...
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What makes me any different? What makes me any different?...Such a well placed question. You know me, know me well. Know me enough to know that answer. Know me well enough to know that such a question as that, I cannot help but answer. What makes me different Ichabod? Everything and nothing. I am as beyond the average two bit murderer as you are beyond the average two bit piece of trailor park trash. You name the greats, I've outdone them. A thousand times over. If not more. Dahmer, ametuer. Bundy, beginner. Jack the Ripper, small time. Cain--the first of his kind--just a boy. They're only a small piece of what I am. Only a drop of what I'm made of. You know it too, don't you? And you know all too well what I could do to you, if I really wanted, if I really felt like it.
Ichabod turns the music on the stereo near the table all the way down. He looks around as if he had heard something... like someone talking. A small voice in the back of his head it had almost seemed.
On the table before him has been set a dish of food, lasagna. He's been picking at it, not really wanting it. But he needs his strength, the training has gotten so intense that he barely has time to think, barely has time to eat, barley has time to breathe. And sleep? Sleep is an abstract. Ichabod pushes the plate away from himself and leans back in his chair. He reaches to turn the stereo back up, but then he hears it again.
Ichabod's eyes widen as he hears the voice. It seems to be coming from all sides at once, an ambient, androgynous voice, and yet it feels like its inside his head as well.
Necron. Playing head games again, my old friend? Can I expect a locked door to swing open? The phone to ring with "Confess" being the only word at the other end? Is my lasagna going to float in front of me and laugh? Please man, please try it. I've seen scarier shit in my day, and half of it came at my own hands.
But regardless of the outcome, it makes no major impact on The War itself. This is only a small game.
One of many yet to come.
All he had to do was hand it over. But he refused. And this is where it got him. He tried to take us out. Brought this whole place up in flames. Ran for miles and miles. Hid. Laid traps. Hired guns. Hired thugs. But it didn't make it stop Ichabod. It didn't. He knew, deep down that it wouldn't too. But he did it all the same. He served his purpose. If he had one. If you want to believe it, James couldn't escape his design; he couldn't break free of his purpose. Neither can you. Or I, for that matter. The question the comes down to who has the greater purpose, Ichabod. You, or me. Who plays the more important part in the grand game? That answer is simple. Me. You? Ha. You're just another monkey. What could you do that would make any difference? What could you possibly do that would change the very nature of the grand game, hmm? Deafeat me in a contest of will? Would that throw everything into a screeching halt? No. Would my smothering you in your sleep turn the tide of the greater war either way? Of course not. This battle means nothing in the greater purpose. If that's what you want to believe in. But I'll win it, just the same."
I'm a monkey now huh? So this match doesn't matter much to you? So why all the trouble, Necron? If I'm just another guy, why all the voices? Why the note? Why did you go to lengths to get this match with me, toying with Darren Gazinya's head the way you did? I find it hard to believe its all for nothing. Its possible you know something about me that I don't yet, and I don't think you believe what you're saying half as much as you want me to. No, you want me convinced that this is another match, another day, another harvest for myself. Because you know that if I find out there is something greater on the line, that this match you've cunnived to have means more to the grand design than what's been let on, then I'll fight harder, and with a stronger will, than if I believe it is just another match. Don't you know me by now Necron? Shouldn't you have figured out that it doesn't matter how much is at stake, I'm going to fight like its my last match, that I'm going to put it all on the line each and every time as if my whole career depended on it? Each match is important to the greater design, Necron, at least in my book. There are no small battles anymore at this level. This match is the most important right now, because it is right now. Right here and now. We never know whats going to happen tomorrow, and each moment is precious, each battle has meaning. This battle has meaning to you, I know, or you wouldn't have wanted it so badly. So bad in fact, that you had to play with Darren to be absolutely sure you got it, when you knew all you had to do was ask. No, you needed it in writing because it is that damn important to you.
