“Welcome to the Underground!”
Silvio stands beneath a grid of purplish glass squares through which light filters into what appears to be a subterranean hallway or tunnel, its walls made of brick. He’s dressed in his usual white button-down and black waistcoat, jeans, and red Converse. Every now and then, the passage’s illumination is interrupted by what appear to be people walking overhead.
“When I was a kid going downtown, I’d see these purple glass bricks embedded in the sidewalk. I thought they were just decorative, but the truth? Way more interesting. These,” he says, pointing at the glassy grid above him, he says, “are vault lights. They’re special prisms used to diffuse sunlight from the surface into underground areas like this one. All that time I was walking around without any idea that there was an entire piece of the city I’d never seen under my feet. Right now we’re under a street corner in Pioneer Square…”
He trails off, a grin spreading as he spies a person stopped above him, likely waiting for a walk signal to cross the street. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he angles his face toward the lights and yells at the top of his lungs.
“HEY, MAN! SPARE CHANGE?”
The person above appears to startle, their shadow flickering as they search for the seemingly spectral panhandler.
“Sorry,” Silvio laughs. “Couldn’t resist. Anyway, Seattle’s an interesting place. The last town an honest con-man could make a living in the gold rush era. Selling sled dogs for people headed up to the Yukon? Train them to jump off the boat the poor mark got onto and swim back to shore so you can sell them again, leaving the guy you just suckered with nothing.” He brought his hands daintily to his face. “A lady of the evening entertaining prospectors showing off their gold dust? Coat your fingertips with wax, ask if the dumb pigeon will let you touch their stash, then run your fingers through your hair. Wash your hair out that night and find treasure in the basin. Is the city plagued with rats? Do officials have a bounty out for every tail you bring in? Just start breeding rats on your own and make a tidy profit without ever having to go mucking through the sewers. And Seattle had foundations just as crooked as its reputation. The city was originally built on tide flats and organic filler like sawdust from the local lumber mills. Neither of those, however, is a particularly solid foundation and the city began to sink. After the Great Fire of 1889 when the city was rebuilt, they re-graded the streets to be two stories higher, building on top of the old structures. Where I’m standing now used to be street level. You had people using both levels of the city until 1907 when this part was sealed off due to fears of plague. Didn’t stop folks from using it for things like shelter, opium dens, and speakeasies, but I digress. For years, there was another Seattle I never knew about; an underworld city. A shadow town.”
Silvio starts to stroll down the dim path before him.
“I used to have dreams about the Underground rising; a whole city waking up and emerging from the grave we put it in. A shadow that came to life. Gets me thinking about the whole scene at Carnage; me and the Nightbreed rabble rousers shaking the foundations of Olympus from Midian.
“Even monsters under the bed can dream. Cryptids can have hopes. I’m no different. So, I did the only sensible thing given my situation.”
He smiles, shrugging as he raises his brows.
“Picked a fight with the gods and bloodied my knuckles on divinity. All things considered, it’s apropos that it’s you and me, Ken. What happens when an iconoclast holds their heathen hammer high against a self-proclaimed god?”
His eyes glint merrily.
“We’re about to find out.”
This is the last Starbucks order I will ever make.
Picking up his Americano, the reality emerged from the miasma of the nineteen-year-old’s mind as the most coherent thought he’d had in the last few hours. Hell, probably the last few days. It was a weird thing to ring so solidly of finality.
He hadn’t told Artemis or anyone else back at home about breaking into the house. Or the cult. Or the murder.
YOUR MURDER.
Or the voice.
Silvio flinched, almost squishing the cup in his hand and drawing glances from others nearby. Averting his eyes, he continued on his way down the bustling sidewalks of Pike Place Market.
He decided he’d spend the day just doing whatever he wanted; indulge in pastimes and sights he hadn’t for a while. Going to the Market was perfect. The crowds of people, the vendors with their wares – handmade goods, produce, endless bouquets of seasonal flowers, the air rich with spices. It was a feast for all the senses and he let himself indulge. Heck, maybe he’d go down to the aquarium after this.
Sliding his free hand into his pocket, his fingers closed around a plastic bottle as he sipped his coffee. Vicodin. Leftovers from his mother’s cancer treatment. He’d held onto it figuring if he was ever in a real pinch, he could sell it, but he’d never gone through with it. The thought of enabling someone like his dad made his guts churn.
Overdosing on prescription painkillers was a classy way to go out. This was how the movie stars and rich people did it. The meds had expired, but they’d still work. He could sit himself down in the middle of the downtown Macy’s and let some wealthy, WASPy customer find him; make the whole thing a political statement or art installation. If he’d thought of it sooner, he would have asked one of his film student buddies to bring along their camera; shoot it in black and white and use it for their thesis. Some real Un Chien Andalou stuff. At least that way he’d finally get to participate in the university experience. If he was going to the aquarium, anyway, why not there? In the Underwater Dome, surrounded by the gentle undulations of the kelp forest, he could let himself drift away like foam on the tide. It’d be nice; peaceful. Maybe he’d become some famous ghost floating among the rockfish and wolf eels people went on haunted tours to visit.
