As if a SUICIDE scaffold match wasn't bad enough for the young Matt he will now have to do the exact opposite of that. Will the Vet show this rook a lesson in grave-digging?

He is a vision. Of what, one is less sure. But he is unmistakeable. In this latest paradise, it is hard to believe that a man would dress the way this figure is: his face adorned with silver and black, a dark trenchcoat catching a cool breeze that the ground crew takes as a moment of relief from the blazing sun, Titanium Insomniac steps with purpose toward an awaiting limo. An unlit cigarette hangs lazily from his lips, set there immediately upon landing--Shadow is annoyingly particular about his jets.

The crewmen eye him with a certain curiosity. TI is too tired for a degrading remark, too preoccupied with himself to lash out. Sunglasses shield his eyes and prevent a glimpse into his mind. The chauffeur closes the car door and hurriedly takes his place behind the wheel.

From the door of the plane, Jeremiah observes the limo as it departs. His is a stony look as he raises a lighter to his own cigarette. The patience that was so absent on the plane has set in perhaps even deeper. With a nod, he gestures to his own car: a dark blue BMW. The attendant nods back before stepping away to see to other matters. Jeremiah looks back just in time to see the limo leave the landing area.

J: We'll continue...after you rest.
________________

The front desk is bustling with activity by the time TI moves through the doors. The reactions go without saying by this time. One waitress, the same who served and suggested service to Strikmore earlier in the day, now leans against a payphone in a heated argument with someone:

Waitress: I don't know HOW he got my number...I don't give it to guests!

The Insomniac leans against the desk awaiting his key card and ponders the young woman, who is growing increasingly animated. The clerk returns with TI's check-in information and is able to stop long enough to take in the most bizarre guest he's had in quite a while. TI notices his noticing and tilts his head to one side. Amusement doesn't capture it. Neither does irritation.

TI: How do I look? Is my lipstick smeared?

The clerk shakes his head vigorously before completing the tasks to check in his guest. He can feel the agitation radiating from behind the counter and breaking eye contact is his best shield against it. Unfortunately, this particular form is more potent...

TI: Have you ever wanted to pick up that phone and knock a man's teeth out?

Ignoring...just get through this...

TI: Come on...there has to have been at least one douche bag who has walked up to this counter and threatened to sue because the Coke machine is out of Diet, or who has bitched that the service by the pool isn't fast enough, or comments on their feedback card that your tie is crooked and thus indicates sloppy attention to dress code. They've stood right across from you as I am right now with a disgusting air of entitlement and that phone is just BEGGING to be yanked from the wall and slammed across his jaw in one beautiful act of release.

The clerk attempts to steady his fingers just enough to enter the last bit of information into the computer. He clumsily stuffs two cards into the guest envelope and slides it across the counter. TI slams his hand on top of the clerk's before he can pull it away, causing the man to jump. The Sleepless One hasn't yet smiled.

TI: The problem with you and with others throughout this world is that there is so much fear, but not the right kind or amount. You fear opinions. You fear loss of money or security. You fear loneliness. But you don't fear people. At least, you don't fear them once they've shown you mercy or have set their guard down if even for a moment. Otherwise, you know what they can do to you, what they're capable of. You fear their power, another intangible that you can't even be certain exists until they use it. I've done nothing to you. I've walked to this counter and, by my very presence and appearance, have caused you to doubt your safety. My physical being has aroused suspicion within you that something that can't be seen is on the horizon. In other words, you fear ME. The person, not the power.

TI lifts up his hand and the clerk cautiously retracts his own. TI makes a sudden movement as if to slap his hand again, causing the clerk to move more quickly. The clerk sets the check-out list on the counter now. He swallows hard before his sign-off.

Clerk: We're happy to h-have you with us this week. Please...uh...please enjoy your stay.

TI: You don't mean that. You can't wait for me to leave. Now tell me this...(reads the clerk's nametag)...Roger...why can't more people be like you?

The Insomniac turns toward the elevators, cracking his neck. He watches a young honeymooning couple glide across the lobby, without a care in the world. Spitting on the gleaming tile floor, he picks up the pace and presses "8."
___________________

Matt Strikmore is incredibly nervous. As experienced as he is, he's never done something like this before. As the wind blows against his face, he makes little attempt to hide what he is feeling. He can be read like a book. Those around him can see it...he's actually a little embarrassed, but forges ahead. He takes one step...two steps...and falls.

The suddenness of it elicits laughter from those who witness it. For him it was inevitable, as is the yell that escapes his lips. It only swells as he tumbles further, actually startling him...he hadn't predicted his reaction, hadn't properly assessed his capability. But he couldn't until it happened.

Strikmore falls as far and as hard as he possibly can...and then the cord whips him back toward the way he came. Another cry escapes his lips and he's now smiling, even laughing. If one heard it without context, one may wonder about his sanity.

Strikmore falls once again, this time closing his eyes and feeling the air push against his cheeks. He finally settles enough that the workers are able to lower him to the ground and help him out of his gear. Matt stretches to loosen his shoulders, shakes hands with one of the men, and takes a few deep breaths.

MS: Simply incredible.

Voice: Incredible. But not simply.

Strikmore turns to find an unfamiliar face. He is dressed in black slacks and an untucked red dress shirt. The man steps forward, little presumption about him...but that's only a first impression. Strikmore eyes him warily. The man holds up his hands as if to indicate that he's without a weapon. There's more than one kind, of this Strikmore is aware. He won't let his guard down so easily.

J: Apologies. I didn't mean to startle you in any way.

MS: I'm not startled, only curious as to your business.

J: Hm. It doesn't take you long, does it? Fair enough. The name is Jeremiah. I represent Titanium Insomniac.

Strikmore's face hardens.

J: Ah, you've heard of him. Very good.

Jeremiah glances upward where another tourist prepares herself for the drop.

J: It IS incredible. Takes a great deal of courage to do what you just did. The only thing that separates you from the asphalt is an elastic cord with a dubious reputation. You have to give up all other precautions, everything else that you relied on...people, money, even your wits. All abandoned in order to face this task. Quite a metaphor, isn't it?

MS: Quite...but that's not why I did it.

