Post by Kyle on Oct 4, 2015 16:45:17 GMT -5
BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP
The scene: a pristine, stark hospital room with its implied odors of sterility and life-granting technology. Black and white checkered flooring dazzle the eyes of those well enough to see it and haunt the dreams of those who caught mere glimpses of it between their conscious and unconscious existence. Soft, slippered footfalls practically slide over the ceramic tile, scooting ever closer to the dazed figure aloft in the bed, her body angled so her neck and spine were not aggravated by the rise and fall of her petite, endowed chest. Circe Cicero gave no indication that she felt this presence getting closer to each with each passing moment. Her face and pale neck, where two weeks before--or was it a day, so hard to tell--a vile man had grabbed her and broke her. Inward, so only the innocent face could be seen, the face that many would deem beautiful, marred and mauled because she had stood up for a cause. Her nose, forever slightly askew from a playground accident in third grade; it had been her defining trait, a beautiful scar, but it was now forever overshadowed by the fright in those blue eyes, closed yet trembling. Even in this induced coma, fear was evident, fear was lasting. In, into the eye the presence goes, until pale white becomes lasting darkness, having zoomed too far into the woman known as Miss Cicero.
BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP
The presence retracts and we find ourselves in a vastly different, yet eerily similar scene. Rapid ascent upward reveals Patrick Ignatius Gardner, naked from the waist up, supine and breathing calmly. There was no fear in his eyes, just a euphoric calm seemingly emitted into his massive frame from the IV strapped to his forearm. His wounds from his recent hunt had been bandaged, the grazing on the ribs and another wound, though not visible, was implied to have happened. Or will happen, a future war to be fought after others, a battle against a vicious beast, a battle that, in comparison to all others, would simply be known as the One. . . but that would be too far along in this narrative. Know simply that Legion lied there, sore but elated by his position. And at his feet, still wearing the mud-dried boots he favored, were two figures.
BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP
The first was known to us by the back of his gleaming, bald head, and dark, black robes. Atticus' eyes were intent on some undecipherable gauge connected to the IV in Patrick's arm. Yet even with such focus on this task of his, he still found the time to show deference to this second figure, his scalp thick with obsidian hair, a shimmering shade of night and darkness and death. The man wore it wild because he knew a man's hair defined him and he was, at the most simplest of definitions, unpredictable. His hair, many mornings no different than now, would one day find itself styled on its own accord, a method to the madness. Those were the days where greatness were performed and weapons were awoken.
BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP
Atticus stands to his full height, topping the wild man beside him yet still looking short in his presence.
"The solution has been fully administered, my lord. He is ready for your guidance."
This figure, this man if he even be labeled as such, stepped forward slowly, methodically. He made nary a sound as he crossed the barren, welcoming room. Man feared the very things that saved them, the hospitals and the doctors, because they knew in their hearts that it was not the answer. No, it was this place, the root and core of a man's broken soul, that he found the answers they were looking for. Here the answers would come creeping up, while your heart went.
The figure had reached the head of the stone slab Legion laid upon. He reached out with a handless arm.
The figure cupped Legion under the beard, under the chin, under the very essence of his being, with that stump.
And the figure leaned in close, his hot breath close to the seemingly deaf ear of the seemingly dead Legion.
And the answer spoke to him.
And somewhere, in a far off land that was so, so close, Legion followed.
The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.
Legion rises to his feet in a sea of darkness that molds itself, all around him, into an image. As if falling, his boots suddenly clanks audibly as they landed on a brick pathway, yellow in hue, a blinding light in the remaining darkness around him. That too, is replaced by conifer pines alight in a fire that seemed to consume the entire forest surrounding him. The yellow brick seemed to dull in comparison to that light. And then, far in the distance, an even greater beacon exploded, dulling even the fire around Legion. Oh how great the beacon was; it made Legion like a bug, a gnat, drawn to is consuming light. He lifted himself, his being, his head, his hand.
His red hand.
