<center>


TI has been mentioning Strikmore's name ever since losing to him in the Majestic Cup Tournament finals. Last time, the match heavily favored TI, despite his loss. Will hardcore rules even things out, or give another edge to The Insomniac against the pure-wrestling Strikmore, allowing him to make up for the past? Or will Strikmore continue his habit of putting down all challengers?</center>

Early morning. A light snow begins to flutter down around the painted figure as he catches the first light. No oranges and reds are able to break the overcast whites and greys that define this particular day. Instead, the flakes of this most gentle of storms wind and curl and finally settle, lightly covering the landscape.

Our Insomniac prefers this wintry scene as he strolls through a park, travel mug in hand. His third. What can we know about ourselves on sunny days, if winter never arrives, never throws us into discontent?

Answer? Nothing.

TI takes another sip. He chose Irish crème this time. Sure, he's going to Britain, but their coffee is shit. He closes his eyes without slowing his step, feeling the contrast between the biting breeze against his silver face and the beverage traveling through his insides. Which feeling is true? Is he cold or warm? It's never too early for philosophy.

Of course, he'd tell you that he's asking the wrong question. It's a rabbit trail away from his primary inquiry on this most overcast of mornings.

Only one person can help him with the answer, though.
____________________________

Matt Strikmore's eyes wander to the window to see the same light snow dancing in the wind. He lets his copy of Superman: Daily Planet slip down onto his lap as he takes a moment to watch the flakes descend upon the European countryside. This is a moment that he makes sure to treasure. There will be so many of them between now and his arrival in Britain. There is no urgency about the next couple days...only some of his favorite reading and the most beautiful scenery in the world.

Of course, it's not like his mind never wanders to the inevitable. There's a reason that he left his Death of Superman chronicles at home...he didn't need the extra reminder. This is a brilliant distraction on his part, but his attempts to ignore that it's only a distraction come with limited results.

Strikmore blinks and looks away from the window. His car is not terribly full...an older couple sit a few seats up. Another lone traveler has positioned himself at the opposite end. Two middle-aged women chatter in American English about how glad they are to have treated themselves to this trip. One expresses her anxiety about the underwater tunnel.

You think that's bad...try what I have to deal with. Strikmore lets out a sigh.

Maybe it's time to move around a little.

Strikmore sets his book on the seat next to him and stands. The train runs relatively smooth, so he doesn't need to perform much of a balancing act. After stuffing his Discman into his backpack, he makes his way to the door and steps through. Every time he's been on a train, he's marveled at the difference in noise level between cars. He was so insulated in his own seat, but once he steps out he's confronted by the reality of the wheels loudly clacking against the tracks.

Strikmore steps into the next car. "Yes...I get the metaphor. Shut up."

An older gentleman looks up from his newspaper and eyes him suspiciously.

Strikmore notices. "I was...uh...oh, like you've never done it."

He makes his way down the aisle and moves between cars yet again to reach his destination. Plopping down at one of the tables, he picks up a menu. Not in the mood for anything particularly heavy at this point in time, he peruses the drink menu.

A slender blonde waitress approaches. "May I take your order?"

"Um...yes. Do you just have Coke?"

"Yes we do."

"Great. That's all I want."

The waitress smiles and nods before disappearing. Strikmore rubs his hands together. He turns to find the only other dining passenger giving him a look similar to the waitress'.

"What?"

The man simply shakes his head while returning to his own meal.

The waitress returns with Strikmore's order...a bottle and an empty glass.

"Hey...uh...can I get some ice?"

Now it's the waitress' turn to look at him funny.

Oh yeah...not around here.

The waitress disappears once again without a further word. Strikmore rises and makes his way back toward the door. The other man gives him one last look of disdain. This time Strikmore returns it.

"Don't judge me."

Grumbling, Strikmore steps back into the next car, not wanting to make any further eye contact.

I'm just going to get back to my seat with my stupid warm Coke and find out what happens next to Jimmy Olsen.

Of course, it won't be that simple. Now he has to make eye contact with the man sitting across from his seat, peering through a skin-tight mask of silver and black. He sits simply, his hands folded in his lap and his legs crossed.

"Hello again, Matthew. I had a feeling that this was your seat, what with your boyish fascination with comics."

There goes my gold star.

"How did you...?"

