Time's Arrow: Always Here With Me (secret rp)
Sept 15, 2017 17:39:03 GMT -5
via mobile
Rick Majors, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Kyle Shane on Sept 15, 2017 17:39:03 GMT -5
In case anybody wanted to read it here is the secret rp I did for the North American title match.
****
I have five nightmares. Five nightmares that haunt me from my sleep to the waking world and stick with me. It drives me forward, these terrors, and in a way nothing can ever hurt me as deeply as the recesses of my own mind. These five nightmares are what drives, what informs, what makes Kyle Shane.
It's late in the evening as Bartholomew Zant sits in the car, on his phone. "I understand, sir," he says in a clipped, emotionless fashion. He glances once at the manila folder sitting on his passenger seat, which had a tag reading "Shane / Rodriguez" on the tab, the contents of the folder just peeking out. "But if we bring the child now, it will just give -" He pauses, listening to someone's harsh voice buzzing over the line. "No, I understand. No, I agree, this could be the best thing for them. But still, sir, don't you think - "
The first nightmare: that I'll burn out. There is no just fading away into obscurity for me but I can feel that if I go out, my body will break itself under the strain and betray me. This means that I have to make every single day count. If I let myself be anything less than 100%, then I'm betraying myself.
Zant quietly and somberly picked up, and he picked up the phone to make a call to deliver some news. Elsewhere, in a pub in the Southside of Boston, Kyle's phone went off, the ringtone playing an abridged version of "Sink" by Brand New, 'How darkly the dark hand met his end, he was withered and boney, exposed for a phony, but we heed the last words that he penned'. Kyle glanced surreptitiously at the caller ID. Around them, a jazz band was playing, an elderly black man improvising with his sax on the stage. And, deep inside him, as the weight of the phone in his pocket hung heavy, there was a time bomb ticking. As Kyle looked on the array of people he had allowed into his life by association, he wondered how many of them had this same sense of time running out and needing to do something with it.
Second nightmare: that I'll become superficial. That the real Kyle Shane will be lost on the wayside and I'll just become a smiling slave to company line. That I'll become so ingrained into a group setting, that I'll grow so complacent that I'd be content to spew empty rhetoric.
"Here's to new business ventures!" Hiro Sasuke called out, and the rest of the investors in their startup raised their glasses. Hiro smiled broadly. He was in his element, ever since giving up the wrestling game. And the idea of the two former Game Boyz collaborating had ever been an entertaining prospect but Kyle didn't know dick about cutting edge technology or development. But neither did Hiro. But Kyle was more of a proven commodity in that he had successful ventures and celebrity branding. So to all of these white collar, Wall Street types Hiro had asked him to meet, Kyle was a carrot dangling from a stick. That made Kyle sit ill at ease in the corner booth, adjusting the neckline of his pleated shirt. It felt like that all of them were just put into place as part of some Hunger Games style endurance test to see who sank or who was able to swim. And so it seemed time to poke the bear.
Nightmare numero tres: that I'll be replaceable. I never, NEVER want to conform so profoundly that I grow into a spare cog. A counterfeit.
"Yeah, to new ventures, and lots of money flowing from our trust funds."
Hiro shot him a warning look, smiling but his eyes screaming at him, not to start up with any of his leftover Anonymous rhetoric.
"Some of us got there the hard way," a dotcom exec named Trystan said softly. Trystan had created a social media app when he was a sophmore at Kent, and now comfortably sat in the seven figure category. Kyle didn't miss a beat by quipping, "Yes they did, didn't they Eric?" Others of the group settled uncomfortably in his stool and muttered something unintelligible in embarrassment. "All of this table has big ideas," Kyle continued, "And lots of fancy ideas how to spread wealth and get richer."
