Post by Deleted on Aug 10, 2013 22:20:53 GMT -5
The wrestling ring sits alone, in darkness. The only light that breaches the abyss, are a set of candles, that barely illuminate the ropes. The light dances on the edge of the apron, as if daring itself to travel into the darkness. It remains within the safe confines of the canvased fighting stage. Between the candle, in a cross legged position, sits Waylon Cash. His shirt hangs over one of the ropes, as sweat drips down his chest. He stares down into one of the dancing flames, seemingly entranced by its movements. The camera circles him, as he hums a mantra to himself over and over again. Once the camera comes back around to his face, he closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, his pupils are firmly locked on the lens
Waylon:I think Eric Price wants Jay Price dead... That's the only explanation I can come up with. Why else would he put the poor bastard up against ME in a first blood match? It's downright cruel is what it is. What Eric don't realize, is that he's given me a damn good opportunity. We've been waitin' for a right time to take our first swing at Cryogenix. At Slam, I'm gonna fire the shot heard 'round the world. I ain't stoppin' at first blood. I ain't stoppin' 'til there's more of Jay's blood on the mat than there is inside of him. I'm gonna bleed that sumbitch dry, and I'm gonna do it all for you, Polar.
Waylons stretches back and forth, trying to relax his muscles. He gazes into the flame for a little while longer, a smile creeping across his face. He cracks his neck, before speaking again.
Waylon: I ain't said much about Polar Phantasm, 'cause to be honest, I wasn't sure what to think. I understand him needin' to play dead while NvL was doin' God knows what to Roxxanne. I get that, but then he came back, and I didn't hear a word from him. It's like his ass didn't even know me. Then... he really told me what to think. He debuted his cute little squad of James Bond wannabes, thinking he had the next big thing. He recruited all his buddies... except he left ol' Waylon Cash off the list. You spit in my face, Cameron. You made me think I was your friend, you made me look like a god damn idiot, and I ain't gonna let that stand. Your little group of jackasses is about to come up against S-PAC, the best group of wrestlers I ever seen in one place. Y'all should be scared, most of all our first victim, Jay Price.
Waylon lifts his pant leg, to reveal a large, holstered knife. He removes the blade from its sheath, and stares at it for a moment. The flame from the candles shines off the blade, as he turns the tool over in his hand. Slowly, he runs the edge along his palm, drawing a line of crimson across the skin. He then holds his hand out, and drips the red liquid onto the canvas, spelling out the name, Jay Price. When he is done, he leans over, and grabs his shirt from the rope, and wraps it around the wound.
Waylon:Blood is interesting. It's one of the few fluids in our bodies that's got myths in every culture. It's no wonder either. It runs through our hearts, it gives us life, It fights sickness. It musta seemed pretty magical to our ancestors. This week, it'll be a symbol of war. It'll represent me takin' a big chunk outta Cryogenix, and most importantly, it'll represent the future of Steve Orbit, and the Polar Phantasm. This Sunday, blood is gonna be my message to all of WCF. The fun's over.
Cash wipes off the blade, before sliding it back into the leather holster. He sits in silence, staring down at the canvas beneath him. He rocks back and forth a little, speaking without looking up.
Waylon:I'm too old, Polar. I'm too old, and I been through too much to be fightin' wars with your group of morons. This face has been cut up more ways than you can imagine. I been in bloody battles with some of the nastiest, toughest mother fuckers you ever laid your eyes on. I been dropped from cages, and slammed through things I didn't even know could break. I'm in a weird spot. I didn't want to go to war with you... but here we are. I tried to be your friend, Cameron. You weren't interested though. You let me think we were friends, but you had no use for a busted down piece of farm equipment like me. You started this thing, and I got a feelin' you're gonna be the one at the end of it all. Once the battlefield is clear, it'll be you and me, and I'll be god damned if I'm gonna be the one that doesn't walk outta that fight.