But maybe, just maybe--there is no design. Maybe there is no greater purpose. Maybe everything is left up to chance, up to the roll of the dice. Maybe you, maybe everyone is on their own in the end. Perhaps, just perhaps there is no higher purpose. Could it possibly be that there is no greater design? I know the truth Ichabod, but do you? The truth is God is just sitting up there somewhere on his ass, watching everything like some Great and Mighty couch potato; and not for one moment is he interested in getting up off his ass and doing anything to help anyone. Much less save them. And why should he? Do you care about the fate of ants on a small desert island halfway across the globe? Do you care if they live or die? Do you care if they believe in you? I thought not. God's no different. He made everything, and then sat down to watch and see if his creation would tear itself apart.
Not that he really cares who wins or who loses in the end. Only that it's entertaining. But this greater game isn't about Him. No. It's about you. The fucking monkeys. You who were made in his image. You, who he loves most of all. You, who he gave everything to, including his own son. And what have you done with it all? I'll tell you what you've done with it. You've shit on it and tossed it back in his face like the monkeys you are. That is why I loathe you. That is why I hate you. That is why I have such a passion for my work. And you know this. You know my only driving desire is to slaughter you and the rest of your kind. All of you. All I live for is to see you die by my hand. Or at my feet, begging for mercy. And I'd love to put you to the blade, right here and now. I'd smile, I'd laugh as I danced merrily in your blood. But that's not why I'm here...Not right now anyways. Because I know it's here. Somewhere near. Someone close. I don't know who...yet. But I will find it, mark my words. And I will remember, all too well, who made the right decision and assisted me, and who made the grave mistake of getting in the way of long term business. When I do find it, I'll have my day. And your entrails to decorate the halls of my memory.
Ichabod pushes his chair out and paces around the table. He places his hands behind his back and leans slightly foward as he walks, a look of confusion on his face.
So God is this couch potato that you hate, and yet you hate us, the monkeys, because we shit on his gifts? Interesting. And you only live for the kill, yet you won't kill me because thats not why you're here? Ah, this makes perfect sense. I get it now. You're a walking contradiction. You've decided this isn't important enough to kill me over, yet you can't wait to get my entrails.
Ichabod moves his fist around his midsection as if gutting himself with an invisible knife. Then suddenly he stops walking and throws his arms out to the side.
You want me in that way so bad, come and get me, I'm right here! Prove yourself to me, Necron? I know what you're problem is, you want to kill me, kill others, but you can't. You're limited. You have rules and regulations to follow. You have this honor code you are bound to, this code not to do whatever your little heart desires, because you know there will be consequences and repercussions that you aren't ready to deal with.
Ichabod drops his arms at his side, but continues to stare up.
. On the other hand, I have no codes, regulations, morals, cares at all really. I have likes and dislikes, but as far as following rules... well I never was much of a follower, and you know that. And I don't care about the consequences. None of them. I live and act for the present, and what happens tomorrow is just tomorrow, and I'll deal with it when it gets here. If I kill something today, and it comes back to haunt me tomorrow, am I sorry? Hell no, I enjoyed the kill, I enjoyed it all day, and you ought to know by now that I'll enjoy the punishment even more.
Steve slams through the door to the dining room, and encounters Ichy standing back-to, and staring up at the highest point on the wall. The wall is decorated with many pictures, but Ichabod is focused on one alone. And, taking no notice of Steve, he seems to be talking to it. Steve's blood runs ice cold as he recognizes the most recognizable face in the world in the picture. Jesus Christ.
Not that Steve is a very religious guy in and of himself, but a lot of the rooms in the facility have pictures of men and women that Steve had respect for, great men and women in history. Jesus Christ is one of these.
But saying that Steve's shock came from which picture Ichabod was yelling at would be a lie. In Steve's experience, most pictures of Christ showed him staring to heaven in reverence, or with his eyes downcast in sadness for his world. This picture showed Christ staring straight out, and Steve knows for a fact that this was one of the sad pictures. Now it has changed. He wheels around the room to try to get into Ichy's line of sight, and glances back up at the oil painting of the Messiah. What he sees there makes him want to scream, but he holds it inside. Also in Steve's experience, when a picture showed a face staring out, the eyes seemed to follow you around the room if you looked at it. Kinda spooky, but not half as horrifying as what he sees here.
