The uninitiated would be enamored with Danny’s life. The centerpiece of the tales would be this ironically named Clearwater’s Best Championship. Danny’s first title belt acquisition. He would never clarify that it was his only one. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story, he’d say. Adrienne stared at her reflection in the large curved circular bronze plate. The metal was engraved with the raised letters Clearwater’s Best around the circumference of the medallion. Finally, a looming ferocious mountain lion. Or a Florida panther. It was a solid ten pounds with a gaudy bright red leather strap. This was the belt, he’d claim.
All of the talk about former championship glory had made her think about Danny’s early career more often. Matt Knox and Jonathon Willis’ parallel runs helped conjure the thoughts even more. He could hear Danny’s voice in her head as she softly recited the tale. After all, nobody was paying attention.
“Let me tell you about the night that I became Clearwater’s Best. It all started when I overcame thirty nine other men.”
The truth is that Danny was an unannounced entrant in this huge battle royale. Someone else won, she couldn’t remember, and Magnificent Danny Levi came out from under the ring and tossed him over the top rope.
“And then in the same night, I vanquished a champion who had been to that point unconquerable.”
A twenty year veteran if she recalled correctly and he’d been a hometown hero. An upstanding citizen. He had short blonde hair, a clean shaven face, and rock solid square chin. An all American boy. He went to church every Sunday and he told the children watching to always believe in their dreams. Maybe he was sincere, who knows.
“But when I looked in his eyes, I saw him for what he was. Weak. Naive. Gullible.”
Via Danny’s instructions, she had made sure to get on the apron at the right time. The gallant knight smashed into her and Adrienne fell backwards. She had legitimately twisted her ankle that evening - failing the last instruction to feign injury. Unbeknownst to the referee, the previous step was for the purse she had carried to be slid into the ring. Angie’s first exposure to the business was indeed this match.
“And through seemingly insurmountable odds, I did it.”
He sure did, he had taken a brick and broke the champion’s face. Fractured his orbital socket, actually. The referee turned around as Danny screamed for him, dove into the ring, and counted one, two, three.
“It was the night I became magnificent.”
Depending on the setting, the telling would vary in length. The story was however always about him.
“...you lied.”
This admission was to no one. After all, once more, no one was paying attention. Another admission is that she hated this belt.
Danny’s lies weren’t just about what transpired that night. This title was a lie. Danny had commissioned a leatherworker to remake the belt. He spent nearly two grand and he descretated the original image by putting his face on the side plates. That wasn’t really an issue. The title was company property. No wrestler owned it. The champion just carried it to represent the company. To his credit, Danny didn’t lie about his reign. He just didn’t talk about it. Six days later, the former champion’s brother had cashed in a rematch clause. She had been banned from the building. Considering that she couldn’t stand in the heels that she would normally wear, that was a blessing. The night wasn’t about Danny. It was about a brother’s love and at the same time, stepping out of his shadow for an opportunity he had never had.
Danny lost.
Over the years, he would never become Clearwater’s Best again.
Danny’s lies weren’t just about what transpired that night. That battle royale was invitation only and each one of those men involved had some modicum of success as their ticket. Danny had yet to win a match so it was awfully strange that he ended up in the spot.
The promoter had stated that Danny Levi’s surprise inclusion was in effort to shake things up. He had proclaimed that the new champion was the future. James Fairman was a portly, balding, pale businessman in his fifties. Mr. Fairman also owned Clearwater’s Best Wrestling in addition to a car wash, a couple of laundromats, and a Shoney’s.
Adrienne’s pink nails reflexively dug into the leather.
The Levis, married for just a year at the time, had met Jimmy at that restaurant the night before.
That was the thing about Danny. He was always a self-starter. He was planning and plotting on how to get to that next level despite limited means and ability. Maybe that is why Adrienne fell for him. He just never gave up. He didn’t take no for an answer. But it surprised him when Fairman invited him out of the blue. Well, both of them. Jimmy insisted.
