One Year Ago
Darlington Estate
London, England
The towel was itchy.
With all the things going on around William Darlington at that exact moment, one thought, one trivial, simple thought had fought its way to the forefront of his mind. Nevermind the Interpol agents swarming around him, moving every which way. Nevermind Reginald standing in the middle of it all, commanding agents one way or the other. Nevermind Lord Blackwing being thrown into the back of a van. Nevermind the cuts and bruises across William's face and arms. William sat on the bumper of an ambulance. The air was chilly, and the police had given him a blanket to wrap himself up in. And Lord Almighty did the fucking thing itch.
"You doing alright?"
Reginald walks up to William, looking down at him.
"All things considered? Marvellous."
"It's a lot to process all at once. Hang in there."
There's a silence for a moment. William stares at the ground. The questions were there, but he wasn't quite sure where to begin. He could feel Reginald staring at him, waiting the questions that weren't coming. Finally, William speaks.
"So...It's safe to assume that your name isn't Reginald Churchill Chesterfield Esquire whatever the fuck it was?"
Reginald laughs, shaking his head.
"I'm afraid not."
He removes his badge from his pocket, holding it in plain view for William to see.
"Silas Beckett, Interpol. I've been working undercover, tracking Blackwing for five years."
"I wasn't aware Interpol did undercover work."
"There are a lot of things you're not aware Interpol does. That's sort of the point."
William opens his mouth to reply, but closes it, deciding against it.
"Blackwing has a lot of secret dealings that we've been keeping an eye on for some time. Smuggling, for example."
"Smuggling?"
Beckett takes a seat next to Darlington on the bumper.
"It turns out Edward Blackwing was illegally shipping stolen goods and black market items to the US...and achieved this using a certain shipping fleet owned by an 'Empire Shipping Co.'"
"My father's business."
"When your father died, he left all assets to Blackwing until you came of age, at which point you would take your position at the head of the company. Since you never claimed your title, it left our friend Edward to continue using the ships as he saw fit...that is, sending things across the pond to the states."
"Illegally."
"Bit of a brilliant operation, to tell you the truth. It took us some time to figure out how he was managing it. Slow movement overseas, so it was tough to pin down exactly when and where he was transporting."
"Which was?"
"Weapons, mostly. There's always a need for them. Always buyers. We'll be cleaning up this mess for a while, I'm afraid."
There's another silence. Beckett steals a glance at William, who continues to stare at the floor.
"You sure you're doing alright? I realize this is quite a bit to take in."
"Just...thinking of my next move, I guess."
The whole situation was a nightmare. The house was still burning behind him, with firefighters racing around, trying to put it out. William spots the van pulling away. Though he couldn't see inside, he knew that Blackwing sat inside, handcuffed, prepared to be taken....somewhere.
"What's going to happen to him?"
"Prison."
"Where?"
"We've got a, ah...private party that's interested in Mr. Blackwing's case, and we think it might be in our best interests to entertain this party."
"And what party would that be?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell-"
"The man raised me for as long as I can remember. Come on...you can't tell me anything?"
Beckett looks at William. He sighs.
"You're not allowed to know about this."
"Complete confidentiality. Of course."
"There's a private company in the states that operates a prison specifically for...we'll say 'special individuals.' They've taken interest in Mr. Blackwing, and we're considering taking them up on that offer."
"Why?"
"The prison's inescapable. It's usually used by world leaders...sort of a way to get rid of their worst perpetrators without putting a bullet in their heads."
"Blackwing is that bad?"
"Well...no. But we would like to get to know this prison and company a little bit more, and we think allowing them to work with us on the Blackwing case will make life a little easier."
William nods. He swore he'd heard one of the agents mention a prison earlier...but he'd heard so many things over the last few hours, it was difficult to focus in on one tiny detail. He stares up at the house. The second floor of the east wing was completely destroyed. Fire had consumed most of it, but it was mostly contained by now, and looked as though it wouldn't be moving to the west side of the house. Instead, the fire looked to climb downward, eating the floors of the second and third floors and falling to the first.
"I hate to say it, but I think you may need a new place for a while."
"Certainly seems that way, doesn't it?"
William laughs. It felt good to laugh. For the first time that night, he was able to let go and relax, if only for a moment. The night felt like it had gone on for ages...but according to William's pocketwatch, the clock had barely struck eleven.