Hiro held his hands up, trying to keep the peace. "Hey, whoa, guys, let's pump the brakes here..." Trystan was staring daggers at Kyle and pushed himself up, knocking a half-empty soldier on it's side as he erupted, "so you think I have something to prove? It must be nice to sit up on your high horse, you liberal cuck." Kyle scoffed. Attention was turning their way throughout the bar, and Kyle noticed the bartender pointing out their table to a small, bespectacled man in a tight suit, who started crossing over to their table, carrying a briefcase under one arm. And yet, as Kyle looked back at the aggravated Tristan, a wolfish smile came over his face. Along with the mantra to do something memorable.
The fourth nightmare takes some explaining, but it goes like this: that I'll become my father. His temper passed down to me, and we had it out more than once. The last time didn't end so well (for him) but it has left me with a lifelong fear. That that raging drunk put something in me that was in him. A time bomb. And when it blows, it's going to inflict some serious collateral damage. And worst of all, I'm going to enjoy it.
Kyle was on his feet, daring Trystan on. Fully caught up in the cyclone now. It'd been a while since he'd gotten a truly mean drunk on and let himself get this belligerent. But maybe it was the sense of being tired of constantly having so much expectation on him and demand to perform. Or maybe there were those voices again. Those damn black beasts and their whispering, wormtongued fears that drove him. He knew the demand, the expectation well, and on some level he knew that nobody but himself had pushed him to do what he did, just introduced him right to the edge and waited to see how he'd jump.
The nightmares. The demons.
Hiro grabbed Kyle, pulling him over to a side path, and he whispered through clenched teeth, "What is wrong with you?! You are blowing our chance to turn a profit and make something for ourselves, create something that will outlast us, and you have to ruin it, because - because you just want to be an asshole! And you don't even believe this shit you're talking to Trystan, you're just saying it just to get under his skin."
Kyle looked from Hiro, exasperated with his friend, back to Trystan, holding his arms out like "what do you want to do" and choosing between the two evils. And all of a sudden the little man with the glasses and the round basketball head covered in a bad combover was at his elbow, tugging on his sport coat and saying in his ear, "Excuse me, Mister Shane, I've come a long way but management has informed me where to find you. My name is Bartholomew Zant and I'm with Boston Child Protective Services and we have kind of an emergency situ-"
"Let's all just calm down and have a drink," Hiro said, letting the angst of the moment slip back, "Look, Kyle, there's nothing wrong with settling down and buying in, right? You've had your time as a wrestler, isn't it time for you to think about what you want to leave behind?" And he looked so distraught and not knowing where to turn that it dug right under Kyle's skin.
"Mister Shane, if you'd just come with me to my car, I have to show you -"
And the thing about these nightmares is, they're always there with me. In the ring. On the road. In the urinal taking a piss. If I look in the mirror I'll see the specter of my future haunting me and it's a bleak one. I can talk my way out of any situation but I can't stand to look in the mirror and see the ghost of my father looking back. Of me looking at myself in twenty years and seeing some fake, pathetic hasbeen that traded his work ethic in for security. I can't allow that. So no matter what the situation is, I can't let it end without leaving my mark.
Kyle's fist mashed into Hiro's face, peeling his lips back from his teeth and sending him tumbling over the table, knocking over stray bottles. Patrons of the bar scattered, and the jazz band stopped playing, and mister Boston CPS squawked "Mister Shane! Mister Shane!" over and over like a retarded parrot. It was unfortunate, but it did send a message. Hiro went down, and Trystan's unblemished, prissy face became a moue of shock. And there it was. He was going to leave an impression to think about burned like a scar.
And nightmare number five: that I'm losing my humanity. That one occurs to me most of all, and even more than becoming like my father it's the one that sticks with me. That I'll be one or the other. Emotionally volatile monster, or cold, empty machine. Either way, there's no hope for anyone around me. Whoever wants me in their life is going to get mangled by the treads. If it's one of these people I've become associated with, that's one thing. But what if one day it's an innocent?
I shudder at the thought of that happening.
