(ooc: in order to fully understand the meaning to this roleplay, please refer to The Zero/HaVoC Chronicles)

         It was over. Finished. Forever to be no more. The HEW had closed.

         What about all of the history? What about all of the past? What about all of the memories, good or bad, of what had happened during the span of what was Hardcore Extreme Wrestling? They were just that, now. They were memories, forever to be replayed only in the minds and imaginations of those who had witnessed and participated in them. For just like all good things, they eventually turn into moments of idle thought when a person sits back and recollects. But like most times, the questions of "what if" arise soon after the moment of availible accomplishment has passed the person by.

         These thoughts would not let Zero be. As he moved around on the couch in his apartment living room, the thoughts of "what if" . . . "what if . . . he and Nocturnal would of faced each other for the first time?" . . . "what if . . . the feuds had of continued right up to the next ppv?" . . . "what if . . . he had faced Havoc, one on one, for just one more time?"

         He had to move around on his couch again. He couldn't get confortable. His mind wouldn't allow him to be at ease. There were too many scenerios running wild through his mind. The last of those "what if's" was the one that wouldn't fade. The others had been questions, but that one was a flaming subject that burned through his inner thoughts.

         In the week since, up until this moment, his look hadn't changed. He looked tired, miserable almost. His hair, although grown back out, was a mess. His shirt was stretched from too many nights of sleeping on it. His pants were wrinkled and careless. His socks . . . what socks? He hadn't even had a pair on in days. He hadn't went anywhere, so what was the point?

         But that last scenerio ran through his mind again. "What if . . . he had faced Havoc one more time?" No matter what the other things were that he put before himself, that was the one constant that wouldn't let him be.

         He took a deep drag from his cigarette. The smoke, as it slowly floated up to, and dispersed around his ceiling, was a scene that had quickly became commonplace in the past week.

         "What if . . . he had faced Havoc one more time?" Even the rush of nicotene couldn't free him from that contant throb of inner questioning.

         He had to get out. He had been stuck up in his apartment, on his own accord, for a week now. He hadn't even went to the alley in almost two weeks. His life was missing something. Something that seemed to burn away when he, along with the rest of the HEW roster, were informed of the closure of the HEW.

         "What if . . . he had faced Havoc one more time?"

         He really needed to get out. Maybe go see Matt, along with Erica? But they were gone right now, weren't they? Or wasn't it nearing the weekend? They would probably be in San Francisco right now? What day was it, anyway? Where had his time gone? What was he sure of right now? Zero didn't know the answers to those things. The only thing he knew was, it was time to escape the apartment walls, and get some fresh air.

         "What if . . . he had faced him one more time?"

         Infuriated with the inner voice, Zero slammed the cigarette down into his ash tray. He arose from his couch, and reached for the nearest pair of socks, clean or dirty, that he could find. A mismatched pair was all he could come up with, but that would work. Throwing those and a pair of old shoes on, he grabbed his keys, and opened the door to his apartment . . .

         . . . into a gush of refreshing wind that blew into his face. It was already getting dark outside. He hadn't even noticed earlier.

         Stepping outside, closing the door behind him, he started out towards the parking lot of the apartment complex. He stopped before making the turn, though, and looked at his keys. Taking a final look at them, he stuffed them back into a pocket of his wrinkled jeans. There was no point in driving. Driving would do nothing to help bring some "new light" into the situation. He needed to walk.

         He walked past 5th Street. The oncoming traffic to the stop sign honked their horn at him in dismay, but Zero paid them no mind. He didn't even look over his shoulder to them. He had sounds from inside that he cared more for. And he continued walking forward, no destination in mind.

         The moon was penetrating the sky by every second that Zero walked under it. Where was he heading? He wasn't sure. He had walked far away from the apartments. It was feeling good. His lungs were appreciating the fresh air, much different that the recycled gases that had been running through his apartment. His knees, although they had became accustomed to the sitting and laying, were throbbing in delight from the exercise they were receiving.

         Up ahead, he looked. There were a few building lights on. He looked harder, trying to discern what was what. One building was the Berkeley Police Station. He had been in there before. Too many memories of the actions that had taken place inside of it. But, beside it . . . was the post office.

         He hadn't left his apartment in a week. Zero knew he must have at least something in his po box. At least a bill or something. Some junk mail that he could read. It would block out his mind by stimulating the receptors in it.

         He opened the door to the post office, and walked around to his box. He took the keys from his pocket, and opened it up. He looked inside, not expecting there to be anything, but was surprised to see a single letter. A single letter. At least that was more than what he had initially thought to of been in there.

         He pulled it out, half glancing at the sender. The address and priority of the mail caused a double glance, though. It was first class mail, high priority. And the only thing that the return address said, was that it was from South Carolina.

         Zero put it into his pocket, and exited the post office. He was on his way back to the apartment now. The fresh air was nice, his knees were rejoicing, yes yes . . . but he had to sit down to read what could possibly be inside of this letter. That chair would be in his very familiar kitchen, propped against the table.

         He started walking towards Gilman Street, but after only a few strides, he had to stop. What did it say?! He was at least ten minutes from the apartments, but wanted to know what the letter said now! He reached down, and removed the letter from his pocket. He took a deep breath, breathing out slowly as he grabbed the seal of the letter. With one quick jerk, it was open. Slowly, he pulled the letter out . . .