Legion's right hand was red, redder than the color itself ever hoped to achieve in its life and existence. It was a blinding red, a light so bright that it made the yellow bricks, the burning forest, and the beacon in the distance look black. The finger was extended, pointing to the vicinity where the beacon had been, north and atop a hill. He felt himself being called to, a deja vu feeling deep down inside of him. It looked oh so differently, yet it felt the same. Because something inside of him, something that once wasn't there but now so heavily was, knew it had been here before. And then a voice spoke to him in a whisper through the whipping wind between the burning willows--excuse me, pines--all around him.
And so he did. He lowered the red hand of his existence and he began down this yellow-hued path towards the beacon where a voice inside of him hoped there would be an answer. Out of the burning pines, the representation of his recent reality, he escaped, onto the battered, muddy remains of a battleground. Suddenly, the neigh of horses as riders appear on both sides of him. Knights of various shades of gray and black charged one another on this forsaken ground, with Legion standing there between them. The voice whispered once more, following him out past the trees where it had seemingly resided.
"This not a fight worth your time. They are beneath you."
But the human inside of him urged Legion to stay, to observe, because these foes could very well veer off and pierce him. He remained firm footed, as the two forces while Athena on his left, flanked by two massive warriors in black as they rushed to meet Goliath Returned and David with many faces. And amongst them all, his hand began to burn, trying its hardest to pull him beyond. A tug-of-war while war waged around him and his hand, his guiding presence. With heavy resistance, as David slung a stone from atop of his horse that shattered skull and helm of one of the dark warriors, Legion took a step forward.
"Say it. Say those simple words."
"Night Rider, you are beneath me."
Athena, from atop her chariot, launched a blazing javelin at Goliath, who caught it in his massive hands. He held it, debating internally as his massive steed carried him forward, but did not throw the spear back. The hesitation marked the end of him as a bolt from the second black knight's crossbow caught him dead in the eye. And Legion took another step as the world around him shook as Goliath fell.
"Thomas Bates, you are beneath me."
Athena's chariot is overturned by the force of Goliath's fall, sending her flying overhead as the horses drawing it broke their legs and collapsed in a heap. She landed roughly, eyes to the opaque sky above, as David rides her over, letting his own horse, whose legs were strong despite the tremor, crushing her underneath. And Legion, whose legs were just as strong, took another step.
"Denise D'Evil, you are beneath me!"
That left only David and the black knight, circling one another atop their mounts. The knight drew a massive greatsword from the scabbard on his back, holding out with one hand in challenge to young David, who had but his sling. And Legion took another step, and another, as many steps as it took until he stood in between the two figures. With a force beyond measure, beyond himself, Legion's right hand was lifted high and pointed at the knight. It was a dazzling, darkening show the way the light danced off the midnight of the man's armor. The man, the voice inside him, around him, whispers, not the God's. There was only one God, and it was not he.
"Oblivion, you are beneath me."
And where he stood, the God smote the black knight, boiling him and his horse in their armor and leather, until nothing but the very natural bones of their existence were left. Legion turns, aiming the divine cannon he wore at David, who sat, seemingly unfazed by the display of power, aiming his sling at the man standing on the yellow brick.
"Say the words, Legion, so we can move on."
But instead, in resistance, Patrick spoke to David.
"I wonder how often you have thought yourself alone, Gemini, battling the voices in your head knowing that no one rightfully understood. Your brothers, your DRG brethren, probably said they knew, they understood; your friend, Thomas, probably even tried to lead you to the Lord, because it would be through him that you would be cured. Yet he only left you without your gold and still asking yourself 'Am I Grayson of Gemini today.' Your opponents, the officials, the fans didn't care, didn't try to help anymore than friends did. No one cares how you are when you arrive or when you leave that arena. Its only how you perform inside that ring, where issues couldn't possibly arise, that determines the worth of a man. And that . . . that is a hard existence.
I know, Gemini, I really do.
People have questioned why a pig farmer would up and leave his world for a place like the WCF. And I asked the questioned many a time as well, knowing the answer in my heart: they wouldn't. A pig farmer would remain a pig farmer, if in his heart, he was indeed one. But I knew, in my heart, or in the void where I heart should be, I was never one. It was a prison, a swine-induced cell, until my true purpose would be revealed. I convinced myself otherwise, that it was my calling, my life, my existence. But then a single visit on a fateful, fair day, erased all of those preconceived notions. The itch, the whispers, the desire to hurt people; they resurfaced, rekindled in my mind and my heart, and I followed the voices.