Guilt over the whole affair ran jagged through his veins. Leslie and Artemis had tried to help him. This would be spitting in their faces.
But it was too much.
There was only so much a person could bear. Whatever role the world was determined to beat him into, he wouldn’t survive it. Silvio had fought the abusive childhood, the alcoholic father, the dying mother, getting kicked out of his home, and even being denied his chance to go to college.
There just wasn’t any fight left in him.
Not with this…problem.
He didn’t care if the thing in his head was real or a sign he’d finally gone off the deep end. If this was him going crazy, he had no hope of affording the care he’d need to treat it. It’d be like putting off going to the doctor and then winding up in the ER with a monstrous bill when you couldn’t ignore an illness anymore. Sooner or later he’d just end up in some facility or on the street because he couldn’t afford a therapist and medication. If it really was some eldritch entity latched onto his brain, why go to college? What was the point of trying to learn anything when the rules the world ran on were unknowable? And if he wanted to become a teacher, he wasn’t about to chance traumatizing some poor student in case things got Lovecraftian. Or, Hell, if this mental malady ended up making him violent? The thought of hurting anyone, especially a child, made his skin crawl. However this shook out, the end was the same.
The pattern was unbroken; things did not get better.
There weren’t any more good days left.
Striding past the fish sellers hurling salmon through the air to the delight of the assembled crowd, the teenager stepped into an herbal apothecary. They sold New Age odds and ends, tea, natural remedies, and Artemis’ favorite perfume. Silvio figured the least he could do was leave a farewell gift for her.
As he took a few steps into the store, however, he froze, gaze locking onto the display on the counter. His heart gave a leap, a cold pulse flashing over his skin. Before he could stop himself, the words were on his lips.
“How much for the cards?”
“This may be my most consequential match in Carnage so far.”
Silvio continues his stroll down the crooked pathways of the Underground, cast in secondhand sunlight.
“I’m not fighting for anyone. Certainly not doing many, ‘great yet terrible things,’ in anyone’s name.”
He pauses, looking at the bracelet circling one wrist.
“People can say they’re fighting for someone, but if they’re victorious, they’re the one basking in the limelight; not their muse.
“You wanted Kyra at your side; even claimed you deserve credit for her winning the UV title. But she never needed you. Never needed to be the,” he smirks and put up finger quotes, “‘Sindel to your Shao Khan.’ People talk about how Kyra suffered in Jack’s shadow, but that’s not true. If people didn’t notice her, that’s on them. She doesn’t suffer in shadow. Kyra is shadow.”
With a deft motion, he takes his tarot deck from his pocket and plucks out the Queen of Wands.
“Shadow and fire and you burn up in the ice of her radiance. Know why we’re not the main event? You have failed to elevate this title and I can tell you why.
“You said it yourself – you’re not here for Carnage. You’re here for Ken Davison. For you, everyone here is another stepping stone; another body to get through. For me? Everyone here is a teacher. Everyone here has helped me become a better version of myself. Everyone who’s helped me get here, everyone who wants to see a better, more inclusive Carnage…I can’t fight for you, but will you fight with me? I don’t want you at my back; I want you by my side. Not because you’ve proven yourself as being, ‘worthy,’ to me, but because you all know something I don’t. It would be foolish not to value that.
“All the people I’ve shared the ring with have brought me here today. Each has taught me something important. My first match showed me that I could connect with people in a profound way that I never knew was possible. Knox taught me I wasn’t beholden to my ghosts. With Kohaku, I learned the miracle of being two people sharing one heart. Allies can come from unexpected places, and things are often more than what they seem on the surface. Zane, Mitch, and Jon all taught me that in their own ways. The Set and Insidious showed me I am my brother’s keeper. If that means getting behind an ideal to keep our home safe, I will never stand alone. StarFox’s victory over Mac and Amber taught me the gods can bleed. I already have all the tools I need for conquest, but I have to be careful about how I use them. If StarFox showed Carnage the gods can bleed, the Kit-Kat Connection reminded me I could, too. Cat’s lesson was to fearlessly embrace all aspects of my identity. The Entourage showed me that you don’t always win by figuring out what a person is going to do, but who they are.”
He looks to the camera and gives it a sardonic smile.
“The Wild Cards taught me sometimes you gotta contour to conquer, honey.
“Which brings us here, Ken. You and me.”
