Post by Sentinel on May 29, 2015 10:10:52 GMT -6
All that we see is darkness, the only details lending credence to the video's starting being the battery icon and a clock registering 1:53am with no date to go by. There's breathing but it's ragged and heavy, coming in spurts rather than any sort of rhythm. Other than that, it's darkness against darkness until our eyes adjust which must have been what the person is waiting for. A deep, regular breath is taken before someone speaks, their tone a bit too gentle, almost too soft, to be recognizable.
As this person speaks, the scraping of a match sounds off, the resultant flame only illuminating the hand holding it for the moment.
?: "When I was six years old, my father caught me playing with one of his guns. I had seen him use them in the past, mostly for target practice, and they intrigued me. Of course, when he found me with one in hand, my father beat the hell out of me...with a belt and everything."
The speaker...we can hear a smile in his tone but there's no laughter.
?: "Later on that evening, he told me that he didn't want to do what he did, which led to the question of why from me. His response was that he would rather me be hurt through punishment at his hands, something that would go away in time, rather than to be permanently hurt had that gun accidentally went off. I...didn't understand the logic at the time because I was so young. But as I got older...it made sense."
Another shaky breath or two comes from the darkness. The match, nearly burnt out, is carefully put to a candle sitting on a rickety table nearby. It doesn't show much of the person speaking, though, save for a scarred hand and an old, torn shirt.
?: "When I was eight, I called a friend of mine a nasty name that I'd heard on television once upon a time. She ran home crying, as little girls tend to do in such situations. Her mother called mine and, naturally, trouble followed. But mother wasn't one to strike her child. No, she sat me down and told me that she was very disappointed.
Somehow, that was worse than a leather belt to a bare ass. She told me that there was not only physical pain in this world, but emotional. A little medicine and a little rest can make most physical pain go away, but the wounds torn open by emotional trauma...they can last much longer. Maybe forever."
Regret now fills the person's voice, genuine and touching but also a little distant. His hands fold as a weak groan emits.
?: "When I saw her next, my friend I mean, I apologized for hurting her feeling. Unsurprisingly, she wanted nothing else to do with me. And thus mother's lesson came full circle."
A heavy thump sounds, the source of it making the man's body shift slightly in the chair, which creaked in protest. Back to the ragged breathing before he spoke again.
?: "A few years later, when I was about ten or so, my mother passed on."
There's a brief pause before he continues.
?: "I'm still not entirely sure how it happened. Doctors said it could have been a form of lymphoma that went undetected for too long, but they couldn't be sure. The details didn't matter to me then any more than they do now, though. What mattered to me was that my mother was all of a sudden gone. The woman who taught me so much about love, life and many other things was no more.
With it being just my father and I, things were difficult for a time. My father was a perceptive man. He could see me edging toward the dark side, so he did the only thing he could: he put me to work in his furniture shop."
Again a smile is felt through the man's words.
?: "Since before I was born, that's what he did: handmade furniture of just about every kind. Every piece was a work of art to him, which didn't get him a lot of business sometimes. People wanted things fast and cheap and that simply wasn't dad's way. He put a little of himself into every chair, table and bed. I never became as good as he was but he was happy enough that I took to the work at all. He took pride in, by his own words, seeing someone who possessed a hand that could create as well as one that could destroy. The destroy part came from him teaching me how to shoot using the very same gun that I'd been beaten for touching years ago. When I asked why he relented he said that it was just something a man should know how to do."
Another shift of motion followed by another heavy thump. Still the source is a mystery, though this time it shakes the nearby table, almost upsetting the candle. A quick hand catches the edge before the surface tilts too far, sparing the floor a mess of hot wax and the need for different light.
?: "But it didn't keep the darkness at bay. I still found myself with the wrong people in the wrong places, the lessons engrained into my being by my parents quickly becoming buried under lust for both power and other forbidden desires.
Still...dad kept me anchored and never allowed me to drift too far from my center. Until the day I returned home from a delivery to find him unconscious, slumped over his work table."
As if it were possible, the soft voice becomes even softer, pain weaving its way into every syllable.
?: "We had had a fight the night before and that morning had been silent...difficult. But before I went out on that delivery...I'll never forget what he said. He told me that sometimes people don't know that they need help. We have to, at times, make them see...force them if necessary. Even if it hurts us in the process. In the end, when they are better for having been shown the error of their ways, when the weight is lifted from them, so shall a weight we may not have recognized be lifted from us as well.
Sort of an 'everyone wins' scenario for the precious few who stick it out to the end. Father was never very, shall we say, emotional. But I understood. He gave so much of himself to help us after mother passed on and now he felt that weight beginning to lift. For a little while, so did I...and I meant to tell him so. But such is a lost opportunity. And at fifteen years old, I was alone."