Voices unlike yours, Gemini, dangerous voices. You question your existence every week, who you are as a person. But I . . . I don't believe I am one anymore. Because these voices I hear are not my own, they aren't trying to unlock themselves within me. No, they're trying to suppress the being inside of me, make into the weapon they know I can become. I want to stop it, I want to overcome, but the light, the fire, its too--"
Patrick screams and lifts the hand to his face, casting shadows across the battle ground. And then Legion spoke.
"Gemini Battle, you are beneath me."
And then David dissipates into a blazing inferno that winks out, leaving nothing behind.
"This Sunday, I show you a tortured soul convicted and convinced by his actions. No more of this he said and then he replied sort of thing; there will always be the questions of just who you are, Gemini, but the image of Legion will finally be firmly established in this company. You just want to do too much: Win War, pin Torture, end Angels of Death in given a chance. You've created three personas within yourself in hopes that they can help you achieve them all, when together, you will do none of it. But I . . . I will accomplish the goal I have set for myself. I am to build a foundation for the ascension of a God, a temple to honor the being to come. And like the Egyptians and the Chinese before me, I am more than willing to do so by burying the bodies of those involved in its construction in the process. So come one, Grayson, Livewire, and Gemini, and come all, so that I may show you, and those around you, just exactly in what ways they are beneath me."
The beacon flashes in the distance, calling the gnat forward past the dead, past the burnt sacrifices to the wind and the God. His feet, his booted feet bouncing off the yellow stone, carried him past the battleground to the foot of the hill, where the sanctuary, the beacon awaited him. Then he began to splash, as water rose around him, enveloping his legs, trying to swallow him. Creatures began to circle him in the rising seas, half-man, half-fish, a whole shoal of them crowding around the lowly pig as he tried to thread water. The lapping waves began to glow and vibrate, flashing neons and heart-thumping beats. And then the fish began to swim closer, flailing, waves fins and tails and whatever else they thought would attract the attention of those watching. Some of the water splashed into Legion's mouth, burning it from the taste of alcohol tainting the water. He was so close to ascending the hill, but the waters had risen first to impede him.
"Push through, Legion, these fish are nothing to you. Ascend that hill where they cannot follow."
So Legion, in the slow walk of a man in water, tried to climb that hill that the water was so desperately trying to overtake. One of the creatures, an ugly tan female with her sagging breasts bare (because these creatures often found themselves shirtless and fornicating with one another) swam too close and earned a backhand across the head. It was a satisfying crunch to hear his palm crush her thin, brainless, skull as she sunk into the rainbow waves. Despite the predicament, he even smiled."
"Hands off the coconuts, Sandy."
The water, with its flashing blues and greens and pinks, began to take on a reddish tint from the blood escaping the creature's head, sending the fish around him into a frenzy. Their flails and gyrations became more pointed, hoping to knock Legion off of his feet and drown him beneath the weight of their numbers. One creature, midnight black, grabbed Legion by the throat, hoping to drag him under, earning a heavy hand into his scaly jaw. The creature sunk like a rock as Legion pushed forward, rubbing his tender and wet neck.
"Martin Luther King Junior and Rosa Parks had dreams and goals too, even successes, but look where they ended up, Andre. You announced you intention for Torture's domain, so go ahead and take. If you fail, we expected nothing less out of someone like you. If you succeed, it will be short-lived and your demise will be the thing remembered more than anything. But leave me out of your sinking ship, boy. I want no part of you and will leave nothing of you either, if you proceed to do more than you're possibly capable of."
Legion has found where the hill began to incline. He places one foot onto the solid footing, only to have another such creature bearing water markings across his body, tried to knock it a loose. Grabbing the creature by the scruff of its neck, he throws the creature into the rocky hill, pinning his face against it with his boot.
"A fitting place for the likes of you Rico Rojas, the chewed up gum and the dog shit all on the bottom of Wade Moor of Los Tibourone's boot. They saw that vile concoction, saw you, Rico, and figured you were just as good as any of the garbage they hang out anyway. You were a part of the Krew, wining and dining on all the booze and women your celebrity friends could provide. You should've been satisfied with that, satisfied in the position you had been given, and spoke not a word above your position. But instead you thought I like my voice and I know if I yell loud enough, they will too. So you joined the WCF hoping that if you screamed loud enough into Zach Davis' mic set, you would be heard and remembered
And then Dustin Beaver, the man who screams just as loud as you do and has at least found success with it, put you under his boot back where you belong.
