Post by Sentinel on Nov 3, 2015 8:50:38 GMT -6
The unmistakable roar of a Harley-Davidson is heard and we immediately open to a shot of the bike from the front, the road whipping by beneath it as the view slowly rises. Much like the cherished noise of the Milwaukee hogs that people know so well, there's no mistaking the man on top of the 2014 Road King: UWA World Heavyweight Champion Sentinel. Shades up against the sun and his skull cap-style helmet strapped on, the Silent Destroyer tears down the forest-lined road toward Cherokee as the sun rises over the mountains before him. If we look carefully we can see evidence of the locker room-clearing brawl that ended Mayhem a little over a week ago, but it's difficult and not by design. From several vantages we follow his path, which becomes slightly more challenging as he rides through the bustling streets toward downtown.
He doesn't ride much longer before coming to a stop before a familiar shop set in a large, two-story brick building along the main drag. Last time we viewed this locale from the outside, you couldn't see through the front windows for all the dust and grime that had collected on the other side, nor could you read what the sign hanging over the door had upon it due to faded and chipped paint. But now? Now the shop looks positively presentable. Granted, the outside needs a fresh coat of paint and the front door could use replacing, but it was coming along quite well. Sentinel pulled up in front of the shop and shut off the bike, leaning it carefully on its stand before stepping off. As he walked up to the door he unstrapped his helmet and entered the building. In the midst of this, his voice sounds off via voice-over.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "There's a lot of things in this world that I don't understand. It sometimes takes courage to admit that, especially when it comes to matters I consider important."
The champion sounds thoughtful, if a little cold, as he speaks. The voice-over ends in time for us to hear the brief conversation between Sentinel and the cleaners inside the store who look up from their duties as he enters.
Sentinel: "Morning, guys. How's everything coming?"
Head Cleaner: "Very well, actually. We came in a bit early today so we have a shot of finishing up by this evening."
The news is pleasant, a brand of information that's hard to come by for Sentinel these days. His expression shows his relief.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "Great news. I thought the machinery would take longer than this. You got everything you need to handle the rest then, Jack?"
Jack: "Absolutely. A Mr. Sasaki came by yesterday evening to check in as well. Said he was working with you on this and handled the rest of the invoice himself."
Looking as if he were taken aback slightly by this news, Sentinel covers it up well enough, passing on into the back rooms as he speaks in passing to Jack and the others.
Sentinel: "Well, if that changes and you guys need something, give me a ring."
With nods in response, the men get back to work as the doors swing shut behind the champion. He stands just beyond their range, staring at the freshly-polished and prepared workshop with a contemplative look on his face. It's hard to tell his thoughts are positive or not from just his gaze, though. Perhaps even he doesn't know. His own voice cuts in over the reverie.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "I don't understand how someone harboring such powerful hatred for another, despite all efforts at recompense and reconciliation, can all of a sudden decide to come around. As if it were timing or a random whim instead of the heartfelt attempts of the hated one. I don't understand how the masses in this country can stomach being spoon-fed the same hypocritical, slanted bullshit about politics, religion and whatever else on the news every evening no matter the topic. The anchor-clones these days are the equivalent of cult leaders and if they don't get you through the television they'll get you through the internet. Common sense has taken leave of the world lately, from up high on down to places like, for instance, the UWA. But you know what else I don't understand?
How someone in desperate need of help can turn rage deserved by their enemies upon the very people offering them a hand up."
Those foreboding words linger as Sentinel walks through the workshop, examining the equipment closely. It's a sham, though. He's not checking them for workability or cleanliness so much as he's staring at them to take his mind off other things. The news about Robert Sasaki copuled with recent events seem to be wearing on him. He also took quite the pounding at Mayhem though it would take a skilled observer to catch the slight hesitation in his motions and the subtle and very brief twinges of pain that register within his expression.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "At a time when, as I said at Mayhem, this place needs a united front against a mass of undesirable elements...we instead have people either throwing themselves recklessly against our enemies, myself included, or assaulting the wrong people. What I did at Mayhem was stupid. I'll own up to that. But I didn't see anyone else getting off their ass to help Bethany and I sure as hell wasn't gonna let her sister's pet giant have his way.