"I know this guy. Goes by the name of Scott. I think you know him, too. Very earnest, very well-groomed. But he has this issue about divulging details of wrestlers' travel arrangements...a tight-lipped guy, for the most part. But he also has a fairly low threshold of pain, so I helped him solve that particular problem. The rest, you could say, took care of itself. Please sit."

Trying to keep his drink from spilling, Strikmore slumps uneasily into his seat. TI chuckles...something he hasn't done in a while, so it surprises him.

"What is it about Europeans and warm soda? Can you explain that one to me?"

"I...uh...I don't know if it's a universal thing."

"You know, you might be right now that I think about it. More of a thing the froggies do. Well, it doesn't matter, does it?"

"I guess not."

"You aren't very talkative today, Matthew. I can understand why. The last time we met, you had this thing about moral victories and keeping an air of dignity despite wetting your pants. Well, we've both changed since that fateful day when you stole my well-deserved victory and now here we are yet again. Hey, we even both have little Cs next to our names now. That's commendable, isn't it?"

Strikmore doesn't feel like answering.

TI leans forward.

"Come on, Matthew. Buck up. I need you to help me with something here."

Strikmore looks up for a moment, unsure of where this is going.

"What's that?"

"Well...about that whole ‘we've both come a long way' thing...you may remember a certain ‘I fear you, get out of my head' speech that you made to the mirror once upon a time. I'm sure that the mirror has since thought twice about trying to threaten mild-mannered people who just want to fix their hair and move on with their lives. Nevertheless, let's focus on the speech itself. It was all about overcoming fear for you, as for me it was all about instilling fear in you."

"How'd you know I said-"

TI waves off the question.

"Not important. This is about me, okay? Don't change the focus. Anyway, you've earned yourself a title and, I'm sure, a few ounces of confidence. I've taken quite a different path, one that has seen the futility of pursuing my own success. It wasn't that long ago that I was looking for a certain amount of redemption and revenge against you for what remains a fluke win...but when fear is no longer the ultimate goal, then what is?"

Strikmore gives TI a look similar to the waitress' reaction to his request for ice.

TI sighs. "I'm not explaining myself very well. Let me try a different tact. When one's active goal is no longer to intimidate, but the other is still greatly intimidated, can it truly be said that the first has still been successful at intimidation?"

Strikmore still doesn't have an answer.

"Okay, I can see I'm not getting anywhere with this. Here's the bottom line, Matthew. You and I both know why you chose this method of transportation. I didn't have to lift a finger to force you to choose it. That means that whatever goal I had once upon a time has already been achieved. But I don't give a shit about that goal now. What I care about now is...well, that's the question on the table. Why should I care about beating you? It's not about me any more. But still, you've made it about me."

The Sleepless One stands, straightening his coat.

"And quite frankly, that's your fucking problem and not mine. Now, the dining car is this way, right?"

TI moves to the door and into the next car, leaving Strikmore with a Superman novel, a warm Coke, and a lot to think about.

*Matt sits slumped in his chair, devoid of any appreciation for the beautiful scenery that passes him by. All he can do is sullenly stare at the Insomniac as he passes into the next car. He did it again. One minute of face to face conversation, and TI turned him into a quivering lump of humanity. Honestly, Matt still hasn't processed anything that was said, he still hadn't gotten over the verbiage that hit him like a tommy gun. A word, any word, from TI hits him like a slug. The show isn't even for a few days yet, and already TI has him beat. Matt lifts up the book he was reading, looking down at the cover.*

Matt: What're we going to do now, Jimmy?

*Matt tosses the book onto the small pile in the seat across from him, spreading out the titles so a few covers are viewable. He glances at them, and one in particular stands out at him. It's a Deadpool mini. Took him forever to find a copy on eBay. He doesn't pick up the book, but looks at the cover, at the yellow bubbled text of Deadpool. Fight of his life, and he's cracking jokes.*

Matt: Why can't I be like that.

*Matt turns his head to look out the window, catching a faint reflection of himself as the sun hits the glass. He raises his glass to himself, and takes a sip.*

Matt: Awful.

*Matt tries to force the taste off his tongue, but he's still not convinced he was referring to Coke rather than the reflection. He puts his head back against the seat and tries to replay what was said.*

Matt: Why should he care about beating me? It's gotta be a trick question. He has a handful of reasons to squash me between his fingers. He's just trying his hoodoo-voodoo mind game stuff, and darnit if he isn't good at it.