J: Your motives are your own. It doesn't concern me, truth be told. What does concern me is what lies ahead for my associate. That, of course, involves you.

MS: The match at Revolucion.

J: Indeed. But of course, we have a few days before then.

MS: I'm not interested in whatever you're selling.

J: Nothing to sell. In fact, the very opposite. I've already had the chance to sample your hotel restaurant's fine cuisine. The blend of spices in the chicken is exquisite. Have you had the opportunity yet?

Strikmore shakes his head.

J: You will. I've booked reservations for two for 6:30 this evening. Please don't be late.

MS: I think that I've had enough conversation with you for one day.

Jeremiah smirks.

J: It's not for you and me. It's for you and him.

Strikmore curses under his breath. Jeremiah takes another glance upward just as the woman leaps from her perch and lets out her own yell of exuberation.

J: Incredible. Really. You should go again.
___________________

The Insomniac steps out of the bathroom, his head its natural color. He dabs his face with a towel, relishing the soft fabric against his skin. He lowers the towel and faces himself in the mirror across from the bed. He studies his features: the crow's feet forming at the corners of his eyes, the scar on his forehead from colliding with a windshield, a bruise on his cheek from a stiff Drakus punch. For him they are neither trophies, nor do they set off alarms. They are merely signs of life, reminders of what life has done to him.

TI stands and looks closer. A tattoo across his shoulders makes a simple statement even despite its being written in English script:

PRIDE

One of the classic seven. The one he is known for. The one that perhaps brought all his other marks upon him. As he leans in to examine himself more closely, a sneer forms on his lips.

TI: "...deposits representing the accumulated experience of thousands of years of struggle for adaptation and existence."

TI leans back to stand upright.

TI: Jung, you bastard.

His room phone rings. The focus of his sneer shifts as he runs down the shortlist of who would be calling. He begrudges the caller a response.

TI: What.

J: You have reservations for 6:30.

TI: What?

J: I took the liberty of arranging a dinner meeting with Mr. Strikmore.

TI: It is a liberty that you should have left alone.

J: Please. You need to make a strong impression this week after your near-blunder the other night. I am assisting you in that endeavor.

TI: You're overstepping your boundaries, and that has severe consequences.

J: No it doesn't. You and I both know that. Perhaps after dinner I can remind you why. You've been having a problem with forgetfulness the past few days.

TI: I approach my opponents on my own. I set up my own dinners. I set up my own games.

J: Games that you've been losing.

TI: If I'm the one who's chosen, and I'm the one who is to liberate others, and I'm the one with the destiny...why the fuck are you interfering so much?

J: Not interfering. Simply helping things along. It's why I've been involved from the beginning.

TI closes his eyes and runs a hand over his scalp.

J: Hello?

TI: What's your impression of Strikmore?

J: Having an issue with his courage. Prime meat for a guy like you.

The Insomniac's face darkens.

TI: 6:30 it is.

*The tile work of the bathroom floor imprints itself on the kneecaps of Matt. His shoulders shudder and heave, his arms pressing firmly against the tank of his hotel room toilet. His hair desheveled, his body lurches forward once more. Falling to the side, Matt rests his back on the counter, eyes closed and panting heavily. Regaining his composure, Matt smacks his lips and runs his forearm along his mouth.*

Matt: That bungie jump didn't agree with me, I guess.

*He can't even lie to himself anymore. His words faded in volume and effort after the word "didn't". Pressing his head back against the counter in exhaustion, he grips the edge of the counter with his hands and presses himself up. Turning on the water faucet, he ducks his mouth into the stream and spits out the remains of bile and alcohol. He looks up into the mirror at himself, a string of drool hanging from his slighly quivering bottom lip. He looks, and sees that it's still with him. Kneeling in front of the toilet for thirty minutes, and it's still there. The butterflies in his stomach, and the lump in his throat he can't seem to swallow. He vomited all his guts, and just the fear remains.*

Matt: Quite the display, Matt. The surrounding rooms no doubt heard you inspecting the porcelin. You, you are a smooth operator.

*Matt looks at his watch. Twenty past six in the evening. He had to go. He knew this. He'd never seen TI in person. Matches? He'd seen matches. But on television, TI is eight inches tall and very far away. And the miniature version still gave him the shivers from time to time. He grabs a seat on his bed, and keeps a sideways stare on his door. His breath would catch every time he heard someone walking outside. Is he getting escorted there? He wouldn't. Would he? And his stomach churns again. 6:25.*

_________________________________________________________

*A two top table sits in the middle of the resort restraunt. The surrounding tables are noticable repelling themselves from it. It wasn't the staff's doing, but that of the diner's. A martini sits neatly on the table, a person's hand folded neatly in front of it in patient anticipation. In a room of sundresses and suntans, there sits an Insomniac. He steals a glance at a clock just in vision in the kitchen. Forty past six. His lip quivers in a way that relays both a sneer and smirk, smug and disgusted. He signals for the waitress, who noticably steels herself before approaching.*

Waitress: Yes sir?

TI: My dining parter may have fallen ill. He was exposed to something that didn't quite agree with him.

Waitress: So you'll be leaving us for the evening?

TI: My dear, I believe your voice is a bit too eager. My partinage isn't welcome here?

Waitress: Of course, you're welcome here sir...

TI: Welcome, but not invited. I see. I was wondering if you could perhaps send your signature chicken dish to his room, to aid in his recovery.

Waitress: Certainly! I'll be right back...

TI: Oh, ignore my request. My guest seems to have braved the evening.

*Matt wanders into the room, trying to act as if he doesn't know where TI is. It's quite impossible to miss him though. To ensure this, TI gently pushes his chair away from the table, and signals to Matt. Matt catches his eye, and then quickly swings his eyes toward the floor. He mutters to the hostess, and sheepishly makes his way through the crowded dining room. TI extends his hand toward Matt's seat, gesturing for him to sit. TI only sits when Matt finally does.*

TI: I hope the evening finds you well, Matthew.

Matt: Actually, uh, I'm a little under the weather. Drank some tap water.

TI: I'm certain the resorts facilities have adequate water filtration, Matthew. Something airborn, perhaps?

