Post by Dr. Remus Micayle on Dec 20, 2013 10:59:52 GMT -5
Potential threat detected.
- Venom (ven´?m): a poison, especially one secreted by a serpent, insect, or other animal. adj., ven´omous., adj. Originates from Middle English venim, from Anglo-French, from Vulgar Latin *venimen, alteration of Latin venenum magic charm, drug, poison; akin to Latin venus love, charm — more at win. First Known Use: 13th century.
Potential solution found.
- Anti-Venom (an-t?-ven´?m): an antitoxin to a venom; also: an antiserum containing such an antitoxin. First Known Use: 1895.
Application of solution in progress.
The entrance to Leland Stanford Junior University - better known to the general public as Stanford University - is a historic gateway indeed. Founded in 1891 by leading railroad tycoon and former governor of California Leland Stanford in memory of his deceased son Leland Stanford Junior, many distinguished minds and athletes have walked the very same path that an even greater number would kill to one day gain acceptance to. Organized into seven different academic schools, the graduates that Stanford produced have progressed in life to fulfill their prophecy - that is, to succeed. But it is a Friday afternoon in the heart of the winter holidays, and the student population present in the open has decreased dramatically, with many choosing to seek heat and comfort in the warmth of either the award-winning library or their own dormitories.
But a solitary figure cuts an imposing sight in the snow. Dressed in a leather coat, winter hat, and scarf, he seems rather well equipped to deal with the weather. But even so, he is not making much of an attempt to do so, instead choosing to look up at that magnificent road and the scarce number of students stumbling the other way. Where most are trying to get out of the cold, he stands firm, not moving an inch despite the temperature steadily declining into the forties. The few students that aren't hibernating just yet glance at the stranger; curious as to why one would voluntarily freeze in the outdoors. But they then shake their heads and trudge off, eager to warm their shivering bodies and partake in a warm bath back home.
After the last student on the road is out of earshot, the man finally makes a movement, having not moved or talked in the last ten minutes. Reaching into his left coat pocket, he takes out an iPhone and unlocks the screen. He scrolls through his contact list before reaching the one he needs. He presses on the touchscreen, activating the dial function, and places it to his ear. The dial tone signaling an active connection sounds for several seconds, as the man waits...
...and waits...
...until the other end is picked up, and a sonorous voice rings out.
: Professor Edward Jones-Williams speaking.
Dr. Remus Micayle: I've just arrived, my good man. I'll see you in ten.
Without waiting for a response, Doctor Micayle cut the active call, and stepped forward. One step at a time. After all, why rush? There's no hurry. He had the entire afternoon to visit his old friend.
A cobblestone pathway led to a half-opened carved oak door. On it is a mahogany sign with the Stanford University emblem on it, along with the words 'Prof. Edward Jones-Williams'. The room behind the door is majestic to say the least. Filled with antiques and collectible items from over the past decades, it is a historian's dream come true. Though from the first glance, it is apparent that the owner of the room does not care much for orderliness. Stacks of neatly compiled reports are strewn carelessly next to a seventeenth-century china vase, which in turn is placed on top of a small baroque fountain. In another corner of the room, close to a dozen sheets of scrap paper with formulas scribbled on them can be seen besides a modern day replica of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa. To add on to this odd scene, out screeches Katy Perry's latest hit 'Roar' from an antique gramophone made in the late 1960s'.
And in the midst of all this chaos, is a wizened old man - perhaps around the age of seventy - sitting on a stool in front of a grand desk marking a stack of test papers. His features are nondescript and nothing to write home about; perhaps even run-of-the-mill. White hair, wrinkles and liver spots, a slight stooped back. But despite his physique, his eyes sparkle with wisdom and wit - signs of a mind still shining with intelligence. At the moment, he is furiously scrawling away with a red pen at a statement he finds debatable. Clearly, even though he is already at an advanced age, this elder still finds joy in academia.
Professor Jones-Williams pauses in the middle of a comment to take a sip of water out of the mug placed precariously next to his desk. And just as he was about to return to his work, a singular knock breaks the monotony. His entire body freezes, and a small smile forms on his wrinkled face. He calls out in a slight British accent.
Professor Edward Jones-Williams: Come in.
The door swings open, and there stands Remus Micayle, clad in his soaked outerwear. The older professor jumps to his feet and strides over to the door, that small smile now evolving to a large grin as he does so. With arms outstretched, he hugs the younger man, who reciprocates with a firm grip.
Micayle: Well, well, well, look who it is. You certainly look as if you lost a few pounds, my dear Welshman.
Jones-Williams bursts into a deep chortle and breaks the hug, his hands shifting to grasp Micayle by his shoulders.
Jones-Williams: It's great to see you after so long, my old friend. Now come in and out of the cold. We have so much to talk about. Now scoot in, youngling!
Micayle shakes his head in slight bemusement at his friend's typical perkiness and steps into the cluttered room. After being temporarily stunned at the amount of items the senior professor has, he quickly takes in his surroundings and finds an empty spot to sit down in. Micayle quickly sheds his wet coat, scarf, and hat. Ever the gracious host, the Welshman helps him to place his clothes on a nearby rack. But not before looking over his clothes and giving them an appraising eye, of course.
Jones-Williams: Hmm... do I spy a Burberry label on this fine cashmere coat? With a Gucci scarf and hat? I dare say a certain somebody is raking in the Benjamins as of late, hasn't he?
The elder turns back to Micayle with a twinkle in his eye.
Micayle: Ever the fashion connoisseur, aren't you Edward?
Jones-Williams: Well, I think that living up to the grand age of seventy-six has allowed me to witness the growth of fashion. I just didn't think that you’d ever embrace that subculture. You've always been more concerned about your homework while you were in school.
Micayle lets out a chuckle of his own, casually stretching as he does so.
Micayle: Well, I suppose I was a bit of a fashion disaster back then. What can I say? I've learnt and evolved my style over the years.
Jones-Williams: Having more than half a million in your bank account at your age doesn't hurt either, so I've heard?
Micayle: No old friend, it certainly doesn't.
The two share a slight laugh over that last joke and head over to Edward's cluttered desk. Micayle grabs an empty armchair nearby and positions it near the researcher's stool. Both men sit down as Jones-Williams pulls out a bottle of red wine and two glasses seemingly out of nowhere. Micayle barely suppresses a smirk as the elder pours alcoholic goodness as a form of hospitality.
Micayle: I should have guessed; the reason why the infamous Professor Jones-Williams marks his graduate students so harshly is because he drinks on the job. Really classy there, buddy.
Jones-Williams: And it's also the reason why I remain as healthy right now as I was your age. Drink up Remus, it warms your bones just right. It's 1993 California Merlot. One of the best batches of all time, and it's certainly better than whatever riff-raff they are dredging in the vineyards nowadays.
For the umpteenth time, Micayle shakes his head in bemusement. Though not a heavy drinker, he decides to amuse his companion, and downs a quarter of his globe. Jones-Williams smiles.
Jones-Williams: Feels great, doesn't it?
Micayle: You know... it's actually not that bad. As perfect as ever, dear professor.
Jones-Williams: I do my best. As a senior professor specializing in Biology, it's my job to dissect the very essence of the world. Not at the same platform as you physicists do, I'm afraid, but we're doing our part nonetheless. Learning what makes certain things tick the way they do is right down my alley. Plus, it brings me some perks on the side too.
He exaggerates a wink.
Jones-Williams: So... how are you lately, Remus? I haven't seen you in close to four years, and I get a call from you all of a sudden a week back. I know from the office grapevine that you're doing some wrestling thing on the side now, but that's about it. I think you owe me a little update about your life, former colleague of mine.
Micayle: No worries there Edward. I think I'll do that much. You know, seeing that we were in different departments back when I was a research assistant in Stanford, I'm actually not that surprised that you didn't get the news. I left the university shortly after I obtained my doctorate and went overseas. The lat--
Jones-Williams: Hold on just a minute there.
The old professor has been paying the utmost attention to Micayle's story, but his eagerness has obviously gotten the best of him.
Jones-Williams: Your doctorate, as in the Ph. D in Exercise Science? The one you told me about all those years ago?
Micayle: The very same, Edward. I'm sure that you know I was - and still am - a fan of combat sport. I know back then all of my senior professors and friends were urging me to continue my doctorate in experimental physics.
Jones-Williams: And it was an obvious choice. You graduated near the top of your class at a young age. Your thesis for your Masters degree was impeccable and I daresay that you had a knack for figuring out the unsolvable.