Though Steve is almost halfway to the wall where the picture of The Son hangs, the eyes of Christ still stare straight out at Ichabod, as if he were hearing every word. Steve gives up on trying to get Ichabod's attention, and can only stare at those eyes... eyes that oddly contain no love, no morose lamentations... no emotion at all.
Ichabod hears Steve come into the room, but it doesn't register. He is more focused on what's before him, the face of Necron himself. It's right there on the wall, framed in wood, staring at him in hate. Eyes so full of hate. Menace. Warning. He thinks he sees the lips moving as he hears Necron's words again, but he's not sure if it is an illusion, because the lips barely move at all.
My day will come Ichabod. Like it or not. The High will tremble at the sight of what I do to this happy mindless little existence, God himself will turn away from his Great and Mighty television set, appaled from the sight his all seeing eyes behold. It'll be beautiful. And as much as I hate you, as much as I loathe you, as much as I'd rather see your mangled corpse become a maggot farm...I want to offer you something. A choice. Run now. Get out of my way. Or join me. Join the good Reverend and learn how to evolve far beyond the monkies, the meatpuppets, and the mindless cattle. At last truly accept what you've always claimed Ichabod by taking up a new flag. For the first time in your life, realize your true potential under the guidance of the good Reverend. You came so close, once, and then you ran away. He does not make this sort of offer to just anyone. Much less twice.
Join us, Ichabod. Or run. Run now. Run until you can't run anymore. And hide. Don't even show up sunday night. Take the lovely Diedre and go back to that tropical paradise. Live out the rest of your remaining days in luxury. Forget all about James. Forget all about this place. Forget all about me. Forget all about the Harvest. Forget all about EVERYTHING....But if you must act brave. If you must rush headfirst into battle. Then be my guest. Charge right at me, swinging away with your little fists. Or come at me with a knife. A sword. A chainsaw for all that it matters.
Join you... or run. My only options besides fighting. Run. Not my style, and you know it. Fight. My favorite. Tempting... but you offer it as a last option. Is it that you went to all this trouble and then decided you didn't want this fight afterall?
Ya know for all your fucking headgames, Necron, for all the bizarro effects you pull on me and Brian, its your words that really fuck with my head. You want to hurt me? Yes. This fight means nothing? Yes. So why now are you trying to get out of it? If you are so great, so fucking great indeed, why can't you just kill two birds with one stone? If you are as unstoppable as you say you are, then you could come and face me, hurt me, and not worry about whether or not I win. Hell, if there is nothing riding on this match, then you could kill me where I stand, get disqualified, lose, and you'd still be fine, because me and this match MEAN NOTHING!
A smile creeps slowly across Ichabod's face.
Or is that, being the oh so wise guy you are, you've realized that you made a serious mistake? Did you finally realize, wait, this is Ichabod, he probably DOES have a good chance at beating me. Did you remember that BG beat your ass in WxW, and that I beat his ass in rDw? Maybe that's why you're making excuses for yourself... In thought you are saying, Necron might lose... in word you are saying, oh it doesn't matter about this match really. YOU PRACTICALLY BEGGED DARREN FOR THIS MATCH NECRON!
And as for joining you, well I have to ask... whats in it for me?
Step up to the plate and cut my throat, cut my head off for all the good it''ll do--I am the hydra--two more grow back hard. I am an ever expanding legion. And this? This is your only warning. Stay out of long term business Ichabod. There are whips in Hell. There are chains in Sheol. But they didn't stop me. James made the mistake of interfering in long term business, and you know where he is now. He thought he could stop us. So he rolled the dice. James made his gamble. And it failed. Miserably. He didn't stop us. And neither will you. Or anyone, for that matter.