Matt: Yeah, yeah. That's probably it. I wouldn't want to pass this on to anyone, so maybe I should just turn in...

TI: I think you'll find that I'm the one causing the population unease, not a figment of your imagination, Matthew.

Matt: Come again?

TI: Playing at deaf and dumb? The former, at least. I'm well aware of the effect I have on people, especially those built in lesser forges. Some are refined, and some are slag. I take full responsibility for your current condition, so please, allow me to treat you to dinner.

*Matt grabs a freshly baked roll, and tears at it. He doesn't actually eat anything, but makes the appearance of a devoured roll. He's hungry, but he can't eat. TI folds a roll in half, and gnaws at it, never removing his eyes from Matt.*

TI: I couldn't help but notice the time. Did you have trouble finding the place?

*A gleam in TI's eyes dare Matt to answer, compel him to answer in the manner he wants. Instead, Matt goes another route. The momentum slipping left and right, and slightly forward.*

Matt: Have you ever tried to be late to something, but end up showing right on time? Like, you wanted to show up half an hour into the party, but you manage to hit every green light, and the pedestrians give you the right of way? Good luck with horrible timing?

*TI quizically nods.*

Matt: Yeah, I don't have that.

*Matt laughs slightly to himself, his eyes not leaving the scraps of bread he'd made. TI's face turns unreadable, Jeremiah's take on Matt having been slightly off.*

Matt: I always missed the tram car by a second. Missed a wave by a heartbeat. I missed alot of things.

TI: Did anything go missing lately?

*Matt tries to glance up at TI, but can only bring himself to look as far as his upper arm. He saw TI's hands folded around the neck of a martini glass, still untouched. Matt picks up his butter knife, and fumbles with the blade between his fingers.*

TI: Are you sure there's nothing missing? Something you had when you stepped off the plane, but has since gone missing? Something close and personal, something that runs when given the chance? Something I've opened the pen of?

Matt: I know what you're getting at...

TI: I'd certainly hope so. I took you for someone of possible average intelligence, not a retard. But there's still time to for you to convince me of that.

*Matt swings his head to his right, his mouth trying to rebuttal, but his tongue held petrified. He grabs his water glass, hoping to soften it, but to little avail. He speaks in a near whisper, under his breath, as if testing the phrase on his own ears first.*

Matt: I'm not afraid of you, you know.

TI: I'm sorry, what was that? Were you talking to the person at the next table, because you're certainly not facing me. Show some manners, some decency, some spine, and direct it at whom you intended.

*Matt keeps his gaze on the floor to his right. He's now gripping the butter knife tight enough to nearly draw his own blood. TI sits back in his chair and raises his martini to his lips. Grabbing the toothpick, he holds the olive in the air.*

TI: You can't look me in the eye. You caught my eye when you entered the room, and you've had your head bowed as if in prayer since. Tell me, can you even look yourself in the eye and say you don't fear me?

*TI pops the olive into his mouth, as Matt continues his viewing of the floor, his fists nearly shaking the table.*

TI: It's ok. You can run away now. Under the covers with a pillow around your ears. They say it helps you sleep, but they lie. I would know. Go. Run. Run back to your precious home town of nothing.

Matt: I can't.

TI: Pardon.

Matt: I can't run. Lord knows I want to.

TI: I do know that. Run, and save yourself the pain.

*There is a long silence. TI sits in perfect stillness, savoring the moment. Matt wants nothing more to be somewhere else. Finally, TI signals for the check.*

TI: I think that will be all for tonight, dear Matthew.

Matt: I'm not afraid of pain.

TI: No? Why do I doubt your sincerity.

*Matt whips his head up, looking TI in the eyes. His eyes are red, as if fighting off tears. His lower lips is bleeding, having nearly bitten through it. He speaks again, with a jaw set in stone.*

Matt: I'm not afraid of pain. I'm not afraid of anything you can do out there. You think I'm afraid of getting beaten? And you call me retarded? If I was afraid of getting dirty, I'd have never signed this contract. Throw whatever you want at me in that match, and I'll stare it down. You do not get to say I'm afraid of what you can do. You do not have that right.

TI: Bravado. Now tell me, can you say the same of me? You're one word off. Say it. Say you don't fear me.

*Matt's head slowly turns again, a small trickle of red pours out of his fist. Another silence, but not nearly as long.*

Matt: Enjoy your dinner.

*Matt rises from the chair, and walks out of the room. TI smiles as he does so. He gestures for the waitress.*

TI: I've changed my mind again. Please do send him the chicken. He'll need his strength. He'll be having a rough few days.

_______________________________________

*Fade out as we see Matt in his hotel room, sitting on his bed, unable to look up into the mirror.*

Titanium Insomniac almost sweeps back into his hotel room, making no effort to conceal the smug grin on his face. Closing the door, he hangs his cane on the coat rack just inside and removes his jacket. After this careful deed, the cane is back in hand as he play-juggles it back and forth, back and forth.

He breathes deep, breathes the smell of success which, to him, smells very similar to terror. Indeed, how else could he describe the lack of eye contact, the nervous shuffling, at times the responses that trailed off into unintelligible mumbling? Before him sat a man, though he was somehow made less of a man merely by a word from, no, the thought of, The Insomniac sitting calmly before him watching every squirm, delighting in every sought-after distraction, drinking deeply of the anxiety which your favorite Dark Clown has to offer the world?

TI has a mind to click his heels, to preach the story of Macbeth to the unwashed masses, to dine on the flesh of lesser beasts...

That is, until the man sitting in the corner clears his throat. The Insomniac turns to face his compatriot, who shows no emotion. His legs crossed, his elbows propped on the armrests, he is a killjoy vision if ever one existed. TI holds his arms out as if to invite applause. None comes. What a surprise.

TI: You will be happy to know that our man is probably curled up in a ball in his room as we speak, wishing away the hours until all has been accomplished and the pain has departed.

J: How did he react?

TI: He was a staggering vision—literally—of undisciplined anxiety. He is a mess at the mere consideration that THE Titanium Insomniac—for that is what humanoids are taking to calling me now—is his ultimate foil. He shares a cup with Falstaff and they tremble together while greater men fight to win the day. He attempts valor, but betrays himself. I have already prevailed.

