OOC: Brief note, this was written as a response to a promo from El Principe, but it was deleted in the board reset. I'm assuming he will repost, but if he doesn't thats the reason the promo section reads like a response to something not there.

“I been in the blues all my life. I'm still delivering 'cause I got a long memory.”

-Muddy Waters



COREY (2028)

In better times I'm threading the stem of a flower through Evie's hair as we dance through a field of dead dandelions. Each step we take stirs the wooly seeds from their place, sending them into the sky. Evie's skirt catches them as she twirls, creating a hazy windswept cyclone about her. It looks like she's dancing with a cloud. She's heavenly. I stand and stupidly gawp at her for a long moment, admiring the beauty and serenity of the scene. She giggles when she sees me standing there like an idiot. Evie comes to me, wrapping arms around my torso and bringing me in close. Our lips press together, but we're both smiling so the kiss is awkward and toothy. We laugh at each other and try again, this time melting into each others bodies like twin streams of molten lead filtering into a single mold. And in that moment, I experience a purity of bliss I had yet to experience. A clarity of mind and purpose, all of my essence distilled into my love for this girl. I felt like it would last forever.

It did not....

LUX (2039)

My blood runs cold to see the veneer of cultured civility spread so thinly over what amounted to the hollow rotted out corpse of a body that didn't know it was dead yet. Aristocrats, modern American royalty, celebrities, the wealthy and powerful mingle around me, paying no heed to the young black woman I inhabited as I balanced a tray of drinks on one open palm. I was here to ascertain how deep the poison of the Beast's regime ran, and got so much more awfulness than I bargained for. Because not only was the poison plentiful but it ran deeper than we could have ever imagined. The United States of America had terminal cancer, and the tumors danced about me, flitting in and out of conversations like so many flies drawn from one pile of shit to the next best pile of glistening shit. And it was in that moment that the kindling fire of hope I had been stoking for so long, started to flicker and die.

COREY (2028)

I looked at Evie from across the length of her parent's sofa, the house quiet save for our twinned thudding hearts and the television on in front of us. I was dimly aware of some talking head on the news, prattling on about why we should be afraid. But I didn't need that woman's help. Evie's parents were away on vacation and we had the house to ourselves and even though it went unspoken between us we both knew that this was the night. Evie naturally made the first move, grabbing the television remote to shut it off before sliding towards me on the couch. Her hand slid over top of mine, and our eyes met. My heart hammered, and never in my life had I wanted something that I was terrified of so badly. She kissed me, but it was different this time. Hungrier and more wanton. I responded, walking out onto the precipice and pushing my tongue past her teeth. She did the same and leaned into me, sliding her hand down my thigh. I breathed “I Love You” into her ear as she unfastened my shorts....


LUX (2039)

Senator Wilson Stokes made his way down the grand staircase, clearly basking in the glow of the undivided attention of his audience. I couldn't bear to focus on his words, but caught snippets of his self congratulatory dribble, lauding his people for finally securing the future of America for them all. For installing The Beast's puppet president firmly in place. For the recent actions of Congress that struck down the 22nd Amendment, effectively installing their figurehead forever. For rendering the nation of China unto a nuclear wasteland for generations to come, and for the puppet governments in what remained of the European Union that suckled at their teats like parasites pushing aside a nursing calf.

Oh yes, the poison ran deep. And it was embraced with a thundering applause, a clinking of full wine glasses, and a valiant wave of novelty American flags. If only I had known then what I know now, that in two years time these vapid pigs at the trough would be all but slaughtered, distilled into nothing more than blood for their unseen blood god. I might have had a good laugh at that.

Save for the fact that in two years time, I'd be dead too.


