Title: Houou no Naku Koro ni - II: A Tale of Two Cities
Featuring: Seymour Almasy
Date: February 7th, 2011
Location: Cambridge; Las Vegas (for ReV 239 v. Violence Jack)

I. Cambridge, Massachusetts

“Of course I had to sign up right before Culture Shock,” Seymour Almasy groaned, shivering in a heavy jacket as he pushed a buzzer in front of one of the many apartment buildings of Cambridge, Massachusetts. “Getting back to the United States for any length of time is a giant pain in the ass.”

Said pain in the ass, in this case, had been an overnight trans-Atlantic flight from Charles de Gaulle airport in Gay Paree to Logan International in Boston. Seymour knew full well that he’d have to fly right back across the Atlantic soon to catch up with the roster in Italy.

Most of PRIME would only have to travel 303 miles to Turin. Seymour’s trip was going to be considerably longer. Considering Seymour was going to have to face a man who lived scant miles away from Cambridge when he got there, the trans-Atlantic flight was unlikely to be a happy one.

“Figures they give me that delusional nutjob second match back,” Seymour groaned. One of the things he’d always taken pride in was being a wrestler. An RPG-loving nerd of a wrestler, but a wrestler nonetheless. He had no crazy false gods to go sing the praises of, he wasn’t an assassin or a stripper or anything insane like that.

Yeah, except for the part where he was now jetsetting around the world trying to figure out the truth behind his ex-wife’s mysterious death.

“Life just loves kicking me in the dick,’ was Seymour’s final conclusion on the matter, and he pushed the buzzer again just to be sure the apartment’s resident heard it.

The door to the apartment building opened without a word being said. Presumably, the owner of the apartment he’d buzzed didn’t get guests much, and had figured out who was coming calling.

“Well, at least I don’t have to be in the cold anymore,” Seymour chuckled, hurrying into the building and walking up the single flight of stairs to the second floor, and more specifically, the front door of apartment 2C. By the time Seymour arrived at it, the door was already open, and the man once dubbed the Immense Intellectual as a member of the PRIME roster filled the doorway.

“Mr. Almasy, welcome,” the six-foot-nine former PRIME superstar called Logic said, extending a huge hand out to shake. “It is my pleasure to formally make your acquaintance.”

Seymour winced as he shook the big man’s hand, and then had to shake out the pain that David’s grip caused. “A pleasure, indeed.” Almasy stood antsily in the doorway of Logic’s apartment, finally giving in to his need for knowledge.

“Let’s get right down to business, then.” The words were short, but the look on the larger man’s face indicated he was appreciative of a man who didn’t gild the lily.

“My sentiments exactly.” David gestured over to his apartment’s kitchen. “Would you care for any refreshment?”

Almasy shook his head in the negative. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, then, have a seat at the table. I have all of the relevant information that I am in possession of here.” With that, he took a seat, and watched as Almasy took one opposite him.

“First and foremost, the proof that my colleague spoke of. I suspect it is what you are most immediately interested in.” David slid a yellow folder across the table to Seymour. Opening it, Almasy found two medical records, which he looked at quizzically for a few moments before the Harvard educated former grappler bailed him out.

“The first of those records is the DNA profile for a woman calling herself Miss Amelia Raymond. Her blood was obtained after she cut herself on a broken wine glass in a Las Vegas casino. Her wedding ring was also obtained the same evening, if you were curious.”

Seymour glanced down at the profile, then pulled the second one out as well to compare the two. To the best of his knowledge, they looked identical. “And this other one is Laura?”

“Exactly,’ the Pensive Punisher said. “We had been tracking Miss Reymond for several months now, under a variety of pseudonyms. Sapientes Gladio prides itself on having some of the best intelligence capabilities in the world, but we were utterly stumped until we managed to get her DNA. There is no doubt now, though. Your ex-wife is in fact Amelia Reymond. And, as I stated, several other women.”

Almasy simply sat there and listened. Anything he could have said in that moment would have been insufficient to convey how he felt, or otherwise just silly.

He had the proof he’d wanted for so long. He was holding it in his hands.

Why, then, did it still feel so unreal?

“Finding her,” Logic stated, jarring Seymour from his thoughts, “is going to be immensely difficult. She rotates through ten or so identities, and is constantly retiring old ones and inventing new. She is incredibly adept at disguise. I would posit that she is of great importance to her organization; she would not have the resources that she does otherwise. It is likely that the Reymond persona will be retired after the information we have gained. She could be literally almost anyone tomorrow if she so chose.”

