PinoyWrimos

His thirteenth incarnation was a space soldier posted in a watch station near the outskirts of the planet Shyrah. Since the last war, the Shyrah governors had been extra vigilant about their security and had created new space stations for surveillance and defense purposes. Wanting to defend the numerous tikbalang sanctuaries on Shyrah, they had commissioned L33T to provide manpower for the space stations.

He had been born in one of the ‘human factories’ as the commoners called them, his sole purpose in life having been determined beforehand. The moment he could walk, the L33T defense organization took him in. The very first day inside the training complex, he had been given his codename; 4UR3L14N0. He had diligently memorized his designation, not complaining at all about its length.

It was the year 2xxx, only two decades after the Philippines had taken over the entire planet of Earth and the entire human civilization. The take-over had been done quickly and smoothly; most countries didn’t know what had happened until the Philippine president had made her worldwide broadcast, announcing the capture of the presidents of other major countries.

The Philippine government had quickly commandeered several of the newly discovered habitable planets and turned them into sanctuaries for their endangered species and Shyrah was one of them. The rest they had granted to faithful, subservient ally countries as stewardships. Certain continents were also granted to other minor countries to govern.

Of course, there were people who fought against the planetary rule of the Philippines. Their base was on the planet Mortel, only a day’s worth of space travel from Shyrah. Because of its location, majority of the Mortel faction’s latest attacks were concentrated on Shyrah and the tikbalang sanctuaries located there.

A beeping sound alerted 4UR3L14N0 that there was an incoming transmission waiting to be acknowledged. He switched on the communications system.

“Agent 4UR3L14N0, status report.” The voice crackled over the comm system, booming throughout the security room, making him wince and cover one ear.

4UR3L14N0 reached for a knob and lowered the transmission’s volume before pressing a button and answering. “This is 4UR3L14N0. No Mortel activity so far. There was a small leak in the station’s water supply but it was quickly detected and remedied. No foul play suspected.”

“How are things planetside?”

“Agent J0S3 reports no abnormalities.”

“Good. President Bautista wants to tighten security a bit more. Apparently, they’ve received threats via vidmail this past week about bombings and Shyrah is one of the target places.” 4UR3L14N0 raised an eyebrow; his commanding officer sounded a bit harried.

“Sir, security is already as tight as it can be,” 4UR3L14N0 said calmly. “I highly doubt that any sort of incendiary device can be brought planetside without one of the space stations detecting its approach.”

“I know that,” the voice snapped over the comm system. “And I tried to tell those government lackeys that as well. Just keep a sharper lookout for anything out of place.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The transmission immediately died, leaving 4UR3L14N0 with the sound of static crackling over the speakers. With a sigh, he turned off the comm system and settled back to sit more comfortably on his chair.

The security room was brightly lit, revealing one wall entirely covered in screens that showed different views of different areas on the space station. 4UR3L14N0’s fellow soldiers were all in their assigned posts and nothing was out of the ordinary. He sighed. Life was getting boring on the station. The Mortel faction was becoming all talk and their attempts at sabotage were quickly becoming mediocre.

4UR3L14N0 missed the times when he had been at the frontline of battle against hardened rebels. Now, he was babysitting a planet with sufficient defenses even without L33T soldiers stationed there. “This is stupid,” he muttered to no one in particular, resting his elbows on the control panel in front of him.

“Why, yes. Yes it is.”

4UR3L14N0 sat up straight at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, his gray eyes immediately looking around warily at the room. It was completely devoid of life, except for him, and there was no possible source for the voice unless…

He glanced at the control panel. His elbow had accidentally switched on the comm system and had also changed the transmission frequency. He was about to just turn off the comm system when he realized that he was on a classified L33T frequency. That meant that the person on the other end of the transmission was a fellow soldier. Well, 4UR3L14N0 was bored and the guy on the other end appeared to be bored as well. No harm in chatting; he could always receive alerts for incoming transmissions anyway.

“This is a L33T soldier posted at a space defense station,” he said into the microphone.

“And this is a L33T undercover operative.” There was a pause before the voice went on. “Well, I’m training to be one, actually,” he said wryly.

“Hn. You are on a school planet, then?”