A sharp gust of wind stings Darlington to the bone. Instinctively, he pulls the scratchy blanket tighter. Beckett stands, stopping a passing agent. The two comminicate for a moment. William stares, interestedly, trying to pick up on what they're saying. It's a futile effort. Beckett is making a point to not be heard by Darlington. William stands, stretching his legs. Immediately, his leg buckles. He groans. Immediately, he sits back on the bumper, pulling his leg close to him, and rubbing his ankle. Now that most of the excitement was over, it seemed all these nasty injuries were starting to take their effects. Darlington felt the throbbing pain in his ankle. He was suddenly aware of a burn on his left arm and hip, and a sizeable gash in his forehead. Darlington runs his fingers along the cut. At least it had stopped bleeding.
"William!"
William looks up at Beckett and the other agent.
"William, do you have anyone we might be able to contact? Someone who may be able to take you in for a while, at least until we can find more permanent accomodations?"
"I could find a suite, I'm sure."
"Agent Livery said the same. However, given the events of the night, I think it would be best, both for your safety and your sanity, if you found a friend or family member. Do you know of anyone?"
WIlliam pauses. He had an aunt somewhere near the Scotland border, but he hadn't seen her since before his father passed. William had heard of other relatives, scattered across England, but he really wasn't close with any of them. And friends? The Blackwings were the closest friends the Darlington family ever had, at least in England. Of course, there was also...
"My father had a contact in America. An Evans family."
"Are you close with them?"
"I was friends with their daughter growing up."
"We'll give them a call, see if we can't make arrangements. Are you sure you're okay with returning to the states?"
William smirks.
"I'll manage."
Silas nods and smiles warmly at Darlington. Truth was, William hadn't seen the Evans family in years. He'd kept in contact with their daughter, though. They'd been good friends growing up. Sofia Evans. She had always been a sweet girl. The last William had heard, Sofia had recently gotten married. Some southern businessman, but William couldn't remember the name. Jeffrey, John...something with a J.
The thought hits him: What if Sofia won't take him in? She was married, after all. The two had been childhood friends, but they hadn't seen each other in years. Would she even recognize him? Would her husband approve of her allowing a stranger into their home? William wasn't sure quite how long he was going to be there. The questions keep coming, and are interrupted only when Beckett returns.
"We're going to get you on a flight to America as soon as we can. Be sure to give your friend Miss Evans a call. Once you get situated, we'll discuss your next move."
Silas looks at William.
"You gonna be okay?"
William nods.
"Yeah...I think this'll be alright."
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One Year Ago
An Apartment
Atlanta, Georgia
William looks up at the high-rise in front of him. He glances at the slip of paper in his hand. This was certainly the place. He'd never taken Sofia as the type to live in one of these apartment complexes...then again, he'd never suspected she'd live in the middle of the big city, either, yet here it was, smack in the central hub of Atlanta. William slowly steps through the glass doors, into a gorgeous lobby. A young man sits at a desk, watching a small monitor.
"Excuse me?"
The man looks up.
"Yeah?"
"I'm looking for the Evans residence?"
"Who're you?"
"Family friend. I called three days ago, told her I'd be stopping by. Where might I find her?"
"Evans, you said?"
"Yeah."
"I think you got the wrong building."
"No, no. She gave me this address. Said to talk to the security at the front desk, that he'd know."
"Well, I'm the security at the front desk, and I don't know any Evans."
Darlington clenches his teeth. The guard had hardly looked up from his screen. He was already shrugging William off. What if he was right? Had William heard the wrong address? Sofia wasn't the type to play games like that. And she'd sounded genuinely concerned over the phone when she heard William's problem, and happy to help when he told her he needed a place to stay.
"Sofia Evans? That doesn't ring any bells?"
"Look, I've got better things to do than have this little back and forth all day, alright? Check your address. Give her a call. Figure something out. Maybe she couldn't understand you through that accent, right?"
The guard chuckles at his own joke. William fumes. He reaches for his phone, and looks for Sofia's name.
"She changed it!"
The guard's eyes flit from the screen to William for a split second, then back.
"Sir, Miss Evans was recently married. Her name wouldn't be Evans anymore, it'd be her husband's name."
"Fantastic. And what's that name?"
"I...don't know."
"You're a goldmine of useful information, aren't you?"
"Please...is there anyone named Sofia anywhere in this building?"