“Then what,” a noticeably frazzled Seymour asked, “should I do?”

“What you should do,” Logic stated, no trace of a smile on his face, “is be content to know that she is alive and not push this matter any further. Reynolds gave you that advice as well. Like he, I am not so naïve to expect that you will take it.”

“Good thing, that,” Seymour replied. “So let’s skip the formalities and get to the part where you tell me what I want to know.”

“Ame�"Laura is working for an organization, we believe, called the Society of the Sightless Eye. This is all of the information that we currently have. This sort of information gathering is not within our usual responsibilities, but one of our operatives recently dealt with Laura, and soon after met a rather tragic end. We are still gathering information, but it will be months before we can know very much. We are starting from scratch. Your first step, therefore, is to find a person who is not starting from scratch.”

He wanted to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue; namely, did Laura have anything to do with said operative’s death? Seymour remained quiet, though whether due to not wanting to risk David’s wrath or fear of the answer was uncertain.

“I can see why you called yourself Logic,” Almasy finally quipped. “I’m sure you have such a person in mind?”

“I do indeed,” David replied. “Unfortunately, it is not a person that I can contact. She and I have a…small history that would make doing so unadvisable. If I thought it prudent to consult her, I could have done so ages ago.”

“It’s someone I can contact, then,” Almasy asked, shaking his head. “In case you don’t know, I generally don’t have a lot of people with connections to secret societies on my speed dial.”

Logic merely smiles, or at least, whatever passes for smiles given Logic isn’t the most expressive man on the planet. “Perhaps not, Mr. Almasy, but you do currently work with one.”

It was perhaps a sign of just how long Almasy’s been out of the wrestling business that he has to rack his brain to figure out who he’s currently competing with in PRIME. When he does, though, he comes to the desired conclusion.

“Desade.” It’s one word, spoken with a touch of awe and a whole lot of trepidation.

“If my memory serves me correctly,” Logic began, the “and it always does” unspoken, “she still owes you a favor for walking out on Dusk during a tag team match against Miss Campbell and herself. I would bet money, were I a gambling man, that the lady Pierce has information on the Society.”

“Well, then,” Almasy replied, easily, “it looks like I’m having a talk with a scary redhead backstage this week when I fly back across the Atlantic.”

Logic immediately shook his head. “I was afraid that you would say that. I will not stop you, on one condition.”

“I don’t like having conditions attached to the one thing that’s driving me in my life right now,” Seymour replied. “But Reynolds tells me you’re a smart guy, so I’ll listen.”

“Remind me to thank him for his complement,” David deadpanned, before moving along.
“Before you even consider contacting Alexandra, I want you to speak with a colleague of mine. My only client when I was making my living as an agent.”

“You want me to talk to Phillip,” Seymour realized aloud. “That’s…”

He understood why almost immediately. By all accounts, Phillip Kennedy had been in bed with Alexandra Pierce and her Dead Man’s Hand.

“Phillip Kennedy, like yourself, is a man who knows more than he should. He is a man who had to juggle professional wrestling with that knowledge. He is a man who knows what Pierce and those of her ilk are capable of. Do not be fooled by whatever persona Alexandra plays on television. She herself is also a master of disguise and a capable killer. All of her associates are.”

At that, Seymour Almasy frowned deeply, and yet, he couldn’t say that he was stunned by the news. In fact, it really made a lot of sense as he thought about it, given her brutal, callous tactics in and out of the ring to take over SCCW.

“Okay, I’ll find Phillip,” Seymour finally said. “You’re right. It’s better to know what I’m getting myself into, even if I go ahead anyway.”

“There is no need to find him,” the agent replied. “I will contact him for you. Please promise me that you will listen to what he has to say. I know Phillip. He will not attempt to convince you out of your current course, because were he in your shoes he would go ahead six guns blazing. I will simply ask him to ensure that you know the stakes of the game before contacting Alexandra.”

“I am,” Seymour groaned, “pretty sure that I understand.”

“So was Phillip,” was Logic’s only reply to that statement. He left it open-ended and let the silence settle over the room before going on.

“I will arrange for him to meet you in his home city of Las Vegas, then,” Logic said. “I would be wary of saying anything in public. There may be unwanted eyes and ears following Mr. Kennedy, and it is far easier for such organs to spy in public than private. If you do go through with this, the less association you have with anyone, the better. Plausible deniability is your best friend.”

