The ballad of two
Part four
Dreams and revelations

/ / /

Walking into the office of his still new partner, Joseph Russo, David Johnson nodded his greeting to the workman who was busy replacing a sheet of glass in the door. He couldn't help smiling – grinning in truth – as he caught sight of Joey with his feet up on one of the two desks in the room, though he was quick to hide it as Joe looked up at him.

"You're late," Joe growled, taking a sip of steaming coffee from a large stainless steel mug that looked tiny and almost delicate in his ham-like fists. Even seated and with is feet up he still looked like a volcano that was ready to erupt. Bull-necked, and with a body that was once mostly muscle but now quickly degenerating into fat, Russo was an imposing figure at the best of times; this wasn't the best.

"… and you are still in a bad mood," David stated simply as he sat down on the opposite side of the desk. Even after only working with the large man for just shy of four weeks he knew that Joe's bark, so to speak, was worse than his bite. Plus he also knew that the man's anger wasn't aimed his way. Thank God for that he thought to himself, and then continued, out loud, "it has been a week, aren't you over it?"

As soon as the words left David's mouth he knew that he had made a mistake. Unfortunately, while hindsight is twenty-twenty that didn't really help.

"Over it" Joe repeated, his brows furrowing close together and giving him an instant uni-brow, "over it?!". Slamming his mug down on the desk, and ignoring the coffee that splashed onto its surface, he swept his feet off the table and stood up to his full six foot four inches before leaning over, hands flat below him, and put his nose mere inches away from David's own. Eyes wide and staring David, wisely, said nothing and tried to ignore the smell of stale nicotine and sour coffee that wafted over him.

"Tell me kid," Joe rumbled, the bass in his voice almost rattling David's teeth, "just what exactly should I be 'over'?"

"Well …" David started, and then swallowed whatever it was he was going to say as he noticed the vein in Joe's head begin to pulse and realised that the question was probably rhetorical. Even if it wasn't he decided that discretion – and in this case total silence – was the better part of valour.

"Should I be over the fact that some kid is dead and no-one apart from me seems to give a damn," Joe blustered through clenched teeth, "or over the fact that the main suspect in the case walked out of this very building without even being questioned and got away with murder. Literally!" Slamming both hands down on the desk, the solid wood shuddering and causing a worrying crack to ring out somewhere deep within it, Joe stood up straight again, looking ready to continue with his rant until a calm voice interjected from the doorway.

"Why don't you sit down and relax, Joe," Mike Silver, Captain of the police department and Joe's boss and best friend both, stated simply as he walked into the room. Staring down the much larger man from across the room, Mike couldn't help but silently acknowledge the passion in his friend's voice. It was both his best quality and his worst. It made Joe Russo one of the best cops that Mike had ever known simply due to the fact that he never quit … but it also had led to complaints and even disciplinary action over the years because it also meant that he never knew when to back down. A small distinction, admittedly, but one that had led to him still being detective while Mike was captain. " … before you break the desk like you did the door."

The steam went out of Joe, visibly, and he almost sank back into the chair with a sheepish look on his face. He looked up at the door, now fully repaired, and couldn't help but remember how he had almost taken it off its hinges only a few days before.

When David and himself and realised that a wrestler was living in the same apartment block where a blood soaked towel and razor had been found – blood that had been identified as belonging to a wrestler, Jay Phoenix, who hadn't been seen in nearly two years, they knew that it was too much of a coincidence to actually be a coincidence. Deciding to talk to the wrestler, Ember, they had asked him to come down to the station with them just to answer some simple questions. What they hadn't banked on, however, was the fact that Ember had been on the phone to his lawyer – one of the industries top lawyers – at the same time. When they had arrived at the station they had found Jackson Sinclair the Third waiting for them. They didn't even get Ember passed the front door before Sinclair had informed them that if they wanted to talk to his client that they could do so through him … and only with the aid of a warrant. His parting comment – more of a jibe as Joe realised – for the two officers to give his best to 'his friend' the Commissioner gave a very clear warning of just whom they were dealing with.