The guard looks at William. He groans.
"Alright, fine, I'll see what I can find. Give me a second."
He gets up out of his seat and pulls a book from the shelf behind him. Slowly, he flips through the pages, stopping every so often and pointing at something on the paper.
"Only one we got is a Sofia Sinclair. Rents out the penthouse. Top floor."
"Thank you."
"Sure. That all?"
"For now."
William puts as much distance as he can between himself and the security desk. He shakes his head. That was America for you. It was always such a hassle. Everyone always had their own agenda to look after, didn't they? Darlington steps into the elevator.
"Top floor."
The attendant nods. Sofia was certainly doing well for herself, it seemed. The complex was very nice, save for the angry security staff. The elevator was well-lit, decorated with mirrors on the side walls and ceiling. The elevator operator was a nice touch. William had often thought that such a job was a bit of a lost art. A trivial task, to be sure, but it reeked of elitism, and that was the sort of thing that William loved most in life.
"Top floor. Have a nice day."
William gives a small bow to the operator, and steps off the elevator. The elevator lobby is small on the top floor. A bench sits against the left wall, and the doors to the stairwell to the right. Ahead stands a single double-door, with a small golden plaque to the right.
Mr. & Mrs. Jackson Sinclair
Jackson. That was the name. William logs it in the back of his mind, satisfied that the riddle that had plagued him the last few days was solved. He knocks on the door.
"Jackson...Jackson...Jackson,"
William mutters under his breath, trying to commit the name to memory. If he was going to have to explain his presence to a woman's husband, he should have the courtesy to know the man's name. The door opens.
"Will!"
Sofia throws her arms around William's neck. William gently pats the small of her back.
"Lovely to see you, Sofia."
"I thought you might have gotten lost. It's a big city, Atlanta."
"No, no. No problems at all. Just a security guard."
"Cole? Did he give you problems down there?"
William says nothing, but gives a small half-shrug.
"He means well, but he's a bit stand-offish sometimes. I keep telling him he should really be less paranoid about visitors..."
She trails off, staring out into space, shaking her head. Without warning, she snaps back to reality.
"Please! Come in. You need any help with your bags?"
"I'm perfectly capable, thank you."
William lifts his bags - a large duffel bag and a rolling suitcase - and steps into the apartment. It's a two-story loft, decorated in a very modern theme. Everything has a sleek, streamlined design to it, from the large TV hanging on the wall in the living room to the glass staircase, spiralling up to the second floor, where a balcony overlooks the living room and the floor-to-ceiling windows, which give a breathtaking view of the city.
"Can I get you something? I was thinking of making tea, but I thought I might wait until you arrived. I figured you might like some."
"I would, indeed. Thank you."
Sofia smiles.
"Take a seat! Make yourself at home."
She motions William inside before retreating around the corner to the kitchen. William looks around. It certainly seemed like a nice place to live. Everything seemed extravagant. Artistic. There was a purpose for everything in the home, but careful steps had been taken to ensure that each item was pleasing to the eye, and complimentary to the other objects in each room.
"You seem to be doing very well for yourself, Sofia."
"Thank you. Yeah, Jack runs his own business. It's, um...pretty lucrative."
"Where's he at? I was hoping to meet him."
"He should be back by now...he ran out to pick up some things for dinner tonight. I thought he would have beat you here."
A large painting in the den catches William's eye. He steps into the room, looking around. There's a carved wooden desk which houses a computer and a rather large stack of files and papers. Bookshelves line most of this room, with a fireplace at the opposite end. It's above this fireplace where the painting sits. The image shows an arm, extending from white clouds and bright light, pointing to a barren wasteland of fire and suffering. In the center of the piece, a man is shown, split between the world of darkness and the world of light. He falls away from the clouds, towards the destruction. The light, shining on half the man's face, show boyish features, a handsome, masculine form. The darkness, casting shadow on the other side, causes the man to look distorted, old, angry.
"Oh. That old thing."
William jumps slightly at Sofia's voice. She hands him a steaming cup.
"It's a marvellous piece."
"The fall of Lucifer. Jack bought it...said he felt connected to it somehow."
Sofia stares at the painting for a moment.
"I always thought it was kind of an ugly thing. But he loves it, so here it is, in his study."
"It's certainly interesting."
