Post by Lab Rat King on Dec 3, 2020 1:03:21 GMT -5
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Zane King was afraid of the dark.
Not the dark that meant the absence of light, concealing colour and shape from prying eyes; no, that was too simple a thing. It was too literal. The dark was what he had started to call his fear long ago. It was a thick fear that chased him like an oncoming fog, forcing him forward, never looking back. He was so certain that if it ever caught up to him, it would consume him, and he would cease to know himself entirely.
Only the beast would remain.
Existing as a collection of half-memories and a personality inside the confines of his own head was… limiting, to say the least. Some mornings, when he woke up and his hands and feet still wouldn’t listen to him, he wondered if maybe he was some kind of delusion. Some kind of fantasy made up by the monster that occupied his skin and bones. Some days it was so hard to tell who came first. He wanted to believe it was him, of course; he wanted to believe he hadn’t always been this creature screaming for his next dose of violence.
There were people with him now who made it a little easier to hold onto that belief, now. But... there were places deep inside those people could never reach. There were tangles and knots buried so far down that not even Zane himself knew how to begin attending them.
The reason he’d never tried was the dark.
It was hard to explain to anyone who didn’t exist in his strange state of limbo. He’d tried, once, to explain the sensation to Silvio Leon; as the only other person he knew with a dark passenger, so to speak, he had hoped it might make sense to him.
“It’s like… alright, imagine you’re treading water. Deep, dark water.”
Zane drew in a breath, thinking, pressing fingertips against his temple.
“You always have to work to stay up… just to keep your head above the surface. So it’s a constant effort. At the same time, you know that deep down below you at the bottom of this pool, there are... answers. Secrets, things you’ve forgotten because the water is so dark and deep that you can’t see then anymore, even if you remember losing them. Only... there are other things in the dark. Horrible things. And sometimes you’re not sure if you’re treading water or blood… if the claws scratching your legs are nightmares or worse. You just fight to stay up.”
He paused and swallowed a tightness in his throat before continuing.
“And then sometimes, you get scared. You’re so tired already, and then something happens to you that just paralyzes you with a fear you didn’t know you could feel, and you sink under. Everything goes black… and when you struggle back out of the dark, you see what took your place on the surface. Those things in the water aren’t after you. They’re part of you. You realize nothing out there can hurt you because in your weakest moments, they take your place and destroy the thing that scared you. Then you realize that if you ever let go--if you stop swimming, make that deep dive looking for your answers--those creatures can’t save you from the nightmares at the bottom. You might just drown inside yourself and leave behind what the rest of the world sees… just a spiteful, frightened, furious, broken monster.
“So now you know the truth is inside somewhere; down in that deep, dark, cold place, you still remember. Maybe you can recover something. A name or a face. A span of time… and the monster makes you unstoppable, clearing your path ahead while you’re under. But if there’s a chance you’ll never be able to get back out… if the real nightmares could drown you and snuff out the last of your self-awareness…
“... What would be worth that risk?”
Zane’s own words from that conversation swam in his head, joining him in treading water as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He hadn’t actually… looked at himself in a long while. If he was being honest with himself, he did tend to avoid doing so, never fond of a reminder of what state he was in. Now he stared at himself with his muzzle discarded next to the sink, his face bared for the glass. His bloodshot eyes were sunken in pits of deep violet and blue, deprived of sleep and heavily shadowed; his pallid skin looked as though it were stained with similar colours just under the surface. He could see the lightning strikes of his veins against his neck and shoulders. His full lips were dry and cracked, a scar on his upper lip pulling his resting expression ever so slightly toward a snarl.
It was a marvel that he could look like a frightening beast and a dying animal all at once. But it was so.
No wonder most people avoided him.
Still… a face was just a face. The old saying went that one should never judge a book by its cover, even though most people did. Where else would one find a first impression? It was supposed to be the content of one’s character, though, that really mattered.
The problem was that Zane didn’t really know what the contents of his character were… or what they used to be.
Was the person under this weathered face even worthy of consideration when it came to thinking about taking that risk? Even if some people he’d grown to know here might miss the man lost inside… did they really know who it was they would miss?
What if he’d always been a monster?
What if he existed like this because he deserved it?
Well… he would never know for sure until he found his answers. He was beginning to realize that the only way he could get those answers--the only way he could find out who she was--would be to get his hands on that title belt.
