Post by Sentinel on May 15, 2015 16:57:30 GMT -6
Even without a sight to see, the roar of a Harley is unmistakable. The sound of a half-dozen, however, brings to mind the guttural fury of a titanic beast tearing its way from the bowels of the earth. The Dead Men are out in force as we are shown when the visual activates, tearing a (figuratively) fiery path down Interstate 65 toward the Big Easy. Sentinel rides up near the front to the left of club president Shawn Crowe with Antonio Murond on Crowe’s right. The rest of the group take up the rear, the club as a whole moving as a single entity, fluidly shifting between lanes and passing other motorists with practiced grace. A minute of this is all that’s allowed, then Shawn signals a turn and all six veer off toward a rest stop alongside the highway.
Shift to the parking area and the Harleys being parked. Most of the group disperses for a bit, Antonio and Frederick heading for the restrooms, Darius making a call and Rory taking his life into his own hands with some vending machine coffee. Shawn remains next to his bike, shaking a Marlboro red out of the pack tucked into his shirt sleeve. He offers Sentinel one but the Destroyer declines, leaning back against his Road King with his thick arms folded across his chest. Shawn lights up and takes a deep drag, blowing out a plume of smoke as he stares in the same direction as his Sergeant-At-Arms.
Sunglasses obscure Sentinel’s gray eyes and it stays that way despite the weather being more overcast than sunny. It’s silly, but who’s going to tell him that? Shawn has ‘em on too though he removes his and flicks a few ashes from the end of his cancer stick before inclining his chin in the direction of the Interstate.
Shawn Crowe: ”Few more hours to go. Oughta be a pretty simple job this time around. More than chasing down those assholes last week.”
A reference to the job taken up just prior to Mayhem and the massive shitstorm that dropped on top of New Mexico by the end of the show. Sentinel snickers quietly to himself, shaking his head a bit.
Sentinel: ”Even in the here and now you got assholes thinking they’re goddamn Billy the Kid or some shit. A revolver don’t make you a cowboy and a big mouth don’t make you a badass.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Points for effort, though. I took more pleasure than I should’ve when you punched the one of ‘em in the jaw.”
Sentinel shrugs and pulls off his shades, rubbing at the lenses with a bit of his shirt. The big fellow hasn’t slept much lately if the dark lines under his eyes are any indicator.
Sentinel: ”It was either crack his jaw or shoot him in the kneecap. I didn’t feel like hearing him talk.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Screaming ain’t the same as talking.”
Sentinel: ”Wasn’t worth the bullet.”
Crowe laughs out loud at that one, shaking more ash off the Marlboro as Rory walks back up, making the ‘whiskey face’ over a drink of the sludge the machine passed off as coffee. He still powers through it, though...mostly out of stubbornness.
Rory McCall: ”So what’s this job about, Shawn? You ain’t said nothin’ yet.”
Shawn Crowe: ”I don’t know myself. Some people want to have a word with us. Guess they’re inclined to look into what we’re capable of before actually offering a straight job.”
Sentinel: ”They got these things called conference calls. Maybe they haven’t heard of ‘em.”
Shawn Crowe: ”They’re payin’ us for the trip, so quit bitching.”
Rory chokes down another gulp of coffee while Sentinel just shrugs it off.
Sentinel: ”Money’s money. I should probably let Zachariah know I’m on my way into town in case he’s...heard something.”
Rory McCall: ”Bastard’s got an evil eye. I don’t like him.”
The comment should have made Sentinel at least glare at Rory considering the guy was talking about his brother-in-law and former tag partner, but instead Sentinel half-smiles.
Sentinel: ”That’s fair. He don’t like no-damn-body. Especially pretty boys with big mouths.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Think there’s an ice machine in the rest stop if you need somethin’ for that burn, Rory.”
Rory McCall: ”Fuckin’ blow me.”
All three laugh at that one as Sentinel walks off to make his call. Shawn looks after him, as does Rory, who edges a bit closer to the president and speaks quietly.
Rory McCall: ”You realize he’s gonna kick your ass for this.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Doin’ the right thing isn’t easy.”
The scene cuts out with Sentinel making his call, coming back to the light as the Dead Men, much later in the day, arrive at a bar called, oddly enough, AJ’s. Kindly speaking, it makes the dive that the club frequented the week before look downright respectable. The Dead Men park and dismount, with Shawn leading the crew to the door as Antonio lets out a low whistle as he looks the place over.
Antonio Murond: ”Fuck, man. Do sewer rats and cockroaches get in free? I hope to hell it ain’t ladies’ night.”
Sentinel: ”I’ve seen worse.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Enough bullshitting, boys. Game faces on. We’re here to work.”
Making their way inside, they’re greeted by the odor of old beer, music that only with generous license could be called jazz and several disgruntled patrons who look up from various corners of the joint. The stares don’t mean shit to the Dead Men, who make their way up to the bar with Crowe in the lead. A couple take seats but Sentinel and Antonio stay standing. The latter adjusts his cut just a little, wanting it parted in case he has to go for a weapon. Shawn, signaling to the bartender, addresses him calmly when he approaches.
