What is he doing here?
Heaving a defeated sigh, Silvio, seated at his kitchen table, tossed aside his sketchbook. He’d been trying ineffectually for the past hour to get his thoughts in order, any attempt at art to clear his head ending in frustrated scribbles. It was getting late, the nocturnal shuffling of urban life whispering and clinking away outside in the stale, Summer heat. His apartment offered little of its typical comfort. He had no appetite, stomach churning when he made any attempt to eat more than a few bites of anything. He tried reading his favorite books, but found his gaze skimming the passages, unable to comprehend the familiar stories or luxuriate in his favorite illustrations. Music? That was wholly out of the question. Narrowing his eyes, he flicked at the end of a tea strainer dangling from over the lip of his mug of Earl Grey, long since gone cold. The dull drone of his fan thrummed in his skull like a swarm of lazy insects.
What is he doing here?
WAR might have provided the most challenging match of his young wrestling career so far; definitely the bloodiest. Absently, he reached up to touch the scar forming on his eyebrow. More important, though, were the connections he’d made.
“Thanks so much, Silvio. You’re the best.”
“…you were just the only person I could think of that I could trust…”
“But, gosh, Silvio, I’m so tired of being alone.”
“We should all be so lucky to have your outlook, Silvio,”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I want to see you more. A lot more.”
All of these connections will tear you apart
I really like you–and I hope you like my band; I like your boyfriend too, do you think he’d understand?
What is he doing here?
“Ffffuck,” he groaned, rubbing his forehead.
He didn’t need this. He needed to focus. Chaos 97 would see Team Starfox facing Ryan and Bane. It was a signal that management was taking them seriously – pitting them against two company stalwarts. Another connection. Things were starting to matter now. But that fucking segment right before Amber’s match with Ken – the swagger, the blonde hair, that rose tattoo – kept worming its way into his head, burrowing deeper in spite of his attempts to pry it free. Thinking about Carnage didn’t work – he’d seen to that with his little video. Trying to draw was no good – Silvio’s art was all over him.
What is he doing here?
HE WOULD LOVE KNOWING HE’S IN YOUR HEAD ALREADY.
“Well, that would be incredibly on brand, wouldn’t it?”
Too recent; these diversions had been shared and so could be infected with him.
Connections.
SO GO BACK FURTHER. FIND SOMETHING THAT’S ONLY YOURS.
Silvio’s fingers twitched, an old itch tingling in them.
“…Not a bad idea.”
How had James Joyce put it?
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
Getting up, Silvio went to his room, knelt beside the bed with its rumpled sheets that still held the faintest scent of Eau de Fujihara, and reached beneath it for a small but weighty metal box.
Owning lock picks was illegal in some states, but Maryland was not among them. Well, technically, you could own them in Maryland as long as you didn’t demonstrate criminal intent. And, technically, he wasn’t intending on committing any crimes involving them.
IF YOU’RE USING THE WORD, ‘TECHNICALLY,’ TO JUSTIFY SOMETHING YOU’RE DOING, YOU ALREADY KNOW IT’S BAD.
“No comments from the peanut gallery.”
Opening the box revealed a mound of locks, atop which sat a little case that Silvio lifted out with care. Flipping it open revealed a number of tiny, delicate metal instruments – small handles with slender lengths of metal extending from them that ended in differently shaped tips. They were all good for different things, but for his purposes, Silvio just needed the tension wrench and the standard hook.
Working at a tattoo parlor allowed one to meet folks from every walk of life. And when you had an unusual skill, meeting someone else with an unusual skill meant payment for your services could become much more interesting than mere money.
“A lock is like a woman,” the locksmith had said. “You have to seduce it.”
Smirking, the artist selected a lock from his practice collection; a padlock style five pin and tumbler. He couldn’t blame the guy he’d traded with for trying to add a little romance to his profession. A lock was like anything else – if you wanted to know what it was made of, you took it apart. If you wanted to understand it, you put it back together again. Silvio was astonished that most common ones could be opened without any skillful picking. Bump keys, shims, and rake picks could usually get the job done. Memorizing what some styles were made of could make the job easier, too. Zinc alloy inner workings, for example, melted at relatively low temperatures – apply heat, and hey presto. Others, like ones used for security tags on clothes or even ones for gun triggers could be bypassed with magnets purchasable at any hardware store. There were locks that required picking, but that was just a skill acquired through practice. Once you learned the language in which the theater of security was written, you could edit the script any way you pleased.
What Silvio hadn’t expected was how meditative it could be.
Thinking in three dimensions was important; mentally picturing the mechanisms as you worked. Already being predisposed to visual-spatial thinking gave Silvio a leg up on that. Other than that? All you really needed was patience. Turning the lock over, he eased the tension wrench into the keyhole to hold down the plug while he used the hook to begin probing for the first binding pin. These locks had a pin order to them; find the order and you opened the lock. Find the pin by finding where the tension was.