There is a clamor in the bar as Trystan's wealthy investor friends all intervene in the middle of us, causing a giant ruckus. Hiro, holding a bleeding wound on his cheek, begins pulling himself up, an angry but somehow not disappointed look on his face, pointing at me and telling me to get out of there. Somewhere lost amid the hubbub is Zant, who folds his arms. "Well!" harumphs the CPS worker. "I was under orders from my superiors to bring you news, but I seriously doubt that you are in a serious enough home environment to care for the progeny of miss Isabel Rodriguez." That snaps Kyle's attention to him, and away from the taunts of Trystan for the moment. "Wait, what about Izzy?"
All the noise drops away, all of the artifice of the club, and it becomes still and quiet between the two of them. Zant is fastidious, and he takes his glasses off to polish them. "His mother, as you know, recently perished in an unfortunate accident, and with her other relatives being displaced by the Roxbury Terrace property management going under, he is under the temporary guardianship of the state."
He thought about the night, a few moons ago, he had spent in a forgotten old cul-de-sac of empty trailers. And the ghosts therein. He drew in a breath. "But you're telling me... "
They were exiting the pub at this time. "Yes, well, I am telling you... but after seeing this display of instability tonight, I have to report my misgivings to my supervisor, and you will be under strict review. They had stepped up Zant's government issue vehicle and Zant opened the door. A tiny, chubby face, still open and trusting with none of the baggage of the world, with his own green eyes stared back at him.
But that wasn't what he saw. What he saw was that face becoming a scribbled out void of darkness. He flinched backward, as the vision that loomed up immediately grew. He heard the ringing slaps of a million of his father's hits echoing in his ears as this black thing pulsed and grew. It was here. It was here! All of his nightmares had congealed into this terrifying form, inadequacy, failure, loss, rage.
"This is your son, Kyle."
He blinked and the boy was just a boy, looking up at him. And instead of fears manifest, he saw an aching sadness, and a loss still fresh that he felt. He felt such a connection to the boy in that second, two kids who'd lost their mothers at an all too precocious age. And with that, it sang with a bond. But still, as he knelt down to look the boy in the eyes, he felt some part of him holding back, cognizant of the fears. When the blackness began to swim over the kid again, making him see him as something bleak and hopeless from himself, he wanted to reach out and turn that hug into a strangle.
The five nightmares boil down to this. Who I am, what kind of monster I am, what I'll leave behind, and who I'd hurt. All of them in this tiny form.
They're always here with me.
"Time's arrow always moves forward," he remembered telling Izzy. Looking up from the quiet gaze of the boy who looked so much like her, he looked back at Zant.
"If you do this, you will have to step up like you have not before, mister Shane. You will have to learn how to parent to a child with special needs, needs that you have a unique insight into. You have a profound duty, to do right by Miss Rodriguez. If you feel like you can't, we can keep searching for - "
"No." was his rejoinder, and for the moment, it was enough. Zant quieted down.
These things that drive me, make me want to be better, they are my demons, my gremlins, my nightmares. They're the absolute worst case scenarios. But Izzy was right about letting them entangle me. I have to let the arrow fly, and land as far and as accurate as I can make it. I have to entrust myself to be better, to shoot above the darkness, to rise above the nightmares. I have to. They're always here with me.
I hug my son, tenderly, calmly.
They'll always be here with me. And so will you.
I'm on the cusp of everything I've been on the hunt for since coming to the PCW. Legitimacy. Respect. Dreams that have kept me awake at night, fevered dreams that push me in all ways to be the best I can be, or to indulge my worst excesses. I may have turned my back on what people expected me to do, but I never once compromised my goals or subverted that message. And now that I'm here, so close to ultimate victory, all that's left is two more steps. Step one, defeat the debuting Warden Westwood, but two, cash in my TIIT contract and secure a title shot. All that stands in my way is the last broken remnants of the cult of Seromine, as if that's supposed to be a deterrent to me... and a little boy and his grown up, slow witted Ren Faire buddy.
