'He's here! He's here!'

The delighted cries of Mavis Jessup had filled the house. She'd spent the last several weeks acting as if she was twenty years younger, but now she was like an eight-year-old at Christmas. She'd been waiting at the window for the past three days, and finally she had caught sight of her savior. It was all she could do to not go running down the driveway, really.

Wyatt poked his head out the door of his assigned bedroom, ready to remind his host that just because God made every new day, it didn't mean he had to be awake for every second of it. However, in his sleepy state, all he could manage was, 'Wha?'

Mavis didn't hear him, intent as she was on the window facing the homestead's main point of entrance. Hiram, who had been awake for an hour and so was already pretty sharp, stepped over to the same window and looked as well.

'Well, I'll be damned,' he muttered. That's him, all right. That's the Reverend.'

'Wha?' Connors asked again, only this time it translated as, 'Of course it is. I'm right here. I hadn't realized that me being awake was such a headline story.'

That's when things started to sink in a little bit. It was highly unlikely that Mavis would be that excited for Wyatt coming down to breakfast. Seth left town yesterday for the city--he couldn't remember which one, started with a B or a P or something--and wouldn't be back until later tonight. Also, he was not now, nor had ever been a Reverend, as far as any of them knew. Besides, Mavis wouldn't exactly be shouting with joy for either one of them. Logically, that only left one option: the community's original preacher had finally returned.

Within three minutes, the house was empty of religious figures. It wasn't the most difficult sneak job Wyatt ever had to pull, as the Jessups were fairly well glued to the window, where they could see this man's approach. All Wyatt had to do was throw on a shirt and a pair of pants, put on his shoes, and slip out the back door.

He knew he couldn't put it off forever, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

Nobody noticed he was gone. Not even five minutes later, when Mavis started screaming for help after the approaching stranger had collapsed forward and landed on his face.

# # #

Twilight.

Wyatt had decided that this was a good day to be scarce. He did check in around noon, but was told that the visitor was weary from his journeys, and far too tired to see anyone at the moment. Not a word was mentioned about lunch, which was the actual reason Wyatt had stopped in. He fished around in the refrigerator, found a few odds and ends, and packed them away in a brown paper bag. This would allow him to be Somewhere Else for the rest of the day. If there had been more easily transportable leftovers, he might have been gone even longer.

In this particular case, Somewhere Else happened to be a hill in a disused section of a field, about a mile away from the house. It provided an excellent view of...not a whole hell of a lot, actually. Dirt, some crops, and a handful of stubborn trees, and that was about it. Off in the distance, though, there was a road. Wyatt couldn't see it, but he could hear the rare car that went by. He had no earthly way of knowing the people driving those cars, but Wyatt hated them anyway. The sound of their engines mocked him, reminding him that the drivers were free, and he was not. Of course, one of the chains that bound him was of his own making--he could easily be over this hill and far away before anyone knew, were it not for the fact that he would be leaving behind the fruits of his life's work. Every day, it seemed more and more tempting to do such a thing...but he knew that he never would. It was too late to start over, and it was too late to give up. Win or lose, he was stuck on this path.

He was munching on the last piece of cold chicken when he heard the truck's approach. It was about a ways out yet, probably just entering the field...but the low rumble of the engine and the bumps in the vehicle's path made it fairly clear what it was, and where it was going. Sure enough, a pair of bright headlights crested the hill, followed closely by the old pickup that Seth used to take into town. The tuck rolled up to a few feet behind Connors, then the motor sputtered to a halt. The door creaked open, and Wyatt heard a pair of heavy footsteps approaching--an odd cadence, caused by a slight limp. There was no real mystery to who it was, so Wyatt didn't bother turning around until the other man spoke.

'Thought I might find you here,' Seth said, sounding almost amused.

'Oh? I suppose it's all the other times I've come here,' Wyatt snapped back.

'It's a pretty good place to be if you don't want to be bothered. As good as any around here, I guess.'

'You know, you took your sweet time in town. It's never taken you this long before.'

'I've been back for a few hours now; mostly I was putting Hiram's stuff in his shed, and yours in your room. Looked in the fridge, saw that you were out of drink. Got something that might help.'

The bigger man reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a metal flask. He tossed it toward Connors, who caught it deftly with one hand.

Wyatt threw it right back. 'Forget it. You think I'm dumb enough to just accept what's handed to me? For all I know, that could be one of Her special cocktails.'

