Post by Sentinel on May 28, 2015 8:36:11 GMT -6
Zachariah Blood: "...don't mean you gotta shut people...motherfucker."
Brought into the Valley Forge home of the family of Sentinel, Zachariah is the first creature we see, staring now at his phone as though he wished to chuck it at the sliding glass door leading to the deck. The hour was late and the dark outside the country-style home was near-impregnable, so much so that the dim light from within was more than enough to only allow the reflection of the Masochist to be seen on the polished passage. His right hand tensed as he gripped the phone tight, still staring at the screen where an image of himself and Sentinel from their APW days stared back. Muttering something distasteful to himself in French, which naturally made it sound most appealing to those listening, Blood pocketed the phone and turned on a dime...then stopped on the exact same ten-piece.
Standing a little unsteadily in the doorway was Talon, unseen in the flesh for some time by the UWA faithful. Beneath the leg of cotton shorts colored as crimson as her waist-length hair, her right thigh is bandaged and braced, both legs bare aside from such. One hand rests in the front pocket of her black hoodie while the other grasps a crutch neatly positioned under the accompanying arm. She meets the eyes of her brother-in-law impassively as he returns the stare in the midst of this uncomfortable silence. It's not so much a battle of wills as it is one person trying to decide how to approach the news and the other waiting on him to finally spill. When Zachariah's silent filibusting gives out, Talon breaks the silence herself, speaking flatly and without emotion.
Talon: "That was him, wasn't it?"
Nodding once in response, Zachariah folds his arms, putting on a half-disgusted expression. Talon, however, remains calm and matter-of-fact about it all.
Talon: "What did he say?"
Zachariah Blood: "He asked me to find him a fight."
A crimson brow arches.
Talon: "One of...your fights?"
The Patron Saint of Suffering nods once again, his expression set and tight. It was the same look seen on Sentinel's face as of late, but this time it was worn on a man who was far less inclined to rein in his taste for violence to others and against himself.
In fact, he probably would've been just fine teeing off on the Destroyer himself.
In the moments between getting the response she was afraid of, letting the information soak into her very being and fighting back the urge to freak right the hell out, Talon lets go of a held, shuddering breath. Leaning in against the door jamb, she lets her head fall gently against the cool wood, acid green eyes shutting.
Zachariah Blood: "Tried to talk his ass out of it..."
Talon: "Yeah...yeah, I heard..."
Zachariah Blood: "How much did you hear?"
Talon: "Enough."
Talon stands up straight again. Flat-footed she still had a couple inches on Zachariah, even with the damage to her leg. She turned gingerly, making as if to hobble her way back to the other room when Zachariah snarls after her. If it were possible to mingle anger and concern into some hybrid tone of voice, he'd just done it.
Zachariah Blood: "How fuckin' long are you two gonna go 'round like this, soeur?"
Talon stops dead in her tracks, which honestly isn't hard. She stares over her left shoulder at Zachariah who returns by trying a bore a hole through her skull with his own glare.
Zachariah Blood: "This shit's gone on long enough. How many more days you gonna be okay dealing with Cheyenne askin' you where daddy is? More'n that, how long are you gonna make yourself suffer by holding on to this bullshit anger?"
Talon: "Bullshit?"
Zachariah Blood: "I didn't stutter."
Turning about as swiftly as she's able, Talon gestures angrily at her damaged leg, furiously glaring at her brother-in-law. Zachariah stares back coldly.
Talon: "You think this is BULLSHIT?!"
Zachariah Blood: "I think you two wallowing in all this suffering is bullshit. You act as if you didn't know that shit was gonna get messy. But you knew from the fuckin' start, from the moment you met his giant ass, that trouble followed him. How many years have you two been together now? Six? Seven? It's gotten this bad more than once and that ain't stopped y'all before, so why the fuck now, huh?"
Talon: "And who the hell are you to try and tell us what's what?"
Zachariah Blood: "Someone who's been there before but knew enough to ride it out and not throw a bitch-fit because shit got rough. You didn't see Rayne and I acting like this and you know good and damn well the kind of hell her and I walked through to get to this point. So I'm askin' again: how fuckin' long are you two gonna let this shit get in the way of the somethin' beautiful that you two got, huh?"
Talon: "We aren't you and Rayne, Zachariah!"
Zachariah Blood: "No, you're fuckin' better! You got in him a man who has stood by you through everything in your past and more! How many motherfuckers you think would linger knowing what went down all them years ago back home, huh?!"
Blanching pale at the mention of it, the mere location and general time frame immediately sending Talon on a mental journey she never wanted to take again. Her hand tightens around the handle of the crutch and a tremor passes through her.
Zachariah, not seeking to upset her but instead to talk some sense into her, tries to put a cap on his righteous anger. It isn't easy for a man like him who feeds off that negativity, but he manages okay for Talon's sake.
Zachariah Blood: "That man would give you the world even if the effort drove him into his grave, and the sonofabitch would die happy doing it. He's reached out more than once since that melee with Benimaru's crew and the Dead Men. But you're holding on to your anger worse than Aurelei ever did. I mean, seriously for a fuckin' minute, do you really wanna be compared to that psycho witch?"
Her expression answers that question quite plainly, at which point Zachariah goes on.
Zachariah Blood: "He's on the edge of giving up not so much on you but on the idea of you being a part of his life. I can hear it in his damn voice."
Talon: "Still has his urge to fight, though. I"m guessing that's his idea of a salve to keep the pain away. He's welcome to it."
Zachariah Blood: "He's doing it so that he doesn't kill Bethany at the pay-per-view. Or did you forget that he's finally getting his title match despite all that bullshit with Arsenal and everything else? Oh, that's right...you haven't been watching. I forgot. Out of sight, out of mind."
Blood is getting pissed again, but he reins it in. Barely.
Zachariah Blood: "That was supposed to be you two together when this moment came. He's not gonna win that title without you there at his side, Talon. That's just bein' fuckin' real. Bethany's done whipped his ass before an' she can do it again. She fuckin' will unless he gets himself right. And you know what that'll take."
Talon: "Yeah, and she did it with me there, so I fail to see what difference I'd make. He'd send me back home for fear of my getting hurt anyway."
Folding his muscular, heavily-tattooed arms across his broad chest, tonight covered by a long-sleeved Opeth tee, Zachariah levels a hard stare at Talon again.
Zachariah Blood: "At least he'd know you gave a fuck."
Talon: "..."
He walks past her now, mindful not to bump into her leg as he passes, stopping a few paces beyond to address her without turning.
Zachariah Blood: "Don't ruin this by bein' stubborn, soeur. Think long and hard about what you'd be givin' up if you let this keep goin' on like it is. And if that isn't enough, look into your daughter's eyes one more time when you lie to her about where daddy is."
Our view is of Talon's back as Zachariah walks toward and past the scene, out of sight. Again leaning against the door, Talon lets go of the crutch, which clatters as it falls to the floor, and wraps her arms about herself.
The scene cuts to black before returning, this time to the spacious interior of a large office. The desk and chair are pure, darkly-stained mahogany, the latter cushioned by the finest leather as is the sofa and chairs in one of the room's corners. The picture window bordered by heavy scarlet drapes gives a view in a large yard surrounded by wrought iron gates and populated by a couple of fearsome looking Dobermans who for the moment are laid out in the grass, enjoying the early-afternoon sun.