Waylon blows out one of the candles, plunging a third of the ring back into darkness. He then grabs the other candle, and stands to his feet, so nothing can be seen but his face. As he holds it, wax drips down the sides, and runs over his skin. The Wrestler winces at the burning sensation, but his face also has a trace of a smile on it.
Waylon:Jay... I feel sorry for you, I really do. You're just one of Polar's pawns. He doesn't know it yet, but he's sendin' you out to die for his stupid cause. He's makin' a martyr outta you, for his own, selfish reasons. You ain't dyin' for nothin' noble, boy. You're dyin' 'cause of Polar's lust for power. You're dyin' in a war that you ain't gonna gain nothin' from, and you don't even know it yet. It's sad really, but no matter how much you train and prepare, you got a Waylon Cash shaped bullet headed straight for your skull, and ain't no helmet gonna save your ass. I wish I coulda gone right for Polar, but that ain't how the card's fell. I'd say I'm sorry, but that'd be a lie.
He stares into the flame, the corners of his lips slowly curling upward.
Waylon:I expect this to be one of the most violent, bloody battles of my career. Bring anything less, and I'm gonna be disappointed. If you disappoint me, I'm gonna turn into an evil mother fucker, Jay. I'm gonna get really pissed if you don't bring everything you got on Sunday. I NEED a good fight! I need somethin' better than whatever the fuck Terry Roberts is! I need to let out some anger in a good old fashioned barn burner, and you're just the man for the job... the man Eric picked anyway. I'll tell you the one thing I know for sure... it ain't gonna be pretty.
Waylon's eyes stay locked on the dancing flame, as he runs his fingers over the top of it.
Waylon:I know you, Jay. I know you're one of the people in this company that can bring the fight to me... if the right Jay Price shows up. If the wrong one shows up... God help you, boy. God help you. As far as the result... it don't matter which Jay Price shows up. Even if I lose, you can be damn sure I'm gonna make you bleed. I want your little buddy Polar to be sittin' in the front row. I want him to sit uselessly, and watch as I show the whole damn world what happens when you step into the path of the Hellbilly.
Waylon lets the shadows flicker across his face for a few more seconds, before exhaling, and extinguishing the light entirely. Still, his voice can be heard fro the darkness.
Waylon:Good luck Jay. You're about to take on a challenge almost nobody else would be stupid enough to accept, and all you're gonna get for it is a messed up face... kind of a shame.
___ _ _ __ _ __ __
The room is almost blindingly white. All around lie wounded on gurneys, some with wounds more severe than other, some who clearly won't make it through the night. They're almost on top of each other, lining the floor of the emergency room. Tired looking nurses and doctors rush around the room, checking on far what patients they can, giving priority to those with the worst injuries. A small robot hovers alongside each doctor, helping them access records, and takes notes on each patient. Somewhere near the edge of the room, with the patients that don't need much attention, lays Walter Cash III. His eyes are closed, and several tubes and wire run across his body, keeping tabs on his vital signs, and administering the necessary fluids. A nurse glances in his direction at one point, taking a vague reading of the monitor next to him, before moving on to a patient with a large, blood stained bandage wrapped around his head.
The signs of life come slowly at first. A low moan escapes his chest, and his right index finger twitches. After a few minutes, he gathers the strength to wrench his eyes open. The harsh light forces them closed immediately. He lets them adjust bit by bit, before he can open his eyes, and survey his surroundings. The noises come from far away, as if on the other side of a wall. Slowly his hearing comes back to him, but as he searches his memory, he finds quite a bit missing. The last thing he remembers is saying goodbye to Andrew.
Walter:Andrew!
At the sound of his shout, one of the nurses runs over to him. A stern looking woman, with her ebony hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her rubber soled shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, as she steps to the side of his gurney.
Nurse:Oh wonderful! We were worried you were never going to wake up. You've been out for a few days now.
Walter:Where am I?
Nurse:Atlanta Governance Hospital. You were lucky. The medics who dragged you out of the rubble said that metal suit you were wearing saved your life. You would have been crushed to death.