That didn't end well for me, but I don't regret it. I got knocked down but I'm already back on my feet, ready to go round-and-round again. If big bad Cronos steps out of bounds when Mayhem rolls into Iowa I'll be in his damn face again. And he'll get knocked down again. Maybe I will too. But I refuse to do nothing while people like the Children, Ashley and Hunter's group of thugs have their way. It ain't just about my being champion and waving the flag for this place anymore. It's about what's right...and it's about making the people who helped get me this far proud."
After several minutes, again long enough for the voice-over to come and go, Sentinel straightens up.
Sentinel: "Takes all kinds, I guess."
Ambling over to the wall opposite the windows, he gazes at some of the hanging pictures, many of them shots of the shop's previous employees, his family and himself. There was one of the shop's first day opening that Sentinel took down and ran his fingertips across. The sight seems to have a soothing effect. He even smiles a little.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It's also about knocking sense into people who wouldn't have any damn sense otherwise. That means you, Freeman...except I just don't see that working."
The scene cuts to black, fading back in several hours later while well into the evening hours. Outside a bar further toward the edge of town, one with several pickups and motorcycles in the front lot, to be specific. The noises of revelry are apparent, more than half of it drunken if one is the betting sort. We're taken inside in a blink and toward one of the back pool tables where a familiar group is congregated. If their leather vests aren't an obvious enough clue, the ruggedly-handsome appearance of one Shawn Crowe as he leans over the table to make the first break is the kicker. Sentinel, off to the side with cue in hand, is watching intently as the President of the Dead Men uncorks a shot that goes off like a gunshot. No balls drop into the pockets but they're sure as hell spread all over.
A striking blonde waitress saunters over to the table, around which the rest of the Dead Men are standing save for Darius and Antonio, both of whom are seated at a corner table. Frederick is trying to find some good tunes on the jukebox and Rory, being Rory, is eyeing up the waitress. She doesn't mind the attention at all, setting the tray down on the corner of the table as hands reach in from various directions to gather their beverages. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sentinel's is the only one that isn't alcohol. As swiftly as the drinks are gathered, bills are dropped on the tray in their place. The waitress heads off as Sentinel steps up to the table, concocting and then measuring his shot as Shawn stands by watching.
Shawn Crowe: "So how's business been?"
Sentinel: "Same old, same old. Some of those people are like roaches; squash one and two more show up."
Striking the ball just so, Sentinel narrowly sends a solid into the corner pocket. Not looking at Shawn, he moves around the table for another shot while Rory seems to have gotten the waitress's attention for the moment. Skynyrd starts playing a few seconds after Fred turns away from the juke box, causing Antonio and Darius to shake their heads as if to say 'not again'.
Sentinel: "What about you guys?"
Shawn Crowe: "There's always someone needs huntin', brother. Those works'll never dry up."
He sips of his Jack Daniels and gestures towards Sentinel with his glass as the big man just misses sending the yellow ball in.
Shawn Crowe: "And for the record, I was mostly referring to the shop you're opening back up."
Sentinel: "Oh. Should be ready to go in a couple weeks. Got a bit of a surprise when I checked things out this morning."
Shawn Crowe: "How's that?"
Shawn lines up a steady shot, measures again and sinks two stripes before picking up the chalk to tend to the top of his cue.
Sentinel: "He dropped in and took care of most of the cleaning fees and supplies last night. Just...out of the blue."
Shawn Crowe: "Y'all worked things out, though, didn't you?"
Sentinel: "Yeah. Still feels weird, though."
As the president lines up another shot, Sentinel speaks over the scene anew.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know what you're going through. Your kid's in the hands of a sick motherfucker and that screws with a man's mind. I get that. What I'm trying to wrap my head around is how you think you're helping Ember at all. By drinking yourself into a stupor? By beating up people who are trying to help? By practically threatening your friends and partners? You're not being a 'Protector' right now, Fraser. You're barely being a father. Ember doesn't need you being all hot-headed and throwing yourself neck-deep in shit. She doesn't need you drunk off your ass, either. She needs you clear-headed and focused. Just like Hunter needs the hell beaten out of him, but that's another story."
