Post by cavanagh on Sept 25, 2013 22:28:11 GMT -5
December 7th, 2008
10:32 A.M.
It had all fallen apart.
Every delicate machination had simply…collapsed. All his hard work had gone for naught. The Championship he earned…stolen from him. Ripped out of his hands in mere moments. All because of some fool boy’s weakness.
It disgusted him.
He hadn’t intended to break the boy. Not at first. But he’d gotten arrogant. He’d been foolish…tried to put on a show, and shown him up in the process.
He couldn’t allow that to stand. And with one simple twist, he’d ended it.
In the wake of the incident, he’d been stripped. Threatened with lawsuits. With arrest. But in the end, all that had come was red tape. He was summarily fired. Blackballed. Excessive brutality, they called it.
Unsafe to work with.
Like all the times it had happened before, he simply went home, and waited. There would be another call. Some other company would take a flier on him. Would need a man of his…talents. All he had to do was wait.
But the call never came.
Days went by, and the call never came. After all the times they’d talked about it, threatened him with it, they had finally come through. They’d blackballed him at last, and left him with no options…save for one. His old trainer…Boris Mirianov. The man who had made him what he was. Who he was. It had been years since he had seen him. They had parted ways when his training was completed, and the old man had washed his hands of him entirely. He had moved on to greater pastures. But now…
Now he would have to go crawling back.
Within hours of making the call, he was deep in the Canadian wilderness, trekking far into the mountains to the cabin he knew all too well. The deal they had made was simple. He would come back and help him cull new recruits, test them, see if they were ready for the rigors of the training…and in return, the old man would pull some strings. Find something for him. Something more…fitting of his talents.
It was all just a matter of time.
December 19th, 2008
6:45 A.M.
They were weak.
He could see it in their eyes, and in their every movement. He could hear it in their ragged breathing, and their nervous, furtive grunts as they moved from task to task. He could smell it on them.
They were weak, and they were afraid.
Even if it weren’t so obvious, he would have known. He would have known from a time not so long ago…he would have known from a man he used to be. He could still taste that man’s fear, his sorrow, his fiery passions and his petty hatred. It was a cold, ashen thing, a fleeting memory of something gone, but not quite yet forgotten. Every look at the pair before him was a reminder of the thing he used to be…and it disgusted him. He found them contemptible in spite of himself, regardless of how far beneath him such things had fallen. He wanted to hate them, to reach out and crush them for the pathetic things they were. He wanted to break them and leave them in the woods to die, like the lame, ponderous things they were.
But that was not his way.
Not anymore.
Instead, he stood and watched implacably as the old man put them through their paces in his usual, brutish fashion. The thin, blonde one almost collapsed once, then sat there on his ass, complaining loudly. The old man said nary a word, he merely walked over and cuffed the man behind the ear…and then drove them even harder. He could see the blonde boy screaming on the inside, but the other, larger one merely steeled himself, and tried to press on. It would have been almost impressive, had he not known his resolve was borne not out of determination, but fear.
The exercise bled on for what seemed an eternity, the pace unforgiving, the effort demanded unrelenting. The blond boy fell twice more, but said nothing, his first rebuke seeming to have had the desired effect. Then, finally, the moment came. The old man called a halt. Five minutes rest, he said. Then, meet me in the barn, ready to work. Something deep in him almost smiled when he heard those words. Instead, he cast a steely glare on the pair before him before turning to follow the old man up to the barn.
He heard them behind him, coughing and retching, shaking his head at the sound. Soon, they’d know the worst of it was yet to come.
Soon, they’d learn what real ‘work’ was.
December 19th, 2008
6:58 A.M.
He was going to die.
The blond boy was barely that anymore, his mane now stained red with his own blood. His face was a ruin, the right eye ugly, purple, and swollen shut, his mouth a red ruin slavering with spit and blood. He could barely stand, let alone fight. The larger one had been shouting words of encouragement to him in the beginning, but eventually even that had died when he’d realized the hopelessness of the cause. The boy had come at him, all fire and brimstone, itching to tie up…and had been met with a crushing forearm across the bridge of his nose for his capriciousness. The cartilage shattered with ease, and blood shot from the wound as the boy let loose a startled scream and crumpled to his knees.