Some things were starting to line up in his head. Zane stared at his own eyes in the mirror as he mulled it over. He knew a few things now… he knew that he had history in the ring. There was an instinct, a muscle memory in him that he felt between the ropes. He knew he was looking for someone--a girl, a woman, who was important to his past self. He knew there was some kind of connection between her and the ring. That was why his violent alter-ego had brought him to a place like Carnage.
She would have eyes on places like this--smaller circuits, indies. All he had to do was get all the eyes of the Legion on him… and hers would certainly follow.
And he would fly under the watchtower of the people he’d escaped from at the same time. Just enough light to show himself to her, and just enough shadow to hide from the dogs.
The challenge was getting that belt. There would be a war for it… and he knew he was up against the most violent challengers in the arena. Kyra, the Ultraviolent Goddess, the long-time champion… and Mitch, his friend, who knew him like a bloodied reflection. The chemistry they shared as a pair would work against him now in the upcoming match.
He couldn’t finish The Broken the last time they met on opposite sides; the match had ended in a draw when they had beaten each other unconscious in that cage. If he wanted to get that strap, it couldn’t go that way again. He was going to need to find something in himself that was… stronger. Angrier. More willing to do anything to secure that victory.
He needed the monster that had survived the place that had done this to him. The force of will that had fought tooth, nail and bloody knuckles to carry him out of the jaws of death.
He needed to find the Lab Rat King… and he needed to unchain him. Fully.
The mutant looked away from the mirror; from here he could see the back of Silvio’s head where he was sitting in the living room, a book open on his lap, headphones on. Being near Silvio meant that he was in full control of his own facilities; it made the Big Guy disappear for a while. He was grateful--really-- for the space to breathe, even if it wasn’t something Silvio did consciously.
But for this fight? He couldn’t let Silvio’s eyes meet his own. He couldn’t let the monster be silenced. This time he would have to embrace it.
If he wanted to win--if he wanted to reach out and grab what might be his last chance to find himself--Zane would need to face the dark.
He would need to let go.
He knew immediately that Silvio would protest if he knew. It was too risky; there was too great of a chance that he would sink to the bottom of himself and never come back. He knew that if Silvio was aware of the state of his health, too… he might even try to talk him out of the match entirely. He couldn’t let it come to that. He couldn’t put Silvio in that position of concern for someone he barely knew, nor could he afford to stop now when he was so close.
Hell… he wasn’t even sure how much time he had left before his twisted body just quit on him. If he hesitated, he might lose the window of opportunity altogether.
In that moment, he made his decision.
That night--the night before Ultimate Carnage-- he left a note on the kitchen table for Silvio, handwritten in a little black book full of half-finished poetry. The notebook was left open on top of the heavily dog-eared copy of The Moon and the Space Traveler, the corners of the novel worn from the constant touch of rough fingertips.
Silvio,
First, thank you for giving me a safe place to stay these past few months. I can’t express how grateful I am and I hope I haven’t been too much of a burden to have around, considering my condition. You’re an immeasurably kind person and I have a feeling that kindness is going to wrap back around to you someday soon.
I’m going to take a risk tonight. I’m gonna let the Big Guy take over… all the way. I’m gonna let go of the reins and let him run wild. It’s the only way I’m gonna be strong enough to take that belt from Kyra and beat Mitch to the punch at the same time. Remember what I told you, about the deep water? It’s time for me to dive. If I’m holding him back, he can’t be what he was made to be… and I think I need to accept that this monster is part of me.
I don’t know if I’m going to be able to come back from what I’m about to do. Honestly, I might be running out of time, I don’t know. It might be the end of me, in a sense, so I wanted to write this out just in case I don’t get to talk to you again. Please don’t try to find me at the arena tomorrow until after the UV match. I need to do this now for my own sake, and I hope you understand.
If all goes well, I might know a little more about myself when I come back… and I might have the beacon in my hands that will let her find me.
If not… tell Mitch I’m rooting for him. Tell Adrienne to be kind to herself as much as she is to others. And… you be good. I know you will be.
Thank you. See you on the other side.
- ZK
The truth is, no one is afraid of the dark...