Micayle: True that. Not to sound like a braggart, but I knew already that I was good at what I did. But truth be told... I wanted more. Physics no longer held the same attraction to me when I was twelve. Now, I'm by no means a meathead, but I do enjoy the occasional game of football and basketball. I work out regularly and have been practicing MMA for nearly my entire life. And call it a cliché, but one day, while I was in a sparring match with one of the aforementioned meatheads in the gym where I signed up... inspiration struck.
The senior researcher raises an eyebrow in question.
Jones-Williams: Inspir...ation? How so, dear Remus.
The self-proclaimed Second Coming of Darwin flashes his signature icy-thin smirk.
Micayle: I remembered that I was pounding his face in like there was no tomorrow, when it finally struck me. What some may consider brutal is actually a precise form of sports science. Simply put... combat. You are an avid history buff, so I'm sure you'll understand. Throughout the course of civilization, only two things have remained constant. Love and war. And as we all know, love always leads to war. So one thing, actually. War. Or more specially... violence in combat.
He shuffles a little in his armchair, reclining into a more comfortable position. Jones-Williams is hanging on to his every word, enthralled by the tales that he is spinning.
Micayle: And so I thought. Why not combine both of my loves to create magic like never before? A thesis on science in brutality. To my knowledge - and afterwards to my delight after I verified the information - no one had done it before. If I could complete my thesis, I would be a pioneer in the world. So suffice it to say that I worked hard. Very hard.
By this point in time, Jones-Williams is nodding furiously.
Jones-Williams: I remember now! You never seemed to get your nose out of a fight book. You know, we senior researchers at one point thought that you were going through a painful break-up or something, and wanted to hurt someone. You never ceased work!
Micayle: Never ceasing work is probably an understatement. I read up on close to every single form of close combat the world has ever seen. From judo to Krav Maga to Spanish bullfighting to even bear wrestling, I researched on them all. But for some STRANGE reason.... no matter how much time I spent in the library trying to dig up some ancient form of warfare, no matter how long I compiled information about an obsolete fighting form from some extinct civilization, no matter how many reports I read about illegal unorthodox fighting rings... I just never seemed to be satisfied. It almost seems that...
Jones-Williams: ...that you are missing that coup de grace.
Micayle looks up into the appraising eyes of his mentor/friend.
Micayle: Exactly.
Jones-Williams: So how did you manage to find it?
The younger scientist takes this opportunity to drink more of the offered wine. He lets out a casual sigh before returning his glance to Jones-Williams.
Micayle: It wasn't easy, that's what I can say. After more than three years of research, I was stuck. You would know how difficult it was in my position. I was then twenty-three, and more than eager to deliver my thesis to the world. But I couldn't, and that was frustrating to say the very least. I tried, and I tried, and I tried. For so many days and so many nights I struggled. There were times when I stayed up the whole night just to source for some so-called 'best fight ever'...
He punctuates that phrase with a sour look on his face.
Micayle: ...and I always ended up wanting for more. But then, I found it. I found what I was looking for. That extra spark. That final boost of nitrous to propel my paper to what it could truly be.
His grim expression transforms in the blink of an eye to an appearance of awe; reverence even.
Micayle: I found this place called the WCF. The Wrestling Championship Federation. From the moment I set my eyes on that iconic stage, I knew I had discovered my Holy Grail. EVERYTHING was there! The characters that I knew would captivate my reader to continue delving into my knowledge. The pain and fear that was constant throughout every single match, every single night, every single week! And most importantly...
The Scientist looks back up at the elder, his voice growing ever louder in excitement.
Micayle: I found out more about the true Remus Micayle. Suffice it to say that after I discovered professional wrestling and the WCF, the subsequent work was elementary, my dear Edward. Inspiration could be found anywhere and everywhere. Characters such as Lawnmower Jones, Slickie T, Bobby Cairo, and Oblivion provided me just the data I needed to prove without a shadow of a doubt that I was on to something special. The torment, blood, and rowdiness of the wrestlers present in the company are truly one-of-a-kind, and it was almost like magic. I needed no extra incentive to write; the writing did itself for me!
Micayle: And finally! At the age of twenty-five, after more than five years of hard work, I was finally awarded with my doctorate. A work that I could finally be proud of and proclaim to the world with gusto.
Without warning, he stands up, his back poised and a hand in the air for dramatic gesture, almost as if he was a politician readying himself for a speech.
Micayle: I, Doctor Remus Micayle, have contributed a piece of ART to the world of science! No man has ever done something like this before, and there will never be anyone who does something like this ever again! I've truly created genius with that thesis and the world appreciates it!
Slowly, he lowers his hand.
Micayle: But then, something... fascinating occurred.
His voice, where it was booming, now dropped to almost a whisper.
Micayle: I found out that I was hooked on to the world of professional wrestling.
Jones-Williams: Hooked?
Micayle: Obsessed. Fanatical. Addicted. Choose whichever adjective captures your fancy that describes me at that point of time. After witnessing the pure beauty of what that world compromises of, my mind was only filled with the thought of entering the breathtaking federation I discovered. Never again could I find joy in... lesser pursuits. But that's not to say that I disowned science. No, no, no. She's a jealous mistress, and one does not easily discard his lifework away.
Micayle: I decided to do the extraordinary. Where minds such as Neil deGrasse Tyson, Richard Dawkins, and Steven Chu have explored. Where The Big Bang Theory has failed to do so. Where I could make one more contribution to the world of science. I can join the Wrestling Championship Federation and spread my message about the values of science to the millions of viewers worldwide. That was in 2009, and I haven't looked back since.
Remus's voice trails off and the breathy voice of Katy Perry echoes throughout the office once more. Both men sit in brief silence, each contemplating what he had just shared/heard. The senior professor was the first one to break the peace.
Jones-Williams: That explains what happened four years ago. I must admit, that is a very courageous act you committed. You left at the very peak of your career, and appear to have emerged unscathed. I'm very proud of what you have achieved thus far son, and I hope you know that. So I presume after you left Stanford, you went to this... WCF?
Micayle lets out a brief laugh; almost mockingly.
Micayle: Well, that's the place I am currently working at right now. I just signed a contract sometime last month, and it has been a long time coming. It has been a long journey, my friend, and it hasn't been the easiest four years of my life. Let's just leave it at that, shall we? I've worked hard to further my craft, and eventually, I've reached the pinnacle of the wrestling pyramid. Everywhere I went, I managed to learn something new, and eventually, I evolved my MMA techniques to create the perfect fighting form designed to succeed. But yes, to answer your question, I've worked hard to rise through the ranks, and now, I'm back where I originally started... the WCF.
He pauses to take another gulp out of his goblet. Jones-Williams does the same.
Jones-Williams: Well, nonetheless, I'm delighted to know you've reached where you originally wanted to go, and I'm sure you'll do the name of Stanford proud. Albeit, in an unorthodox field, of course, ha ha!
Micayle: Mock me all you want, dear friend. My talents are unsurpassed, that has to be said. I'm about to debut at the WCF's most extravagant event of the year. They call it ONE, and it's where legends are made, and superstars broken. Trust the management team to recognise the undeniable greatness that lies within me and thrust me into such a huge occasion.
Jones-Williams shakes his head in mock pity.
Jones-Williams: Ahhh, as pompous as ever, aren't you Remus? So tell me, what unfortunate soul belies the great Doctor Remus Micayle at ONE?
Micayle: So glad that you asked, old one! That, forgive me, is also a reason why I've decided to pay you, a world-class biologist, a visit after all these years. Apart from catching up on old times, of course. I would like to cash in some favors for my match at ONE, and I believe that you are just the right man to do it.
The wizened scientist raises an eyebrow in surprise, replying somewhat hesitantly.
Jones-Williams: And what would those favors comprise of?
The stoic Micayle grins.
Micayle: Let's head out for a short walk, shall we? I haven't seen the school in ages, and I'm sure conversation will flow there.
<10 minutes later...>
The two scientists cut an odd sight in the snow; one a hobbled senior citizen needing the aid of a walking stick to move around, wile the other standing at six feet five and in the prime of his life. Despite the generation gap, the pair are chatting animatedly - the wizened elder in particular.
Jones-Williams: I still don't understand your point in experimenting with this character.
Micayle: Neither do I, but it just seems that what entertained me in the old days just seemed a tad irrelevant. Now, this is who I am. A wrestler. Doctor Remus Micayle.
Jones-Williams: Interesting... not a lot of people are going to appreciate the abrupt transformation. I'm sure they'll much prefer the old you. The one that they first knew you as, before you changed. I know for a fact that yo--
Micayle: Then they'll just have to learn to accept the hard truth, don't they, old friend? I can talk to you all day about why I did such a thing, but it'll be exhausting for both you and me, so shall we just leave it at that?
