Tracking.


It's somethin' that I've always been good at.


Even before I was altered, changed into what would become known as a "living weapon" and then, later dubbed... "weapon killer" by my superiors for my keen ability, to put down others that were like myself. Weapons that were considered "broken" or "defective" cause even after being reprogrammed, they couldn't handle it. What they were expected to do... what they had become. Back when I was a loyal fuckin' servant for The Order. A trained killer. An assassin for hire. A soldier commanded to carry out whatever diabolical plan of destruction that I was instructed to enact. Whatever furthered the agenda. Their cause. Or when I was simply fulfilling the request of one of their "clients". Folks that enlisted the Order's aid for whatever sinister act or selfish desire, they deemed fit for my brand of services. I wasn't a contingency or a possible factor in the event that I was needed or required, I was an end game, final solution. The quick, immediate fix to a problem. When I was assigned a mission, the outcome, the result was permanent, lasting and irreversible. The times when death... was the only answer.


That's all behind me now though... or at least, it's supposed to be. Ever since Azrael aided in severing my ties with the Order, I've found the reintegration process back into society a bit difficult. It ain't like flipping a light switch - on or off. In spite of the metaphorical leash being removed and the chain getting cut. I'm still forever changed because of what happened to me. Different. Transformed. All that I've done and seen, turned me into something, not quite human and yet, beneath it all I am still the man that I've always been. To look at me, one would never really know the reality of what lies behind these eyes or understand the monster that I've become. The part of me that I keep locked away and hidden. A dark passenger... if you will, that exists, always right with me but never in plain sight. My secret that I will take to the grave. The portion of me that I keep buried until I absolutely need to bring it forth. That is what I have been resorted to doing, since it's not like I can remove it or cut it out like a fuckin' tumor. It is a part of me as much as I am a part of it. There's no use denying it, I might be free from a life of control but I never will be able to turn back the clock and reverse what I am. Therefor, my freedom, doesn't mean that I am truly free. I will always be a prisoner, a slave to what I have become. The perpetual living weapon.


Today something altogether different is taking place. Today I am relying on certain skills that I've had, since before the nightmare that was The Order's "living weapon program" was ever introduced to me and in turn, I was unleashed upon an unsuspecting, naive world and society that would never begin to understand. Today... I am merely tracking down someone, in order to have a conversation. As a favor for them, Blackwater boys - Donovan, Ezra and Raphael. My objective is to locate a man by the name of Oliver Last aka Mr. Luck. On the suspicion that there's more to him, besides having an innate gift of fortune always smiling upon the son-of-a-bitch. Beyond being one of the luckiest bastards on the planet, highly adept at getting himself outta situations that few could, with nothing more than a cheap one-liner or joke to save his hide. Rumor has it he's also quite talented in the fine art of gambling. Too good to be merely mortal. Instinct tells me that means the guy is an advanced human but from what Ezra explained, he seems to carry the gene of E. Meaning there's evidence that connects him to the one and only - Azrael Erebus.


The white whale. The spaceman that's gone missing, presumed placed inside the mind of a girl named, Rocket. Not sure how accurate that is since the broad just took a loss to Tommy Wish. Then again, that seems exactly like the type of thing that goofy ass alien would do, for reasons that only made sense to him. Entertainment, perhaps? Maybe he wanted to brighten the day, who knows? It's possible that there wasn't an underlining reason, at all. Since from what I am to understand, he won't remember anything or even resurface as his true form, till some kinda trigger releases the hold on his memories and that causes him to remember. Until that happens, there's nothing that anyone can do to bring him back. All that we can do is wait and continue onward.


The entire scenario really annoys the shit out of me and pisses me right the fuck off but that doesn't really do anything in a productive sense, now does it? So I offer my aid when I can and keep my mouth shut. Sorta like when I was working with The Order, except I'm lending my services of my own accord and I ain't gettin' paid for it. Although, it isn't like the latter matters to me. Not anymore. I got enough funds to last me a few lifetimes. Also, this time, I'm doing something good. Being kind for the simple sake of being kind. Taking the road of the nice guy and doing a solid. A favor, with zero expectations for something given in return. Yet maybe there's a part of me that seeks redemption and doing this gives me a sense of retribution. I don't fucking know. I've never been one for psychology. I'm not Dr. fuckin' Phil. Fuck. It could be that I'm just bored. That's why I still wrestle from time to time. All I do know... is my decision to help the Blackwaters, has sent me down a familiar path. Namely huntin' or rather, tracking down a target.


Down the rabbit hole and into the seedy underground "Wonderland" scene of New York City. In search of one... Oliver Last.