The music was so loud that it shook the whole car. They screamed along at the top of their lungs, throwing up the horns out the windows just to feel the rush--
--like fire under his skin. He’d never felt worse in his life. It was like a fever that came on in seconds, making him sweat through his shirt, and he could swear his forearm was burning the--
“--winner of this match,” boomed the voice on mic, “And STILL--”
“--think it’s the best thing I’ve ever read.” He swallowed his nerves, offering the book forward. “Sorry, I don’t mean to take up so much of your time. It would mean a lot to me if you’d sign--”
--that maybe he was in over his head. He was trapped. He knew exactly where the doors were, but he couldn’t leave. His heart started to hammer inside his ribs like a frightened animal, and for the first time in his life he felt small, helpless--
--when it came to giving her anything she wanted. He’d gained a reputation for this in the locker room--the Monster King had been tamed at last. He didn’t really care, laughing it off. He’d write a thousand more poems if it meant she’d smile--
“--for the camera, patient Z.” His guts squirmed with nausea, his vision swimming. It doubled, quadrupled the smirk on the man who had his jaw in a vice grip. “You need to stay awake for the entire test or it doesn’t count for shit, understand? Come on, big guy. I think you can get it through that thick skull--”
--against the floor, as his insides violently tried to reject their own contents. He screamed and tried to arch further but his spine didn’t have anywhere else to go. He felt like someone was driving spikes in between his vertebrae, the pain making him throw up in sticky spatters of blackened blood and bile. The empty night offered no comfort. If he died in here he was going to die alone, with the rats, and he’d never see her again--
--climbed to his feet, trembling. The unnatural musculature of his body trembled with effort, and he wiped the blood from his face with wild, bloodshot eyes. In the dark he could hear the other beast breathing, but barely. It was wet and struggling. He heard his own voice boil out of his throat, not of his own accord.
“I’M NOT DONE YET RRRRROSE--YOU CAN’T TAKE THE KING’S BROKEN CROWN!!”
...they’re afraid of what the dark is hiding.
The brisk December wind rushed across a field of overgrown grass somewhere north of Baltimore proper; the tallest lengths of unkempt weeds brushed the bottom of an old sign, weather-worn and uncared for. Surely in only a few weeks time the field would be blanketed by snow, but for now the sign stood unmarred by clinging powder, welcoming none with a warm greeting.
WELCOME TO ROSEWOOD CENTER
Providing dedicated service since 1888
Construction vehicles abandoned over the weekend stood as silent sentinels around the remaining building--the only one not slated for demolition. While the property has been locked up, it clearly wasn’t enough to deter a particularly tenacious rat; one of the window panes now laid in a scatter of broken glass to the side of the structure, cold air rushing inside.
The Legion saw him standing in the middle of a room filled with debris; the walls were falling apart and parts of the ceiling had collapsed. There were old tables and chairs coated in a thick film of dust, including an overturned wheelchair and moth-eaten clothing strewn about. Perhaps the most unsettling things were the remains of red streamers and plastic candles, and an empty tree stand, left behind from a cold Christmas celebrated among the mistreated mentally unsound that had once occupied this building.
Below the mutant’s feet, there were letters dragged out through the debris by boots in the dirt. The word ‘ROSE’ was smeared in mud against the filthy concrete floor.
When he turned to meet the gaze of the Legion… it became clear there was something wrong with Zane King.
The mutant’s eyes were so bloodshot that the whites were nearly red; he had the appearance of a starving predatory animal, granted emphasis by the way he held his body in a tight coil. He looked as though he were ready to attack anything that moved. Bare from the waist up, his bruised body moved with each shuddering breath, raspy and tense and muffled by the leather muzzle strapped firmly to his face.
“There’s blood in the air,” he growled; the impression of something deeper going on behind those eyes was gone. They were glassy and bestial with unbridled rage. “Can’t you smell it? Blood in the water. Blood in the mud! The time for true violence is drawing near--the time to crown the most ruthless monster of them all!”
He stalked forward, his body caught in a subtle tremble. He moved like a hungry wolf with hackles raised.
“Such a delicious day… what joy, what agony. At LAST the most vicious and voracious of us will join our voices and sing our symphonies in the sanguineous circle! I’ve grown so WEARY or wearing my teeth down on the bones of the weak. That lovely leather and precious platinum must be set in my jaws next… it’s a call for the most towering of terrors to come for me. AT LAST A TRUE TEST. AT LAST A RRRRRREAL FIGHT. I’M ALL OUT OF PATIENCE AND I NEED THE BEST BITE!!”