Sinking yet another ball, Shawn rises and stares at the club's former Sergeant-At-Arms. Sentinel, meanwhile, is staring at the table. He doesn't lift his head till he realizes that he's being watched.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "But again...who am I to preach, right? I hear that a lot lately. If I were in your situation, I'd probably be laying out motherfuckers left and right. But I'm not. My head is clear and so is my sight and, thus, my perspective. Forgetting for the moment that it's you and me, one-on-one, at the next Mayhem, I'm trying to find out a way to get you to see that what you're doing is harming the situation more than helping it. Yeah, again, this is coming from the guy who's basically started a one-man war against the Children and others last Mayhem and got put on his ass by an oversized monster and his leash-carrier for his efforts. A guy who knows what he got himself into. That's something you can't say for yourself right now.
Is it really that hard to understand? I shouldn't have to be explaining this kind of thing to you instead of focusing on the match we're about to have, but I'm compelled. You couldn't have, I dunno, called me or the Dead Men to give you a hand on this? Couldn't have, maybe, called the cops or something? The kinds of shit Hunter and his goons are pulling is on blast every week, isn't it? The way you're acting...it boggles the mind."
Being stared at doesn't break through Sentinel's seeming trance. Shawn shakes his head as if he doesn't know what to say. As he lines up another shot, Frederick comes up. Meanwhile, the waitress slips a piece of paper with several digits into Rory's shirt pocket while he watches her ass sway over to the bar in too-tight jeans. Fred taps his bottle of lager to Sentinel's bottle of I.B.C. and addresses his friend.
Frederick Vance: "Y'know, it ain't been the same ridin' without ya, Dorian. You ever give any thought to comin' back?"
The question catches Sentinel by surprise though he masks the extent of it well.
Sentinel: "Sometimes. But then I realize I wouldn't be able to give the club the attention it deserves. And even though things are cool now, I didn't leave on the best of terms with you guys."
Frederick Vance: "Water under the bridge, man. Shawn'd tell ya the same."
The President's next shot bounces the thirteen ball off the side of the table just short of the side pocket. Fred gives him a look and Shawn nods in response. He doesn't need to ask what the current and former member are talking about.
Frederick Vance: "See?"
Sentinel: "Yeah. I still got some sins to deal with, brother. But I appreciate the offer. Really."
There's no question about Sentinel's honesty in that statement, at least not in the minds of the Dead Men. He lines up another shot, sinking the seven while Shawn stands back and watches. The scene cuts, after a few moments and a nice dissolve, to Sentinel pulling up in the driveway of his Valley Forge home. He parks the bike next to the pickup and enters the house quietly. The television is on but the screen is blank, giving off a white noise that one feels more than hears. On the couch, he sees that his ladies have fallen asleep, most likely in the middle of a movie or some-such. Cheyenne is nestled into Talon, both sleeping on their sides.
He stares down at them for a few moments, contentment awash on his stony features. Lifting the blanket from the back of the couch, he drapes it over both of them with enough care in his touch that neither awakens. Walking silently into the dining room, he grabs the portable camera off the counter and heads out onto the deck. We fade again, taken to the present from which the champion has been speaking all this time. He's seated on one of the built-in benches, elbows resting on his knees and his head lowered. Unbound, his dark hair hangs in front of his face, swaying by both the soft, past-midnight breeze and the shaking of disbelief.
Sentinel: "What's it gonna take, Fraser? How much more of this shit goes down before you finally see that the path you're walking is leading you further and further away from Ember? How many more times are the cops gonna have to cart you off and stuff you in the drunk tank to sleep it off until Baron, Craven or someone else has to bail you out? The old Sentinel would just assume you needed your ass beaten until you saw sense. But that's not going to work here and not just because you'll be too fucked up to feel the pain either way. Reason isn't gonna work either because anyone who gets close enough to talk sense into you gets assaulted...like Jeszika."
His open hands clench tightly and he looks up. Through some unknown means, his eyes gleam slightly in the shadows beneath his loose hair.
Sentinel: "Just for that I should break your fucking nose. I've had my problems with Jez but by and large she's a good girl who's been through a lot. She tried to help you and you put her in the hospital just like that seventeen-year-old cook."