The man laughs dryly.
?: "I correct myself: I had my friends. What I thought were my friends."
Three more stiff impacts are heard along with a pained growl. Where it had been genial previously, even during pained remembrance, the tone of the stranger is now harsh and given through gritted teeth.
?: "Friends...that cost me the only other person as close to me as my parents were, a death that drove me to silence lest my words and the actions that followed them cause another innocent soul to meet their end before it was time."
The mystery, it would seem, is no more. The man leans forward, revealing a familiar, weathered face.
?: "My name is Dorian Iori Greystone, sometimes called Daisuke but known more broadly by most around the world as Sentinel. I was born on August 5th, 1987 in Valley Forge, Tennessee to a Cherokee father and a Japanese mother. I've been arrested multiple times for charges of theft, assault and reckless endangerment among other things. I am, or perhaps was, a member of the Dead Men motorcycle club at the rank of Sergeant-at-Arms. I have been a professional wrestler for seven years and am married with one child.
And you must be Bethany Kenyon. It's a pleasure to meet you."
It's more grimace than smile. Sentinel is speaking calmly yet coldly, not letting a shred of emotion interfere with his message. We can tell, now, that the gasping and groaning as a result of pain isn't coming from him. But he's damn sure the source of it. Before he lifts his head to stare properly at the camera with striking red eyes, he delivers another kick or two to a barely-moving form laid on the floor in front of him, drawing more pained vocal responses after which he gets to his feet.
Sentinel: "Allow me to shed some light on things for you, champ."
He walks over to the lamp sitting not five paces from the chair and the table next to it. The candle is rendered vestigial as the lights are turned up, and the form of one Zachariah Blood is laid out in front of the chair. The hell's been beaten out of the Masochist to a point where even he would have to admit, were he capable of speaking, that it was too much. Before sitting back down, Sentinel glares down at his brother-in-law viciously.
Sentinel: "I don't like lies. I despise liars. Do you hear me, brother?"
Rage encompasses him inside and out, yet his tone remain dispassionate and his motions are untainted by the negativity coursing in his veins. He draws back a booted foot and drives the steel toe into Zachariah's ribs. There's a soft snapping sound and a growl from the writhing man, which gets no reaction from Sentinel, who retakes his seat presently.
Sentinel: "Zachariah here has been telling tall tales rather than what he was instructed to relay while I tended to personal business. I knew this even before you responded to his words, making your confusion clear. It's a shame, but considering how everyone else has made up their mind about me in whatever form, I figured it was only a matter of time before his true colors came through as well. To think that a man I considered family, won gold with and even allowed to hold..."
Another kick.
Sentinel: "...my..."
Another stomp, followed by several drops of coughed-up blood joining the rest already congealing on the cheap hotel room carpet.
Sentinel: "...daughter..."
Sentinel reaches down and grabs Zachariah by the hair, turning his head so that the people watching could see the mess that was his face.
Sentinel: "...would turn on me like the rest? Well, you can see what I think of that, can't you?"
Another smile-like grimace before Sentinel shoves Blood's head back down and sits up again, resting his leg atop his knee, hands resting on the bent leg.
Sentinel: "In case you're curious, no, I've never spoken of my history to anyone on camera before. But what do I have to hide anymore? The truth cannot damage me any more than the lies have. I told you, and the world, what I did as a form of courtesy, Bethany.
Because I want you to know exactly who, or rather what, you're stepping into the ring with Sunday night. There is no need to be confused about my intentions or to wonder where I'm, as they say, coming from anymore. You shall have those answers straight from the mouth of the demon, as it were."
Elsewhere in the room, a phone rings. The stock ring tone, some unintelligible, cheap variation of what was once a no-doubt classic tune, is harsh against the former silence. Sentinel's red eyes avert toward the device until it stops ring, then snap back to attention, staring into the camera.
Sentinel: "Make no mistake, Bethany: I'm going to beat you. I'm going to hurt you very badly, not because I bear you any ill will but simply because that is what I do. The last few months have proven to me that my attempts to exonerate myself of my many sins were fruitless. For every scrabbling demon nipping at my heels that I stomped out like so many roaches, another three would rise to take its place, nipping and clawing at my veneer of sanity.
Avenging my best friend, the reason for my silence, for instance, cost me my family. Standing up for myself against false allegations cost me goodwill and almost made our forthcoming match go up in smoke. Nearly losing my life trying to save the woman I love caused her to forsake me completely."
He pauses, looking thoughtful for a couple of moments.
Sentinel: "Mmm...but you're not here for a sob story. I do apologize."
