| A Trip. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 5 2016, 10:21 AM (32 Views) | |
| Michael Draven | May 5 2016, 10:21 AM Post #1 |
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EWA Minority Owner
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please allow me to introduce myself i'm a man of wealth and taste i've been around for a long, long year stole many a man's soul and faith and i was 'round when jesus christ had his moment of doubt and pain made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed his fate pleased to meet you hope you guess my name D&D Investments - Boston, Massachusetts Wednesday, May 4, 2016 - 11:11 PM Anger. Fear. Rage. Hate. All the emotions swirling through Michael Draven as he watched Indrid Calder's latest promotional upload to Combat TV. He was at her gym. The man was a master of disguise, a master of shadows, and he was toying with him. Toying with Maggie. Curiousity. Perhaps the most surprising emotion of all. A need to understand why. A need to understand who Calder was. What he was after. He'd insisted that Maggie lock the doors behind him before he left, and stay at the apartment. These were dangerous times. Who knew if Calder was lurking about after what they'd viewed earlier...or even Haven. She'd been eager to comply. He needed to understand the man behind the mask. Calder had claimed a thousand masks lay behind the one...but Michael Draven didn't believe that. There was always a true identity beneath the facade. He'd started with Calder's employment paperwork. Many would feel the business he was conducting at the office tonight was, at the least, unethical. An invasion of privacy - perhaps, even illegal. In this instance, Draven didn't care. He felt he was fully justified to do whatever needed to be done to protect Maggie McIntyre from the Stranger. The problem was...nothing checked out. Calder's social security number traced back to one "Isaiah Crowder", living in Portsmouth, Virginia. Or lived, rather. Crowder had died in 1971. The phone number he'd provided for his point of contact was disconnected. His address was just a city and state - sloppy work by Gates upon processing this file, of course. No surprise there. Which meant Draven had one avenue remaining. Somewhere in the Mojave Desert Thursday, May 5, 2016 - 2:13 PM Maggie had not been pleased when he told her what he was going to do. She'd been adamant, however, about not accompanying him. Understandable, though Draven felt she'd be safer there with him than here, alone. She'd insisted on staying, though, so Michael had provided her with Erik's phone number and address. "If you hear anything, anything at all, get ahold of him." Alejandro had abandoned her, more or less - the RAIN Dojo was being ran by an accomplice of Jaime's, while he tended to the wounds of Honma. Her father, "Big" Ed Johnson, was somewhere unknown, along with his charge, GRIMM. Maggie was alone in Boston, and at precisely the wrong time. But Michael needed to know more about the man that hid behind the visage of The Stranger. So here he was, driving his rental car down a desolate stretch of U.S. 93 in the Mojave. He'd left Phoenix an hour ago, having landed with no complications. The rental car lot's attendant had laughed when Draven answered the routine question of where he'd be driving. "You won't find anything out there, son, except perhaps a rattler bite." Draven had laughed, fumbling his way through some silly tourist story. Small talk, really. The attendant didn't actually care where he was going, or if he came back at all. He was just doing his job. And Michael was doing his. He hadn't seen anything but cacti and sand since leaving Wickenburg, over 45 minutes ago. The Cruze sped through the desert, leaving a trail of sand in its wake. He'd hoped to find someone who knew the man, perhaps as a boy or a teen. Michael had the idea that Calder had left this place long ago, but he wasn't exactly the type of person someone would forget upon encountering him. He'd suspected Indrid Calder was that way as a child, too. A peculiar individual, but memorable. His thoughts shifted to Maggie, alone back in Boston. He'd called her after landing in Phoenix - she'd seemed relieved to hear his voice. No, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No, she hadn't seen Calder or Haven lurking about. She'd had a brief phone conversation with Stacy, and ordered Chinese for delivery. No, the deliveryman wasn't suspicious - or Calder, and really, Mike, I'm fine. He smiled to himself, thinking about her insistence that everything was alright, even though she was actually terrified. She was one tough woman, resilent despite everything that had happened to her...the drugging, the nightmares, the absentee father, Haven, Calder, the knee. He knew he was a lucky man, but needed to stay sharp - his enemy had already used her to get at him, and now this new threat -- He'd been lost in his train of thought. Now, seeing what rose out of the desert in front of him, like some sort of foreboding signal, he slammed on the breaks, jolting the rented Cruze to a stop in the middle of U.S. 93. Not that it mattered - he hadn't seen another vehicle in 30 miles. He sucked in gasping breaths, his anxiety level suddenly through the roof. And why? It was just a sign, albeit a crude and decaying one. But there was something about its appearance that reeked of...bad. He pulled his car off the highway, parking at the side of the road. Michael Draven