Seth smiled as he unscrewed the cap, and took a lengthy pull. After he swallowed, he held out his arms in a sort of 'look at me' way. 'See? I'm fine. Go on, have some. I bet you could use it.'

The farmhand wasn't quite fine, of course, as his face was starting to go a little red...but he wasn't passing out, throwing up, or dying, so it seemed to be okay. He offered it to Wyatt again, and this time it was accepted.

Almost as soon as the liquid touched the back of Connors' throat, he began to cough. 'Jesus,' he choked out in between hacks. 'What the hell is that? You could have filled it with metal shavings and it would have gone down smoother.'

'That,' Seth answered as he recovered the flask, 'is the finest 'shine in these here parts.' He loaded the words with a comically overdone drawl, which caused Wyatt to chuckle. Seth took another drink from the flask, and then sat down next to his captive-slash-liege-slash-adversary.

For his part, Wyatt looked like he was trying to scrape his tongue against his upper palate until both of them disappeared. But when the flask was offered again, he still did not refuse.

He felt extremely tired. His tenure in SCCW had been wearing on him, and no show had been as heavy as the last one. Between the flakeout against Charlie Ramone, the constant fear of face-murder from a certain Director, the fact that Amy Campbell had taken his information and done what might have been the dumbest thing possible with it, the closed-door meeting with Mr. Hawke, and the complete shock at being alive at the end of said meeting...and now with the return of the Prodigal Son, as it were...well, it had been a very trying time. As much as he enjoyed antagonizing people, he just didn't feel up to it at the moment. Besides, he hadn't had a good drink in over six months. He still hadn't had one, of course, but a bad drink is better than no drink at all.

'You see the new guy yet?' he asked.

'Nah,' Seth replied. 'Mavis is still fawning over him, and Hiram told me that he's still not feeling good enough to see anyone. Not that I'm in any kind of hurry.'

Wyatt cracked a smile. 'Really? I thought you couldn't wait to tell him what a fraud I was.'

Seth looked around for something that probably wasn't there. 'Yeah, well...let's just say I'm not all that psyched up to see the truth be told.'

Wyatt cast a glance at his 'bodyguard.' 'You will have to tell me that story.'

The other man took another swig, and smiled. 'You first.'

'Oh...kay. That'll be a little hard, since I don't know that story.'

'Nah, nah,' Seth said, as he passed the flask again. 'I want you to tell me something. Tell me...okay, tell me just what the hell that meeting was all about. You know, with Mr. Walking Stick Up His Ass.'

'Ha!' Connors was grinning now...maybe the booze was getting to him, but he needed a good laugh. Getting one at the expense of a member of the Hand was even better. 'No...no, I don't think I'll be telling that story. Strictly confidential stuff. You know how She gets with secrets.'

'Okay. Well...you used to work for her, right?'

'With her. Subtle difference.'

'Whatever. So, how come you quit?'

'Oh, no. I'm not telling that story either. At least, not now. Maybe when we get to the bottom of this matter,' he said, shaking the flask, 'we can get to the bottom of that one too.'

'Fine. Charlie Ramone, then.'

'What about her?'

'The match, man. I watched it backstage. You walked out right in the middle of the match! I was all ready to let you go, and you just left. What the hell, man?'

Wyatt thought for a while. He didn't really want to answer that one either...but it was, by far, the easiest answer out of the three. In the end, he needed another sample of Dutch courage to come out with it.

'I couldn't do it. I knew I couldn't.'

'Couldn't what?'

Wyatt drained the flask a little more, and continued. 'I couldn't beat her.'

Seth laughed, and snatched the metal canister out of Wyatt's hands. 'Shit.'

'Seriously. I was a little surprised I'd lasted as long as I did, actually. You know I'm not a good wrestler...hell, in a fair fight, I probably couldn't beat those masked morons that hang out with King Blueberry. Ramone is actually a talented wrestler. It was just a matter of time until either she beat me, or the Hand came down and destroyed us both. Neither of those options appealed to me, so I bailed.'

Seth looked at his drinking partner, trying to take in what the smaller man just said. He soon decided what he thought of it. 'Bullshit.'

'Bull true, big fella. Bull true.'

Seth laughed and shook his head. 'Should have known better than to ask for a straight answer out of you.' There was only a little splash of alcohol left in the flask, which Seth emptied into his mouth.

Wyatt looked at the empty container and said, 'Looks like that's it for tonight.' He sounded a little sad.