You're scum, Rico, pure and utter scum who thinks just because they had a connection to water that you were fit to swim in it; I step in a fucking puddle, Rico, and don't assume my boots are meant to swim in. You talk loud, curse louder, but if that was the prerequisite for being in your little posse, than I better see Gonzo wearing Beach Krew blue soon, because he took a dive in the water too and survived. And it seems that that is all it takes for you guys, survival. You lost to Dustin Beaver, but you weren't pinned, so your credibility survived. You're going to be pinned at War, but its going to be a fluke, or a mistake, or just a product that in a match of fifty people, forty nine will be pinned; but you're credibility will be intact, right, Rico Rojas would live to toke another day with his homeboys.
Not if he finds himself under my boot, he won't.
Wade Moor cherished you down there and Dustin Beaver didn't know how to capitalize when he had you beneath him, but I am a man who has defined his career by breaking necks and stomping heads into oblivion. And you got a nice, ripe head, Rico, rotten at the core and soft to the touch. One misstep, or in my case, my intention should we cross paths," Legion steps up, squishing the creature's head under his boot, "your pitiful excuse for a brain is going to adorn the inner crevices of my boot like little bubblegum. And then some other poor sap is going to have to find a mic and yell about it for you."
Legion nearly finds dry land, until a pair of hands latch onto his other ankle. Hopping back on one foot, Legion drags out with his leg a rather young creature, his scales even lacking peach fuzz between them.
"Meanwhile Kyle Kemp does what he does best; latch onto the ankles of those he thinks are going places, hoping they will drag him along for the ride. You were there, Kyle, when I found myself caught in the horde of you partying fools at Slam, talking crap in the hopes to be noticed. I'd call that the theme of your existence, boy, hoping your words would be enough to carry you along. I can only think of your constant jabs you'd take at Bates over the past few months, reminding him about your successes versus his failures. Cute, it was, humorous even, but also telling to just the man you are. You'll kick a man when he's down and out, because you know in your eyes and those watching, its just a winner standing proudly over a loser. And then you're given the man to beat, John Gable. You're given the newcomer who has survived, your people's favorite concept, in Wolf. And you were given Spencer Adams, the man you beat, but you didn't dominate. You had all three, the slam before War, as a statement to make.
But you said you didn't have time for this.
You saw ankles of men who weren't going anywhere, who couldn't feed you scraps off their table, so you just didn't bother to show up. You thought War would be the place to ride coattails, so you waited. Fifty men, Kyle, I'm sure you can do the math; think of the women who scorn you because all you want to do with them is cling to their feet. One hundred breasts, Kyle, on women missed out of and one hundred ankles who aren't looking for a gnat like you to bite on to. Many of them will just carry you back to the locker room where you belong, a few will make you think you're going great places but then fail and one . . . I will not take you to the places, the heights that I'm going to. This is my hill to ascend, Kyle, not for a leech like you to follow. You chose Beach Krew, Kyle, so go drown in the piss and the filth with the rest of them."
Legion kicks the young creature back into the water, knocking the corpse of the tattooed creature in as well. The waters stilled, the lights stopped flashing, and for the briefest of moments, Legion thought it over. Until two of the alpha creatures rose from the depths on scaled legs, standing at the edge of the hill watching Legion. One wore a mask of coral, the other a beard of kelp; both bore envious red eyes for the wandering, who had already begun his ascent up the hill they wished so desperately that their waters could climb. Legion held his arms open wide, his hand burning brighter and stronger than their arms ever wished to achieve.
"I stand face to face with the greatest men to ever rise from that sea and I scoff, nay I spit, at the notion that they will do anything but look up at me!"
This only incites the creatures as they stand, ankle deep in the water, so frightened to leave their safety, their home. The masked one scratches at his coral, the bearded one ripping out the kelp.