Warden Westwood is an X-Factor in that he's unquantifiable, unknown. Will he even show up? If he does, what form will his attitude take? We saw a brief vignette of him on the last Trauma. He introduced himself to a random NPC backstage, nobody we knew or cared about, and went on a delusional rant about not having quality competition. Which is fairly confusing, since he had yet to even face anyone. And he demanded, from this nondescript nobody, that on the next Trauma he face the best competition that all of his party gold could buy. But what made the whole scene even more ridiculous was that he was taking his cues from a nerdy little pipsqueak. I know that the archetypes of gamer culture have progressed. Being the original Game Boy, cutting promos around a PS3 and filling the void with pop culture references did little to endear me to people. So I endured a lot of the old tropes and supposed insults about nerds that went out of style in 1995. You know, how kids who like games are taped-glasses wearing nerds with pocket protectors, pimply pizza faces and overbites who had never held a real titty in their hands. I've seen all of that and I know that those facile japes are hallmarks of the least creativity. But it's very hard to see a thirteen year old kid palling around with a man who purports to be a fantasy creation come to life, and to have that child dictate his protege's actions with a roll of the dice, and not want to slap to dumb little Poindexter across his face. Are we to believe that Warden West can't do anything without his DM rolling for his action? Are we going to have to pause the wrestling match every turn so that little Billy can break out the 8-sided die and roll initiative? That will get outdated really fast. And what's more, he's running on a system that has been obsolete for quite some time.
But Warden West faces the problem of being a pawn of some adolescent fantasy dream, because he is not fully realized. What is his class, warrior, mage, paladin? What are his stats? He's just at the beginning of his journey, where every player begins with entry level stats and average strengths. It does not matter how many critical hits his handler rolls, if he does not have the strength to put power behind his hits, the stamina to keep going after Kyle Shane knocks his ass down, the fortitude to pick himself up after a tough loss and keep going.
And then there's Gabriel.
When I began my rise over the summer Gabriel was in a limbo of his own, due to him never being able to hold a higher position by default than his Messiah, Seromine. He claimed that his career had been turned around by the spiritual tutelage of Seromine but at the time, he had little to show for it. Until he got his chance at two titles, the Underground and the North American, and walked away with them both in the same night. Now Gabriel had taken the spotlight. Now Gabriel had people in his corner, people were claiming that they had seen his potential as the best all along, that the fact that he hadn't won a championship in his Pure Class tenure was a crime of overlooking one of the best things going today. In doing what Gabriel did, he usurped my place as the nominal breakout star, the one on everyone's lips, by doing what I had done just one month previous at Living A Legacy. And that will not stand.
I may not have won every match on the way to get where I am, big or small. But that still doesn't take away from the fact that I've made more of a name for myself doing me. No blood, no gimmick matches, just undisputed wrestling prowess. But I've never rested on my laurels and my quest to be the best is still unfinished. I won't be satisfied, not even after I kick Warden Westwood and Gabriel's asses to once again win two matches in one night. Not even down the road when I'm World Champion. My intention here is to show that I could have had Whitey in the same way, beaten and laid out with a Pieces of Eden, but it was more important to me that he see me coming and be ready for me. I am a future World Champion in the making, but by defeating Gabriel for his championship I am going to make a point that no matter where I go, I am the main event.
Gabriel is confident that his faith has secured him his spot at the top of the class, but is he as confident as he appears? What could he possibly have niggling in the back of his head to make him fear?
I'll tell you. It is me.
I'm a promise. Creeping up from all of your subconscious.
I'm a nightmare you can't rid yourself of.
I dig into the back of your skull, and even if you get by me temporarily, what I say stays there and you'll still be asking yourself, was he right?
It's been a long time coming, but you all know there is nobody left that can match me.
When people wake up the morning after Trauma, when Whitey Ford sees me like a bullet that he just barely dodged... when Seromine sees me like a shot that took his whitest knight and brightest success story off the board... it's a nightmare they won't be able to shake off.
