first time since he'd walked over. Now they drifted down to his side, where his had also diverted to collect a file from an expensive yet plain attaché case. Laying the file on the table, Altman turned his eyes back to his companion. “The Order has been at war with The Black Hand for longer than you can conceive. But that war is only winnable, only worth winning, if we remain loyal to our laws. As grave as it is to admit, we have larger concerns than The Black Hand.”
Slowly, as if he had still been weighing the merits of his chosen comrade, Altman slid the file across the table into Mentis' possession. Before he could open it, the spectacled man continued. “The same strange vibrations I've noticed in The Order are happening there too. It can't just be The Black Hand, these sensations started long after the reared their heads in PCW. I'm certain that isn't just a coincidence and I need somebody to work closer to the situation.”
“And where would I start?” Mentis caressed the file like he would a case of toxic waste. What was inside could kill him, destroy everything around him, and he had no idea what Altman expected to find in PCW that was potentially even worse than The Black Hand.
“The source of these worries, he took her in once. Perhaps they're closer in attitude now than they have ever been. There might just be a way to him in this woman.” Altman watched on as Mentis flicked open the folder and stared at the first page. On it was a detailed biography of an individual, and a photograph of a woman in plain clothes and devoid of make-up yet unmistakable to any PCW fan.
Sean read the words and digested the identity of his target. Silently he closed the folder and carefully placed it to his side. The thoughts of what he would have to do flooded his brain and his eyes drifted to the black puddle of his coffee, ignoring any contact with the Cleric. His pronounced Queen's English spoke out just a moment later. “Is that a yes?”
There were a few moments of silence, of complete stillness, until NCM gave the slightest nod of affirmation. With a grin and a satisfaction that his business was complete, Altman collected his case along with a thick woollen coat to match his suit and got to his feet. Sliding on the coat, Altman turned to leave.
“I wear the chain I forged in life,” The words of Jacob Marley stunned Altman as he passed. He looked back at Sean who, staring forward and transfixed still by his coffee, spoke on. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will and of my own free will I wear it. You're not the only one who can quote Dickens, Cleric. Just promise me one thing, Altman...when I'm done, the chain comes off. For me and Ezra.”
Altman returned the slightest nod with a waver of doubt, but perhaps that was the best Mentis would ever get. The Cleric lingered for a moment, struck by the unexpected poetry of his charge, before composing his stereotypically British stiff-upper-lip. ”Enjoy the coffee, Mister Rhodes. Oh and do try the pie, I believe it's the best in Illinois.”
With that the Cleric made himself absent and vanished into the same darkness he had arrived from. Hesitantly Sean reached for the file by his side, partly to ensure the meeting had not been entirely in his mind but also to check its contents once more. The beige folder flipped open and the picture once again did not lie.
His target would be at Trauma 185. The problem was that it was not Mr Showtime. He would have a contest there, a match against an obnoxious diva with delusions of grandeur who just happened to be one of the best technicians in the world. He'd have to divide his attention between the International Champion in a match that marked the fifth anniversary of PCW's revival, and tracking the individual that Altman insisted was the first step toward bringing down Calder for good. The picture didn't lie, that target was Alexa Black.
”Here you are, Mister...” The waitress jolted Sean out of his seat as a surprisingly appetising quarter-pounder landing on the table in front of him with a side of crispy fries. ”Can I get you anything else?”
Perhaps Altman would hold to his word, it was more of an opportunity than he'd found in months of searching for Ezra and Calder. Perhaps things might just be turning around, and all he had to do was stomach working with a Cleric and set his sights on one of the most violent forces in PCW history. ”Do you have any pie?”
To that quiet seat Non Compos Mentis went and quietly sipped at his black, sweet java, awaiting what he was sure would be a disappointment of a meal. It was only a couple of weeks removed from Christmas and while many had partaken in a season of indulgence, he had partaken in a season of secrecy and seclusion. The best pecan pie in Illinois would be just as underwhelming as the worlds greatest chilli-con-carne he'd found in Albuquerque, the burger would be as mediocre as every one from Portland to Fresno.
In the traditional winter hiatus from PCW, NCM had spent his time attempting to track Calder and other members of The Order across the country. His last meeting with the werewolf Foss had caused him to doubt everything he knew, everything he'd felt for months. By the beasts' words, somewhere, in one of their clandestine holes, The Order had Ezra.
The hiatus was coming to an end though, and time was running short for any kind of breakthrough. No matter how close he came to a member of Calder's organisation, they proved to be a wild goose chase. Sitting in that truckstop, Mentis knew he'd be going back to Greenville with nothing to show for his efforts.
It was then that he spotted a single leg, clothed in a sleek black suit, extended out into the aisle. Such an odd sight it was in the middle-of-nowhere diner that Sean investigated further, lifting his eyeline above the booth to see the stern man with a shock of copper-coloured hair. With a glance out of the window, Mentis judged the assorted vehicles in the parking lot and decided none of them belonged to this prim and proper individual. He couldn't even remember if the man had been there when he'd walked in or had arrived after. He had simply... appeared.