It only got worse from there.
Everything the boy tried, he countered with brutally calculated ease. He battered him with forearms and knees, and wrenched his limbs without mercy. His face was a bloodied, mangled mess, and every time he fought his way back up, every single time he stumbled upright…he was sent crashing back down again in short order.
And then, the opening came.
The boy staggered to his feet, punch-drunk, his one working eye blinking wildly. He squared him up as he stumbled around, trying to find his bearings…braced for whatever the broken lad would try next. Suddenly, that single blue eye snapped open, glassy and dilated, and the boy charged wildly, a strangled scream coming from the bloodied mass where his mouth used to be. He lunged, swung…
…and was caught.
All it took from there was a single, vicious twist. The bones snapped, and the screaming turned to a gurgling, bubbling mess. The boy’s broken body crumpled to the mat without so much as a twitch, the blood and spittle trickling from his mouth as he let out a pained moan.
And then it all spiraled out of control.
The larger one slid into the ring with an outraged cry, running to the broken mess that used to be his blond companion. He checked the boy’s pulse, being careful not to move him as he lay there groaning, murmuring worthless platitudes all the while. You’re going to be ok, he told him. We’ll get you some help. And then his fury was on him, the lout lurching to his feet and charging clumsily at him, his senses clearly dulled by his rage. He caught the oaf with a sharp knee, then quickly snapped his arm into an iron grip, locking the limb in place and forcing the man to his knees with a cry of pain. Slowly but surely, the old man climbed the steps and made his way through the ropes, regarding the broken boy with no more than a shake of his head before he arrived at where he held the struggling lout subdued. Let me go, the lout said, his voice rich with anger, frustration, and pain. This isn’t what we signed on for. He needs help, just let me take him and go. The old man eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment, pressing the point of his cane into the lout’s chest before crouching to be at eye level with him. Let you go, he said. That is what you are telling me. The lout nodded a pained affirmation, and went to say something else, only to have the old man silence him with an upraised palm. This is a problem, he said. You see, you are weak. Not as weak as your friend, but weak. I cannot trust a weak man. Weak men do foolish things. Ignorant things. Weak men will say the wrong things. And we cannot have that, can we, Victor?
The old man gave him a glance, and he nodded in silent reply, wrenching the joint of the lout’s arm even harder. He cried out, blubbering as he did so, begging and pleading to be let go. He wouldn’t say anything. No one would know he was here. He promised. The old man silenced him with a rough hand over the mouth, shaking his head gently. You promise many things, he said. Can you be trusted to keep these promises? The words came flat as slate, with a thin veil of menace behind them. The lout nodded eagerly, desperate to escape the Hell he was now assuredly living. The old man rose once more, casting another glance at the broken blond ruin of a boy before turning his narrowing eyes back to the lout, drawing in a deep, heavy breath. You are a liar, he said, his voice gruff. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on you. You are a liar. You will betray my trust. This, I know.
The lout started to protest, started to beg, but the old man silenced him with a single swipe of his cane. I will brook no argument in this, he snarled. You will take what is left of your friend, and you will go. But first...I will ensure that you keep your word. The old man’s eyes snapped up to him expectantly. Victor…if you will.
A grim smile crossed his lips as he nodded.
And then…the lout screamed.
December 19th, 2008
8:32 P.M.
All was quiet as he stepped into the old man’s study. He sat hunched over the desk, brow knitted in concentration, muttering softly to himself. Suddenly, he halted, swiveling in his chair, cold eyes locking on his in a heartbeat. Is it done, He said. Yes. The old man nodded silently, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Good. You are dismissed.
The chair swiveled back around, the old man returning to his ruminations. He stood for another beat, silently, preparing the words. It was time for him to go, he said. He wasn’t made for this work….trying to shape diamonds from coal. He was something more. Something better. There had to be another way. Another place he could go.
The old man wheeled back around, eyeing him carefully. No was all he said. The word dripped with cruel finality. He tried to protest, tried to make his case, but to no avail. You are not ready yet, the old man said. Just a little longer. I will find something of substance for you. That much I owe you. Just a little longer, a few weeks, to do this thing…Just stay. Help me rebuild, and I will give you what I want. This I promise. But until then, there is much more for us to accomplish. Together. Understood?