Next to the desk stands a fellow who at least matches Sentinel in size, dark-skinned and wearing expensive-looking sunglasses. The intimidating slab of dark continent stands like a statue, arms folded and clad in a simple black suit. Sitting at the desk, however, is an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper-hair and striking green eyes. He's dressed a bit more casually in a cobalt-blue silk shirt and black trousers, though little of that is seen behind the desk. Sitting before it in two of the aforementioned leather armchairs are Sentinel and Zachariah. This, then, must be the previously-mentioned Mr. Rourke, one of Blood's pit-fighting contacts.
The fellow doesn't look the part of someone who promotes or even condones underground fight clubs, but then...that's probably why he's able to do just that. When he speaks, he does so in a thick Creole accent which barely affects his clarity and enunciation.
Mr. Rourke: "This is quite the surprise! How long has it been, Mr. Blood?"
Zachariah Blood: "A few years, give or take."
Mr. Rourke: "Yes, yes...far too long. I must admit that when I was told you were the one calling I was tempted to meet you in person. But, well...appearances and all that, no?"
Zachariah nods curtly as Rourke's attention is already on Sentinel, looking the Destroyer up and down. While the old Creole looks impressed with what he sees, Sentinel is both silent and emotionless. He returns the look without expression as Rourke goes on, still speaking to Blood even while appraising the other.
Mr. Rourke: "Admittedly, I hoped at first that I might convince you to retake your place..."
Zachariah Blood: "My time is done in that world."
Mr. Rourke: "So true, so true. Though the nostalgia alone would make us a mint. Upon meeting this...what did you say he was?"
Zachariah Blood: "My brother-in-law."
Mr. Rourke: "Yes, quite right. Upon meeting your brother-in-law, I believe it might be a fair trade-off. And you said he's only looking for a fight or two? A night's worth?"
If Sentinel is taking offense at being spoken about as if he isn't in the same damn room as everyone else, it isn't showing. However, he never takes his gray eyes off Rourke as the old fellow chatters away with a half-laconic Zachariah who, unlike his brother-in-law, seems to be getting irritated with the man's treatment of Sentinel.
Zachariah Blood: "He isn't interested in long-term. Just a few special attraction fights. Call it...preparation for another engagement he's contracted for."
Mr. Rourke: "Ah, the wrestling thing. Shame, that. Someone of his stature and obvious skill should take up real fighting full-time..."
Zachariah Blood: "In the interest of getting the preliminaries over with, Mr. Rourke, I'd suggest you talk to him directly about this."
Rourke turns to Sentinel, who remains calm and silent. The old man looks him over for a few moments, considering his words carefully perhaps, before finally speaking to him.
Mr. Rourke: "This isn't your fancy wrestling..."
The moment he starts to speak to Sentinel, Rourke's tone takes on a different note. He's extremely business-like and almost condescending in his delivery. From his first words, Blood already has a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Mr. Rourke: "...and while you may be one of the best at that according to your brother, in this world you're almost as low as the dregs who pay for the privilege of watching and wagering on the battles I promote. What makes you think for a moment you'd survive one of our preliminaries, let alone our best?"
Zachariah Blood: "...are you fucking kidding me right now, Rourke? The hell is this bullshit coming from? You know damn well my word is good."
At about the same time that Zachariah barks his displeasure at Rourke, several things happen: the old man gets a nasty look in his eyes, the large black fellow lowers his arms to his sides and Sentinel's attention shifts to the suit-wearing brute calmly. Rourke stares hard at Blood, making an ever-so-slight gesture that stills the black man.
Mr. Rourke: "Times change. It may still be good but protocol has changed. The business is ever-evolving, you see, and your brother here is a large risk. I don't need the people who run his fake fighting organization trying to give me problems because I hurt one of their golden geese."
Sentinel: "So in other words, you're just going to waste our time?"
Zachariah had been about to retort, already on his feet with his hands slammed palms-down on the surface of the desk. The man in the suit took a single step toward Zachariah but Sentinel got to his feet first. His motion wasn't threatening but instead gradual, as though he didn't notice the bruiser looking for a reason. Rourke turns his stare on Sentinel again, looking affronted that the Destroyer would dare speak.
Mr. Rourke: "Excuse me?"
The black man has to halt his path when Sentinel stands up but is barely acknowledged by the Destroyer.
Sentinel: "That's fine. I don't care to do business with someone who's going to disrespect my line of work anyway. I'd rather lay hands on the gold that comes with being the best in the business of so-called 'fake fighting' than participating in some old bastard's attempts to feed his fetish for underground violence vicariously through a bunch of no-talent thugs."
Infuriated himself now, Rourke is on his feet as the black man turns his glare on Sentinel. The Destroyer doesn't even look at him, however, as he keeps right on addressing Rourke.
Sentinel: "Tell your dog to sit, Mr. Rourke, before I MAKE him sit."
This isn't a Sentinel we're used to hearing or seeing. Even at his worst in the UWA and elsewhere, no matter how hard Talon trumped him up or Zachariah egged him on, he never had an elitist attitude or the mindset of someone looking to start a fight for no good reason. Even in his silence such was apparent. But here it's quite obvious that Sentinel is now provoking the man, and he gets his wish. The black man swings a meaty fist toward Sentinel but gets grabbed by the collar of his suit jacket. With a snarl, Sentinel rams his face three times against the surface of the desk, each impact making something jostle or otherwise fall off the thousands-of-dollars surface. When he brings the man's head up, his nose and mouth are busted as are his shades. Blood and another fluid or two drip down his face and off his chin, staining the snow-white shirt beneath his black jacket.
Sentinel shoves him back and the man staggers but doesn't fall. Shaky from the smashes to the wood, the black man swings a wild right-handed haymaker at the blurry form of Sentinel...and falls way short. Sentinel rocks him with a right hand of his own, sending him twirling like Glass Joe from Punch-Out!! right into a glass-topped coffee table in front of the leather couch. Sentinel clenches his hand, making the knuckles pop noisily before turning back to Rourke as Zachariah, despite himself, smirks a little.
Sentinel: "You set me up with a couple of fights Friday night, Mr. Rourke, and I'll make sure that no heat comes down on you from the UWA. The whole point of this for me is to get a little...aggression...out of my system before I compete for the biggest prize in the game. After all, I wouldn't want to accidentally hurt someone in the ring like I just did what's-his-name over there."
Rouke glances dispassionately over at his hired muscle, then back to Sentinel.
Sentinel: "You want to make money and see people beat the hell out of each other with no rules or regulations. I want to beat the hell out of someone with no rules or regulations."
He certainly has the old man's attention. Blood just chuckles dryly, without a smile to be seen, every time he glances at the unconscious man behind them. In his eyes, though, there's uncharacteristic concern. He's never seen his brother-in-law like this.
Sentinel: "I'm a dangerous man, Rourke, or so they say. If I step into that arena in Fort Worth as I am right now, Bethany Kenyon will be a memory. They'll be sponging her off the mat with Pine-Sol and bleach. Other than her having something that I covet, I have nothing against her. I don't want to hurt that woman...only to take what she treasures for my own. You may not be a man given to conscience, but surely you wouldn't wish physical and mental destruction on an innocent woman. I certainly wouldn't. No, there's enough blood on my hands already. It seems pretty clear to me that we can help each other in this matter, don't you think? You get your fights, I get to get the violence out of my system and earn a little scratch on top.
So...do we have a deal?"
Uncertain at first, Rourke gets to his feet after a moment and extends a hand bearing a few expensive-looking gold rings toward Sentinel, who accepts that hand and shakes it once before releasing. Though still miffed at the way things went down to an extent, Zachariah likewise shakes the old man's hand before him and Sentinel turn and walk out of the office. Details, it seemed, would be forthcoming on the matter. As Rourke sat back down, he stared for a moment at his fallen soldier before picking up his phone.