The coil of his body suddenly snapped. The Lab Rat screamed and balled his fists together, putting them clean through the center of a nearby table which gives out like plywood under the force of the blow. He hoisted a heavy wooden chair over his head and smashed it into the wall, causing the nearby window to shatter from the force with a shower of drywall and tile. Standing in the center of the room, growling and hunched like an incensed bear, he looked again to the Legion with a cock of his head, his chest heaving.
“Hhhhhheart Pounder…! Such eloquence I’ve never known But in the blows your fists have thrown. A furious friend to call my own! Sensation I’ve not ever known. Each strike to my ribcage your song sending, Takes me closer to my ending, But what’s been broken you’ve been mending! You speak my language like no other, A barbed and wiry violent brother. A harmonic, manic, synchronous lover. But now the time has come again For you and I to face each other, Blood and guts and gore; I shiver! Your frozen blue stare makes me quiver.
"Don’t let our shared souls hold you back; I want it all! But know this, Broken Heart's call-- --Though for you I will buckle, I will. Not. Fall.”
He laughed, motioning to his chest, where he crossed his heart with a streak of ash.
“Goddess… What a terrible trail you’ve ripped and torn; Your claws for war and battle born. Whatever you touch becomes your weapon… Your brutality carved from heaven! It doesn’t matter-- A blade, a chain, a bar-- Even a heart becomes a means to break and splatter. You make red rain! The storm of your wrath brings endless pain. You know your power like you know your name… You step on the unworthy with delicious disdain. The foolish men who misuse your might Become the victims of your spite--tear the lace, your fury is right! Your war is yours, but still you guard the little one at night. Those who fail to heed your warning, will less a limb the coming morning.
“At last, at LAST, you and I will sing together in the bloody ring; how I’ve ached to tear you down, so I can take your shining crown.”
The Lab Rat stood up straight with his back to a dilapidated wall. It was then that the Legion saw it; a crown, painted in red, level with his head like a bloody halo. The wild-eyed monster chuckled, pulling his muzzle down to reveal a grin full of stained teeth--the same carnivorous bite that had left a mark in the Ultraviolent strap.
“I am the LAB RAT KING. I have been UNCAGED AT LAST. The beast you’ll meet during this rapturous festival of fury will be familiar but so much worse, little morsels. You have never met me at my WORST. You have never known what merciless motivations I’ve had--what torment I have endured and cast back at the walls of thorns trying to squeeze the life out of me! Inhibition is dead! The fight side of flight, personified! I’m free to ravage and rip and tear! I will take the crown that’s been MINE SINCE THE LONG-GONE BEGINNING--as you should’ve KNOWN when you watched me crush your city’s delicate dove on the doorstep. But I hope you don’t back down, Goddess of Gore. Heart Pounder. I hope you bring destruction and decimation on your sinuous wings. I came here looking for a FIGHT.”
His voice was low and rough in the dim, collapsing room. A droplet of viscous, dark blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“You had better give me one.”
She’d invented ‘turbo coffee,’ when she’d had to write an entire novel over the course of one week.
First, you made a pot of regular coffee. Then, you used that coffee as the, ‘water,’ to brew another pot of coffee. Three cups in and you would be able to hear colors and move objects under two pounds with the sheer force of caffeine-fueled hatred for editors the world over.
That second one may have been a hallucination, but the point was, when she needed rocket fuel, she knew how to make it. She was on a timeline. The advance her publisher had given her to write a sequel to, ‘The Moon and the Space Traveler,’ was almost gone. She spent it on PIs at first, but when they proved ineffectual, the author decided to take matters into her own hands.
The mistake the bastards had made when they told her he was dead was reporting he’d been with another woman. A car crash she could believe; wrestlers did reckless shit all the time, and he was no exception. But the only reckless thing he would never indulge in was cheating. Firstly, because she had made explicit that she would murder him, and he knew she was willing, able, and creative. Secondly, because as far as her husband was concerned, there were two women in the world - her, and everyone else.
The body they’d pulled from the twisted wreckage was unrecognizable; said they’d had to identify him with dental records.
She didn’t believe them.
She collected the death certificate not believing them. She went to the funeral not believing them. She accepted the condolences not believing them.
She searched 18 months not believing them.
Turbo coffee in hand, she collapsed into the chair in front of her computer desk, its surface covered in papers and dirty dishes. Scrolling through her news feed on autopilot, she was beginning to feel the icy fingers of doubt crawl up her spine again when she saw the poster. She’d scoured various promotions across the country on the off chance he’d ended up in one. It was what he knew; what he lived for. If he was able, he’d be in the ring.
