Post by Justin Kaard on Nov 13, 2015 19:37:20 GMT -5
Justin woke up to flowers of pain bursting red across his field of vision. A slightly less poetic way to say that would be OWWWWWWWWW. Several days had passed since Justin had battled in arguably the most vicious match of his career that didn’t involve ladders, cages, and panes of glass.
He ignored the itching in his scalp as he oozed out of bed and attempted to reassemble himself into something slightly more humanoid in nature. A careful shower later, Justin felt almost normal. He ran his fingers through his hairline, along the itching and burning sensation that had been his constant companion. That’s what happened when they had to staple your head closed.
Anyone looking at Justin might mistake him for a broken man. And looking at him it was hard not to feel that way. Bruises had left his body striped and his eyes blackened. The aforementioned head wound with its staples were red and enflamed. At first glance the spark was gone from Justin’s eyes, replaced with a dejected void.
But if you looked a little deeper; passed the bruises, past the staples, and just a little further into the void you would find the determination that was buried there. The determination not to let this series drop to 0-2. The determination to force himself through another day of training, to be just a little bit better than the last time. To be better than Sean Rhodes.
Justin looked into the mirror. And burst out laughing.
“I look like a god damn, raccoon.”
Well it was a nice inspirational moment while it lasted.
He shrugged his way into a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. Restrictive clothing was never his style. Also, see above OWWWWWWWW.
Justin was still getting used to his new surroundings. His brother had signed the lease on their new home while Justin was still in the hospital. He’d gotten bare essentials bought, moved in and set up, but most of Justin’s life was still neatly packed in boxes. He’d get to those another day.
He heard a mad cackle from the living room and followed it. He was greeted to the dulcet tones of the Wasteland as Eric fired round after round after round from a machine gun into the rapidly disintegrating body of a Raider.
“Ha! Now I’ve got a machine gun!” Eric cried in sadistic pleasure.
Justin gingerly lowered himself onto the couch and watched his brother play Fallout 4 on an obnoxiously large screen that Justin had no doubt payed for. Bare essentials, remember?
“Are you seriously playing as a ginger with a man bun?” Justin asked teasingly.
“They hate me cause I’m beautiful,” Eric quipped.
“No, I’m pretty sure they hate you because you’re stealing their stuff and murdering their friends.”
“And cause I’m so pretty.”
Justin sighed, “Sure Eric, cause you’re so pretty.”
He watched as a hoard of feral ghouls rushed his brother and promptly tore him to pieces. Or rather caused him to collapse in slow motion as they flailed their arms at him. It was somewhere between the reload prompt and the game loading up that Justin fully zoned out.
Flashes of the fight with Mentis played out before him in some kind of weird, disjointed third person perspective. He watched himself and Mentis trade blows as they struggled to their feet, wincing each time one of NCM’s blows connected. He watched as Rhodes wrenched his arm and neck tighter and tighter, keeping a pit bulls grip despite slick blood that coated Justin’s face and upper chest. On and one, the flashes of memory played. Like some kind of demented highlight reel in his head. All he needed now was commentary and a bowl of popcorn.
The last thing he watched was Rhodes crashing across his raised knees from the turnbuckle. It had hurt. Unbelievably so.
"So what are you going to do?" The disembodied voice asked.
"What?" Justin snapped back to the living room.
"I asked what you were planning on doing, but you were contemplating the quality of paint on the wall or something. Whatever it was, you certainly weren't here." Eric said.
"I was thinking about Trauma," Justin replied honestly, "thinking about what I did wrong, what I did right, that kind of stuff."
Eric snorted, "Well this should be good. Okay, Maestro, take me on a journey."
"You're an ass. But it boils down to this, I lost the match."
"Figure that one out all on your own? Hold on, I'll all MENSA, we've got a certified genius on the premises," Eric snarked.
Justin punched his brother, "I lost because I took to many chances and took too long with the ones I took. I had Rhodes beat after that Adrenaline Rush off from the turnbuckle. All I had to do was cover him and I'd be ahead in this series. Instead I tried to show off, I tried to do something stupid and I paid for it."
Eric smiled, "I should pay Rhodes to brain you a few more times. Might make you smarter. I've been telling you that for years, Justin. That said though, I think it's a little early to throw in the towel isn't it?"
"Who said anything about throwing in the towel," Justin asked, "This isn't a poor, pity me speech. I'm not going to throw myself into the river because I lost. In a weird way, I'm actually kind of glad I lost, Eric."
"Of course you are," Eric rolled his eyes.
"No, I'm serious," Justin protested, "Two super high profile matches in a row and they both end the same way. In a freaking draw. This one was the ice breaker. We finally snapped that draw streak and that'll let both of us move on. It's not like one loss knocks me out of this."
Eric smiled and reached over to ruffle his little brothers hair but thought better of it when he looked at the staples.
"That shows a lot of maturity, Justin. That's not something I'm used to with you. I guess your time overseas really did help you out. You're a lot more grown up now, a lot more tempered."
"Like a piece of worked iron."
"What," Eric asked, confused.
"Something Matsumoto-san said to me when I left. That I originally reminded him of a raw iron, unrefined and clumsy," Justin said wistfully, "I guess I've found in Rhodes someone capable of tempering that iron and working it into a useful shape. It's an odd feeling, being grateful to the man who beat the piss out of you." Justin laughed.