Mr. Rourke: "Dominique, sent in Grant and Harold to clean up the mess in my office. Then bring me the roster sheets. We have a new addition to the Friday night event this week."
There's a response on the other end before Rourke hangs up the phone. For the second time, the scene fades to black and returns in short order. To describe the environment we see now without the word 'ramshackle' would be utterly impossible. It looked like the worst half of the cheapest, dirtiest gym in the most inspirational movie you've ever laid eyes on. Water damage to the walls, half the lockers rusted and unable to close and a bench that looks as if it should be cracking in half under the weight of the man sitting on it.
That man, of course, is Sentinel. He's dressed for a street fight in torn jeans, well-worn cross-trainers and an old white tank that's in dire need of bleach to return to its original color. But that's kind of the point: none of these clothes would be missed if they got torn apart in the middle of fights inside a cage surrounded by the bottom layer of society's worst and the odd jagged piece of metal or broken glass. Sentinel is methodically flexing his right hand as he wraps tape around it, one turn at a time, being meticulous about every inch. Through a battered door comes Zachariah, looking in on his brother-in-law as he prepares for the first fight.
Zachariah Blood: "About that time."
Sentinel: "Mm. You got this?"
Blood inclines his head slightly.
Zachariah Blood: "Yeah. Go handle business."
With a nod, Sentinel rises and heads toward the door. For a moment as he stands, his eyes appear red instead of their usual gray. Probably a trick of the cheap lighting, though. He knocks fists with Zachariah on his way out, the Masochist taking his place in front of the camera. He sits carefully on the bench, gloved hands clasped between his knees as he stares into the device.
Just as he parts his lips to speak, though, a male-yet-girlish yelp sounds outside the door through which Sentinel just departed. There's a heavy bump against it, then it's shoved open, allowing one Thumper to stumble through with a cameraman in close pursuit. Sentinel takes a step toward the open door, just enough to be in sight as he stares down a scrambling Thumper. Zachariah looks amused at the interlude, then meets the eyes of his brother-in-law.
Zachariah Blood: "Interloper?"
Sentinel grunts irritably and jerks his head in the direction of the interviewer.
Sentinel: "Make use of him if that's at all possible."
Snickering without trace of a smile, Blood watches as Sentinel yanks the door shut. The metallic bang isn't quite fast enough to cut out of the roar of a raucous, mostly-drunk crowd of people outside waiting for their bloodlust to be satisfied, though. Zachariah looks at Thumper the way most folks would stare at something disgusting on the bottom of their shoe before pointing to the other end of the bench that he currently sat on. Tentative, and rightfully so, Thumper takes a seat with a notepad in hand, some scribbled notes and questions already visible. Thumper looks toward the camera already set up, then back to Zachariah.
Thumper: "Um, we got our own camera if you want to shut that one off..."
Zachariah Blood: "What, so we're stuck with your version? You think we don't know how that will turn out? Go ahead and run your camera, but mine stays on so that the truth gets out."
Daring to look affronted, that's the most defiance that Thumper manages before straightening up his notes.
Zachariah Blood: "You got questions. Let's hear them. It's about time that the truth got told where everyone can see it."
Thumper: "All right, um...well, how is Sentinel doing after this past Mayhem? He took a combined assault from Arsenal after a tough match alongside them and a couple chair shots from Sang Réal before that."
Zachariah Blood: "Were you fucking paying attention at all to the last video we posted? Or are you that dense?"
The interviewer starts to reply but Blood angrily cuts him off.
Zachariah Blood: "You get the Reader's Digest version...you and the rest of the Short Attention Span Posse, because I suppose if it's not on television or posted all over Facebook and Twitter in the form of shitty memes, no one knows what the fuck is going on around here. I swear by all that's unholy..."
He grumbles to himself for a moment before answer, saying things that probably aren't suited for sensitive ears.
Zachariah Blood: "Sentinel took his lumps from Sang Réal and Lacey Roberts and put up with ineffectual teamwork from Jeszika Gautier all match long. Shit goes south a couple times and in the process of saving the hides of Arsenal from a concussion special courtesy of the the UWA's answer to Siegfried and Roy he almost gets his face kicked off. His jaw is giving him a little trouble and he's righteously pissed about the whole thing. But he still has his title match, so he can look past those mistakes.
What you and everyone else in the UWA need to remember is that Sentinel is a professional. He's been in the wrestling business for upwards of seven years barring a few spaces when injury and personal issues kept him out of the ring. And accidents are going to happen in that ring. WAS that altercation at Mayhem an accident? That depends on who you ask. And before you get any ideas, I'm not giving my personal opinion on it."
Thumper: "Well, for the record, Bethany DID apologize for what happened..."
Lifting a brow, Zachariah looks to be a solitary breath away from snatching Thumper by his scruffy goatee, but instead he lowers his voice and responds to the half-comment, half-question more calmly than before.
Zachariah Blood: "Do you want to know what Sentinel thinks of that apology, Thumper?"
Thumper: "Ah...sure?"
Zachariah Blood: "He accepts it."
Thumper: "...he does?"
Zachariah's expression tenses and Thumper clams up while the Masochist expands on his answer.
Zachariah Blood: "She's one of the few people in this company worth trusting. We listened to her video on the drive here and she said a lot of things that made sense. She, like my brother-in-law, has been here since the start, having gone through more than her share of suffering to get to the top of the mountain where she's sat for the past month or two. Sentinel is not going to take a thing away from her. It's what she didn't say, Thumper, that's most telling."
The interviewer looks confused.
Thumper: "What didn't she say?"
Zachariah Blood: "She failed to mention the inevitable suffering that she's headed for."
Thumper: "Are you talking about Sentinel possibly beating her for the championship at Spring Slaughter?"
Zachariah Blood: "Maybe, maybe not."
When Blood doesn't elaborate, Thumper decides it's best to go to the next question.
Thumper: "So, about this stalker situation..."
Zachariah Blood: "No."
Cut off again, Thumper starts to get miffed.
Thumper: "Seriously? What about the rumors flying around the Internet..."
Zachariah Blood: "If you bring up that stalker bullshit one more time, directly or otherwise, I'm going to drive my knee through your skull. I'm not a UWA employee, Thumper, and I have the money to cover any lawsuit you try to throw my way if I follow through. Now unless you have something else..."
Swallowing hard, Thumper scans his list of questions, coming to the last one.
Thumper: "Okay, well, how about the situation with Talon? Do you think we'll see her back with-"
All it takes is the Patron Saint of Suffering getting to his feet to shut Thumper down. Blood makes a slight gesture toward the door.
Zachariah Blood: "You're done here."
Not needing to be told twice, Thumper and the cameraman take their leave. Zachariah looks like he wants to strike something or someone, but after they depart, shutting the door behind them, he takes a seat in front of his personal camera again, shaking his head. It takes a few breaths for him to get centered enough to speak normally again, as though he's gathering Sentinel's own rage by association.
But when he lifts his head, his expression is calm. Dangerously so. Calm-before-a-big-fucking-storm calm.
Zachariah Blood: "Bethany..."
Blood sighs quietly.
Zachariah Blood: "...you need to understand that all this success you've had in the UWA despite your rocky start can't last. That isn't me being my usual asshole self. If it were me about to face you with anything on the line, I'd shove those pretty words back down your throat. But that's not how Sentinel would say this, and since I'm speaking for him, I'm going to do my best to be level. You don't know me well enough to know how difficult that is. My brother's in a situation that he can't handle and I'm not used to dealing with situations I can't help him solve by kicking the shit out of someone. That probably showed pretty well last time. But...fuck it. This is family business."