My time here is almost up Ichabod. But let me remind you, one last time. Join me, run away, or follow James's lead and step up to the plate. Take a roll on the dice, and pray. Because that's about all the chance you've got. You're not going to stop me. At most you're only going to slow me down, for a moment. Sunday night is meaningless. Because your all, your everything, it's nothing to me. You may win this tiny little skirmish, but it changes nothing. I'm better than you. A thousand times better. I was born better. You know it to be true, Ichabod. And remember, you were warned. Stay out of long term business...or else! Now if you'll excuse me, I smell something warm. Something fresh. Something tasty. 5 nice young men from the county, 5 heads of mindless cattle, come home to the slaughter. Dinner is headed this way! And don't doubt for a second that you, or them or anyone, for that matter, is anything more in my eyes than mindless cattle. You're cattle alright. But you're MY cattle. And as my cattle, you all serve but one purpose, if any at all: to feed my hunger. And it is never satisfied.
You've grown stronger, Ichabod. Certainly. Perhaps strong enough to be a worthy adversary in this tiny little skirmish. But never forget that you're only facing a drop of me. A speck. A small taste of my true might. You may win this, perhaps, but it will change nothing. And you know it. So you go right ahead, Ichabod. You go right ahead and give it your all. Give me your everything. It may be enough to get you this small square on the board, but by the time I'm through with this place, you'll realize just how empty, just how meaningless this battle was from the start. Fight me. Hurt me. Try it. But it won't stop me. It never will. James could tell you that, if he were still here. But he got in the way of long time business. And now...well, he's where he belongs. Did you hear him, did you see him, those last few seconds? Did you Ichabod? I hope so. He screamed your name. And then, he did what all good little children must do when their time comes.
Why don't you answer any of my questions, Necron? James didn't step up to the plate, he ran, and in his last moment of desperation, he caused his own death. He went crazy from running so long, because he didn't stand up to his problems. James was a good friend, and I mean him no disparagement, but he bought this. He bought it when he made deals with you and your kind. He bought it like a tract of land, then it came time to harvest it, if you like that phrase. But you're wrong. He wouldn't tell me anything but to keep fighting, and never to run away. That was a damn good man, and you ruined him, Necron, you and those sons of bitches. And now you've all got to pay for it. If I have to plow through all three of you in order, or at the same time, I'll avenge what you did, and whatever he's going through now. You mark my words, boy.
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I may be bound to my purpose, I may be chained to my Word, but I'm not mindless, as much as you'd love to believe that little notion. Lord no. And despite how angry I am at starting all over again...despite how much frustration I have to vent, you will be blessed only with a small sample of my greater wrath. Nomore than a drop. A speck. Any more then that, and you'd be just another smudge on the mat. Another stain to be washed out. You know me Ichabod. You know--you think you know what I am. Or what I'm not. But that in itself is only the beginning. Just like this is only the beginning. The dawning of a new day. A new Harvest. A new game. We all are but pieces moving across the endless board, never knowing our final destination; but we pieces all must play our parts, must we not? And now, we two pieces must collide, must do battle for posession of this small space on the board.
In another room a few doors down, Steve has just found the tape Judas sent Ichabod. It has his first nWo promo on it, and he'd left a note about it being very important that Ichabod sees it. Steve sets it in his lap and manuevers out into the hallway. He intends to let Ichabod finish eating and go watch the tape himself in the meantime, but no sooner is he in the hallway than he hears Ichabod's voice yelling at the top of his lungs. He turns the chair around and wheels in the direction of the dining room as fast as he can make his chair go.
Ichabod sits down on the ground and mumbles to himself out of sheer anger. Steve rolls over and puts his hand on his shoulder, and Ichabod doesn't even respond. Steve looks up, anxious at what he might find. There is the vissage of The Saviour, once again staring down as Steve remembered the oil painting when he bought it. Only he seems to be staring with his sad eyes down at Ichabod.