The two of them look at the portrait. It IS a remarkable work. The detail, especially in the face of Lucifer...the distortion in his face, a stark contrast to his pure, angelic state as it falls. The front door opens, bringing Darlington out of his trance.
"Hon? You around anywhere?"
It's a strong voice with a thick southern accent. His voice is calm, soothing, a distinctively high-class tone to it. William recognized the tone well. Sofia's face lights up.
"Jack? We're in your study. I've got someone here I'd like you to meet!"
She looks at me, smiling wide. William hears Jack's footsteps across the wooden floors.
"Now, you ain't talkin' about your pal from across the big blue, are ya? Sweetheart, you know I've been itchin' ta meet-"
Sinclair turns the corner into the room, and immediately, his and William's eyes meet. Jackson freezes. William opens his mouth to say something, but words completely escape him, so his jaw simply hangs slightly open. Sinclair himself seems to be struggling with the words, a feeling Darlington was greatly struggling to overcome. They had met before, Darlington and Sinclair. Back then, though, things were different. Since then, Sinclair had cut his hair and dyed it brown. He'd adopted a thick southern accent that wonderfully hid his true voice. He had even taken to wearing brown-colored contacts...but some things could never be altered. The smile...the scars across his face...that expression, eternally etched into his features, a man always calculating several moves ahead. Yes, William had most definitely met Jackson Sinclair before. But then, he went by a different name. Then, he went by the name of Charles Matthews.
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Present Day
William drives an elbow into a punching bag. He throws a few punches, sending up a cloud of chalk from his hands with each blow. Slowly, he stops, turning towards the camera.
"Some of you may know my face."
He pauses, thinks on this a moment, and shrugs.
"Perhaps not. But for those who remember...for those who know my face, have seen my work...you might find yourselves a bit confused right now. What is it that William Darlington, England's Favourite Son, hopes to accomplish by returning to the ring? Or, I suppose the better question is, 'What makes you think that this time around will be any different?'
I know what the rumours must be. I recall all too well my last stint in this sport. I did alright for myself. Made a bit of a splash. And then I just...disappeared. Gone! Without a trace...and here we are three years later. What's changed? What have I been doing the last few years to make myself think that I might stand a chance, or that I might succeed where I failed be-"
"The fuck are you doing?"
Darlington clenches his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he stares off camera at the mystery speaker.
"Filming a promo."
When the voice responds, it’s in a sarcastic tone, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.
"Oh. Right, of course. What was I thinking? You're filming a promo. And what were you going to talk about?"
"I was getting to that..."
Darlington returns his gaze to the camera.
"My last run in this business wasn't exactly-"
"Alright. I'm going to stop you right there. Two things. First: This ain't the same company. Second: Even if it was, your last go-around was a flop. You know what those two add up to be?"
Darlington says nothing, just staring off-camera, his expression darkening with every word.
"It's a big ol' heaping pile of 'Nobody gives a fuck.' Alright? We on the same page here? Nobody cares that you've been in the ring before. Unless you're some super hotshot champion or whatever, or this is the same company you competed in before, you can never assume anyone knows anything."
"I was getting to that. I was going to mention that I was a contender-"
"No. You weren't going to mention that, because nobody fucking cares. I was there, I watched it happen, and I STILL don't give a shit. What makes you think these fans, in a completely different company, who make a point to NOT watch other shows, are going to be interested? What makes you think...who are you up against?"
"Jaime Alejandro and Justin Brooks."
"Handicap?"
"Tag team. I've got Kandi Sinclair in my corner."
"So...a handcap. Right.”
Darlington frowns, narrowing his eyes at the speaker
“Write this down. Rule Number Four: Rely on nobody. If you're in a tag match, assume it's a handicap. Partners are liabilities. At the end of the day, you can only count on one person to win a match, and that's yourself."
"Speaking from experience, I'm sure."
Darlington speaks coldly. He’d been studying under this guy for a month and already there was nothing he wanted more than to sock him right in his self-righteous face.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact I am. Remember, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. There's some great wisdom to be found in that expression."
William sighs in exasperation.
"Right. Fine. Treat it like a handicap. That doesn't help me any."
"It does. When you're prepared to take on two men at once, one of two things will happen. Either A, your partner is a flop, and you've prepared yourself to take on two guys alone. Or B, your partner kicks ass, and you get off easier than you anticipated. See how that works? Be prepared for any situation. Be able to think your way out of any predicament. Always have a plan. That's rule number one. Write that down: Always have a plan."