Shouldn't be too hard to locate this guy. Dude likes to gamble. Was born with a proverbial horseshoe shoved up his keister. I'm guessing that has given him quite the superiority complex. He does call himself... Mr. Luck. A title that he isn't afraid to share. That means he's cocky. Sure of himself. Most likely a fucking prick that I'm going to wanna toss off a roof or at the very least, smack upside the head. Probably not as much as I want to backhand Sebastian Duke's snot nosed, sniveling brat but pretty damn close. Anyways, Oliver more than likely enjoys attention, the thrill of high stakes and the sensation of folks enamored by his uncanny ability, to never lose. Which means, he incurs the wrath of the ones hosting these types of events. Cause the "House" never loses or that's how it would go if Mr. Luck wasn't participating. Good thing he always manages to see his way out of bad situations or else, I would assume the trail was cold, due to Oliver being a corpse at the bottom of the Hudson river.


Still one's gotta assume this man has acquired a collection of enemies. Keep generating heat and enough buzz about yourself and eventually, those enemies will find you. It's fucked up but that's what I'm counting on. Then he won't see me coming. I'm betting his "luck" is generated or based off some sort of extrasensory, otherworldly perception. He just doesn't fully understand that and bought into the hype of being lucky. However, it is possible, that some part of him is aware that this stems from an unnatural, anomalous or extramundane source. I can't rightly say with a hundred percent certainty or accuracy. One thing that is for sure, this is a guy that thrives for attention, enjoys his games of chance and most definitely, indulges in an immense assortment of illegal substances. That last part is a highly educated guess... by the way, based on the scenes that he frequents and where the course to finding him leads.


El Gato en el Sombrero. Yeah. Translates to the Cat in the Hat. Fucking stupid. On the outside it is your typical, run of the mill, loud, obnoxious nightclub. Nothing special, right? Wrong. Behind the scenes, past the bouncers in the back and below all the drunken idiots, dancing their cares away, there's something more. Tucked deep in the dank, subterranean levels of this entertainment hot spot, you will find a plethora of underground activities. Ranging from drugs, to gambling, to sex trade and trafficking... to the kinda dark, sordid shit that you would have to see to believe. The type of filth and depraved acts that most pretend don't actually happen, so they keep a blind eye and a deaf ear to it, till it makes itself known and then, it's too late. They're trapped in its web and that's not a place that normal folks wanna find themselves. Because what you will witness, can never be forgotten. Although, if you've already gotten yourself that far, you're either already in the market for it or you're just a dumbfuck that took a wrong turn.


Tonight. I'll be playing the part of the dumbfuck. Lets me blend in easier that way.

---

"Robert 'The Omega' Main."


"'Sup dude?"


"Y'know... I gotta admit when I tossed my metaphorical hat in the ring, I didn't expect to be put in the Main fucking Event at Warfare."


"Yeah. Yeah. I know you'll probably attribute this to my own inferiority complex or some shit. I'm going to tell ya right now, it doesn't have anything to do with that. I just thought a guy like me, that doesn't take this stuff all that seriously, wouldn't be pit against the Universal Champion.... again. I mean, don't get me wrong. I enjoy beating the fuck outta folks and throwin' boot parties, just fine. I dig a good fight as much as the next asshole in this business."


"Probably even more so... in a great majority of the cases."


"That's really the extent of it though. I like to throw down in the ring. Nothing more, nothing less. While you seem like a guy that appreciates the same, the way I see it, you're a high profile act. A title driven wrestler, out to make a name for himself."


"Me?"


"I couldn't care less about that. Shiny trinkets, screamin' fans and the blaze of a spotlight isn't my jam, man. So you see, you and me, while we both might enjoy the thrill of combat, we aren't cut from the same cloth. We just aren't. That isn't a slam on you, it's only me, stating the facts. Our lives led us to where we are, our stations and positions in life and we're on different routes because of it. I'm the dude that busts skulls for the sake of bustin' skulls. And you? Well, you're an eyes on the prize, name in lights kinda guy. The man that needs the hype and attention. You're the wrestling superstar, the showman and I'm the dick that'll put the same fire and aggression into a fight, even when there isn't any cameras rolling. You feel me, man?"


"Fuck it."


"Here we are though."


"Destined to meet in that ring. Fated to fight."


"Haha! Like two fuckin' ships passing in the night. Our course directs us to one single, shining moment. When we get to kick the shit outta each other. Which is entirely my goal and my primary objective. To cause about as much damage and destruction as I possibly can. Regardless of the outcome of our match, my priorities are crystal fucking clear. I will fuck your world up and you won't forget the pain that you endured. Not for one second, will you look back on our time in the ring and think... well, damn that was disappointing. This is my promise. Nah. More than that. It's my gift to you. You're fucking welcome."