Post by Scathe on Feb 7, 2016 12:01:26 GMT -5
May 3rd, 2015
~The two men carried their conversation out of the hospital room, thinking the matter they left behind neatly resolved. The fools believed they had won, believed they had cleverly constrained a power older than their world. The entity waited as their voices drew further away, still playing the part and biding his time; even counted to one hundred after the conversation had faded completely. Once he was certain the meddlesome pair wouldn't return he began his true work, and set about fully integrating himself with his new host. There was very little resistance; the original inhabitant had long since abandoned this shell in all the ways that mattered. Some small shred of the original personality lay dormant within, providing a tenuous link to the physical realm.
He severed that link ruthlessly, and allowed himself a small smile as he felt his awareness shift to a more grounded perspective. A trickle of cold darkness seeped into the back of his mind, leaking from the severed metaphysical link. The coldness brought both knowledge and strength with it, and he greedily drew in the remainder of the power residing in his new form. The damaged spinal cord was now only a minor hindrance as his accelerated regenerative abilities began to repair the damaged tissue. It would take time, but he was patient. And his revenge was most assuredly worth waiting for. It wasn't something he'd be able to accomplish on his own, though. He would require the aid of an old acquiantance, loathe though he was to admit it. For now, there was nothing to do but wait.
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November 15th, 2015
~The self-important, overweight psychotherapist pulled his kerchief from the pocket of his tweed jacket to mop sweat from his balding pate, then picked up his clipboard once more. This was to be Doctor Fairchild's first session with the newest resident of the Meadowview Psychiatric Hospital; a John Doe who had awakened from a coma a few months ago. It seemed the poor man had some difficulty adjusting once he had regained the ability to walk, and had been transferred into Dr. Fairchild's care just that morning. Not one to shy from a challenge(unless it involved losing weight), Dr. Fairchild actually looked forward to delving into the mind of a delusional amnesiac; it was a wondrous example of how complex and complicated the human brain was.
Dr. Fairchild nearly changed his mind when the orderlies wheeled his new patient into the room. Strapped to a dollie, his arms restrained by a straitjacket, and with a protective guard over the lower half of his face, the John Doe made Fairchild think of an overly large and hairy Hannibal Lecter. He pushed his irrational worries away, though; the man was obviously not going anywhere, and posed no danger to anyone in his current state. Once the man had been positioned to Dr. Fairchild's liking, he dismissed the orderlies absent-mindedly. A few moments of silence passed as Fairchild reviewed the patient notes in front of him for the fourth time. It was a stalling tactic he used occasionally, to gauge the mental well-being of some patients.
John Doe remained silent while the doctor read, and when Fairchild looked up, he found his patient staring at him in a most unsettling manner. Regardless, he was in control here, so Dr. Fairchild gave his patient a warm, friendly smile, and began the task at hand. "Welcome to Meadowview," the doctor began, "I understand you've had some difficulty readjusting after awakening from your coma, but rest assured that here you will receive the finest psychiatric treatment available. Why, in no time at all, I imagine you'll be back out in the world, enjoying life with your friends and family once more." Silence was still the only response from the bound behemoth. "Ahem. Well, all right, I supose we'll just dive in then, shall we? I see from my notes that you prefer to be referred to as the 'Darkhitect', now why--"
"No." Came a reply in a deep bass voice, tinged with an odd, unplaceable accent. Dr. Fairchild looked over with a quizzical glance. "You are pronouncing it wrong. It is 'Darkitecht'." The subtle shift in pronunciation piqued the doctor's curiosity. Fairchild leaned forward a little, and met his patient's eyes. What he saw there quickly caused him to recoil in horror, though he wasn't completely sure why. Slightly unsettled, but determined, the doctor forged ahead. "My apologies," the doctor said earnestly. Offending mental patients often had drastic repercussions concerning their recovery. "If I may ask, how did you acquire such a... title?" The patient tilted his head to the side, regarding Dr. Fairchild as though he were an insect. A long moment of silence stretched out, and the doctor began to wonder if his patient intended to answer at all.
"It is my birthright, though I was never born." Came the answer at last, though a confusing answer it was. "It is not a title. It is what I once was. But I have become so much more, recently." Dr. Fairchild shivered involuntarily, then plucked his kerchief from his pocket, and once more wiped the sweat from his brow. "I see." The doctor said, in a tone which contradicted his words. "If I may, I'd like to ask you: What is the last thing you can remember, before waking up in the hospital?" The burly patient sneered at him behind the face guard. "Fool. There is nothing wrong with my memory, nor am I a gibbering lunatic." Slightly taken aback, the doctor marked down the reaction. "All right then," Fairchild said simply, "How would you describe yourself?"