As he worked, his mind cleared. It was just him and a problem to be solved. Him and the tension.
Him and the binding pins.
Connections.
Commitments.
This felt like a tipping point.
What is he doing here?
Let him go. Focus.
Pin #3 binding.
You’re setting down roots. This is your last chance to go before they get too deep. Adrienne, Matt, Mitch, Kohaku – you’re in each other’s patterns now. Your interactions have begun to define you. You do this match, you’re here for the long haul.
Pin #1 binding.
Since he’d gotten to Carnage, the upper echelons of the company had existed in a world unto themselves. Angels, gods, poets, scions, cowboys and goddesses dreaming endless, intricately self-referential circles around one another. Variations and inversions of the same characters living out their stories.
But gods warring in sight of mortals had its own peril.
Pin #5 binding
Their dreams were shifting; unraveling. They’d offered an in – a keyhole. A potential for more connection. The card reflected it, too. Adrienne vs. Eli, JC vs. Matthews, Silvio and Kohaku vs. Amber and Mac.
The new blood was starting to filter into the realm of the old guard.
Pin #4 binding
YOU’RE UP AGAINST AN ANGEL AND A COWBOY. HOW HAS THAT WORKED OUT FOR INDIGENOUS FOLKS IN THE PAST?
“Real funny, Spooky,” Silvio muttered.
Still, the iconography was undeniable. Cowboys and angels. Militia and missionaries.
History had shown time and time again – when you pitted, ‘savages,’ and, ‘heathens,’ against guns and organized religion, the latter tended to win. You looked at this match up, it felt like history wanting to re-assert that trend, however small the scale might have been.
That was the pattern; the expectation. Two former champs teaming up to create a powerful duo to make up for any recent mis-steps as they sink back into their dream; tripping the light fantastic. “Alright, kid, you’ve had fun with your little win-streak, but let’s see how you and your buddy handle this.”
There was security in it; in reinforcing the status quo, in predictability.
But Silvio knew that act; knew that script. The theater of security. He knew how to rewrite it.
He just needed the right tools.
Pin #2 binding.
Click
It was what was sort of becoming their usual place.
Udon was something that Kohaku considered comfort food, and Silvio seemed to enjoy it as well. Plus, the noodle house had a nice ambience, one that was often found in mom and pop eateries over the chain joints.
This afternoon, though, the 21st Century Fox didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. Even the fried tofu floating on top of the savory broth was only picked at. Swishing the noodles around a bit with his chopsticks. Kohaku looked up and across the table, gnawing at his lip a bit.
“Hey, Sil? Are you okay?”
Silvio had seemed more interested in watching the motes of sesame oil drift around the surface of his udon broth than eating. Eyes not lifting from the soup, he shook his head.
“It’s been a weird few days,” he admitted. “WAR was nuts; I’ve never been in a fight like that before. I just want to focus on 97, but my mind keeps wandering.” Turning his gaze to Kohaku, Silvio felt a little tug at his heart.
He’d been focusing so much on how Team Starfox was a contrast to Amber and Mac, but there was at least one thing where they shared common ground; or had the potential to.
“This is big. I feel like…this is a test from management; see what our limits are. Mac and Amber are bastions of the company; good at drawing an audience. Maybe they want to see if we’re cut from the same cloth.” He narrowed his eyes, mouth twisting. “There’s something about that sentiment that doesn’t sit quite right with me.”
“I know what you mean. It’s like the brass is just flinging us at the big boys, seeing if we’ll break through or go splat. It’s not gonna be easy but I’m pretty sure we can make the most of the opportunity. In my experience, the whole adage about youth and skill vs. old age and treachery isn’t always correct.”
He picked up a single noodle, biting the end of it off before dropping the rest back into the bowl with a small splash that stayed contained within the porcelain. Looking up slightly, Kohaku’s brow furrowed in concern.
“What’s bothering you?”
“Thinking about the strata at Carnage. Still figuring out how to put my feelings about it into words.” Silvio tapped the edge of his bowl with one chopstick. “Then there was that video package near the end of the show. That guy…I know him. I’m not sure why he’s here, but I have a feeling it has to do with me. I want to put him out of my mind for now, but we can talk about him after the match, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Kohaku had questions; lots of them. He’d seen the package, and while not entirely sure why, something about the person in it made his fur stand on end- not in fear, but in strong dislike. That he had such an effect on his partner did nothing to assuage those feelings, but for now, he complied with Silvio’s wishes not to broach the subject.
“You know you can talk to me about anything. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”
He had his own things on his mind, but they could wait too. He tried taking another bite of the tofu, hoping his favorite food would start doing something for him soon. He hated feeling like this.