Jones-Williams: Fair enough. I trust you have your own reasons, and I also believe that you will tell me them when you feel that the time is right. So no matter! Let's talk about more jovial things, shall we? It's been a while since you've returned to your alma mater, and we are currently walking to the new renovated place where I conduct most of my experiments with microbiology. You might remember it as Lab Two?
Micayle: Ahh, the love nest of hell and caffeine. Did you know I spilt concentrated sulphuric acid on young Jenny Penstate once? Purely unintentional, of course, but she still ended up with second-degree burns and was eventually taken out of school to recuperate. If I hadn't needed to mug so hard during graduate school, that wouldn't have happened.
Jones-Williams swiveled his head to observe his former colleague.
Jones-Williams: Regret? Seems a little out of your emotional range, isn't it?
Micayle lets out a snort of derision.
Micayle: Far from it. The reason I remember that incident so vividly was due to the fact that Penny's mother kept pestering me to compensate her for her facial injuries. As if it was my fault! The silly girl was the one standing in my way, and it was her sheer incompetence that resulted in the accident. Though inconsequential, that resulted in me being distracted and getting an eighty-nine out instead of a ninety in the final practical examination. Could have graduated valedictorian if I hadn't been so preoccupied with the thought of being banned by the American Association For The Advancement Of Science.
Jones-Williams: All in the past now, dear chap. Ah, anyways, here we are! Presenting to you, the newly renovated Laboratory Two! What do you think of it? Pretty impressive, is it not?
And impressive it truly is. Where once stood stone-cold granite that was on the verge of collapsing, the exterior of the laboratory has been replaced by marble. The old cracked windowpanes have also been changed, and it seems as if the huge expense incurred to renovate the entire building has been nothing but worthwhile. Micayle nods appraisingly as the two walk around the exterior of the lab. A class is currently taking place, with many young minds struggling to absorb the wonders of science as he did so many years ago. Micayle reflects upon this sight as he turns his gaze back to his mentor.
Micayle: So... the question I need guidance is this.
Micayle: I am facing an opponent in the ring that I have never seen before. He is agile, strong, and technically proficient. In fact, I would say that he bares a slight resemblance to me, except that he is the perhaps the Homo Ergaster to my Homo Superior. A mere primitive to my more cultured supremacy.
Jones-Williams: And yet he is champion before you are.
Micayle: And yet he is. But my issue right now isn't some sob story that I need consoling or counseling about. I am about to regain my rightful throne and ascend to become United States champion. But in order to do that, I must first best him in a battle of wits.
That last word caught Edward's ears.
Jones-Williams: Wits!? You must be kidding there, lad!
Micayle: Oh, certainly not at all, dear friend. You see, this isn't a normal fight where the strongest and fastest reigns supreme. It is a no-disqualification match where the first man to draw blood wins. This means that we are working with a clock. Every single blow, every single punch, every single attack wears away at both sides, and if one party can regain dominance of the battlefield and strike with a critical attack, the game is over. Think of it as... chess.
The elder chortles.
Jones-Williams: I've never heard something as compelling as what you have mentioned. Fine, consider me intrigued. But still, I don't know what you need help with. You have to be more direct than this.
Micayle: Simple. I need you to instruct me on how to further enhance the lethality of my blows. I may have learnt from some of the best martial arts instructors, but sports science always helps to refine the edge. You are an expert on the human body, and I am sure that you can teach me a thing or two. Are there any new fiberglass gloves in the market that can further enhance the hit ratio? Or perhaps a particular area that is extremely vulnerable to bleeding. I need information like that, and more.
Edward continues walking, deep in thought.
Jones-Williams: I do have something of the like. But I'm not quite sure if you are interested in it.
He fidgets in his coat pocket and retrieves a small translucent satchel. In it lies a small portion of brownish-white powder that seems to gleam in the sand. He holds it up and passes it over to Micayle.
Jones-Williams: You did say that the match was no disqualification, did you not?
Micayle: I did.
Jones-Williams: Then this thing would do the treat just for you. Watch.
The old man looks around for a suitable target, before eventually settling on a snow-covered pine tree. He carefully scrapes the bark away of any sharp edges before pouring a small portion of the powder on the trunk. Retrieving a small glove from his coat, Edward dons it and spreads the powder across the tree. In no time at all, a rudimentary bull’s-eye target is formed. The fine particles shine, looking almost like diamonds in the sky.
Jones-Williams: Here you go.
He takes the other glove out and passes it to Remus. The Scientist knits his brows in uncertainty.
Micayle: This is...?
Jones-Williams: Perfectly safe if you apply it on a protective surface. Trust me on this. Slip on that glove, and just deliver a punch into that target I just made. No worries there, I can assure you of that.
Micayle shrugs, and puts on the glove. He walks forward to the tree, takes aim, holds his breath, and shoots out a fierce right hook!
BAM!
To his shock, the firm-looking bark of the tree EXPLODES. If a passerby had walked past, he or she could be forgiven for assuming that the tree had been a target of a gunshot. Bits of dead bark lie meters away, and there is a huge dent in the center of the target. Amazed, Micayle turns back to look at his smiling mentor.
Micayle: ...
The elder scientist hobbles over with the aid of his walking stick, explaining as he makes his slow way to his protégé.
Jones-Williams: Ground SiO2 particles shaped by state-of-the-art heat machines and transmuted into a powder form. Makes for easy transportation of materials. For construction workers, where all they have to do is to add water into the powder to create the foundation needed for glass marking. Banned from most athletic competitions due to the risks involved, but after hearing what you have said... I think you could make good use out of it. Call it a cruor discharge, if you will. Apply it on your boots or gloves for maximum effect, and I guarantee you that blood will be drawn.
He clasps a withered hand on Remus's shoulder.
Jones-Williams: Well, what do you think?
The younger scientist didn't respond at once. Still caught in the moment of awe, he slowly removes his own safety glove, before whispering back. A susurrate so brief, yet at the same time so appropriate.
Micayle: Outstanding. Simply outstanding.
From the outside, one wouldn't think that this apartment is home to anyone particularly rich or famous. But appearances can be deceiving: this very flat is where Doctor Remus Micayle stays in when he isn't off at conferences or at WCF matches. But he's currently occupied at the moment.
In the center of the apartment lies a plush living space. Though not a high-spender by any means, Micayle does splurge on his fancies, and the room reflects just that. A fifty-inch television is mounted on the wall, with several bookshelves tidily stacked next to it. Two classy looking armchairs are placed around a coffee table, which itself is home to yet more books. Casually sitting on one of the seats is Micayle, who is in the midst of analyzing a purchase he had just made moments earlier.
Picking up a loose clot of earth from an empty flowerpot he is currently holding up, he crumbles it between his fingers so that it resembles a fine powder. Lifting it up to his nose, Micayle takes a small whiff and lets out a soft sigh of appreciation. It smelt moist, and was no doubt full of organic matter that would provide excellent nutrients for plants to grow in. Perhaps when he has a bit of free time on his hand he would start planting a couple of sunflowers to beautify the room. The balcony would make a perfect location for the plants to get enough oxygen and sun...
DING-DONG! DING-DONG!
The bell rings, shaking Remus from his thoughts. Setting the flowerpot back onto the table, Micayle stands up and walks briskly to his front door. He looks through the eyehole, but fails to see anything but a shadowy figure. Curious, he cautiously opens it.
Hank Brown: Hello there Doctor Micayle!
Micayle takes a step back in shock. How did WCF's famous interviewer find out where he stayed, and more importantly, why did he visit him without prior warning? And is that a cameraman behind him? His happy demeanor fades at the thought of having to entertain a guest, and his usual grim expression appears.
Micayle: Good afternoon. What brings Hank Brown to my humble abode?
Brown: Not much really, just was hanging around in the neighborhood with Joe here, and thought that we could have an interview regarding your match at ONE! Haven't conducted a promo with you before, and I thought that this would be a great place to start. Would it be possible for us to come in and do just that?
A simpering expression mutates on Brown's face at that sentence, causing Micayle to grimace.
Micayle: Yeah, sure. Come right in. Careful to not get any mud on to the carpet, will you?
Beaming from ear-to-ear, both Hank and the cameraman walk into Micayle's home, looking around appraisingly as they did so.
Brown: Wow, not a bad place, is it? You must be really making a lot of cash with your rookie contract to afford this area.
Micayle: I suppose. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but is it possible for us to have the interview right now? I don't have a lot of time, and I would rather get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
It seems to have shaken Hank. Almost immediately, he makes his way to an armchair and sits down, signaling his assistant to come by his side. Micayle returns to his seat.