It was almost certain, Mentis thought, that this man was a member of The Order. He surely was no regular for this setting and his manner was too alien for almost anywhere Mentis has enountered... except perhaps the mysterious covenant he had been pursuing. If he was, then Mentis knew he was surely surrounded by now, the only option was to find out why the man had come so close without attacking him head-on.
With his coffee in hand, Sean left his seat and walked across the diner. The man watched him over a pair of steel-rimmed glasses and as Sean approached he spoke in a clearly British accent. “Come in and know me better, man.”
“Trust an Englishman to quote Dickens.” uttered the North American champion as he stopped in his tracks in front of the gentleman.
“'Tis the season, after all. Take a seat, Mister Rhodes.” The Englishman gestured across from him and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Should I assume I don't have a choice?” asked Mentis, shifting his weight uncomfortably, knowing that whatever the answer was he didn't have a single other reasonable option.
The gentleman raised the slightest hint of a grin before replying. “You certainly have a choice, but I can assure you it is in your benefit to take a seat.”
NCM acquiesced to the man's request and placed his coffee on the table before taking a seat directly across from him. The suited stranger stared straight ahead, as if gauging the actions of Mentis very carefully. He looked to be around forty years old, roughly the same as Calder. Perhaps they'd been friends, perhaps they'd risen through The Order together. “So you're Order, that much is obvious. A little unusual for Calder to send a lackey instead of turning up himself...”
“Mister Rhodes, perhaps I should introduce myself properly?” The agent of The Order interjected with a more pronounced, and amused, grin. “My name is Altman, I am a Cleric in The Order, in fact the Cleric of our mutual acquaintance... Eira.”
The mention of one of Mentis' most trusted colleagues in PCW knocked him back. Eira had dragged him back to PCW after a year away, she'd allied with him to face The Black Hand but after so long that fight had been neutralised by the powers that be. Now Eira had announced her departure from PCW, this couldn't have been coincidental timing. Altman wanted something he couldn't get from Eira anymore. “As much as I trust her, that name doesn't buy you anything.”
“I know you have a distrust of The Order, and having reviewed the information we have on you and everything Eira has spoken to me about I think you are within your rights to feel that way. But I am not with Cleric Calder, I am not part of his.. agenda with you.”
Altman seemed genuine in his words, but nothing to do with The Order could be taken on face value. “Again, those words don't buy you anything with me.”
“Very well, I understand this is not a comfortable situation for you so I'll make it as plain as I can.” Leaning back in his seat as if to steel himself and compose his thoughts, Altman took a moment and began to explain his real reason for being in front of Mentis. “Recently I became aware of a... disturbance in the order of things within The Order. A shifting of certain sands that has been worrisome. The centre of that disturbance seems to be Cleric Calder himself. His actions in the last couple of years have defied the laws of The Order and his continued service makes me believe there are powers at work that threaten our status quo.”
“Even more reason for me to go about my own business.” If the Order was facing a seismic shift is its make-up, perhaps a dissension of powerful forced then why should I, Mentis thought, put myself in any further danger? Perhaps they would rip themselves apart while he sat and watched with a smile on his face and a North American title over his shoulder.
“Certainly, you can continue fighting your petty fights against small fish like Justin Kaard and deluded movie stars with ambitions of presidency, while you run around trying to find a way to get vengeance on Calder.” After the PCW hiatus Mentis was scheduled to face Mikey Wright once more. After the farce that cost Mentis his International Title and left him fighting Justin Kaard for always two whole months, there was certainly no love lost between the two men. But he was also a member of The Black Hand, and for Altman to call him a 'small fish' was no small detail. “Or you can join me.”
“You know, at one time those petty fights were the most important thing in my life. Then you guys came along and ripped my life to shreds. You think I'd join The Order again? Willingly?” It was arrogance, thought Sean, to have such a request after they'd torn him apart as a person and stitched him back together with the surgical subtlety of a chimpanzee.
“You misunderstand me, Sean. I'm not asking you to join The Order again, I'm asking you to join me and help me find out who is pulling Calder's strings. And in exchange, perhaps I can be of assistance finding your young 'friend', Ezra Colne.” This time Sean leant back in his seat, knocked back by the insinuation of duplicity from the Cleric but most of all by the name of the man that had been much more than just a friend. A Guardian, yes, but as Eira could testify the bonds of that connection spread far wider than guidance. Altman knew the power this simple association had over Sean, and in his face was a curious mixture of compassion and calculation.