unbuckled his seatbelt, wiping the sweat from his brow - despite having the air conditioning cranked up, he was suddenly sweating profusely. This was wrong. It just felt...wrong. He opened the door nonetheless, stepping out and gazing up at the ominous sign marking the arrival to his destination. ![]() Nothing, Arizona Thursday, May 5, 2016 - 2:21 PM Indrid Calder's "hometown". He pulled the rental car underneath the sign, staring up at it as he exited once more. This couldn't be the place. And yet, his GPS system said it was. There was - for lack of a better term - nothing here. He reached into the backseat, grabbing the baseball bat he'd purchased at a sporting goods store just outside of Phoenix. Insurance, just in case. He slowly turned in a circle, surveying the landscape. The large sign, towering over U.S. 93, crudely painted and falling apart. The foundation of a building a few yards away, the concrete slab riddled with cracks and dips. An L shaped building next to it, the windows boarded up. Long deserted, by the looks of it. Behind him, a solar panel array. A bit worse for wear, but clearly still functioning...although he saw nothing within eyesight that it could be powering. It was almost as though someone had stumbled upon Nothing, attempted to turn it into something of a pit stop on the road...and abandoned it halfway through, for reasons unknown. There was a large broken monument below the sign, cracked into three large slabs. With a bit of effort, he drug the pieces together, forming them into their original position so that he could read the words engraved into the stone. Town of Nothing Arizona. Founded 1977. Elevation 3269ft. The staunch citizens of Nothing are full of Hope, Faith, and Believe in the work ethic. Thru-the-years-these dedicated people had faith in Nothing, hoped for Nothing, worked at Nothing, for Nothing. He walked around the area, unsure of what to do, really. It felt empty here, desolate, and silent as could be... ...yet somehow, it felt alive. Bursting at the seams. There was nothing around the solar panel array. A discarded candybar stuck in a section of the chainlink fence, clearly left behind long ago. It was tattered and coated with a fine layer of sand, as if it'd weathered many a sandstorm since the person who'd consumed the chocolate had tossed it aside. Otherwise, nothing (har, har). No sign of civilization. No sign of anything. Might as well check out the building. He walked over to the lone standing structure in Nothing, Arizona. The walls were spraypainted with "NO TRESSPASSING" and "PRIVATE PROPERTY". A crudely lettered section of the wall read: "NOTHING, AZ, POP.4". Michael guessed those four individuals had long since moved one. Was one of them Calder? Impossible to know. The quiet unnerved him as he surveyed the building. The windows and doors were all boarded. It was impossible to know what purpose it had once served. The yellowed, stained walls and trash piled up near the building suggested that this area was at least occasionally inhabited, likely by nomads or partying teenagers who came out here to get high and fuck. The first noise since he'd arrived. The steady hum of an engine, growing louder as a semi roared by on U.S. 93. Then...silence again. He carefully made his way around the building, surveying the contents of the trash piles. A few discarded alcohol bottles. Some used condoms. Oddly enough, a large fish aquarium, glass still intact. He turned the corner to the rear of the building and stopped dead in his tracks. There was blood all over the back of the building. It was as if someone had slit the throat of an unsuspecting person, and used the contents to redecorate the exterior wall. There was no logic or pattern to the smears. It was scattered everywhere, randomly, as if some demented artist had decided to use the wall as their own macabre easel. There was no sign of struggle. No visible instrument. It was just...there. Draven rounded the rest of the building, nothing further catching his eye, and returned to the sign he'd parked the car underneath. Nothing, Arizona. Never more appropriate of a name. What had happened here, and had Indrid Calder played a role? Had he been waiting for someone to wonder just where “Nothing, Arizona” was, and pay a visit? Or was it just a mind game? Something to fool his opponents with? Perhaps he'd never been here at all? He started to reach for the car door, and heard, cutting through the silence, a voice. “Hello.” He whirled around, raising the bat. Ten feet away stood the source of the voice. A man. The man shouldn't have been there. Not because he didn't belong - although that much was evident. But there was no way he could've snuck up on Michael like that. There was nothing around. No other buildings, no brush to hide behind, no valleys he could have ascended from. He was just...there. And then there was the manner of his age. He was impossibly old. His flesh hung off of his frame, as if someone had hastily attached it to his skeleton and the adhesive had begun to wear off. His hair was wispy, white as snow, and long, reaching down to his lower black. It swayed in the slight breeze. He was gaunt, sickly looking - Draven knew he had to be wrong, but he would guess the man was at least a hundred years old, if not older. He wore a long brown robe, filthy and tattered. His feet were bare. And his eyes. The sockets were sunken, wrinkles surrounding them. The eyes themselves were a milky white. Somehow, an extremely