And there he was.
It had to be him.
He wore a muzzle and something had...happened...to his body, but there he was.
Breath hitching, heart skipping, vision blurring at the edges, she grabbed a pencil and notepad with shaking hands.
Baltimore, Maryland.
Carnage Wrestling.
Finally.
[Thank you to Silvio Leon's handler for the extra CD collab at the end cap here! Good luck to both my opponents!]
“Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.”
-Jean Shepherd, ‘A Christmas Story’
He was gone in the dark. Before Mitch was even a person in the technical sense, he was gone, never to be placed with a name or face. First because she didn’t like talking about him, and later because she couldn’t remember, holes in her memory drilled like Swiss cheese. Traded for momentary bliss.
He was like a mirage. An afterimage. No, more than that. He was like a tornado. Something that dissipated into the air and out of existence but not after leaving behind consequences. In her, he had left Mitch. In Mitch, he had left a hole- a cold, gaping thing that nothing fit inside. No good or evil deed, no possession, no victory would sate that hungry abyss, the emptiness he was born with that left him bereft of half of who he was, of roots he could trace back to a source.
Nothing had filled that hole until a black-feathered bird had nested inside of it. Not everything had been filled in, but enough had. A strong touchstone. Someone who made him feel cared for in a way he couldn’t explain, a way different from his other friends. In that group of four (plus one giant rat king) Mitch was happy, truly, more than he’d ever been. He felt as if he could finally breathe.
And then, at the zenith of his joy and fulfillment, that raven flew away without warning, leaving nothing behind but flimsy excuses, a whirlwind of rage and hurt, and a void just as cold and hungry as ever.
This is what you get. You should have known better.
“Mitch?”
The voice was small, even smaller than it normally was and definitely more meek. It seemed to bounce right off of Mitch Heart’s temple, not so much going in one ear and out the other as it was never getting into his ear in the first place. The man was like a statue- his muscles taut and tense, hands iron-gripped at ten-and-two, eyes on the road ahead with such hard focus that they may have been glass eyes set in a mannequin. The only movements that gave him away were the occasional tic of his jaw, flare of his nostrils, and slight turn of his arms.
The scenery flew by. The car was driving very fast, almost too fast. Pen wanted to say something but nothing seemed to reach her brother at all. She was frightened- not just at the extreme speed at which they were travelling, but how fast that Mitch’s mood had soured, seemingly for no reason. It was if a switch flipped- one second, he had been happy and excited, and then he’d started texting someone- least, that’s what it looked like he was doing- and out of nowhere, he’d gone stone cold. It was if whatever had been said to him had sucked not just the joy out, but everything else as well.
The girl looked over from the passenger seat. She lifted a hand up, wanting to touch him, but she thought better of it. Instead, she kept her eyes on his tense profile, trying to figure out what on earth could be going on his mind.
you fucking left how could you fucking leave get the fuck out of here with the ‘im not leaving you’ bullshit you are you fucking are don’t you dare say you love me you don’t fucking love me i told you everything you wouldn’t have left knowing that if you loved me this is the biggest fucking moment of my entire fucking career and you were supposed to be there for me YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THERE FOR ME FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
beep beep beep~
The sharp, digital tone sounding from Pen’s watch (a cheap but cute LCD with a transparent light blue band spotted with penguins and ice cubes) seemed to snap Mitch out of it. He blinked, his foot lifting slightly from the gas pedal, inhaling deeply and exhaling through his nose.
“That time, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, should be a rest area coming up soon.”
Mitch kept driving at a more sensible pace, but he still kept quiet. Pen sighed, her mouth screwing in and out of various thoughtful expressions.
“Can I see everybody?”
“Course. That’s why you wanted to come with, yeah? We’ll see if we can eke out some time for you to see Sil and Ade, and you can come to the arena with me again if you like. … I’m still gonna warn you though. Lot of ugly stuff gonna happen at this show. You’re probably not gonna like it and my match is going to be especially brutal. Worse than last time by a lot.”
“It’s okay. I don’t think I’m scared anymore. You’re gonna be okay. You’re super tough. I know you’re gonna win.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Are we gonna have time to see Uncle Matt too?”
The car swerved to the side into the rest area exit lane, prompting an angry honk from the other car he’d cut in front of. His jaw twitched again, temple throbbing.
“...he’s not gonna be here. He had shit come up.”