Mentis tried to conceal his emotions, to keep what little cards he had close to his chest. The mere mention of Ezra shocked him and it took all his composure not to reach over the table and make pretend that Altman was Mr Showtime. “And just why would you want my help? I've spent the last however many months trying to find a way to get rid of one of your Clerics. Shouldn't I be public enemy number one in The Order? I should just let you tear each other apart.”
“As unsettling as it is to admit, Calder is right about certain things. You certainly possess a power similar to that of the Seeker, Murdoc. While you aren't what Calder wants you to be, you are one of the few who could face the same challenges and survive.” There were few who had ever rivalled Murdoc in toughness, even Grand Slam champions like Mikey Wright couldn't hold a candle to his ability to take a beating and keep pushing forward. But while NCM was one of those few, he knew it wasn't quite enough to justify what Altman was asking. ”And as with our mutual friend I believe you are tied to a key point in this situation. Whatever the reason may be, Eira and yourself found yourselves in a hotspot of activity. Pure Class Wrestling has been the centre of quite a maelstrom and I have reason to believe that is still ongoing.”
“The Black Hand? Sadistic disappeared after he lost to Grimm and everyone else seems to have their own agenda. Stormm's nursing his business concerns, Grimm's nursing his World Title and Showtime... well he's nursing his ego as usual. Making pretend that he controls PCW now, playing his presidential charade, still treating the International Title like a joke.”
Altman took his eyes off Mentis for the first time since he'd walked over. Now they drifted down to his side, where his had also diverted to collect a file from an expensive yet plain attaché case. Laying the file on the table, Altman turned his eyes back to his companion. “The Order has been at war with The Black Hand for longer than you can conceive. But that war is only winnable, only worth winning, if we remain loyal to our laws. As grave as it is to admit, we have larger concerns than The Black Hand.”
Slowly, as if he had still been weighing the merits of his chosen comrade, Altman slid the file across the table into Mentis' possession. Before he could open it, the spectacled man continued. “The same strange vibrations I've noticed in The Order are happening there too. It can't just be The Black Hand, these sensations started long after the reared their heads in PCW. I'm certain that isn't just a coincidence and I need somebody to work closer to the situation.”
“And where would I start?” Mentis caressed the file like he would a case of toxic waste. What was inside could kill him, destroy everything around him, and he had no idea what Altman expected to find in PCW that was potentially even worse than The Black Hand.
“The source of these worries, he took her in once. Perhaps they're closer in attitude now than they have ever been. There might just be a way to him in this woman.” Altman watched on as Mentis flicked open the folder and stared at the first page. On it was a detailed biography of an individual, and a photograph of a woman in plain clothes and devoid of make-up yet unmistakable to any PCW fan.
Sean read the words and digested the identity of his target. Silently he closed the folder and carefully placed it to his side. The thoughts of what he would have to do flooded his brain and his eyes drifted to the black puddle of his coffee, ignoring any contact with the Cleric. His pronounced Queen's English spoke out just a moment later. “Is that a yes?”
There were a few moments of silence, of complete stillness, until NCM gave the slightest nod of affirmation. With a grin and a satisfaction that his business was complete, Altman collected his case along with a thick woollen coat to match his suit and got to his feet. Sliding on the coat, Altman turned to leave.
“I wear the chain I forged in life,” The words of Jacob Marley stunned Altman as he passed. He looked back at Sean who, staring forward and transfixed still by his coffee, spoke on. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will and of my own free will I wear it. You're not the only one who can quote Dickens, Cleric. Just promise me one thing, Altman...when I'm done, the chain comes off. For me and Ezra.”
Altman returned the slightest nod with a waver of doubt, but perhaps that was the best Mentis would ever get. The Cleric lingered for a moment, struck by the unexpected poetry of his charge, before composing his stereotypically British stiff-upper-lip. ”Enjoy the coffee, Mister Rhodes. Oh and do try the pie, I believe it's the best in Illinois.”
With that the Cleric made himself absent and vanished into the same darkness he had arrived from. Hesitantly Sean reached for the file by his side, partly to ensure the meeting had not been entirely in his mind but also to check its contents once more. The beige folder flipped open and the picture once again did not lie.
His target would be at Trauma 185. The problem was that it was not Mr Showtime. He would have a contest there, a match against an obnoxious diva with delusions of grandeur who just happened to be one of the best technicians in the world. He'd have to divide his attention between the International Champion in a match that marked the fifth anniversary of PCW's revival, and tracking the individual that Altman insisted was the first step toward bringing down Calder for good. The picture didn't lie, that target was Alexa Black.
”Here you are, Mister...” The waitress jolted Sean out of his seat as a surprisingly appetising quarter-pounder landing on the table in front of him with a side of crispy fries. ”Can I get you anything else?”
Perhaps Altman would hold to his word, it was more of an opportunity than he'd found in months of searching for Ezra and Calder. Perhaps things might just be turning around, and all he had to do was stomach working with a Cleric and set his sights on one of the most violent forces in PCW history. ”Do you have any pie?”