The tightness of his clenched fist is such that his knuckles whiten from the pressure.
Sentinel: "In that moment, you were no better than the Five. Yeah, I fucking said it."
Rage wells up but as has been his ken lately, Sentinel manages to take a breath and let it be exhaled from his system. His fist loosens and his head lowers again, another shake back and forth.
Sentinel: "You only got one way out of this darkness and it's called humility. Humility with a massive dose of apologies and acceptance of your actions. Pain won't cut it. Booze will only make it worse. Fighting is a temporary salve. You have to get your head out of your ass and wipe the blood from your eyes, Fraser. But no one can make you do that. And there's the rub: you have to want to get better and you have to make the effort to do so. No one else can compel that from you. I don't think you understand that. And that's sad."
Sitting up, Sentinel uses both hands to push his hair back behind his ears. His face is weathered and despite not having taken in a drop of alcohol in some time and doing his best to clean up his life in all ways...he looks like nine miles of bad road. It isn't far off from Freeman's appearance of late sans the food-filled Hagrid beard. The difference is in the eyes, though. Clear. Intense. Focused.
Sentinel: "But this is all static and bullshit to you. I might as well bitch to the wind. The response would be better. The wind might actually listen and understand."
Arms spread along the rail behind him, Sentinel glances toward the sliding glass door. Not ten feet beyond it sleeps the loves of his life, safe and warm. He seems to not be sure if he should be happy about that. Empathy for his opponent, perhaps? It's hard to imagine anything else that it could be.
Sentinel: "This isn't gonna do me any pleasure, man. At Mayhem, though, I'm gonna do what I always do and bring the fight, the pain. No cliche bullshit about beating you until you see right or revenge for you pounding on Jeszika. That ain't what you need to hear and it wouldn't serve no purpose. We're going to fight, Fraser, and I'm going to win. It's what I do. Then, if you can chill out for ten damn minutes, maybe you and I can talk things out. I want the Five dealt with every bit as badly as I want the Children taken out. And, like you, I want Ember out of their clutches...on general principle.
Think on that. And when you come up with an answer, make sure it's the right one. You only got so many more chances before you're going at those assholes on your own. And unlike me? You won't get back up to fight another day once they put you down."
Rising, Sentinel walks over to the camera and proceeds to shut it off. We can hear, in the background, the sliding glass door opening, presumably by Talon, before the feed cuts out completely.
He doesn't ride much longer before coming to a stop before a familiar shop set in a large, two-story brick building along the main drag. Last time we viewed this locale from the outside, you couldn't see through the front windows for all the dust and grime that had collected on the other side, nor could you read what the sign hanging over the door had upon it due to faded and chipped paint. But now? Now the shop looks positively presentable. Granted, the outside needs a fresh coat of paint and the front door could use replacing, but it was coming along quite well. Sentinel pulled up in front of the shop and shut off the bike, leaning it carefully on its stand before stepping off. As he walked up to the door he unstrapped his helmet and entered the building. In the midst of this, his voice sounds off via voice-over.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "There's a lot of things in this world that I don't understand. It sometimes takes courage to admit that, especially when it comes to matters I consider important."
The champion sounds thoughtful, if a little cold, as he speaks. The voice-over ends in time for us to hear the brief conversation between Sentinel and the cleaners inside the store who look up from their duties as he enters.
Sentinel: "Morning, guys. How's everything coming?"
Head Cleaner: "Very well, actually. We came in a bit early today so we have a shot of finishing up by this evening."
The news is pleasant, a brand of information that's hard to come by for Sentinel these days. His expression shows his relief.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "Great news. I thought the machinery would take longer than this. You got everything you need to handle the rest then, Jack?"
Jack: "Absolutely. A Mr. Sasaki came by yesterday evening to check in as well. Said he was working with you on this and handled the rest of the invoice himself."
Looking as if he were taken aback slightly by this news, Sentinel covers it up well enough, passing on into the back rooms as he speaks in passing to Jack and the others.
Sentinel: "Well, if that changes and you guys need something, give me a ring."