I am embedded in the subconscious of this place. I have the entire foundations of this company shook. In a shorter time than any of my peers I have carved my name into the memory of this place.
And I will always be there with them.
Always.
****
I have five nightmares. Five nightmares that haunt me from my sleep to the waking world and stick with me. It drives me forward, these terrors, and in a way nothing can ever hurt me as deeply as the recesses of my own mind. These five nightmares are what drives, what informs, what makes Kyle Shane.
It's late in the evening as Bartholomew Zant sits in the car, on his phone. "I understand, sir," he says in a clipped, emotionless fashion. He glances once at the manila folder sitting on his passenger seat, which had a tag reading "Shane / Rodriguez" on the tab, the contents of the folder just peeking out. "But if we bring the child now, it will just give -" He pauses, listening to someone's harsh voice buzzing over the line. "No, I understand. No, I agree, this could be the best thing for them. But still, sir, don't you think - "
The first nightmare: that I'll burn out. There is no just fading away into obscurity for me but I can feel that if I go out, my body will break itself under the strain and betray me. This means that I have to make every single day count. If I let myself be anything less than 100%, then I'm betraying myself.
Zant quietly and somberly picked up, and he picked up the phone to make a call to deliver some news. Elsewhere, in a pub in the Southside of Boston, Kyle's phone went off, the ringtone playing an abridged version of "Sink" by Brand New, 'How darkly the dark hand met his end, he was withered and boney, exposed for a phony, but we heed the last words that he penned'. Kyle glanced surreptitiously at the caller ID. Around them, a jazz band was playing, an elderly black man improvising with his sax on the stage. And, deep inside him, as the weight of the phone in his pocket hung heavy, there was a time bomb ticking. As Kyle looked on the array of people he had allowed into his life by association, he wondered how many of them had this same sense of time running out and needing to do something with it.
Second nightmare: that I'll become superficial. That the real Kyle Shane will be lost on the wayside and I'll just become a smiling slave to company line. That I'll become so ingrained into a group setting, that I'll grow so complacent that I'd be content to spew empty rhetoric.
"Here's to new business ventures!" Hiro Sasuke called out, and the rest of the investors in their startup raised their glasses. Hiro smiled broadly. He was in his element, ever since giving up the wrestling game. And the idea of the two former Game Boyz collaborating had ever been an entertaining prospect but Kyle didn't know dick about cutting edge technology or development. But neither did Hiro. But Kyle was more of a proven commodity in that he had successful ventures and celebrity branding. So to all of these white collar, Wall Street types Hiro had asked him to meet, Kyle was a carrot dangling from a stick. That made Kyle sit ill at ease in the corner booth, adjusting the neckline of his pleated shirt. It felt like that all of them were just put into place as part of some Hunger Games style endurance test to see who sank or who was able to swim. And so it seemed time to poke the bear.
Nightmare numero tres: that I'll be replaceable. I never, NEVER want to conform so profoundly that I grow into a spare cog. A counterfeit.
"Yeah, to new ventures, and lots of money flowing from our trust funds."
Hiro shot him a warning look, smiling but his eyes screaming at him, not to start up with any of his leftover Anonymous rhetoric.
"Some of us got there the hard way," a dotcom exec named Trystan said softly. Trystan had created a social media app when he was a sophmore at Kent, and now comfortably sat in the seven figure category. Kyle didn't miss a beat by quipping, "Yes they did, didn't they Eric?" Others of the group settled uncomfortably in his stool and muttered something unintelligible in embarrassment. "All of this table has big ideas," Kyle continued, "And lots of fancy ideas how to spread wealth and get richer."
Hiro held his hands up, trying to keep the peace. "Hey, whoa, guys, let's pump the brakes here..." Trystan was staring daggers at Kyle and pushed himself up, knocking a half-empty soldier on it's side as he erupted, "so you think I have something to prove? It must be nice to sit up on your high horse, you liberal cuck." Kyle scoffed. Attention was turning their way throughout the bar, and Kyle noticed the bartender pointing out their table to a small, bespectacled man in a tight suit, who started crossing over to their table, carrying a briefcase under one arm. And yet, as Kyle looked back at the aggravated Tristan, a wolfish smile came over his face. Along with the mantra to do something memorable.