“Wear the blue dress, high heels, the works, A. Doll up. This is big for me. Big for us.”
“To a Shoney’s?”
Yeah, at a Shoney’s. So there she was, out of place, eating a country fried steak dripping in gravy and trying not to dribble all over the shimmery wholly uncomfortable attire. Not only that, she was crunched into one of those high wooden booths in a corner. Danny was across from her. Fairman, next to her. Next to her.
Downing his second vodka infused tea, Jimmy laughed at one of her husband’s jokes. His voice was very raspy as if he was always exasperated at someone.
“That’s a good one…”
The conversation drifted to Jimmy’s real purpose.
“Alright, enough of that.”
Jimmy steepled his hands on the table. He stared down Danny with his bifocals on the edge of his nose. On close inspection, the blood vessels were burst throughout.
“Daniel. Let’s be real honest here. You’ve been in my company for half a year now. I only know that because I sign your checks. You know why?”
“Sir?”
“You’re a bum, Daniel.”
Adrienne involuntarily dropped her fork on the plate. It rattled about but was lost quickly in the noisy din of the restaurant.
“But you show up on time and do your job. That’s okay, I suppose.”
Business paused as a waitress came by and refilled all of their drinks. Danny’s slack jawed expression showed that the assessment started to sink in for him. Adrienne burrowed into the corner, clutching a glass of water with both hands and sipping at it.
“Just a little constructive criticism. But you intrigue me. Helps that you got some good gash following you about.”
He said that without even acknowledging her presence. In fact, Fairman’s only interaction was to kiss her hand when they had all first met in the parking lot.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Uh, you’ve got me scheduled for a preliminary bout.”
“Good spot for you. You’re facing some guy who’s coming in from Texas. Big cowboy looking dork but the locals eat that sort of shit up.”
“Yeah.”
“What if you weren’t doing that? I got that battle royale. Big hot shot sort of deal. Got guys coming in from all over the world and we’re going to draw a nice house. Later that night, winner’s gonna fight Stan. Clearwater’s Best.”
Danny was tight lipped. All of that bravado was sapped dry in front of someone with some real power.
“You aren’t in that. Invitation only like I said, Daniel,” he paused, “But maybe you could be.”
“What? Really? You serious?”
Fairman chuckled at Danny’s sudden burst of exuberance.
“Sure. But I need something from you. Well, actually the both of you.”
Adrienne sat up, timidly offering a reply.
“Me?”
“That’s right.”
He dug into his pants pocket, retrieving a keycard, then tossing it on the table.
“I got a room at the Hyatt. Nice view of the ocean. Come up and we can talk further.”
Adrienne discretely shoved the belt off of the table. This wasn’t something she felt like dwelling on. After all, why should it matter? Things got so much better after that. Danny may have been inconsequential as a champion but suddenly he had a guaranteed contract. His pockets were flush with cash and despite the results being a contradiction, Magnificent Danny Levi was a megastar.
And Adrienne?
She was a nobody.
Part of her wanted to take all of the compliments at face value. After all, it was rare to get that sort of notice.
Part of her found it infuriating.
After all, she knew this business. Easy to patronize a rookie who had been branded this company’s newest loser. Also discounted her ability. Her mind. Her drive. Infantilized her when she had been in the industry her whole adult life.
Not that it mattered. There she was, after the show, by herself. Not by choice, too. At a gimmick table. She’d blown her last paycheck from Kaplan to get shirts made that showcased her big debut dive. She’d hastily signed a stack of photos with a bright pink paint marker with a big looping signature. And for some reason, she brought Danny’s stupid title.
But alas, no one wanted to see her. After all, there were returning legends, current and past champions, and larger than life personalities. The show seemed to be a crowd pleaser. Every champion had retained. And through some precautionary measures and like every good regional show, some of the talent stayed afterwards to maybe make someone’s night.
