prologue: ghosts

He sat in a puddle, his hair blowing in the soft breeze. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind as he shivered beneath the blanket that was wrapped around his thin shoulders. His hair was soaked, plastered to his head as water ran down his face. The babble of voices strobed in and out on the edges of his range of hearing. One of them had a definite British tinge to the words. They were too low for him to pick out over the water lapping against the boardwalk. For a second, just a glimmer, he considered flinging himself back into that water, a theatrical, perhaps fitting end to a joke that had apparently just been played at his expense. The sun sank lower along the horizon, a great glowing orange ball of fire, painting the clouds with dazzling oranges, pinks, and purples. The sky was darkening into twilight time as the lights on the Ferris wheel winked on. Right now, nothing mattered but the coming nightfall and there weren't as many tourists about now. The gaming floors of the casinos were calling, after all. 

His attention wavered from that inner gaze, to see the blue and red bubble-gum lights revolving in the gloom. A trained diver had gone down in that water a half dozen times, finding nothing. No body. No signs of foul play. A crowd still milled around on the Steel Pier, drawn there by the ruckus. The more people that passed him by, the more he shrank down, huddled into himself as though he wanted to disappear.

Cold to the bone, he shivered beneath the heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He sat there wondering about his brother Shawn in that cold, dark water. Was he hiding somewhere in the shadows, laughing at him, pleased that he'd managed to trick his older brother into jumping over the railing? Or was he trapped under the surface, down there with a thousand decomposing cardboard sticks from cotton candy, staring sightlessly towards the first stars?

The image made him sigh. Chauncy's voice pierced his reverie, making him flinch. "Lawrence, are you... well?"

Gowan shrugged, "I'm fine." Just cold, tired, and afraid I've lost my goddamn mind! He coughed, couldn't stop shaking. "There was a guy on the railing-" not just any guy - Shawn, the brother who was supposed to have died four years ago!

Chauncy shook his head. "I didn't see anyone," he said in a low voice, "I was right behind you and all I saw was you running - I thought you were trying to play a game, at first. Then you were up and over the railing, Lawrence."

"You didn't see him?"

"No."

"He was there, at the end of the dock, Chauncy. He jumped into the water so I went in after him - he was never a very strong swimmer." He felt stupid just saying it. Hunched over, the wind whipping at his clothing, he wanted nothing more than to have drowned in that water. Groaning, he lifted a hand to his face and rubbed hard at the stubble on his cheeks, "I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. It was…" he broke off, not bothering to say his brother's name out loud.

"I'm not saying you're crazy, Lawrence… but if there was a person in that water, where is he now?"

Maybe it's time to face the fact that you're losing your mind after a thousand-too-many chairshots?

"Don't know that," he muttered, both in reply to his own internal voice, and his partner's question. His teeth began to chatter. He shook his head and grunted, leaning back before letting his eyes close. "What's wrong with the world?" he pushed out between clenched teeth, hugging himself as he shivered uncontrollably.

Chauncy hunkered down next to him, holding out a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee even as he glanced back at the medics, ready to summon them if need be. "You going into shock?"

"No," Gowan ground out, wrapping his hand around the warm cup. "Just cold. It's September - I saw him, okay? I wasn't imagining it. I touched his shoulder. He was real. Solid. He smiled at me, twiddled his fingers in that wave he used to do and then he jumped in. It was Shawn… my brother."

Chauncy laughed, assuming it was a joke, "perhaps they spiked that coffee with more than sugar? He's dead, Lawrence. We were both there at his funeral."

He shook his head again, staring at the fire in the sky. Breathtaking, the glow swept all thought away. The sun lit the low-hanging clouds afire, overwhelming in its beauty. Painful, like a knife stabbing in his heart. A solitary tear snuck from his eye, trailing down his cheek, unnoticed.

The sun sank slowly, slowly below the horizon—another day gone. Wasted. Never to have back. It was almost funny how quickly his mood had shifted. The things that seemed so certain just a few hours ago now seemed like storm clouds on the horizon.

He heaved a ragged sigh, rubbing his clammy hands across his face, grimacing as the stubble rubbed against his palms, igniting the fiery pain in his cold face. He couldn't afford to have an epic meltdown now, not when he was trying so hard to reinvent himself in a new place after the fallout in CPW. Not with so much at stake. Now was not the time for these sorts of foolish concerns—or for the softness and frailty of human emotions. "I know he's dead, Skippy. But I know what I damn well saw." He muttered a string of uncharacteristic swear words under his breath as he pushed up to his feet. He craved a drink, viciously, and knew that the slope was going to be slippery as long as he was forcing himself into the limelight like this.