*Matt leans forward and starts shoveling his stuff into his bag. He addresses his reflection.*

Matt: What am I doing? Hell if I know. Probably something stupid, and if it results in me getting tossed through yet another window, I'd rather have my stuff.

*Matt puts his headphones on, and makes his way into the dining car. It doesn't take much to find where TI is sitting. It's the section void of anyone save one person, whose back is to him. Matt exhales deeply, still unsure of what he's going to do. Probably just talk and talk while TI grins more and more. He slides into the booth opposite of his opponent, who doesn't spare him a glance as he continues to peruse the menu. Matt, for his part, just stares at the pepper shaker after setting down his Coke.*

TI: No no, poultry will not do. Take it away.

Matt: You know all that stuff you just said back there?

TI: I do have some recollection, yes. Do you think brisket would be a wise choice?

Matt: Seems more like potato weather to me. Anyway, everything you said back there? I don't buy it.

TI: Potato... maybe they have potato soup. Warms the soul and all.

Matt: So you're doing the selective response thing? Great. Great.

*The Titanium One sighs and sets down his menu.*

TI: Fine, you want to sit at the adult table. Say your part, and when you're done, I'll point you to the nearest restroom so you can proceed to cough up yesterday's breakfast.

Matt: As I was saying, all that stuff you said? I call bull.

TI: I see your debate skills are much to be feared.

Matt: You want to go and say that I made this first move, that I tried to sidestep this conversation entirely. And you know what, that's true. But you said it yourself, you forced this info out of Scott. You wanted to know where I was. You probably called the airport first, and found I didn't have a ticket to anywhere. You, or someone from Infinity, likely called the hotel and saw my reservation wasn't for days yet. Then you got pissed off, at least as pissed off as you can get. And why? Cause your playmate, your prey, wasn't staying inbounds. You had your little chessboard all set up, but I never showed up to sit down. You want to say I brought you into this? Fine. But I call bull.

TI: Oh, did little Matthew find some male genitalia?

Matt: Are you actually making a dick joke?

TI: More of a testicle joke, but yes.

Matt: Let me assure you, I'm beyond freaked right now.

*Matt lays his hands on the table, and TI watches them vibrate, barely able to stay flat on the surface.*

Matt: I'm beyond terrified right now. Has anyone actually said that to you before?

TI: I'd have to check my journal.

*Matt catches a look in TI's eye he'd never seen before. Matt talks to himself under his breath.*

Matt: Am I actually on to something?

TI: Excuse me?

Matt: Nothing, nothing.

*Matt looks through a small opening in his backpack, and sees the yellow bubbled lettering of Deadpool. Matt smiles.*

Matt: You've never had someone tell you they're scared of you, have you? Not an opponent, at least. I mean, I'm sure there have been plenty, but no one actually fessed up before. That's why you're doing this. You don't know what else to go for. You need me to tell you...

TI: That's ridiculous.

Matt: No, no it's not. Let me ask you a question. I bet you were a bully in school, but not the normal kind. You're a really smart guy, so you probably bullied in academics. Making kids feel dumb because they didn't read at a twelth grade level in fifth grade. Then, then you had a growth spurt. Now you could push people around and cut them down verbally at the same time.

*Matt starts to ease back in his chair, his hands coming more under control.*

Matt: You've relied on bullying most of your life in one way or another, I bet. I've seen you at hotel check-ins. You don't want extra towels, but you just can't help yourself. You spit out something you read on the flight over, and then you stand up to your full height. It's effective. You've done it to me, like, a dozen times. And the funny part? I can't do anything about it. You're smarter than me. You're bigger than me. You have more resources than me.

TI: Admitting defeat already?

Matt: Defeat? No, not defeat. I'm admitting fear. Ever seen 8 Mile? Probably not. Well, I hope I don't spoil it for you. It comes down to a battle rap, and Eminem goes first. So these things are usually about tearing apart the other guy. Thing is, there's too much ammo for the other guy to use against him. So what does he do? He verbally murders himself. The other guy was left speechless. He had nothing new to say. So, this is me going through your salvo.

Matt: I'm horrified of you. You are going to tear me apart in the ring. My bladder has serious containment issues when you're around. My win was a fluke. You are smarter than me. Stronger than me. More experienced than me. Have a cooler entrance than me. Your first girlfriend was prettier than mine. Your dad could beat up my dad. In fact, there is only one thing, to my knowledge, that I am superior at than you.

