When the Horseman woke up earlier in the day, back stiff from spending the night on the floor of a 15 year old panel van, sitting on a swivel chair in a warehouse office for three hours was not what he had in mind for the day. Yet here he was, scanning the four stark walls around him for umpteenth time as his contact; a fresh faced "man" in the loosest of terms, early 20's at the oldest, gawked in disbelief with a huge smile spread across his face as he examined the man in his presence. Between the two and a half hours of waiting, and the half hour of sitting in silence, the Horseman was this close to walking out. Something however compelled him to stay, and as his eyes met his contact's once more, he damned whatever it was binding him to the chair. The most recent glance over of the unproven-in-his-eyes contact sitting across from him revealed something the others hadn't; a blackened gleam in his eye. The Horseman sighed to conceal a chuckle. Maybe, he misjudged his new friend.
CONTACT: Wow, you're him. I mean, you're actually him!
Maybe not. The Horseman clears his throat and throws his head back, looking up at the plain white ceiling. His hands tap on the armrests of the chair twice each, before he grabs the armrests and he pulls himself forward, causing the man to flinch. He smiles underneath the mask, unbeknownst to his contact, though in any event he was too preoccupied trying to pick his heart up off the floor to notice.
THE HORSEMAN: You were expecting someone else?
With eyes wide, the contact stutters and stammers unintelligible noises in an attempt to backtrack away from his blunder, gripping his chair's armrests with either hand. The not-even-half words come out choppy and short, and the spaces inbetween are marked by rapid-fire inhales.
CONTACT: No, not at all sir! It's just that, you're the fuckin' Horseman!
THE HORSEMAN: That I am.
CONTACT: I always thought you'd be bigger.
THE HORSEMAN: And I thought my contact was supposed to be a professional. Instead, I get a greenhorn who makes me wait two and a half--
CONTACT: I'm sorry, there were other engagements.
THE HORSEMAN: Hours. Please, let me finish.
CONTACT: Sorry.
THE HORSEMAN: Not accepted.
The Horseman leans back in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left in a figure four shape with eyes staring daggers into the heart of his contact. The contact gulps, sitting up in his chair precisely as his guest relaxes, quickly scanning the room to put his mind at rest. He flinches as the Horseman reaches into his suit jacket pocket, fearing the worst and sighing in relief when all he pulls out is a small notebook and a pen. The Horseman flips the pocket book open and clicks the pen before striking the empty page he opened up to with the pen, marking something down with quick, light penstrokes. Upon seeing this, the contact's heart began to race and he recoils once more. Chuckling, the Horseman slides the book back into its spot in his breast pocket, right behind the pen.
THE HORSEMAN: Don't worry, if I wanted you dead, you would be. If I had a dime for every disrespectful contact I had to work with, I'd be a very wealthy man.
CONTACT: I assure you sir, I meant no disrespect.
THE HORSEMAN: I don't care about your intentions. You made me wait three hours before saying a word. Where I come from, that's disrespectful.
CONTACT: Sir, I'm sorry.
THE HORSEMAN: Stop apologizing; you sound pathetic. Groveling at me feet practically, begging forgiveness. I'm not the Lord son, but if you keep it up you'll be wishing you spent half as much time begging forgiveness of him than you have me. You'll earn my forgiveness when you earn my respect. Right now, the odds of you earning either are about as good as you winning the lottery.
CONTACT: Yes sir, understood sir.
THE HORSEMAN: And cut the "sir" bullshit, excuse me what was your name again?
CONTACT: I didn't tell you my name. Oliver Cromwell.
THE HORSEMAN: Clever. Protestant, I take it.
CROMWELL: No room for God in this profession, don't ya think?
THE HORSEMAN: You went and named yourself after a Catholic killer, didn't ya?
Cromwell laughs and leans back in his chair, body mirroring The Horseman's.
CROMWELL: You say that like that was all he did.
THE HORSEMAN: It's what everyone remembers.
CROMWELL: Very well. Shall we discuss your assignment?
THE HORSEMAN: Please, go right ahead.
Cromwell reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a manila file folder and places it onto the Horseman's lap. The Horseman looks down at it, and then back up at his contact, smiling under his mask.
THE HORSEMAN: Finally, we get to the point!
The Horseman flips open the folder and flips through the small stack of papers therein. He grabs the first of the pile and brings it close to his face, running a finger along the lines of text to make sure he's following along. Though he keeps up the appearance that he's reading the sheet, behind the thin paper his rolls his eyes, barely following along and just letting his finger move in the same mechanical pattern that he's used for as long as he could remember. Once you read one of these orders, you've read them all. Even when your target is none other than--
THE HORSEMAN: Valeri Pasternak? Who?
That reaction inspires a confused look to come over the face of Cromwell.
CROMWELL: You're kidding, right?
THE HORSEMAN: Do I sound like I'm kidding?
CROMWELL: Valeri Pasternak. Drug trafficker, regular pain in Alkaev's ass. I figured you'd know better than anyone.