Shawn Crowe: ”Meetin’ someone here. Told that you’d be expectin’ us.”
Masked by the ambient noise of this place, the door opens and a blonde woman who somehow both manages to look like she does and does not belong here simultaneously, walks inside. She steps across the threshold of the door, glances around the room to take in the full sights to be had and then starts across the room, seemingly counting tables like she’s been directed to find a specific spot in the bar. She moves closer and closer to the Dead Men and then stops in her tracks at the sight of the bikers before her. Wondering if maybe now would be a good time to leave, Bethany Kenyon steels herself and manages to find her voice, silently praying she’s just in the wrong place and hasn’t been set up by some vengeful old client or something.
Bethany Kenyon: “Um… hi?”
She stands there, trying desperately not to close her eyes or grit her teeth while she waits for the explosion that has to be coming her way for being in this place at this time. The rest don’t recognize the voice off tops, but Sentinel does. He turns slowly from the bar to find himself face to...well, in sight of Bethany. The silence is a tense one as the rest of the Dead Men sorta sidle back a bit.
Sentinel: ”...this isn’t a coincidence.”
He glances over his shoulder at the rest of the club, then turns back to Bethany. His face once more resembles the confused yet infuriated mask he wore after their last altercation.
Sentinel: ”Why are you here, Bethany?”
Standing her ground, Bethany sucks in a breath, knowing full well this could go straight to hell faster than any job she’s ever been on before.
Bethany Kenyon: “A job.”
Sentinel: ”That’s what...we’re...here for...”
Then it fully clicks and Sentinel looks over his shoulder again at the rest of the club, specifically Shawn. There’s varying levels of concern on each of them save the president, who stares back at Sentinel calmly.
Shawn Crowe: ”Settle this shit. We all know that what went down wasn’t supposed to.”
Sentinel: ”You don’t get to interfere in this shit, Shawn! This ain’t club business!”
Shawn Crowe: ”It affects what you do as a part of this club!”
Sentinel...doesn’t have a retort for that one. He turns back to Bethany, biting back the urge to do some wrecking on the first thing or person in reach.
Sentinel: ”Despite their methods...they’re right. Mayhem didn’t go down the way I wanted between you and I.”
Bethany nods slowly, still wondering what is really going on here.
Bethany Kenyon: “I know… Jezzy was a little… ”
The name alone made Sentinel clench his fist. He forced himself to calm the hell down somehow, even if what he said indicated anything but peace.
Sentinel: ”When it comes to her, I’m not sorry. As for this job you’re here for, I’m getting the impression that it’s the same as the one I was led here for.”
Just then, they are all joined by a second woman, nodding slowly as she walks over, her red hair swinging in the breeze as she walks over to them. Bethany hears her coming and turns to see her friend and manager, Nikki Peltier, and her jaw drops.
Nikki Peltier: “Hi, Bethy, gentlemen, nice to see you all got the memo.”
Shawn Crowe: ”We did.”
Bethany Kenyon: “Nik? What’s going on here?”
Nikki doesn’t even blink, simply standing there all business.
Nikki Peltier: “I have a job and I knew we wouldn’t be able to do it by ourselves. I mean, I know you can make anything go boom even if you just find some bird crap and a soup can but, we were gonna need some muscle to get into this place first and I didn’t think having the aforementioned Miss Gautier and your sister trying to work in the same place right now was a really good idea…and you and Sentinel needed to talk before y’all’s match without him and Jezzy tryin’ to kill each other at the time.”
Shawn nods in agreement, adding to Nikki’s explanation.
Shawn Crowe: ”The lady’s calculating and she isn’t wrong. Based on what she told us, this job’s going to take some serious doing. Even for us. So yeah, we got the two of you here under less-than-stellar pretenses, but none of us lied about a job..”
The Destroyer takes a breath, seriously not believing this shit in terms not of the honesty of his president but in the absurdity of it all. He finds himself meeting Bethany’s equally incredulous stare and giving her a look of ‘do you believe this?’ before addressing her.
Sentinel: ”...what do you think? This is some wild business-mixing-with-business crap, but…”
Bethany crosses her arms as she looks from Sentinel to Shawn and then to Nikki.
Bethany Kenyon: “Please tell me it’s not another mob cocaine dealer’s flash drive again…”
Nikki shakes her head.
Nikki Peltier: “No, one of our friend’s clinics got hit and they stole all of her medications. We’ve been asked to get it back but it’s in a warehouse inside this Frenzel guy’s office and his office is like a bank vault.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Nikki tells us you’re pretty good with explosives, Bethany. So’s Frederick here. Between the two of you we can get into the place and get what we need while the rest of us cover you. If there’s a security system, Darius can handle that. The only question is whether you and Sentinel are in. And if you are…”
Shawn stares at each one intently.