The old man’s tone brooked no argument. He nodded in silent compliance, and the old man started to turn back to his papers. That was when he saw it. A fleeting glint, passing over the old man’s gaze. Momentary, but all too real.
The shadow of a lie.
September 25th, 2013
10:11 P.M.
St. Paul, Minnesota.
I told you.
I told all of you.
Weighed. Measured. Found wanting.
The Ranger was the first. He was…game. Gamer than I’d thought. But in the end, he was what I’d expected. Fallible. Weak.
Barely worth the effort.
Luzon, on the other hand…He is something different. In spite of his existence being so fraudulent, such a caricature of everything this is meant to be…He has a certain fire.
He might actually make this interesting for me.
For a moment, at least.
Not that I expected more. Not from him at least. Perhaps he can scrape for something more, who’s to say. Perhaps the spark I lit under him will turn into a grand blaze before I snuff it out.
We’ll see soon enough.
From the rest of you, on the other hand…I have greater expectations.
Expectations that I demand be met.
There are wheels, turning. Machinations being made. While I deal with these…weak sisters. These distractions…My eyes are on the future. On bigger things. Better things.
More…interesting diversions.
But those are for later. For now, I’ll content myself making another example. This…Jacobs. Another drooling child, desperate for a fight.
A joke not even worth laughing at.
He’ll be no different than the Ranger, I fear. I have hopes otherwise, believe me…But when I look at him, I see the same frailty. The same dull, lifeless look in his eyes.
The same weakness.
So I ask this of you, Jacobs. Don’t be like the Ranger was. Be something more. Something better. Give me something more than a few moments of prattle before I break you.
Give me a proper fight.
After all, it’s the only solace left to you. The only option you can take.
Your fall is inevitable, just like all the rest.
The only thing left to you know is to make it a fall worth remembering. A fight worth watching.
All that’s left to you now…
All that’s left to any of you, for that matter…
Is a good death.
September 28th, 2013, Jacobs.
I’m coming.
Don’t disappoint me.
And like that…he’s gone.
10:32 A.M.
It had all fallen apart.
Every delicate machination had simply…collapsed. All his hard work had gone for naught. The Championship he earned…stolen from him. Ripped out of his hands in mere moments. All because of some fool boy’s weakness.
It disgusted him.
He hadn’t intended to break the boy. Not at first. But he’d gotten arrogant. He’d been foolish…tried to put on a show, and shown him up in the process.
He couldn’t allow that to stand. And with one simple twist, he’d ended it.
In the wake of the incident, he’d been stripped. Threatened with lawsuits. With arrest. But in the end, all that had come was red tape. He was summarily fired. Blackballed. Excessive brutality, they called it.
Unsafe to work with.
Like all the times it had happened before, he simply went home, and waited. There would be another call. Some other company would take a flier on him. Would need a man of his…talents. All he had to do was wait.
But the call never came.
Days went by, and the call never came. After all the times they’d talked about it, threatened him with it, they had finally come through. They’d blackballed him at last, and left him with no options…save for one. His old trainer…Boris Mirianov. The man who had made him what he was. Who he was. It had been years since he had seen him. They had parted ways when his training was completed, and the old man had washed his hands of him entirely. He had moved on to greater pastures. But now…
Now he would have to go crawling back.
Within hours of making the call, he was deep in the Canadian wilderness, trekking far into the mountains to the cabin he knew all too well. The deal they had made was simple. He would come back and help him cull new recruits, test them, see if they were ready for the rigors of the training…and in return, the old man would pull some strings. Find something for him. Something more…fitting of his talents.
It was all just a matter of time.
December 19th, 2008
6:45 A.M.
They were weak.
He could see it in their eyes, and in their every movement. He could hear it in their ragged breathing, and their nervous, furtive grunts as they moved from task to task. He could smell it on them.
They were weak, and they were afraid.