Pen sighed, watching out the windshield as Mitch parked the car, expression gone stony again.
“Did… you and Uncle Matt have a fight? Is that why you’re being so weird?”
“Go test, squirt.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Pen. Go.”
His tone was sharp- one he rarely took with her but was the universal child-guardian tone of ‘I'm sick of arguing and/or playing around, you better listen because you’re dangerously close to something you’re not going to like’.
She went.
“Ask and ye shall receive.”
Mitch Heart was standing at the side of I-70, just far enough to keep clear of traffic but still close enough that the occasional pass of some painted metal blur was enough to stir his short hair and red and white striped scarf. The colder weather had prompted him to swap out his ubiquitous sleeveless hoodie to one that actually covered his arms, the scarf hung loose and unknotted. The sky was a darkening grey, the road damp from an unrelenting drizzle. The general mood was ominous, the proximity to the rushing traffic showing a shocking disregard for personal safety.
A red sports car whizzed by almost an arms’ length away. Mitch didn’t so much as flinch.
“I know you wanted this, Kyra. Elevation. A spotlight. For the Ultraviolent Championship to take center stage and get equal prestige as the World Championship. You wanted it. I wanted it. I asked for it on our behalf, not expecting anyone to listen, but what do you fucking know. Here we are, the belles of the ball, and me without a tuxedo.”
He held his arms out in an exaggerated gesture, the side mirror of another vehicle nearly snapping against his fingers.
“Look at you. Eight months. Eight months of holding the most hardcore belt in the whole fucking place against all comers, the baddest that this two-bit operation out of Baltimore could throw at you. Shit, when I first came here and knocked the crap out of Anthony Leonhart, you’d been champion for two months. In my entire stint in this company, you have been standing at the top, and I’m gonna be honest with you here, Kyra. The second I laid eyes on you, I fell in love.”
He paused, glancing down the road a moment before snapping his sharp gaze back to the camera.
“Not with you, don’t get the wrong idea. I fell in love with that belt around your waist. From the second I stepped through the doors I’ve had that red-leather beauty on my mind. I knew that one day it was going to be mine and it was only a matter of time. That time, Kyra, is now. I’ve never lost a singles match in my entire time here. Shit, the only time I’ve lost at all was when I admittedly wasn’t trying.”
Giving a light, dry, humorless chuckle, Mitch shook his head. The rain was starting to come down a little harder, the sky turning a little darker.
“But you know all that. What you don’t know, though, is that all of these wins, everything I’ve learned? They’ve served to temper me into the version of myself that can beat you. That’s why a hobo-looking fucker like me, who neither your former asshole boyfriend or your current asshole boyfriend respects, had the gall to challenge you out of nowhere.”
He was caught in passing headlights, illuminated dimly and then in a blinding flash before being cast into wet dimness again. The camera could just make out his shape, the light casting his face into sharp-cut relief.
“The thing is, Kyra, I respect you very much. I liked working with you. You’re rough, but you’re honest. You’re brash, but you have principles. You’re bringing up a kid on your own terms, and I’m willing to bet that as much as your motives say you want to elevate this championship? You go in week in and week out determined to keep hold of that strap so you can better provide for your own. I get that. Every bit of it. In a way, you’re a mirror of part of me- believe it or not, the better part.”
He gave that laugh again. It was considerably sharper.
“But you’re not the only one in this match with me, are you? I’m not your only challenger, am I? No. There’s a third guy in here with us. And he? He’s the mirror of the other part of me.”
Mitch turned to the side slightly, lowering his head. The way the camera light and passing bursts of illumination from the highway traffic hit his face fell differently now, making the Broken appear more threatening.
“Don’t think I forgot about you, brother. How could I? You’ve been right beside me this whole time. From the moment you threw Jon WIllis into me, we’ve been intertwined like strands in a rope, at the same time holding each other up and throwing each other down. Out of everyone here, you’re probably the one that understands the worst of me the best. The bloodthirsty, self-destructive part that would run into a burning building just to feel the heat. You love this shit as much as I do. You want to be the best so you can fight the best. And, shit, in your mind you think that belt is already yours, least if your teeth marks in it have anything to say about it.”
He flicked his head back and forth, neck cracking. Another flash of passing headlights illuminated his eyes like a nocturnal predator’s.
“And like me, you’ve got a flawless singles record. Well, almost. Every single singles match we’ve had, we’ve won… except one. One single bloody, vicious, homicidal, suicidal… draw. The one thing marring my record is you. The one thing marring your record is me. Ain’t that just poetic as shit?”