“This is not a game,” David reiterated, firmly. “You may have been married to this woman, but you know not what she and her associates are now capable of. By even talking to me, you put yourself at risk should the wrong people find out. I am acquainted with and accept that risk. If you do not, I highly advise that you focus on PRIME and not a woman you believed to be dead.”

“What choice do I have, David,” Seymour asked, looking from his seated position up at the six foot nine man. “If you were in my situation, what would you do?”

“Sparing you several thousand words on how I would not be in your situation, Mr. Almasy, I must admit that I would pick up the chase as well. That does not mean that doing so is logical. All that I ask is that you meet with Phillip and get a sense of what you are in for before you leap off of this cliff. You will find that the bottom seems very far away, but it has a habit of coming before you expect it.”

Logic extended his huge hand. “I wish you luck, Mr. Almasy, but there is nothing more I can do for you. Get yourself a flight to Las Vegas. I will speak with Phillip and arrange a meeting time for both of you.”

Seymour shook David’s hand, wincing at the bigger man’s strength. “Will do. And thanks, David. I appreciate it.”

The meeting had been no more than fifteen minutes, to judge by Seymour’s watch, but he left the apartment of David Walter Smith on wobbly legs and with a foggy mind. His trip down the elevator was made in silence, and he all but staggered back out the front door wondering what the heck he’d gotten himself into.

Back outside and on the streets of Cambridge, Seymour took a closer look at his watch. 2:45. That meant he’d have to get to Logan, find a flight to Las Vegas, and then go meet with someone he’d barely said “hello” to in passing in the SCCW locker room. Then what? Fly back across the Atlantic, from Las Vegas, mind you? And then what the Hell did he do? Talk to Desade, put in a workout, and get ready to compete?

This sure as Hell felt like being a secret agent.

Deep down, about the time he was taking off a scant four hours later from Logan to Las Vegas, the Final Fantasy had decided that it wasn’t so bad.

Of course, that was largely because he had the advantage of being blissfully unaware of what lay in store for him.

II. Las Vegas, Nevada

There was, Phillip Kennedy figured, something horribly ironic about sitting in a Las Vegas hotel room playing online poker on his laptop when there were dozens of viable tables downstairs.

Right now, though, the man known to Sin City Championship Wrestling as the Big Stack was playing for small stakes. It was one of his rules to never gamble when emotional, and, well, right now he was more emotional than he’d been a while.

“Damnit, Dave,” he grumbled, folding his fifth hand in a row. “You had to get me thinking about all of this shit again.”

To most people, he was the cocky Savior of Sin City, the Las Vegas Lariat, a larger than life showman. But Phillip Benjamin Kennedy was never far beneath all of that, and SCCW had taken a toll on him, body and soul.

Tucked into the wallet that lay open on the bed next to him was a small picture of a violet-haired woman. Ironically enough, it wasn’t the member of the Dead Man’s Hand he’d fucked more times than he’d care to count. No, it was the member he’d only slept with once, but owed more to than he could describe. Wrestling fans knew her as Savant; he’d always called her Lauren. Lauren Fox.

She had been his mentor in the sport, practically, the one member of the group to truly believe in him. Of course, she was dead now. That seemed to be how things worked.

And now, David Walter Smith, his former agent, was trying to get him to prevent another poor soul from getting involved with Alexandra Pierce and ruining his life.

“I ain’t a guardian angel,” Kennedy groaned, clicking out of PokerStars at the sound of a knock at his door. “Hold your horses, I’m coming!”

He crossed the hotel room quickly, opening the door to look down at the considerably shorter, long haired man standing in his doorway. “You look different from when I saw you backstage in SCCW,” Kennedy said, looking over the other man. “Look a lot…fruitier.”

“You’re lucky I need to talk to you, Stack,” was all Seymour said in reply to that, and Kennedy chuckled.

“Ain’t often people want me to talk to them. Usually, I’ve got them wanting to talk to me about whatever bullshit. David gave me the quick and dirty version of what’s going on. I’ll say this now: wanting to talk to Desade is batshit fucking insane if you wanted to ask her what time it was.”

Seymour nodded, and simply stepped into the hotel room. Kennedy was never one for hospitality or social graces, so he shrugged when Seymour took a seat on the room’s bed, turned, and just kept talking.

“To be honest, I don’t know what the fuck Dave wants me to tell you. He’s given you some info about Alex. You know enough to not fuck around with her unless you have a damn good reason, and from what I’ve been told you’ve got one Hell of a reason.” Kennedy nodded his head. “If I found out certain people were alive, I’d walk through Death Valley in a parka to find them.”