Shawn Crowe: ”...we need to move NOW. Frenzel’s got orders out to move the merchandise tonight.”
Bethany nods slowly.
Bethany Kenyon: “Are we using the Blade van again?”
Rory McCall: ”Whoa, whoa, whoa...BLADE van?”
Bethany nods.
Bethany Kenyon: “Nik’s little mobile command center. We call it the Blade van because on the outside it looks like a shitty delivery van from some random florist shop or pizzeria but on the inside it looks like that guy Scud’s van from Blade II. Nik has a thing for communications and technology.”
Rory McCall: ”That’s it. I’m in love.”
Shawn rolls his eyes and Darius laughs out loud at the same moment he swats Rory upside the back of the head, which doesn’t stop the smaller man’s grin one bit. Sentinel moves toward Bethany and, with great effort, holds out his hand to her.
Sentinel: ”Mushy, apology-type crap later. Work first. You all right with that?”
Bethany nods and accepts his hand.
Nikki Peltier: “So you’ll do it?”
Bethany Kenyon: “Absolutely...and, of course I’m gonna do it, Nik. There’s no way I’m letting you try this alone.”
At that, Nikki busts out some plans, taking them over to a side table where she’s joined by the rest before the scene again fades out. The next image we get is of Sentinel on the portable camera, his location unable to be determined by just what can be seen around him. It’s night...that much is clear. And based on the look on the man’s face, there’s no telling how, exactly, the job turned out. At the very least he has all his major pieces intact. That’s a small plus. Most likely it's another cheap hotel room. Sentinel's expression is a severe one as he lifts his gaze toward the camera. The Browning sits on the nightstand next to the bed he's sitting on and beside that is a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The lack of sleep is painfully obvious now, exacerbating the Destroyer's foul mood. What comes forth has little in the way of pauses and nothing in the way of self-control. The formerly-silent monster simply lets everything in his shattered mind spill out like an erupting volcano.
Sentinel: "So let's just set the scene, lay it out bare for everyone who may or may not understand the shitstorm that this company has yet again been swept into the middle of. On the one hand, you have the Television Champion and the World Tag Team Champions while on the other you have the current, former, and hoping like hell to be World Heavyweight Champion. The Tag Champs think the Television Champion is a drugged-up old lady who's more contagious than the fucking T-Virus. Conversely, she probably thinks Connor and Murphy are lotioned-up pretty boys who are a few hairs short of a beefcake spread for Playgirl..."
The mere speaking of such a thing (thankfully he doesn't indulge in a mental image), has Sentinel reaching for the glass of amber liquid and downing a heavy shot. His eyes fall upon the Browning for a moment but he tears his attention away, putting it back on the camera.
Sentinel: "Then there's my side of the main event. The former champion wants to put a bullet in my head despite the fact that her smarter, saner partner has tried over and over to get her to flush that idea. I meant every goddamn word I said last Mayhem. Anyone who has a problem can step up. Anyone who questions my integrity can go fuck themselves courtesy of a Dead End from the future World Heavyweight Champion. When it comes to Bethany Kenyon, I'm sorry for what went down and I told her such. She tried to play peacekeeper, I lost control and laid her out. She didn't deserve that even if she has over her shoulder the thing I want most in this world.
But Jeszika? I ain't sorry. Not for a hot fucking second. Even an honest attempt to make amends at least long enough to survive this match with my title shot intact, selfish motive aside, was rebuffed. But hey, that's fine. If someone like Bethany, who has trouble trusting damn near everyone, takes my word at face value, I guess that means nothing. The whole situation makes me gut-sick. It sure as hell isn't conducive to my preparations to become this company's fourth, and first male, World Heavyweight Champion. Bethany keeps wringing her hands between Jeszika and I, the former keeps trying to stare a hole through my head and this is what I have to work with against three other champions. This. THIS!"
He snatches up the glass, finds only a few drops left in it to burn the tongue then chucks it at the far wall. The glass smashes against the decades-old wallpaper and sprinkles blood-letting shards on the ratty carpet. One would think that little outburst would get some of the fury out of Sentinel's system. Those who think that are fools.
He continues after a few labored breaths, head low with loose, unkempt air before his face, his tone softer than it should be. Calm before the storm.
Sentinel: "But ya know what makes me sickest of all in this situation? What twists my guts into a bigger knot than anything?"
Lifting up, he stares out from between the black tendrils, glaring murder at the camera.
Sentinel: "It's that Sang Réal, of all people, who are talking sense. Sit back for a second, all of you watching and listening, and savor that heaping helping of irony."
Head lowered again, Sentinel makes a sound of disgust. He starts to reach for the bottle, or perhaps the gun, but halts himself mid-way. Thick fingers close into a heavy fist before he brings the hand back down in his lap whilst shaking his head in disbelief.