After trying – repeatedly – to get a warrant to question Ember and search his apartment, as well as trying to find out anything in Ember's background that would help link him to the case … both without success … Joe had returned to his office and slammed the door so hard that one of the hinges had sheared of completely while the plate glass window had shattered into a thousand pieces.

"I can't relax, Mikey," Joe sighed as he resorted to his friend's nickname subconsciously, "I just know that there is something not right about that Ember, I can feel it in my gut!"

"… and who are we to argue with such a prodigious gut?" Mike asked, grinning. For a second David held his breath, waiting for Vesuvius to finally erupt and praying that it would all end quickly, just like it did for Pompeii. The eruption, when it came, was not at all what he expected however and it took him a couple of seconds to realise that Joey was laughing. Loudly and unselfconsciously.

"Oh that is right," he snorted between bray like laughs, "make fun of the 'fatman' – if you are not careful I will have to Scythe you!" Mike joined in with the laughter, and rather than be left out so did David. After a few seconds, while the other two men were still chortling to themselves, he decided that while ignorance was meant to be bliss he really needed to know what the joke was.

"Erm, guys," he said with a bit of embarrassment as he looked from one to the other, "I don't get it."

"Pretty simple kid," Joe said, wiping the tears from his eyes, his mood finally lifted, "combine the fact that I cannot find too much information about our mysterious Ember with the fact that he has one of the best lawyers in the Country fending off every query I put forward about him and then add that to the fact that … 'coincidently' of course … the blood we found is also of a wrestler, and you get my gut telling me that Ember is responsible for the death of this Phoenix guy."

"… all we have to do now," Mike interjected, suddenly serious, "is prove it."

"No," David said sheepishly, "I get that, but …" He trailed off and cast his gaze around the room, trying not to look at either man as he felt the heat rise in his dark brown cheeks.

"What then?" Mike said, his eyebrows raised quizzically as Joe shrugged.

"'Scythe'?" He asked, repeating what Joe had threatened Mike with earlier. "What on Earth does that mean?"

Mike and Joe stared at the younger man, then at each other, and then they burst out laughing again. David just sat in bemusement, waiting for them to calm down, and feeling that he was somehow the butt of a joke that he wasn't part of. When Joe finally managed to grab a breath he leant forwards on the table and nodded at Mike who closed the door – gently – before nodding back.

"OK kid, listen carefully," he growled in mock seriousness. Well David assumed … hoped even … that it was mock. "When I was in the police academy with silver locks over there, and for a couple of years after it, I helped fund myself with a little moonlighting on the side." He gave an exaggerated wink as he said this, and Mike snorted with laughter yet again.

"You may have noticed," Joe continued, "that I am on the larger side …"

"… people on the NASA shuttle can notice that from space, Joey!" Mike jibed, grinning wickedly as Joey mimed taking a shot to the heart.

"As I was saying," Joe stated archly, "before I was rudely interrupted, I am a large guy so for a few years I worked for a local wrestling federation, just part-time of course, and mostly opening matches. Never hit it big or got on any televised show, but it paid the bills at least."

"You … you were a wrestler?" David asked, incredulous.

"Yeah kid, I was," Joe said, a hint of reproach and pride in his voice, "nothing wrong with that you know, it was an honest living at least."

"If you call dressing up in tights and calling yourself 'The Reaper' an honest living of course," Mike pointed out with a laugh.

"The Reaper?" David asked, looking between the two men to see if they were having a laugh at his expense but realising that … as bizarre as it seemed … they were telling the truth.

"Yeah," Joe acknowledged, "with a finishing move called the Scythe which I always threaten to 'show' … if you know that I mean … to Mikey here if he doesn't treat me better."