With nods in response, the men get back to work as the doors swing shut behind the champion. He stands just beyond their range, staring at the freshly-polished and prepared workshop with a contemplative look on his face. It's hard to tell his thoughts are positive or not from just his gaze, though. Perhaps even he doesn't know. His own voice cuts in over the reverie.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "I don't understand how someone harboring such powerful hatred for another, despite all efforts at recompense and reconciliation, can all of a sudden decide to come around. As if it were timing or a random whim instead of the heartfelt attempts of the hated one. I don't understand how the masses in this country can stomach being spoon-fed the same hypocritical, slanted bullshit about politics, religion and whatever else on the news every evening no matter the topic. The anchor-clones these days are the equivalent of cult leaders and if they don't get you through the television they'll get you through the internet. Common sense has taken leave of the world lately, from up high on down to places like, for instance, the UWA. But you know what else I don't understand?
How someone in desperate need of help can turn rage deserved by their enemies upon the very people offering them a hand up."
Those foreboding words linger as Sentinel walks through the workshop, examining the equipment closely. It's a sham, though. He's not checking them for workability or cleanliness so much as he's staring at them to take his mind off other things. The news about Robert Sasaki copuled with recent events seem to be wearing on him. He also took quite the pounding at Mayhem though it would take a skilled observer to catch the slight hesitation in his motions and the subtle and very brief twinges of pain that register within his expression.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "At a time when, as I said at Mayhem, this place needs a united front against a mass of undesirable elements...we instead have people either throwing themselves recklessly against our enemies, myself included, or assaulting the wrong people. What I did at Mayhem was stupid. I'll own up to that. But I didn't see anyone else getting off their ass to help Bethany and I sure as hell wasn't gonna let her sister's pet giant have his way.
That didn't end well for me, but I don't regret it. I got knocked down but I'm already back on my feet, ready to go round-and-round again. If big bad Cronos steps out of bounds when Mayhem rolls into Iowa I'll be in his damn face again. And he'll get knocked down again. Maybe I will too. But I refuse to do nothing while people like the Children, Ashley and Hunter's group of thugs have their way. It ain't just about my being champion and waving the flag for this place anymore. It's about what's right...and it's about making the people who helped get me this far proud."
After several minutes, again long enough for the voice-over to come and go, Sentinel straightens up.
Sentinel: "Takes all kinds, I guess."
Ambling over to the wall opposite the windows, he gazes at some of the hanging pictures, many of them shots of the shop's previous employees, his family and himself. There was one of the shop's first day opening that Sentinel took down and ran his fingertips across. The sight seems to have a soothing effect. He even smiles a little.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "It's also about knocking sense into people who wouldn't have any damn sense otherwise. That means you, Freeman...except I just don't see that working."
The scene cuts to black, fading back in several hours later while well into the evening hours. Outside a bar further toward the edge of town, one with several pickups and motorcycles in the front lot, to be specific. The noises of revelry are apparent, more than half of it drunken if one is the betting sort. We're taken inside in a blink and toward one of the back pool tables where a familiar group is congregated. If their leather vests aren't an obvious enough clue, the ruggedly-handsome appearance of one Shawn Crowe as he leans over the table to make the first break is the kicker. Sentinel, off to the side with cue in hand, is watching intently as the President of the Dead Men uncorks a shot that goes off like a gunshot. No balls drop into the pockets but they're sure as hell spread all over.
A striking blonde waitress saunters over to the table, around which the rest of the Dead Men are standing save for Darius and Antonio, both of whom are seated at a corner table. Frederick is trying to find some good tunes on the jukebox and Rory, being Rory, is eyeing up the waitress. She doesn't mind the attention at all, setting the tray down on the corner of the table as hands reach in from various directions to gather their beverages. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sentinel's is the only one that isn't alcohol. As swiftly as the drinks are gathered, bills are dropped on the tray in their place. The waitress heads off as Sentinel steps up to the table, concocting and then measuring his shot as Shawn stands by watching.
Shawn Crowe: "So how's business been?"
Sentinel: "Same old, same old. Some of those people are like roaches; squash one and two more show up."