"I guess I owe it to Sean Rhodes to show him just how grateful I am."
He ignored the itching in his scalp as he oozed out of bed and attempted to reassemble himself into something slightly more humanoid in nature. A careful shower later, Justin felt almost normal. He ran his fingers through his hairline, along the itching and burning sensation that had been his constant companion. That’s what happened when they had to staple your head closed.
Anyone looking at Justin might mistake him for a broken man. And looking at him it was hard not to feel that way. Bruises had left his body striped and his eyes blackened. The aforementioned head wound with its staples were red and enflamed. At first glance the spark was gone from Justin’s eyes, replaced with a dejected void.
But if you looked a little deeper; passed the bruises, past the staples, and just a little further into the void you would find the determination that was buried there. The determination not to let this series drop to 0-2. The determination to force himself through another day of training, to be just a little bit better than the last time. To be better than Sean Rhodes.
Justin looked into the mirror. And burst out laughing.
“I look like a god damn, raccoon.”
Well it was a nice inspirational moment while it lasted.
He shrugged his way into a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. Restrictive clothing was never his style. Also, see above OWWWWWWWW.
Justin was still getting used to his new surroundings. His brother had signed the lease on their new home while Justin was still in the hospital. He’d gotten bare essentials bought, moved in and set up, but most of Justin’s life was still neatly packed in boxes. He’d get to those another day.
He heard a mad cackle from the living room and followed it. He was greeted to the dulcet tones of the Wasteland as Eric fired round after round after round from a machine gun into the rapidly disintegrating body of a Raider.
“Ha! Now I’ve got a machine gun!” Eric cried in sadistic pleasure.
Justin gingerly lowered himself onto the couch and watched his brother play Fallout 4 on an obnoxiously large screen that Justin had no doubt payed for. Bare essentials, remember?
“Are you seriously playing as a ginger with a man bun?” Justin asked teasingly.
“They hate me cause I’m beautiful,” Eric quipped.
“No, I’m pretty sure they hate you because you’re stealing their stuff and murdering their friends.”
“And cause I’m so pretty.”
Justin sighed, “Sure Eric, cause you’re so pretty.”
He watched as a hoard of feral ghouls rushed his brother and promptly tore him to pieces. Or rather caused him to collapse in slow motion as they flailed their arms at him. It was somewhere between the reload prompt and the game loading up that Justin fully zoned out.
Flashes of the fight with Mentis played out before him in some kind of weird, disjointed third person perspective. He watched himself and Mentis trade blows as they struggled to their feet, wincing each time one of NCM’s blows connected. He watched as Rhodes wrenched his arm and neck tighter and tighter, keeping a pit bulls grip despite slick blood that coated Justin’s face and upper chest. On and one, the flashes of memory played. Like some kind of demented highlight reel in his head. All he needed now was commentary and a bowl of popcorn.
The last thing he watched was Rhodes crashing across his raised knees from the turnbuckle. It had hurt. Unbelievably so.
"So what are you going to do?" The disembodied voice asked.
"What?" Justin snapped back to the living room.
"I asked what you were planning on doing, but you were contemplating the quality of paint on the wall or something. Whatever it was, you certainly weren't here." Eric said.
"I was thinking about Trauma," Justin replied honestly, "thinking about what I did wrong, what I did right, that kind of stuff."
Eric snorted, "Well this should be good. Okay, Maestro, take me on a journey."
"You're an ass. But it boils down to this, I lost the match."
"Figure that one out all on your own? Hold on, I'll all MENSA, we've got a certified genius on the premises," Eric snarked.
Justin punched his brother, "I lost because I took to many chances and took too long with the ones I took. I had Rhodes beat after that Adrenaline Rush off from the turnbuckle. All I had to do was cover him and I'd be ahead in this series. Instead I tried to show off, I tried to do something stupid and I paid for it."
Eric smiled, "I should pay Rhodes to brain you a few more times. Might make you smarter. I've been telling you that for years, Justin. That said though, I think it's a little early to throw in the towel isn't it?"
"Who said anything about throwing in the towel," Justin asked, "This isn't a poor, pity me speech. I'm not going to throw myself into the river because I lost. In a weird way, I'm actually kind of glad I lost, Eric."
"Of course you are," Eric rolled his eyes.
"No, I'm serious," Justin protested, "Two super high profile matches in a row and they both end the same way. In a freaking draw. This one was the ice breaker. We finally snapped that draw streak and that'll let both of us move on. It's not like one loss knocks me out of this."
Eric smiled and reached over to ruffle his little brothers hair but thought better of it when he looked at the staples.
"That shows a lot of maturity, Justin. That's not something I'm used to with you. I guess your time overseas really did help you out. You're a lot more grown up now, a lot more tempered."
"Like a piece of worked iron."
"What," Eric asked, confused.
"Something Matsumoto-san said to me when I left. That I originally reminded him of a raw iron, unrefined and clumsy," Justin said wistfully, "I guess I've found in Rhodes someone capable of tempering that iron and working it into a useful shape. It's an odd feeling, being grateful to the man who beat the piss out of you." Justin laughed.
"I guess I owe it to Sean Rhodes to show him just how grateful I am."