Even if it weren’t so obvious, he would have known. He would have known from a time not so long ago…he would have known from a man he used to be. He could still taste that man’s fear, his sorrow, his fiery passions and his petty hatred. It was a cold, ashen thing, a fleeting memory of something gone, but not quite yet forgotten. Every look at the pair before him was a reminder of the thing he used to be…and it disgusted him. He found them contemptible in spite of himself, regardless of how far beneath him such things had fallen. He wanted to hate them, to reach out and crush them for the pathetic things they were. He wanted to break them and leave them in the woods to die, like the lame, ponderous things they were.
But that was not his way.
Not anymore.
Instead, he stood and watched implacably as the old man put them through their paces in his usual, brutish fashion. The thin, blonde one almost collapsed once, then sat there on his ass, complaining loudly. The old man said nary a word, he merely walked over and cuffed the man behind the ear…and then drove them even harder. He could see the blonde boy screaming on the inside, but the other, larger one merely steeled himself, and tried to press on. It would have been almost impressive, had he not known his resolve was borne not out of determination, but fear.
The exercise bled on for what seemed an eternity, the pace unforgiving, the effort demanded unrelenting. The blond boy fell twice more, but said nothing, his first rebuke seeming to have had the desired effect. Then, finally, the moment came. The old man called a halt. Five minutes rest, he said. Then, meet me in the barn, ready to work. Something deep in him almost smiled when he heard those words. Instead, he cast a steely glare on the pair before him before turning to follow the old man up to the barn.
He heard them behind him, coughing and retching, shaking his head at the sound. Soon, they’d know the worst of it was yet to come.
Soon, they’d learn what real ‘work’ was.
December 19th, 2008
6:58 A.M.
He was going to die.
The blond boy was barely that anymore, his mane now stained red with his own blood. His face was a ruin, the right eye ugly, purple, and swollen shut, his mouth a red ruin slavering with spit and blood. He could barely stand, let alone fight. The larger one had been shouting words of encouragement to him in the beginning, but eventually even that had died when he’d realized the hopelessness of the cause. The boy had come at him, all fire and brimstone, itching to tie up…and had been met with a crushing forearm across the bridge of his nose for his capriciousness. The cartilage shattered with ease, and blood shot from the wound as the boy let loose a startled scream and crumpled to his knees.
It only got worse from there.
Everything the boy tried, he countered with brutally calculated ease. He battered him with forearms and knees, and wrenched his limbs without mercy. His face was a bloodied, mangled mess, and every time he fought his way back up, every single time he stumbled upright…he was sent crashing back down again in short order.
And then, the opening came.
The boy staggered to his feet, punch-drunk, his one working eye blinking wildly. He squared him up as he stumbled around, trying to find his bearings…braced for whatever the broken lad would try next. Suddenly, that single blue eye snapped open, glassy and dilated, and the boy charged wildly, a strangled scream coming from the bloodied mass where his mouth used to be. He lunged, swung…
…and was caught.
All it took from there was a single, vicious twist. The bones snapped, and the screaming turned to a gurgling, bubbling mess. The boy’s broken body crumpled to the mat without so much as a twitch, the blood and spittle trickling from his mouth as he let out a pained moan.
And then it all spiraled out of control.
The larger one slid into the ring with an outraged cry, running to the broken mess that used to be his blond companion. He checked the boy’s pulse, being careful not to move him as he lay there groaning, murmuring worthless platitudes all the while. You’re going to be ok, he told him. We’ll get you some help. And then his fury was on him, the lout lurching to his feet and charging clumsily at him, his senses clearly dulled by his rage. He caught the oaf with a sharp knee, then quickly snapped his arm into an iron grip, locking the limb in place and forcing the man to his knees with a cry of pain. Slowly but surely, the old man climbed the steps and made his way through the ropes, regarding the broken boy with no more than a shake of his head before he arrived at where he held the struggling lout subdued. Let me go, the lout said, his voice rich with anger, frustration, and pain. This isn’t what we signed on for. He needs help, just let me take him and go. The old man eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment, pressing the point of his cane into the lout’s chest before crouching to be at eye level with him. Let you go, he said. That is what you are telling me. The lout nodded a pained affirmation, and went to say something else, only to have the old man silence him with an upraised palm. This is a problem, he said. You see, you are weak. Not as weak as your friend, but weak. I cannot trust a weak man. Weak men do foolish things. Ignorant things. Weak men will say the wrong things. And we cannot have that, can we, Victor?