COREY (2028)

I wore long sleeves at school in the deep of summer, but people just assumed I was cutting so I aroused suspicion anyway. But amongst the wayward glances from teachers and the shouting matches waged against my parents through a closed door, it was Evie who figured it out first. Everyone always says that the worst kinds of nightmares are the ones where you can't seem to run fast enough from some unseen killer. Like your legs are treading through molasses as certain doom barrels down on you, while paradoxically never quite reaching you. But they're all wrong. Because the worst kind of nightmare is trying and failing to explain to the love of your life why she isn't enough to stop you from pumping poison into your veins. It's a certain kind of paralysis that only takes your vocal chords as she sits on her bed and sobs, asking if it's her fault. Asking why I didn't come to her sooner. Asking...asking....asking.... but I just choke and sputter and run through molasses because there's no rational explanation for it. And when I can't give her what she wants, I start getting angry. Not just at her, but at my own weakness, at my nightmare, and because god damn it I'm getting jittery and I need another fucking hit and she just won't STOP.

So the shadow walking beside me reigned supreme for an instant just long enough for me to ruin the best thing I ever had. I lunged at her and screamed in her face. I didn't even say anything, just this primal scream right in her face. The effect was instantaneous. And I learned that you can witness, in real time, the moment someone's love turns to fear. I left before she could leave me. I knew I couldn't handle it anyway.


LUX (2039)

The estate was quiet following the party, but the reverberations of what I had seen were unshakeable. With the intelligence I needed already in hand, I nonetheless opted to delay my extraction time. Some of the guests had lingered and disappeared into a closed off section of the manse, not the least of which was the good Senator Stokes himself. Somehow I knew I had to pursue, but a cast iron ball of dread sat in my stomach as I came to that conclusion. Using the servant's tunnels that I had familiarized myself with over the past few hours, I gained access to this haven. Stalking my way through dimly lit halls, I was alerted by the sound of laughter, and eventually the sight of a door ajar emitting a thin beam of light. Steeling myself, I approached as quietly as I could, peering inside. My stomach dropped, and it was all I could do to choke back an involuntary gasp.

Even now, I can't quite remember the totality of what I saw. Just bits and pieces of an overall horror. The senator himself was forcing a strung out teenage boy to perform oral sex on him. Tuxedoed men and bejeweled ladies covered in blood that wasn't theirs. But the thing that haunted me the most, the most terrible island in a sea of bacchanalist atrocities, was a young girl tossed casually into the corner. She was nude, pale and dead. Infected track marks marred her arms. She was facing towards the door, her glassy eyes looking up at me as she lay on her back. A fly landed on her left eye and danced there in a circle. I was transfixed. Until a familiar voice called out to me.

"Who the fuck are you?"

My heart leapt and I looked away from the broken girl. The revelers parted and a woman stepped through the crowd.




She was unmistakeable, despite the ghoulish make up. The Black Queen. In those days, she hadn't yet completely surrendered her humanity, but looking at her then I'm disappointed I didn't see it coming. Behind her the senator was cursing, gesticulating at me. “She's seen us! She's seen us!” But the Queen just smiled and leered at me. I'll never forget what she said.

“No one will ever believe you.”

I knew she was right. I knew that these people, no....these animals, would never see justice. These young boys and girls, spent and used like toys, would never breathe again. Despite my situation, a rage started building inside me. I wanted to kill them all. And the Black Queen knew it. She fed on it. And she fed on my impotence. I made peace with the fact that there were too many of them, and that there was nothing more I could do this night. So I ran. With tears in my eyes, I ran as fast as I could.


COREY (2028)

A few days later, I remember standing in my dealer's drafty apartment. A small child, no older than a toddler, pushed some kind of ball on the floor that twinkled and made noises as it rolled. The child's clothing was dirt stained, her hair cut unevenly. But the pity I could muster for that kid paled in comparison to the reserves of pathetic self-pity I had for myself back then. My body hurt all over, and every so often a shudder pulled through my thin frame despite the fact that it was a humid 75 degree night. I needed my fix. I needed to forget. And I needed to fight back against the oncoming waves of depression that were already lapping at my mental shores. Evie was gone. I felt hollowed out, but worse than that I knew that I was the catalyst for those feelings. My fault, in every sense of the word.