THE HORSEMAN: Let me make something clear. I don't work for Alkaev. He calls me when he needs things done that his actual men can't accomplish. I don't play golf with him. I'm not the man he confesses his secrets to. And I don't have a clue who Valeri Pasternak is, so I'll take your word for it. Now, if you'll excuse me....
The Horseman sighs as he pushes himself up out of the chair that's been his home for the last three+ hours. He shakes his head and clutches the folder tightly in his hand, pinning the free sheet against his thumb and the outside of the folder. Turning his attention towards the door, he blinks twice before making his way towards the exit. Cromwell opens his mouth to add a parting word, but closes it immediately thereafter as the Horseman pushes open the door and steps into the vacant warehouse. His footsteps increase in pace as he traverses the barren main room towards the exit.
As he steps out of the building, back into the seedy underbelly of Chicago, the first thing that greets him is a harsh blast of sunlight pounding down on his eyes. He squints and makes his way over to his van, noticing something pinned to the windshield by its wiper. His eyes finally adjust by the time he makes the trek from the door of the building to the front of his car and he snatches the item; a note written on yellow lined paper. Shaking his head, he gives it a read.
So many places to be, nothing to get you there. Sorry! Or maybe I'm not.
-Anton Chekov
Clenching his fist around the note, he looks down to the ground, at his tires to see all four of them have been slashed.
THE HORSEMAN: Oh, son of a bitch.
No malice is prevalent in his expression of frustration, instead he sounds almost pleasantly surprised as the corners of his mouth curve upwards ever-so-slightly underneath the mask. With that grin still held firmly in place, he turns around on one heel and walks back to the front door of the warehouse, pondering under his breath as to the identity of his not-so-helpful shadow. And more importantly, what he'd do to said shadow should their paths cross again.
However, by the time he made it to the door and pushed his way inside, he hadn't come up with an answer to either.
Hysterical, Hysteria. Hysterical.
Hello, Hysteria. I'm sorry, can you hear me? Or are you so wrapped up in your head that you're deaf to any and all forms of reality that may try and pry their way into your demented consciousness? You are trying to pass off instability as a strength there, aren't you? That's reason enough for anyone to question your, anything. A raving lunatic, hopped up on his own arrogance and deluded into thinking he's a prophet and a threat. Scrambling about like a decapitated chicken, caked in your own shit, begging, fucking pleading for attention. What else would you call your gurgled cries for help to literally fucking everyone? A threat? A promise? No. No, you fucking monument to Grade-A idiocy. Just because you can't see past yourself, doesn't mean you're an enigma to anyone else. You're weak. A spineless man clutching onto disability the same way you clutched right onto Evertrust's nipples, looking to be breastfed victory here. Only, problem with that, you should be begging me to give you the victory. Because, what do I have to prove, dragging along Maverick and Venomous for the ride? The pride of knowing that I can drag the barely passable to victory over two fuckwits and an actual threat? Bragging rights, perhaps? Unimportant to me. So, go on. Beg me, pay me, whichever, to walk away and I will. No, seriously. The two psychos and the purposeless God need this win so much more than I, and I like money. Particularly the former, because look at them.
Hysteria's bragging about the things Evertrust did because he's done nothing of note himself and yet he's on me for not having any real accomplishments of my own. Though he immediately thereafter justifies my lack of accomplishments for me, apparently subscribing to the school of thought that dictates "if I say something about it first, it suddenly disappears," like a certain Master of Minds does every time he opens his mouth. Hey, maybe it is the Mastermind underneath the mask, trying desperately to gain any respect and not wanting to be associated with the old shame. Ain't that right, Mastermind? You want someone to hand you a win on a silver platter? Pay me.
Get out your wallets, and hand your money over. I promise I'll play my part. Promise.
Hey, Venomous and Maverick! Please try to pull your head out of your collective asses for a few moments to understand what's going down here. I'm planning on walking out of this match, effectively rendering you two unable to even function, let alone compete with even Mastermind in a mask and his obviously mentally lackey. Add in Evertrust on top of it? Sheesh! You guys are so fucked. Unless you pay me more.
That's right, listen as I sell myself out like a street walker. The only person in this match that I remotely care about is Evertrust. And I'm not going to carry two idiots to glory for free. So come on boys, you want my help? Pay up! I want your money more than I want your partnership. Though, y'know, it's kind of funny. Were I not on my team, and had Gein and Hysteria not latched onto Evertrust as they had, there's no doubt in my mind that the very people I don't feel like sharing the glory with unless absolutely necessary could beat the "Asylum" into submission. Yes, a ragtag team could beat an established group. Funny, how that works out, doesn't it? It doesn't matter how much Hysteria or Maverick lies, or how god damned unimportant Gein and Venomous are, the idiots I'm handcuffed to are better than the idiots Evertrust is handcuffed to.
That's why I'm negotiating from the position of power, even though the aptly named Team Evertrust is so assured we stand no chance.
lackey. Add in Evertrust on top of it? Sheesh! You guys are so fucked. Unless you pay me more.
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