The name “Lauren Fox” rose to Kennedy’s mind again, unbidden.

“Just tell me whatever you think I should know,” was Almasy’s response.

“Desade’s a murderer. A sociopath. I’ve seen her on TV trying to play the good guy and it is a load of crap. Don’t believe it.”

Those twenty-six words flew out of Kennedy’s mouth with more conviction than Seymour had heard out of the Stack, either on television or backstage.

“With that said,” Kennedy had to admit, “she’s got a code of honor of her own. She could’ve had me killed any time she wanted. Any time. Only really can admit that to myself now. Hell, it could still happen. Thing you got going for her is you ain’t against her. You’re just asking her for information.”

For a moment, Seymour wondered what that could possibly be like. He had been subject to death threats in the past, even shot at by an overzealous wrestling fan. There was also the horrific staredown that he’d had in a cemetery with the late Rich Rollins, an armed standoff in which it was honestly miraculous neither man had died.

But what Kennedy was speaking of was different. It was living knowing that the end might come, at any moment. It was having the Sword of Damocles hanging over your head and…waiting.

Seymour nodded, trying to force those thoughts out of his mind. “Yeah. I don’t have a death wish.”

“You might want to find one, cause if your ex is anything like Alex and her cronies, they’re more than capable of granting it.” Kennedy wasn’t a particularly nice guy, but even he was trying to find a way to soften his next statement. “Girl you loved might turn out to be the same. I don’t know, you don’t know, Desade might not even know. Best advice I can give you from a year in bizarroland is prepare for anything, then get ready to think on your feet when something not included in anything happens.”

The idea of Laura Marie Winters as a trained killer made Seymour’s face contort in a combination of sorrow and confusion. She was one of the sweetest people he’d ever known, and that was when she was *mad* at him. How could she be a killer? It didn’t make any sense at all.

Still, sitting in a hotel room with one of the few men to walk the line between professional wrestler and Knower of Things, Seymour could understand why Alexandra, Logic, and Phillip were all good at…whatever the Hell this was.

Being a professional wrestler took physical and mental acumen, fearlessness, and a whole lot of self confidence.

Those same qualities, Seymour figured, were pretty damned good when you put your life on the line.

“This is all just so hard to believe,” Almasy got out, after a long moment of thought, and Kennedy couldn’t help but nod.

“It is, isn’t it? Signed up for SCCW straight outta wrestling school, and this is what happens to me. Friggin’ unbelievable.”

Seymour nodded along in agreement. “Always odd when things aren’t what they seem.
You know, when I first broke into the sport, as a way of getting attention, I pretended that I thought roleplaying videogames were real.” Phillip snorted at that, but grinned almost immediately afterwards.

“Yeah, and I thought the Dead Man’s Hand was just trying to take over Sin City. It’s kinda funny how shit works out in ways we don’t expect.”

“Look at me. I’m flying around the country, having clandestine meetings with important professional wrestlers. Makes me feel like I’m a secret agent.” He might not have actually been an RPG character, but right now, he definitely felt like he was in some kind of video game.

Lack of a reset button, though, made this fact rather troubling.

“I know that feeling,” Kennedy replied, and his face lit up with conflicted emotions. “It’s addicting. Once I fell in with Alex and Lauren and all of them, I always had a nervous feeling in my gut. Wondering if the knife would fall. As I found out more and more, I stopped worrying about a gang beatdown in the ring and started worrying about being found dead somewhere. It’s a giddy sort of emotion, waking up, knowing it could be your time, and knowing that you’ve got a job to do.”

“Was it worth it,” Seymour asked, trying to gauge the reaction of SCCW’s longest reigning Gateway Champion.

“Lessee,” Kennedy began, “I won the Strength in Numbers and Gateway titles. I damn near won the Universal, then received two concussions and never really regained form. One of the few people I actually liked got murdered, presumably by Alex. Dated a smoking hot blonde named Kathryn Shaw for a year. Sure, she was fucking around on me, but I was fucking around on her, too, and I ain’t had a piece of ass that good since. So if you’re asking me if I’d do the same thing all over again? Yeah, probably, but I’m a stubborn fuck like that.”

The Big Stack walked over to the room’s dresser, where a bottle of vodka sat in the room’s plastic ice bucket. Picking up the bottle, Kennedy removed the cap and handed it over to his new acquaintance.