Jeremiah waits for it. He knows that such a performance cannot come without one, and finally, The Insomniac takes his bow to an audience of one still refusing to applaud what little effort he needed to muster. Jeremiah's eyes narrow in disappointment. Surely this display of bravado was not also a display of stupidity.

Jeremiah gestures to the chair opposite him. TI waves it off. It is time for celebration, for gloating. In frustration, a loud thud is heard as Jeremiah's fist connects with the table next to him. The Insomniac smirks. It has become an even more delicious pleasure to frustrate such a pompous little prick.

TI: Are you not impressed? Tonight was a cakewalk for me...for US.

J: Tonight was incomplete on your part.

TI rolls his eyes, still refusing to sit.

TI: Incomplete. I barely needed to lift a finger. He has already frightened himself for the both of us.

J: And you rest on that as if there is nothing further to do.

TI: Nothing. I need only blow on him to break him.

J: And yet you haven't.

TI's arms finally fall to his side. He is both incredulous at Jeremiah's lack of encouragement, but also despises the notion of conceding a point. Jeremiah stands, the silver chain inside his shirt gleaming for a moment. He again gestures to the chair. Resentfully, TI finally accepts it. Jeremiah puts a finger to his lips in contemplation and paces for a moment.

J: You remember what I have been saying about why I approached you.

TI remains silent, not content to sit through another lecture. Noting the lack of response, Jeremiah turns toward TI.

J: Don't you?

TI: You remember what I have been saying about soccer moms.

Jeremiah sighs, equally hesitant to concede a point.

J: I am not your parent.

TI: I thank you to admit that.

J: But I AM your guide...and you obviously need one at such a point as this where arrogance has substituted certainty and good enough has substituted absolute. I thought that the months that we have spent together have erased such foolish mistakes from your repertoire, and yet they persist as if you've been ignoring me from day one. Conceit has always been your downfall and it would do you well to bury it once and for all.

TI: What you see as weakness, I see as timing. What you see as hesitation, I see as plotting. To destroy another's will is to wear it down to the point where he cries out for mercy, begs for the world he knew to be restored. Matthew Strikmore is fast approaching the hour where the cries will be endless, where it will be better to simply end the pain rather than restore what was lost.

J: That is liberation. That is what I've been trying to communicate to you.

TI: We share a goal, but differ on method.

J: Your methods have become slow and sloppy.

TI: You have this sense of urgency where none is needed.

J: None needed?

TI: None.

Before The Insomniac can prepare himself, Jeremiah rushes in and places his hand on TI's forehead. TI lets out a yell of agony and surprise as he is

transported to another moment...

A flurry of voices and red flashes create a scene of panic. There is a man barking orders to a few others in white uniforms as they rush over to an overturned red Toyota. The driver, a young man with a sickening gash on his forehead, is carefully lifted from the vehicle and placed on a gurney. He only repeats two words and, while barely whispered, they cut through the din because they are the most important...

"Sharon...Patricia..."

Another moment. Earlier that day in the afternoon. A backyard full of friends laugh and share stories over a grill while a handful of children chase one another with squirt guns. One man excuses himself, patting "John" on the back before disappearing into the house.

He appears again out front, carrying a pair of needle nose pliers in his hand. He crouches down by a yet uncorrupted red Toyota and inches himself face-up underneath the front of the car. A few moments later he is back on his feet and wiping his hands on a towel as he heads back in the house.

"John" can be heard out back saying, "Hey man, where'd you go?" as the scene ends...

...and The Insomniac lets out a furious yell as Jeremiah removes his hand. TI is on his feet and nose to nose with his guide-turned-tormentor.

TI: You had no fucking right to do that again!!

J: I TOLD you that you needed a reminder. I TOLD you that I would provide one after dinner. Now you remember that there IS urgency involved. Now you remember that you can no longer afford to take things for granted. What you think you saw in Strikmore's eyes this evening needs to be converted into absolute CERTAINTY.

The Insomniac's anger keeps him from speaking. Jeremiah's face softens.

J: You missed the jealousy apparent in every movement that your "friend" made that entire day, and the weeks prior to that. Now your family is dead and buried and you roam the streets at night all painted up. He stole your life from you. Of course, retribution was yours later, but after what? After I showed you. After I brought to you the truth out of your own desires and memories.

TI: (almost whispering) I remember him denying it to the very end.

J: To the very END.

Jeremiah raises his mouth so that it is right at The Sleepless One's ear.

J: Now...end THIS.
_________________________

Matt Strikmore lies awake, staring up at the ceiling, even beginning to contemplate the strange swirling that makes up the covered drywall. How interesting...one swirls into another...and into another...and still another...and right into the next room, it seems.

He couldn't tell you if he has yet fallen asleep. Two hours have passed in mere minutes, and his thoughts keep him from resting in any meaningful sense. The chicken dinner sits cold on the table next to the TV. Such an insult didn't go unnoticed. One look at it sent him back to his stooped position over the toilet, which by that point produced nothing but bile.

The ceiling keeps swirling, one to another, the random design beginning to form a deliberate unified montage where one needs to form into another. They dance for him as part of a wonderful and horrible play where dream and wakefulness blend into one incoherent mass.

Strikmore sits up and takes another sip of water. He dips two fingers into the plastic cup and dabs them on his forehead and neck. He can't decide the temperature. He is hot...he is freezing. He hasn't slept...he has forgotten entire hours. Strikmore sits the cup back on the table and cradles his face in his hands.

MS: I...need to do this. I can't let him beat me before the match even starts. What can I do...

Strikmore takes another sip of water and closes his eyes. He recalls the conversation at dinner...

"I'm sorry, what was that? Were you talking to the person at the next table, because you're certainly not facing me."

MS: I WILL face you...I HAVE to face you...

Strikmore goes to take another sip, but realizes that his cup is empty. Murmuring a few choice curse words, Strikmore pulls himself to his feet and stumbles toward the bathroom. He leans against the door to steady himself before he switches on the light. After taking another moment to let his aching eyes adjust, he steps into the room and sticks his cup underneath the faucet.