Zachariah, still writhing below Sentinel, starts to speak but the sole of Sentinel's boot presses against the side of his head with the big man just as calm as before as he speaks.
Sentinel: "Be silent. You had your chance to talk and look what happened. You confused poor Bethany."
He grinds the hard rubber sole in, making Zachariah snarl in pain.
Sentinel: "Now where was I...?"
Again his attention returns to the camera.
Sentinel: "...yes, our match. My dear brother below my boot here said that I couldn't beat you. Sadly, in one sense, he was right. Allow me to reiterate some of his truth: you will more than likely leave Fort Worth still the UWA World Heavyweight Champion. Not because you were the better wrestler. Not because of luck. But because when that bell rings, I will no longer be a man.
I'll be a monster. The monster everyone claims that I am. The monster that has lain dormant, chained and sealed under layer after layer of false hope and sentiment. We monsters, you see, aren't known for our self-control. Sometimes we're scaring little kids from under their beds or in the closet. Sometimes we're making little noises outside the windows during your favorite scary movies. And sometimes we're following you down the streets at night while you wished we weren't.
But wishing won't make me go away. And really, I don't blame you for being afraid. Neither did Zachariah here, but for different reasons. I accept your fear as a compliment. It's if you weren't afraid that concern would be warranted. The old Sentinel wasn't someone to be feared, at least not after you'd already been in the ring with him once. He threw his power around as men his size are wont to do and tossed in a little honest-to-God wrestling ability and a suplex or two to keep people guessing. But he didn't deviate from that much, did he? You used that knowledge to your advantage and put a loss on his record.
But...new day, new monster."
Finally taking his boot off Zachariah's head, Sentinel settles back comfortably again while Blood remains mostly still.
Sentinel: "At least your reign will continue though, right? And, please, do not misconstrue my words for an indicator that I no longer covet your championship. If I had a soul anymore, I'd sell it to have that prize around my waist. And if I can see clearly enough through the haze to find enough sense of self to pin you instead of spreading you across the ring, I will do so. I simply don't see myself being that reasonable between the bells. If nothing else, I know myself."
Smiling thinly, his eyes avert to the phone again, which buzzes every few seconds as an indicator that a message is waiting.
Sentinel: "Despite knowing that my reversion to what I truly am will cost me a long-held dream, I have to say that it offers me some peace. Now, more than at any other point in my life, I am able to properly understand the lessons that my parents, my former friends and family and life itself have taught me. I have learned that to damage the heart and soul of a person will scar them longer than any tearing of flesh or breaking of bone. I was taught that sometimes you have to force an errant creature to see the error of its ways no matter how much pain the truth brings it.
And I've learned that you can never...trust...anyone...but...yourself!"
He punctuates each word sharply, his voice becoming more animalistic, more monstrous, by the moment. By the time he finishes his thought he has Zachariah by the hair again, forcing the man to stare up into the monster's red eyes.
Sentinel: "How could you?"
Sentinel's tone had dropped to a whisper again, like it had been when he took us down memory lane minutes ago. Zachariah, only upright to any extent because he's held there, makes a gurgling sound before spitting a glob of translucent red into the face of the Destroyer.
And his expression doesn't change on iota.
Zachariah Blood: "I...told the...truth. You've...fuckin' lost it...Dorian..."
Sentinel: "What, pray tell, did I lose?"
He smirks down at the battered man, finally bringing up a hand to wipe the liquid assault from his face.
Sentinel: "No, brother, the only ones who lost were those that forsook me. You were the last hold-out. All you had to do was say what I told you to say but...you couldn't even do that. Who got inside your head, hmm? Rayne? Alex? Talon? Maybe Shawn? I'm dying to know."
Zachariah Blood: "Fuck you! I was...was...trying to...help!"
Sentinel: "I DON'T NEED YOUR FUCKING HELP!"
On his feet with the 221-pound Zachariah in his grip, Sentinel hurls his brother-in-law into the wall. He crashes against the dresser-mounted mirror before rolling off the former and to the floor, shards of reflective glass falling all around him.
Sentinel: "I! DON'T! NEED! ANYONE!"
The phone continues its insistent buzzing, now with little beeps which grate on the senses. Sentinel, consumed at this point, turns toward the noise and draws the Browning from the back of his belt. He aims coldly and squeezes off two shots, obliterating the phone. The smoking barrel is slowly lowered as Sentinel speaks softly over the echoes.
Sentinel: "It's all gone now. The road back has crumbled into the abyss. The road ahead is paved with blood and flame. Congratulations, world, for you've finally broken me...
...and I couldn't be happier!"
He hardly sounds broken up about it at all. It's reiterated almost...gleefully. Being the obstinate bastard that he was, though, Blood still found the gumption to retort.