TI: And that is?

Matt: I can be annoying as all hell. And since I'm going to be put in traction one way or the other this week, I see no reason why I should walk on eggshells. Lets get to know each other better, Ty.

TI: Ty?

Matt: Yeah, that's my new buddy name for you. See, I figure it can be short for Titanium, and it's the initials of Titanium Insomniac. TI. It's pronounced Ty though.

TI: Is this a road you really want to travel down?

Matt: Anything for you, pal. You wanted a reason to pound on me? Here it is.

*A waitress comes by and sets a drink down in front of TI, a scotch on the rocks. Matt's eyes perk up.*

Matt: Oh, I've been looking for some of those!

*Matt puts his fingers in TI's drink, pulling out two ice cubes and dropping them into his Coke. The drinks bubbles up, as does TI's anger. Matt sucks the alcohol off his fingers and grabs a straw for his drink.*

TI: Fine, you want to go this route, then the consequences are on y-

*Matt starts to laugh, pulling the straw out of his mouth.*

Matt: Sorry, sorry Ty! The bubbles, they tickled my tongue. I was all "Woah, don't interrupt Ty, he hates that!", but then it happened. Sorry bud. You want a sip? I can nab us another straw. Just don't drink too fast.

*TI swipes the scotch off the table, the glass shattering against the bar. Matt immediately puts his hand up.*

Matt: Miss! Miss! We're going to need another scotch. Oh, and two straws! It's for both us. Share-sies!

*Matt looks at TI.*

Matt: Right?

*TI grips the table tightly.*

Matt: Right.

*Matt leans forward and drinks from the straw. He smacks his lips with a big refreshing exhale. He looks up at TI.*

Matt: We're gonna have so much fun...

*Matt smiles and raises his eyebrows a few times. He knows he didn't stand a chance against a focused TI. But an angry, unfocused TI? There was a prayers chance. And as a Jersey boy, he's well familiar with "Living on a Prayer".*

The Insomniac glares incredulously across the table. He's loosened his grip on the wood, but his jaw is still set rigidly, the joints still visible at his temples. He hadn't expected this strange transformation. Surely it was a ploy of some sort to throw him off-balance. He hated to admit that it was working, but his body language was giving him away. Sensing this, the larger man releases his grasp on the table completely and relaxes his jaw.

He'd come here with an honest question. In fact, he'd been surprised by how honest it truly is. His opponent's natural reaction to him had become an item of curiosity of late...it used to be something he'd quite enjoyed exploiting and he'd imagined that he still finds some enjoyment in it...but now, recognizing himself as the pawn that he was, what was there to gain by continuing to toy with this one?

Perhaps not all pawns are created equal?

Matt Strikmore happily sips on his straw as he watches TI with smiling eyes. What a relief to find some ice cubes for what was such a dreadful drink! But it is becoming such a greater relief to watch the painted man's reaction. He is obviously getting to him, judging by the death grip on the table and the vein popping out of his neck.

Still...what would be his long-term plan? He'd heard the rumors about what had happened to Jeremiah. When set on his target (or just when he becomes angry enough), The Insomniac is not one to take lightly. That's actually why Strikmore needs to do what he's doing, he reasons. His opponent probably wouldn't lay down the microphone like Papa Doc, but maybe he could at least have his ammunition taken away.

Strikmore makes it to the bottom of his glass. The sound of air and slurped renegade drops of Coke fills the car. He pretends not to realize this immediately before looking down at his glass.

"Oh! Haha, silly me. Wait...there's some..."

The smaller man repositions his straw as he finds a little more cola left on one side of the glass. The ice cubes get in the way, so he shakes the glass to get them to move, creating a high clinking sound. No, still can't reach it. More clinking. Nope. Dangit. Still more clinking...

"Geez...this just isn't cooperating is it?"

Finally, Strikmore maneuvers his straw through the ice and makes it back down to the bottom of the glass.

"Woohoo! Finally!"

With that exclamation, he resumes his slurping.

For one of the few times in his meetings with Strikmore, The Insomniac can't find the words. He's mesmerized by this strange new behavior...mesmerized and annoyed beyond speaking. Is this how the week will play out? Goofball 8-year-old antics after a second "I fear you, now leave me alone"-type of speech? This can't be right. There's no way this is right.