Taking another moment to settle, Blood goes about getting to the point.
Zachariah Blood: "You're a powerful woman in a company full of powerful women. A company where a man has never held the biggest belt this place has to offer. There's no wronging you for being proud of that. Hell, you're confident enough to admit that you're still afraid of Sentinel. What should be kept in mind is that greater successes lead to larger declines. For a long time, Aerynn Donnelly was the most powerful woman in this company...and now she's sitting at home hoping that Broderick Montgomery didn't knock her kid retarded when he attacked her. The first and longest-reigning champion this company has ever had...undone because she got greedy and stopped looking over her shoulder for the people she fucked with on her road to the top.
Sound familiar? That says nothing of Jeszika, whose time at the time was a hell of a lot shorter and more tumultuous. Success, I guess, doesn't agree with her. Woman can't control herself, much less her own fate, and you picked the scraps of what has so far been the most ineffectual title reign to date with that big gold belt. The whole damn company should thank you for that. At least in you we have a champion with self-control."
Blood sniffs quietly, clearing his throat.
Zachariah Blood: "You haven't burned the bridges that they have, but look at where associating with the people you surround yourself with has gotten you. Jeszika has gotten you laid out a time or two because she can't keep her head straight to save her life, drawing you into this stalker bullshit. We get it: you don't believe it's Sentinel. Fine. But that's the thing with lies and rumors. If enough people keep talking about them and piling it on, eventually the masses are going to start believing it, no matter how farfetched it might be. You're not taken in by your friend's blather, but a lot, from the fans in the arena's cheap seats all the way up to the goddamn UWA Owner? They're starting to.
You try coming to work every day and having people step aside when you pass, whispering behind their hands and wondering how long it's going to take before authorities get involved or you no longer have a job to come TO. And that says nothing of Ashley, who stuck her goddamn nose in at Mayhem as well. Now, that's family defending family so...she gets a pass. Sentinel won't be looking for vengeance where she's concerned. Hell, he doesn't even want to get hold of Jeszika anymore, no matter much the little twat deserves it. Amazing what devotion to a cause will do even to a man who's beset on all sides by demons false and real, ain't it?"
His expression turns sardonic and, as per usual, he stops short of smiling.
Zachariah Blood: "Devotion. That's Sentinel's strength and his weakness. He's a large believer in doing things all the way or not at all. That's why, with people telling him that it's impossible, that he'll never do it, he's still gunning for the UWA World Heavyweight Championship after all this time. But that's also going to be his downfall. Hell, look how devoted he is to his family back home and where that's gotten him? His wife won't speak to him, much less let their daughter talk to him. Other members of the family, my wife included, are out for his blood thanks to Talon's injury. That's one of his major mental buoyances lost. He was devoted to his family years ago, too, before they were taken from him. Friends? Friends don't betray friends to bangers and get them killed. Friends don't cut you down and leave you to bleed out. Even a goddamn enemy worth their salt will finish the job. And before friends became enemies...yeah, you guessed it...he was devoted to them, too.
Now, literally, all that's left is the title over your shoulder. That's the last of his lifelines, the only thing that keeps him going. Every time he gets knocked down he fights his way back up, but the weight gets heavier every time he falls. The sins don't go away as much as he'd like them to, and exoneration, it seems, is no longer possible. Solving one problem invites many more, like trying to cut the heads off a goddamn hydra. That's what you have over him in spades, Bethany: you don't let anything stop you or slow you down...even the family drama you're currently dealing with. I'd suppose he respects that, but hell if I know for sure what he's thinking anymore."
A shake of his head sends his wild, red-tipped hair tossing back and forth a little. It was hanging loose, which was rare since he usually kept it spiked up.
Zachariah Blood: "He got a chuckle out of the lion's den analogy, though. Called it accurate and I don't disagree personally. But to call him a lion...no, that's not right. Lions are strong creatures, full of pride. That's one thing that the Silent Destroyer doesn't have anymore: pride. That's part of the reason he's doing what he's doing out there right now."
A thumb is jerked in the direction of the door, from behind which the wild gathering can still be heard beneath the voice of an announcer and the rattling of what is no doubt a metal cage. Moments later there would be the 'ooohs' and 'ahhhs' of the sort that only occur during bouts of mortal combat.
The real thing, not the game.
Zachariah looks in the direction of the door with utter displeasure. He obviously hates the fact that he helped Sentinel do this but realizes that he had no choice.
Zachariah Blood: "He's beating someone to within an inch of their life right now, Bethany. I don't need to have eyes on the cage to know that. And he's doing it for your sake. Does that sound stupid or foolish to you? I'm not a mind-reader so I can't say, but it probably does. Despite the fact that the man's regressing to a point in his life we hoped he'd never revisit, he still cares enough about the woman who possesses what he wants more than life itself, who will fight to the very end to keep it from him, to not let himself come to Fort Worth on the 31st with his rage at a pinnacle.
I'm personally asking you not to write off all this as us trying to scare you or some shit like that. This is me being honest with you, passing the words directly from his mouth to your ears. None of what he's experiencing right now is your fault, either the memories welling up in his mind nor the misfortunes he's in the middle of. You're in the wrong place at the wrong time and his cognizance of that fact is what's led to this moment. He's not even angry with you. He's trying...to save you."
Even the Masochist himself is finding the enormity of that statement hard to deal with. He takes a moment, listening to the battle going on nearby which comes to a stop when the announcer goes off again. Sentinel's name can just be made out and as its heard Blood's hands clench slightly, his head lowering. It shakes once, then twice, before he starts speaking again without showing his face.
Zachariah Blood: "The sad part of it all, though? The sad part is that it won't be enough."
Chuckling dryly, Blood returns his attention to the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "He can't beat you, Bethany. No matter how hard he tries or how much he hurts you in that ring, he can't take that belt from you. Oh, he's gonna fuckin' try. You're going to suffer at Spring Slaughter...suffer, scream and bleed. But you'll find a way to hold on to the strap.
I can see that clear as day and it pisses me the fuck off! And then what?! Then he goes to the back of the line and sinks deeper into oblivion thanks to that fucking devotion of his being attached to a lost cause! The giant bastard is going to self-destruct and I don't want to be there when it happens!"
Lunging to his feet, the bench upset by his sudden motion, Zachariah turns around and drives his boot into the rusty lockers, making them rattle and squeak loudly enough that it drowns out the chaos outside for a few moments. Sadly, the outburst doesn't help him one bit.
Zachariah Blood: "Forsaken by those he loves most, set adrift by a fate that took those who shaped his young life from him too soon, ripped open by fake friends and real enemies, used by those rode with and called brother...and bereft of the championship that remains an unreachable treasure because of the demon he can't defeat: himself!"
He curses in French before turning back to the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "You're not walking out of that ring, Bethany, but you'll still leave the arena as champion. He may think otherwise but he set me to this task and I don't lie for anyone...not even him. Not even if by the time it's all over he'll have torn into me for saying what I've said here. He can't control what he's becoming no matter how many punks he beats down tonight.
Nothing can save him now. And sadly, that's your only hope."
Staring hard at the camera for a moment, Zachariah picks it up and shuts it off on his way out the door. Sentinel's name is mentioned over the loudspeaker and we get a brief glimpse of him inside the raised cage surrounded by at least a hundred money-waving, alcohol-laced dregs. His taped fists are already bloody and he's wearing a mix of that and sweat across his brow and down the front of his tank.
And those eyes...those cold, gray eyes...are those of the moniker of the brotherhood he rode with:
The eyes of a dead man.