Zachariah Blood: "Never thought...you...of all people...would let...a few bumps in...the road...make you a...bitch..."
Sentinel: "Hmph."
Bringing himself around, Sentinel lifts the Browning as though meaning to aim it at Zachariah.
Sentinel: "Because I have the courage now to accept the real me, the one that everyone else saw when I obviously could not, I'm all of a sudden a bitch?"
He still sounds amused...sickly so, even.
Sentinel: "You're a bigger bitch that I'll ever be, little brother. At least I can accept what I am. You're still the scared little kid hiding behind a girl in leather with a stick. Your masochism and lust for pain are just hopes that one day she'll beat the 'bitch' out of you."
It was weakly executed and very ill-advised, but Zachariah would not take someone speaking ill of his Mistress. He forced himself to his feet, broken mirror shards cutting into his palms in the process. He lunged at his brother, the two grappling for a moment before Blood was thrown into the other wall, the impact knocking both table and snuffed-out candle to the floor. A rare yelp of pain escaped the Patron Saint of Suffering as Sentinel loomed over him, his right hand tightly gripping the Browning.
Two seconds later, the door is kicked open and the view swings around. There at full strength are the Dead Men, flowing into the room like water through a broken dam. None are prepared for what they see, though: their brother, one of their own, with a weapon trained on his kin. Rory looks the most flabbergasted of them all but Frederick is very much aghast himself. Darius and Antonio flank Shawn as he steps forward, hands held up in a gesture of peace as those red eyes turn on him.
Shawn Crowe: "Brother...back off. This has gone far enough."
Sentinel: "I was wondering when you'd show up. Should I expect Bethany now, too? Did you perhaps call that little gutterslut Jeszika? No, wait...I know. You called Alex because he wants to take another swing at the monster who got his sister shot. That's who it is, isn't it?"
Sentinel laughs harshly, his fingers noticeably tightening around the gun while he looks from Shawn to the door and back again with the eagerness of a child expecting a grand surprise. Then as quickly as the laughter came it stopped.
Sentinel: "Don't worry yourselves. I'm not going to shoot the little bastard. No, I want him to live with what he's done."
He emphasizes the point by putting the gun away. Still, no one dares approach him.
Sentinel: "Bethany, I do hope you haven't adjusted your set..."
He just...lapses right back into addressing his opponent as if this scene were so goddamn normal.
Sentinel: "...because what you're experiencing vicariously right now through laptop or television, as the case may be, is a perfect example of this Sunday night. There are no limits where I'm concerned anymore. There is no territory I will not invade to get what I want, which is that championship. And how much more amusing is it now than when I first reiterated the point? When I first compounded on poor Zachariah's statement that I would not be able to obtain your championship? It's just as well because when I'm done with you, you won't be out of a hospital bed in time to defend it...and I'll just move on to the next poor soul and lift it from their cold, numb hands.
I will go down the entire roster if I have to, from Kyle Travis to Vince Jones, from Silver Baron to Tedman, until there's nothing left for Olivier to do but put that belt in my hands personally. So either by some strange happenstance I leave Fort Worth as the rightful champion or I decimate the entire UWA roster to become the best, in their definition, by default.
Why?"
The Destroyer laughs darkly.
Sentinel: "Because I can."
He turns his glare on the Dead Men.
Sentinel: "Step aside."
They part, but not for Sentinel to pass. Instead, through the open door hobbles Talon, still on that single crutch. She blanches when she sees Zachariah unconscious on the floor, the bullet hole near the wall, the shattered mirror...her mind puts together the goings-on of moments ago quickly. It's when she lays eyes on her husband, however, that she gives her most telling reaction. But it isn't visual so much as something we can hear when she speaks with her voice cracking.
Talon: "...what have you done?"
Her presence has caught Sentinel by surprise too, but only for a moment. The rage gives way to a temporary expression of regret, then that too fades. Sentinel doesn't answer her immediately, walking past her and through the space created by the Dead Men toward the door. He stops at that point, though, not turning back as he addresses his wife curtly.
Sentinel: "Go home. And take that trash with you."
He leaves as Talon, with a little help from Antonio, kneels next to Zachariah, checking him. The rest save for Shawn don't know how to react but the club president, kneeling next to Talon, does his best to help her with her brother-in-law. The scene cuts away to outside the hotel, to Sentinel walking towards his bike. He takes from the saddlebag his Dead Men leather and tosses it on the pavement without a second thought. Then he looks directly at us again.
Sentinel: "See you soon, champ."
A comment obviously directed at Bethany, offered before he mounts the bike, starting it and peeling off and out of sight.
Fade to black.