Sean stepped out of the back room with some kind of fast food bag. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out a wad of bills that I hadn't even had the wherewithal to count. I peeled them apart now, hands shaking as I accounted for my riches. I muttered the total to Sean, holding the bills out in my hand. He shook his head. “Not enough.” Dumbly, I continued to hold the money out, as though that mere act would get him to reconsider. I'm sure some pleadings followed, but what exactly I said is lost. Glancing down at the toddler, though, I do recall muttering “I'm sorry” to her before making a grab for the bag. Sean reeled back, cursing at me and stumbling into the wall. The child started to wail as I made another feeble grab for the bag. Sean pushed back, and before I knew it a small knife had suddenly appeared in his hand. But before I could relent, before I could reassure him I'd stop, he swung the blade in a downward arc, catching my forehead just above my eyebrow and pulling it down over my cheek. I cried out and stumbled from the room, falling through the door into the hallway and running for the stairs. My hand went to my eye, I was sure I was blinded. Only later did I discover that I had been spared that much, and that it was just a glut of blood that rendered me sightless.

At some point later that evening, I passed out in a bus terminal. Someone must have called me an ambulance, because the next morning I awoke with a face full of stitches and my mother hovering over me, looking disappointed. I turned over and said nothing to her. There was nothing to say.



Corey and Lux stand facing each other, having shared their visions of a future imperfect. Memories drawn from years yet counted, but all too real, all too bitter, and all too raw. They were not out in the world, but instead safely ensconced in the mental projection of Lux's calming place. A place Corey had come to appreciate too.



Thank you for that. Lux intoned, as a breeze from off the impossible waters shifted her hair.

Yeah, you're welcome. Thank you too. I....I guess I didn't realize things got that bad in the future until I saw I for myself. Corey pushed some of his own locks out of his eyes. So, you seriously wouldn't want to forget any of that?

Lux looked at him with confusion. Where did that come from?

What you said to your opponent this week, the luchador guy. You told him you wouldn't want to forget anything you remember, no matter how terrible it was. You really meant that?

Lux pondered a moment, thinking back on her exact words. Yeah, I did. I really did. She looks up at the boy. What about you? Would you want to forget?

Yes. Corey's answer was unpracticed and abrupt. Lux couldn't hide her surprise.

But...why?

Corey turned to face the cerulean ocean, and another stiff breeze mussed his hair. No offense Lux, but you're the hero in your memories. It's a little different when you're the villain.


You know, up until Corey said that I had never considered it that way. But I suppose he's right. Most villains, in the cold light of day, probably wouldn't want to rehash their sins. Now, I think Corey's being a little rough on himself considering himself a villain, but I get his meaning. Most villains, in their time, don't think of themselves as doing evil. But hindsight, as they say, is 20/20. And most often a bitch to boot.

Which brings me to my opponent, el Principe. You, my friend, have been the inspiration for all of this. The traumas that Corey and I decided to share. All of my recent ruminations on memory. Ironic that you, in bringing what amounts to nothing to bear, have given me so much to think about.

You know, for as true as I think Corey's statement was, I don't think it's necessarily true of you. Apparently, it was an accident that caused your amnesia. A cruel twist of fate, if your saviors are to be believed. I can empathize with that, my own current circumstances being outside my control as well. The glaring difference between us being that I am fully aware of who I am. You are not. But, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.

I know what I've done. I know how I've come to be here. I know what kind of person I am. And most importantly, I know why I fight. My memories give me purpose. They instill me with a righteous anger and a generous dose of fear. Who I am informs who I will be and what actions I choose. In other words....memory IS everything. You likened it to a drug. I disagree. Memory is something more vital. It's life GIVING, not life TAKING. If anything, it's more like water.