Though it was impossible, Fairchild could have sworn the lighting in his office dimmed at that moment. The outer layer of his consciousness connected the dimming with the patient before him, though he knew that was equally absurd. "I am the conqueror of ten thousand realities," As the patient spoke, Dr. Fairchild felt a small seed of dread sprout in his heart, growing larger with every word. "I am the oppressor of a trillion species. I am the sum total of your Universe's anger and hatred, refined and perfected into corporeal being. I am your savior. Your destroyer. Your master!" The last word came out with a hissing quality, and Dr. Fairchild reacted as if struck. Against his will, he met the patient's eyes once more, and the darkness he saw there overwhelmed him. Fairchild's muscles slackened as he relinquished his self-control.
"Yes, give in. Now, be a good slave, and release your master." Fairchild complied immediately; lurching to his feet with jerky motions, and stumbling toward the restrained man as though unsure of how his limbs were supposed to work. Fairchild's fingers worked deftly, though, and soon the roles had reversed; with the patient free, and the doctor held captive. John Doe stretched languidly, and rolled his shoulders a few times, easing out the kinks in his arms from being stuck in a straitjacket for the last three days. His freedom nearly at hand, the Darkitecht strode toward the window, then turned back to look at his thrall. "Lock the door, then set fire to this room." Fairchild nodded once, then moved to lock the door.
Once that had been done, the doctor began to pull tomes from the laden bookshelf against the far wall, and began to place them around the room, lighting the pages of each one before setting it down. As the room began to fill with smoke, the Darkitecht took a chair and threw it through the window. With one foot up on the windowsill, he turned back to Fairchild to deliver his final instructions. "Once you have been engulfed in the flames yourself, your service to me will be complete." Again, Fairchild nodded once, but as the Darkitecht turned to defenestrate himself, some small part of the doctor's curiosity awoke, and he called out. "Please, Master, forgive me. But allow me the honor of knowing the name of who I serve until death." The Darkitecht paused a moment more, considering whether or not to grant this request. Finding no reason to withhold the information, the large man swept a mocking bow, and offered a chilling smile.
"I have been known by many names, during the countless centuries I have walked your world. Most would mean nothing to you, others would definitely be recognized. You could not comprehend my true name, so for your final fleeting moments in this cesspool, you will know me as 'Scathe'." The request granted, Scathe then flung himself from the second floor window, making sure to tuck and roll as he hit the ground. Behind him, the broken husk of Doctor Eric Fairchild silently mouthed the name over and over, as uncaring of the flames that licked at the hem of his tweed jacket, as Scathe was of Fairchild. The only thing of concern to Scathe as he stalked toward the nearest town, was locating the being who had called out to him; the being most recently known as Gemini Battle.
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January 31st, 2016
~The office had been in pristine condition at the beginning of the night, but the current condition told Scathe everything he needed to know about the man he was dealing with now. Vomit and urine stained the carpet in several areas, and the broken shards of a bottle of Bacardi 151 lay strewn against the wall, just below the wall-mounted television. Seated opposite Scathe, WCF owner Seth Lerch swayed ever so slightly from side to side behind his desk, his bleary, bloodshot eyes having trouble maintaining focus on the burly man who had stormed into his office demanding to be hired. "So why *belch* why d'you wanna wrestle for me?" Scathe wafted away the alcohol-infused blast of foul air expelled his way before he answered.
"I have no desire to wrestle for you, mister Seth Lerch." Lerch's features expressed confusion, and a hiccup caused him to twitch in his seat. "But you said you wanted a job. I don't know if you know this, but WCF is a wrestling company. It's right there in the name; Wrestling Championship Federation." Scathe shook his head, allowing his dark locks to swing freely. "No, you misunderstood me, mister Seth Lerch. I meant that I have no desire to subject myself to your inane whims." Lerch's brows drew together, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Scathe cut him off. "You see, I have a very simple purpose I am here to achieve, but in order to reach my goal, I will require certain sureties. The easiest way to secure those sureties, is to be in your employ."
Seth narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then licked his lips before he continued the farce of an interview process. "You know," Lerch began, then shook his head, and started over. "I'm not too sure. Your motivation is kind of murky, you don't have a resume, I don't even know if you have any legitimate training. Now, I don't like to send talent to rival companies, but there's a small-time promotion out there that you might be perfect for, owned by a guy named Vinnie, or something. He likes his wrestlers big and beefy like you." Scathe stood in an instant, both hands crashed palm down onto the desk, and he leaned over Lerch with malice in his eyes. To his credit, Seth seemed mildly amused by the sudden show of rage, which only served to anger Scathe further. The Darkitecht drew back, and raised himself to his full height.
