Disclaimer: I do not own Eidos Interactive, Crystal Dynamics, Soul Reaver, Blood Omen or any of the characters in any of these games. I do however own a broken-down car, a dirt-cheap widescreen TV and several pairs of knickers with Clan symbols on the front.



Deborah White put down her pen and peered over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses at the room's other occupant. Her patient today was a young man in his early twenties: dark-haired, dark-skinned, dressed as usual in scruffy black jeans and a T-shirt with a cleverly-worded insult plastered across the front. He lay tensely on the leather couch, hands clenched, beads of perspiration speckling his upper lip and forehead, and semi-circles like bruises under his round, haunted eyes. Deborah sighed to herself. Computer game corporations had a lot to answer for.

"Let's say it again, shall we?"

"Do we have to?" asked the young man.

Deborah regarded him sternly.

He sighed heavily and recited in a toneless voice, "There are no such things as vampires."

"And?"

"Nosgoth does not exist outside of a computer game."

"And?"

"Kain is someone I dreamed up."

"And?"

"!Joder, mujer - basta ya!"

"Swearing at me in Spanish will not help your case, Mr Alvarez."

The youth sat up, the leather of the couch creaking reluctantly as his jeans detached themselves from the heated surface with a sound like tearing velcro. He afforded the overpaid shrink a weary glance.

"Are we done?"

"I don't know, Mr Alvarez, are we? If I let you walk out of here today, are you going to behave yourself?" He scowled at her. "We wouldn't want a repeat performance of your antics at the convention, would we?"

He shook his head slowly, the memory of a night in Newport's less-than sanitary prison cell all too vivid. With a repeat appointment card stuffed into one grimy pocket, he left the stuffy office for the heat and bustle of the city street, all blaring horns, screaming children and human trash. The glaring midday sun beat down on his head with an almost rhythmic persistence, and he took to kicking a can along the litter-strewn pavement as he retraced his steps back to work. He had only agreed to go along to see the blasted psychiatrist because of the media frenzy that had erupted after the last Gamers' Convention. The 'antics' to which Ms White had referred had constituted little more than his playful attempt at biting one of the fans who had asked for his autograph. Given the nature of the game they were marketing, the scandal had actually turned into a most successful publicity stunt. Unfortunately, the big cheeses at Head Office had to be appeased, and so it was that he was undergoing psychiatric evaluation in the full glare of the public eye.

Still, at least the money was pouring in.

The months went by, and Summer's ardour finally gave sway to the cooler temperament of Autumn, transforming the city by the sea from a tourist- fraught hell-hole to a red- and gold-tinged haven. Spirits were high within the teen population: this season would see the release of the long- awaited sequel to the highly successful game to which, once again, Javier R. Alvarez had put his name. It was in fact at the initial Press Conference for the impending release of Soul Reaver 2 that Javier first saw them.

The day had gone well: the Press had been kept well-fed and liberally watered, and consequently the nitpicking had been kept to a minimum. The discussion had just turned to potential release dates when the double doors at the back of the conference room opened quietly, allowing admittance to a man and a woman who took up positions at the left-hand side of the door. Javier cringed, closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead. That was the only drawback with the world-wide phenomenon that was Soul Reaver - it had brought out all sorts of nuts. These two had all the classic signs. They were dressed entirely in black, faces paled with white foundation, each sporting prosthetic ears and, more than likely, although he couldn't tell from this distance, dental plates with those acrylic fangs that he'd seen at far too many conventions over the past year. Sunglasses added a finishing touch - although it made them look more Goth than 'Nosgoth'. The only thing that these two were missing to get a full score on Javier's 'Soul Reaver Nut-ometer' was a clan symbol.

They probably had tattoos.

As the discussions drew to a close, Javier grabbed his jacket, exchanged the bare minimum of pleasantries with the Head Honcho who had come down especially for the conference, and darted out of the Fire Exit. The last thing he needed this evening was a run-in with a couple of deluded game- addicts hell-bent on bullying him into listening to their morbid ideas for the next installation of the story. He negotiated the rusted stairway of the fire escape with a blatant lack of grace, snagging his favourite jacket on a rusty nail before dropping the last five feet into an oily puddle. He swore mightily. Brushing the worst of the splashes from his jeans, he looked up to see that the pair from the Press Conference had apparently guessed his plans and stood waiting for him at the end of the alleyway.

Javier groaned. "Why me?"

Casting a glance at the back end of the alley, he saw a large skip and a couple of oil barrels that looked like they would stand his weight. With a smug chuckle, he headed for them, quickly clambering over the top of the chain-link fence that bisected the passageway and then jogging off towards the orange glow of the sulphur streetlamps at the far end of the alley. A few moments' walk brought him to the main road, and, still a little shaky from the stalkers' dogged attentions, he stepped into an Irish theme pub to sink a few before heading home. Halfway through his third Guinness, he happened to look at his reflection in the mirrored backing of the shelves behind the bar. They had followed him. Without turning around, he paid his tab, left his beer and sauntered nonchalantly towards the exit. Unable to walk through the door without checking to see if the nutcases were following, Javier cast a glance over his shoulder. They were on their feet.

Throwing caution to the wind, he wrenched open the door, dived from the bar and fell head-first into a yellow cab that had stopped outside.
Seeing that the couple had still not given up the pursuit, he rolled down the window and yelled, "Get a life!" as the vehicle accelerated, leaving the pale-skinned pair alone in the darkened street.