The idle time had her dwelling on her effort. Adrienne was sure that she had made an impression. Her abdomen was sore from the impact of leaping off a ring post onto three other human beings. But in the end, Jon Willis had reversed her momentum and had ended the match with his hand raised in victory. Backstage, Adrienne had been informed that she’d be the opponent for a new acquisition that was reportedly monstrously huge at the next event.
She’d cross that bridge later. Casting a glance to the side, she checked the time on her phone. Only five more minutes and she could pack this junk up and disappear.
In the bustle of the crowd, she heard a quiet murmur. Sounded something like …
“Hello.”
It was a meek soft voice but also clearly one of a child. Looking forward, she saw a little girl place a crisp ten dollar bill on her table. She couldn’t be more than seven years old. She had brown mousy hair, dark almond eyes, and a slight overbite. Her show branded shirt reached below her knees and she already had a stack of autographs tucked under her arm.
Adrienne finally realizing that she was on - smiled in reply.
“...hello to you.”
Adrienne slid over the photo across the table. Just behind her, she could see what she concluded to be her mother watching with a slight smile on her face.
“...I’m sorry you didn’t win.”
Adrienne’s smile didn’t flinch.
“I am, too. Did you still have fun?”
The kid nodded while staring down at Adrienne’s picture.
“Neat. Well, so did I.”
“...thank you.”
“You’re certainly welcome. Do … do you want a free shirt?”
Levi snatched the top one off the stack, this one would actually fit her. Graciously, the shy child took the shirt and photo. Waving goodbye, she turned back towards her minder and into the next actual line. She looked down at the Founding Father’s face. Danny had once promised to get her tickets to Hamilton. He had connections after all. Adrienne pocketed the tenner, mumbling to herself.
“You were full of shit.”
It wasn’t until a few days later that she decided to crack open the tale of the Lab Rat King. The internet provided just speculation and rumors. A tale too depressing to be true. Adrienne considered that this Zane King was just putting on a show. Danny tried that. Usually failed. But the ones that succeeded? Their tall tales melded seamlessly with their real lives. Was he new? Or has he done this before? No one seemed to really know. Her mother’s words echoed in her head.
You drew the short straw again.
Scouting reports indicated that he was a terror in the ring but at the same time a controlled frenzy, so to speak. Either he was a learned veteran or a natural blue chipper.
You don’t have a chance in Hell.
That was Danny, he always had something smart to say these days. Mister “Too Busy to Call His Wife” was still living it up big in Japan.
Time for a change of scenery, she decided. It was a nice day for Florida Woman to maybe get arrested for something decidedly Florida. Or maybe lay about on the beach, watching the waves lap at the sand. She could say something about this Zane person there. Interacting with him was fruitless. He seemed unhinged. Although, the thought of such a huge man hunched over a small phone, tapping his fingers away on a virtual keyboard was kinda funny.
When the smartphone camera finally switched on, there was Adrienne Levi in a modest dark blue one piece. Her eyes were protected by a pair of knockoff Italian designer shades. The rest by a slathering of suntan lotion and a Tampa Bay Lightning ball cap.
“No offense to Baltimore but the weather there is pretty dreary.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, sorry. Adrienne here. You guys haven’t got rid of me yet. So the first time around, Starburst got me good. And just this past week: different faces, same result. I’m not going to lie. Losing is not optimal. But you won’t catch me moping about. There’s always next time.”
Adrienne thought about next time.
“And oh, boy. Next time happens to be the Lab Rat King. Facing former world champions was a daunting task but how do you prepare for someone that doesn’t seem to care about all of that?
That wasn’t rhetorical, she’d been wondering that for days.
“...and well, I don’t know.”
There was a pungent pause. The ambience of the setting took over briefly. The water, the kids playing in the background, and the gulls overhead.
“Mister King has already written me off as his next meal. I’m used to that.”
And so she addressed him directly, in a more deliberate tone. The shades hid the apprehension in her eyes as best they could.