'Nah, there's plenty left. Picked up a whole jug of it; it's still in the truck. I'll go get us a refill.' He stood back up and wobbled toward the truck. Wyatt watched him go, but decided that the swaying motion wasn't going to help that cold chicken stay down, so he turned his attention toward his feet. He didn't feel all that drunk yet, but he did have a decent buzz going on...and he didn't doubt that standing up would only make matters worse. After a few minutes, Seth returned with a full flask and, judging by the splashing sounds coming from the truck while he was over there, an empty bladder. As soon as he sat down, the passing-around began anew.

'Okay okay okay,' Wyatt said. Apparently, when he's drunk, he talks like a high school kid. Or Quentin Tarantino. 'Now it's your turn.'

'All right, I'm game. What do you want to know?'

'This whole scheme you cooked up...telling people I'm a reverend, getting me back into wrestling. I wanna know why.'

'Why?'

'Yeah, why. What the hell did I ever do to you?'

Seth let out a humorless chuckle, and looked down at his hands.

'You ever hear of a guy named Dreadnaught?'

'Can't say it rings a bell.'

'How about Alan Bowdry?'

'Nope.'

'Well, Alan was a wrestler once upon a time. Worked his way up the ranks. Didn't make much cash, 'cause he hadn't hit the big time yet. Well, after years of beating his head against the wall in the indies, he finally got his chance. Got a tryout with some big shots, and they were real impressed. A young Lance Marshall, they called him.'

'Lance isn't exactly old.'

'Shut up. Anyway, next thing you know, he's got himself a contract, a long with a new gimmick. They were going to put him in a mask, call him Dreadnaught, and give him the monster push. Yessir, Dreadnaught was going to be a big, big name in NWC: South.'

'No...'

'Yep. My first match was supposed to be against some curtain-jerker on the next episode of Uprising, right after this big pay per view event. Unfortunately, there was no next episode after that big show...and there wasn't an NWC anymore, either.'

'You're kiddin' me!' Wyatt was slurring his speech a little.

'The guy who signed his contract got left holding the bag, and some German asshole started up a new company. Said he had to 'shed payroll,' and cut Bowdry loose. Total bullshit excuse, because you just look at some of those worthless assholes who kept getting paychecks.'

'Tell me about it.'

'Anyway, he just didn't have the heart for wrestling after that. But he never forgot the people who ruined his chance at the big time...and when one of them got in a wreck right on the very farm where he worked, well...I swear, I just about felt like it was my birthday and Christmas, all coming at once.'

Now, it was Wyatt's turn for stunned silence. The only sound he made was a tiny slurp from the mouth of the flask. Seth--Alan?--didn't offer any kind of follow-up, as both of them knew the story well enough from that point on. Instead, he just stared up at the stars in the night sky...the stars he reached for once, and never would again.

Eventually, Connors did break the silence. And, as was often the case, those around wished he hadn't.

'Christ. Not another one.'

Seth swiveled his head around and glowered at Connors. His voice was full of anger, confusion, astonishment, and anger--yes, anger twice--as he snarled, 'What do you mean by that?'

Yes, anger twice.

Wyatt pointed back in Seth's face, although that was only by luck--he had about three different faces to choose from, and went for the one in the middle. 'If I had a nickel for every time someone's tried to 'pay me back' for closing the NWC, we could have afforded to re-open the motherfucker.'

'Yeah, well, they never got the chance, and I did. So what does that tell you?'

Wyatt didn't answer, as he was too busy leaning back and laughing. Probably not the best idea when faced with a large, angry, drunk man...but Wyatt's been so full of bad ideas lately, what's one more?

'You know what, Connors? Fuck you,' he barked, and took another pull from the flask. Eventually, Wyatt's laughter died down, although he seemed to be unable to pull himself back up to a sitting position.

Both men stayed silent for a few minutes, as they both needed to calm down a little. Seth cast an eye down at the smaller man, trying to see just how drunk he was. Maybe it was time to bring up a previous question.

'So, why did you get out of the Illuminati, anyway? Seemed like a pretty sweet gig for you.'

The answer came in the form of light snoring. Upon closer look, Seth could see that Connors had fallen asleep. And since he didn't have any tools he could use to shave off one of the man's eyebrows, he decided that sleep was the way to go.

# # #

The next day.

Seth had either driven home first, or woken up earlier and drove off. Figures, Wyatt thought. Leaves me to walk back by myself.