Fade to black.
Brought into the Valley Forge home of the family of Sentinel, Zachariah is the first creature we see, staring now at his phone as though he wished to chuck it at the sliding glass door leading to the deck. The hour was late and the dark outside the country-style home was near-impregnable, so much so that the dim light from within was more than enough to only allow the reflection of the Masochist to be seen on the polished passage. His right hand tensed as he gripped the phone tight, still staring at the screen where an image of himself and Sentinel from their APW days stared back. Muttering something distasteful to himself in French, which naturally made it sound most appealing to those listening, Blood pocketed the phone and turned on a dime...then stopped on the exact same ten-piece.
Standing a little unsteadily in the doorway was Talon, unseen in the flesh for some time by the UWA faithful. Beneath the leg of cotton shorts colored as crimson as her waist-length hair, her right thigh is bandaged and braced, both legs bare aside from such. One hand rests in the front pocket of her black hoodie while the other grasps a crutch neatly positioned under the accompanying arm. She meets the eyes of her brother-in-law impassively as he returns the stare in the midst of this uncomfortable silence. It's not so much a battle of wills as it is one person trying to decide how to approach the news and the other waiting on him to finally spill. When Zachariah's silent filibusting gives out, Talon breaks the silence herself, speaking flatly and without emotion.
Talon: "That was him, wasn't it?"
Nodding once in response, Zachariah folds his arms, putting on a half-disgusted expression. Talon, however, remains calm and matter-of-fact about it all.
Talon: "What did he say?"
Zachariah Blood: "He asked me to find him a fight."
A crimson brow arches.
Talon: "One of...your fights?"
The Patron Saint of Suffering nods once again, his expression set and tight. It was the same look seen on Sentinel's face as of late, but this time it was worn on a man who was far less inclined to rein in his taste for violence to others and against himself.
In fact, he probably would've been just fine teeing off on the Destroyer himself.
In the moments between getting the response she was afraid of, letting the information soak into her very being and fighting back the urge to freak right the hell out, Talon lets go of a held, shuddering breath. Leaning in against the door jamb, she lets her head fall gently against the cool wood, acid green eyes shutting.
Zachariah Blood: "Tried to talk his ass out of it..."
Talon: "Yeah...yeah, I heard..."
Zachariah Blood: "How much did you hear?"
Talon: "Enough."
Talon stands up straight again. Flat-footed she still had a couple inches on Zachariah, even with the damage to her leg. She turned gingerly, making as if to hobble her way back to the other room when Zachariah snarls after her. If it were possible to mingle anger and concern into some hybrid tone of voice, he'd just done it.
Zachariah Blood: "How fuckin' long are you two gonna go 'round like this, soeur?"
Talon stops dead in her tracks, which honestly isn't hard. She stares over her left shoulder at Zachariah who returns by trying a bore a hole through her skull with his own glare.
Zachariah Blood: "This shit's gone on long enough. How many more days you gonna be okay dealing with Cheyenne askin' you where daddy is? More'n that, how long are you gonna make yourself suffer by holding on to this bullshit anger?"
Talon: "Bullshit?"
Zachariah Blood: "I didn't stutter."
Turning about as swiftly as she's able, Talon gestures angrily at her damaged leg, furiously glaring at her brother-in-law. Zachariah stares back coldly.
Talon: "You think this is BULLSHIT?!"
Zachariah Blood: "I think you two wallowing in all this suffering is bullshit. You act as if you didn't know that shit was gonna get messy. But you knew from the fuckin' start, from the moment you met his giant ass, that trouble followed him. How many years have you two been together now? Six? Seven? It's gotten this bad more than once and that ain't stopped y'all before, so why the fuck now, huh?"
Talon: "And who the hell are you to try and tell us what's what?"
Zachariah Blood: "Someone who's been there before but knew enough to ride it out and not throw a bitch-fit because shit got rough. You didn't see Rayne and I acting like this and you know good and damn well the kind of hell her and I walked through to get to this point. So I'm askin' again: how fuckin' long are you two gonna let this shit get in the way of the somethin' beautiful that you two got, huh?"
Talon: "We aren't you and Rayne, Zachariah!"
Zachariah Blood: "No, you're fuckin' better! You got in him a man who has stood by you through everything in your past and more! How many motherfuckers you think would linger knowing what went down all them years ago back home, huh?!"
Blanching pale at the mention of it, the mere location and general time frame immediately sending Talon on a mental journey she never wanted to take again. Her hand tightens around the handle of the crutch and a tremor passes through her.
Zachariah, not seeking to upset her but instead to talk some sense into her, tries to put a cap on his righteous anger. It isn't easy for a man like him who feeds off that negativity, but he manages okay for Talon's sake.
Zachariah Blood: "That man would give you the world even if the effort drove him into his grave, and the sonofabitch would die happy doing it. He's reached out more than once since that melee with Benimaru's crew and the Dead Men. But you're holding on to your anger worse than Aurelei ever did. I mean, seriously for a fuckin' minute, do you really wanna be compared to that psycho witch?"
Her expression answers that question quite plainly, at which point Zachariah goes on.
Zachariah Blood: "He's on the edge of giving up not so much on you but on the idea of you being a part of his life. I can hear it in his damn voice."
Talon: "Still has his urge to fight, though. I"m guessing that's his idea of a salve to keep the pain away. He's welcome to it."
Zachariah Blood: "He's doing it so that he doesn't kill Bethany at the pay-per-view. Or did you forget that he's finally getting his title match despite all that bullshit with Arsenal and everything else? Oh, that's right...you haven't been watching. I forgot. Out of sight, out of mind."
Blood is getting pissed again, but he reins it in. Barely.
Zachariah Blood: "That was supposed to be you two together when this moment came. He's not gonna win that title without you there at his side, Talon. That's just bein' fuckin' real. Bethany's done whipped his ass before an' she can do it again. She fuckin' will unless he gets himself right. And you know what that'll take."
Talon: "Yeah, and she did it with me there, so I fail to see what difference I'd make. He'd send me back home for fear of my getting hurt anyway."
Folding his muscular, heavily-tattooed arms across his broad chest, tonight covered by a long-sleeved Opeth tee, Zachariah levels a hard stare at Talon again.
Zachariah Blood: "At least he'd know you gave a fuck."
Talon: "..."
He walks past her now, mindful not to bump into her leg as he passes, stopping a few paces beyond to address her without turning.
Zachariah Blood: "Don't ruin this by bein' stubborn, soeur. Think long and hard about what you'd be givin' up if you let this keep goin' on like it is. And if that isn't enough, look into your daughter's eyes one more time when you lie to her about where daddy is."
Our view is of Talon's back as Zachariah walks toward and past the scene, out of sight. Again leaning against the door, Talon lets go of the crutch, which clatters as it falls to the floor, and wraps her arms about herself.
The scene cuts to black before returning, this time to the spacious interior of a large office. The desk and chair are pure, darkly-stained mahogany, the latter cushioned by the finest leather as is the sofa and chairs in one of the room's corners. The picture window bordered by heavy scarlet drapes gives a view in a large yard surrounded by wrought iron gates and populated by a couple of fearsome looking Dobermans who for the moment are laid out in the grass, enjoying the early-afternoon sun.
Next to the desk stands a fellow who at least matches Sentinel in size, dark-skinned and wearing expensive-looking sunglasses. The intimidating slab of dark continent stands like a statue, arms folded and clad in a simple black suit. Sitting at the desk, however, is an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper-hair and striking green eyes. He's dressed a bit more casually in a cobalt-blue silk shirt and black trousers, though little of that is seen behind the desk. Sitting before it in two of the aforementioned leather armchairs are Sentinel and Zachariah. This, then, must be the previously-mentioned Mr. Rourke, one of Blood's pit-fighting contacts.