“But whatever it is, we need to be on the same wavelength for this match. If we’re not in sync we’re sunk. I hope you know you can count on me. I know I can count on you, too.”
Looking up again, his eyes met Silvio’s.
“Right?”
“Immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Sunlight filters down from the skylights of the Walters Art Museum’s European Art and Sculpture Court, casting the Oracle in sharp contrast to his surroundings. Seated at a table of lacey white wrought iron on a chair made of the same, Silvio is dressed in a white button down, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a black waistcoat with matching tie, torn blue jeans, and red converse. Behind him looms a statue of white marble depicting Apollo. Posture elegant, expression serene, the god holds a bow in one hand as he reaches to pluck an arrow from his quiver with the other, the body of a slain serpentine creature at his feet.
“Folks think about immortality as the opposite of death, but that’s not quite right. If something is immortal, it’s unchanging forever. While I can see the appeal, how unlike life that is. All the same, knowing everyone has to die someday, the compulsion to have some aspect of ourselves stick around for eternity is profound. I get why people want to put their names in the Carnage record book. People might have other reasons – prove something to themselves, for their fans, or a personal cause. But no matter why you might be pursuing Carnage titles, leaving a legacy behind is part of the package. That part of you – frozen in gold – is immortal; an unchanging piece of yourself as champion.
“When you finally pass through that golden moment – however long it may last – it opens up an opportunity for mortality. For change. As it happens, Team Starfox has two such former immortals opposite us in the ring for 97. One had their halo torn from them, while another hung up his spurs for a chance at a new set.”
He meets the gaze of the audience, smiling as he shuffles his cards, eyes glinting.
“Amber and Mac. You’ve earned your immortality. It doesn’t mean you get to live forever.”
Silvio spreads his cards out on the table, then draws six toward himself.
“When a god and an angel duke it out for the mortals to see, it’s a double-edged blade. On the one hand, you demonstrate just how mighty you are. The celestials clash and we feel the boom of their thunder in our bones. On the other, you show us mortals an inconvenient truth. Divinity can bleed. How does that make you feel, Amber?”
Turning over the first card reveals a stern-faced man crowned in stars riding a chariot; black and white sphinxes driven before him.
“The Chariot. Everything is a battle for you right now; a struggle. Considering how things panned out at WAR, not only is this likely addressing the hangover from your fight with,” Silvio paused to roll his eyes, “‘Godly,’ Ken Davison, but also the fact that you didn’t make it to three successful title defenses. You don’t get an automatic rematch. You’re right back to fighting to prove yourself like everybody else on the roster.”
Flipping the second card over shows an illustration of a sun with a placid expression, beaming down upon a child crowned in flowers astride a white horse.
“Here’s what you want.” Sitting back in his chair, Silvio taps the card. “Fulfillment. Joy. You claimed the belt meant something to you; everything, if I take you at your word.” Exhaling at length, he shrugs and looks up at the camera. “It’s gone now. And I gotta ask – did it ever really give you the fulfillment you desire in the first place, or was it just an exceptionally shiny placebo? Because Amber, if you haven’t yet, that’s a question you are gonna have to think about. What does success and satisfaction look like to you if you can’t wear it around your waist?”
Turning the next card over reveals a crowned man seated on a throne with a sword in one hand and a scale in the other.
“This is what you’re afraid of. Justice.” Raising a brow, Silvio says, “You talked about the bridges you burned for the sake of that belt; relationships you were willing to sacrifice for your championship. Well, the belt’s gone now, but the consequences are still walking around backstage, as far as I can tell. How long is it going to be until they come calling? And when they do, what will you have going in your favor?”
The fourth card is turned over, showing an illustration of a man and a woman in a garden, an angel spreading its wings above them.
“The Lovers.” Silvio smiles. “Mac seems like a good guy, and I genuinely hope that you make each other happy. If I were you, I’d be glad to have Mac in my corner, too. So, what is he going to be helping you overcome?”
The fifth card is an illustration of a crowned, red-robed man seated between two pillars, holding a triple cross in one hand.
“The Hierophant. What you have working against you are the expectations of others. But I don’t think those expectations are what you talked about at WAR; living up to your potential and being a good person. You told people what to expect from you – ruthlessness, desperation, the willingness to do anything for the sake of a title. Team Starfox is taking that seriously; I wonder who else on the roster is? Like it or not, connections matter. How many people are willing to stick around if the expectation is that everything and everyone is a potential sacrifice for gold?”
Flipping the final card over reveals a circle inscribed with runes, a sphinx perched atop it and a jackal clinging to its bottom.