I don't understand you, el Principe. Not in the sense that I don't understand what happened to you, I get that just fine. I just don't understand how you can exist with all that “not knowing”. I think it would shatter me. Maybe in that sense, you are stronger. I admit, I have no idea how this match will turn out. I'm not one of those overconfident dolts who guarantee a win. And you handled yourself well against Peter Gilmour, despite your adversity. It could be argued that a man in your situation is a man who has nothing to lose, and only fools underestimate the desperate.

But if I may, I would like to offer you some advice. You're a water bearer, el Principe, and right now your bucket is empty. It does not have to remain that way. But there will be people who will seek to fill your bucket for you. Some of them will do so because they truly think they're helping you. Others will do so because they want something from you. But nobody can fill your bucket but you. Nobody can give you meaning and purpose but you. You may never reclaim the original contents of your bucket, but even if you don't you go to that well on your own and you fill it with something else. Do you understand? YOU fill it. And no one else.

As you may have guessed I'm bringing this up because I don't think the people “helping” you have your best interests at heart. Though, I wager you already suspect as much. I do hope it has occurred to you to investigate your own accident. After all, a helicopter crash resulting in a fatality would be newsworthy, no? Or, if the accident was not discovered by anyone but your new social circle and they failed to report it, well, that's a bit damning to say the least.

If what your new found friends say is true, it should be a simple matter to confirm the veracity of their story. And, from there, work back from the accident itself to determine your identity. Traveling the world is a noble pursuit, but frankly I don't think you need to go so far to determine who you are. If you have not done this already, I'm kindly enough to attribute your lack of clear thinking to your extreme trauma. But...not for much longer. There will come a time where you have to take the reigns of your own recovery. To fill your own bucket. And given the company you are presently keeping, I would suggest some urgency.

If however, you resist the urge to follow these simple threads, I would have to question just how much you truly want to piece together your life. Earlier I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you aren't the villain, but as I've already shown you should be able to retrace your own steps fairly easily. Not putting the pieces together at this point verges on willful ignorance, or a desire to avoid the truth. And, as Corey pointed out, remaining in the dark is often the last refuge of the sinful.

As for your request that I bring my best, you have nothing to worry about. I had no other intention. This goes beyond a simple matter of proving myself. I'm PREPARING myself for the greatest single undertaking of my life. I don't seek to minimize the XWF or any of my opponents, but I have a greater goal in mind than winning championships. I, quite literally, have a world to save and monsters to vanquish. And while you, at least in your present state, are far from a monster, you will get all of me this Saturday. I thank you in advance for the role you're playing in my recovery. I hope I can do the same for you.


Senator Wilson Stokes, looking roughly a few decades younger than in his last appearance, steps into his office. Going to his desk, he steps around it to a rear drawer, opens it, and withdraws a silver flask.

Drinking on the job, are we?

FUCK! Wilson bellowed, dropping the flask onto his desk where it promptly begins emptying it's contents over a number of file folders stamped with the symbol of the Illinois State Legislature. He looks up while simultaneously ripping a series of tissues out of a nearby tissue box to sop up the mess.

A man is seated in the far corner of his office, conspicuously positioned in a spot where the evening light from the window doesn't quite catch. Next to him, an ornate globe on a three footed stand. The man spins the globe lazily, his finger tips dancing over the raised-relief of the Andes Mountains as he turns towards the state senator. Sorry, I couldn't help myself. It's one of life's simple pleasures.

Wilson, looking somewhat cowed, puts another layer of tissues on the spill. I wish you wouldn't.

If wishes were fishes. The mysterious stranger gets up out of his seat, leaving the globe behind and stepping into the orange light, where his full features are revealed. Wilson could still barely bring himself to look at his face, not in the entire six months since this strange individual who only called himself Number 44 first introduced himself. It wasn't that Number 44 was grotesque or disfigured. No, it was something more subtle, and more unsettling than that. His features looked waxen, shiny and artificial. The curvature of his face, it's creases and folds, even the arc of his cheek bones, looked somehow manufactured. It was like the whole of his expression was some kind of prosthetic, but a prosthetic of quite possibly the most generic male face that one could conceive of. The term “uncanny valley” sprung to mind, but still seemed inadequate. I have something important to tell you, Wilson.