Sentinel: "Insult them all you want, because The Unforgiven have done it often enough in the past, but Sang Réal are right. Nail-on-the-head, winning-the-Powerball, bullet-between-the-eyes right. If I don't fucking LIKE you, if I want to HURT you, I'm going to DO it. Directly, out in the open and in front of the whole world. The cloak-and-dagger bullshit isn't how I handle things. And people who go in for that nonsense piss me off. Whatever happened to manning up, getting in your enemy's face and daring them to throw down with you? No one remembers the world when it used to work that way anymore. Jeszika certainly doesn't. In fact, I think somewhere deep down she's enjoying this attention. Yeah, I fucking said it. She's got someone stalking her and leaving her flowers, she's got all this focus on her as a result and as a bonus she has a reason to act like a flipped-out psycho-bitch without much in the way of repercussions.
Except for last Mayhem, though. Because, again, I don't do subtle or passive-aggressive. Talk shit, get hit. Words to live by."
It's a foolish attempt, but Sentinel takes a few breaths to try and calm down. Fresh oxygen, a few moments to let the bubbling fury subside...but it's pointless.
Sentinel: "Sang Réal, I won't pretend to know what's going on with you. What I will say is that you need to get your damn priorities straight. You bitch and complain about no one showing you respect and being treated like marginal talents, bemoaning the state of the company and crying 'why us?!' when the answer is so clear that a blind person could see it. It's called 'karma'. All the chicanery you two have pulled over the years, going all the way back to ACW and all the way to now, it's starting to catch up. No one, especially not me, is going to deny that when you guys are on point you're equal parts dangerous and successful. You've held your share of gold. Probably more than me. But you love your mind games and sneak attacks. Did you think you'd get away with it forever? Now one bad call and Kyle Travis of all people is calling you on your nonsense.
If that's not a wake-up call I don't know WHAT the fuck is. When Kyle Travis is a voice of reason, I find myself not wanting to live on this planet anymore. But back to the point, back to your bitching about the world being against you and how you're in this match as an afterthought. Did I miss something? The only way this match could be more marquee is if it were K.I.S.S. and myself against you and Lacey. That way every title would be represented. Main event, three of four champions and the number-one contender mere weeks before the pay-per-view...and you're complaining. You want more praise and more attention. That's what you said, right? Well, you're getting my undivided attention Monday night. You're going to wish you never opened your mouths in the first place when I get my meathooks around your pencil necks. You know what I'm capable of because you've felt it first-hand. The fact that there's issues between me and my partners? That makes this worse for you. Why? Because if I so much as graze them I can kiss my title match good-bye.
How does that make it bad for you? Because I have to focus this rage on someone. And with the mood I'm in, one that demands I seriously hurt someone, Sang Réal and Lacey Roberts instantly become the lambs to slaughter. Once that bell rings, as long as I've followed Olivier's ruling, I can walk out of the arena with my title match intact. 'Don't strike your partners, don't cost your team the match.' Fine. I can do that. Any violence that happens in between, from me to you? Free and clear. My eyes are on the prize with you lot in the way."
He reaches out again, grabbing the bottle of Jack by the neck. But rather than taking a glug or two he stares at it.
Sentinel: "Disrespect? Bullshit."
Turning the vessel up, Sentinel swallows a few burning slugs and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
Sentinel: "I'm the epitome of disrespect or didn't you know that? Over a year invested in this place and I've gotten one...ONE...title shot. No one has busted their ass more than me to reach the top with so damn little to show for it. I, more than anyone else, am responsible for sending the first incarnation of the Children scurrying like roaches. And in case the little twat Gautier forgot, I was the one who made the calls to save her precious Melissa from them, too. Did you forget about that, 'Jezzy'? You nut up to me like you're some big, bad bitch after what I did for you and wonder why she left you crying in the corner? Fuck you. Fuck the lot of you! ALL OF YOU!"
The bottle meets the same fate as the glass before it. The real crime isn't that he's doing a little damage to the dingy little flea's nest of a hotel room. No, it's that he wasted good booze. But no one's going to ask him if he gives a damn.
His voice becomes a little more strained now. He doesn't even bother to look at the camera.
Sentinel: "Fine fucking thing, this. And if everything else weren't enough, some people...not all, but some...seem to actually be rooting for me to lose my shit. They want the monster to flip out and rip people apart because, hell, I guess they'd find it entertaining. How did Sang Réal put it? 'Let's see if Sentinel goes on a killing spree this week'? It's cute. But you don't want that. None of you want that. I sure as hell don't. I've lost enough already and going over the edge would cost me everything that's left."
It would seem that, for now, the anger has burned out. All that's left is the shell sitting in front of the camera, filled halfway with liquor and the other half with regret. He's silent for so long that it seems like the promo is over. Then we hear him take a ragged breath, a shiver passing through him as he continues on.
Sentinel: "I don't even care about this match. I want the World Heavyweight Championship. It's within me to resist the primal urge to go for vengeance. It...has to be. That title, the desire to have it over my shoulder, is the only thing carrying me forward now. I don't want to me in my own skin if I fail..."
