Channel 52 . . .

        A static reception faded in to a panoramic view of a deserted street. It was night time, the moon, full, shining over brightly. Wind was blowing idle trash along the curb, occasionally knocking some of it into the street itself. Chatter could be heard from afar, but no sound could be made out in the dark patterns and stretches along the street. The street, known simply, as Gilman Street.

        Wind a hard wind, the scene blew out, and into a scene of a door to what would apparantly be an apartment door. The number on the door read "#13." Slowly, the door crept open, with an eerie whine in the hinges of the door penetrating the silence. The lights in the apartment were off, with nothing but scattered plates and shirts that could be made out in the first three feet into the apartment.

        Another gush of wind blew the scene away This time, the scene settled into that of a dark room. Shadows and sillouettes could be made out, but there was nothing of concrete expressions. In the background, a shattering of glass was heard. A man screamed in angony. You could hear the sound of what human flesh, making contact with human flesh, sounds like. A sickening thud as it pulsated and echoed around the dark and mysterious room. The sound changed from that of human on human contact, to the sound of mixed human groans of agony, and that of a human body being rammed repeatedly into something of metal. And then . . . silence.

        With a quick, unannounced cue, the lights of a vehicle flashed on, encompassing almost the entire viewing screen. Bright they were, almost causing those viewing through a television to even have to shield their eyes. The view zoomed into the car lights even more, as the lights began to take on an orange color. A ripple went through the lights. Sounds of popping and a crack could be heard. Slowly, as the view panned back out from the car lights, it was apparent that viewers were now seeing a burning fire. Inside of the metal garbage can that contained it, items and particles popped and snapped from the heat. An object was thrown into the fire. Something large, heavy, as it rumbled inside of it's new found afterlife.

        The view point panned out from the burning fire. It gave off bouncing shadows of what appeared to be a brick and nailed wood contraption. It had the looks of what could of been a completely run down alley. A battered and breaking wall brought up the question of what kind of alley is it that would baricade the end of it, though. An enlarged ending of what, according to the shadows that were going out, was a narrow, darkened walkway.

        On the panning back out, the view point caught a glimpse of a person sitting against the walls of the alley. He sat with his knees pulled in tight, his arms wrapped around them, with his face resting against his knees. He sat far off from the fire, but just close enough to be somewhat inside of the light that the fire gave off.

        The view panned around, this time with a shot of him, with the burning fire in the background. His tattoo'ed right arm was now visible in this angle, as the tattoos ran down from at least the tip of his black t-shirt sleeve, to a few inches below his right elbow. Assorted and varied, but each carrying a distinct theme. There was no happy and optomistic idea portrayed by the tattoos.

        The piercings in his ears, eyebrow, and lip glared in the firelight. His now spikeless, but instead, short buzzed, jet black hair, glistened in the occasional burst of light. His wrists, both adorned in mismatched studded bracelets, held tight against his cut, calf length pants. Combat boots stirred in the dirt, as he shifted his head around in his knees.

        The view came around to a frontal shot, the fire light, while now not visible, was making it's presence felt by the waving patterns against the brick by which this person sat against. This person. A simple resident to this alley known as the Gilman alley. This person . . . known to people . . . as Zero.

        Slowly, a set of dark eyes rose above the knees. Zero initially looked forward, but what was availible of his gaze soon averted to his left, away from a direct viewing of him while he spoke. It was slow coming out at first . . .

Zero

        " What is the left side? What is the right? Which side of the human brain controls what? Does anyone know? It is proof, or mere common assumption?

        " The fact is this. The left side of the brain controls things such as grammer. The right side operates functions such as math. People in life are one of the two. They either use the left side . . . or their right side. Those with one, tend to usually neglect the other. This accounts for the varying degrees in people's knowledge and abilities in certain fields. Are they a right brain thinker? Or a left? For some, it is hard to discern. For others, it becomes quite apparent as you listen to them talk, and during a monitoring of their actions.