Brown: Of course, of course. I'm so sorry to intrude at such short notice. Shall we begin?
Micayle glowers at him.
Micayle: Let's go. I have about ten minutes; so let's make them count.
Hank flashes a cheeky grin.
Brown: As always. Let's start this, Joe.
The assistant focuses the lens and shows a thumbs-up sign. Taking the cue, Hank immediately adopts his 'on-camera' persona.
Brown: So we are here today to interview a very special guest. Making a name for himself in such a short span of time is no mean feat, and on Sunday, this very man will be making a hell of a debut. Not only will he be fighting a reputable opponent, he will be challenging for a championship in his very first match! I have with me today, Doctor Remus Micayle!
He turns towards Micayle and speaks. The camera follows suit.
Brown: So, Doctor Micayle, you're going to debut at our marquee pay-per-view, and I'm sure that the question on everyone's mind right now is this... do you think that you might actually stand a chance at defeating Ryan Rhodes and taking his United States championship away from him at ONE?
A moment of silence passes as Micayle fails to respond to Hank's question. Instead, the Scientist merely stares at the veteran interviewer. Perturbed, Hank fidgets.
Brown: Err... Doctor Micayle?
He continues staring down the interviewer for several more seconds, before letting out a soft sigh.
Micayle: Dear Hank, I must say that I am a mite disappointed in your questioning. As a professional broadcast reporter for one of the biggest wrestling federations in the world, are you really going to ask a question that many have already asked before?
Hank's eyes twitch nervously as he starts to explain his reasoning.
Brown: I... I... I ju...just presumed that for the official website, it would be a fresh sta--
But Micayle isn't letting his words flow out.
Micayle: No worries there dear sir. Just for your sake, I'll answer your question. Be sure that your video team is working properly though. I wouldn't want to redo this entire interview because of a technical hiccup.
Somewhat startled, the suddenly anxious Hank gestures violently for the videographer on duty to check on the working condition of the recording equipment. The man behind the camera sheepishly flicks on a switch (that powers up the entire camera) and gives a thumbs-up, while Hank visibly exhales in relief.
Brown: No... of course not! Please, let's go on with the interview!
Micayle shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
Micayle: And so it shall. You asked me if I think if I can defeat Ryan Rhodes at ONE. I think the answer need not be said. If I were to be afraid of the man, would I have challenged him for the title? If I were intimidated by Ryan's skills, would I have declared a takeover of his championship? If I feared wrestling Venom, would I have even dared to attempt the impossible and debut against him? It seems that all these rhetorical questions point to one answer only, Hank. And that answer is no.
Micayle: You need to know one thing about me Hank. I don't do things unless I am one hundred percent certain that results go as expected. Call it a... habit I gathered after all my years as an academic, but you will not see me going forward with a plan unless I can prove that without a shadow of a doubt it will work the way I intended it to.
The interviewer is furiously scribbling down notes as Micayle talks. He looks up and squints at the scientist.
Brown: So are you saying that you have a plan to handle the United States champion? And if so, what is it?
The scientist smiles.
Micayle: If I were to tell you, there goes the element of surprise, won't it? But seeing that you asked so nicely, here's a snippet of what is to come to Ryan at ONE. I've watched the man for a while now. From his debut a few months ago to his shock win over Steeltoe Joe to last week's title defense. I have observed his battle style and fighting technique and created a perfect counter measure.
Hank's pen is a blur now; desperately trying to copy every single quote down that he could obtain from the Arizona native.
Micayle: The mathematics behind are too complex for you, so I'll skip them. Essentially, what I've concluded is that there is no way possible that a fighter of his caliber can defeat me in the ring. Judging by last week's title defense against Cormack MacNeill and Jorge Diaz, Ryan still appears to be extremely vulnerable in certain aspects of the wrestling game. Pardon me for being blunt, but the entire match almost looks like someone wrote it! A wild free-for-all ends up with the champion somehow defying the odds to escape with a victory. A tad... strange, don't you think?
Brown: Ryan Rhodes is quite the superstar act--
But he just steamrollered past the comment.
Micayle: To be perfectly honest with you Hank, Ryan's not exactly my vision of a WCF champion, judging by the way he barely won that fight. He's bound to be exhausted. He's bound to be wary. And that's where things get interesting. He has never met me in a match before, and here we are partaking in a First Blood bout. He knows nothing about me, but I know everything about Mr. Venom. Ryan may be talented in the technical arts of wrestling, but I'm a bulldozer. This match is where I thrive. Brutal jabs to the throat to incite bleeding in the diaphragm. Blows that are aimed specifically at the thinnest part of the human skin to maximize the chance of bleeding. Carefully calculated shots to the weakest part of your spine to paralyze you. Can he do that? We don't know. Ryan Rhodes might think that he has experience on his side to make up for his lack of knowledge about my wrestling aptitude. But he'll see. Oh, he'll see.
Hank puts down his pen and paper for a moment to glance at Micayle. His eyes flash with annoyance for just a split second before returning to normal, but the Scientist catches it. Micayle props himself into a formal sitting posture in his armchair.
Micayle: I'm hazarding a guess that you don't quite agree with me here.
Brown: Not exactly. I may be intrigued by your abilities, Remus, but I highly doubt that Ryan Rhodes will make this an easy match. He is, after all, the man that dethroned Steeltoe Joe. I don't think he'll just let the United States championship just slide to a - forgive me here - rookie.
Both men stare at each other for a moment, before Micayle cracks a small smile. He starts chuckling, almost... mockingly? Confused, the WCF interviewer frowns.
Brown: What's so funny?
Micayle shakes his head in laughter.
Micayle: Oh, dear Hank, you crack me up so. A rookie in the WCF I may be, but you are sadly mistaken if you think I won't post a threat to the man. Oh, how I would like to show you what I could do, but I think lessons are better taught in the ring than on video. Anyone can talk a big game all day, but only the very best can back it up with his or her actions. But how can I blame you? The entire math suggests that the champion is the superior candidate, and the challenger is some hopeless lunatic on a suicide mission.
Brown: Now, I didn't say that. I ju--
He quietens at the movement of Micayle. Remus raises a finger in front of his face, silencing the chatty man.
Micayle: Just a tip to you, dear Hank. What the majority perpetually believes to be true may not necessarily true. In the fifteenth century, the Church believed that the earth was the center of the universe, with everything else revolving around us. The father of astronomy Galileo believed the exact opposite, and was humiliated for speaking that statement. But of course, today we know that Galileo was correct, and the church was wrong. Call me a modern day Galileo in that aspect. No more taunts or big words will you get out of me. Instead, I will prove to the world that I am correct in my assumptions. At ONE, I will win.
Abruptly, he stands up. He gestures towards the door and speaks.
Micayle: Now please, if you don't mind... leave me be. I've shared all that I have to say regarding the issue today. I have more research to conduct for my match at ONE.
Having no choice, Hank and the videographer stand up, and make their way to the door. Remus accompanies them and sees them out. Before Hank leaves, however, he extends a hand out towards the scientist. Micayle glances down at it and back up at the man, a slight bemused expression on his face.
Brown: Good luck Doctor Micayle. I think our quick chat today has been quite informative. All the best in your match, and may the odds ever be in your favor.
An absolutely repugnant look comes across Micayle at that very moment. He ignores Hank's outstretched hand and places a hand on the doorknob.
Micayle: I don't believe in luck, Hank. I don't just plan on beating those odds of yours at ONE. I'll crush them, and become your new champion, dethroning Ryan Rhodes in the process. Goodnight.
Without a second word, the door slams shut in Hank's face, cutting off any further contact for the time being. Grumpy murmurs can be heard, but to no avail. The doctor is officially out.
He waited until the sounds of their footsteps have faded away, before advancing forward to look through the eyehole to make sure the coast was clear. Micayle's mind is occupied with thoughts of winning at ONE, and nothing else. The day is nearly over and only the topmost trees on the hill still glinted in the dying light. The rest of the apartment has already been plunged into stygian gloom, and soon, night will officially be upon the town.
As he stood there, a wash of light fell about his feet from the numerous lights that were being activated by the thousands of residents in the building, and once more, he heard the chatter and bustle of everyday life. Children crying out in joy or pain. The honks of vehicles desperate to return home. The conversations between a husband and a wife. He could sense warmth radiating from the environment, and he thought back about when he last experienced such a sensation.
Micayle moved, turning his back on the end of the day.
...
ONE is coming. There's no time for sentimentality. And certainly no time for weakness.
He had to train. For if not... how will Ryan Rhodes bleed?
The anti-venom that is the cruor discharge must be administered at all costs.
