Stepping out of his unflattering purple box of a rental car, John Taylor soaked in the serene ambience of Beaverdam, Alberta.  The sun-scorched gravel at his feet crunched as he locked the door firmly and had a look around.  A cool, crystal lake laid before him, fenced in on all sides but his by trees and that.  He looked at his watch, which told him in no uncertain terms that he was ten minutes late for this particular appointment.  It wasn't the smoothest possible move, but the traffic up from Calgary had been heavier than he'd anticipated.  

Besides, it wasn't as if his host would be going anywhere.  At least, he didn't think so.  His host nowhere to be seen, Taylor considered the possibility that he had come to the wrong place.  That would've made him another ten minutes later again, at least.  The unusually cool breeze massaged his probably overly slicked back hair, reassuring him somewhat.  He reached into the left pocket of his slacks (he'd decided that dressing up a little would do no harm) and fished out a crumpled sheet of notepad paper.  He re-read the name "Chester Browne" to himself and the words "Beaverdam, noon tomorrow." beneath it.

Chester Browne...  Not a particularly Canadian name, he thought to himself.  Perhaps this was just some silly prank that he'd mistaken as something serious.

No, that couldn't have been it.  He wasn't anywhere near that gullible.  He wasn't a sucker.  He was the man that had managed to get into the head of Gabriel and forced The Usher to truly think twice about the destruction he'd been instructed to usher in.  There was no doubt about it, he had been drawn here for a reason.  Somebody had left that note under the window wipers of his crappy rental car, and they'd done it with purpose.

Such a purpose it must have been that convinced Taylor to stay up in Canada while his fellow GZW2K1 workers had all flown back home.  Reminding himself that the least he was going to do was to get to the bottom of this.  He was out of his way and out of his element, he wouldn't leave without at least knowing who wanted him up there.

And so he pressed on.  Although he was quite possibly alone for miles, he felt the need to keep a keen eye over his shoulder.  He stopped as he reached the bank into Beaverdam lake.  Unsettlingly, he noticed that it was basically free from any form of wildlife.  A little strange, considering the location.  But he let it slip.  Here wasn't the place to get hung up on little things.  He scanned the perimeter of the lake, looking for any sign of life.  There was nothing.

Unconvinced that he was genuinely alone, Taylor headed west along the bank and up into a heavily wooded area.  Although it was only the early hours of the afternoon still, it got surprisingly dark surprisingly fast as soon as he stepped over a fallen log and into the thick of the trees.  As he continued forward, he began to feel something.  Something vague.  Something without a form or face.  Something that couldn't be described in any simple terms.

It didn't scare him - He was, after all, the Lord Of The Coliseum and generally recognised as the best pure talent in his chosen promotion.  But, when he though about it, outside of the cushy confines of an arena, that meant very little.  As he weaved his way through this never-ending maze with no particular destination other than the decidedly nondescript name in his pocket, he realised that he was no longer The Lone Gunman.  Out here, claiming to be the greatest would be simply in vein.  No creature out here cared enough to listen.

At that point in time, he was simply a man in a casual suit with needlessly slick hair in the middle of nowhere.  In a not-so-remarkable forest.  He certainly felt special.

Actually, he felt exposed.  Exposed to an audience far more evolved than that which frequented the GZW2K1 Coliseum.  This audience was nature.  He hadn't come prepared.  It wasn't like him, but he'd been careless.  He told himself it was "a big fucking waste of time..." 

This wasn't what John Taylor was about.  The all-terrain adventures were left to Vyle and Cassandra, not the reigning Lord Of The Coliseum.  Taylor had always had a way of presenting himself, and this was certainly not it.  He hadn't been out anywhere like this in ten years.  Basic military training or not, he didn't belong here.  The best thing to do was to cut his losses and make up for his missed training time when he got back to the U.S.

He turned back.  He wasn't that far out, he'd be out of Beaverdam within half an hour.

"Giving up so easily?"

A voice more gravely than the ground by the lake from somewhere behind him sent a chill up and down Taylor's spine.  Throwing his guard up and physically preparing himself for anything, he slowly turned around.

And saw nothing.

Rapidly, Taylor scanned the trees for any sign of life.  Only now did he notice that he was nowhere near where he'd thought he was.  He turned a full 360 degrees but didn't see as much as a bird.  He certainly couldn't see the lake or the phantom old man.  Exhaling, he thought it best to rethink the situation.  He'd been commended for his verbal skills since he first managed to gargle the word 'dada', so he thought he might as well use that to his advantage.  Regaining his composure, he stopped still, nothing but trees, silence and darkness all around him.

"Show your face, Chester Browne."  He demanded in as calm and collected away as he could, given the situation to - unsurprisingly - no response.  He began to repeat his statement, only to be interrupted by the rustling of twigs somewhere in front of him.  Chester Browne was here, Taylor knew that.

It was only when Taylor began in the direction of the noise that his fellow forest patron spoke up from the complete opposite direction, shredding Taylor's confidence with one simple question - "What makes you so sure that I have a face, Lone Gunman?"

Instantly, just one word came to Taylor's lips, "Sincere-"

"I'm not Sincere," the phantom voice clarified with an aged chuckle, "but I can help you defeat him."

"What?"

"Lower your guard, Lord Taylor.  I've got a weak heart..."

Concerned but overwhelmingly curious, Taylor thought it best to do as he had been instructed.  He allowed his arms drop by his sides and looked around the area for any sign of this person.  To the far right in front of him, he saw a short, stocky figure advancing through the trees at the pace of a stoned snail.  He folded his arms and subconsciously ran his right thumb through his thin goatee.

The advancing man took his time.  As he drew closer and closer, Taylor could make out that he was an old man, a little overweight.  He got even closer still and Taylor got a crystal clear picture of him.  Five feet, six or seven inches.  Leathery skin.  Bushy grey hair covering most of his face and big, bulbous eyes.  But it was the man's expressionless mouth that told Taylor he hadn't wasted his time.  This was no stalker or wrestling fan, and certainly no henchman of Sincere's.  No doubt about it, this was Chester Browne.

"You know my name, Lord Taylor.  You were wise to come.  Come with me and I'll tell you what you need to know."

Taylor wasn't sure whether to trust the man or not, but he decided to continue the day's pattern of careless judgement on his part in following Chester into the thick of the forest.  If nothing else, Taylor knew that this man wouldn't stand a chance physically against him physically should he try to pull anything.  

He'd obviously drawn him out to Beaverdam for a reason, and John Taylor was too stubborn to leave until he found out what it was.