"No matter what you two believe, Los Tibourones and Wade Moor, you are both beneath me. And you ask, nay you scream to the beats of the hottest dubstep, why I even dare to claim such blasphemy. You both come into War fighting not one, but two matches with gold and fame on the line, yet I have the audacity, nay the balls--because fools like you wouldn't know to how to use audacity properly--to say you're below me. Television Champion, possible Internet Champion. How are men like that Beneath me?
If only I could've asked that question to you, Tibourones, when Teo del Sol came crashing down onto you from a top the cage, the entire arena exploding at the sight, hoping that you would finally be conquered. I wish I could've whispered it to you when you forsook your identity, as Teo ripped it off of your face, for a cheap victory. I wish I could've been there, right beside you, when Seth announced that fourth match, because I could've pointed to it all with my glowing hand and say 'this why.'
And I wish, Wade, oh so wished I had been on that balcony to remind you who the real winner was at Revenge when Scarecrow took a different sort of tumble. You too took the cheap victory, thankfully one that did not yield gold like that of your partner, but cheap and worthless none the less. And when Scarecrow was receiving the homage deserving of a fellow competitor, you tried to interrupt, to steal the fame and make it into infamy. Yet Scarecrow will be remembered and you won't Wade, remember that, you won't be remembered. I wish I could've told you before now, I really wish I could."
The two creatures, fuming from the onslaught of words in languages they did not understand, finally took a step out of the water. Legion beckons them forth, calling them further up the hill as he begins to ascend it, backwards treading.
"But I have you both now, attentive and in my domain, that of the hill. Because that, my fishy friends, is where you have messed up, what I wish I could've warned you about. Beach Krew was a humorous concept when it was just a group of wannabe friends who smoked dope, fucked women, and played the part of nuisance in the WCF. You people played in the water you were raised in, splashed those who got too close, and then stayed within yourself. But then you people thought it best to practice your leaps out of the water. You got showy, you got reckless, and by the grace of some clueless being above, you've actually landed on dry land and some poor unsuspecting ant near the water.
But you're outside the water now, Tibourones and Wade, and the water isn't following you. Kyle Kemp and Andre, Rico and Sandy . . . they're still swimming away, oblivious to your desire to overtake the hill. Yet you still press on, gasping for lack of oxygen and flailing around, landing a blow here and there while you flop in your death throes. But you're not being memorable and you're not making lasting impressions. Fans will speak of the steel cage match by first mentioning the dive before the flop, Tibs, the Last Man Standing match with the death before the life. You people are way over your heads, and in this analogy, it isn't even water surrounding you.
Nay, its the empty expanse of success that before you had only tasted mere glimpses of it, leaping out of your water like a fucking trick pony, and what you're not cut of for come War."
The creatures made it a considerable distance up the hill, with Legion ever in front of him, before collapsing to the hard ground. Even then, they try to drag themselves forward by their hands, but in the end, they run out of breath, out of steam, out of time. And Legion only stands there, arms still wide, hardly breathing hard from the long climb.
"War will not be a familiar place to you two, Tibs and Wade, not a welcoming place indeed. Because you think you and your cronies will have the advantage. You think that once you get all six of you in the same ring, it'll be pure and utter domination. You think as the crowd thins, the blood starts flowing, that a frenzy won't erupt, that you people won't start fighting amongst one another. You think you're above the tension, the dissension in the ranks, but you're oh so wrong. And not only are you wrong, its your fault, Los Tiburones and Wade Moor, because you have tasted what its like to be out of that water.
And why go back to that, honestly ask yourself back? Why, after achieving a semblance of greatness, would you return to the depths of obscurity and irrelevancy? Why be just another equal member of the watery joke in the WCF when you could be a great champion, a great competitor, even a War winner? You won't, you just fucking won't. Let Sandy Coconutz and Andre Aqurius vow to not hit one another, but when push comes to shove, you two will fight back, you will try to conquer friend and foe, in your quest to achieve the crown of the hill. Because that's War is, you two, War is hell.
Its not a fucking day on the Beach.
And this identification of individuality will, in turn, be your down fall. Because after you've rid the ring of your friends, the men and women had had helped you get to the places you are today--Tibs wouldn't have gotten the third match if Sandy hadn't interfered and Wade's entire match was built on the antics he and his friends had performed--you will have no one to defend you against the real competitors. You will be alone, utterly alone, against the onslaught of real men who just don't like you or what either of you have become. So fight alone or, somehow, prove us wrong and fight alongside one another.
