There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land, I. The Burial of the Dead"

---

The interview room smelled of stale coffee and ignored body odour. Jonah Harper could feel the sweat building up across his wrinkled forehead as the flourescent lights beamed down on his mocha face. He hadn't seen the wrinkles two days ago when he looked in the mirror before he left for work. They had been borne of the situation he had undergone. This entire process had eaten away a part of his sanity -- a part of his soul.

Across from him, the officer shifted in his seat, likely trying to simply find a more comfortable position. Jonah couldn't tell. He was too focused on his own mannerisms, trying in vain to maintain some semblance of control over his own nervous responses to stimuli such as these. But he was never good when speaking with the police. They had some unspeakable sense of authority about them. He supposed the officer as a member of the "higher-up," an attitude developed by all the times his paranoid mess of a mother would tell him never to trust the police. It had become ingrained in his biological makeup like a gene passed along, forever cursed by his mother's blood.

"Mr. Harper," the officer said, breaking Jonah's concentration. "Now, when exactly would you say this occurred?"

Jonah coughed -- another nervous reaction. His throat felt as though it were filled with cotton. With eyes reflecting nearly 27 hours without sleep, Jonah glanced across the table at the interrogation officer, occasionally looking away awkwardly.

"Friday. 'bout quarter past midnight. Mighta been closer to half past, 'cause I remember gettin' a text from Mariah at 12:21. Think I still got on my phone."

He was rambling, trying to meet some unspoken word count that he saw to be expected in the officer's stern, stone-chiseled face. The interrogator scratched at his chin, pushing away at a light 5-o'clock shadow. Jonah could feel his own facial hair pushing through the epidermis of his skin. When they had said he could go home, he found that he couldn't sleep, and yet couldn't find the energy to get up and accomplish anything. He hadn't shaved or bathed, and he was beginning to fear he could smell his own stench rising.

"Could you explain exactly what led to you encountering the suspect?"

"Sure, sure...I uh, started my rounds of Morrison Hall around...I'm gonna say 12:10, maybe? There'd been rumours of an unauthorized guest on gated campus grounds, so we were being extra wary, running rounds of the interior and exteriors of the lecture hall buildings. Jeff took Paulson Hall, and I went around Morrison's exterior for about...maybe fifteen minutes? I wasn't expectin' no trouble, so I was walking kinda slow and such, textin' the missus here and there. Few minutes after I finished the rounds, I noticed the second window from the right on the second floor was left open. I figured a professor or janitor must have left it open, and it'd be wise to close it, you know? So I went inside, locking the door behind me. As I made my way up to the second floor, I passed one of them parallel halls, and I noticed one of the anthro labs -- think it was 117 or somethin' like that-- had the lights on. Right about here's where I start to thing somethin' shady's goin' on here, so I pull out the tazer and have one hand on my walky. I was too hyped up on adrenaline to really remember to call Jeff on it, but...I uh, as I walked up to the lab room, I could hear what sounded like people talkin'. And I mean 'people' -- there was two voices. The door was open, so I approached quietly and edged it open. And there he was -- this freaky-lookin' dude, leaning over one of the lab tables. But there was still the two voices, man. Two completely different voices, talkin' to each other. Stupid me, I pushed the door a little too much tryin' ta get a good look at the guy, and it squeaked. The guy looks at me, and I--"

Jonah suddenly stopped, choking on his words mid-sentence. His eyes shot open in horror. The officer, taking notice of this, looked up from his note-writing to examine him.

"You alright, Mr. Harper?"

The officer's question seemed to pull Jonah out of this momentary state of loss, and he took in a deep breath, slightly embarassed.

"Y-yes, sir. I think I'm fine. So uh...yeah, so the guy heard me, and he turns to look at me... I could see he was readin' a book now -- old one, leather or something and...and them eyes, man. They was...they were so...cold? No. Warm. Like...like fallin' in love or comin' home or...or somethin'. He just...he looked at me."

Harper paused, auddenly realizing something. He couldn't remember anything past that moment.

"And...then the next thing I know, I'm outside on the concrete, and Jeff's tryin' ta shake me awake. He was scared as shit, I me--"

"You don't recall what happened? Were you assaulted?"

"I dunno what happened to me. I didn't hurt or nothin' when I woke up. But those eyes just..."

Jonah's gaze slowly slipped away, and he began to stare at the mirror behind the officer's head. He knew there were people back there, watching him. Recording him. As he glanced at the mirror, his vision of the world distorted.

That was the moment Jonah Harper lapsed into insanity. He suddenly snapped up from his chair, nearly toppling the table over in his mad rush to his feet. His hand moved of its own accord, pointing accusatively at the mirror.

By the time four officers managed to restrain Jonah Harper, he was still shouting about how "the infinite expanse" was staring right back at him.

---

38 miles away, the lightning streaked across the windowpane's reflection in David Martin's private office. He listened intently to the sounds of the rain, only being interrupted by little crackles from the lit fireplace, or a shuffling from the birdcage in the corner near the window, where the crow was flitting about restlessly. As another streak of lightning graced the sky, David Martin sipped at his steaming cup of tea and placed it back on the saucer from whence it came. With his left hand now free, he picked up his already lit cigarette from the crystal ashtray atop his desk. Leaning back in his chair, David perked his eyes to the birdcage in the corner. He smiled slightly at the crow, his grin crooked and torn.

"Quiet now, Byron," he said quietly, turning the page of the leather-bound journal with his right hand.

"We have much reading to do."

---

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

-T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

Achievements

• 1x Tag Team Champion
  
• August 2013 Superstar of the Month (Thank you all so much!)
  
• 1x US Champion
  
• 1x X-treme Champion