“Nope. Only a school outpost on Earth.” There was a pause before he went on.

“So, soldier boy. How’s life on a space station?”

Soldier boy? 4UR3L14N0 blinked a couple of times. That was new. “Since I am already a soldier and you are merely an operative-in-training, it would do you well to remember that I am technically of higher rank than you. You should address me properly. And furthermore, I am older than you. Calling me ‘boy’ is highly inappropriate.”

He could almost see the smile on the student’s face when he answered. “Oh really? And how should I address you? By calling you ‘sir’?”

“That is the accepted term.”

“Well, soldier man, you don’t really know where I am and you can’t do anything to me if I keep on calling you whatever I want. Besides, don’t you wanna loosen up? You sounded bored when you first spoke. Have some fun, why don’cha?”

Soldier man… 4UR3L14N0’s eye twitched but a smile made its way across his face, nonetheless. “Well, rookie. When you put it that way, it is hard to argue with you.”

Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming open came from the comm system. “R4F43L! We’re going out to go swimming! Are you coming or not?”

The next sounds were muffled; the rookie must have covered the microphone with his hand. 4UR3L14N0 stopped his smile from growing any wider. When the voice on the other end came back, it sounded a bit annoyed. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“So your designation is R4F43L?”

A sigh. “You got me. I was just practicing using the comm system when your transmission suddenly came through. And now I have to go.”

“Until next time, then.” 4UR3L14N0 was about to turn off his own comm system when R4F43L spoke hurriedly.

“Wait! What’s your designation?”

The soldier paused before answering. “4UR3L14N0.”

“Grandmother, why can’t we stay on the back porch when it’s raining?” the boy asked after a while.

Maria contemplated the gloomy scene outside before answering. “Many things shelter in the rain; it hides them from human eyes more effectively, and so they can come out and walk more freely. Otherwise they cannot do so in a clear day. When you are older, and are ready to see more, then I shall show you.”

“I already see a lot of people in the church who are dead,” Santiago argued.

“These are different,” was all Maria would say.

Thus the boy learned that there were two worlds living side by side, and seemed to exist without knowledge of each other.

While Santiago acknowledged the existence of God, and miracles, angels and saints, he also acknowledged the presence of the others. He thought, if one exists the other must as well. And more so, for I have not seen an angel, and I see these other people. However, the more his grandmother Eleonora spoke about angels, the more Santiago wanted to see one.

He asked his grandmother Maria about them.

“Angels are different; they are difficult creatures, they are too apart from us in this time,” Maria said. “There used to be an age when they loved to come to earth, and indeed even had children with humans, but that time is past. Humans are less willing to accept their existence, and so angels are harder to see. It is enough to know they are there. You do not see God, but you believe He is present, don’t you?”

The boy nodded slowly. “Still,” he said, “it would be something to see an angel, wouldn’t it, grandmother?”

“It would,” Maria replied. “Come to the garden; I will show you some other things.”

It was twilight, and the fireflies were beginning to appear in the farthest corner, around an ancient mango tree. Santiago liked the creatures and came closer. He discovered to his delight that some of them were tiny naked creatures with wings, flying along with the real insects.

“They’re like tiny angels,” he told his grandmother.

“Angels are creatures of light… nothing like these poor little creatures,” Maria said. “But they are good examples of the wonders that are in the world.”

After a while, the boy asked his grandmother: “Have you ever seen an angel?”

To which Maria replied, “Yes.” She and Santiago returned to the house, and as the boy lay in bed with his grandmother sitting beside him, she told him how it was.

It had happened this way:

Maria was ten years old, not much older than Santiago was when he asked her his question, and out in the fields that belonged to her sister-in-law’s family. She was a town girl herself, and vacationing in the country where there were forests and hills and fields of rice that needed to be attended to, was a novelty to her. She was enjoying her sojourn very much, and her new in-laws were very nice to her. Her brother was some ten years older and in those days people married young.