“This is how things work out. The Wheel of Fortune. Now, this could be that you change your fortune from WAR. Maybe Ko and I are your turning point. I won’t discount that – you got to be champ for a reason. But here’s what I think is just as likely – looking at the bigger picture, you losing that belt is the first domino to fall. Things are changing at Carnage. Patterns are altering, titles are switching hands, and things don’t seem as predictable now as they were even a few months ago. Given that, what is your role going forward? Because the earth is shifting, and your footing might be a lot harder to find than it was before.”
He sweeps the cards up, shuffling and cutting the deck while humming to himself.
“That brings us to Mac Bane. First of all,” he says, spreading the cards onto the table again, “congrats on the win at WAR. Between your match with Thor and the fight Adrienne, Knox and I won, we’ve pretty conclusively shown that Insidious has no place at Carnage. Heck, I might make the sound of Thor being driven through a flaming, barbed wire table into my ringtone. But, that’s neither here nor there. How are you feeling?”
The first card Silvio turns over depicts an angel sounding a trumpet, wings spread, above grey-skinned people joyfully emerging from coffins and crypts.
“Judgement. You’re looking at the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. You claimed victory at WAR, kept the Baltimore City Championship from going to a total douche canoe, and are setting your sights on a shot at the UV belt. Now, the Judgement card is pretty heavy. As you’re taking stock of everything happening and where you want to go, be aware that the decisions you’re making now are going to have far-reaching implications that might change your life in pretty profound ways. What is it that you want?”
Turning the next card over reveals a crowned man seated on a throne, a sword in one hand and a scale in the other.
“Justice. I’d say your pursuit of the UV title and your reasons behind it fit the bill here. Trying to set things with Kyra, Amber, and Ken straight with a good ‘ol ultra-violent ass-whoopin’. This is why your claim that you just want to watch burn the world down with Amber rings false. If that’s what you want, why would you bother trying to make Kyra see sense? Nihilism is, shockingly, not a popular ideology. Folks who say they just want to watch the world burn? They tend to live where the flames can’t reach them. Besides, if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be afraid…”
The third card turns over to show a woman crowned with stars and dressed in a floral gown.
“…for your child.” Sighing, Silvio flips the card back over again. “I am sorry to hear about what happened to your son, Mac. I’m not going to analyze this one any further. I just hope he gets well soon.”
Moving onto the fourth card reveals an ebony armored skeleton astride a white horse.
“This is what you have going in your favor. The Death card here ties back to Judgement and represents transformation. Remember those weighty decisions with far-reaching implications? Looks like those are going to be the correct ones to make. Giving up the BCC and going after the UV title is definitely a way to redefine yourself. Apparently writing your name in blood and barbed wire is really gonna be a sight to see.”
The fifth card reveals a woman dressed in white, bent at the waist to hold the jaws of a fearsome lion.
“But Strength is working against you. At WAR, you talked with Amber about trading out that white hat for a black one. Being a bastard can work for some things, but it doesn’t work for everything. Before you go jumping into the deep end of bastardy, just know that negativity and a lack of self-control will circle back around and bite you in the ass. Be careful delving into the realm of razor wires and table fires, cowboy. If you lose yourself there, you might not be able to find your way out again. Now how does this shake out?”
The final card shows an illustration of an old, grey-robed man holding a lantern before him.
“The Hermit. This reading keeps going back to your head and your heart. After our match is done, Mac, you’re going to want to sit down and have a good, long think about what you want and what you’re willing to do to get it. You’re on a precipice; step carefully.
“Where does all of this leave your humble Oracle and 21st Century Fox?”
Silvio gestures to the statue behind him.
“Apollo. Greek god of the sun, defeating Python to establish his oracle at Delphi. With all this talk of immortality, I could draw parallels between the old guard – the classical pantheon with its paragons – and myself. Claim that I deserve a place among them. That I’m Phemonoe the oracle, or maybe Prometheus stealing fire and gifting it to humanity in defiance of the immortals.
“But that’s still using the language of the past and I’m not interested in those stories anymore. I’m not your Cassandra or your Urðr, and I don’t want burnt offerings. I’m your Ouija board. I’m your seance. I’m a part of a group of people who are tired of the same tales with the same characters being told and want to assert our own narrative. We are hungry for a little iconoclasm. We’re not classical heroes. We’re cryptids. We’re the Jersey Devil and the Mothman; the new blood. The witch breed.
“And I wonder,” he says, spreading the deck before him and selecting a card of his own before looking up at the viewer. “What happens when the Bogeyman goes to Mt. Olympus?”
Turning the card over reveals a woman swathed in blue silk, surrounded by wreathes of greenery.
“The World. Completion, success, a change of place.”
Smiling, Silvio winks at the camera as the scene fades to black.
“Beware of monsters under the bed, folks. See you at Chaos.”
oracularmysteries 