Walter tries to rise, but the nurse pushes him back down. In his weakened state, he is unable to resist her.
Walter:I have to get out of here! I need to find Andrew.
Nurse:I don't know who Andrew is, but you're not going anywhere. We have to identify you, and run a few tests before we can clear you to leave.
Walter:Look, I know you guys need the space. What do I have to do to get out of here as quickly as possible? I have someone I have to find, and neither of us wants me taking up valuable space much longer. Just let me go, and no one has to say anything.
Nurse:Sir... you need to stay in your bed. We'll need to keep you for at least one more night. Stay here, and everything will be just fine.
The nurse turns from him, and walks back toward a curtained off section of the floor. She disappears behind the white divider. Walter slams his head back against the cushioned stretcher in frustration, and stares at the ceiling. When he finally turns his head, he see a large, male orderly walking his way with a briefcase tucked under his arm. He slides it under Walter's bed, and gives the man a smile.
Orderly:The nurse said you'd know what this was for.
Cash waits until the man has walked away, before reaching beneath his bed, and pulling the case into his lap. Slowly, he opens it to see his armored suit, shining a deep blue under the neon lights of the hospital. Next to that is a folded up hospital gown. He glances around, to make sure that he is not spotted in the chaos, before pulling the thin robe from the briefcase, and slipping it over his chest. He then shuts the case, and slowly begins removing his IV lines. Once he is entirely disconnected, he wraps his hand around the handle, and watches for his opportunity. All at once, it seems the stars align, and he sees a clear path to the front door of the ER. He leaps from the bed, and makes a mad dash for the sliding glass doors. He's outside, his bare feet pounding on the sidewalk, before he hears someone yell for him to stop. He doesn't heed their commend, instead choosing to run around the corner of the plastic building. He dives between a set of nearby pine trees, and needles scraping at his exposed skin.
Under cover of the thick foliage, Walter rips off his hospital gown, and begins sliding piece of the blue armor on over his naked body. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the scale like armor is wrapped around his body once again. He flexes his muscles, smiling at how well it has broken itself in. Once he feels comfortable, he steps out from behind the tree, and quickly makes his way behind the building. He moves along the wall, his brain scrambling to think of where Andrew may be. In the end, he decided to head back to their original meeting place. It takes him a few hours, but Walter weaves his way through back alleys, and over piles of rubble, heading toward the wreckage of the Atlanta mega arena.
Walter:Andrew!
His voice echoes off the walls of the alley, but no reply comes. He opens his mouth to shout again, but feel a hand wrap around it, silencing him. He is then dragged into a small passageway that barely qualifies as an alley. Walter finds himself pinned against a brick wall by a very large man. A large beard covers most of his face, which wears a look of anger.
Walter:What the hell. Is this just how you guys say hello?
Bearded Man:Who the hell are you, and what do you want with Andrew?
Walter:I'm Walter Cash! I'm-
Bearded Man: Wait a minute? You're Walter Cash? Why didn't you say so?
Walter:Didn't really give me a chance. Seriously, I need to talk to Andrew. Can you take me to him?
Bearded Man:Of course! Anything for Walter Cash! I cant believe I found you. Andrew and Rochelle were sure you were dead.
The man turns, and leads Walter through a small, hidden door, into a narrow cavern that drops below the surface. They wind through a number of tunnels, before coming out into the cave where Walter had stayed for two weeks prior to them carrying out their mission. Near the entrance, Andrew sits, his unshaven face buried in a large, hard cover book. Across the room, Rochelle lays on a makeshift bed, sound asleep. Andrew looks up from his reading, and a smile comes to his face, as he jumps up. In his rush to wrap his arms around Walter, he almost knocks over the small, battery powered halogen bulb that dimly lights the room.
Andrew:Walter! I can't believe my eyes. I thought we had lost you.
Walter:I'm fine, how is everyone else?
Andrew:A few regrettable, but unavoidable casualties. Nothing we didn't anticipate.