“Well, you sure made an impression. You’re scary and I haven’t even seen you in person yet. I don’t know what you really think of me and at this point, I’m not sure I care to hear. You don’t seem like a good person. But after looking around, there seems to be a lot of bad people here. So maybe you’ll fit right in. Your mask is a little public so maybe work on that.”
She paused, the dumbest thought crossed her mind and before she could stop herself, Adrienne blurted it out.
“Imagine the smell.”
She snickered despite her own sensibilities.
“I’m guessing you’re just trying to be socially mindful these days but probably no one was brave enough to tell you that leather isn’t very breathable.”
Adrienne shook her head, stifling more laughter.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m being mean. Look, Zane, whatever you’re going to do to me?”
Almost on a dime, she kinda trailed off.
“...it won’t be what you expect. I’ve fought bigger monsters than you and I’m still here. Perception is that Lab Rat King is a sure bet. I’m not going to spout off some biblical cliches today about having a slingshot in hand. It’s too nice of a day for that bunk. I am however going to make sure you know that Adrienne Levi kneels to no king.”
The feed cut abruptly. Totally not because Adrienne dropped her phone in the sand.
Post by Lab Rat King on Jun 27, 2020 12:08:20 GMT -5
“Trapped within the confines of his mind, he is too aware of every thought passing through it, as if he were outside, looking in. At night he often lies awake ruminating endlessly about what’s wrong with him, about death, and about the meaning of existence itself. At times his arms and legs feel like they don’t belong with his body. But most of the time, his mind feels like it is operating apart from the body that contains it.” ― Daphne Simeon
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of the leaking tap moves in one ear and out the other, the volume fluctuating in swells reminiscent of seafoam lapping at a quiet shore. The sand is displaced, shifted ever so slightly in his mind’s eye with each pass. His fingers twitch. The blood caked under his nails insulates him from grit that isn’t there. Or, from the itch burning just beneath his skin, the grain is already thickening his blood, and it scratches at him from the inside, rending his focus to shreds.
His fingers curl, the violet veins affected by a recent hypodermic intrusion risen against his pallid skin. The inside of his elbow is still ruddy red, insulted by blooms of deep, ink purple that are far from singular.
Get up.
He sits up in a sore heave, his spine cracking as it rolls up, tasting copper inside his lower lip and on his teeth as he looks around the perimeter of his holding cell with a glaze in his dark amber eyes. Despite the presence of a single bed in the cell, it looks as though he’s been asleep on the cold floor. His whole body burns, so he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d put himself there to escape the heat.
My skin is on fire… Feels like my forehead is gonna split open.
Something crackles; it’s the speaker positioned above the security camera in the uppermost corner. He looks to it without much thought, blinking slowly as if fighting through a haze.
“Good morning, King! So good to see you’re awake.”
The voice coming from the speaker is sickening sweet with a foul, bitter tang, like day-old coffee with too much sugar. The sweetness can’t quite cover the acid beneath and the sound makes his stomach twist like an animal in a snare. He stares at the bulbous lens of the camera, silent, fingertips twitching where they rest against smooth concrete.
“That’s it, there you go. That last one was a doozy, huh? Really threw you for a loop, even with that remarkable endurance of yours. Didn’t mean to put you out so much, but just think of the service you’re providing for the advancement of medical science! For the benefit of humanity! You’re practically a hero. Strong bodies like yours allow us to really test human limitations… though with those extra vertebrae you seem to have developed to support all that grotesque musculature, not sure we can call you human anymore, pal.”
He hears his own voice, raspy and sharp, as if screamed at him through an empty pipe. Somewhere else.
“RrrrghhHHH TASTE MY RAGE, COWARD! I’LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL AND SPIT IT BACK OUT.”
He feels himself lunge forward on his knees toward the camera. He feels his throat move and the resonance in his head, but the words don’t belong to him; his limbs don't belong to him. They haven’t for a long time. He doesn’t make it far, his burning body protesting the sudden motion with a searing ache through muscle. He stops with both hands curled on the floor, his blunt nails digging into his own palms as he shudders and drops his head.