elderly blind man had appeared behind him in the middle of desert. In the middle of Nothing. Draven pointed the bat haphazardly in his direction, as if to ward him off. The old man laughed - a deep, gravelly laughter. Not the sound you would expect to come from a man of his age. "Do not fear, child. I mean you no harm. I am but a humble servant." This was wrong. A lump appeared in his throat, and his arms broke out in goosebumps. He wanted nothing more than to jump in the car, peel out, and put Nothing in his rearview mirror, never to return again. He took a step toward the man. "Servant of whom?" The man laughed once again, arching his back. He clearly found this very funny. "Silly child. All things serve the Horseman." What? "The what?" The man ignored him. "Why are you here, Michael? What did you expect to find?" Draven was used to being recognized on the road. Even when he'd lived a nomadic lifestyle for nearly a decade, in search of Alexander Haven, he'd occasionally been recognized as a former professional wrestler from the NYSWF. With the success of the EWA, it was rare for him to venture out in public without a fan stopping to say hello, especially in Boston. But this man was blind. How could he know his name? How was any of this possible? "I'm looking for someone who might know a man. A man named --" "Not a man you refer to, though, is it, Michael? No, not at all. You refer to a stranger. The Stranger. Indrid Calder." Michael swallowed hard. "That's right. Can you help me?" "Child, feast your eyes upon me. I am old. I cannot see. How could I possibly provide what you are looking for?" "I'm...I'm looking for answers. Who is Indrid Calder?" The man sighed wistfully. "You seek answers, but you do not understand the questions. It is not who Indrid Calder is, for he simply is. He is everyone. He is no one. He is everything. He is nothing. He is can de lach, risen from the ini. He is dama, he is damane. Yet, he serves the Horseman, as we all do." "What is this 'Horseman'? More laughter from the old man. The sound of it had an uneasy quality. Draven again found himself wishing for the comfort of his car. But he stayed. "Oh, child. You have much to learn. But you will. Oh, yes. You will." This wasn't helpful. He pressed for more information. "Do you know him? Are you friends?" "I know him quite well, though I've not physically laid eyes upon him in quite awhile. Get it? Hee hee!" The man cackled, pointing to his eyes. "I know he has taken up combat in this form. I find that fascinating. I will have to view it sometime. It is most different from anything he's done in prior forms, certainly. As for the reason you're here, I think it should be obvious now to you that she's been marked, Michael. The Stranger is one that is not easily deterred once this occurs. I cannot assist you in this matter, nor can any of the other citizens of Nothing. You must find your own path if you are to keep him from taking her for his own." Draven suddenly heard a horrible sound, coming from toward the building. The sound was somewhere between a piece of wood breaking in half, and the wet sound one makes when eating a bowl of cereal. One of the boarded windows had developed a crack, from corner to corner. "I believe that may be your cue to leave this place, Michael. You shouldn't be here." He was fine with this. This was beyond anything he'd expected to find when coming here. He turned from the old man, crossing the sandy ground to his car. A question occurred to him. He turned to ask it -- -- and the man was face to face with him. The stench was overwhelming, putrid and vile. He began coughing violently, as the old man smiled. "You want to know what this place is, my child? I shall do my best to answer this question. The four individuals who claimed to have formed Nothing thirty nine years ago would tell you that they came out to the Mojave Desert, had a few alcoholic beverages, and decided to form a town. Perhaps that was true, in their minds. But maybe, just maybe, they were led to this spot for a reason. Led to this spot by that which all things serve." Draven struggled to speak without vomiting. "The Horseman." "Very good! The truth is, this particular area has been Nothing far longer than those four souls could ever imagine. Do you feel it, Michael? Do you feel the age of this place?" He could. It felt wrong. This man felt wrong. It was time to leave. He nodded, quickly climbing in his car. He started the engine, and began to pull out, but had a thought. He opened the door again, looking back out at the old man, who had yet to move. "I'm going to find out who owns that building, and I'm going to buy it from them. And when I do, I'm going to come back here. Only this time, it'll be with a bulldozer, to tear that sign, and that building, and all of this down. This place shouldn't be here." The old man just smiled at him. "You're welcome to, Michael! But it won't matter, you see. After all...Nothing lasts forever." He'd heard enough. He shifted into drive, and floored the car back onto U.S. 93, and out of Nothing. Michael Draven's Condo - Boston, Massachusetts Friday, May 6, 2016 - 4:19 AM He crawled into bed, trying not to wake the sleeping sable-haired beauty. Futile effort. She turned over, smiling at him. Kissing him softly on his lips. "Welcome home. Did you find anything?" He let her words linger in the air for a moment, before answering. "Nothing." |
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10:52 AM Jul 11