Walter:Well that's great and all, but we got a very serious problem. There were way more injured civilians than I thought. It was carnage in that hospital! I thought we were going to minimize that kind of shit! I didn't sign up to be a terrorist!
Andrew gives Walter a look of sorrow, before dropping his gaze.
Andrew:A new phoenix may only rise from the ashes of a dead one. We needed to destroy this city to rebuild it. I wish it didn't have to be this way, but it did. We are not terrorists. We're saving this city, and eventually the entire country. They needed us to sacrifice a few, for the good of everyone.
Walter:I saw children in that emergency room god dammit!
Andrew:Walter, I understand you frustration, but we can not lose sight of the goal. I wish peaceful revolution was a possibility, and at one time it may have been, but the stranglehold of the corporations is choking the city. The time for peace had passed. You must understand, we had to do something drastic, but it's over now. Now, we begin the rebuilding. No more killing someone when if they can't work. No more demanding that the citizens trade their lives away for what little money their boss is willing to throw them at the end of the week. We can make this into a place where all humans are valued, where life, art, and happiness are important again.
Andrew stops, as if waiting for Walter to speak, but is met with only tense silence.
Andrew:Some have told me what I am about to attempt is crazy... and they might be right, I don't know. What I do know is that we need you. We have a plan, bu t we need all the help we can get.
Walter only stares at the round faced man for a few moments, before leaving out of another small tunnel. He opens the door at the end, and crawls out into a brick alleyway. He sits on the asphalt beneath him, and stares down at his steel clad legs. After about five minutes, the door next to him opens, and Rochelle's deep, almond eyes peers out from the opening. Walter looks over at her, frowning when he sees that her face looks far older than when they last saw each other. Her eyes are just as bright, but they have obviously seen things they were never meant to. She crawls out of the opening, and takes a seat next to the armored man, and tucks a strand of light brown hair behind her ear.. It takes her a few minutes to speak, but she does so with authority in her voice.
Rochelle:I didn't want to do what we did either, but there was nothing else we could do, and even if their was something, it's done now. We can't take it back. We have to keep moving forward. Dad says that we already have friends spreading our message in secret, getting the people on our side. I know it sounds out there, to try and rebuild from the ground up, but we don't know any other way. We can succeed, but dad's right, we need you. I know it's not easy, but you have to trust us.
The young woman rests one of her dainty hands on his shoulder, and he stares down at it. All at once, his decision is clear.
___ _ _ _ _____ _ _
Waylon Cash stands in the middle of the concrete foundation for what will be his house. The Georgia sun beats down on him, as he runs the lumber he's been collecting across a roaring table saw, forming them into different sized boards and beams. He has a small pile of finished wood sitting on the ground next to him. As he looks up, he sees his manager, Scott Savage, stepping across the front lawn. The wrestler switches off the saw, and greets his friend with a smile.
Waylon:How we doin?
Scott:Forget about how I am. Are you ready for your match against Jay Price? I want to make sure you are going to be at one hundred percent for this match.
Waylon wipes some sweat from his forehead, as he steps out form behind the large cutting tool.
Waylon:I'll be ready. That worthless, generic fuck ain't gonna know what hit him, or which way it went.
Scott:Good to hear.
Scott looks over at the saw, and then at th massive piles of lumber that cover the yard, then back at Waylon.
Scott:You have to be out of your mind. Are you really planning on rebuilding this house by yourself?
Waylon:Not by myself. I can't do the plumbing or electrical shit. I can build most of it though.
Scott:This isn't like building a bird house, you know? You need to know-
Waylon:Look, I know it sounds nuts, but I gotta do this. I gotta give this to Roxxanne. It might not make sense to you, but this is everything to me, and I'm gonna build this thing.
Scott puts his hands up, signaling the surrender of the argument.
Scott:I won't say another word about it. It certainly seems to be keeping you in good shape. I just wanted to swing by on my way to the airport, and make sure you would be ready. Looks like we are in for another victorious week for The Savage Political Action Committee.