"Weren't you afraid of your friends, or even your bosses, finding out though Joe?" David asked sincerely. While he had watched quite a bit of wrestling himself, mostly due to the fact that his younger brother was still a massive fan of it, he himself couldn't help but be a little embarrassed by the whole pantomime of the 'sport'.

"Nah, not at all," Joey laughed, with a knowing wink, "they never knew it was me, the Reaper could have been anyone because I always wore a mas …" His voice trailed of as his eyes widened in a mixture of shock and sudden revelation. Jumping to his feet he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, knocking his mug over and spilling the coffee across the desk where it drenched David's trousers, and ran to the door, yanking it open as he ran out of the office, barely pausing to call back over his shoulder to the two stunned men.

"I always wore a fucking mask!"

/ / /

The silver pen rolled across the journal pages, a trail of black ink marking its passage, until it reached the edge whereupon it fell to the carpeted floor below. The sound, such as it was, wasn't enough to stir the figure who sat slumped at the desk, arm outstretched across it, and head flat upon it with a wave of pale blonde hair as a blanket. Just visible beneath the hair, wisps of which blew gently around with each soft breath, was a picture frame.

The old-fashioned brass lamp, that was the only illumination in the room, flickered as the wind outside the patio doors picked up from a gentle breeze to a serious gust. A peal of thunder, somewhere off in the distance, rang out as the lamp flickered again. With a last, feeble, flicker the lamp finally died out completely leaving the room in almost complete darkness until a flash of lightning brought the room into stark relief, strobe-like in its intensity

A moan, muted through clenched teeth, came from beneath the mass of hair as another peal of thunder rang out, this time louder and for longer. As a second flash of lightning flooded the room much sooner after the thunder, signifying the encroaching storm coming closer, Ember's hand – subconsciously – reached out to grip the edge of the picture frame. Tightly.

"… no …" Ember whispered, his tone slack through sleep, "I don't understand …"

"I don't understand …" Ember said, his confusion evident, as the rabbit open the door and gestured him through, "I can't be late … I didn't know that I was expected!"

The white door opened without a sound and without replying to Ember's statement, without even seeming to acknowledge it, the rabbit bounded forwards into the large open hallway beyond it. Ember shook his head, trying to shake the disorientation that he felt, and stepped forwards into the doorway himself.

"Can I take your coat, sir?"

Thinking about it for a second, Ember looked down at his body and realised that he was wearing his black wrestling attire. Smiling back at the red-suited bellboy he shook his head.

"I don't have a coat."

"Oh, well you can borrow mine" Taking his red jacket off the young bellboy held it out towards Ember and gestured that he should put it on. Reaching out one arm, Ember placed it into the sleeve and then turned around so that he could get his other arm into the jacket too. The wall behind him was clean and unbroken and, for a second, the lack of a door perturbed him but the bellboy's voice as he finished putting the jacket on him made him forget about it.

"There you go sir," the bellboy said with a smile as he checked Ember up and down with a knowing wink, "fits like a glove."

Patting at the material Ember had to agree that it was a good fit and smiled his thanks as he started to move into the room but the bellboy, with a quick hand on his shoulder, stopped him.

"Can I take your coat, sir?"

Reaching out the bellboy had the jacket unbuttoned again and off Ember before he could react. As the young man reached out and handed him a piece of paper Ember stared at it in confusion.

"It is your ticket, sir," the bellboy explained, "so that you can reclaim what is yours at the end of the night."

"… but it wasn't mine to begin with," Ember tried to explain, "it was yours."

"Well what is mine is yours, sir, what's mine is yours!" The bellboy enthused as he indicated the ticket. "Now don't lose that sir, take good care of it, it is the only way to get it back remember."

"… but there is no-one else here to get confused with," Ember stated as he held the blank ticket up, "and no number on this either."

"Really?" Enquired the bellboy as he raised an eyebrow quizzically. Before Ember could reply the sound of a multitude of voices, buzzing in conversation and laughter interrupted him. Looking around the room he saw a crowd of gaily dressed and masked people talking, dancing and socialising. Realising his mistake he turned back to apologise to the bellboy, but found only empty air.