Silvio stands at the foot of a flight of stairs leading up to a doorway. Exhaling, he shuffles his deck, eyelids sinking shut. For a moment he is perfectly still. When he opens his eyes, he draws a card.
“World Title on the line. How’re you feeling?”
Turning the card reveals it to be a woman suspended in the air surrounded by greenery.
“Seems like you’re feeling on top of The World and happy with your achievements; complete. Only natural. Paragon is vanquished, you have the big belt and recognition from the Ultraviolent Champion. What else could you possibly want?”
The second card is a man hanging by the ankle by a tree, one leg tucked behind him.
Silvio laughs. “Well! You’re feeling like you’re where you want to be per The World card. This one? It shows you want things to stay this way; suspended. Who wouldn’t? With you racking up wins against company stalwarts, Kyra at your side and the World Title around your waist, what are you afraid of upsetting your apple cart?”
The next card is of an angel standing on a riverbank, pouring water between two chalices; Temperance.
“It can be hard to trust joy. The scale being weighed so heavily in your favor probably feels nice, but sooner or later, you fear the situation is going to, ‘balance out.’ What would that mean for you? When I said I was proudest of the connections I’d made here, you seemed to think having friends and being a competitive wrestler were mutually exclusive. Are you afraid you’re going to have to choose? Kyra knows firsthand what it’s like to be put second place to a belt, and I’m sure if she caught even a whiff of that happening again, she’d bug out. Seems like you buy into the whole, ‘Love vs. Duty,’ thing. You may want things to stay just as they are, but maybe you’re afraid reality is going to step in and demand you choose a fork in the road.
He hums, flicking the card between his fingers.
“There’s another reading with this card in this position. Fear of an outsider coming and bursting your little bubble of harmony.”
Silvio tucks the card back into the deck.
“You claim I’m nothing special, but how many people have managed to shut you up during an interview? Who else has silenced the Word of God? Come to think of it, how often do your opponents manage to get under your skin? You’re used to being the one who plays mind games, but now you’re finding out what everyone who’s faced me already knows. I have a timeshare in your head and I’m enjoying my stay.”
The fourth card shows an illustration of a rune-etched wheel. On its top perches a sphinx and a jackal clings to its bottom.
“This is what’s going for you. The Wheel of Fortune; a bit of luck that completely turns your outlook around. You’re a skilled opponent, not a lucky one. I don’t think this is referencing the accomplishments you’re seeing in the ring. I think this is the connection you made with our UltraViolent Goddess.” He grins, shaking his head. “She’s just all over this reading! You’re downright twitterpated. Not many saw that coming; you included.
“There’s accusations you’re this corrupting force on Kyra,” Silvio says, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “But she can make her own decisions. I’ve heard some pearl-clutching commentary, and to the people who are looking at our UV champ, breathlessly asking, ‘what happened to you?’ Have you also asked Kyra what she needs to feel loved and supported? Because that, ‘trust fund,’ stunt was downright abusive. Ken must know what she needs. I seriously doubt she’d be sticking around otherwise. That’s your good fortune, Ken. You said the right thing to the right person at the right time. Sometimes? That’s just what we need to turn our entire life around.”
The fifth card reveals a picture of a woman in a diadem and blue robes seated between two pillars, a crescent moon at her feet.
“This is what’s working against you. The High Priestess; intuition, spiritual insight. Here’s where we get back into that whole Love vs. Duty divide. Being a god is easy. Feelings are optional. When you start to care about something other than your immortality? That can put you at odds with your instincts. You’ve been a god for a long time, Ken. Are you becoming human again? If you are, how’s the grip on that belt feeling?”
The last card is pulled, and Silvio freezes, eyes wide. It shows a tower being blasted apart by lightning, people tumbling from it. For a while, he can’t seem to find his words.
“In tarot,” he says finally, “few cards are unambiguously bad news when they show up. The Tower? Never good. Catastrophe, loss, upheaval.”
Tucking the card back in with the rest, the Oracle exhales a shivery breath.
“With that in mind, how are things going to turn out for yours truly?”
He lifts the deck, fingers trembling subtly, eyes closed. He draws a card, opens his eyes, and for a moment, his jaw works but no sound escapes, color rising in his face.
Turning the card over reveals a woman swathed in silk, suspended in the air with wreaths of greenery surrounding her.
“The World,” he murmurs. “Completion. Achievement. Success.”
Silvio shakes his head before looking into the camera. His expression isn’t elation, but realization. His gaze moves to the door at the top of the flight of stairs, its edges illuminated by the sunny day beyond.
“…Holy shit…”
Sitting on the edge of his bed back at home, Silvio held the pills in one hand, the deck of cards in the other. Finding and buying them had been an impulse that disrupted his plans; pure dumb luck that shook his certainty.