        " A Bill Gates would be a right brained person. He has single handily mastered the art of the dollar bill. Mathematics come into play heavily in this field. Through results, he has shown his capacity. And the capacity is quite clear. For others, though, you have to resort to a process of elimation to discern what side they are."

        Switching in his position, Zero raised his head up a little higher, now allowing people a better view of his whole face, piercings and all. His gaze was still aloft, but he slowly brought that down into a half stare at the pattern his shoes had made in the dirt while he had spoke. In a slight trance of the ground, he began to once again speak

Zero

        " One man comes to mind when dealing with people of the OTHER kind of nature. It involves a process of elimination, but I believe I am sure now that Havoc is indeed just a left brained person. Everything looked good on paper. His plan was written out perfectly. I was gone, and he was still in the HEW. He could do as he pleased. But mathematically, what were the percentages of me actually showing back up? It is Havoc's utter disregard for the right side of his brain that shows where, so to speak, his head is. For now, he has systematically dug himself into his own grave. "

        Slowly, Zero's eyes became darker, almost with a cynical glare to them. His gaze snapped out of the trance that he had had on the ground, and was now looking straight ahead. A slight smile broke across his lips, but it was the kind of smile that you knew was fake. It was not a smile of enjoyment, but yet, one when you had no other better expression to portray. It was Zero at the moment.

        He shifted for a moment, lighting a cigarette, while all the time, holding the thought that was still on the tip of his tongue. Blowing out a thin patch of cigarette smoke, he let his gaze wonder ever go slightly from direct ahead, but it was still apparent that his concentration was beginning to build.

Zero

        " Honestly, I didn't think I would be back. I do not want to be back. But no one can throw remarks and comments towards me blindly. The numbers proove that that never works on me. Yet again, another process of elimination manefesto that has came to pass. And yet another shill of proof that Havoc's grand scheme was nothing but than a stack of notes that has went up in flames.

        " Has Havoc forgot about three months ago? Obviously not. His hatred and rage for me has evidently tranceded past what any angle could portray. For while I took up certain agendas during the HEW's absence, his time was spent plotting for an ultimate, unscripted demise of me. That's tough, someone already tried that a month ago. A $12,000 vehicle damage bill that their body caused quickly put an end to that. And an end to . . . "

        Zero let his thoughts drift on that remark, opt'ing instead to inhale from his cigarette. Holding the smoke in his lungs, his gaze of vision travelled back across the ground in a counter clockwise, sweeping motion. Blowing the smoke out into a trail that followed his head's movement, he sighed. A weird, mixed feelings sort of sigh.

Zero

        " But I'm back . . . for a little while at least . . . here in the HEW. What is Havoc going to do about it? What is he going to do about the physcology gone wrong? This time around, the fakeness of professional wrestling is gone. If he wants to drag me out from my home here, then this time, and if needed, everytime after, it's all real. Throw out the script writers. Fire the Head of Directors. They will no longer be needed. This isn't an angle any longer. It ceased being that the moment that my personal life was involved, and Karen was put in this as a shoot. "

        Taking one last inhale of his cigarette, Zero promptly tossed off into the unforeseen area past the camera's view. Moving forward, Zero stared straight ahead into the camera, his face moving closer and closer to it.

Zero

        " Havoc, I know that you will see this. With your bullshit commissioner role, this won't have a chance to make it past you. So then this is directly to you. You want to hide behind a position? Fine! People don't follow titles and ranks, they follow those who put their money where their mouth is.

        " Your calculated assurance had a glitch, Havoc. You asked for me . . . now you got me. So now, what are you going to do about me?! "

        With a quick shove, Zero tossed the camera view away from his face. It landed with a view of him reaching back for another cigarette, his facial expression of an idle gaze now gone. It was replaced with that of a stone soldier, two weeks into battle, who has seen the casualties, and is not happy with his current situation.

        As Zero lit the cigarette up, amidst the shadows and bouncing lights of the fire, the scene slowly faded out to black . . . .

         . . . . into a haze of static . . . .

         Fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

midi: "Infected" by Bad Religion