Don’t give him ammunition.
The man on the speaker laughs.
“So aggressive! Tsk, tsk. Maybe that’s a side effect of the new growth-promoting serum. I’ll make a note with our researchers. Why don’t you get some shut-eye, sweetheart? After lunch we start again. You know how it goes; if you rest too much it kinda defeats the point. Ciao!”
The speaker crackles and goes dead. He isn’t listening anymore, anyway; he’s hunched over on the ground, his skull against the concrete with his buckling spine rounded, staring back behind himself under his arm at the scratches on the wall. Tick marks scored white into grey with fingernails to honour the meaningless passage of the days.
One, two. Three, four. Four hundred. Five hundred. Six, seven, eight hundred.
“NINE, TEN, OVER AGAIN!”
Could you shut up for once, Big Guy? I have a headache.
“YOU SHUT UP.” His scream reverberates in the confined space, making his ears ring. He snarls and recoils from it, backing into the wall.
I told you. You never listen to me.
He growls low at himself, wrapping both trembling arms over his head to shield himself from the harsh fluorescent light.
Only a little while to rest before it all begins again, and he has to greet pain like the old friend it’s become.
“All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive.” ― Yann Martel
The train whistle starts the mutant awake. His dark amber eyes snap open, a hot breath condensing against the inside of the mask over his mouth and nose; it doesn’t block the smell of hay and fresh air racing by as the freight rushes through fields of corn and soy, ruffling his overgrown wheat hair. Still, the presence of the mask makes him feel safer. Protected. The cold gnaws at his skin but he hardly seems to notice, caught up in the fading threads of the nightmare still clinging to his peripheral, flashes of previous confines haunting his present. His back aches.
What’s the point of a body, other than moving a head from one room to the next? And if you can’t control your body, is it really still yours?
He’s nestled now in the back of a freight train car, carrying crates of goods from one city to the next; traveling. He’s been doing a lot of that lately, despite having little memory of where he last was and even less idea of where he’s going. He only knows he can’t stop. Something is calling him East. The distant but oddly familiar roar of a crowd. The smell of dust and sweat. The sensation of impact against his fists; his body. Something from before he could remember.
And her. Maybe she’s there.
Whoever she is… but he has to get there to know.
He closes his eyes and tries to breathe; tries to remember. He can almost see a shape, see the colour of the midday sky, a flash of platinum over the sea. And he thinks of the moon…
All at once the fragment fades and he realizes he’s slamming his own head into the crate behind him, over and over.
“NO! NO! QUIET! PUSH IT DOWN! SMOTHER IT--QUIET--!”
Slam, Slam, Slam--
Stop--stop it, you fucking idiot! You’re going to hurt something--and then what? What’s the point of breaking out of hell if you’re going to kill us here?
He stops, dizzy, his head throbbing; the platinum moon is gone. The azure and cobalt of the sky fade from the forefront of his mind.
You always do this. Why won’t you let me remember? Why do you keep me in the dark like this?
There’s no answer--instead he just snarls, pulling his stolen parka around himself and nesting further back into the train car. He watches the fields pass by through narrow eyes, bloodshot, frustrated. Frightened. Wild. Angry.
He sits inside of himself as an unwilling passenger in his own skull, inside this prison of scarred and twisted flesh, watching. Listening. He gave up on trying to regain control long ago. The Big Guy won’t let him. It’s almost ironic; despite being free from that place, he still feels trapped.
I hope you know where you’re going. You can’t just run blind forever... and even when you get there, what are you gonna do?
No answer. He feels his throat tighten and then a low growl rolls from it, muffled into the mask and into his arms.
... I hate that I have to trust you. It’s not like I have any choice. You won’t give me back the wheel.
“Rrrrrmmmmgh quiet, little man. Lemme drive.”