- Venom (ven´?m): a poison, especially one secreted by a serpent, insect, or other animal. adj., ven´omous., adj. Originates from Middle English venim, from Anglo-French, from Vulgar Latin *venimen, alteration of Latin venenum magic charm, drug, poison; akin to Latin venus love, charm — more at win. First Known Use: 13th century.
Potential solution found.
- Anti-Venom (an-t?-ven´?m): an antitoxin to a venom; also: an antiserum containing such an antitoxin. First Known Use: 1895.
Application of solution in progress.
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Scene: Leland Stanford Junior University, Stanford, California, USA (Friday 1400hrs, 13th December 2013)
The entrance to Leland Stanford Junior University - better known to the general public as Stanford University - is a historic gateway indeed. Founded in 1891 by leading railroad tycoon and former governor of California Leland Stanford in memory of his deceased son Leland Stanford Junior, many distinguished minds and athletes have walked the very same path that an even greater number would kill to one day gain acceptance to. Organized into seven different academic schools, the graduates that Stanford produced have progressed in life to fulfill their prophecy - that is, to succeed. But it is a Friday afternoon in the heart of the winter holidays, and the student population present in the open has decreased dramatically, with many choosing to seek heat and comfort in the warmth of either the award-winning library or their own dormitories.
But a solitary figure cuts an imposing sight in the snow. Dressed in a leather coat, winter hat, and scarf, he seems rather well equipped to deal with the weather. But even so, he is not making much of an attempt to do so, instead choosing to look up at that magnificent road and the scarce number of students stumbling the other way. Where most are trying to get out of the cold, he stands firm, not moving an inch despite the temperature steadily declining into the forties. The few students that aren't hibernating just yet glance at the stranger; curious as to why one would voluntarily freeze in the outdoors. But they then shake their heads and trudge off, eager to warm their shivering bodies and partake in a warm bath back home.
After the last student on the road is out of earshot, the man finally makes a movement, having not moved or talked in the last ten minutes. Reaching into his left coat pocket, he takes out an iPhone and unlocks the screen. He scrolls through his contact list before reaching the one he needs. He presses on the touchscreen, activating the dial function, and places it to his ear. The dial tone signaling an active connection sounds for several seconds, as the man waits...
...and waits...
...until the other end is picked up, and a sonorous voice rings out.
: Professor Edward Jones-Williams speaking.Dr. Remus Micayle: I've just arrived, my good man. I'll see you in ten.
Without waiting for a response, Doctor Micayle cut the active call, and stepped forward. One step at a time. After all, why rush? There's no hurry. He had the entire afternoon to visit his old friend.
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A cobblestone pathway led to a half-opened carved oak door. On it is a mahogany sign with the Stanford University emblem on it, along with the words 'Prof. Edward Jones-Williams'. The room behind the door is majestic to say the least. Filled with antiques and collectible items from over the past decades, it is a historian's dream come true. Though from the first glance, it is apparent that the owner of the room does not care much for orderliness. Stacks of neatly compiled reports are strewn carelessly next to a seventeenth-century china vase, which in turn is placed on top of a small baroque fountain. In another corner of the room, close to a dozen sheets of scrap paper with formulas scribbled on them can be seen besides a modern day replica of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa. To add on to this odd scene, out screeches Katy Perry's latest hit 'Roar' from an antique gramophone made in the late 1960s'.
And in the midst of all this chaos, is a wizened old man - perhaps around the age of seventy - sitting on a stool in front of a grand desk marking a stack of test papers. His features are nondescript and nothing to write home about; perhaps even run-of-the-mill. White hair, wrinkles and liver spots, a slight stooped back. But despite his physique, his eyes sparkle with wisdom and wit - signs of a mind still shining with intelligence. At the moment, he is furiously scrawling away with a red pen at a statement he finds debatable. Clearly, even though he is already at an advanced age, this elder still finds joy in academia.
Professor Jones-Williams pauses in the middle of a comment to take a sip of water out of the mug placed precariously next to his desk. And just as he was about to return to his work, a singular knock breaks the monotony. His entire body freezes, and a small smile forms on his wrinkled face. He calls out in a slight British accent.
Professor Edward Jones-Williams: Come in.
The door swings open, and there stands Remus Micayle, clad in his soaked outerwear. The older professor jumps to his feet and strides over to the door, that small smile now evolving to a large grin as he does so. With arms outstretched, he hugs the younger man, who reciprocates with a firm grip.
Micayle: Well, well, well, look who it is. You certainly look as if you lost a few pounds, my dear Welshman.
Jones-Williams bursts into a deep chortle and breaks the hug, his hands shifting to grasp Micayle by his shoulders.
Jones-Williams: It's great to see you after so long, my old friend. Now come in and out of the cold. We have so much to talk about. Now scoot in, youngling!
Micayle shakes his head in slight bemusement at his friend's typical perkiness and steps into the cluttered room. After being temporarily stunned at the amount of items the senior professor has, he quickly takes in his surroundings and finds an empty spot to sit down in. Micayle quickly sheds his wet coat, scarf, and hat. Ever the gracious host, the Welshman helps him to place his clothes on a nearby rack. But not before looking over his clothes and giving them an appraising eye, of course.
Jones-Williams: Hmm... do I spy a Burberry label on this fine cashmere coat? With a Gucci scarf and hat? I dare say a certain somebody is raking in the Benjamins as of late, hasn't he?
The elder turns back to Micayle with a twinkle in his eye.
Micayle: Ever the fashion connoisseur, aren't you Edward?
Jones-Williams: Well, I think that living up to the grand age of seventy-six has allowed me to witness the growth of fashion. I just didn't think that you’d ever embrace that subculture. You've always been more concerned about your homework while you were in school.
Micayle lets out a chuckle of his own, casually stretching as he does so.
Micayle: Well, I suppose I was a bit of a fashion disaster back then. What can I say? I've learnt and evolved my style over the years.
Jones-Williams: Having more than half a million in your bank account at your age doesn't hurt either, so I've heard?
Micayle: No old friend, it certainly doesn't.
The two share a slight laugh over that last joke and head over to Edward's cluttered desk. Micayle grabs an empty armchair nearby and positions it near the researcher's stool. Both men sit down as Jones-Williams pulls out a bottle of red wine and two glasses seemingly out of nowhere. Micayle barely suppresses a smirk as the elder pours alcoholic goodness as a form of hospitality.
Micayle: I should have guessed; the reason why the infamous Professor Jones-Williams marks his graduate students so harshly is because he drinks on the job. Really classy there, buddy.
Jones-Williams: And it's also the reason why I remain as healthy right now as I was your age. Drink up Remus, it warms your bones just right. It's 1993 California Merlot. One of the best batches of all time, and it's certainly better than whatever riff-raff they are dredging in the vineyards nowadays.
For the umpteenth time, Micayle shakes his head in bemusement. Though not a heavy drinker, he decides to amuse his companion, and downs a quarter of his globe. Jones-Williams smiles.
Jones-Williams: Feels great, doesn't it?
Micayle: You know... it's actually not that bad. As perfect as ever, dear professor.
Jones-Williams: I do my best. As a senior professor specializing in Biology, it's my job to dissect the very essence of the world. Not at the same platform as you physicists do, I'm afraid, but we're doing our part nonetheless. Learning what makes certain things tick the way they do is right down my alley. Plus, it brings me some perks on the side too.
He exaggerates a wink.
Jones-Williams: So... how are you lately, Remus? I haven't seen you in close to four years, and I get a call from you all of a sudden a week back. I know from the office grapevine that you're doing some wrestling thing on the side now, but that's about it. I think you owe me a little update about your life, former colleague of mine.
Micayle: No worries there Edward. I think I'll do that much. You know, seeing that we were in different departments back when I was a research assistant in Stanford, I'm actually not that surprised that you didn't get the news. I left the university shortly after I obtained my doctorate and went overseas. The lat--
Jones-Williams: Hold on just a minute there.
The old professor has been paying the utmost attention to Micayle's story, but his eagerness has obviously gotten the best of him.
Jones-Williams: Your doctorate, as in the Ph. D in Exercise Science? The one you told me about all those years ago?
Micayle: The very same, Edward. I'm sure that you know I was - and still am - a fan of combat sport. I know back then all of my senior professors and friends were urging me to continue my doctorate in experimental physics.
Jones-Williams: And it was an obvious choice. You graduated near the top of your class at a young age. Your thesis for your Masters degree was impeccable and I daresay that you had a knack for figuring out the unsolvable.