The state senator finished balling up the soaked tissues and lobed them into the garbage beside his desk. Is it your name? I still feel rather absurd calling you Number 44.

Number 44 clucked and smiled. A chill ran down Wilson's back when he did so. Do you still not trust me, after all I've done for you? Wilson, let's be honest. You'd still be poorly shilling used cars if it wasn't for me.

No....I...I do. I just.... he looked the mysterious stranger in the eye and suddenly thought better of pressing the matter. Never mind. What did you need to tell me?

We have a problem. Someone might be coming to kill you.

Wilson laughed nervously and waited for the other to follow suit, but when he didn't he cleared his throat and furrowed his brow. Wait....are you serious?

Number 44 smiled again, almost seeming to take delight in his protege's apprehension. I'm very serious. He slipped a hand into his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper from it, handing it to Wilson. That's who is coming after you. You need to watch your back. She's very dangerous.


Wait...she? Wilson looked at the picture again, wondering if he missed something, but saw the same brown haired teenaged boy. I don't follow....

You don't have to. You wouldn't understand at this point anyway. All you need to remember is that if you see that person you need to run and contact me immediately.

Wilson still did not look satisfied. He scoffed a bit and shook his head. But none of this makes sense. Who is this kid? Why would he want to kill me? Oh.... He stopped short, shooting another glance at the picture before speaking in more hushed tones. Did I do something to one of his friends?

Her. And no. Surprisingly your lasciviousness has nothing to do with it. Heed my warning. Or don't. Though it would be troublesome for me to have to replace you. Number 44 made a casual hand waving motion in the air, demonstrating how trivial he considered that option to be.

Just then, the intercom on the desk buzzed. Wilson raised a finger up to excuse himself from the current conversation before depressing the button on the intercom. Yes?

The voice that answered on the other end sounded uncertain and uncomfortable as she spoke, but pushed through anyway. Um, sir....your six o'clock...erm, constituent meeting is here.

Ah, is that what you're calling them now? Number 44 interjected.

Wilson winced, and depressed the button again. Give me a moment.

It's no bother. I was leaving anyway. Have fun Wilson. But no loose ends this time, eh?

No, he can wait. I.... Wilson looked up, but Number 44 was already gone. Another shiver overtook him. Fucking hate that.... he muttered. Then, returning his attention to the intercom. Send him in now. And you can leave Ms. Larrabee. Immediately, if you please.

Wilson looked at the picture of Corey Smith again, drinking it in. Cute kid... he mused. When his door opened, he tossed the picture onto the desk. Another young man was entering his office. The young man, who couldn't be a day over 15, approached awkwardly, one hand curled around the elbow of his opposite arm. His steps were halting,his gaze downcast.

Wilson approached him, stepping right into the boy's space with no hesitation. He dragged the boy's black tattered hood off his head so that he could see him fully. The boy's features were sunken. His blond hair tussled and unwashed. So, we agreed on 50....? He stammered meekly, still not looking up.

But Wilson wasn't even hearing him. He was already withdrawing a money clip from his pocket and removing the cash. Then, bringing the bills up towards the boy's mouth, he looked at him sternly. Open.

What....?

Open your mouth.

The boy, though decidedly confused, did so. Wilson jammed the bills in between the boy's lips, and then without hesitation proceeded to unbuckle his pants and let his trousers fall to the floor. He pointed down to the desk. Leave the money in your mouth and assume the position. It was not a request.

Two weeks later, the broken and abused body of a nude 15 year old blond boy would wash ashore on Lake Michigan.

TARGET: WILSON STOKES