The fellow doesn't look the part of someone who promotes or even condones underground fight clubs, but then...that's probably why he's able to do just that. When he speaks, he does so in a thick Creole accent which barely affects his clarity and enunciation.
Mr. Rourke: "This is quite the surprise! How long has it been, Mr. Blood?"
Zachariah Blood: "A few years, give or take."
Mr. Rourke: "Yes, yes...far too long. I must admit that when I was told you were the one calling I was tempted to meet you in person. But, well...appearances and all that, no?"
Zachariah nods curtly as Rourke's attention is already on Sentinel, looking the Destroyer up and down. While the old Creole looks impressed with what he sees, Sentinel is both silent and emotionless. He returns the look without expression as Rourke goes on, still speaking to Blood even while appraising the other.
Mr. Rourke: "Admittedly, I hoped at first that I might convince you to retake your place..."
Zachariah Blood: "My time is done in that world."
Mr. Rourke: "So true, so true. Though the nostalgia alone would make us a mint. Upon meeting this...what did you say he was?"
Zachariah Blood: "My brother-in-law."
Mr. Rourke: "Yes, quite right. Upon meeting your brother-in-law, I believe it might be a fair trade-off. And you said he's only looking for a fight or two? A night's worth?"
If Sentinel is taking offense at being spoken about as if he isn't in the same damn room as everyone else, it isn't showing. However, he never takes his gray eyes off Rourke as the old fellow chatters away with a half-laconic Zachariah who, unlike his brother-in-law, seems to be getting irritated with the man's treatment of Sentinel.
Zachariah Blood: "He isn't interested in long-term. Just a few special attraction fights. Call it...preparation for another engagement he's contracted for."
Mr. Rourke: "Ah, the wrestling thing. Shame, that. Someone of his stature and obvious skill should take up real fighting full-time..."
Zachariah Blood: "In the interest of getting the preliminaries over with, Mr. Rourke, I'd suggest you talk to him directly about this."
Rourke turns to Sentinel, who remains calm and silent. The old man looks him over for a few moments, considering his words carefully perhaps, before finally speaking to him.
Mr. Rourke: "This isn't your fancy wrestling..."
The moment he starts to speak to Sentinel, Rourke's tone takes on a different note. He's extremely business-like and almost condescending in his delivery. From his first words, Blood already has a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Mr. Rourke: "...and while you may be one of the best at that according to your brother, in this world you're almost as low as the dregs who pay for the privilege of watching and wagering on the battles I promote. What makes you think for a moment you'd survive one of our preliminaries, let alone our best?"
Zachariah Blood: "...are you fucking kidding me right now, Rourke? The hell is this bullshit coming from? You know damn well my word is good."
At about the same time that Zachariah barks his displeasure at Rourke, several things happen: the old man gets a nasty look in his eyes, the large black fellow lowers his arms to his sides and Sentinel's attention shifts to the suit-wearing brute calmly. Rourke stares hard at Blood, making an ever-so-slight gesture that stills the black man.
Mr. Rourke: "Times change. It may still be good but protocol has changed. The business is ever-evolving, you see, and your brother here is a large risk. I don't need the people who run his fake fighting organization trying to give me problems because I hurt one of their golden geese."
Sentinel: "So in other words, you're just going to waste our time?"
Zachariah had been about to retort, already on his feet with his hands slammed palms-down on the surface of the desk. The man in the suit took a single step toward Zachariah but Sentinel got to his feet first. His motion wasn't threatening but instead gradual, as though he didn't notice the bruiser looking for a reason. Rourke turns his stare on Sentinel again, looking affronted that the Destroyer would dare speak.
Mr. Rourke: "Excuse me?"
The black man has to halt his path when Sentinel stands up but is barely acknowledged by the Destroyer.
Sentinel: "That's fine. I don't care to do business with someone who's going to disrespect my line of work anyway. I'd rather lay hands on the gold that comes with being the best in the business of so-called 'fake fighting' than participating in some old bastard's attempts to feed his fetish for underground violence vicariously through a bunch of no-talent thugs."
Infuriated himself now, Rourke is on his feet as the black man turns his glare on Sentinel. The Destroyer doesn't even look at him, however, as he keeps right on addressing Rourke.
Sentinel: "Tell your dog to sit, Mr. Rourke, before I MAKE him sit."
This isn't a Sentinel we're used to hearing or seeing. Even at his worst in the UWA and elsewhere, no matter how hard Talon trumped him up or Zachariah egged him on, he never had an elitist attitude or the mindset of someone looking to start a fight for no good reason. Even in his silence such was apparent. But here it's quite obvious that Sentinel is now provoking the man, and he gets his wish. The black man swings a meaty fist toward Sentinel but gets grabbed by the collar of his suit jacket. With a snarl, Sentinel rams his face three times against the surface of the desk, each impact making something jostle or otherwise fall off the thousands-of-dollars surface. When he brings the man's head up, his nose and mouth are busted as are his shades. Blood and another fluid or two drip down his face and off his chin, staining the snow-white shirt beneath his black jacket.
Sentinel shoves him back and the man staggers but doesn't fall. Shaky from the smashes to the wood, the black man swings a wild right-handed haymaker at the blurry form of Sentinel...and falls way short. Sentinel rocks him with a right hand of his own, sending him twirling like Glass Joe from Punch-Out!! right into a glass-topped coffee table in front of the leather couch. Sentinel clenches his hand, making the knuckles pop noisily before turning back to Rourke as Zachariah, despite himself, smirks a little.
Sentinel: "You set me up with a couple of fights Friday night, Mr. Rourke, and I'll make sure that no heat comes down on you from the UWA. The whole point of this for me is to get a little...aggression...out of my system before I compete for the biggest prize in the game. After all, I wouldn't want to accidentally hurt someone in the ring like I just did what's-his-name over there."
Rouke glances dispassionately over at his hired muscle, then back to Sentinel.
Sentinel: "You want to make money and see people beat the hell out of each other with no rules or regulations. I want to beat the hell out of someone with no rules or regulations."
He certainly has the old man's attention. Blood just chuckles dryly, without a smile to be seen, every time he glances at the unconscious man behind them. In his eyes, though, there's uncharacteristic concern. He's never seen his brother-in-law like this.
Sentinel: "I'm a dangerous man, Rourke, or so they say. If I step into that arena in Fort Worth as I am right now, Bethany Kenyon will be a memory. They'll be sponging her off the mat with Pine-Sol and bleach. Other than her having something that I covet, I have nothing against her. I don't want to hurt that woman...only to take what she treasures for my own. You may not be a man given to conscience, but surely you wouldn't wish physical and mental destruction on an innocent woman. I certainly wouldn't. No, there's enough blood on my hands already. It seems pretty clear to me that we can help each other in this matter, don't you think? You get your fights, I get to get the violence out of my system and earn a little scratch on top.
So...do we have a deal?"
Uncertain at first, Rourke gets to his feet after a moment and extends a hand bearing a few expensive-looking gold rings toward Sentinel, who accepts that hand and shakes it once before releasing. Though still miffed at the way things went down to an extent, Zachariah likewise shakes the old man's hand before him and Sentinel turn and walk out of the office. Details, it seemed, would be forthcoming on the matter. As Rourke sat back down, he stared for a moment at his fallen soldier before picking up his phone.