Shawn Stevens was dead. He was dead and buried. Not alive. Not jumping into water and vanishing.

"Lawrence," Chauncy's hand fell on his shoulder, his voice still quiet, filled with confusion, "I don't know what's happening, but I'm here. Don't shut me out."

"Maybe," his voice cracked as he tried to convince himself that what he'd just seen wasn't real, "it's just stress. I'm seeing things because I'm stressed out. That could happen, right?"

Chauncy nodded. "You have a lot on your plate-"

LG nodded, tilting his head back to drain the coffee from the cup. It cut a warm path down his throat to his guts, making him feel marginally saner. "It just... felt so real..." his voice was small as he pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders.

Chauncy wrapped his arms around the shivering champion, sighing, "sometimes these things are. Maybe we should go see that specialist of yours? What was his name?" He paused, cocking his head before snapping his fingers, "Dr. Rexworthy, yes?"

Gowan stiffened at the thought of more tests, shaking his head. "I'm sure it was nothing." He sniffled, sounding like a tired child, "I just want to go home and pretend this never happened. C-can we do that?"

Chauncy nodded and turned towards the bright lights of the Ferris wheel. "Of course."

LG leaned heavily on his boyfriend, wishing his mind would stop racing.

It wasn't real. Shawn is dead.

He kept repeating it to himself as they made their way back towards their car. A little celebrity status had afforded them an escape. The authorities were more than willing to dismiss the incident as nothing more than a mistake. They probably though he was drunk, or at the very least, high. Either way it spelled disaster if the powers that be caught wind of this. The last thing he needed was bad press, especially having a public meltdown, Britney Spears style. No way was he going to wig out now. He would not ruin this place—not when his reputation and integrity was on the line.

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until a voice shattered his reverie.

"I'll be there," Chauncy assured him, "if things take a sour turn, I will be there. You have my word on that. I might not have a contract, but I have sworn my fealty to you. You lead, and I'll follow… even if you want to dive off a blasted pier again."

LG laughed, and then sobered quickly, casting a sidelong glance at his companion. "It was nothing. Just... stress. I won't let it get to me," he whispered, vehemently, forcing a shaky smile. "I'm alright, Chauncy. Let's go."


The sun was slipping below the horizon as Larry Gowan stepped out onto his patio, feeling hopeful. He'd written something rough that would likely become a nice vignette to record later today. Having been in the business this long, he knew that eventually he'd have to make face time appearances. There was only so much that could be accomplished by words on a screen. He'd been keeping up with his yoga, cardio training and sparring. He was confident in his abilities. It was all coming up Milhouse, so why did he feel trepidation in his guts?

The water in the swimming pool was tinted orange, glowing like molten lava, steaming as the tiles around it released the day's heat. The single reason why he kept a residence here in San Dimas (in addition to the fact that it always reminded him of one of his favourite movies of the 80's), was the fact that he could still go swimming when the leaves back on the east coast were starting to turn colours and drop to the ground. Fiddling with the drawstring on his swim trunks, he paused there, his gaze fixed on the rippling expanse as he drew in a deep breath in an effort to calm himself.

The fact that he loathed multi-man matches wasn't the most daunting thing. It was bound to happen eventually. No, it was the fact that today he'd felt off-kilter, for lack of a better word. On some level he almost wished that he could fast-forward to that moment and just get it over with before he lost his nerve completely. He gripped his right wrist, running his thumb over the thin scar like he did when he was nervous. He felt like his mind was coming unraveled, and it didn't help that he'd awoke last night from a terrible nightmare only to be sure that someone other than Chauncy had been in the house, watching him sleep. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was Shawn, as impossible as it seemed to be. Ever since the day at the Atlantic City pier, he'd been trying like hell to deny what he knew he'd seen.

It had been hard enough to keep that little freak-out off the radar. So far the rest of the rabble in the locker room seemed oblivious. Even the psychiatrist he'd faced hadn't mentioned anything. He didn't want to give them, or the powers that be any sort of insight into his mental stability, or lack thereof.

It'll be alright. No shrinks. No soul searching. No pouring my heart out. No weaknesses served up on a platter.

No thank you. Grinding his teeth, he moved slowly towards the pool, staring into its depths as though it was a crystal ball that could predict a favourable outcome. A crow sat on the eavestrough, crying noisily as he made his way to the water's edge, crouching down to trail his fingers in the cool water. Normally swimming relaxed him, but today it just felt wrong. He couldn't stop thinking about diving into the water off that pier for nothing more than a hallucination.