Here is when he realizes that something else isn't as it should be.

Strikmore looks up at himself in the mirror for the first time and stumbles backwards, almost toppling into the tub. He grabs the shower curtain on the way into the wall and grips a towel rack to barely steady himself.

There staring back at him with the same look of terror—indeed, what inspired the look to begin with—is Titanium Insomniac...except, he looks strikingly like Matthew Strikmore. Strikmore is near hyperventilating as he slowly realizes that he is the only one in the room.

But his face has changed. It has become a horrible picture of black and silver, and it mimics his every move.

*It's a horrifing experience when you worst fear has eyes. Not in the sense that it seems a car that's running you down has eyes, its highbeams glaring at you as it motors down the road toward you. Actual, biological, functioning eyes. The pupils small and staring, the white surrounding them acting as if it will start surrounding you. Horrifying. But when those eyes, those eyes that chill your soul, are your own? I'd rather settle for the car.*

*Matt can't tear his stare from the mirror. He keeps staring, because he doesn't know what will happen if he stops. With one hand grabbing onto the plastic shower curtain, he slowly raises one trembling hand to his face, his mirrored image doing likewise. He lightly drags two fingers along his cheek, and brings them between his gaze of the mirror. Clean and spotless. The image in the mirror utterly undisturbed. He tries again, more frantic now. Three fingers. Four. His entire hand, soon followed by nails dragged on his skin. He desperately brings his hand before his eyes again. No silver. No black. Only red, from the small scratches that now adorn his face. His face, but not the one
staring back at him. It's pristine in condition, sharing his expression. All except the eyes. The eyes belong to another. They have to.*

*There's a slight creak, unaudible to Matt in his current condition, of a shower ring giving loose. Like dominos, the rest break in succession. Matt lets out a faint cry as his mean of balance gives way. He tumbles backwards into the tub, cracking his head against the tiled wall. He groans with eyes closed, opening them to star filled vision. He can feel the warmth trickle down the back of his scalp. He'd busted his head open. He quickly comes to, and looks into the mirror again. He can barely see over the counter from his current position, but he can see his eyes. He doesn't need to see the color of the skin, he knows those aren't his eyes. As his breathing grows quicker in pace, his right arms launches out at the bathtub faucet. The showerhead spurts to life. He doesn't know if it's hot or cold, just that it's wet. He holds out his hands, as if waiting for mana. For sweet relief from his furies. Scrubbing his face, he spares a fleeting glance at the water running down the drain, hoping to see it stained with black and silver. All he sees is the tint of crimson. He launches himself out of the tub, water still running, and looks down at the floor. Gripping the counter white knuckle tight, he snaps his head up and looks at the mirror. Still the same. Not even a bead of water disturbing the image. Matt begins to cry, in abject terror and despair. He crumples to the floor, raising his left arm to cover his eyes as he sobs.*

Matt: He did this. He must have. He said I couldn't even look myself in the eyes. He did it. It's..it's a..a test. Overcoming demons, or whatever he is. I just have to look it..myself.. in the eyes, and say I'm not afraid. I do that, and it goes away. It all goes away.

*He composes himself as best he can, and steadies himself on unsure legs. He looks up again, the act getting harder every time, more hopeless every time. In a desperate, weary voice, Matt speaks.*

Matt: I'm not afraid of you.

*Nothing. Trying again, a bit louder.*

Matt: I'm.. I'm not afraid of you.

*Nothing. Lip trembling, with his knees giving out. Louder and louder.*

Matt: I'm not afraid of you! I'm not! Afraid! Of you!!

*He blinks, and hopes to open his eyes to his own face. But it doesn't happen. Silver and black.*

Matt: Go away!

*Matt smashes the side of his fist against the bathroom mirror, creating a spider crack in the surface. His image is reflected several times over now, in various sizes. Matt, overwhelmed, falls to the floor again. Out of sight, and out of hope. He curls on the bathroom floor, no longer trying to fight back the sobs. He tries to think of other things, lighter things. The ocean. He goes back to the Atlantic.*

*He's six years old again. It's a dark night, but you can't tell it in Wildwood. Lights are everywhere, the noise nearly taking on a tangible form. People scream as they ride the Sea Serpent coaster, or laugh as they go through Dante's Inferno. Matt, with green plastic sunglasses, runs before his parents to the next ride. The Condor. It'd be the first time he's allowed to ride it, having grown another inch recently. His Dad walks up behind him as they wait in line, to make sure he really wants to ride it. The ride goes up a good sixty feet, before spinning at the top. It's the best view this side of the ferris wheel. Matt proudly shows his wristband for admission, and stands with a smile as the operator measures him. Just tall enough. The two get into the car, and wait for it to start. As soon as the ride starts to move, Matt shuts his eyes tight. He doesn't open them until they're back down on the ground, with a big smile on his face.*

Dad: So, how'd you like it slim?

Matt: It was great!

Dad: You didn't get scared?

Matt: Nope! I just closed my eyes the whole time!

Dad: You didn't open them at all?

Matt: Nuh-uh!

Dad: You can't go on closing your eyes every time you might get scared. You'll end up tripping.

*Back on the bathroom floor, Matt has started laughing through the sobs. He remembers that ride. He vividly remembers going on it the second time. He remembers opening his eyes at the top, and how tight he gripped his Dad's hand. It was like there were two skies. One above, and one below. All the lights were so bright, and all the people were so small. And he remembers how scared he was. He didn't let go of his Dad's hand until the ride stopped at the bottom. He let himself be scared, and he didn't regret it. He was scared the third, fourth, and fifth time. Hell, he still gets a little nervous even today getting in line. That kind of stuff sticks with you.*

*Matt reaches down, and managed to pull himself up one last time. He looks into the mirror with sunken eyes and with jaw slack. A dozen images of TI, of himself, stare back at him. He doesn't talk to himself. He talks to the Insomniac, in a low, wavering voice.*

Matt: I'm human. I don't know what you are exactly, but as for me, I'm human. I have character flaws, I have weakness. Maybe you don't. Maybe you're beyond that, but I'm not. I can stand here and yell till I'm hoarse about what I do and don't feel toward you. I can deny or accept the emotions that your eyes send through me like twenty thousand volts. But I can't walk through life making sure I have something to grab onto in case you were to walk by. I can't live with me wondering if my legs will hold me up. That's not life. Not one I want, in any case.