"Don't lose that, you won't get another."

Spinning around Ember tried to find the speaker but found no-one near him.

"Don't lose what?" he asked, unsure.

"Your ticket, mate … and I am down here."

Following the voice, and looking down at the ground, Ember saw a small plastic duck looking back up at him with flat and expressionless eyes. Looking around to see if anyone else had heard the duck, and realising that everyone was too wrapped up themselves to notice, Ember knelt down to be closer to the duck.

"Did you say something?" he asked, staring at the yellow toy.

"Are you deaf or just stupid?"

Ember didn't see the duck's lips move, but then again he wasn't sure that ducks had lips so it was probably ok. He thought about the question for a few seconds and realised that as he had heard the question he couldn't be deaf.

"… stupid I guess, if I have to be one," he replied, "why?"

"Because who the frik else would be talking to you down here?!" Without raising an eyebrow – again ducks didn't have those either, Ember realised – and with no emotion evident on its little plastic face, the duck still managed to 'stare' at Ember fixedly. This was, Ember decided, rather easy to do when you had fixed eyes.

"Look mate," the English accent that seemed to be coming from the unmoving yellow duck stated softly, "don't mind me, I am not in an exceptional mood."

"No problems," Ember said, happy to take the apology at face value.

"So, what are you here as?"

"What?" Ember asked in apparent confusion.

"Geez, you weren't joking when you said 'stupid' were you?"

"No, but …"

"Do … you … want … me … to … speak … slower … for … you?" the voice that could be the plastic duck's voice asked very slowly.

"No," Ember stated decisively after thinking about it, "that is pretty annoying actually, why don't you just tell me what you meant?"

"You are here for the masquerade ball, aren't you?" the duck seemed to ask, "so I was just wondering what you were here as."

"Oh," Ember stated simply as he finally got an easy question, "that is simple. I am here as me."

"… but who issh that?"

The question took Ember by surprise and he turned around to see a pale-faced man standing behind him. Dressed in a fluffy white shirt and a long black frock coat the man smiled at Ember, two pronounced and gleaming canine teeth visible.

"One of the bashic queshtionsh of the univershe" the man said with a smile, "to ashk 'who am I?'" Taking Ember by the arm he pulled him towards a round table where four other men, all dressed exactly the same as him, were sitting staring at pieces of paper and reading from the same book.

"Getting an anshwer," the man continued, "ish even more remarkable … of for fucksh shake!!" Reaching into his mouth the man pulled at the canine teeth and with a slurp they came out in his hand. "That is better," he said, "they look good but they are damn annoying after a while, but we feel it adds more atmosphere to the game you understand."

"The game?" Ember asked, still staring that the men around the table as one of the picked up a set of dice and started to roll them across the table.

"Oh you know," the man said, shocked, "The Masquerade!"

As the dice rolled one of the men suddenly cheered while the others started to rail and shout at him. Books, dice and paper flew at him while he sat there, trying to look innocent but failing.

"What is going on?" Ember asked as the original man shook his head and tutted sadly.

"Ah," he said with a sigh, "that is just Tony, he always tries to get more XP than he deserves … cheats you know." A sly wink finished the sentence off.

"…XP?" Ember asked, something tickling the back of his mind.

"So, what are you here as?" the man asked, ignoring the question and the carnage behind him as the mock vampires descended into chaos.

"Himself of course"

The sad voice made Ember turn to look to see who had spoke and he recoiled slightly as he saw a youth with half a face sitting playing a video game in front of him. Long hair covered some of the damage but a gaping hole through one side of the youth's face was still partially visible.

"I wish that I had thought of coming as myself." The youth said with another sigh, and then cursed as the screen flickered and small figures ran all over it. Sitting down beside him, moving the armour and large sword to one side, Ember watched the small battles taking place on the screen as he spoke to the white haired man.