She was on her way home, in the twilight (much like this one, she told the boy), balancing herself along the narrow walkways of raised dirt that separated one square of rice-field (creating the grid effect) from the next (the better to control irrigation of the crops when they needed to be flooded, which was during planting season), when she saw something very bright suddenly come down from the sky. She shielded her eyes, thinking it was a lightning bolt and crouched down to make herself a smaller target. The glare against her lids remained, however, and her curiosity got the better of her. She cautiously opened an eye and beheld a wondrous sight.

A man, or woman (she could not tell which, it could have been either or, even, both; who knew with angels) stood amidst the growing young rice plants just a couple of squares away, and, it seemed as if this humanoid form was not stable. She saw mostly light, and often the figure was just that: a spot of light. There was the faintest suggestion of things growing out of the back, like wings, but also of light. None of your feathers for real angels, Maria said with a grin. The angel touched the plants lightly and seemed pleased. Maria could sense this; she could not explain how, but she knew the angel was happy. She then realized that the angel knew she was watching, and didn’t mind a bit. Just as she realized that, the angel straightened up and simply vanished upwards. It had happened so quickly, her eyes had trouble adjusting to the dimness of oncoming night. She had stumbled on back to the main homestead, dazed and inexplicably cheerful.

“My brother’s mother-in-law explained it to me. She came to me as I stared out dreamily at the fields bathed in moonlight and asked me if I had seen the angel.” Maria laughed. Santiago waited. He did not find anything funny, but he supposed it was for his grandmother.

“She knew, old Rosalina. She explained it all to me, as I will explain it to you. You see, none of her children were connected to both realities as she was. My being able to was a sign from heaven, she said; she would pass on her knowledge to a new branch of men, as it must have before, when it failed in bloodlines.”

Santiago did not understand all that, but he nodded. It was very nice to have a grandmother who knew stories about angels and saints, but it was cool to have a grandmother who had actually seen an angel.

The next day, the boy asked his grandmother about old Rosalina.

“What was she like? Were her parents also used to the extraordinary?” he asked her one day, as he accompanied her to his aunt’s car, which would take his grandmother back to her hometown, incidentally the same hometown Eleonora and Elena hailed from. It was the only chance he had of asking, as he could not find an opportunity to have her tell more stories that day.

Maria smiled and looked towards his father, who was saying his goodbyes to his sister and brother-in-law. “Those stories, your father knows,” she replied. “Ask him.”

The boy nodded and smiled back. “I will; thank you grandmother.”

Later that night, as he and his father aimlessly channel surfed in the living room before their television set (it was one of their nightly rituals, after Santiago finished his homework or when he had no exams the next day), the boy asked his father about grandmother Rosalina.

“So mama has told you some stories, has she?” his father said, but he was not displeased. He seemed merely surprised, but went ahead, the TV forgotten. “What has she told you about Rosalina?”

“Nothing much,” the boy answered. “Grandmother said you knew the stories, and that I should ask you.”

“I do know them,” Antonio replied. “Hmm… where should I start? Perhaps it should begin with Rosalina’s father, Juan Lakas.”

The boy was intrigued. “Juan Lakas? That was his name?” he asked his father, settling more comfortably into a corner of the worn sofa on which they sat.

Antonio smiled, mustache twitching as he beheld his son’s eager face. “Yes, indeed.”

How Juan Lakas got his name:

In their barrio (Antonio began), Juan was a famous man. So much so that his fame spread to the nearby towns and people wanted to meet him.

As a child Juan was like any other. But one day, after he had come from a long journey delivering grain and selling livestock for his father, he exhibited a sudden, unusual trait.

He had come home laden with items he had bartered the sacks of rice his family had grown with cloth, with iron kitchen tools, pots and pans, a new carabao plough, coffee beans, sacks of sugar, tablets of chocolate, laces and ribbons for his mother and sisters, and slippers for everyone.

His cart got stuck in the mud, and immediately many came to help him, but their efforts were in vain. His poor carabao was knee-deep in the mire, and could not be taken out. Finally Juan waved everybody away and said, “I should have known I must do this alone,” and before anyone knew what was happening, he untied the carabao from its traces, knelt under it and lifted the beast on his shoulders as if it weighed like the merest calf, and not the half-ton creature it was. Then he proceeded to lift and pull the cart out of the mud himself.

From that day forward he was called Juan Lakas.