Matt: You landed on this island with a big friggen chip on your shoulder. You had something to prove, and I was going to be what it was proved on. You wanted to prove that no one can look you in the eye and say they don't fear you. You were going grind me into the floor, and you did. My floor has been covered with vomit and tears for the past two days. I want nothing more than for your eyes to go away, to look at anything else. But I can't live my life like that. I can't. So here's how it's going to work.

*Matt closes his eyes, and steels himself. His breath comes in and out shakily, his legs slightly quivering. He opens his eyes.*

Matt: You win. I can't look you in the eye and say I don't fear you. I can't even lie. What I can do, is look you in the eye and say something else. TI, I'm afraid of you. I fear you. You terrify me down to my very core. I can admit that. Openly, publically if I have to. I'm not entirely happy about it, but it's the truth. I can stare you in the eye, and speak the truth. I. Fear. You. Now get the hell out of my head.

*The image stays the same. Matt holds his breath, and reaches two fingers toward his face. He closes his eyes as he runs them along his face. He opens his eyes, and looks at his fingers. Clean. He then raises his eyes to the mirror, his heart caught in his throat. There, on his left cheek, is a streak of pink flesh. His flesh. Matt cries, as a weak smile crosses his face.*

*Fade out*

The drink of choice this evening is a Muscadet from the western part of France. The Insomniac brings the glass to his nose and breathes in its essence. He wrinkles his nose at the hint of pineapple, but composes himself quickly. This bottle came highly recommended. TI closes his eyes and attempts a second unbiased judgment...but the pineapple lingers. He sips. He can forgive them.

He is feeling less forgiving when it comes to his other project this evening. A small iPod sits on the table next to him, connected to him by his ear. Even though his wine tasting had just begun, his listening had been on repeat for the past half hour. TI makes a mental note to repay Shadow for the use of so many of his toys one day...perhaps an S-Mart jet could take them to France where he could use company money to buy another bottle of Muscadet, all on The Insomniac's generous bit of information.

TI curbs his drift into acts of charity and presses "Play" once again...

"I. Fear. You. Now get the hell out of my head."

The Insomniac slumps back in his chair, running a finger around the rim of his glass. He stares at nothing while trying to capture the voice tone, the emotion, and what was really admitted in the face of Matt Strikmore's fear. His is a tone of defiance rather than defeat. This was not a statement of cowardice...it was one of courage. Strikmore was saying to his foe: "Are you happy now?"

A smattering of Muscadet with its bilious pineapple undertones suddenly appears on the far wall, the shattering of glass the first sound made in the room in quite a while. TI stands, cupping the iPod in his hand and pressing "Play" again.

"I. Fear. You. Now get the hell out of my head."

He raises his fists to his temples, his face contorting into one of malice.

"I. Fear. You. Now get the hell out of my head."

His pace becomes quicker, his distance shorter.

"I. Fear. You. Now get the hell out of my head."

The iPod cracks against another wall as TI yanks the headset from his ear. To say that this was not the desired effect is an understatement. He recalls Jeremiah's annoyingly truthful words about old tricks no longer working. The only thing that was worse than Strikmore going forward with their confrontation was his control freak of an advisor being right about it.

The Insomniac continues pacing, his breathing becoming more manic, his steps even quicker. He suddenly stops and faces the mirror. He examines his face, his silver and black countenance long re-applied. His flaws are concealed if one doesn't count the seething hatred and confusion poking through his painted exterior. The old tricks aren't working. Not on this one. This one is stronger than previous victims.

The Insomniac's features soften, and he stands up straight.

"'It is not possible to fight beyond your strength, even if you strive.'" His confidence returning, The Sleepless One walks to the phone and dials. He glances back toward the mirror, the corner of his mouth curling into a sadistic smirk.

Evil. Motherfucking. Clown.
______________________________

It had taken Matt Strikmore almost an hour to scrub off the rest of the makeup. His face is red and a little sore, but he allows the relief to heal what has become to him a mild irritation. The washcloth by the sink, covered with smears of silver and black, is what is left of a night of anguish turned to one of renewed strength. This is his winter of discontent made glorious summer.

He'd slept well the rest of the night, and had even treated himself to a few extra hours of rest. Plans for a workout and a promo at the arena could be and were rescheduled. What the hell, maybe a massage could be worked in. There was, of course, the notion constantly at the back of his mind that he still needed to climb into the ring with Titanium Insomniac, but he could see it in a slightly different light now.

The phone rings. It must be the production crew getting back to him about his new promo time. Hopefully it wouldn't be before 2:00.

MS: "Hello?"

"Do you remember the other day, when you couldn't look me in the eye and say you're not afraid of me?"

A rush of adrenaline shoots through Strikmore's veins. His nerves are a little quicker than his tongue. "Yes."

"Do you remember last night when you admitted your fear through tears to an imitation of me?"

Strikmore wonders for a moment how The Insomniac could know about that, but lets it go for the time being. "Yes."

"Well...here's your opportunity to actually say it to me."

Strikmore closes his eyes. His confidence wavers for only a moment before he realizes that he knew the theoretical would have to become the actual sooner or later. Clearing his throat, he begins, "Insomniac...I-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Strikmore's lips tighten in frustration.

"All right...obviously there's something inside you that I didn't take proper account of when this week began. The romantics call it heart, the vulgar call it balls. Either way, it's the same thing, right? You're facing down the Sphinx and have answered its riddle successfully. You ever read ‘Oedipus Rex?'"

Strikmore parts his lips to answer...

"I don't care. The point is, Oedipus answers this powerful being's riddle and is able to overcome it. He becomes king. He wins. But I'm writing a slightly different version. What if the Sphinx, upon having its riddle answered, refuses to grant what is ultimately due to Oedipus? What if, instead, the Sphinx uses all the raw strength at its disposal to render Oedipus a pile of ashes quickly lost to the Greek winds and forgotten? The Sphinx has no real obligation to play by its own rules. It MADE the rules to begin with!"