The fourth nightmare takes some explaining, but it goes like this: that I'll become my father. His temper passed down to me, and we had it out more than once. The last time didn't end so well (for him) but it has left me with a lifelong fear. That that raging drunk put something in me that was in him. A time bomb. And when it blows, it's going to inflict some serious collateral damage. And worst of all, I'm going to enjoy it.
Kyle was on his feet, daring Trystan on. Fully caught up in the cyclone now. It'd been a while since he'd gotten a truly mean drunk on and let himself get this belligerent. But maybe it was the sense of being tired of constantly having so much expectation on him and demand to perform. Or maybe there were those voices again. Those damn black beasts and their whispering, wormtongued fears that drove him. He knew the demand, the expectation well, and on some level he knew that nobody but himself had pushed him to do what he did, just introduced him right to the edge and waited to see how he'd jump.
The nightmares. The demons.
Hiro grabbed Kyle, pulling him over to a side path, and he whispered through clenched teeth, "What is wrong with you?! You are blowing our chance to turn a profit and make something for ourselves, create something that will outlast us, and you have to ruin it, because - because you just want to be an asshole! And you don't even believe this shit you're talking to Trystan, you're just saying it just to get under his skin."
Kyle looked from Hiro, exasperated with his friend, back to Trystan, holding his arms out like "what do you want to do" and choosing between the two evils. And all of a sudden the little man with the glasses and the round basketball head covered in a bad combover was at his elbow, tugging on his sport coat and saying in his ear, "Excuse me, Mister Shane, I've come a long way but management has informed me where to find you. My name is Bartholomew Zant and I'm with Boston Child Protective Services and we have kind of an emergency situ-"
"Let's all just calm down and have a drink," Hiro said, letting the angst of the moment slip back, "Look, Kyle, there's nothing wrong with settling down and buying in, right? You've had your time as a wrestler, isn't it time for you to think about what you want to leave behind?" And he looked so distraught and not knowing where to turn that it dug right under Kyle's skin.
"Mister Shane, if you'd just come with me to my car, I have to show you -"
And the thing about these nightmares is, they're always there with me. In the ring. On the road. In the urinal taking a piss. If I look in the mirror I'll see the specter of my future haunting me and it's a bleak one. I can talk my way out of any situation but I can't stand to look in the mirror and see the ghost of my father looking back. Of me looking at myself in twenty years and seeing some fake, pathetic hasbeen that traded his work ethic in for security. I can't allow that. So no matter what the situation is, I can't let it end without leaving my mark.
Kyle's fist mashed into Hiro's face, peeling his lips back from his teeth and sending him tumbling over the table, knocking over stray bottles. Patrons of the bar scattered, and the jazz band stopped playing, and mister Boston CPS squawked "Mister Shane! Mister Shane!" over and over like a retarded parrot. It was unfortunate, but it did send a message. Hiro went down, and Trystan's unblemished, prissy face became a moue of shock. And there it was. He was going to leave an impression to think about burned like a scar.
And nightmare number five: that I'm losing my humanity. That one occurs to me most of all, and even more than becoming like my father it's the one that sticks with me. That I'll be one or the other. Emotionally volatile monster, or cold, empty machine. Either way, there's no hope for anyone around me. Whoever wants me in their life is going to get mangled by the treads. If it's one of these people I've become associated with, that's one thing. But what if one day it's an innocent?
I shudder at the thought of that happening.