There was nothing he could not move or lift. Once he helped uproot a tree that even the strongest team of water buffalos could not pull out of the ground. Juan grunted, heaved, his muscles popping with exertion, and succeeded.

Circus impresarios wanted him to join their acts, one of them coming from as far away as France. Juan Lakas always declined. His place was in his town, he said, and his strength was for them alone.

“Stories have been told about him by famous writers, you know, “Antonio informed his son. “They were fascinated by Juan and his gift, and how he stubbornly refused to leave his home.”

“What about Rosalina?” Santiago asked.

His father nodded. “I’m getting to that. Rosaline had the same power her father had. Only, people tended to forget, until one day someone needed help moving a rock in the fields, or assistance in loading up a cart with sacks of grain. Rosalina was always around. The last time she did something like that was when she was well into her 80s, and she was even smoking a thin cigarillo while she stacked sacks of sugar in the warehouse.”

“That’s pretty cool,” the boy said, grinning.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Antonio agreed.

I stare outside the crappy cab’s window. My mind is blank, and nothing is registering in my mind. My mom is sitting in the backseat with me, and she is saying things that I cannot, or refuse to, hear. My dad does the same, saying things to cheer me up, but I don’t want to listen, I don’t want to hear. I can’t feel anything, and I don’t know anything. The only thing I know is that this cab smells like cigarette smoke, and my life is over.

My name is Nala Dominique Mendez. I am seventeen years old, and up until now I had great and wonderful life. I was a dancer of Costa Marina School of Performing Arts – the best in the country. My dad was a big-time lawyer who served both the rich and the poor. My mom was like any other woman married to a rich guy – she shopped.

I had everything I ever wanted, everything I ever needed. I was Costa’s best dancer, and I would graduate with an offer from every dance company in the country. I had a great boyfriend who adored me, and friends who stuck by me. My relationship with my parents was great. I was happy and contented with what I had. But apparently, what God giveth, God taketh away.

Everything was going great, everything was going amazing, until my dad went stupid and got caught in the middle of a tax fraud case. Whether or not he had anything to do with it, we lost everything – his reputation, our money, everything we owned, everything important to me. We could no longer afford the life we were living, and I was forced to leave my school, my friends, my boyfriend, without so much as a goodbye. In the blink of an eye we were gone, our bags packed, our three-floor, five thousand square foot condominium sold. Gone without a word.

The cab stops and we’re in front of dingy, one-floor house. The brown paint is peeling and there is a hole this size of a basketball on the roof. The grass is no longer green and the flowers are wilting. The windows I am seeing now are broken.

“It’s not that bad,” my dad says.

My mom smiles, and it’s the kind of smile she uses when dad buys her something he thought she would like, but really she doesn’t. “Yeah, with a little work, its going to look just like those little houses in Tuscany.”

They both look at me, wanting a reaction, wanting me to say something. I force a smile, and mutter something that resembles “yeah, it could work”. They both turn their gaze away from me, satisfied, and start loading what few boxes we have out of the cab. My dad pays the cab driver, and the cab driver leaves, but not without giving me a smile of pity.

From being respected and adored, I am reduced to being pitied.

Pathetic.

From the inside, the house is smaller. The kitchen, the living room and the dining room are all one big room. The backyard is nauseatingly small, the size of half the new VW bug. My room is as puny as the rest of the house, its width and length the same as that of the new Hummer. There is only one bathroom, with the shower, the sink and the toilet crammed into the eight square feet space.

Now this is what you call from riches to rags.

I take two boxes from the living room and drag them inside my bedroom. I sit on my bed and start to open the boxes. Without noticing it, tears start to fall down my cheeks, only to realize that its because I’m unpacking my old dance stuff and knowing that I will never be able to dance again.

I lie down on the dusty bed leaving the box half-unpacked. My eyelids slowly drop to a close, and darkness overcomes me.

There is a soft nudge on my shoulder and my eyes open. My vision is blurred at first, but then I clearly see my dad looking at me, a concerned look dominating his face.

“You alright, baby girl?”