Waylon:We're gonna be just fine.
Scott:In that case, off I go to New York. Working on opening up four new nightclubs in the next year. Should be a very nice gain.
Scott steps back across the grass, and climbs into his rented SUV. As Waylon watches the man drive away, he slips a cigarette in his mouth, and speaks only to himself.
Waylon:We're gonna be just fine.
Waylon:I think Eric Price wants Jay Price dead... That's the only explanation I can come up with. Why else would he put the poor bastard up against ME in a first blood match? It's downright cruel is what it is. What Eric don't realize, is that he's given me a damn good opportunity. We've been waitin' for a right time to take our first swing at Cryogenix. At Slam, I'm gonna fire the shot heard 'round the world. I ain't stoppin' at first blood. I ain't stoppin' 'til there's more of Jay's blood on the mat than there is inside of him. I'm gonna bleed that sumbitch dry, and I'm gonna do it all for you, Polar.
Waylons stretches back and forth, trying to relax his muscles. He gazes into the flame for a little while longer, a smile creeping across his face. He cracks his neck, before speaking again.
Waylon: I ain't said much about Polar Phantasm, 'cause to be honest, I wasn't sure what to think. I understand him needin' to play dead while NvL was doin' God knows what to Roxxanne. I get that, but then he came back, and I didn't hear a word from him. It's like his ass didn't even know me. Then... he really told me what to think. He debuted his cute little squad of James Bond wannabes, thinking he had the next big thing. He recruited all his buddies... except he left ol' Waylon Cash off the list. You spit in my face, Cameron. You made me think I was your friend, you made me look like a god damn idiot, and I ain't gonna let that stand. Your little group of jackasses is about to come up against S-PAC, the best group of wrestlers I ever seen in one place. Y'all should be scared, most of all our first victim, Jay Price.
Waylon lifts his pant leg, to reveal a large, holstered knife. He removes the blade from its sheath, and stares at it for a moment. The flame from the candles shines off the blade, as he turns the tool over in his hand. Slowly, he runs the edge along his palm, drawing a line of crimson across the skin. He then holds his hand out, and drips the red liquid onto the canvas, spelling out the name, Jay Price. When he is done, he leans over, and grabs his shirt from the rope, and wraps it around the wound.
Waylon:Blood is interesting. It's one of the few fluids in our bodies that's got myths in every culture. It's no wonder either. It runs through our hearts, it gives us life, It fights sickness. It musta seemed pretty magical to our ancestors. This week, it'll be a symbol of war. It'll represent me takin' a big chunk outta Cryogenix, and most importantly, it'll represent the future of Steve Orbit, and the Polar Phantasm. This Sunday, blood is gonna be my message to all of WCF. The fun's over.
Cash wipes off the blade, before sliding it back into the leather holster. He sits in silence, staring down at the canvas beneath him. He rocks back and forth a little, speaking without looking up.
Waylon:I'm too old, Polar. I'm too old, and I been through too much to be fightin' wars with your group of morons. This face has been cut up more ways than you can imagine. I been in bloody battles with some of the nastiest, toughest mother fuckers you ever laid your eyes on. I been dropped from cages, and slammed through things I didn't even know could break. I'm in a weird spot. I didn't want to go to war with you... but here we are. I tried to be your friend, Cameron. You weren't interested though. You let me think we were friends, but you had no use for a busted down piece of farm equipment like me. You started this thing, and I got a feelin' you're gonna be the one at the end of it all. Once the battlefield is clear, it'll be you and me, and I'll be god damned if I'm gonna be the one that doesn't walk outta that fight.
Waylon blows out one of the candles, plunging a third of the ring back into darkness. He then grabs the other candle, and stands to his feet, so nothing can be seen but his face. As he holds it, wax drips down the sides, and runs over his skin. The Wrestler winces at the burning sensation, but his face also has a trace of a smile on it.