There is a clamor in the bar as Trystan's wealthy investor friends all intervene in the middle of us, causing a giant ruckus. Hiro, holding a bleeding wound on his cheek, begins pulling himself up, an angry but somehow not disappointed look on his face, pointing at me and telling me to get out of there. Somewhere lost amid the hubbub is Zant, who folds his arms. "Well!" harumphs the CPS worker. "I was under orders from my superiors to bring you news, but I seriously doubt that you are in a serious enough home environment to care for the progeny of miss Isabel Rodriguez." That snaps Kyle's attention to him, and away from the taunts of Trystan for the moment. "Wait, what about Izzy?"
All the noise drops away, all of the artifice of the club, and it becomes still and quiet between the two of them. Zant is fastidious, and he takes his glasses off to polish them. "His mother, as you know, recently perished in an unfortunate accident, and with her other relatives being displaced by the Roxbury Terrace property management going under, he is under the temporary guardianship of the state."
He thought about the night, a few moons ago, he had spent in a forgotten old cul-de-sac of empty trailers. And the ghosts therein. He drew in a breath. "But you're telling me... "
They were exiting the pub at this time. "Yes, well, I am telling you... but after seeing this display of instability tonight, I have to report my misgivings to my supervisor, and you will be under strict review. They had stepped up Zant's government issue vehicle and Zant opened the door. A tiny, chubby face, still open and trusting with none of the baggage of the world, with his own green eyes stared back at him.
But that wasn't what he saw. What he saw was that face becoming a scribbled out void of darkness. He flinched backward, as the vision that loomed up immediately grew. He heard the ringing slaps of a million of his father's hits echoing in his ears as this black thing pulsed and grew. It was here. It was here! All of his nightmares had congealed into this terrifying form, inadequacy, failure, loss, rage.
"This is your son, Kyle."
He blinked and the boy was just a boy, looking up at him. And instead of fears manifest, he saw an aching sadness, and a loss still fresh that he felt. He felt such a connection to the boy in that second, two kids who'd lost their mothers at an all too precocious age. And with that, it sang with a bond. But still, as he knelt down to look the boy in the eyes, he felt some part of him holding back, cognizant of the fears. When the blackness began to swim over the kid again, making him see him as something bleak and hopeless from himself, he wanted to reach out and turn that hug into a strangle.
The five nightmares boil down to this. Who I am, what kind of monster I am, what I'll leave behind, and who I'd hurt. All of them in this tiny form.
They're always here with me.
"Time's arrow always moves forward," he remembered telling Izzy. Looking up from the quiet gaze of the boy who looked so much like her, he looked back at Zant.
"If you do this, you will have to step up like you have not before, mister Shane. You will have to learn how to parent to a child with special needs, needs that you have a unique insight into. You have a profound duty, to do right by Miss Rodriguez. If you feel like you can't, we can keep searching for - "
"No." was his rejoinder, and for the moment, it was enough. Zant quieted down.
These things that drive me, make me want to be better, they are my demons, my gremlins, my nightmares. They're the absolute worst case scenarios. But Izzy was right about letting them entangle me. I have to let the arrow fly, and land as far and as accurate as I can make it. I have to entrust myself to be better, to shoot above the darkness, to rise above the nightmares. I have to. They're always here with me.
I hug my son, tenderly, calmly.
They'll always be here with me. And so will you.
I'm on the cusp of everything I've been on the hunt for since coming to the PCW. Legitimacy. Respect. Dreams that have kept me awake at night, fevered dreams that push me in all ways to be the best I can be, or to indulge my worst excesses. I may have turned my back on what people expected me to do, but I never once compromised my goals or subverted that message. And now that I'm here, so close to ultimate victory, all that's left is two more steps. Step one, defeat the debuting Warden Westwood, but two, cash in my TIIT contract and secure a title shot. All that stands in my way is the last broken remnants of the cult of Seromine, as if that's supposed to be a deterrent to me... and a little boy and his grown up, slow witted Ren Faire buddy.