Micayle: True that. Not to sound like a braggart, but I knew already that I was good at what I did. But truth be told... I wanted more. Physics no longer held the same attraction to me when I was twelve. Now, I'm by no means a meathead, but I do enjoy the occasional game of football and basketball. I work out regularly and have been practicing MMA for nearly my entire life. And call it a cliché, but one day, while I was in a sparring match with one of the aforementioned meatheads in the gym where I signed up... inspiration struck.
The senior researcher raises an eyebrow in question.
Jones-Williams: Inspir...ation? How so, dear Remus.
The self-proclaimed Second Coming of Darwin flashes his signature icy-thin smirk.
Micayle: I remembered that I was pounding his face in like there was no tomorrow, when it finally struck me. What some may consider brutal is actually a precise form of sports science. Simply put... combat. You are an avid history buff, so I'm sure you'll understand. Throughout the course of civilization, only two things have remained constant. Love and war. And as we all know, love always leads to war. So one thing, actually. War. Or more specially... violence in combat.
He shuffles a little in his armchair, reclining into a more comfortable position. Jones-Williams is hanging on to his every word, enthralled by the tales that he is spinning.
Micayle: And so I thought. Why not combine both of my loves to create magic like never before? A thesis on science in brutality. To my knowledge - and afterwards to my delight after I verified the information - no one had done it before. If I could complete my thesis, I would be a pioneer in the world. So suffice it to say that I worked hard. Very hard.
By this point in time, Jones-Williams is nodding furiously.
Jones-Williams: I remember now! You never seemed to get your nose out of a fight book. You know, we senior researchers at one point thought that you were going through a painful break-up or something, and wanted to hurt someone. You never ceased work!
Micayle: Never ceasing work is probably an understatement. I read up on close to every single form of close combat the world has ever seen. From judo to Krav Maga to Spanish bullfighting to even bear wrestling, I researched on them all. But for some STRANGE reason.... no matter how much time I spent in the library trying to dig up some ancient form of warfare, no matter how long I compiled information about an obsolete fighting form from some extinct civilization, no matter how many reports I read about illegal unorthodox fighting rings... I just never seemed to be satisfied. It almost seems that...
Jones-Williams: ...that you are missing that coup de grace.
Micayle looks up into the appraising eyes of his mentor/friend.
Micayle: Exactly.
Jones-Williams: So how did you manage to find it?
The younger scientist takes this opportunity to drink more of the offered wine. He lets out a casual sigh before returning his glance to Jones-Williams.
Micayle: It wasn't easy, that's what I can say. After more than three years of research, I was stuck. You would know how difficult it was in my position. I was then twenty-three, and more than eager to deliver my thesis to the world. But I couldn't, and that was frustrating to say the very least. I tried, and I tried, and I tried. For so many days and so many nights I struggled. There were times when I stayed up the whole night just to source for some so-called 'best fight ever'...
He punctuates that phrase with a sour look on his face.
Micayle: ...and I always ended up wanting for more. But then, I found it. I found what I was looking for. That extra spark. That final boost of nitrous to propel my paper to what it could truly be.
His grim expression transforms in the blink of an eye to an appearance of awe; reverence even.
Micayle: I found this place called the WCF. The Wrestling Championship Federation. From the moment I set my eyes on that iconic stage, I knew I had discovered my Holy Grail. EVERYTHING was there! The characters that I knew would captivate my reader to continue delving into my knowledge. The pain and fear that was constant throughout every single match, every single night, every single week! And most importantly...
The Scientist looks back up at the elder, his voice growing ever louder in excitement.
Micayle: I found out more about the true Remus Micayle. Suffice it to say that after I discovered professional wrestling and the WCF, the subsequent work was elementary, my dear Edward. Inspiration could be found anywhere and everywhere. Characters such as Lawnmower Jones, Slickie T, Bobby Cairo, and Oblivion provided me just the data I needed to prove without a shadow of a doubt that I was on to something special. The torment, blood, and rowdiness of the wrestlers present in the company are truly one-of-a-kind, and it was almost like magic. I needed no extra incentive to write; the writing did itself for me!
Micayle: And finally! At the age of twenty-five, after more than five years of hard work, I was finally awarded with my doctorate. A work that I could finally be proud of and proclaim to the world with gusto.
Without warning, he stands up, his back poised and a hand in the air for dramatic gesture, almost as if he was a politician readying himself for a speech.
Micayle: I, Doctor Remus Micayle, have contributed a piece of ART to the world of science! No man has ever done something like this before, and there will never be anyone who does something like this ever again! I've truly created genius with that thesis and the world appreciates it!
Slowly, he lowers his hand.
Micayle: But then, something... fascinating occurred.
His voice, where it was booming, now dropped to almost a whisper.
Micayle: I found out that I was hooked on to the world of professional wrestling.
Jones-Williams: Hooked?
Micayle: Obsessed. Fanatical. Addicted. Choose whichever adjective captures your fancy that describes me at that point of time. After witnessing the pure beauty of what that world compromises of, my mind was only filled with the thought of entering the breathtaking federation I discovered. Never again could I find joy in... lesser pursuits. But that's not to say that I disowned science. No, no, no. She's a jealous mistress, and one does not easily discard his lifework away.
Micayle: I decided to do the extraordinary. Where minds such as Neil deGrasse Tyson, Richard Dawkins, and Steven Chu have explored. Where The Big Bang Theory has failed to do so. Where I could make one more contribution to the world of science. I can join the Wrestling Championship Federation and spread my message about the values of science to the millions of viewers worldwide. That was in 2009, and I haven't looked back since.
Remus's voice trails off and the breathy voice of Katy Perry echoes throughout the office once more. Both men sit in brief silence, each contemplating what he had just shared/heard. The senior professor was the first one to break the peace.
Jones-Williams: That explains what happened four years ago. I must admit, that is a very courageous act you committed. You left at the very peak of your career, and appear to have emerged unscathed. I'm very proud of what you have achieved thus far son, and I hope you know that. So I presume after you left Stanford, you went to this... WCF?
Micayle lets out a brief laugh; almost mockingly.
Micayle: Well, that's the place I am currently working at right now. I just signed a contract sometime last month, and it has been a long time coming. It has been a long journey, my friend, and it hasn't been the easiest four years of my life. Let's just leave it at that, shall we? I've worked hard to further my craft, and eventually, I've reached the pinnacle of the wrestling pyramid. Everywhere I went, I managed to learn something new, and eventually, I evolved my MMA techniques to create the perfect fighting form designed to succeed. But yes, to answer your question, I've worked hard to rise through the ranks, and now, I'm back where I originally started... the WCF.
He pauses to take another gulp out of his goblet. Jones-Williams does the same.
Jones-Williams: Well, nonetheless, I'm delighted to know you've reached where you originally wanted to go, and I'm sure you'll do the name of Stanford proud. Albeit, in an unorthodox field, of course, ha ha!
Micayle: Mock me all you want, dear friend. My talents are unsurpassed, that has to be said. I'm about to debut at the WCF's most extravagant event of the year. They call it ONE, and it's where legends are made, and superstars broken. Trust the management team to recognise the undeniable greatness that lies within me and thrust me into such a huge occasion.
Jones-Williams shakes his head in mock pity.
Jones-Williams: Ahhh, as pompous as ever, aren't you Remus? So tell me, what unfortunate soul belies the great Doctor Remus Micayle at ONE?
Micayle: So glad that you asked, old one! That, forgive me, is also a reason why I've decided to pay you, a world-class biologist, a visit after all these years. Apart from catching up on old times, of course. I would like to cash in some favors for my match at ONE, and I believe that you are just the right man to do it.
The wizened scientist raises an eyebrow in surprise, replying somewhat hesitantly.
Jones-Williams: And what would those favors comprise of?
The stoic Micayle grins.
Micayle: Let's head out for a short walk, shall we? I haven't seen the school in ages, and I'm sure conversation will flow there.
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<10 minutes later...>
The two scientists cut an odd sight in the snow; one a hobbled senior citizen needing the aid of a walking stick to move around, wile the other standing at six feet five and in the prime of his life. Despite the generation gap, the pair are chatting animatedly - the wizened elder in particular.
Jones-Williams: I still don't understand your point in experimenting with this character.
Micayle: Neither do I, but it just seems that what entertained me in the old days just seemed a tad irrelevant. Now, this is who I am. A wrestler. Doctor Remus Micayle.
Jones-Williams: Interesting... not a lot of people are going to appreciate the abrupt transformation. I'm sure they'll much prefer the old you. The one that they first knew you as, before you changed. I know for a fact that yo--
Micayle: Then they'll just have to learn to accept the hard truth, don't they, old friend? I can talk to you all day about why I did such a thing, but it'll be exhausting for both you and me, so shall we just leave it at that?