He could still do it. He still had the means. But now there was this tantalizing, cruel thread of hope that dangled before him.
Maybe this was a way out.
Part of him was screaming. Why keep trying? He had an easier way out; painless and effortless. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything or anyone anymore.
But this unintentional and unwanted injection of possibility made him waver. What if this wasn’t it? What if there was more? Maybe he was cresting a hill and just didn’t know it yet. There could be relief if he was just patient.
Isn’t that what they all say?
All those well-meaning, hand-wringing assholes who whine about other people making the ultimate decision on what to do with their lives? How was it any of their business? As if they knew what it was like to feel like this. What did they know, sitting comfortably with their intact families and their warm, soft, coddled lives?
Hadn’t he endured enough? He’d had a lifetime of misfortune packed into nineteen years.
WHY, YOU’RE TEN POUNDS OF ANGST IN A FIVE POUND BAG.
As the voice echoed in his head, the artist felt a surge of animosity.
Lips curling into a sneer, Silvio hurled the Vicodin away.
“You couldn’t have chosen a worse head to hole up in,” he spat, trembling fingers working to open the tarot deck.
Flipping up the top, he shakily poured the cards out into his hands. Looking at the images affirmed they were the same kind of cards used by the people who had attacked him.
This had to be something. He had to have some option; some way to take back even a little control for himself. Squeezing the deck of cards in his hands, he closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.
“I will learn this,” he said, “and I will get rid of you.”
“Our interview with Belle couldn’t have painted us in more contrasting colors, but the picture’s more complicated than that, Ken. We’re more like mirrors. Our reflections stretched across the years, but they both began at nineteen with how we handled our deaths.”
Silvio reaches up, unbuttons his waistcoat, then his shirt, and sets them aside. Bare from the waist up, he invites the camera closer and begins to trace the outlines of scars camouflaged by tattoos.
“I broke into a house, and it ended badly. For the rest of my life, I will remain marked by the consequences of my desperation. I concealed them as well as possible, but you can find them if you know how and where to look.” He guides the viewer’s gaze across his skin, touching a constellation of scars studding his upper body until he comes to the last one above his heart. “It’s strange to be able to point to a mark on yourself and say, ‘Here. This was what broke me. This is where I ended.’ But your scar, Ken? It’s somewhere nobody can see. And those kinds of wounds can be worse than anything visible.
“I don’t know what it is to lose a fianceé, and no parent should have to bury their child, but I do know grief. I know how powerless its enormity can make you feel. I know the things we do to cope. And when our hearts were broken, you and I had two different reactions. I put mine back together, knew it better for having examined all the pieces and made it stronger through acceptance of its imperfections. You forsook yours and pursued divinity; burned away your mortality until only ichor flowed through your veins.
“But now you’re at a crossroads, Ken. Your humanity found its way back home after all these years. Maybe loving a goddess in the way she deserves means setting aside your godhood and rediscovering how to be a man. It’s a daunting prospect; caring is a weight you’re not used to bearing up.
“For the first time in a while, you aren’t sure who you are; not celestial or terrestrial. You threw away your heart, and now that it’s back, you can’t understand the language it speaks. But you’re learning. I see it in your love for Kyra. I saw it in you helping Amber. The problem is, you’ve always tapped into your heart’s absence for ferocity; not its presence. Love vs. Duty, right? The well of cruelty you draw strength from is impure, and you don’t know how to deal with it.
“I do.
“I kept my feet on the ground and my head in the fight. I understand impurity is tenacity; flexibility. It’s life, and I lived it as a man. You took the easy way out, retreating into godhood where no one could hurt you. Now you’re meeting me, semi-immortal and uncertain, on a battlefield I never fled and you think you can beat me? You damned your heart. I conquer with mine.
“You’ve done many, ‘great yet terrible things,’ as a god. Can you accept the responsibility for them as a man? How will you atone? Because every action has an equal but opposite reaction, Ken.”
Silvio begins ascending the staircase toward the door.
“We’ve talked about shadows. Suffering in them, stepping out of them, creating them. I heard an idea about our shadows, once. When we commit some unkind deed or evil act, we give them power. If we don’t change, sooner or later, those shadows take on a life of their own; become stronger than those who cast them. When that happens? It’s not long before they come calling, bringing disaster in their wake. Those shadows can manifest differently. And sometimes?”
He pauses in his steps, reaching out to touch the door knob.
“They’re people. Now, I’m no saint. I’ve got stuff in my past I’m not proud of. Maybe a certain Godly fellow is my shadow coming to collect for past transgressions. But Ken?”
Silvio opens the door, sunlight flooding into the dim tunnel and obscuring the vision of the camera until the Oracle stands as a back-lit silhouette in the doorframe.
“Maybe I’m yours.”
oracularmysteries 