One last look is given to the camera, hair thrown back so his dark-ringed gray eyes can stare into it like a man possessed by monsters we only have nightmares about...
Sentinel: "...because when there's nothing left? That's when you all get your wish."
...before lowering it again. His last gesture is to reach for the camera and shut it off, bringing the scene to an abrupt close.
Shift to the parking area and the Harleys being parked. Most of the group disperses for a bit, Antonio and Frederick heading for the restrooms, Darius making a call and Rory taking his life into his own hands with some vending machine coffee. Shawn remains next to his bike, shaking a Marlboro red out of the pack tucked into his shirt sleeve. He offers Sentinel one but the Destroyer declines, leaning back against his Road King with his thick arms folded across his chest. Shawn lights up and takes a deep drag, blowing out a plume of smoke as he stares in the same direction as his Sergeant-At-Arms.
Sunglasses obscure Sentinel’s gray eyes and it stays that way despite the weather being more overcast than sunny. It’s silly, but who’s going to tell him that? Shawn has ‘em on too though he removes his and flicks a few ashes from the end of his cancer stick before inclining his chin in the direction of the Interstate.
Shawn Crowe: ”Few more hours to go. Oughta be a pretty simple job this time around. More than chasing down those assholes last week.”
A reference to the job taken up just prior to Mayhem and the massive shitstorm that dropped on top of New Mexico by the end of the show. Sentinel snickers quietly to himself, shaking his head a bit.
Sentinel: ”Even in the here and now you got assholes thinking they’re goddamn Billy the Kid or some shit. A revolver don’t make you a cowboy and a big mouth don’t make you a badass.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Points for effort, though. I took more pleasure than I should’ve when you punched the one of ‘em in the jaw.”
Sentinel shrugs and pulls off his shades, rubbing at the lenses with a bit of his shirt. The big fellow hasn’t slept much lately if the dark lines under his eyes are any indicator.
Sentinel: ”It was either crack his jaw or shoot him in the kneecap. I didn’t feel like hearing him talk.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Screaming ain’t the same as talking.”
Sentinel: ”Wasn’t worth the bullet.”
Crowe laughs out loud at that one, shaking more ash off the Marlboro as Rory walks back up, making the ‘whiskey face’ over a drink of the sludge the machine passed off as coffee. He still powers through it, though...mostly out of stubbornness.
Rory McCall: ”So what’s this job about, Shawn? You ain’t said nothin’ yet.”
Shawn Crowe: ”I don’t know myself. Some people want to have a word with us. Guess they’re inclined to look into what we’re capable of before actually offering a straight job.”
Sentinel: ”They got these things called conference calls. Maybe they haven’t heard of ‘em.”
Shawn Crowe: ”They’re payin’ us for the trip, so quit bitching.”
Rory chokes down another gulp of coffee while Sentinel just shrugs it off.
Sentinel: ”Money’s money. I should probably let Zachariah know I’m on my way into town in case he’s...heard something.”
Rory McCall: ”Bastard’s got an evil eye. I don’t like him.”
The comment should have made Sentinel at least glare at Rory considering the guy was talking about his brother-in-law and former tag partner, but instead Sentinel half-smiles.
Sentinel: ”That’s fair. He don’t like no-damn-body. Especially pretty boys with big mouths.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Think there’s an ice machine in the rest stop if you need somethin’ for that burn, Rory.”
Rory McCall: ”Fuckin’ blow me.”
All three laugh at that one as Sentinel walks off to make his call. Shawn looks after him, as does Rory, who edges a bit closer to the president and speaks quietly.
Rory McCall: ”You realize he’s gonna kick your ass for this.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Doin’ the right thing isn’t easy.”
The scene cuts out with Sentinel making his call, coming back to the light as the Dead Men, much later in the day, arrive at a bar called, oddly enough, AJ’s. Kindly speaking, it makes the dive that the club frequented the week before look downright respectable. The Dead Men park and dismount, with Shawn leading the crew to the door as Antonio lets out a low whistle as he looks the place over.
Antonio Murond: ”Fuck, man. Do sewer rats and cockroaches get in free? I hope to hell it ain’t ladies’ night.”
Sentinel: ”I’ve seen worse.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Enough bullshitting, boys. Game faces on. We’re here to work.”
Making their way inside, they’re greeted by the odor of old beer, music that only with generous license could be called jazz and several disgruntled patrons who look up from various corners of the joint. The stares don’t mean shit to the Dead Men, who make their way up to the bar with Crowe in the lead. A couple take seats but Sentinel and Antonio stay standing. The latter adjusts his cut just a little, wanting it parted in case he has to go for a weapon. Shawn, signaling to the bartender, addresses him calmly when he approaches.
Shawn Crowe: ”Meetin’ someone here. Told that you’d be expectin’ us.”