Waylon:Jay... I feel sorry for you, I really do. You're just one of Polar's pawns. He doesn't know it yet, but he's sendin' you out to die for his stupid cause. He's makin' a martyr outta you, for his own, selfish reasons. You ain't dyin' for nothin' noble, boy. You're dyin' 'cause of Polar's lust for power. You're dyin' in a war that you ain't gonna gain nothin' from, and you don't even know it yet. It's sad really, but no matter how much you train and prepare, you got a Waylon Cash shaped bullet headed straight for your skull, and ain't no helmet gonna save your ass. I wish I coulda gone right for Polar, but that ain't how the card's fell. I'd say I'm sorry, but that'd be a lie.
He stares into the flame, the corners of his lips slowly curling upward.
Waylon:I expect this to be one of the most violent, bloody battles of my career. Bring anything less, and I'm gonna be disappointed. If you disappoint me, I'm gonna turn into an evil mother fucker, Jay. I'm gonna get really pissed if you don't bring everything you got on Sunday. I NEED a good fight! I need somethin' better than whatever the fuck Terry Roberts is! I need to let out some anger in a good old fashioned barn burner, and you're just the man for the job... the man Eric picked anyway. I'll tell you the one thing I know for sure... it ain't gonna be pretty.
Waylon's eyes stay locked on the dancing flame, as he runs his fingers over the top of it.
Waylon:I know you, Jay. I know you're one of the people in this company that can bring the fight to me... if the right Jay Price shows up. If the wrong one shows up... God help you, boy. God help you. As far as the result... it don't matter which Jay Price shows up. Even if I lose, you can be damn sure I'm gonna make you bleed. I want your little buddy Polar to be sittin' in the front row. I want him to sit uselessly, and watch as I show the whole damn world what happens when you step into the path of the Hellbilly.
Waylon lets the shadows flicker across his face for a few more seconds, before exhaling, and extinguishing the light entirely. Still, his voice can be heard fro the darkness.
Waylon:Good luck Jay. You're about to take on a challenge almost nobody else would be stupid enough to accept, and all you're gonna get for it is a messed up face... kind of a shame.
___ _ _ __ _ __ __
The room is almost blindingly white. All around lie wounded on gurneys, some with wounds more severe than other, some who clearly won't make it through the night. They're almost on top of each other, lining the floor of the emergency room. Tired looking nurses and doctors rush around the room, checking on far what patients they can, giving priority to those with the worst injuries. A small robot hovers alongside each doctor, helping them access records, and takes notes on each patient. Somewhere near the edge of the room, with the patients that don't need much attention, lays Walter Cash III. His eyes are closed, and several tubes and wire run across his body, keeping tabs on his vital signs, and administering the necessary fluids. A nurse glances in his direction at one point, taking a vague reading of the monitor next to him, before moving on to a patient with a large, blood stained bandage wrapped around his head.
The signs of life come slowly at first. A low moan escapes his chest, and his right index finger twitches. After a few minutes, he gathers the strength to wrench his eyes open. The harsh light forces them closed immediately. He lets them adjust bit by bit, before he can open his eyes, and survey his surroundings. The noises come from far away, as if on the other side of a wall. Slowly his hearing comes back to him, but as he searches his memory, he finds quite a bit missing. The last thing he remembers is saying goodbye to Andrew.
Walter:Andrew!
At the sound of his shout, one of the nurses runs over to him. A stern looking woman, with her ebony hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her rubber soled shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, as she steps to the side of his gurney.
Nurse:Oh wonderful! We were worried you were never going to wake up. You've been out for a few days now.
Walter:Where am I?
Nurse:Atlanta Governance Hospital. You were lucky. The medics who dragged you out of the rubble said that metal suit you were wearing saved your life. You would have been crushed to death.
Walter tries to rise, but the nurse pushes him back down. In his weakened state, he is unable to resist her.
Walter:I have to get out of here! I need to find Andrew.
Nurse:I don't know who Andrew is, but you're not going anywhere. We have to identify you, and run a few tests before we can clear you to leave.