I’m not your baby girl anymore, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut, thinking that he doesn’t need my attitude today. I look at him and smile and nod. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, and leaves the room. I take a look at the tiny room again, seeing the half-unpacked box and the contents of it scattered on the floor. Tears threaten to fall once more, but I hold them back. Now is not the time for this.

Dinner was once gourmet Italian or French dishes, but apparently it now means pepperoni pizza and Coke. My mom sees me and puts a huge slice on the empty plate beside hers. “Come sit, Nala.”

I sit beside her and start to eat. I’m silent and I don’t want to talk, I just want to finish eating, go back to my room and let darkness engulf me once more.

“So, school starts tomorrow. You excited?” my dad asks.

School. Oh fuck, I have to go to school. “Not really, dad.”

“Sweetie, I know its nothing like Costa, and it’s not a performing school, its just a regular high school, but I heard that Verde has a very good dance troupe, you might want to join,” my mother assures me, or at least, tries to.

“Its in the middle of the school year mom, I’m pretty sure tryouts are over,” I say and take a bite at my pizza. Its only half-eaten, yet I want to barf. I have never digested this much unhealthy oil since, well, never. Everything I have ever eaten was always healthy, cooked with either olive or truffle oil.

My dad takes a sip from his Coke and says, “I’m sure we can work something out,” in his very lawyer-serious-like tone. I want to scream, STOP TALKING LIKE THAT YOU FUCKING IDIOT! You all damned us and everything I love is gone and its all your fault! And you talk like that? Like you haven’t been humiliated and your reputation tarnished? FUCK YOU!, but I can’t, I can’t. I just sit there eating my pizza, being a good girl, being a good daughter.

I finish the pizza and excuse myself. I lock myself in my room, holding down my vomit and pretend to be asleep when my dad checks in and asks if I’m awake. I want to say yes, I want to talk, I want to scream, I want to dance, but I can’t, I can’t. All I can do is wait for the darkness, the sweet darkness.

But the darkness doesn’t come. Two hours later, I’m still awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything, knowing nothing.

I creep outside my room and search the boxes for my iPod speaker. I push what little furniture we have to the walls. I plug my iPod speaker and insert my iPod in, setting it to shuffle. A fast-paced hip-hop song starts to play and my arms and legs move and I feel at home. There is a rush of adrenalin and I’m dancing, dancing like there’s no tomorrow. I can feel the heat, the beat of the song egging me on, telling me to continue, to never end. Then the light switches on, and I realize that the volume was on too loud, and I’ve woken up my parents, and I’m back to reality. My dad stands in the doorway, staring at me, and I stop.

“Not too loud, Nala,” he says with a smile, and I relax. I thought he was going to get mad, I thought he was going to scream, to release all that emotion that he has bottled up inside him since the case, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at me like he’s proud of me, like the case never happened, like our life never changed. I’d rather he scream at me than look at me like that.

“I’m sorry dad.” I start to unplug my iPod and leave, but he stops me and says, “It was just getting amazing, baby girl.”

I want him to stop calling me baby girl, I want him to leave, I want to dance, but because he’s here, he’s looking at me like that, I can’t anymore. My dancing is no longer my joy, he’s using it for himself, and I can’t take it, I can’t take it. “I’m tired, dad. I’m going to bed. I have school tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he finally says and I kiss him on the cheek. “Goodnight,” I say, and leave. I enter my room and lie on the bed, but I can’t sleep. The adrenalin is still there, my arms still want to pump, my legs still want to shake. The music is still in my head, the beat still egging me on, pushing me to dance. But I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, wishing that everything was back to normal, that everything never happened that tomorrow I will be going to my old school, seeing my old friends, kissing my old boyfriend. I wish I will be able to dance like before, to dance like there was no tomorrow, but I can’t, I can’t anymore, because now everyday has a tomorrow.

My door opens and my mom comes in and sits on my bed. She looks at me and smiles, and I’m starting to hate smiles because every time someone looks at me, they smile, and I’m getting sick of it, I’m getting sick of all the fake happiness.

“What do you want, mom?” I ask with a sigh.

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” But she knows I’m not fine. She knows that I want everything to be the same again, and I know she wants that too.

“Alright, but if you need anything sweetie, you can always come to me.” She leaves the room and closes the door behind her.