Mr. Rourke: "Dominique, sent in Grant and Harold to clean up the mess in my office. Then bring me the roster sheets. We have a new addition to the Friday night event this week."
There's a response on the other end before Rourke hangs up the phone. For the second time, the scene fades to black and returns in short order. To describe the environment we see now without the word 'ramshackle' would be utterly impossible. It looked like the worst half of the cheapest, dirtiest gym in the most inspirational movie you've ever laid eyes on. Water damage to the walls, half the lockers rusted and unable to close and a bench that looks as if it should be cracking in half under the weight of the man sitting on it.
That man, of course, is Sentinel. He's dressed for a street fight in torn jeans, well-worn cross-trainers and an old white tank that's in dire need of bleach to return to its original color. But that's kind of the point: none of these clothes would be missed if they got torn apart in the middle of fights inside a cage surrounded by the bottom layer of society's worst and the odd jagged piece of metal or broken glass. Sentinel is methodically flexing his right hand as he wraps tape around it, one turn at a time, being meticulous about every inch. Through a battered door comes Zachariah, looking in on his brother-in-law as he prepares for the first fight.
Zachariah Blood: "About that time."
Sentinel: "Mm. You got this?"
Blood inclines his head slightly.
Zachariah Blood: "Yeah. Go handle business."
With a nod, Sentinel rises and heads toward the door. For a moment as he stands, his eyes appear red instead of their usual gray. Probably a trick of the cheap lighting, though. He knocks fists with Zachariah on his way out, the Masochist taking his place in front of the camera. He sits carefully on the bench, gloved hands clasped between his knees as he stares into the device.
Just as he parts his lips to speak, though, a male-yet-girlish yelp sounds outside the door through which Sentinel just departed. There's a heavy bump against it, then it's shoved open, allowing one Thumper to stumble through with a cameraman in close pursuit. Sentinel takes a step toward the open door, just enough to be in sight as he stares down a scrambling Thumper. Zachariah looks amused at the interlude, then meets the eyes of his brother-in-law.
Zachariah Blood: "Interloper?"
Sentinel grunts irritably and jerks his head in the direction of the interviewer.
Sentinel: "Make use of him if that's at all possible."
Snickering without trace of a smile, Blood watches as Sentinel yanks the door shut. The metallic bang isn't quite fast enough to cut out of the roar of a raucous, mostly-drunk crowd of people outside waiting for their bloodlust to be satisfied, though. Zachariah looks at Thumper the way most folks would stare at something disgusting on the bottom of their shoe before pointing to the other end of the bench that he currently sat on. Tentative, and rightfully so, Thumper takes a seat with a notepad in hand, some scribbled notes and questions already visible. Thumper looks toward the camera already set up, then back to Zachariah.
Thumper: "Um, we got our own camera if you want to shut that one off..."
Zachariah Blood: "What, so we're stuck with your version? You think we don't know how that will turn out? Go ahead and run your camera, but mine stays on so that the truth gets out."
Daring to look affronted, that's the most defiance that Thumper manages before straightening up his notes.
Zachariah Blood: "You got questions. Let's hear them. It's about time that the truth got told where everyone can see it."
Thumper: "All right, um...well, how is Sentinel doing after this past Mayhem? He took a combined assault from Arsenal after a tough match alongside them and a couple chair shots from Sang Réal before that."
Zachariah Blood: "Were you fucking paying attention at all to the last video we posted? Or are you that dense?"
The interviewer starts to reply but Blood angrily cuts him off.
Zachariah Blood: "You get the Reader's Digest version...you and the rest of the Short Attention Span Posse, because I suppose if it's not on television or posted all over Facebook and Twitter in the form of shitty memes, no one knows what the fuck is going on around here. I swear by all that's unholy..."
He grumbles to himself for a moment before answer, saying things that probably aren't suited for sensitive ears.
Zachariah Blood: "Sentinel took his lumps from Sang Réal and Lacey Roberts and put up with ineffectual teamwork from Jeszika Gautier all match long. Shit goes south a couple times and in the process of saving the hides of Arsenal from a concussion special courtesy of the the UWA's answer to Siegfried and Roy he almost gets his face kicked off. His jaw is giving him a little trouble and he's righteously pissed about the whole thing. But he still has his title match, so he can look past those mistakes.
What you and everyone else in the UWA need to remember is that Sentinel is a professional. He's been in the wrestling business for upwards of seven years barring a few spaces when injury and personal issues kept him out of the ring. And accidents are going to happen in that ring. WAS that altercation at Mayhem an accident? That depends on who you ask. And before you get any ideas, I'm not giving my personal opinion on it."
Thumper: "Well, for the record, Bethany DID apologize for what happened..."
Lifting a brow, Zachariah looks to be a solitary breath away from snatching Thumper by his scruffy goatee, but instead he lowers his voice and responds to the half-comment, half-question more calmly than before.
Zachariah Blood: "Do you want to know what Sentinel thinks of that apology, Thumper?"
Thumper: "Ah...sure?"
Zachariah Blood: "He accepts it."
Thumper: "...he does?"
Zachariah's expression tenses and Thumper clams up while the Masochist expands on his answer.
Zachariah Blood: "She's one of the few people in this company worth trusting. We listened to her video on the drive here and she said a lot of things that made sense. She, like my brother-in-law, has been here since the start, having gone through more than her share of suffering to get to the top of the mountain where she's sat for the past month or two. Sentinel is not going to take a thing away from her. It's what she didn't say, Thumper, that's most telling."
The interviewer looks confused.
Thumper: "What didn't she say?"
Zachariah Blood: "She failed to mention the inevitable suffering that she's headed for."
Thumper: "Are you talking about Sentinel possibly beating her for the championship at Spring Slaughter?"
Zachariah Blood: "Maybe, maybe not."
When Blood doesn't elaborate, Thumper decides it's best to go to the next question.
Thumper: "So, about this stalker situation..."
Zachariah Blood: "No."
Cut off again, Thumper starts to get miffed.
Thumper: "Seriously? What about the rumors flying around the Internet..."
Zachariah Blood: "If you bring up that stalker bullshit one more time, directly or otherwise, I'm going to drive my knee through your skull. I'm not a UWA employee, Thumper, and I have the money to cover any lawsuit you try to throw my way if I follow through. Now unless you have something else..."
Swallowing hard, Thumper scans his list of questions, coming to the last one.
Thumper: "Okay, well, how about the situation with Talon? Do you think we'll see her back with-"
All it takes is the Patron Saint of Suffering getting to his feet to shut Thumper down. Blood makes a slight gesture toward the door.
Zachariah Blood: "You're done here."
Not needing to be told twice, Thumper and the cameraman take their leave. Zachariah looks like he wants to strike something or someone, but after they depart, shutting the door behind them, he takes a seat in front of his personal camera again, shaking his head. It takes a few breaths for him to get centered enough to speak normally again, as though he's gathering Sentinel's own rage by association.
But when he lifts his head, his expression is calm. Dangerously so. Calm-before-a-big-fucking-storm calm.
Zachariah Blood: "Bethany..."
Blood sighs quietly.
Zachariah Blood: "...you need to understand that all this success you've had in the UWA despite your rocky start can't last. That isn't me being my usual asshole self. If it were me about to face you with anything on the line, I'd shove those pretty words back down your throat. But that's not how Sentinel would say this, and since I'm speaking for him, I'm going to do my best to be level. You don't know me well enough to know how difficult that is. My brother's in a situation that he can't handle and I'm not used to dealing with situations I can't help him solve by kicking the shit out of someone. That probably showed pretty well last time. But...fuck it. This is family business."