Either way, you will end up the same way as any other fish out of water."
Dropping his arms, Legion turns away from the carnage below and finally, finally ascends the hill in search of this beacon, this light in the night. It was a short, suspenseful climb, that yielded greatness. Or at least, greatness with decrepitude seated on its doorstep. It was the Pantheon, in all of its Grecian glory, a shining light on the hill. It had shined so bright it had attracted other bugs, five to be exact, though two had become no more than rotting carcasses to feed on. The other three, dressed like the Gods they had once been, feasted on them outside their old home, a home they were unfit to reside in any longer. Legion stops short of these figures, the only thing between him and the contents on the inside.
"You are almost there, Legion. Don't let these bugs, these Fly wannabes, stand in your way."
The voice spoke only to Legion, yet the three Gods before him seemed to hear, seemed to sense the looming threat. They rose from the fresh meat who thought it wise to try and join their ranks. They stood, coiled, ready to defend . . . well, it was difficult to see whether they were defending their meal or the temple that they were too unfit to live in. It made no difference because they would not stand in his way. The first, the largest of the trio, charged him. Legion--or was it a greater force--that raised the red hand and sent a force of wind outward, blowing the God off the hill.
"Hasty behavior from the SPED flunk-out Alex Richards, the 'tard who didn't like me calling him out on it. Did I ruffle some feathers when I made that comment on your intelligence, or was that Jeff Purse's superkick? Its pathetic really, truly, that the week after I pinned you on the mat, you and your band of misfits, you exiled Gods, went and won the Trios Title. It speaks worse for Gemini Battle and company, but if you've paid any attention from your hill, you'd already know that. DRG has the AoD, Beach Krew will have each other before the night is over, so that leaves only you three standing in my way. Dexter and Gunther?
Fucking meat between the teeth of you false idols.
No, at the end of the day, it will be men like yourself, Alex, special or not, who stand in my way for ascending into the golden temple. And you can probably guess at my delight in that fact because I get to walk over men that, not only have I beaten in the past, but who hold a special place in my heart. You people are Pantheon, the Gods of the WCF, and I am a herald of a new God, one whose name you all know, all joke, all dismiss. But you have all heard of him and, at the end of the day, that is why he is coming to replace the likes of you.
But first, you get me Alex, and you cannot even blame anymore but yourself. You cannot give Doug Murdock the victory in our prior match because by the end of it, he wasn't there. I outlasted everything, capitalized on the rookie error of our champions and pinned you clean in the ring. You, Alex, the little down syndrome kid who doesn't want everything to think he's slow. You had your chance last time to shut me up, make me eat my words, but you soiled yourself in the heat of the moment, you choked, you lost. How are you going to rectify that in a match where the intensity is multiplied, the stakes are higher, and your friends suddenly aren't your friends anymore.
When Jeff Purse kicks you this week, its because he meant it.
But my goal is to get there before it happens. The last thing I want is someone like you, Alex, to think they accomplished something in this match, that they're bigger than they really are. That would've worked with the likes of Pantheon three years ago, but twenty fifteen is a whole new ball game and, as I've already shown you before, no special kids allowed."
The second God, unfazed by the flying figure over the hill, charges Legion. A second breath of the red hand, and he too is set far, far away.
"Jay Omega, a name that tastes so familiar, so vile. You at least recognize the threat I have become, in comparison to who I was when I started, and know the threat that I am. Your partners fail to grasp that and they're the ones who have crossed paths with me. But you, Jay, see me for who I am and yet you still blow it off. You think you've found the alternate universe amongst all your travels where everything you says turn to gold.
Tell that to your fucking vision when David Sanchez filled it up with the shiny color of your failure.