My mind starts spinning again with all the things I need and I want to scream everything at her and my dad. I want to tell them that I had so much, that my dreams were coming true, but dad shattered them and forced me to walk away, to leave and try to forget. But I can’t do it, I can’t scream at them because they’re my parents and I love them, and its not their fault, but it is and I want to forgive them, but I can’t, I can’t, because they’ve ruined everything.

The tears are threatening to fall once more, but thank God, thank God for the darkness.

You may know me as the Killa from Manila. You may also recognize me as a 4-time World Heavyweight Champion, former United States Champion and a 2-time WWE Tag Team Champion. But I didn’t start out big in the wrestling business. I was just like everybody else.

Maybe you didn’t know that I didn’t grow up in the mean streets of Long Beach. I grew up in the meaner streets of Quezon City, Philippines. I lived in the projects, Project 6 to be exact. I was part of a well-to-do family: a dad who works from 9 to 5 for an oil company, a mom who did some part-time work as a teacher, a brother who works in an engineering firm for a lot of hours and a sister who’s making big flicks.

I am somewhat the black sheep of the family. I always got into trouble and get deprived of a lot of stuff, I made good friends and worse enemies, I pass off most work handed to me because “There’s always tomorrow,” and much more. I always hated getting in trouble, and whenever shit happens, I’m always the usual suspect. Why don’t they just back up off me for one second?

Throwin’ you off? Whoops. Anyway, back to the hood. My neighborhood is so vicious, even small things like side mirrors from cars get looted and sold for 50 bucks a piece. Everyone was desperate for cash and the “hood captain,” as we called him, who was in charge a few years back just sat on his fat ass and drank himself to Tijuana. I’ve seen his house and it’s nothing more than his buddy Johnnie displayed in the door and bottle caps of Colt 45 sat in the windowsill.

I just did it again, didn’t I? Well, let’s move on. I spent 14 years in this hood. 14 years of being assaulted by a local gang, getting robbed in the middle of the night and accidentally gettin’ high, I sustained. I was sick of it all. I wanted to get away.

One day, it all changed. My folks had this dude who lived in Long Beach and he told them I could have a better life there. Just like everybody who wants a shot at the big time, I said “Yes.” I packed my bags and got ready for the Land of Opportunity.

I wouldn’t say it was all fireworks and a huge parade when I stepped foot in American soil, but it was what I expected. Just somebody with a sign that read my real name (will be kept a secret for undisclosed reasons) waiting for me outside. That somebody was my uncle. He looked out for me during my stay in Long Beach.

Just like any typical foreigner, I spent the entire summer sight-seeing in L.A., San Francisco and Vegas. I was just like every tourist there, with a camera in hand and a notebook just in case I bumped into guys like Eddie Murphy and Jim Carrey. It was a one-and-a-million chance but I took the risk anyway.

Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and then September came strolling by. I had to go to school. My freshman year was one of the worst ever. Other than being a rare breed of Asian, in their case, and being insulted for my heritage, I was the outcast who’d rather be alone than make friends with anyone. For the entire month, I avoided conversation with anyone and I do mean anyone.

One day, some guy in my class stuck up for me and saved my butt from another day of Hate-orade. Ironically, that guy was CJ Henderson, the idiot who tries to make my life a living hell today. He walked up to me and wanted to be my friend. I wanted to say “No,” but it was either stay alone or start making friends right now. I let go of my struggle and said “Sure.”

Our friendship was a typical “Watch each other’s backs” buddy-buddy thing. We rolled around the school as an unbeatable duo. We were like Batman and Robin, but we had our weaknesses. I had a short fuse, while CJ had a million-dollar body and a ten cent brain. He tried to calm me down whenever I was in a fight, but I had to go so far that I used a ladder to send a message to punks who were dissin’ me.

That one fight got me a hookup with Jesse Hernandez. He offered me and CJ a spot in his wrestling school. We had college to deal with, plus I was sure my uncle wouldn’t approve. CJ had no problem with it. His uncle was filthy rich, so he got his source. I had to sneak some money just to pay off my tuition in the School of Hard Knocks.