Strikmore puts his free hand on his hip and looks at the carpet, beginning to understand what his caller is saying.

"I don't give a damn about moral victories. You have to understand that. You can have your tale of facing down the monster against all odds. It's yours and I freely give you all the right to tell it. But let's keep a little perspective here. If I were merely a player of mind games, true, you'd have me beaten. But that's not all there is to who I am, and I think you already know that.

"So think about this. Think about a man with a good five inches and 40 pounds up on you, now very angry, and fully intent on re-establishing himself in a context where people have ceased to recognize him for who he is. Think about that man wanting to make a definitive example of you to the whole world while you claw at the mound of dirt packing in on top of you. Think about this man's recent decision to give up on subtlety for the rest of the week and make up for it with brutality.

"Yes, yes, your story of heart or balls or whatever you want to call it will be told and re-told, perhaps even converted into a play. But that play will end in tragedy. You can have your story of heart...but not until after I crush it in your chest."

Click. Strikmore is left with a dead line and then a dialtone.
_____________________

Jeremiah had entered the room just as The Sleepless One began to speak of perspective. He listened to the rest of the speech in silence while leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, out of TI's sight. With every statement came a growing sense of satisfaction within him. This was the Insomniac that he wanted. This was the one who would fulfill his own purpose as well as Jeremiah's.

As TI hangs up, Jeremiah makes himself fully visible. TI pays him little mind and takes a swig from his bottle of French pineapple juice, grimacing at the aftertaste.

Jeremiah folds his arms. "I wondered how long it would take you to fully appreciate this situation's urgency."

TI slams the bottle back down on the table. "This isn't for you. It's for me."

"I know."

"Then do me a favor and stop acting like it's otherwise. This one is for all those who consider me a blip on the radar screen, a big fish suddenly transported to a bigger pond. Infinity wanted a dominant monster, expected me to be their crown jewel. Who the fuck am I to deny them that?"

Jeremiah enters further into the room and picks up the bottle. He sniffs the contents before setting it back down. "But you aren't doing this for them."

"I already told you that I'm not. They'll benefit from it, sure. But they're a side issue. Strikmore is the issue. Strikmore and his ‘If I only had the nerve' personal journey. Captivating, really...until it's revealed that I'm the wizard." TI flips the locks on his window and shoves the bottom pane open.

Jeremiah hesitates. "You mustn't appear desperate. You'll make another mistake."

TI grabs the bottle of wine and hurls it out the open window. "Not desperate. Just facing how it is and how it will be."

TI slams the window shut again as the phone rings. Jeremiah gingerly picks up the receiver. "Hello."

Jeremiah looks at TI, clearly bemused at what the caller is saying. "Yes. I'll tell him."

Jeremiah places the receiver back in its cradle. TI gestures with his hand to keep things rolling. "Strikmore has invited you out to lunch. Some corner café down the block. He just wants you."

TI shrugs. "A lamb treating the wolf. That can't happen too often."

*It's eleven in the morning, and the sun is beginning to get harsh. This street, off of the main road, is fairly quiet. It's infested with cafes and lovers, the rough pavement trodden with feet and bicycles. Matt has been here since about six this morning, leaning against the railing that overlooks the ocean. A cup of coffee in a paper cup steams in his hands. It's his fifth so far this morning. Three of them went cold before he took a sip. The bags under his eyes are quite visable, but at the same time, his eyes have a certain rested quality to them.*

*Watching the tides come in and out always helped Matt think. The ebb and flow matched his habit of tossing out an idea, and then quickly brushing it aside to let the next come in. However, the sea kept washing up the same thought over and over. Survival. That part rang true in the Insomniac's last phonecall. Matt was at a disadvantage in heigh, weight, power, and experience. Those add up to quite a hill to climb. He pushed it out of his mind again, full knowing it would come back in just a few precious moments, but he wanted to take in the view one last time. To see the waves crash against the cliffs. He didn't have those cliffs back home. Watching them now, he wishes he did.*

*Checking his watch, he notices it's nearing his meeting with TI. He didn't know why he called. He just knew he had to do something. He couldn't let him have the last word, not again. He still wasn't sure what he was going to say, but if he came off as a blabbering idiot, he doubted TI could think any less of him. So what's there to lose? He makes his way to his table for two. It's typical curved iron patio furniture. Nothing fancy, but he never was a fancy guy. He taps his fingers on the small, paperback book that rests on the table, biting his lip as he keeps turning his head to look for TI. Unfortunantly, he shows up.*

*Towering over the seated Matt, TI stares down at him, his body blocking out the sunlight. Matt's throat goes dry, as he extends his hand to gesture him to sit with him. After a few tense moments, TI descends, never removing his eyes from Matt. Matt fiddles with his cup of coffee, turning it around and around, while TI sits statue still with his hands folded on the table. Matt starts to speak, looking down at his reflection in the coffee.*

Matt: You're probably wondering why I asked you here. Well, I am too. Maybe we can figure this out together. I mean, you're a smart guy, and I'm pretty agreeable.

*Matt chuckles to himself a little, like he always does when he's nervous. He glances up at TI, whose face still wears the same angry, annoyed look. Matt stops chuckling and coughs as he clears his throat.*

Matt: After the whole face... thing... when that was over, I was pretty relieved. And exhausted. I passed right out, and slept like I hadn't in weeks. But I woke up in the middle of last night, after the joyful exhaustion passed, and was haunted by something that I couldn't see in the mirror. I was thinking, big deal, you're afraid of the guy. Now what? What good does that do you? I mean, you're like...

*Matt stops and sticks the tip of his tongue through his lips as he tries to figure out where to go with this. Suddenly, he gets that self humored look this time, and goes to ask TI a question.*

Matt: You like to read, right?

*TI doesn't speak, but ever so slightly nods after a few moments.*

Matt: It never really appealed to me. Well, not the stuff they give you in school at least. When the class was given a book report to do, I was the first in line with the Cliff Notes. I read some stuff though. Wrestling mags, the occasional Playboy "article", and comic books. I always loved comic books. They're probably a bit beneath you though, right? Yeah.