The old man gave him a glance, and he nodded in silent reply, wrenching the joint of the lout’s arm even harder. He cried out, blubbering as he did so, begging and pleading to be let go. He wouldn’t say anything. No one would know he was here. He promised. The old man silenced him with a rough hand over the mouth, shaking his head gently. You promise many things, he said. Can you be trusted to keep these promises? The words came flat as slate, with a thin veil of menace behind them. The lout nodded eagerly, desperate to escape the Hell he was now assuredly living. The old man rose once more, casting another glance at the broken blond ruin of a boy before turning his narrowing eyes back to the lout, drawing in a deep, heavy breath. You are a liar, he said, his voice gruff. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on you. You are a liar. You will betray my trust. This, I know.
The lout started to protest, started to beg, but the old man silenced him with a single swipe of his cane. I will brook no argument in this, he snarled. You will take what is left of your friend, and you will go. But first...I will ensure that you keep your word. The old man’s eyes snapped up to him expectantly. Victor…if you will.
A grim smile crossed his lips as he nodded.
And then…the lout screamed.
December 19th, 2008
8:32 P.M.
All was quiet as he stepped into the old man’s study. He sat hunched over the desk, brow knitted in concentration, muttering softly to himself. Suddenly, he halted, swiveling in his chair, cold eyes locking on his in a heartbeat. Is it done, He said. Yes. The old man nodded silently, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Good. You are dismissed.
The chair swiveled back around, the old man returning to his ruminations. He stood for another beat, silently, preparing the words. It was time for him to go, he said. He wasn’t made for this work….trying to shape diamonds from coal. He was something more. Something better. There had to be another way. Another place he could go.
The old man wheeled back around, eyeing him carefully. No was all he said. The word dripped with cruel finality. He tried to protest, tried to make his case, but to no avail. You are not ready yet, the old man said. Just a little longer. I will find something of substance for you. That much I owe you. Just a little longer, a few weeks, to do this thing…Just stay. Help me rebuild, and I will give you what I want. This I promise. But until then, there is much more for us to accomplish. Together. Understood?
The old man’s tone brooked no argument. He nodded in silent compliance, and the old man started to turn back to his papers. That was when he saw it. A fleeting glint, passing over the old man’s gaze. Momentary, but all too real.
The shadow of a lie.
September 25th, 2013
10:11 P.M.
St. Paul, Minnesota.
I told you.
I told all of you.
Weighed. Measured. Found wanting.
The Ranger was the first. He was…game. Gamer than I’d thought. But in the end, he was what I’d expected. Fallible. Weak.
Barely worth the effort.
Luzon, on the other hand…He is something different. In spite of his existence being so fraudulent, such a caricature of everything this is meant to be…He has a certain fire.
He might actually make this interesting for me.
For a moment, at least.
Not that I expected more. Not from him at least. Perhaps he can scrape for something more, who’s to say. Perhaps the spark I lit under him will turn into a grand blaze before I snuff it out.
We’ll see soon enough.
From the rest of you, on the other hand…I have greater expectations.
Expectations that I demand be met.
There are wheels, turning. Machinations being made. While I deal with these…weak sisters. These distractions…My eyes are on the future. On bigger things. Better things.
More…interesting diversions.
But those are for later. For now, I’ll content myself making another example. This…Jacobs. Another drooling child, desperate for a fight.
A joke not even worth laughing at.
He’ll be no different than the Ranger, I fear. I have hopes otherwise, believe me…But when I look at him, I see the same frailty. The same dull, lifeless look in his eyes.
The same weakness.
So I ask this of you, Jacobs. Don’t be like the Ranger was. Be something more. Something better. Give me something more than a few moments of prattle before I break you.
Give me a proper fight.
After all, it’s the only solace left to you. The only option you can take.
Your fall is inevitable, just like all the rest.
The only thing left to you know is to make it a fall worth remembering. A fight worth watching.
All that’s left to you now…
All that’s left to any of you, for that matter…
Is a good death.
September 28th, 2013, Jacobs.
I’m coming.
Don’t disappoint me.
And like that…he’s gone.