He was sweating now as the heat rose up from the tiles around him. The water was like cool silk wrapping around his hand, slipping between his fingers as he twitched them beneath the surface. The crow kept up his incessant, mocking cawing. Slowly, he straightened up and dove cleanly into the water, striking out towards the other side before surfacing. Cutting through the water, he felt stronger, more alive as though he was being reborn as the sweat washed from his skin. When he reached the shallow end, he leaned against the edge and slicked the hair back from his eyes.

And then he felt it - the crawly feeling on the back of his neck - the cold certainty that he was being watched. His gut clenched as he lifted his head, looking over his shoulder. The jacaranda boughs that lined the garage rustled, despite the lack of a breeze. The crow had disappeared, no longer scolding him.

"Chauncy?" The name came from between his lips, a bloodless whisper as he peered into the shadows where the gate was. He thought he saw a flicker of movement in the gloom. He squinted and wished he had his glasses.

What the hell was that?

The lights flicked on by themselves, illuminating the immense swimming pool. Eddies and ripples flowed across the surface but he remained where he was, almost vibrating with tension. The pool glowed a vibrant aqua, lit from within; banishing all the shadows save the ones he was trying to see through.

"Is there someone there?" His heart pounded like a jack-hammer in his throat. The spit dried to paste on his tongue.

It was only his imagination. Again.

Right?

"Shawn?" He whispered as he stared into the gloom. He had no doubt that he would see his dearly departed brother. Again.

He wasn't disappointed as the figure in the shadows shifted, moving forward slightly to reveal that familiar disheveled hair and rakish smile.

Shawn. His younger, bigger half-brother.

He swallowed hard and braced his palms against the ledge, pushing up out of the water while he kept his eyes fixed on his visitor. A ghost? Or real flesh and blood?

The man, a dead ringer for former professional wrestler Shawn Stevens, stood on the edge of the light, staring at him with an impassive glare.

Gowan eased to his feet, shivering as his heart stopped dead in his chest and an eerie chill slid through his veins like ice water. "Are you real?" he said aloud, though he knew his brother was long dead. "You're not." He affirmed quietly, almost surprised to hear that his voice was somewhat steady.

Shawn cocked his head, arching one eyebrow as he continued to stare at LG.

His stomach dropped to his feet. "Shawn?" He took a step forward, caught his big toe against a crack in the patio stones and went down. Hard. His knees hit first, the wet skin shredding on impact. His chin bounced against the concrete, rattling his jaw, scraping his skin. Pain exploded in his brain. The crow was back, and it cackled above his head, clearly laughing at his klutziness.

"Sonuva-" he muttered under his breath as he lay still for a second, taking in a couple breaths, telling himself that he was a damned idiot, a freak who was seeing things that didn't exist. He moved one leg, then the other, mentally assessing the damage to his already aging body. Groaning, he pushed up onto his scraped knees, his eyes already moving towards where he'd seen Shawn.

His brother, of course, had vanished.

Using a bench for leverage, he pulled himself up to his feet and stood, solid and steady despite his jack-hammering heart. Gingerly, ignoring the pain in his shredded knees, he walked closer to the edge of the patio. Squinting into the shadows, he looked for something, anything to prove that Shawn had actually been there. Taunting him. Mocking him. Making him think he was losing his mind - nothing moved in the shadows. The night was stone silent around him. There were no footprints. No drop in temperature to prove a ghostly visitation. And beyond all that, he knew Shawn was dead. He'd watched the coffin being lowered into the ground - buried in a plot in Jacksonville, Florida. So what had caused this delusion to come crawling in? Why was Shawn back now? Was he just plain going nuts?

"Crap." He sighed, glaring into the shadows as his firm and unshakable belief in things began to crumble. Shawn wasn't there. "Nobody here but us chickens," he murmured, shaking his head.

Of course Shawn wasn't there. He was dead and this was real life, not some lame monster movie. He needed to get this mess sorted before he came completely unraveled on the eve of his first title defense. Talk about terrible timing. The night went deathly quiet around him. He sat down on the bench, shivering and dripping as he slowly slipped back into the denial of the world he'd created for himself. His hands twitched as he ran that conditioned mind through all the holds he knew. It was more than just a relaxation trick. It was as comforting as warm apple pie. In the face of everything that he'd lost control of over the years, he still had his skill.

The sound of an engine pierced the silence, drawing a groan from between his lips. Just his luck that Chauncy would drive up now...