“Drink,” Phillip said, grinning, “cause if you’re going to deal with Alex Pierce, goodie-two-shoes persona or not, you’re gonna need a fuckton of alcohol to get through it. One day, when I ain’t got nothing to live for, so help me I’ll do her for what she did to Lauren…”

Seymour took a long, hearty swig from the bottle. Almost immediately, he came up sputtering; the self-professed Dynast-King was a known lightweight of the wrestling world in the drinking arena, and usually stuck to fruity cocktails with umbrellas in them.
“Jesus,” he groaned, trying to keep the clear liquid down. Kennedy chuckled at his efforts, which only made Seymour’s eyes narrow.

Given Kennedy’s propensity for talking about “doing” one Kathryn Shaw, a question had to be asked.

“When you say “do” her, you mean you’re gonna kill her, or you’re gonna fuck her?”

At that question, Kennedy’s face went ghastly pale. “Kill. Jesus, do you never want me to get a boner again? What the fuck’s wrong with you for even suggesting that?”

Kennedy snatched the bottle out of Almasy’s hands, and poured a good amount of the contents down his throat in one smooth go. Wiping his lips as he pulled the bottle away, Phillip shook his head.

“You’re a scary motherfucker, Almasy. Might be more afraid of you now than Alex.”

The Big Stack shook his head, letting a small smile through.

“So what’re you gonna do? I know you’re wrestling full time and shit, but I’d hate to think you’re just gonna go and hop on a plane home from here.” Hospitality wasn’t generally one of the Big Stack’s strong suits, but it was easy to be hospitable when hookers, gambling, booze, and blow were within easy reach.

“Why’s that?”

At that question, a grinning Phillip Kennedy stood up from the bed and sauntered over to the dresser. He grabbed hold of the cowboy hat on top of it, and placed it on his head with the aplomb of a man who’d done it thousands of times before.

“Because, Mr. Big Shot Wrestler, this is my town,” he smirked. “This is Las Vegas Motherfucking Nevada. Sin City. You don’t come here and not wet your beak with one of our many forms of entertainment.”

“Last time I was in a casino I got shot at,” Seymour pointed out. “Not eager to repeat the experience.”

Kennedy cocked his head to one side. “Really? And that’s BEFORE getting involved with Alex. Maybe you’ve got more experience with all of this shit than you know.”

Even as Kennedy said that, though, Almasy noted a change in the larger man’s demeanor. There was less drawl and bluster, and a little bit more seriousness creeping into the Stack’s voice.

The next thing Kennedy said confirmed that thought.

“Gonna tell you something important. It’s especially important if you get into this real deep. Live every moment as if it’s your last. You can’t cower in a fuckin’ corner waiting for death. Be who you are. I ain’t sayin’ be stupid, but…”

It was advice that Phillip Kennedy could give, because it was the only way he’d managed to move on from the simple, stark fact that the people he considered his friends and allies were murdering mistresses of disguise.

“This ain’t a suicide mission,” Kennedy continued. “That’s the thought that’s gotta go through your head. You’re a famous person. If they can avoid killing you, they will. You’re not some random faceless guy. Now come on. We’re gonna go downstairs and play some good old fashioned casino games. Roulette. Craps. I’m awful at that shit, but they bring you drinks while you play and I want to get fucking hammered tonight cause thinking of all this shit makes me want to kill my liver.”

For Seymour, the switch from “survive” to “let’s go gamble” was head-snappingly fast, but he supposed that the Big Stack, being a former professional gambler, sort of equated the two concepts in his head.

Besides, right now, thinking about Not Dying seemed like a good idea.

“Fine, fine, but I can’t stay long,” Seymour said. “I’ve got a 5:15 AM flight out of Sin City and about six connections to make before I land in Turin.”

“With a flight like that,” Kennedy grinned, “you’re gonna need to be hammered. Let’s get outta here.”

Grabbing his wallet from the nightstand, Kennedy walked over to the door and threw it open. Moments later, he was gone, halfway to the elevators, a night of Vegas debauchery clearly on the mind of SCCW’s best known homegrown star.

This, of course, left Seymour Almasy alone in the room, trying to decide if he really wanted to do this.

The last time Seymour had gone out for any degree of debauchery had been in Japan, where the boys at the FACE often ended up in Roppongi or Kabuki-cho or any of a number of red light districts.

Almasy glanced down at his watch. He had at least four hours to kill before he could even think of calling a cab to get him to the airport. Worse still, he’d totally forgotten to get a hotel room in the race to get to Vegas and meet up with Phil.

Shrugging, he headed for the door, and made his way towards the elevator.

There were, he decided, far worse fates than being stranded in Sin City.
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