Warden Westwood is an X-Factor in that he's unquantifiable, unknown. Will he even show up? If he does, what form will his attitude take? We saw a brief vignette of him on the last Trauma. He introduced himself to a random NPC backstage, nobody we knew or cared about, and went on a delusional rant about not having quality competition. Which is fairly confusing, since he had yet to even face anyone. And he demanded, from this nondescript nobody, that on the next Trauma he face the best competition that all of his party gold could buy. But what made the whole scene even more ridiculous was that he was taking his cues from a nerdy little pipsqueak. I know that the archetypes of gamer culture have progressed. Being the original Game Boy, cutting promos around a PS3 and filling the void with pop culture references did little to endear me to people. So I endured a lot of the old tropes and supposed insults about nerds that went out of style in 1995. You know, how kids who like games are taped-glasses wearing nerds with pocket protectors, pimply pizza faces and overbites who had never held a real titty in their hands. I've seen all of that and I know that those facile japes are hallmarks of the least creativity. But it's very hard to see a thirteen year old kid palling around with a man who purports to be a fantasy creation come to life, and to have that child dictate his protege's actions with a roll of the dice, and not want to slap to dumb little Poindexter across his face. Are we to believe that Warden West can't do anything without his DM rolling for his action? Are we going to have to pause the wrestling match every turn so that little Billy can break out the 8-sided die and roll initiative? That will get outdated really fast. And what's more, he's running on a system that has been obsolete for quite some time.
But Warden West faces the problem of being a pawn of some adolescent fantasy dream, because he is not fully realized. What is his class, warrior, mage, paladin? What are his stats? He's just at the beginning of his journey, where every player begins with entry level stats and average strengths. It does not matter how many critical hits his handler rolls, if he does not have the strength to put power behind his hits, the stamina to keep going after Kyle Shane knocks his ass down, the fortitude to pick himself up after a tough loss and keep going.
And then there's Gabriel.
When I began my rise over the summer Gabriel was in a limbo of his own, due to him never being able to hold a higher position by default than his Messiah, Seromine. He claimed that his career had been turned around by the spiritual tutelage of Seromine but at the time, he had little to show for it. Until he got his chance at two titles, the Underground and the North American, and walked away with them both in the same night. Now Gabriel had taken the spotlight. Now Gabriel had people in his corner, people were claiming that they had seen his potential as the best all along, that the fact that he hadn't won a championship in his Pure Class tenure was a crime of overlooking one of the best things going today. In doing what Gabriel did, he usurped my place as the nominal breakout star, the one on everyone's lips, by doing what I had done just one month previous at Living A Legacy. And that will not stand.
I may not have won every match on the way to get where I am, big or small. But that still doesn't take away from the fact that I've made more of a name for myself doing me. No blood, no gimmick matches, just undisputed wrestling prowess. But I've never rested on my laurels and my quest to be the best is still unfinished. I won't be satisfied, not even after I kick Warden Westwood and Gabriel's asses to once again win two matches in one night. Not even down the road when I'm World Champion. My intention here is to show that I could have had Whitey in the same way, beaten and laid out with a Pieces of Eden, but it was more important to me that he see me coming and be ready for me. I am a future World Champion in the making, but by defeating Gabriel for his championship I am going to make a point that no matter where I go, I am the main event.
Gabriel is confident that his faith has secured him his spot at the top of the class, but is he as confident as he appears? What could he possibly have niggling in the back of his head to make him fear?
I'll tell you. It is me.
I'm a promise. Creeping up from all of your subconscious.
I'm a nightmare you can't rid yourself of.
I dig into the back of your skull, and even if you get by me temporarily, what I say stays there and you'll still be asking yourself, was he right?
It's been a long time coming, but you all know there is nobody left that can match me.
When people wake up the morning after Trauma, when Whitey Ford sees me like a bullet that he just barely dodged... when Seromine sees me like a shot that took his whitest knight and brightest success story off the board... it's a nightmare they won't be able to shake off.
I am embedded in the subconscious of this place. I have the entire foundations of this company shook. In a shorter time than any of my peers I have carved my name into the memory of this place.
And I will always be there with them.
Always.