"How's your Coke?"

The sarcasm drips off every word. Strikmore stops his slurping and flashes one of the stupidest grins TI has ever seen.

"Awesome now that I've found some ice. You want some?"

"There's nothing left in that glass."

Strikmore studies his glass for a moment and points.

"Oh yes there is! See? Right there!"

The slurping resumes. TI slams an open palm on the table. Strikmore jumps slightly and stops. He looks at the larger man, watching for any further sign of aggression. TI simply stares him down, daring him to return to that damn straw.

The waitress returns with Strikmore's requested Scotch and two straws.

"Finally! Which straw do you want, Ty?"

Strikmore holds out both straws to TI, who bats them both away and grabs the drink all for himself.

"Hey! I ordered that for you! That's half mine!"

"Then come over here and take your half."

Strikmore shrinks back a little, pouting. He lets his one hand rest on the table and drums his fingers once. Then twice. TI drains half his glass before Strikmore begins pounding away with his fingers in a steady rhythm.

"You can stop that any time."

"Okay!"

Strikmore keeps drumming while the rest of the Scotch disappears. TI slams the empty glass on the table, this time evoking no change in Strikmore's behavior.

Over the drumming, Strikmore says, "Hey, guess the song!" and changes the rhythm.

"Knock that shit off."

"Nope! Guess again!"

TI half rises from the table, and Strikmore does finally stop. A short silence passes between the two as TI retakes his seat.

"It was ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,' in case you were wondering..."

The waitress returns yet again.

"Boy, you downed that Scotch quick. You want another?"

"Actually, my friend here is kind of an angry drunk. You probably don't want to give him any more. Nope, he needs to sober up. Nothing but water for you from here on out, man. I hate seeing you like this."

The waitress nods. TI raises his voice.

"No...first of all, this kid is not my friend. Secondly-"

"See? He starts turning on people. He just says lots of hurtful things. Well, you may not consider me your friend now, but tomorrow morning you're gonna feel differently. Better to cut you off now before you say anything else that you might regret. So no more drinks for him, please."

"Bring me another fucking Scotch."

"I rest my case. I'd like another Coke, though. With ice? And a water for my friend."

The waitress disappears once again. TI turns to Strikmore, sneering.

"You think that you're being real cute, don't you?"

"Well, I do consider myself a pretty good-looking guy..."

"Cut the bullshit, Matthew. Your little smokescreen is only going to last you for so long."

"This is a non-smoking car, Ty."

"What are you going to do once we get to Britain? What then? This match will be hardcore rules and there won't be glasses of Coke or straws or anything else for you to hide behind. It's only going to be—"

"—You and me." Strikmore and TI finish the sentence in unison.

Strikmore claps. "Haha, JINX!"

"What?"

"Oop, you talked without someone saying your name first! You get pinched..."

Much to TI's surprise, Strikmore actually begins reaching over to pinch him. However, he isn't able to complete his task as The Insomniac lunges from his chair, grabs Strikmore by his shirt, and easily forces him down to the floor. The playfulness is gone from Strikmore's face as TI reaches back with a fist...

...and stops mere centimeters from the smaller man's upper cheek.

For a few moments, the only sound that can be heard is the quickened breathing of a man trapped under a black gloved hand, and of the man to whom that hand is attached.

The Sleepless One speaks in a half-whisper.

"Here's the real reason why I tracked you down, Matthew. Here's the real reason why I took the time to ride this train with you. I look into your eyes, and I see the fear to which you readily admit and that I am able to arouse quite easily within you. I used to find quite a lot of pleasure in it, but also a lot of frustration and maybe even admiration in how you worked through it. I'd pile it on and you still showed up. You came back. You met me for dinner, you stood across the ring from me. But this time you wanted slower transportation. This time you locked yourself in a bathroom...yeah, Scott told me everything."

TI pauses to make sure that he still has the smaller man's attention.

"It's human nature to avoid things that are unpleasant. The mere thought of unsafe conditions causes us to take precautions that, frequently, are unnecessary and excessive. Maybe the little game that you've been playing for the past hour has some true rationale behind it...it seemed like such a good idea because, like you said, you're going to be throttled sooner or later so why bother with the precaution any more? Why deny what you're feeling? Why continually allow me to make the same accusations over and over?"