David Sanchez didn't win that match, Jay, but neither did you; a winner would've have Sanchez in a position where even thinking of going for belt, thinking at all, would not be an option. Instead you fought hard, fought long, and then lost in a winning fashion. How different is that from War, Jay, honestly and truly. You're going to come hard, there is no doubt, eliminate some big names, maybe even walk out as the Hardcore Champion. But then, after you've fought to your limit, you realize there's no gas left in the time-traveling tank and you fall. You collapse, someone swoops in and steals the pin, and you leave, a loser but not quite a loser. That's a hard road to walk, but someone has to do it. So why not you, Jay? Why not be something big? Not the biggest, because we both know you're not cut for that, but big. Be the Hardcore Champion this company deserves, restore glory to a dying group of friends. Be everything but the War winner, because otherwise, you'll be nothing at all."
That left only one figure who did not charge Legion as he strode closer. Nay, this figure stood defiant at the door, planning on fighting until the last drop of sweat he had left. Legion held the hand out, the voices urging him on, as he spoke.
His hand was within touch of Jeff Purse's face, but the God did not move.
The hand touched the God's face and burned through it, reaching straight into its very being. The fire consumed the body, until only Legion stood there, hand outstretched, the remnants of a old people dancing around him in the form of ash.
"Jeff Purse, you were so close to the truth, but you went blind again.
My message was clear when we crossed paths three weeks ago, the implications clear. Who am I to actually know when the message I bring is to be enacted. I am but a man, a vessel, no different than yourself save for the fact that I have the patience to wait for the inevitable to become so. You cower in your bed, shield Kari from the dangerous world, but when things don't happen on your time, you stumble. You stumble, you ignore the signs for what they wore, and you spit in the face of the messenger. Oh how bad you shall look when the day comes and I can simply sit back and watch, my task having been completed.
But that will not come at War, so onward I bear, continuing forward to further my goals. And they will push onward no matter the resistance you place against it. Because I, Jeff, have felt just what your capable of, as it flew like air above my head and struck another. The most malice, the most vicious you've ever been in a long, long time, and you kick the wrong man. And oh what a mistake that was. You had the chance, the chance to delay, the chance to send a message of your own. The inevitable would still occur, but he would've at least known. Now, he questions why you still hold a place in his heart."
"Why Jeff Purse, why?"
"So at War, you have a chance to prove him otherwise. Three years ago, you outlasted a God to become a legend and have done nothing since then but floundered and fail. Yet you still remain a part of him, one that he seeks to snuff out. And all of that will come soon enough.
But come War, it will be I who breaks Pantheon on my quest to fulfillment. You have already fallen so far from where you were before and the Trios Title were just a desperate grasp for leverage. At War, though, Pantheon will not fight as one, which is why they won't fight at One. This is a match for a single man, and a single man will be the one to overcome it all. No alliances, no friends, nothing but himself. He we will win, He must win."
Legion steps forward, to the entrance of the temple, placing his red hand on the entrance.
"Because otherwise who is he?"
The door parts and Legion steps into a deeper part of himself. This tower once held golden statues, thirty feet high, but none of that remained. No, between the columned arches was chained a single man: Legion himself. A younger Legion, though, without the beard and with a little more weight. This man wore overalls over his flannel, but the same scuffed boots, the blue eyes. He evoke . . . well nothing to many who saw him in this way, broken and beaten, but to a choice few, this was a revelation. Because this man, he had been a wrestler years ago, one who had once unleashed the worst plague onto wrestling in a small company known as ACW. It was a plague untried there, but one that had changed the landscape of the WCF forever. And Legion, the man who was as many, had helped bring it there. And he was trying to bring it back.
Legion drew close to himself, the beating of a heart in his ears as the voice spoke to him.
"The greatest foe you will face, my creation, is you yourself. I've shown you a glimpse into your past so you know where I have brought you from. A broken, pitiful man with no direction, no goals, no success. Your name evoked joy, laughter, and excitement, but it was not the name of a winner. Now, by the grace of a God, you've been given a new one, the name of a champion, a name of the conqueror of War. The choice is yours, though. Who are you?"
The hand points at the chained figure in front of Legion.
"Are you Bubba Anthony?"
"Are you Patrick Ignatius Gardner?"
"Say your name."
"And what is your purpose"
Legion opens his eyes to find himself lying on a stone slab, looking into the face of a God. On his visage, he bore a palm print, red in hue, like war paint.
"Your right hand."
Nathan von Liebert laughs as Legion, painted and ready for war, lies there as the scene slowly fades out.