Matt: Anyway, I'm lying in bed, and I'm thinking who it is I'm going to be fighting in a few days. How I don't match up. I'm Matt Strikmore, kid from Jersey. And you? You're Titanium Insomniac. You're like friggen' Doomsday.

TI: Yours, to be certain.

Matt: Wha? No, not like the day of doom. Doomsday, from the comics. Big rock-like dude. Rocked everyone's faces off. I mean, it was bad, really bad, till Superman stepped up. When Superman steps up, you know it's in bad shape. And that's you. You're Doomsday. And I might as well be a civilian in the background. There's nothing I can do about it. It takes someone with the courage of Superman to go head on with this guy, and I'm no Superman.

Matt: So I get up and walk around the city at like five in the morning. No ones around, but it's really peaceful. Metropolis before Doomsday shows up. And I'm walking, and I see this cafe here, and there's a guy sweeping the patio. I see the door open, so I ask if I can come in, and he lets me. I dunno if you noticed, but it's a bit of a bookstore as well. Nothing major, but it's something to read. So I figure I might as well take a look. I mean, you read all this stuff, maybe I can get a hint about what I should do. Maybe that Rex guy had a sequal or something. I come across this little book of quotes by famous people. It's got an index in the back, so I flip through it to see if I can find something motivational, because I need something bad. So I look up courage, cause I figure that's what I need to take on Doomsday. Win or lose, I need to get in the way. And wouldn't you know, they had something. Here, I marked it. Read it. You'll probably do a better job than me at it.

*Matt slides the book across the table. TI grudgingly picks up, and opens to the page marked by the receipt. Underlined in pen is a single quote.*

TI: "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear. - Mark Twain"

*Matt gets his little smile again as he takes a sip of his coffee. TI rolls his eyes at such a simple line.*

TI: This is your hope?

Matt: Nah. That just triggered two words that made all the differance. A name, actually. Ever heard of Kyle Rayner? No? Didn't think so. See, that quote made me think of courage in a differant light. Superman doesn't have any courage, because he really doesn't know fear. If you're not afraid of something, how do you have courage? So Superman didn't get in the way of Doomsday because he had courage. He did it cause he's friggen' Superman. So now, I don't have to be Superman, and that's cool, cause I can't be. No cape.

Matt: But Kyle, Kyle was differant. Some dying alien gives this nothing guy a power ring, and not because he's the chosen one or anything. Just because the alien dude was dying, and needed to pass this on. See, normally, guys with this ring don't know fear. That's just how Green Lanterns roll, it's part of the job description. But this guy, he knew fear, cause he's just a guy. Like me. He got put in an extraordinary position, and you know what he did? He ran with it. He was afraid, but still did what he had to.

*Matt looks up at TI. He doesn't stare him dead in the eye, but glances at it from time to time.*

Matt: I don't have to be Superman to get in your way. I don't have to be Superman to walk down that aisle and punch you square in the jaw. I just have to be Kyle. I just need courage enough to get in your way. I may need to be Superman to beat you, but really, what does that matter? Even if I lose, which I'll admit will probably be the case, there's gonna to be a rematch.

TI: You think I'm going to waste my time with you?

Matt: Yes, honestly, I do.

TI: And why would you want to do that to yourself. You said yourself you're going to lose.

Matt: One, I said I was probably going to lose. And two, you're the one who'll ask for the rematches. Not me.

*Matt smirks, not in an arrogant way, but in a way that acknowledges he's probably going to be destroyed soon, and he's come to accept it. He goes back to turning his coffee around and around. Without looking up, he starts speaking again.*

Matt: Those waves over there, crashing against the cliff. Why do they do that? You know why?

TI: Because they're told to. They realize there are things more powerful than them. The moon, the winds. It's a rather fitting analogy for you and I.

Matt: I agree with the metaphor, but you have the reason all wrong. Everyone gets that one wrong.

TI: Oh? And what pray tell, is the reason?

Matt: One simple word. "Maybe."

TI: Maybe?

*TI scoffs at the idea.*

Matt: Yeah, maybe. See, that cliff has been standing right there longer than anyone alive on this earth. And it's going to be that way for a long time. Storms and waves will come and come again, but that earth isn't moving. It's a constant intimidation. But you're a smart guy. You know all about erosion. Those waves hit that cliff, all day, every day. And it looks like it's pointless, but it's not. Every once in a while, the cliff gives a bit. Yeah, it stops the wave dead and crushes it, but every once in a while, the wave takes a little bit of the cliff with it. Every so often, the cliff loses a grain of sand. So the wave is getting somewhere. It's winning. So that's what keeps it going. Maybe. Maybe this time, the cliff will finally break. Maybe this time, the wave will win. Because it has to one day. And that's the same reason you're going to want a rematch after you beat me. And one after that. And one after that.

Matt: I don't know what I did to you. I really have no idea, but you utterly despise me. Everything is pointing toward your winning. You're the clif. But you see me as your wave. You know you're going to beat me time and again, but you know that maybe I can win. And that drives you nuts, because every match isn't certain. Honestly, I think you'll keep beating on me till you break. Till you lose. Because then, and only then, you'll be justified in second guessing this match. You'll have validation that I could beat you, and it's not just you being uncertain of yourself.

*TI stands from his seat, his face growing angrier and more terrifying by the moment. Matt looks at the ground again. He doesn't want to look at TI anymore. Matt speaks in a voice that has come to accept his fate.*

Matt: Look, there's nothing stopping you from dropping me right now. Nothing, outside of you wanting to do it in a much more public place. And if you destroy me now, then no one will see it. You want them to see the wave breaking, not the puddle of water as the aftermath. But if you want to do it here, then so be it. I'll get in your way.

*TI stands there, hands balled into fists. THen, he checks his anger, and smiles a sinister smile. He does want this in front of everyone. He wants to reestablish himself.*

TI: So be it. Your execution is delayed. Enjoy what little mercy I have, and what little breath you have left.

*TI readjusts his jacket, and walks off, tapping his cane on the stone streets. Once around the corner, Matt exhales sharply and slumps in his seat.*

Matt: Looks like I get at least one more sunset.

*Fade out.*