TI jumps a little, causing Strikmore to flinch.

"Like I said earlier, Matthew, I don't need to actually say or do anything. At your core, it remains that I scare you, and you've recently admitted that I'm going to do something bad to you sooner or later."

The Sleepless One releases Strikmore's shirt and stands.

"But I get to choose the time and the place. Try as you might, you can't take that choice from me."

TI reaches for the empty glass that once contained Scotch. He spots a few drops at the bottom and raises it to his lips, creating his own slurping sound before setting it back down on the table.

"It's true. There's nothing new to say. The guy in 8 Mile was beaten for that reason. If our situation stopped at talking, you'd have me. But it doesn't...does it?"

The Insomniac steps over Strikmore, who chooses to remain on the floor for a little while longer. Strikmore hears the door to the car open and shut and lets out a deep sigh.

The waitress returns with the requested Coke and water and sees Strikmore. She hurriedly sets down the drinks and rushes over to him.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"What happened? Where's your friend?"

"He left."

The waitress helps Strikmore up to a sitting position as he tries to regain his bearings. He smiles weakly at the worried woman.

"It's a good thing we cut him off, huh?"

*Matt continues to sit on the floor, slowly looking around to see what happened. He sees the shards of glass from TI's scotch, and follows the length of the car to see the faces of those who were witness to it. The waitress is saying something to him, but he can't hear it, so he simply nods at whatever it is she's asking. He grips the edge of the nearby table and pulls himself to his feet, his legs uneasy from the scrap and the moving of the train. Dropping back into his seat, he grabs the can of coke with both hands as if it will keep him steady and upright.*

Matt: That went... well? I guess?

Waitress: Are you alright?

Matt: Huh? Yeah. Yeah. Did we pay you?

Waitress: There's time enough for that.

Matt: No, no it's cool. Here.

*Matt digs into his pocket and pulls out various bills and coins from the area.*

Matt: I'm not sure where this train is, or how much this is. Does it cover the tab?

*The waitress looks over the pile of currency and nods, starting to grab it and put it in order.*

Waitress: That's fine, dear. Do you want a bite to eat?

Matt: No thanks. My stomach isn't much around that guy. Just the Coke will do. Thanks alot.

*Matt looks up to make eye contact, and nods as she purses her lips and walks off. Motherly instinct to try and fix something like this. Matt spins his Coke around and grabs at the tab, cracking it back with a snap of carbonation. He doesn't feel much like drinking it, but just keeps pushing the tab back and forth. Suddenly it snaps, breaking off at the hinge. Matt didn't know why, but he kept looking at the tab in his hand, the tiny bubbles popping on the surface of the drink below. Matt gets that glint in his eye, the same on as a teenager who just thought up of a prank. A small smile crosses his lips.*

Matt: Maybe that's it. I can't push TI over with one shove, or keep pushing the same direction. Just back and forth, changing extremes, until he snaps. Keep him off balance...

Matt: Miss? Do you happen to have a deck of cards, and something you could define as "Liquid Courage"?

Waitress: Son, I don't think that's what you want?

Matt: Want? No. Need? Yeah.

*She purses her lips and shakes her head again, but she gives him a shot of something. He knocks it back, his face contorting, and nearly stomping his foot through the floor. He tries to purge the taste from his mouth, but it's not going anywhere. He nods his thanks, still not able to speak clearly, and grabs the deck of cards from the counter. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, it heads off towards TI. Finding him two cars down, facing him and reading a book, Matt marches toward him. He sits down across from his opponent, and waits for him to speak. A minute passes. Two. Then three. Finally, TI opens his mouth, but nary a sylable escapes before Matt swings his left hand across the table, knocking TI's book across the aisle. Matt just stares at TI.*

TI: That was a first edition.

Matt: Shut up. You've said there's nothing left to say for you, so stick to it. I'm not here for another round of fear this or fear that. All I want from you, and all you're going to give me, is one hand of cards. Five card draw. None of that Texas Hold'em River stuff.

TI: I'm not much in the mood for parlor games.

Matt: And I'm not in the mood to really care, so that works out well for us. I'll deal.

*Matt opens the deck of cards, and starts flinging cards between the two of them. He slams the remaining cards down towards the end of the table. Matt picks up his cards, and stares at TI until TI sighs and moves his hand in a waving off gesture. He picks up his cards, and begins to organize them. Finally, he looks up wearily from over his hand.*

TI: I'll take one card.