Mitch gave a sharp laugh. Again, there was no trace of warmth or mirth in it whatsoever.
“Eh, but time’s funny. I remember my first impression of you- I couldn’t fucking stand you. I thought you were disrespecting me, and as a newcomer I couldn't let that shit stand. But you…”
He shook his head.
“...everybody knows about you and me, King. A pair of wild animals. Bloodlusty maniacs tearing people apart and getting torn apart for the thrill of it. Someone who knows me in a way nobody else can. And ordinarily, if this is what you wanted more than anything else? I’d support you. But I can’t, brother. Not this time. Because no matter how hard you want to win this title, no matter what extremes you’ll go through to get it? I promise you that I’ll take everything you’ve got and give it back tenfold. Nothing you do to me will put me down. I’ll stand on broken legs, I’ll punch with broken knuckles, I’ll leave every drop of blood in me on the canvas, because however much that belt means to you? It can’t possibly mean as much as it does to me.”
He rolled his shoulders. The fabric of his hoodie was soaked, the rain dripping off of his hair and scruffy, short beard. His mouth turned up at one corner, a cold smirk.
“But I’m not worried. Neither of you can beat me. As for why not? I’ve already said, but I’ll go over it one more time in case you missed it. Kyra- whether or not you believe it, you’re pretty fucking noble in your own way. You fight to make this whole division better, more elevated, and most importantly, you’re bringing home the bacon to someone more important than yourself. King, you want to spill blood by the gallons. You want nothing more than to prove that you’re the baddest, best, and most violent fighter in this whole place. You want to revel in the murder, find ecstasy in the agony. But me?”
Heh.
“I’m all of that. The best of both worlds. The will of a champion and the bloodlust of a monster. I have someone I want to make a better life for. The champion’s purse will make her that better life that she deserves and I will break and bleed and kill and die for that. For myself, I want to feel that thrill of combat. A champion is always hunted and I want that so badly. I want them all to come for me and I want to make them all fall. I have come too far and worked too hard and have too much on the line, both personally and professionally, to settle for anything less.”
Breathe in, breathe out. A plume of steam escaped into the chilly air. Mitch looked up to the sky, the raindrops running down the contours of his face.
“I guess I don’t have much more to say. I know what you’re both capable of. You know what I’m capable of. I don’t think a one of us has any qualms performing to the very height of our abilities- and all that entails.”
His gaze turned back to the camera, straight on.
“You both know that I won’t die. I won’t stay down. I’ll hurt you. But Kyra? King? If you think I’m a force to be reckoned with now?”
His mouth split open. It was hard to tell if the expression was a grimace or a horrible, vicious approximation of a smile.
“You should see me in a crown.”
Mitch’s hands reached up, grabbing the sides of his sopping hood and pulling it up over his head before turning on his heel. The back of his hoodie bore an image that practically glowed in the dark- a spattered image of a blood red crown.
It was the only image that remained as the rest of the picture faded to black.
“Where were you? You said you were only gonna be gone for a minute. … Holy cripes, you’re soaked. Were you standing out in the rain?”
Mitch sighed sheepishly, wiping at his wet face with a wet hand.
“Yeah. Had a thing I needed to do. For the show.”
“Well, dry off. Put your hoodie in the backseat, and I think there’s a beach towel in the pool bag. I don’t want you getting a cold before your big match.”
Almost in spite of himself, Mitch chuckled, looking across fondly at his sister. Her face was comically stern, skinny arms folded. A fresh band-aid was plastered on one of them.
“Okay, okay. Gosh, Miss Penelope Heart, where would I be if you weren’t looking after me?”
She grinned back.
“Dead in a ditch. … That was a joke please don’t die in a ditch.”
“Not on purpose.”
Grabbing the towel, he mopped his face and hair off. His skin was covered in goosebumps, slowly smoothing out as the rental car’s heater warmed him. The pit inside was still a frigid abyss, but it bit a little less as he looked at Pen.
Glancing down at his phone, he read over the last PM he’d been sent one last time.
I know you probably dont believe it or want to hear it, but I love you Mitch.
He closed the Messages tab, stuck his phone in his pocket, and turned the ignition. The car pulled back out onto I-70, speeding past the green sign
Baltimore 10 mi.
and toward his destiny through the curtain of rain.