Walter:Look, I know you guys need the space. What do I have to do to get out of here as quickly as possible? I have someone I have to find, and neither of us wants me taking up valuable space much longer. Just let me go, and no one has to say anything.
Nurse:Sir... you need to stay in your bed. We'll need to keep you for at least one more night. Stay here, and everything will be just fine.
The nurse turns from him, and walks back toward a curtained off section of the floor. She disappears behind the white divider. Walter slams his head back against the cushioned stretcher in frustration, and stares at the ceiling. When he finally turns his head, he see a large, male orderly walking his way with a briefcase tucked under his arm. He slides it under Walter's bed, and gives the man a smile.
Orderly:The nurse said you'd know what this was for.
Cash waits until the man has walked away, before reaching beneath his bed, and pulling the case into his lap. Slowly, he opens it to see his armored suit, shining a deep blue under the neon lights of the hospital. Next to that is a folded up hospital gown. He glances around, to make sure that he is not spotted in the chaos, before pulling the thin robe from the briefcase, and slipping it over his chest. He then shuts the case, and slowly begins removing his IV lines. Once he is entirely disconnected, he wraps his hand around the handle, and watches for his opportunity. All at once, it seems the stars align, and he sees a clear path to the front door of the ER. He leaps from the bed, and makes a mad dash for the sliding glass doors. He's outside, his bare feet pounding on the sidewalk, before he hears someone yell for him to stop. He doesn't heed their commend, instead choosing to run around the corner of the plastic building. He dives between a set of nearby pine trees, and needles scraping at his exposed skin.
Under cover of the thick foliage, Walter rips off his hospital gown, and begins sliding piece of the blue armor on over his naked body. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the scale like armor is wrapped around his body once again. He flexes his muscles, smiling at how well it has broken itself in. Once he feels comfortable, he steps out from behind the tree, and quickly makes his way behind the building. He moves along the wall, his brain scrambling to think of where Andrew may be. In the end, he decided to head back to their original meeting place. It takes him a few hours, but Walter weaves his way through back alleys, and over piles of rubble, heading toward the wreckage of the Atlanta mega arena.
Walter:Andrew!
His voice echoes off the walls of the alley, but no reply comes. He opens his mouth to shout again, but feel a hand wrap around it, silencing him. He is then dragged into a small passageway that barely qualifies as an alley. Walter finds himself pinned against a brick wall by a very large man. A large beard covers most of his face, which wears a look of anger.
Walter:What the hell. Is this just how you guys say hello?
Bearded Man:Who the hell are you, and what do you want with Andrew?
Walter:I'm Walter Cash! I'm-
Bearded Man: Wait a minute? You're Walter Cash? Why didn't you say so?
Walter:Didn't really give me a chance. Seriously, I need to talk to Andrew. Can you take me to him?
Bearded Man:Of course! Anything for Walter Cash! I cant believe I found you. Andrew and Rochelle were sure you were dead.
The man turns, and leads Walter through a small, hidden door, into a narrow cavern that drops below the surface. They wind through a number of tunnels, before coming out into the cave where Walter had stayed for two weeks prior to them carrying out their mission. Near the entrance, Andrew sits, his unshaven face buried in a large, hard cover book. Across the room, Rochelle lays on a makeshift bed, sound asleep. Andrew looks up from his reading, and a smile comes to his face, as he jumps up. In his rush to wrap his arms around Walter, he almost knocks over the small, battery powered halogen bulb that dimly lights the room.
Andrew:Walter! I can't believe my eyes. I thought we had lost you.
Walter:I'm fine, how is everyone else?
Andrew:A few regrettable, but unavoidable casualties. Nothing we didn't anticipate.
Walter:Well that's great and all, but we got a very serious problem. There were way more injured civilians than I thought. It was carnage in that hospital! I thought we were going to minimize that kind of shit! I didn't sign up to be a terrorist!
Andrew gives Walter a look of sorrow, before dropping his gaze.