Matt: No.

TI: Excuse me? You're the one who wanted to play.

Matt: House rules. Play what you have.

TI: I'd say I've tolerated just about enough of this nonsense. Now give me the card, or I'll take it myself.

Matt: I'd say that's your choice.

*The two men stare at each other. There's a different look in Matt's eyes. It's a look of defiance, but that of self-defiance. Without looking away from Matt, he reaches out to grab a card from a pile. When inches away from it, Matt swings his hand and knocks the cards across the aisle, fluttering down onto the floor and the book. TI's hand slowly closes into a fist, the knuckles popping as he tightens.*

Matt: I'd also say that's a choice I just took from you. So what's it going to be? Fold, or play your hand? Not confident you can beat me with the cards you were dealt?

*TI instantly catches the double meaning. He doesn't spare his hand a second glance, rather he places it down on the table, face up. Matt does the same.*

Matt: Impressive looking hand. Ace, King, Queen, Jack, Nine. Looks like it would kill the hell out of mine. Three, Five, Seven, Eight, Three. Of course, we know how this turns out.

*The two stare at each other, both running the same conversation through their head. They both know what this was about, but to top it off, Matt has to vocalize it. He can't just insinuate. He has to outright say it, boldly and with conviction, if he wants to push TI far enough.*

Matt: We both know this isn't about cards. It's about some random intangibility in me that you know you just can't topple. You can pound on the table. You can point at your cards. The fact remains though. For all your pedigree, for all you ability, you just can't beat a guy with a pair of threes. You have me beat from every angle, but when it comes right down to it, I get the pot. I get the win. And quite frankly, I think that drives you nuts. From what I can figure, you're all about denial. You don't want to win. You don't especially care to hear your music after the match is done. You just don't want others to have it. A simple bully trait. So you go ahead and talk about fear. You go ahead and say you'll beat me to hell and back again. You go ahead and say how the choices are yours to make. But know this. In this little "Choose your own adventure" book you're narrating for us, it ultimately ends the same way. I win. I may be broken. I may be battered. I may be cast out into the night. But that last page says "Matt Strikmore wins. The end." Thanks for the game.

*Matt stands up without letting TI speak, his eyes burning right through him. Matt makes a point to step on the book in the aisle, and makes sure TI sees it. He walks slowly, his back to TI, just waiting to hear that sharp intake of TI's attempted retort. And then he hears it. Matt's right hand quickly flips up over his shoulder, middle finger extended.*

Matt: I'm done with you. Go die in a fire.

*Matt continues to walk, three cars down the train before finally falling into a booth, his knees no longer will to play the charade of a brave march. He speaks softly to himself, physically exhausted from what just occurred.*

Matt: Geez. What was in that shot?

Go die in a fire?

Titanium Insomniac's eyes are still trained on the door through which his adversary disappeared twenty minutes ago. His hands are still clenched in tight little balls, his painted countenance contorted by the rage bubbling just below the surface. The book...the cute little card game...the open defiance in his departure...clearly, the smaller man had something to prove.

They both did.

The game had switched on The Insomniac. Up until this latest episode, the prominent comparison had been to chess. He and his opponents had spoken of kings and pawns. Who was truly each? And The Sleepless One had played the part of the pawn. He'd been unwilling at first, yet had eventually accepted his role as one outmatched not by his opponents but by existence itself.

Strikmore had changed the comparison, had changed the game. Now they were locked in a game of poker. "Play the hand you're dealt," he'd demanded. It was a clever commentary on their situation. The most pitiful combination could prove superior, and once again ability could have little to do with the outcome.

Pawns take kings. Threes beat an ace.

TI's eyes wander over to his book, still laying in the aisle amid the haphazard assortment of paper playing pieces. Strikmore had tried to play the fool and in the blink of an eye switched to the strategy of a more dramatic gesture. The Sleepless One tried to envision his current state...what sort of courage had it taken to play this out? How much energy had he spent working up the nerve to come to the larger man and provide this latest illustration.

He reaches over and picks up the book, first checking it for any damage that had been done to it during Strikmore's tirade. To his relief, he finds no change in the volume's state. He'd had to pull a lot of strings to secure this copy, and it was to his surprise that it had been in this sturdy of shape to begin with. The Insomniac flips open the hard leather exterior to read the one simple word on the title page, printed in straightforward block lettering: Hamlet.