Masked by the ambient noise of this place, the door opens and a blonde woman who somehow both manages to look like she does and does not belong here simultaneously, walks inside. She steps across the threshold of the door, glances around the room to take in the full sights to be had and then starts across the room, seemingly counting tables like she’s been directed to find a specific spot in the bar. She moves closer and closer to the Dead Men and then stops in her tracks at the sight of the bikers before her. Wondering if maybe now would be a good time to leave, Bethany Kenyon steels herself and manages to find her voice, silently praying she’s just in the wrong place and hasn’t been set up by some vengeful old client or something.
Bethany Kenyon: “Um… hi?”
She stands there, trying desperately not to close her eyes or grit her teeth while she waits for the explosion that has to be coming her way for being in this place at this time. The rest don’t recognize the voice off tops, but Sentinel does. He turns slowly from the bar to find himself face to...well, in sight of Bethany. The silence is a tense one as the rest of the Dead Men sorta sidle back a bit.
Sentinel: ”...this isn’t a coincidence.”
He glances over his shoulder at the rest of the club, then turns back to Bethany. His face once more resembles the confused yet infuriated mask he wore after their last altercation.
Sentinel: ”Why are you here, Bethany?”
Standing her ground, Bethany sucks in a breath, knowing full well this could go straight to hell faster than any job she’s ever been on before.
Bethany Kenyon: “A job.”
Sentinel: ”That’s what...we’re...here for...”
Then it fully clicks and Sentinel looks over his shoulder again at the rest of the club, specifically Shawn. There’s varying levels of concern on each of them save the president, who stares back at Sentinel calmly.
Shawn Crowe: ”Settle this shit. We all know that what went down wasn’t supposed to.”
Sentinel: ”You don’t get to interfere in this shit, Shawn! This ain’t club business!”
Shawn Crowe: ”It affects what you do as a part of this club!”
Sentinel...doesn’t have a retort for that one. He turns back to Bethany, biting back the urge to do some wrecking on the first thing or person in reach.
Sentinel: ”Despite their methods...they’re right. Mayhem didn’t go down the way I wanted between you and I.”
Bethany nods slowly, still wondering what is really going on here.
Bethany Kenyon: “I know… Jezzy was a little… ”
The name alone made Sentinel clench his fist. He forced himself to calm the hell down somehow, even if what he said indicated anything but peace.
Sentinel: ”When it comes to her, I’m not sorry. As for this job you’re here for, I’m getting the impression that it’s the same as the one I was led here for.”
Just then, they are all joined by a second woman, nodding slowly as she walks over, her red hair swinging in the breeze as she walks over to them. Bethany hears her coming and turns to see her friend and manager, Nikki Peltier, and her jaw drops.
Nikki Peltier: “Hi, Bethy, gentlemen, nice to see you all got the memo.”
Shawn Crowe: ”We did.”
Bethany Kenyon: “Nik? What’s going on here?”
Nikki doesn’t even blink, simply standing there all business.
Nikki Peltier: “I have a job and I knew we wouldn’t be able to do it by ourselves. I mean, I know you can make anything go boom even if you just find some bird crap and a soup can but, we were gonna need some muscle to get into this place first and I didn’t think having the aforementioned Miss Gautier and your sister trying to work in the same place right now was a really good idea…and you and Sentinel needed to talk before y’all’s match without him and Jezzy tryin’ to kill each other at the time.”
Shawn nods in agreement, adding to Nikki’s explanation.
Shawn Crowe: ”The lady’s calculating and she isn’t wrong. Based on what she told us, this job’s going to take some serious doing. Even for us. So yeah, we got the two of you here under less-than-stellar pretenses, but none of us lied about a job..”
The Destroyer takes a breath, seriously not believing this shit in terms not of the honesty of his president but in the absurdity of it all. He finds himself meeting Bethany’s equally incredulous stare and giving her a look of ‘do you believe this?’ before addressing her.
Sentinel: ”...what do you think? This is some wild business-mixing-with-business crap, but…”
Bethany crosses her arms as she looks from Sentinel to Shawn and then to Nikki.
Bethany Kenyon: “Please tell me it’s not another mob cocaine dealer’s flash drive again…”
Nikki shakes her head.
Nikki Peltier: “No, one of our friend’s clinics got hit and they stole all of her medications. We’ve been asked to get it back but it’s in a warehouse inside this Frenzel guy’s office and his office is like a bank vault.”
Shawn Crowe: ”Nikki tells us you’re pretty good with explosives, Bethany. So’s Frederick here. Between the two of you we can get into the place and get what we need while the rest of us cover you. If there’s a security system, Darius can handle that. The only question is whether you and Sentinel are in. And if you are…”
Shawn stares at each one intently.
Shawn Crowe: ”...we need to move NOW. Frenzel’s got orders out to move the merchandise tonight.”
Bethany nods slowly.
Bethany Kenyon: “Are we using the Blade van again?”
Rory McCall: ”Whoa, whoa, whoa...BLADE van?”
Bethany nods.