Taking another moment to settle, Blood goes about getting to the point.
Zachariah Blood: "You're a powerful woman in a company full of powerful women. A company where a man has never held the biggest belt this place has to offer. There's no wronging you for being proud of that. Hell, you're confident enough to admit that you're still afraid of Sentinel. What should be kept in mind is that greater successes lead to larger declines. For a long time, Aerynn Donnelly was the most powerful woman in this company...and now she's sitting at home hoping that Broderick Montgomery didn't knock her kid retarded when he attacked her. The first and longest-reigning champion this company has ever had...undone because she got greedy and stopped looking over her shoulder for the people she fucked with on her road to the top.
Sound familiar? That says nothing of Jeszika, whose time at the time was a hell of a lot shorter and more tumultuous. Success, I guess, doesn't agree with her. Woman can't control herself, much less her own fate, and you picked the scraps of what has so far been the most ineffectual title reign to date with that big gold belt. The whole damn company should thank you for that. At least in you we have a champion with self-control."
Blood sniffs quietly, clearing his throat.
Zachariah Blood: "You haven't burned the bridges that they have, but look at where associating with the people you surround yourself with has gotten you. Jeszika has gotten you laid out a time or two because she can't keep her head straight to save her life, drawing you into this stalker bullshit. We get it: you don't believe it's Sentinel. Fine. But that's the thing with lies and rumors. If enough people keep talking about them and piling it on, eventually the masses are going to start believing it, no matter how farfetched it might be. You're not taken in by your friend's blather, but a lot, from the fans in the arena's cheap seats all the way up to the goddamn UWA Owner? They're starting to.
You try coming to work every day and having people step aside when you pass, whispering behind their hands and wondering how long it's going to take before authorities get involved or you no longer have a job to come TO. And that says nothing of Ashley, who stuck her goddamn nose in at Mayhem as well. Now, that's family defending family so...she gets a pass. Sentinel won't be looking for vengeance where she's concerned. Hell, he doesn't even want to get hold of Jeszika anymore, no matter much the little twat deserves it. Amazing what devotion to a cause will do even to a man who's beset on all sides by demons false and real, ain't it?"
His expression turns sardonic and, as per usual, he stops short of smiling.
Zachariah Blood: "Devotion. That's Sentinel's strength and his weakness. He's a large believer in doing things all the way or not at all. That's why, with people telling him that it's impossible, that he'll never do it, he's still gunning for the UWA World Heavyweight Championship after all this time. But that's also going to be his downfall. Hell, look how devoted he is to his family back home and where that's gotten him? His wife won't speak to him, much less let their daughter talk to him. Other members of the family, my wife included, are out for his blood thanks to Talon's injury. That's one of his major mental buoyances lost. He was devoted to his family years ago, too, before they were taken from him. Friends? Friends don't betray friends to bangers and get them killed. Friends don't cut you down and leave you to bleed out. Even a goddamn enemy worth their salt will finish the job. And before friends became enemies...yeah, you guessed it...he was devoted to them, too.
Now, literally, all that's left is the title over your shoulder. That's the last of his lifelines, the only thing that keeps him going. Every time he gets knocked down he fights his way back up, but the weight gets heavier every time he falls. The sins don't go away as much as he'd like them to, and exoneration, it seems, is no longer possible. Solving one problem invites many more, like trying to cut the heads off a goddamn hydra. That's what you have over him in spades, Bethany: you don't let anything stop you or slow you down...even the family drama you're currently dealing with. I'd suppose he respects that, but hell if I know for sure what he's thinking anymore."
A shake of his head sends his wild, red-tipped hair tossing back and forth a little. It was hanging loose, which was rare since he usually kept it spiked up.
Zachariah Blood: "He got a chuckle out of the lion's den analogy, though. Called it accurate and I don't disagree personally. But to call him a lion...no, that's not right. Lions are strong creatures, full of pride. That's one thing that the Silent Destroyer doesn't have anymore: pride. That's part of the reason he's doing what he's doing out there right now."
A thumb is jerked in the direction of the door, from behind which the wild gathering can still be heard beneath the voice of an announcer and the rattling of what is no doubt a metal cage. Moments later there would be the 'ooohs' and 'ahhhs' of the sort that only occur during bouts of mortal combat.
The real thing, not the game.
Zachariah looks in the direction of the door with utter displeasure. He obviously hates the fact that he helped Sentinel do this but realizes that he had no choice.
Zachariah Blood: "He's beating someone to within an inch of their life right now, Bethany. I don't need to have eyes on the cage to know that. And he's doing it for your sake. Does that sound stupid or foolish to you? I'm not a mind-reader so I can't say, but it probably does. Despite the fact that the man's regressing to a point in his life we hoped he'd never revisit, he still cares enough about the woman who possesses what he wants more than life itself, who will fight to the very end to keep it from him, to not let himself come to Fort Worth on the 31st with his rage at a pinnacle.
I'm personally asking you not to write off all this as us trying to scare you or some shit like that. This is me being honest with you, passing the words directly from his mouth to your ears. None of what he's experiencing right now is your fault, either the memories welling up in his mind nor the misfortunes he's in the middle of. You're in the wrong place at the wrong time and his cognizance of that fact is what's led to this moment. He's not even angry with you. He's trying...to save you."
Even the Masochist himself is finding the enormity of that statement hard to deal with. He takes a moment, listening to the battle going on nearby which comes to a stop when the announcer goes off again. Sentinel's name can just be made out and as its heard Blood's hands clench slightly, his head lowering. It shakes once, then twice, before he starts speaking again without showing his face.
Zachariah Blood: "The sad part of it all, though? The sad part is that it won't be enough."
Chuckling dryly, Blood returns his attention to the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "He can't beat you, Bethany. No matter how hard he tries or how much he hurts you in that ring, he can't take that belt from you. Oh, he's gonna fuckin' try. You're going to suffer at Spring Slaughter...suffer, scream and bleed. But you'll find a way to hold on to the strap.
I can see that clear as day and it pisses me the fuck off! And then what?! Then he goes to the back of the line and sinks deeper into oblivion thanks to that fucking devotion of his being attached to a lost cause! The giant bastard is going to self-destruct and I don't want to be there when it happens!"
Lunging to his feet, the bench upset by his sudden motion, Zachariah turns around and drives his boot into the rusty lockers, making them rattle and squeak loudly enough that it drowns out the chaos outside for a few moments. Sadly, the outburst doesn't help him one bit.
Zachariah Blood: "Forsaken by those he loves most, set adrift by a fate that took those who shaped his young life from him too soon, ripped open by fake friends and real enemies, used by those rode with and called brother...and bereft of the championship that remains an unreachable treasure because of the demon he can't defeat: himself!"
He curses in French before turning back to the camera.
Zachariah Blood: "You're not walking out of that ring, Bethany, but you'll still leave the arena as champion. He may think otherwise but he set me to this task and I don't lie for anyone...not even him. Not even if by the time it's all over he'll have torn into me for saying what I've said here. He can't control what he's becoming no matter how many punks he beats down tonight.
Nothing can save him now. And sadly, that's your only hope."
Staring hard at the camera for a moment, Zachariah picks it up and shuts it off on his way out the door. Sentinel's name is mentioned over the loudspeaker and we get a brief glimpse of him inside the raised cage surrounded by at least a hundred money-waving, alcohol-laced dregs. His taped fists are already bloody and he's wearing a mix of that and sweat across his brow and down the front of his tank.
And those eyes...those cold, gray eyes...are those of the moniker of the brotherhood he rode with:
The eyes of a dead man.
Fade to black.