When I got a spot in Jesse’s school, I learned that I got a basketball scholarship in UCLA. Yup, I was bound to be a Bruin. CJ already got into Princeton, but he signed some transfer papers so he could team up with me once again for college. We were both Bruins in campus and on the hardwood. We were both guards. CJ worked the point while I was the two-guard in the lineup. Thanks to the depth chart, we were both starters on the squad.

But there was a point where we had to make a definite choice. Because we were working on our in-ring skills, we missed practices and even a game. Coach Wilson was definitely pissed. It was either we worked as a dynamic duo on the court, or as a tag team in the squared circle. Eventually, we both chose the latter. Despite our choice, we finished college with diplomas in hand and mortarboards in the air.

By 1999, I worked a desk job during the day in some IT company in downtown L.A. and CJ worked in his dad’s firm in Encino. Every day, we left work at 4:30 in the afternoon to head to the Forum and suit up in spandex trunks and boots for tag team matches. We were billed as TJ and CJ Battle and were kayfabe brothers. We hyped up the crowd with a combination of speed and power. Our wrestling prowess definitely made us favorites for a shot at tag team gold.

All those tag team hopes were put aside when CJ injured his left knee during a title match. It took him long to recover from severely torn ligaments in his knee. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to continue working matches on my own, but it felt like he wanted me to. So as TJ Battle, I held my own during matches.

It was a good run, but it started to piss me off when they misused the whole “brother” angle. I was forced to wear an armband with CJ’s name on it, as if he died. I even had to carry around a portrait of CJ to the ring and place it near my hand. It never came to be when I said “No” and walked out with my salary and a contract buyout.

Around this time, I applied for a green card and had my name legally changed to James Tyrone Dawkins. I figured that my real name wouldn’t get me anywhere in the business and that I wanted a ring name that would have people remember me by. As for the name, it just sounded cool.

Before I knew it, the WWE gave me and CJ a call and offered us a job. Only a moron would pass up an opportunity like that…at that time. I signed the contract and was sent to OVW in Kentucky. There, I locked horns with today’s top stars like John Cena, Batista and Randy Orton. While superstars were called up for full-time TV appearances, I worked my way up to the top and held the OVW Heavyweight Title for two months. After that, in 2003, I dropped the title and moved on up.

I was initially on Raw and faced Scott Steiner in my debut. I had some props during the match and I sure didn’t disappoint. I somehow caught the boss’s eye and I was personally congratulated during my match. It felt different being personally welcomed by the boss to the company.

I thought I was gonna get a hell of a ride in the main roster, but I was mainly used to put over monster heels at that time. I voiced my stand and said I wasn’t happy with how I was used and how I was going nowhere. I expected a “What did you expect from us, shits and giggles?” reply, but I was surprisingly allowed to pitch a gimmick for myself. That’s when I gave them my idea that I was a real street thug and that a feud with John Cena was bound to happen, since my pitch and his gimmick at that time were very similar.

The following Raw, I called out John Cena on live TV and said stuff like he was posing and that he shouldn’t be messing with guys like me. This went on until late 2003, when Cena turned face.

During the “open challenge era,” CJ was now cleared and was a planted fan when I was in a handicap match. He was supposed to help me out after the match, but he suddenly hit me from behind with the chair in his hand. That was never part of the plan and he did a shoot promo the following week. Wrestling may be worked but our feud was legit.

We feuded for about five months, including our time on SmackDown. I had a gimmick and added the “uncontrollable rage” bit, but CJ was still simply known as the guy who wanted to take back his spotlight from me. Since I had so many ideas for superstars, I became the first active wrestler in the WWE Creative team.

My idea for CJ was a cross between “Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase, old school Triple H and the Godfather, minus his “hos.” His back story was that his uncle died and left him money. He uses the cash to hire goons to take me out. Because of the hired goons, I decided to take some advice from Cena during the Royal Rumble and go back to the friend I made in the past.

And so it began…

She dismounted, tying their horses into place on a nearby try and, taking some spare clothes and clothe from one of the saddlebags on their packhorse, she started to clean Elegy up. Elegy still stood there like a zombie. What did he care if he was messy and smelled of blood? What did he care if it dried? Nothing. He did not care about anything except for his revenge and for that, he was quite willing to go about killing indiscriminately.