Bethany Kenyon: “Nik’s little mobile command center. We call it the Blade van because on the outside it looks like a shitty delivery van from some random florist shop or pizzeria but on the inside it looks like that guy Scud’s van from Blade II. Nik has a thing for communications and technology.”
Rory McCall: ”That’s it. I’m in love.”
Shawn rolls his eyes and Darius laughs out loud at the same moment he swats Rory upside the back of the head, which doesn’t stop the smaller man’s grin one bit. Sentinel moves toward Bethany and, with great effort, holds out his hand to her.
Sentinel: ”Mushy, apology-type crap later. Work first. You all right with that?”
Bethany nods and accepts his hand.
Nikki Peltier: “So you’ll do it?”
Bethany Kenyon: “Absolutely...and, of course I’m gonna do it, Nik. There’s no way I’m letting you try this alone.”
At that, Nikki busts out some plans, taking them over to a side table where she’s joined by the rest before the scene again fades out. The next image we get is of Sentinel on the portable camera, his location unable to be determined by just what can be seen around him. It’s night...that much is clear. And based on the look on the man’s face, there’s no telling how, exactly, the job turned out. At the very least he has all his major pieces intact. That’s a small plus. Most likely it's another cheap hotel room. Sentinel's expression is a severe one as he lifts his gaze toward the camera. The Browning sits on the nightstand next to the bed he's sitting on and beside that is a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The lack of sleep is painfully obvious now, exacerbating the Destroyer's foul mood. What comes forth has little in the way of pauses and nothing in the way of self-control. The formerly-silent monster simply lets everything in his shattered mind spill out like an erupting volcano.
Sentinel: "So let's just set the scene, lay it out bare for everyone who may or may not understand the shitstorm that this company has yet again been swept into the middle of. On the one hand, you have the Television Champion and the World Tag Team Champions while on the other you have the current, former, and hoping like hell to be World Heavyweight Champion. The Tag Champs think the Television Champion is a drugged-up old lady who's more contagious than the fucking T-Virus. Conversely, she probably thinks Connor and Murphy are lotioned-up pretty boys who are a few hairs short of a beefcake spread for Playgirl..."
The mere speaking of such a thing (thankfully he doesn't indulge in a mental image), has Sentinel reaching for the glass of amber liquid and downing a heavy shot. His eyes fall upon the Browning for a moment but he tears his attention away, putting it back on the camera.
Sentinel: "Then there's my side of the main event. The former champion wants to put a bullet in my head despite the fact that her smarter, saner partner has tried over and over to get her to flush that idea. I meant every goddamn word I said last Mayhem. Anyone who has a problem can step up. Anyone who questions my integrity can go fuck themselves courtesy of a Dead End from the future World Heavyweight Champion. When it comes to Bethany Kenyon, I'm sorry for what went down and I told her such. She tried to play peacekeeper, I lost control and laid her out. She didn't deserve that even if she has over her shoulder the thing I want most in this world.
But Jeszika? I ain't sorry. Not for a hot fucking second. Even an honest attempt to make amends at least long enough to survive this match with my title shot intact, selfish motive aside, was rebuffed. But hey, that's fine. If someone like Bethany, who has trouble trusting damn near everyone, takes my word at face value, I guess that means nothing. The whole situation makes me gut-sick. It sure as hell isn't conducive to my preparations to become this company's fourth, and first male, World Heavyweight Champion. Bethany keeps wringing her hands between Jeszika and I, the former keeps trying to stare a hole through my head and this is what I have to work with against three other champions. This. THIS!"
He snatches up the glass, finds only a few drops left in it to burn the tongue then chucks it at the far wall. The glass smashes against the decades-old wallpaper and sprinkles blood-letting shards on the ratty carpet. One would think that little outburst would get some of the fury out of Sentinel's system. Those who think that are fools.
He continues after a few labored breaths, head low with loose, unkempt air before his face, his tone softer than it should be. Calm before the storm.
Sentinel: "But ya know what makes me sickest of all in this situation? What twists my guts into a bigger knot than anything?"
Lifting up, he stares out from between the black tendrils, glaring murder at the camera.
Sentinel: "It's that Sang Réal, of all people, who are talking sense. Sit back for a second, all of you watching and listening, and savor that heaping helping of irony."
Head lowered again, Sentinel makes a sound of disgust. He starts to reach for the bottle, or perhaps the gun, but halts himself mid-way. Thick fingers close into a heavy fist before he brings the hand back down in his lap whilst shaking his head in disbelief.
Sentinel: "Insult them all you want, because The Unforgiven have done it often enough in the past, but Sang Réal are right. Nail-on-the-head, winning-the-Powerball, bullet-between-the-eyes right. If I don't fucking LIKE you, if I want to HURT you, I'm going to DO it. Directly, out in the open and in front of the whole world. The cloak-and-dagger bullshit isn't how I handle things. And people who go in for that nonsense piss me off. Whatever happened to manning up, getting in your enemy's face and daring them to throw down with you? No one remembers the world when it used to work that way anymore. Jeszika certainly doesn't. In fact, I think somewhere deep down she's enjoying this attention. Yeah, I fucking said it. She's got someone stalking her and leaving her flowers, she's got all this focus on her as a result and as a bonus she has a reason to act like a flipped-out psycho-bitch without much in the way of repercussions.