Striking the ball just so, Sentinel narrowly sends a solid into the corner pocket. Not looking at Shawn, he moves around the table for another shot while Rory seems to have gotten the waitress's attention for the moment. Skynyrd starts playing a few seconds after Fred turns away from the juke box, causing Antonio and Darius to shake their heads as if to say 'not again'.
Sentinel: "What about you guys?"
Shawn Crowe: "There's always someone needs huntin', brother. Those works'll never dry up."
He sips of his Jack Daniels and gestures towards Sentinel with his glass as the big man just misses sending the yellow ball in.
Shawn Crowe: "And for the record, I was mostly referring to the shop you're opening back up."
Sentinel: "Oh. Should be ready to go in a couple weeks. Got a bit of a surprise when I checked things out this morning."
Shawn Crowe: "How's that?"
Shawn lines up a steady shot, measures again and sinks two stripes before picking up the chalk to tend to the top of his cue.
Sentinel: "He dropped in and took care of most of the cleaning fees and supplies last night. Just...out of the blue."
Shawn Crowe: "Y'all worked things out, though, didn't you?"
Sentinel: "Yeah. Still feels weird, though."
As the president lines up another shot, Sentinel speaks over the scene anew.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know what you're going through. Your kid's in the hands of a sick motherfucker and that screws with a man's mind. I get that. What I'm trying to wrap my head around is how you think you're helping Ember at all. By drinking yourself into a stupor? By beating up people who are trying to help? By practically threatening your friends and partners? You're not being a 'Protector' right now, Fraser. You're barely being a father. Ember doesn't need you being all hot-headed and throwing yourself neck-deep in shit. She doesn't need you drunk off your ass, either. She needs you clear-headed and focused. Just like Hunter needs the hell beaten out of him, but that's another story."
Sinking yet another ball, Shawn rises and stares at the club's former Sergeant-At-Arms. Sentinel, meanwhile, is staring at the table. He doesn't lift his head till he realizes that he's being watched.
Sentinel, via voice-over: "But again...who am I to preach, right? I hear that a lot lately. If I were in your situation, I'd probably be laying out motherfuckers left and right. But I'm not. My head is clear and so is my sight and, thus, my perspective. Forgetting for the moment that it's you and me, one-on-one, at the next Mayhem, I'm trying to find out a way to get you to see that what you're doing is harming the situation more than helping it. Yeah, again, this is coming from the guy who's basically started a one-man war against the Children and others last Mayhem and got put on his ass by an oversized monster and his leash-carrier for his efforts. A guy who knows what he got himself into. That's something you can't say for yourself right now.
Is it really that hard to understand? I shouldn't have to be explaining this kind of thing to you instead of focusing on the match we're about to have, but I'm compelled. You couldn't have, I dunno, called me or the Dead Men to give you a hand on this? Couldn't have, maybe, called the cops or something? The kinds of shit Hunter and his goons are pulling is on blast every week, isn't it? The way you're acting...it boggles the mind."
Being stared at doesn't break through Sentinel's seeming trance. Shawn shakes his head as if he doesn't know what to say. As he lines up another shot, Frederick comes up. Meanwhile, the waitress slips a piece of paper with several digits into Rory's shirt pocket while he watches her ass sway over to the bar in too-tight jeans. Fred taps his bottle of lager to Sentinel's bottle of I.B.C. and addresses his friend.
Frederick Vance: "Y'know, it ain't been the same ridin' without ya, Dorian. You ever give any thought to comin' back?"
The question catches Sentinel by surprise though he masks the extent of it well.
Sentinel: "Sometimes. But then I realize I wouldn't be able to give the club the attention it deserves. And even though things are cool now, I didn't leave on the best of terms with you guys."
Frederick Vance: "Water under the bridge, man. Shawn'd tell ya the same."
The President's next shot bounces the thirteen ball off the side of the table just short of the side pocket. Fred gives him a look and Shawn nods in response. He doesn't need to ask what the current and former member are talking about.
Frederick Vance: "See?"
Sentinel: "Yeah. I still got some sins to deal with, brother. But I appreciate the offer. Really."