While she wiped away blood like it was dirt, she began to address Merrow, “if you are just going to stand there looking stupid,” she said, “then you might as well see if the soldiers have anything on them that we could use.

He was repulsed. “I am not touching these corpses much less looting them,” he told her stubbornly.

“That was not a request Master Merrow. Just go on and do it.”
Merrow’s mouth widened. He wanted to refuse again but saw that it was pointless. He grumbled as he too dismounted and joined his horse with that of the other two and then gradually, taking as much time as he could at it, he began to approach the corpses to inspect them.

Neither spoke as they went about it. She had said nothing, so Merrow was left to decide on his own as to what they could bring. Arbalest on the other hand was still cleaning Elegy up as if he were a child.

They still did not speak when they finally remounted. The corpses, they left but they had chosen to keep the horses. Extra mounts and packhorses could be useful and they could be killed for food if occasion demanded it.

They rode on. Merrow was glad to be rid of the sight of the dead; Elegy did not really care either nor did Arbalest though it was Arbalest’s indifference that Merrow found worst. It was true that it was most likely Elegy that would kill him without ever smiling but it was Arbalest that had a soul and that one fact made all the difference.

It was getting dark. “They will probably start wondering why their patrol did not return. I think they will come out little by little and then in full force,” Arbalest said. “But it is getting dark and I do not wish to stumble into them in the night. Is there any place we can stay, Master Merrow?” she asked with cold indifference.

“We will reach the outpost this side of the border soon,” he said numbly. “We can stay there though they will most likely see us.” He did not know why he added that last part. From what he saw, it would not have mattered anyway. Nothing would be able to stop Elegy, he realized. For the very first time, he began to believe that he did kill all the tyrants and this filled his heart with fear. He thought he could face death but he feared abandoning them for he knew that they would kill him without a second thought if ever he attempted it.
“It does not matter,” she said giving voice to what he had thought. “We are bound to face the whole garrison anyway. Thinning them down before making the main thrust will just benefit us more,” she said. They pressed on.

They reached the outpost just as the sun had grudgingly given away its last orange glow to the darkness. There was a half moon out providing light to anyone going his or her way. It did not matter though. They had not bothered with their tracks at all.

They settled down, picketing the horses first and then made sure that their needs were met. The outpost was just a small complex, a barracks and a small ground for horses. There was even an area for mechanized vehicle but upon inspection, they found the tracks to be old. Mechanized vehicles were rare and they did not think that they would have to deal with any of those two-wheeled ones unique to Last Hope, which the army used proficiently for reconnaissance and quick response.

She brought Elegy inside the building, instructing Merrow to make a fire for them. The technology invested in military property was extensive but they did not so much hope that they would find anything useful in here. Everything would probably have been taken by Charity’s military when it left or used up by Last Hope’s. At the most, they might be lucky to find some food and other luxuries that could not be used by either army but they would not be able to use any special technology-the power supply was probably the first thing they would have taken.

She did not reemerge until a good fire had been made. She immediately brought Elegy close, keeping him within the warmth but staying by his side to make sure nothing happened to harm him.
“What?” she demanded when she noticed Merrow staring at them. He was openly curious now, equal parts repulsed and enthralled at the strange Elegy who was sickly and had to be babied and yet could take out five grown men on horseback single-handedly with little effort.

“Nothing,” he muttered. He began to prepare their meal for the night.

“Listen, about earlier,” he began.

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you having second thoughts?” she asked him. He shook his head in his fear. “It would not have mattered if you did. I would allow you to leave but you probably would not survive the night,” she said with her casual air.

“It is just with all this trouble and talks of the devil and the end of the world-what exactly is he Arbalest?” he asked and the fear grew in him but to his surprised, she turned to Elegy and her features softened into a mixture of affection and pity.

“He is a man,” she said. “A tired beaten man who will stop at nothing to get his revenge.” She returned her gaze towards Merrow, her eyes ablaze.

Merrow was taken aback. He gazed into the fire, afraid to face Arbalest’s intense gaze but even more so fearful of seeing Elegy and finding himself reflected in the lifeless man’s eyes.