The man with the newspaper sits diagonal from The Insomniac. He'd witnessed Strikmore's self-dialogue earlier and had been privy to the entire card game. He now tries hard not to stare at the man in the silver and black face paint glancing through a copy of Shakespeare's finest achievement. He'd taken many train rides, but this one had yielded the strangest assortment of characters yet.

TI catches his latest glance, however. "Ever read this?"

Frantically, the man tries to bury his eyes back in his newspaper. But it's too late.

"A marvelous story. Bent on revenge, a man pretends to be insane all while carefully coordinating his scheme. His outward appearance and behavior is crucial to achieving his goal. Of course, we both know how it turns out, don't we? He gets his revenge...he fulfills his goal. But the tragic side effect is that he sacrifices himself. He hadn't planned on this occurrence, but he accepts it because even through his own death can he assure the death of his enemy. His façade, and next his self-sacrifice, provide his victory."

The man, of course, gives no response. He pretends not to listen in the hopes that this strange passenger will leave him be. The Insomniac does give up on the prospect of conversation as he looks back down at his book. He looks back toward the door, a look of curiosity overtaking his features.

TI rises and steps through into the next car. Seeing no sign of his opponent, he steps into the next one. Somehow sensing the nearness of the man he seeks, he remains between cars and peers through the small circular window.

There sits Matt Strikmore, furiously rubbing one hand over the clenched knuckles of the other. He is slightly startled by the appearance of the waitress, who appears to speak to him in a gentle tone revealing her genuine concern. The clacking of the train is too loud in this space for TI to hear, but gestures and facial expressions are enough.

Within the car, the waitress has just asked whether he'd like something to calm his nerves.

"I...uh...I think that last thing you gave me did its job. But I don't need courage now...so maybe this time something that won't inspire me the way the last one did?"

The waitress smiles a soft smile.

"I think that I have just the thing."

Strikmore nods appreciatively as the waitress moves back toward the bar. He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes for a moment and allowing a long breath to escape his lips.

The Insomniac watches this exchange, and the long recovery that Strikmore seems to need. Clearly it had taken a lot of energy for that card game. It was energy that the smaller man was willing and able to spend, but at what ultimate price? TI now begins to agree with Strikmore's statement about intangibility: he'd been able to perform well and the drive within him had allowed it.

But can he see it through to the end now?

The Insomniac moves back through the other car and finds his seat. The cards remain in disarray across the aisle; his play looks to be untouched. The man with the newspaper looks up only for a moment and braces himself for a renewed attempt at conversation by the silver-faced passenger.

The Insomniac takes his seat once again, slouching a little more so as to place his booted foot on the edge of the seat across from him. He retrieves his book from the accompanying seat and nearly cradles it in his hands like a delicate newborn. He smirks to himself as another thought creeps into his mind.

"The first phase was for people to believe that his insanity was genuine. The second phase was to catch his target off guard. But it took something from him...it took his life. Technically, he'd won. But he didn't survive to tell the story."

Fearing the expectation of a response, the man tucks his folded paper under his arm and moves to a seat further down the car. TI doesn't even look up to acknowledge.

He'd stepped onto this train with a specific purpose. Strikmore had been the only one capable of helping him answer the question of why he should care about their upcoming encounter.

Revenge? It seemed such a small goal, so far below him now.

Moral victory? There was no one to whom he needed to prove his superiority in that regard.

A reputation restored? He was a pawn in a world of pawns. No reputation seemed worth restoring.

The Sleepless One thinks back to the card game. He remembers the fire in Strikmore's eyes, the hardness of his voice, the moxie with which he'd interrupted the larger man's every attempted retort. He then thinks about the man currently collecting himself in the dining car, quivering hands raising some drink or another to his lips and surely wondering what sort of retaliation he could expect. To a certain extent, the strong exterior had worked. But was he prepared for the possibility of his own demise to see his goal achieved?

TI thinks about the entire train ride as he's experienced it: a man attempting to prolong his journey, then attempting to throw his adversary off balance, then finally hurling insults.

Why should Titanium Insomniac care about beating Matt Strikmore?

Not for revenge. Not for moral victory. Not to restore a broken reputation.

TI's eyes drift back toward his book as he whispers his conclusion.

"To watch him destroy himself."