An hour later, Javier had calmed somewhat. On returning home, he turned on the lava lamp, cranked the stereo up with a mix of Chilli Peppers and Hendrix and sat down with a tuna-mayo sandwich, the one snack guaranteed to set the world to rights. As he munched he began to reminisce on the brush with insanity that had spawned the source of tonight's troubles. There had been a time not so many years ago, when he had been more than half- convinced that he had travelled from Earth to a previously unknown planet. He had believed that it was his experiences on this 'Nosgoth' that had inspired him to write the game that, even now, was topping up his bank account on a daily basis. Months of psychiatry (with a shrink even less understanding than the pretentious sow he was seeing now) had finally convinced him the 'experiences' to which he had attributed his inspiration had amounted to little more than a mescaline dream. The authorities at the company for which he worked generously decided to overlook this minor illegality in the face of their impending fortune. Javier shook his head and returned to his sandwich. Money really was the root of all evil.

A few nights later, Javier found himself in his favourite club, and, having spent the entirety of his weekly gains on innumerable rounds of beers for himself and his friends, was even now impressing the local ladies with his oh-so-sexy impression of John Travolta's 'Saturday Night Fever' dance. Finding himself out of cash as he resumed his seat on the floor (the padded bench had recently started to resemble a mini-mountain he had no desire to climb), he turned to one of his friends from work to tell him it was his turn to obtain the beverages. At least that was the plan. What actually came out of his mouth was something closer to 'Gogeddadrinks I godda siddown.' Fortunately well-used to interpreting Javier's beer-speak, his friend realised it was that time of the night and headed off to the bar in search of a large jug of water.

As his friend departed, Javier's blurred vision cleared momentarily to reveal that the two fanatics from the Conference were seated in a booth not ten feet away, watching him. The realisation did far more to sober the man than any amount of freezing water would. In a moment of rare subtlety, Javier clambered to his feet and staggered towards the men's room, to all appearances about to rid himself of the contents of his stomach. Refraining from the temptation to glance behind him this time, he changed course at the last minute to bolt out of the main door, knocking down the 300 pound gorilla that guarded the entrance in the process. Joe's surprise at the youth's success in bowling him over was compounded as a split-second after regaining his feet, he was knocked flat out again by a pale-skinned woman who bounded out in hot pursuit. As the inner door was thrown wide once more, he decided to remain where he sat - an act which probably saved his life as a giant of a man with long, dark hair hurried through the foyer, the ground shaking beneath his booted stride.

Joe remained on the floor and began to reconsider his choice of career.

Out in the fresh air once again, Javier's head began to clear. If he was honest with himself, he had no real reason to run from these people, and in fact, if he had stayed with his friends, he would probably have had more chance of getting them to leave him alone. However, his initial instinct had compelled him to run, and as his mother was fond of telling him, he was ever one for acting first and thinking later. His steps slowed to a jog and shortly to a walk as he attempted to catch his breath and slow his alcohol- and adrenaline- enhanced heartbeat. As his steps resounded from the walls of the club car park in which he now found himself, he became aware that there were too many echoes. He closed his eyes in resignation and turned to face the sight he knew awaited him.

The car park was deserted.

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Javier began the long walk home, the need to clear his head overriding his temptation to call a cab, and besides, his pockets were empty.

After an hour's walk and a brief but profound argument with a vagrant on the meaning of life, Javier committed himself assiduously to the tricky task of inserting his key into the keyhole, a feat well-known as the bane of late-night revellers everywhere.

"So, cabron, you think you can defeat me?" he asked the keyhole derisively. "You cannot hope to prevail against my power. . ." He squinted at the lock in a most intimidating manner. ". . .For I am Raziel! Lord of the . . . Sluagh . . . oh for the love of . . . OPEN UP!" He shook the door forcedly before taking a step back and affording the stubborn portal a warning glare.

"I'll reave your soul . . ."

"That's the most normal thing I've heard him say so far." Commented a voice from behind him.

Javier froze.

"He's talking to a door." Countered another, deeper voice.

"Well, yes, but at least he admitted his true identity." Replied the lighter voice, evidently a female.

"To a door." Insisted the other.

Javier decided it was time he got these two lunatics off his back once and for all. As he turned to face them with one of the most insulting phrases he knew forming on his lips, something about the couple gave him pause for thought. They looked familiar. Admittedly, most of these Nosgoth Nuts dressed similarly anyway, but there was something in the gleam of the man's golden eyes (novelty contact lenses were far too readily available these days, he mused) and the way the woman carried herself that curbed the insult before it could be voiced.

"Why are you two following me?" he asked.

"We've come to take you back." Replied the woman with a friendly grin.

"Back where?" he asked resignedly, knowing what their answer would be.

"Back to Nosgoth." Replied the man, who was looking at him with something akin to reverent awe.

Javier's shoulders slumped. This pair was even madder than he was. "Look, guys, it's late. It's been a long day and I'd really like to get some shut- eye. How 'bout if I fix you both up with a few autographed goodies?"

"That'd be nice," responded the woman, ascending the steps to stand before Javier, her presence palpably cold in the sultry night air.

"But what we really need you to do is save the world."


Author's Notes

Bizarre. I just looked up Javier Alvarez on the Net to see if there was one and apparently there is - a famous composer. How 'bout that? I just used the names 'cos you can rearrange them to make 'Raziel' . . . and er . . .javvare. Heh. OK, so it doesn't ALL make sense!
Yeah, I know I said I was going to end the story but I can't do it. Gah! I'm addicted.