Jones-Williams: Fair enough. I trust you have your own reasons, and I also believe that you will tell me them when you feel that the time is right. So no matter! Let's talk about more jovial things, shall we? It's been a while since you've returned to your alma mater, and we are currently walking to the new renovated place where I conduct most of my experiments with microbiology. You might remember it as Lab Two?
Micayle: Ahh, the love nest of hell and caffeine. Did you know I spilt concentrated sulphuric acid on young Jenny Penstate once? Purely unintentional, of course, but she still ended up with second-degree burns and was eventually taken out of school to recuperate. If I hadn't needed to mug so hard during graduate school, that wouldn't have happened.
Jones-Williams swiveled his head to observe his former colleague.
Jones-Williams: Regret? Seems a little out of your emotional range, isn't it?
Micayle lets out a snort of derision.
Micayle: Far from it. The reason I remember that incident so vividly was due to the fact that Penny's mother kept pestering me to compensate her for her facial injuries. As if it was my fault! The silly girl was the one standing in my way, and it was her sheer incompetence that resulted in the accident. Though inconsequential, that resulted in me being distracted and getting an eighty-nine out instead of a ninety in the final practical examination. Could have graduated valedictorian if I hadn't been so preoccupied with the thought of being banned by the American Association For The Advancement Of Science.
Jones-Williams: All in the past now, dear chap. Ah, anyways, here we are! Presenting to you, the newly renovated Laboratory Two! What do you think of it? Pretty impressive, is it not?
And impressive it truly is. Where once stood stone-cold granite that was on the verge of collapsing, the exterior of the laboratory has been replaced by marble. The old cracked windowpanes have also been changed, and it seems as if the huge expense incurred to renovate the entire building has been nothing but worthwhile. Micayle nods appraisingly as the two walk around the exterior of the lab. A class is currently taking place, with many young minds struggling to absorb the wonders of science as he did so many years ago. Micayle reflects upon this sight as he turns his gaze back to his mentor.
Micayle: So... the question I need guidance is this.
Micayle: I am facing an opponent in the ring that I have never seen before. He is agile, strong, and technically proficient. In fact, I would say that he bares a slight resemblance to me, except that he is the perhaps the Homo Ergaster to my Homo Superior. A mere primitive to my more cultured supremacy.
Jones-Williams: And yet he is champion before you are.
Micayle: And yet he is. But my issue right now isn't some sob story that I need consoling or counseling about. I am about to regain my rightful throne and ascend to become United States champion. But in order to do that, I must first best him in a battle of wits.
That last word caught Edward's ears.
Jones-Williams: Wits!? You must be kidding there, lad!
Micayle: Oh, certainly not at all, dear friend. You see, this isn't a normal fight where the strongest and fastest reigns supreme. It is a no-disqualification match where the first man to draw blood wins. This means that we are working with a clock. Every single blow, every single punch, every single attack wears away at both sides, and if one party can regain dominance of the battlefield and strike with a critical attack, the game is over. Think of it as... chess.
The elder chortles.
Jones-Williams: I've never heard something as compelling as what you have mentioned. Fine, consider me intrigued. But still, I don't know what you need help with. You have to be more direct than this.
Micayle: Simple. I need you to instruct me on how to further enhance the lethality of my blows. I may have learnt from some of the best martial arts instructors, but sports science always helps to refine the edge. You are an expert on the human body, and I am sure that you can teach me a thing or two. Are there any new fiberglass gloves in the market that can further enhance the hit ratio? Or perhaps a particular area that is extremely vulnerable to bleeding. I need information like that, and more.
Edward continues walking, deep in thought.
Jones-Williams: I do have something of the like. But I'm not quite sure if you are interested in it.
He fidgets in his coat pocket and retrieves a small translucent satchel. In it lies a small portion of brownish-white powder that seems to gleam in the sand. He holds it up and passes it over to Micayle.
Jones-Williams: You did say that the match was no disqualification, did you not?
Micayle: I did.
Jones-Williams: Then this thing would do the treat just for you. Watch.
The old man looks around for a suitable target, before eventually settling on a snow-covered pine tree. He carefully scrapes the bark away of any sharp edges before pouring a small portion of the powder on the trunk. Retrieving a small glove from his coat, Edward dons it and spreads the powder across the tree. In no time at all, a rudimentary bull’s-eye target is formed. The fine particles shine, looking almost like diamonds in the sky.
Jones-Williams: Here you go.
He takes the other glove out and passes it to Remus. The Scientist knits his brows in uncertainty.
Micayle: This is...?
Jones-Williams: Perfectly safe if you apply it on a protective surface. Trust me on this. Slip on that glove, and just deliver a punch into that target I just made. No worries there, I can assure you of that.
Micayle shrugs, and puts on the glove. He walks forward to the tree, takes aim, holds his breath, and shoots out a fierce right hook!
BAM!
To his shock, the firm-looking bark of the tree EXPLODES. If a passerby had walked past, he or she could be forgiven for assuming that the tree had been a target of a gunshot. Bits of dead bark lie meters away, and there is a huge dent in the center of the target. Amazed, Micayle turns back to look at his smiling mentor.
Micayle: ...
The elder scientist hobbles over with the aid of his walking stick, explaining as he makes his slow way to his protégé.
Jones-Williams: Ground SiO2 particles shaped by state-of-the-art heat machines and transmuted into a powder form. Makes for easy transportation of materials. For construction workers, where all they have to do is to add water into the powder to create the foundation needed for glass marking. Banned from most athletic competitions due to the risks involved, but after hearing what you have said... I think you could make good use out of it. Call it a cruor discharge, if you will. Apply it on your boots or gloves for maximum effect, and I guarantee you that blood will be drawn.
He clasps a withered hand on Remus's shoulder.
Jones-Williams: Well, what do you think?
The younger scientist didn't respond at once. Still caught in the moment of awe, he slowly removes his own safety glove, before whispering back. A susurrate so brief, yet at the same time so appropriate.
Micayle: Outstanding. Simply outstanding.
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Scene: Remus Micayle's apartment, New York City, New York, USA (Thursday 1745hrs, 19th December 2013)
From the outside, one wouldn't think that this apartment is home to anyone particularly rich or famous. But appearances can be deceiving: this very flat is where Doctor Remus Micayle stays in when he isn't off at conferences or at WCF matches. But he's currently occupied at the moment.
In the center of the apartment lies a plush living space. Though not a high-spender by any means, Micayle does splurge on his fancies, and the room reflects just that. A fifty-inch television is mounted on the wall, with several bookshelves tidily stacked next to it. Two classy looking armchairs are placed around a coffee table, which itself is home to yet more books. Casually sitting on one of the seats is Micayle, who is in the midst of analyzing a purchase he had just made moments earlier.
Picking up a loose clot of earth from an empty flowerpot he is currently holding up, he crumbles it between his fingers so that it resembles a fine powder. Lifting it up to his nose, Micayle takes a small whiff and lets out a soft sigh of appreciation. It smelt moist, and was no doubt full of organic matter that would provide excellent nutrients for plants to grow in. Perhaps when he has a bit of free time on his hand he would start planting a couple of sunflowers to beautify the room. The balcony would make a perfect location for the plants to get enough oxygen and sun...
DING-DONG! DING-DONG!
The bell rings, shaking Remus from his thoughts. Setting the flowerpot back onto the table, Micayle stands up and walks briskly to his front door. He looks through the eyehole, but fails to see anything but a shadowy figure. Curious, he cautiously opens it.
Hank Brown: Hello there Doctor Micayle!
Micayle takes a step back in shock. How did WCF's famous interviewer find out where he stayed, and more importantly, why did he visit him without prior warning? And is that a cameraman behind him? His happy demeanor fades at the thought of having to entertain a guest, and his usual grim expression appears.
Micayle: Good afternoon. What brings Hank Brown to my humble abode?
Brown: Not much really, just was hanging around in the neighborhood with Joe here, and thought that we could have an interview regarding your match at ONE! Haven't conducted a promo with you before, and I thought that this would be a great place to start. Would it be possible for us to come in and do just that?
A simpering expression mutates on Brown's face at that sentence, causing Micayle to grimace.
Micayle: Yeah, sure. Come right in. Careful to not get any mud on to the carpet, will you?
Beaming from ear-to-ear, both Hank and the cameraman walk into Micayle's home, looking around appraisingly as they did so.
Brown: Wow, not a bad place, is it? You must be really making a lot of cash with your rookie contract to afford this area.
Micayle: I suppose. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but is it possible for us to have the interview right now? I don't have a lot of time, and I would rather get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
It seems to have shaken Hank. Almost immediately, he makes his way to an armchair and sits down, signaling his assistant to come by his side. Micayle returns to his seat.