There's no question about Sentinel's honesty in that statement, at least not in the minds of the Dead Men. He lines up another shot, sinking the seven while Shawn stands back and watches. The scene cuts, after a few moments and a nice dissolve, to Sentinel pulling up in the driveway of his Valley Forge home. He parks the bike next to the pickup and enters the house quietly. The television is on but the screen is blank, giving off a white noise that one feels more than hears. On the couch, he sees that his ladies have fallen asleep, most likely in the middle of a movie or some-such. Cheyenne is nestled into Talon, both sleeping on their sides.
He stares down at them for a few moments, contentment awash on his stony features. Lifting the blanket from the back of the couch, he drapes it over both of them with enough care in his touch that neither awakens. Walking silently into the dining room, he grabs the portable camera off the counter and heads out onto the deck. We fade again, taken to the present from which the champion has been speaking all this time. He's seated on one of the built-in benches, elbows resting on his knees and his head lowered. Unbound, his dark hair hangs in front of his face, swaying by both the soft, past-midnight breeze and the shaking of disbelief.
Sentinel: "What's it gonna take, Fraser? How much more of this shit goes down before you finally see that the path you're walking is leading you further and further away from Ember? How many more times are the cops gonna have to cart you off and stuff you in the drunk tank to sleep it off until Baron, Craven or someone else has to bail you out? The old Sentinel would just assume you needed your ass beaten until you saw sense. But that's not going to work here and not just because you'll be too fucked up to feel the pain either way. Reason isn't gonna work either because anyone who gets close enough to talk sense into you gets assaulted...like Jeszika."
His open hands clench tightly and he looks up. Through some unknown means, his eyes gleam slightly in the shadows beneath his loose hair.
Sentinel: "Just for that I should break your fucking nose. I've had my problems with Jez but by and large she's a good girl who's been through a lot. She tried to help you and you put her in the hospital just like that seventeen-year-old cook."
The tightness of his clenched fist is such that his knuckles whiten from the pressure.
Sentinel: "In that moment, you were no better than the Five. Yeah, I fucking said it."
Rage wells up but as has been his ken lately, Sentinel manages to take a breath and let it be exhaled from his system. His fist loosens and his head lowers again, another shake back and forth.
Sentinel: "You only got one way out of this darkness and it's called humility. Humility with a massive dose of apologies and acceptance of your actions. Pain won't cut it. Booze will only make it worse. Fighting is a temporary salve. You have to get your head out of your ass and wipe the blood from your eyes, Fraser. But no one can make you do that. And there's the rub: you have to want to get better and you have to make the effort to do so. No one else can compel that from you. I don't think you understand that. And that's sad."
Sitting up, Sentinel uses both hands to push his hair back behind his ears. His face is weathered and despite not having taken in a drop of alcohol in some time and doing his best to clean up his life in all ways...he looks like nine miles of bad road. It isn't far off from Freeman's appearance of late sans the food-filled Hagrid beard. The difference is in the eyes, though. Clear. Intense. Focused.
Sentinel: "But this is all static and bullshit to you. I might as well bitch to the wind. The response would be better. The wind might actually listen and understand."
Arms spread along the rail behind him, Sentinel glances toward the sliding glass door. Not ten feet beyond it sleeps the loves of his life, safe and warm. He seems to not be sure if he should be happy about that. Empathy for his opponent, perhaps? It's hard to imagine anything else that it could be.
Sentinel: "This isn't gonna do me any pleasure, man. At Mayhem, though, I'm gonna do what I always do and bring the fight, the pain. No cliche bullshit about beating you until you see right or revenge for you pounding on Jeszika. That ain't what you need to hear and it wouldn't serve no purpose. We're going to fight, Fraser, and I'm going to win. It's what I do. Then, if you can chill out for ten damn minutes, maybe you and I can talk things out. I want the Five dealt with every bit as badly as I want the Children taken out. And, like you, I want Ember out of their clutches...on general principle.
Think on that. And when you come up with an answer, make sure it's the right one. You only got so many more chances before you're going at those assholes on your own. And unlike me? You won't get back up to fight another day once they put you down."
Rising, Sentinel walks over to the camera and proceeds to shut it off. We can hear, in the background, the sliding glass door opening, presumably by Talon, before the feed cuts out completely.