William frowns, muttering under his breath.
"All I need to know, I learned from-"
"New rule. Sarcasm gets you nowhere. What number are we on?"
"I don't know. Eighteen?"
"Rule Eighteen: Talk back to me, and I'll put my foot so far up your ass, you'll be tying my shoelaces with your teeth. Got that?"
“That’s an actual rule now? Lovely, I’ve gotten a rule made specially for me.”
“Alright, fine! I was doing this as a favor to Sofia, but fuck it. Do it your way, see what happens.”
Footsteps fade as the speaker heads to the door. William groans.
“Fine....fine...you win. What do you recommend I talk to the people about?”
“What people?”
“I don’t know. My opponents. The fans. Management. Who looks at these things?”
“And there’s the problem right there. I want you to think about something. Who is your audience? Everybody and their dog does this filming stuff, where they stand in front of a camera and just talk their little hearts out...who are they talking to? You ever think about that?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“It needs to be at the forefront of your mind. All the time. Know your audience. Know who you’re addressing. If you’re speaking to your opponent, make sure you’re speaking to your opponent. If you’re trying to rally the fans, be sure you’re addressing the fans. Just sitting there and saying ‘You this’ ‘you that’ doesn’t do a God damned thing. So choose. Who are you addressing?”
“The fans, I guess.”
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. So what would you like to tell the fans? We’ve already established that you can’t talk about previous work experience, because there’s a damn good chance nobody here has seen it. If they don’t know about it, it didn’t exist. That’s the general rule of thumb. You’re in a new world now. Past accomplishments? Past runs? Do you think the fans are going to put any weight in that without seeing for themselves what you can do?”
Darlington opens his mouth to respond, but as usual, the speaker hasn’t finished talking.
"Rhetorical question. The answer is ‘No. They won‘t.’ Get that through your head right now, alright? Nobody cares about William Darlington. That's a tough pill to swallow, but choke it down now and it'll all be easier."
“So enlighten me. What SHOULD I talk about? What, with my little experience, and my lack of a history I can actually use?”
“You want to know what you should say?”
There's a moment of silence. Without warning, there's a crash, and the camera topples, smashing to the floor. It still records, though every so often, the screen glitches due to damage to the machine. While the video only shows up to Darlington's knees, the microphone still picks up every sound, every breath, and every footstep.
“The FUCK is the matter with you?”
“You don’t say anything. You wanna know something? Fuck your promo. You don’t need one.”
"What are you on about now?"
"I mean you don’t GET to talk about yourself. You understand that? You’re a rookie. You’re fresh meat. You’re fodder for management to feed to a veteran. Every company does this. You got guys who have been around for ages. Management knows what they can do. Management has a firm grasp on their skill set. So when a rookie pops up, they feed the new guy to these vets and see how he does. It’s a hierarchy, see? The better you do against these guys, the more weight you’ll have to swing around. THAT’S how you move up the ladder. THAT’S how you earn respect in this business. You don't talk into a fucking camera. You beat the guys that people talk about. Get it? Find the best in the company. Get them talking about you. Find the best in the business. Get THEM talking about you. THEN maybe you'll have some leeway. Until then? You don't have the right. I mean...this?”
The speaker picks up the camera, and rattles it.
“This is bullshit.”
He tosses the camera back to the floor.
“People hype themselves up until the cows come home, and that's all well and good. You know what those little hype videos are for? To put asses in seats. That's for the stars. That's for people with drawing power. Guess what you DON'T have?"
"Drawing power?“
“Halle-fuckin'-lujah, it can be taught!”
“So, what...these are a waste of time then? So what about you? You made an entire career-"
"I also established myself as someone who could take care of himself. Someone who posed a threat to the big names. Most importantly, I established myself as someone worth listening to. If I walked to the ring every week and got my ass kicked, I could guarantee you that nobody would have paid me any attention. Yeah, you're right, hype is nice. Words are nice. Words are weapons. But you don't get the keys to daddy's Porsche until you've mastered mom's minivan, you know? Later in your career? Sure, talk all you like. Words will give you power. But for now?"
There’s a loud thud, and the punching bag rocks, indicating that the speaker has hit it.
"THIS is what gives you power."
"So what do you propose? If I can't tell the people what I'm capable of-"
"You go out and you prove it to them.”