"Why didn't you?" Ember asked, fascinated by the game.

"I thought that coming as the finalist fantasy would be better," the youth said with another sigh, "but it didn't seem to work."

"Why not?"

"Nothing is ever final, you see" the youth said as the screen went black with two words emblazoned in white on it – GAME OVER. After only a few seconds the screen came back on and the figures resumed their mad dance on the screen and the youth just sighed as he controlled them. "With enough XP you can just start again as someone else."

"Coming as yourself though," he said with admiration, "that is something special. We all came as the creations but you came as the creator!"

"I did?" Ember asked, his head spinning.

"Yeah, that takes guts!" The youth said, finally putting the game down and staring at Ember with half a face. "Most of us only go through the motions and it doesn't matter that the outcome is already decided we keep on going no matter how bad the character is in the story. You though … you cut the strings. No more chapters, you cut right to the epilogue!"

Feeling nauseas Ember got to his feet and reached up to his face, feeling faint. Seeing the ticket still clutched there he slowly spun it around and saw the words there, the name that identified him, and tried to focus his eyes to read it …

"Is he with you?" the youth asked as he pointed behind Ember. Turning around Ember came face to face with a full-length mirror and he felt the terror rise up in his chest, his gorge rising along with the silent scream that seemed to be tearing at his stomach to get out. The mirror was empty; there was no-one … nothing … there.

Suddenly … barely … just a glimpse … there were two figures there, superimposed one upon the other. Skin as white as snow, hair as pale as ice, and eyes as colourless as cream fought with tanned bronze skin, hair like flame and eyes that shone like piercing jade. Both figures stared at each other and then a scream broke the silence as the bronzed figure reached out … lashed out … and the mirror exploded outwards in a million shards towards Ember's face.

Throwing up his hands to protect himself Ember felt the ticket slip through his fingers just as the scream ripped through his mouth …

… and woke up. Throwing himself backwards, he fell off the chair and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, clutching at his face. Staring in shock at his hands, as he pulled them away, he focussed on the small shards of glass that were stuck to them, each one framed by its own scarlet drop of blood. Reaching out he absent-mindedly wiped his hands on a piece of material and then dropped it as he scuttled backwards until his back hit the wall, the curtains that had once draped sedately across the closed patio doors now streaming wildly around him – caressing him like a lover's hand – as the doors slammed back and forth in the night air.

The mask – his mask – now coated in his own blood lay staring back up at him; the outline of the features that were imprinted on its once perfectly blank surface, in stark black ink, almost seeming to be reproaching him. Without any conscious thought Ember crawled forwards on his hands and knees, unmindful of the trail of blood he left behind him, and picked it up as he scrambled back into the seat, holding the mask alongside the picture frame; shuddering as he realised that the glass that held back the photo was shattered into a myriad spider-web of fractures.

Shaking the glass out of the frame, watching as it fell like solid rain around him, he pulled the photographic paper out and stared – back and forth – at the scrawled caricature on the mask and the features of the man in the photo. As rough as the imagery on the mask was it was obvious, without any doubt, that it was the same person. The mask feel from his hands as he stared at the photo, taking in the title belt held in his hands and focusing in on the name that was stamped there, embossed in gold. Two words … one name … that meant so much to him once, but now were nothing but a memory – dead and buried by his own hands.

Jay Phoenix.

The sensation of moisture on his hands made him stare down at them once more and the black stain of fresh ink made him look at the mask again, assuming that he had rubbed the features of it. The face was still there, still staring at him with blame in its lifeless eyes. Picking it up he turned it over, his eyes widening in shock – and then terror – as he saw two more words written there that would grow to mean more to him than any others. An echo of remembered agony spread through his chest and his fingers absent-mindedly traced the outlines of the same two words that had been carved into his skin.

I'm back.

/ / /

To be continued