A mile-long walk under a bright morning sun, while nursing a hangover? Not exactly Wyatt's idea of fun. So it was with great relief that he finally entered the Jessup homestead, where the light wasn't so, you know, goddamn bright. After taking a few minutes to recover from the trek, he headed to the refrigerator in search of something cold and wet. It took a moment, but before long he found a bottle of red-flavored Gatorade. The lid had been cracked open, but Connors didn't much care. He was thirsty, it was there, problem solved.

'Son of a bitch. I told him not to get the fruit punch,' he grumbled, because of course there should always be something to complain about. Wyatt unscrewed the cap and took a drink, then stumbled off toward his room.

It wasn't until his second drink that he noticed that the taste wasn't quite right. He didn't drink Fruit Punch Gatorade often, but he knew that it wasn't supposed to taste like that. This was sweeter, and it didn't have that thick, chemical aftertaste. The taste was familiar, but between foggy senses and general apathy, Wyatt couldn't quite place it. 'Hell with it. Close enough for government work.'

His third sip was more of a gulp, and tiny rivulets of red liquid streamed out of the corners of his mouth. 'Shit.' He wiped away the excess with his hand, and then tried to dry it off on his shirt. All it really accomplished was making his hand dirty.

He had just been reaching for the doorknob when he heard the voice. It was a harsh whisper, and it cut through the cobwebs in Connors' brain like a chainsaw.

'Mister Connors,' it said. He said. Male voice. Coming from...where was it coming from?

'Who's there?' Wyatt asked, and turned around to look behind him. His turn was a little too quick, though, and he lost his balance--he had to stabilize himself against the wall to avoid falling into one of Mavis Jessup's potted plants.

'I'm very disappointed in you, Mister Connors. Reverend Connors.' The word 'Reverend' was laden with bitter sarcasm. Like it offended the speaker to say the word...or at least, to say the word to Wyatt Connors. This is not exactly new to the 'False Prophet,' although he wasn't used to hearing that tone inside the Jessups' home.

'Is that a fact now,' Connors replied, pausing to wash down the words with another drink. 'And just who are you, to be so disappointed?'

The mysterious speaker answered, although he didn't actually answer the question. 'You have a gift. You can guide people, shape their worlds, mold their beliefs...with your words. Think of the good you could have done with such a gift. Instead, you use your gift to lie. To deceive. To build up false hopes, only to see them dashed. You claim to know of an oasis, a paradise...and you promise to lead my flock to it. And when they follow you into the desert, and find no water...you tell them to drink the sand.'

Almost automatically, Wyatt raised the bottle to his lips again. He wasn't even thirsty anymore, but he didn't--couldn't?--stop.

'That's right,' the voice hissed. 'Drink it up. All of it.'

Only now had Wyatt noticed just how wrong things were. Every instinct he had screamed to throw the bottle away, but for some reason the message wasn't reaching his arm, or his mouth. He poured the last of the contents down his throat...he tried to resist, but it was as if all of his willpower had disappeared.

As if someone else were in control.

'That is your greatest sin, Wyatt Connors. The sin of unfulfilled potential. For all of the terrible things that you have done, what damns you the most is the good that you failed to do.'

Connors felt his knee buckle, and had just enough time to grab onto the doorknob before crashing to the ground. It did not stop his collapse, not completely, but his added weight swung the door open, and he spilled into his room. He raised his head, and finally saw the man who had been taunting him.

The face was obscured with shadows, except for the eyes. Their gaze seemed to pierce through, looking into Wyatt's very soul. They told of a strength that nobody would see by looking at the man's body--worn down to a shell by weeks on the run. Little food, less sleep, no protection from the sun. Muscles atrophied from years of captivity, suddenly forced into action. Those who knew him best would never recognize him; a beaten, broken man.

But you'd never guess it by looking into his eyes.

'We all have the capacity for good and evil within us...but so many people, when faced with the light, choose to embrace the darkness.'

Connors struggled back up to a vertical base, took a few halting steps, and then fell down again. The room swum around him, but the stranger's features became clear for a moment. Before he could register the face, that moment was gone, and soon they too became obscured in the fog that was quickly creeping over Wyatt's vision. He clawed desperately at the carpet, hoping thereby to hold onto consciousness...but for all his efforts, he felt it slipping away.

'That truly is a shame, Mister Connors.'

As the world around him faded to black, all that Wyatt Connors could see were a pair of eyes, burning with madness.

'A palpable...'

And a set of gleaming-white, capped teeth.

'...palpable shame.'