It’s… softer than usual. For once, he doesn’t scream every word. His fingers twitch, bloody nails twisting in the dusty fabric of his coat. For a long moment… there’s a rare, but welcome silence.
... Hey, Big Guy… you trying to protect me?
No answer. The wind bats against the canvas draped over the crates, whipping haphazardly.
Can you at least tell me where we’re going?
A beat of quiet passes, but then he feels himself shuffle a bit where he’s sitting, relaxing his knees, hunched over his lap as he watches the fields streak by in shades of olive and white-gold.
“Hunh… heh. Can’t you hear the roar, little man?”
He chuckles, grinning, licking bloodied teeth behind his mask.
“Screams of joy and hate and bloodlust… the next cage calls. What a sweet siren song! The snapping mob around the tethers, baring their fangs and demanding the next scrap of meat to fall. Louder and louder! Smile for the sacrifice! Blood pounding in our ears!”
The next cage--? What do you--ah.
He stands, gripping the wall for support, laughing low and rasping. His hunched shoulders shake as he leans wild-eyed out the side of the train car, the wind whistling sharp around his head. His eyes are wide and wild, defiant of the cold sting of rushing air.
Is that all you want to do? Fight?
“YES! BREATHE IN THE MADNESS,” he howls, shaking with a sadistic mirth--it frightens the quiet part of him inside to silence.
“BELONG TO THE VIOLENCE! DRINK THE CHAOS! LIVE IN THE CARNAGE!”
“The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence... thrilled every fibre of my frame.” ― Edgar Allan Poe
Three screens buzz with static in a dark, cramped security room; the chair is empty, a half-finished coffee abandoned, a half-moon stain left on the log sheets strewn around the desk. There is only the white noise of a humming computer, the lazy fan on the ceiling pitching in silent circles above. The only light comes from a crack under the door, and from the monitors themselves, casting a washed-out glow through the small space that nurses hazy shadows.
The static on the screens stops abruptly as each display shows a different angle of a holding cell, where a looming, muzzled figure stands, staring up at the camera matching the middle screen. His massive body is bare except for fitted red shorts emblazoned with a glossy black, crowned rat head on the side, and black, calf-hugging boots with scarlet accents that reach his padded knees. His eyes are intense and unblinking, sunken in sullen shadow, bordering on bestial in their nature.
The angled cameras to the left and right tell stories that leave much up to the imagination. Something about the man doesn’t… look right. His shoulders are hunched, as if his spine is too long, a pronounced curve arousing suspicion of bones that weren’t always there. There’s hardly a scrap of fat on him to a point of concern, as if the intense musculature of his body simply devours it with a furnace-like metabolism just to keep itself going. Most disturbing of all, maybe, are the over-pronounced veins that look stark against his pale skin, running like streaks of lightning across alabaster; only to run through patches of dark, ruddy purple and russet, as though he is permanently bruised.
He hasn’t moved at all, except for the slow and steady swells of breath in his chest. And yet, even through the camera lenses, he gives the impression of a predator ready to strike at the first thing to stir his interest.
“Hungry,” the mutant growls at last; his mouth can’t be seen behind the black leather muzzle that covers the lower half of his face, but his deep, raspy voice isn’t obscured, and the focus in those eyes only seems to intensify.
Why do I get the feeling you aren’t talking about food?
“I’m hungry,” he repeats; louder, angrier. With a sudden wolf-like motion, he lunges at the camera--
--the screens go to static. They flash back on seconds later to show the holding room, where the muzzled beast is now slowly pacing, back and forth, left to right. His eyes are on the center camera again, unwavering. Wild. Voracious.
You can’t want any more blood. You already did too much getting out of that place.
“I had to tear them all down to get out,” he snarls, still pacing. Heavy footsteps. One. Two. Three. “I had to rend them apart. Head from tail! Too many rats in the cage. Too many vermin in the tunnel! And only the strongest could fight his merciless way to the top and drink the bloody nectar of DOMINATION.”