Andrew:A new phoenix may only rise from the ashes of a dead one. We needed to destroy this city to rebuild it. I wish it didn't have to be this way, but it did. We are not terrorists. We're saving this city, and eventually the entire country. They needed us to sacrifice a few, for the good of everyone.
Walter:I saw children in that emergency room god dammit!
Andrew:Walter, I understand you frustration, but we can not lose sight of the goal. I wish peaceful revolution was a possibility, and at one time it may have been, but the stranglehold of the corporations is choking the city. The time for peace had passed. You must understand, we had to do something drastic, but it's over now. Now, we begin the rebuilding. No more killing someone when if they can't work. No more demanding that the citizens trade their lives away for what little money their boss is willing to throw them at the end of the week. We can make this into a place where all humans are valued, where life, art, and happiness are important again.
Andrew stops, as if waiting for Walter to speak, but is met with only tense silence.
Andrew:Some have told me what I am about to attempt is crazy... and they might be right, I don't know. What I do know is that we need you. We have a plan, bu t we need all the help we can get.
Walter only stares at the round faced man for a few moments, before leaving out of another small tunnel. He opens the door at the end, and crawls out into a brick alleyway. He sits on the asphalt beneath him, and stares down at his steel clad legs. After about five minutes, the door next to him opens, and Rochelle's deep, almond eyes peers out from the opening. Walter looks over at her, frowning when he sees that her face looks far older than when they last saw each other. Her eyes are just as bright, but they have obviously seen things they were never meant to. She crawls out of the opening, and takes a seat next to the armored man, and tucks a strand of light brown hair behind her ear.. It takes her a few minutes to speak, but she does so with authority in her voice.
Rochelle:I didn't want to do what we did either, but there was nothing else we could do, and even if their was something, it's done now. We can't take it back. We have to keep moving forward. Dad says that we already have friends spreading our message in secret, getting the people on our side. I know it sounds out there, to try and rebuild from the ground up, but we don't know any other way. We can succeed, but dad's right, we need you. I know it's not easy, but you have to trust us.
The young woman rests one of her dainty hands on his shoulder, and he stares down at it. All at once, his decision is clear.
___ _ _ _ _____ _ _
Waylon Cash stands in the middle of the concrete foundation for what will be his house. The Georgia sun beats down on him, as he runs the lumber he's been collecting across a roaring table saw, forming them into different sized boards and beams. He has a small pile of finished wood sitting on the ground next to him. As he looks up, he sees his manager, Scott Savage, stepping across the front lawn. The wrestler switches off the saw, and greets his friend with a smile.
Waylon:How we doin?
Scott:Forget about how I am. Are you ready for your match against Jay Price? I want to make sure you are going to be at one hundred percent for this match.
Waylon wipes some sweat from his forehead, as he steps out form behind the large cutting tool.
Waylon:I'll be ready. That worthless, generic fuck ain't gonna know what hit him, or which way it went.
Scott:Good to hear.
Scott looks over at the saw, and then at th massive piles of lumber that cover the yard, then back at Waylon.
Scott:You have to be out of your mind. Are you really planning on rebuilding this house by yourself?
Waylon:Not by myself. I can't do the plumbing or electrical shit. I can build most of it though.
Scott:This isn't like building a bird house, you know? You need to know-
Waylon:Look, I know it sounds nuts, but I gotta do this. I gotta give this to Roxxanne. It might not make sense to you, but this is everything to me, and I'm gonna build this thing.
Scott puts his hands up, signaling the surrender of the argument.
Scott:I won't say another word about it. It certainly seems to be keeping you in good shape. I just wanted to swing by on my way to the airport, and make sure you would be ready. Looks like we are in for another victorious week for The Savage Political Action Committee.
Waylon:We're gonna be just fine.
Scott:In that case, off I go to New York. Working on opening up four new nightclubs in the next year. Should be a very nice gain.
Scott steps back across the grass, and climbs into his rented SUV. As Waylon watches the man drive away, he slips a cigarette in his mouth, and speaks only to himself.
Waylon:We're gonna be just fine.