Brown: Of course, of course. I'm so sorry to intrude at such short notice. Shall we begin?
Micayle glowers at him.
Micayle: Let's go. I have about ten minutes; so let's make them count.
Hank flashes a cheeky grin.
Brown: As always. Let's start this, Joe.
The assistant focuses the lens and shows a thumbs-up sign. Taking the cue, Hank immediately adopts his 'on-camera' persona.
Brown: So we are here today to interview a very special guest. Making a name for himself in such a short span of time is no mean feat, and on Sunday, this very man will be making a hell of a debut. Not only will he be fighting a reputable opponent, he will be challenging for a championship in his very first match! I have with me today, Doctor Remus Micayle!
He turns towards Micayle and speaks. The camera follows suit.
Brown: So, Doctor Micayle, you're going to debut at our marquee pay-per-view, and I'm sure that the question on everyone's mind right now is this... do you think that you might actually stand a chance at defeating Ryan Rhodes and taking his United States championship away from him at ONE?
A moment of silence passes as Micayle fails to respond to Hank's question. Instead, the Scientist merely stares at the veteran interviewer. Perturbed, Hank fidgets.
Brown: Err... Doctor Micayle?
He continues staring down the interviewer for several more seconds, before letting out a soft sigh.
Micayle: Dear Hank, I must say that I am a mite disappointed in your questioning. As a professional broadcast reporter for one of the biggest wrestling federations in the world, are you really going to ask a question that many have already asked before?
Hank's eyes twitch nervously as he starts to explain his reasoning.
Brown: I... I... I ju...just presumed that for the official website, it would be a fresh sta--
But Micayle isn't letting his words flow out.
Micayle: No worries there dear sir. Just for your sake, I'll answer your question. Be sure that your video team is working properly though. I wouldn't want to redo this entire interview because of a technical hiccup.
Somewhat startled, the suddenly anxious Hank gestures violently for the videographer on duty to check on the working condition of the recording equipment. The man behind the camera sheepishly flicks on a switch (that powers up the entire camera) and gives a thumbs-up, while Hank visibly exhales in relief.
Brown: No... of course not! Please, let's go on with the interview!
Micayle shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
Micayle: And so it shall. You asked me if I think if I can defeat Ryan Rhodes at ONE. I think the answer need not be said. If I were to be afraid of the man, would I have challenged him for the title? If I were intimidated by Ryan's skills, would I have declared a takeover of his championship? If I feared wrestling Venom, would I have even dared to attempt the impossible and debut against him? It seems that all these rhetorical questions point to one answer only, Hank. And that answer is no.
Micayle: You need to know one thing about me Hank. I don't do things unless I am one hundred percent certain that results go as expected. Call it a... habit I gathered after all my years as an academic, but you will not see me going forward with a plan unless I can prove that without a shadow of a doubt it will work the way I intended it to.
The interviewer is furiously scribbling down notes as Micayle talks. He looks up and squints at the scientist.
Brown: So are you saying that you have a plan to handle the United States champion? And if so, what is it?
The scientist smiles.
Micayle: If I were to tell you, there goes the element of surprise, won't it? But seeing that you asked so nicely, here's a snippet of what is to come to Ryan at ONE. I've watched the man for a while now. From his debut a few months ago to his shock win over Steeltoe Joe to last week's title defense. I have observed his battle style and fighting technique and created a perfect counter measure.
Hank's pen is a blur now; desperately trying to copy every single quote down that he could obtain from the Arizona native.
Micayle: The mathematics behind are too complex for you, so I'll skip them. Essentially, what I've concluded is that there is no way possible that a fighter of his caliber can defeat me in the ring. Judging by last week's title defense against Cormack MacNeill and Jorge Diaz, Ryan still appears to be extremely vulnerable in certain aspects of the wrestling game. Pardon me for being blunt, but the entire match almost looks like someone wrote it! A wild free-for-all ends up with the champion somehow defying the odds to escape with a victory. A tad... strange, don't you think?
Brown: Ryan Rhodes is quite the superstar act--
But he just steamrollered past the comment.
Micayle: To be perfectly honest with you Hank, Ryan's not exactly my vision of a WCF champion, judging by the way he barely won that fight. He's bound to be exhausted. He's bound to be wary. And that's where things get interesting. He has never met me in a match before, and here we are partaking in a First Blood bout. He knows nothing about me, but I know everything about Mr. Venom. Ryan may be talented in the technical arts of wrestling, but I'm a bulldozer. This match is where I thrive. Brutal jabs to the throat to incite bleeding in the diaphragm. Blows that are aimed specifically at the thinnest part of the human skin to maximize the chance of bleeding. Carefully calculated shots to the weakest part of your spine to paralyze you. Can he do that? We don't know. Ryan Rhodes might think that he has experience on his side to make up for his lack of knowledge about my wrestling aptitude. But he'll see. Oh, he'll see.
Hank puts down his pen and paper for a moment to glance at Micayle. His eyes flash with annoyance for just a split second before returning to normal, but the Scientist catches it. Micayle props himself into a formal sitting posture in his armchair.
Micayle: I'm hazarding a guess that you don't quite agree with me here.
Brown: Not exactly. I may be intrigued by your abilities, Remus, but I highly doubt that Ryan Rhodes will make this an easy match. He is, after all, the man that dethroned Steeltoe Joe. I don't think he'll just let the United States championship just slide to a - forgive me here - rookie.
Both men stare at each other for a moment, before Micayle cracks a small smile. He starts chuckling, almost... mockingly? Confused, the WCF interviewer frowns.
Brown: What's so funny?
Micayle shakes his head in laughter.
Micayle: Oh, dear Hank, you crack me up so. A rookie in the WCF I may be, but you are sadly mistaken if you think I won't post a threat to the man. Oh, how I would like to show you what I could do, but I think lessons are better taught in the ring than on video. Anyone can talk a big game all day, but only the very best can back it up with his or her actions. But how can I blame you? The entire math suggests that the champion is the superior candidate, and the challenger is some hopeless lunatic on a suicide mission.
Brown: Now, I didn't say that. I ju--
He quietens at the movement of Micayle. Remus raises a finger in front of his face, silencing the chatty man.
Micayle: Just a tip to you, dear Hank. What the majority perpetually believes to be true may not necessarily true. In the fifteenth century, the Church believed that the earth was the center of the universe, with everything else revolving around us. The father of astronomy Galileo believed the exact opposite, and was humiliated for speaking that statement. But of course, today we know that Galileo was correct, and the church was wrong. Call me a modern day Galileo in that aspect. No more taunts or big words will you get out of me. Instead, I will prove to the world that I am correct in my assumptions. At ONE, I will win.
Abruptly, he stands up. He gestures towards the door and speaks.
Micayle: Now please, if you don't mind... leave me be. I've shared all that I have to say regarding the issue today. I have more research to conduct for my match at ONE.
Having no choice, Hank and the videographer stand up, and make their way to the door. Remus accompanies them and sees them out. Before Hank leaves, however, he extends a hand out towards the scientist. Micayle glances down at it and back up at the man, a slight bemused expression on his face.
Brown: Good luck Doctor Micayle. I think our quick chat today has been quite informative. All the best in your match, and may the odds ever be in your favor.
An absolutely repugnant look comes across Micayle at that very moment. He ignores Hank's outstretched hand and places a hand on the doorknob.
Micayle: I don't believe in luck, Hank. I don't just plan on beating those odds of yours at ONE. I'll crush them, and become your new champion, dethroning Ryan Rhodes in the process. Goodnight.
Without a second word, the door slams shut in Hank's face, cutting off any further contact for the time being. Grumpy murmurs can be heard, but to no avail. The doctor is officially out.
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He waited until the sounds of their footsteps have faded away, before advancing forward to look through the eyehole to make sure the coast was clear. Micayle's mind is occupied with thoughts of winning at ONE, and nothing else. The day is nearly over and only the topmost trees on the hill still glinted in the dying light. The rest of the apartment has already been plunged into stygian gloom, and soon, night will officially be upon the town.
As he stood there, a wash of light fell about his feet from the numerous lights that were being activated by the thousands of residents in the building, and once more, he heard the chatter and bustle of everyday life. Children crying out in joy or pain. The honks of vehicles desperate to return home. The conversations between a husband and a wife. He could sense warmth radiating from the environment, and he thought back about when he last experienced such a sensation.
Micayle moved, turning his back on the end of the day.
...
ONE is coming. There's no time for sentimentality. And certainly no time for weakness.
He had to train. For if not... how will Ryan Rhodes bleed?
The anti-venom that is the cruor discharge must be administered at all costs.