Except for last Mayhem, though. Because, again, I don't do subtle or passive-aggressive. Talk shit, get hit. Words to live by."
It's a foolish attempt, but Sentinel takes a few breaths to try and calm down. Fresh oxygen, a few moments to let the bubbling fury subside...but it's pointless.
Sentinel: "Sang Réal, I won't pretend to know what's going on with you. What I will say is that you need to get your damn priorities straight. You bitch and complain about no one showing you respect and being treated like marginal talents, bemoaning the state of the company and crying 'why us?!' when the answer is so clear that a blind person could see it. It's called 'karma'. All the chicanery you two have pulled over the years, going all the way back to ACW and all the way to now, it's starting to catch up. No one, especially not me, is going to deny that when you guys are on point you're equal parts dangerous and successful. You've held your share of gold. Probably more than me. But you love your mind games and sneak attacks. Did you think you'd get away with it forever? Now one bad call and Kyle Travis of all people is calling you on your nonsense.
If that's not a wake-up call I don't know WHAT the fuck is. When Kyle Travis is a voice of reason, I find myself not wanting to live on this planet anymore. But back to the point, back to your bitching about the world being against you and how you're in this match as an afterthought. Did I miss something? The only way this match could be more marquee is if it were K.I.S.S. and myself against you and Lacey. That way every title would be represented. Main event, three of four champions and the number-one contender mere weeks before the pay-per-view...and you're complaining. You want more praise and more attention. That's what you said, right? Well, you're getting my undivided attention Monday night. You're going to wish you never opened your mouths in the first place when I get my meathooks around your pencil necks. You know what I'm capable of because you've felt it first-hand. The fact that there's issues between me and my partners? That makes this worse for you. Why? Because if I so much as graze them I can kiss my title match good-bye.
How does that make it bad for you? Because I have to focus this rage on someone. And with the mood I'm in, one that demands I seriously hurt someone, Sang Réal and Lacey Roberts instantly become the lambs to slaughter. Once that bell rings, as long as I've followed Olivier's ruling, I can walk out of the arena with my title match intact. 'Don't strike your partners, don't cost your team the match.' Fine. I can do that. Any violence that happens in between, from me to you? Free and clear. My eyes are on the prize with you lot in the way."
He reaches out again, grabbing the bottle of Jack by the neck. But rather than taking a glug or two he stares at it.
Sentinel: "Disrespect? Bullshit."
Turning the vessel up, Sentinel swallows a few burning slugs and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
Sentinel: "I'm the epitome of disrespect or didn't you know that? Over a year invested in this place and I've gotten one...ONE...title shot. No one has busted their ass more than me to reach the top with so damn little to show for it. I, more than anyone else, am responsible for sending the first incarnation of the Children scurrying like roaches. And in case the little twat Gautier forgot, I was the one who made the calls to save her precious Melissa from them, too. Did you forget about that, 'Jezzy'? You nut up to me like you're some big, bad bitch after what I did for you and wonder why she left you crying in the corner? Fuck you. Fuck the lot of you! ALL OF YOU!"
The bottle meets the same fate as the glass before it. The real crime isn't that he's doing a little damage to the dingy little flea's nest of a hotel room. No, it's that he wasted good booze. But no one's going to ask him if he gives a damn.
His voice becomes a little more strained now. He doesn't even bother to look at the camera.
Sentinel: "Fine fucking thing, this. And if everything else weren't enough, some people...not all, but some...seem to actually be rooting for me to lose my shit. They want the monster to flip out and rip people apart because, hell, I guess they'd find it entertaining. How did Sang Réal put it? 'Let's see if Sentinel goes on a killing spree this week'? It's cute. But you don't want that. None of you want that. I sure as hell don't. I've lost enough already and going over the edge would cost me everything that's left."
It would seem that, for now, the anger has burned out. All that's left is the shell sitting in front of the camera, filled halfway with liquor and the other half with regret. He's silent for so long that it seems like the promo is over. Then we hear him take a ragged breath, a shiver passing through him as he continues on.
Sentinel: "I don't even care about this match. I want the World Heavyweight Championship. It's within me to resist the primal urge to go for vengeance. It...has to be. That title, the desire to have it over my shoulder, is the only thing carrying me forward now. I don't want to me in my own skin if I fail..."
One last look is given to the camera, hair thrown back so his dark-ringed gray eyes can stare into it like a man possessed by monsters we only have nightmares about...
Sentinel: "...because when there's nothing left? That's when you all get your wish."
...before lowering it again. His last gesture is to reach for the camera and shut it off, bringing the scene to an abrupt close.