The last word is a sudden, harsh bark as he surges forward at the camera again--this time it doesn’t shut off, only suffering a shudder through the display. The center screen is filled top to bottom with the madman’s face, snarling, amber eyes alive with fire. The left and right cameras reveal a bristling profile; his pulse is almost visible in his neck, plum stark against ivory.
We got out. You don’t have to be here! You can stop fighting!
“But all I know how to do is FIGHT! A lab rat forever. I’m sssstarving! I want to drink it all--want to devour your will, and make your ssssssuffering body into the first rung on my ladder out of my prison! Out, out, OUT!”
Bang, Bang, Bang!
The cameras rattle with each slam of his fists against the concrete wall, and the displays go to static again. When they restore themselves, the beast is panting, inches from the center lens, his shoulders heaving as his wild eyes settle down and display a flicker of something more while his line of sight focuses. It’s only there for a moment before that flicker disappears and the screens go black again.
When the displays come back on, the mutant is sitting in the middle of the grey concrete room, his legs loosely bent and his spine curled forward; his heavy arms rest on his knees. He looks up at the camera with that same intense stare, slowly cocking his head as he draws in a deep breath and lets it out through a long, rattlesnake hiss.
“I smell a little bird. All feathers and brittle bones and beady darting eyes full of fear.”
He laughs, low and slow and husky, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His shoulders curl, thick with muscle and flush with traces of bruising.
Ok... Listen, lady. I don’t know you. If we have to do this, don’t get in my way. You’re not ready for this. Tell her she’s not ready for this.
“How does it feel to jump from the nest, catching the wind in your own tiny wings at last, straight into the drooling maws of the dogs? The hounds are howling for blood, little birdie… and you’re gonna make such a CRUNCHY little snack.”
… If you’re gonna steal my voice could you at least talk like a normal person? Not everyone speaks lunatic.
The lab rat growls and rubs his jaw with his palm, his hollow stare never moving from the camera. Those amber eyes dance with sadistic joy.
You’re a dick.
“Heh… You’re full of guts and gunning for glory!! I like it! But I’ve seen the way you shake. The energy vibrates behind your eyes. The way you trrrremble! Quivering fresh meat... Whets my appetite. All your twitching makes my teeth ache!”
The mutant rolls forward to his feet, slowly approaching the center camera, his head cocked slightly to the side like a curious dog. The blinking light on the device catches in his eyes, a pale flicker of red reflected in their glare.
“Where do you find your strength, little birdie girl? Tell me so I can drink it all up and leave you without hope. Pain is my BEST FRIEND, and I want you to meet her. But if you make me spend too much time with her, and pay her too much of my blood… who knows if she’ll turn on you next!”
I told you--you don’t have to protect me like this anymore...
The screens hiccup to static--when the image suddenly returns, the mutant’s forehead is almost against the lens, his glaring amber eyes filling most of the screen. His deep breath is audible, only muted slightly by the leather muzzle.
“Let’s dance! The three of us together--you, me, and Pain! I’d love to toss you around like a little doll and break your pretty wings. Your symphonic salty tears will be so delicious!”
Dude. Don’t.
The mutant laughs and reels back from the camera, spreading his arms wide. His eyes twitch and the unnatural muscle of his chest and shoulders is pulled taut, the bright light in the closed room illuminating the violet bruising under his pale skin.
… please.
“If your blood hasn’t curdled and gone sour, spoiled by the terror in your tiny twitterpated torso--then I want to taste that iron! I’m not just a lab rat, little birdie--I’m the Lab Rat KING! And I’ll show you why I wear this crooked crown. Try and knock it down if you can bear the gnashing teeth and the cruel, crushing cacophony of my rage.”
He lurches forward, laughing low in his throat, grabbing the camera with both hands.
“And if you can’t? Then I’ll SWALLOW YOU WHOLE!!”
Each camera goes dead as the lenses are crushed, one by one, by a heavy, bloody-knuckled fist.