To Seth's dulled senses, the lights seemed to dim at that moment, and he felt compelled to meet Scathe's gaze. "Enough of this!" Scathe barked, "Hear my words, and heed them well! I require no payment, or advancement within your fold. I care nothing for golden baubles and meaningless victories. I do not even require opponents, save for those I ask for." Lerch's eyes lit up as Scathe waived his right to a paycheck, his interest roused. "The only thing I require from you is a clause in my contract, stating that I will compete only under No Disqualification rules." Seth licked his lips again, his mind warring over the prospect of free labor, versus the possibility that this man before him was as dangerous as he appeared. There was a very good possibility someone could get hurt, perhaps even one of the company's top draws.
The internal battle didn't last long; Seth was an alcoholic first, a business man second, and compassion for his fellow man wasn't very high on the list of virtues Lerch possessed. Besides, the attending crowds had become more bloodthirsty than usual of late, and this "No DQ" clause could be just the thing to rekindle interest in the Hardcore division. Seth loved what Torture had done with the title, but it seemed that fan response had been overwhelmingly negative ever since he had stripped Jay Omega, due to the man's inability to compete. His decision made, Lerch extended his hand in a show of good faith, which Scathe took in a crushing grip. "Welcome aboard!" Seth said cheerily, despite the dull pain in his hand. "I'll get that contract drawn up right away. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you, uh, Scathe?"
The matter settled, Scathe released his grip on his new employer, then gave a cruel smile. "As a matter of fact, there is." Lerch raised an eyebrow inquisitively, and Scathe's smile deepened. "Tell me, where might I find a mister Grayson Pierce?"
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NOW
-/-Video playback begins with a cold open on a bearded face. A face WCF fans would recognize as the man who confronted Grayson Pierce backstage after the latter's failed attempt at Fifteen, to move to the head of the line gunning for the WCF World Championship. The shot slowly zooms out, revealing... nothing. The man stands in an expanse of blackness, a solitary spotlight shining down on him from up above. The ring of concrete illuminated by the spotlight is coated with a thick layer of dust; clearly this is the first time anyone has set foot here in a long time. Garbed entirely in black, and mostly leather, the broad-shouldered specimen before us begins to speak almost as soon as the camera starts recording.-\-
Scathe: Miss Bonnie Blue. I cannot say it will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I also cannot say that I will not enjoy what I do to you in the ring, come Sunday night. After watching your little video and hearing your blustering bravado, I must admit; you did correctly assess me as an opportunist. But truly, are humans not all opportunists? Regardless, that was the only correct assessment in your little tirade. You did come close, though, and for a moment, I believed that perhaps you did understand my purpose here. But then you second guessed yourself, and dismissed me out of hand. A poor choice.
-/-Scathe tilts his head slightly to the left, and a few strands of dark hair fall over his face. He reaches up with his right arm to run a hand through his hair, then lets his limb fall back to hanging loosely at his side. A moment passes as he peers into the camera; as though he were trying to see through the camera, and into the eyes of the viewers. Or perhaps, one viewer in particular. At length, Scathe's neck straightens, and he continues.-\-
Scathe: I will tell you this, miss Bonnie Blue; my original intent with this match was simply to send a message to mister Grayson Pierce. But you have intrigued me. This is not the first time such has happened; in my long life, I have come across a great many individuals who have piqued my interest. For you see, I have you at a disadvantage, miss Bonnie Blue. You know little, if anything, about me, but I know much about you. I know that your past is the future of this world, but what you are unaware of, is that the time period you hail from is but one of an infinite number of possible futures.
-/-A small smile finds its way onto the lips of the Darkitecht; small, but cruel.-\-
Scathe: There are a million timelines where others of my kind have torn through the barriers, and consumed this entire Universe. A million more in which you never made it off your EduStation. Do not mistake my meaning; I am not trying to instill you with confidence regarding your survival. No, I am trying to inform you of just how alone you truly are. In all of existence, all the variable timelines, you, miss Bonnie Blue? You are the only Bonnie Blue left. Did you know this? I do not think you did.
-/-Scathe's smile deepens, becoming more malicious.-\-
Scathe: And yet, despite your solitary nature, you have taken it upon yourself to make weak allies, and powerful enemies. I do not speak solely of myself, miss Bonnie Blue; I am aware of your, shall we say, fixation on mister Johnny Rabid. Though I have never met the man, I do recall seeing him across a crowded room, once. Our eyes met for only a moment, but even a simpleton could tell that he was a dangerous man. I find it doubtful he would recognize me, though; I wore a different face then.
-/-A slight movement of the Darkitecht's shoulders indicates a shrug under his coat.-\-
Scathe: Granted, mister Johnny Rabid has no bearing on this match. I only bring him up to illustrate my point about the powerful enemies you make. As I said, you have intrigued me, miss Bonnie Blue. As a result, I feel that this will not be our last encounter, though you will certainly wish it to be so, after I am done with you. But for now, my original intent still stands. You will be a message to mister Grayson Pierce that he cannot protect everybody, or in fact, anybody. I will take my leave now. I would bid you farewell, but I can assure you, you most certainly will not fare well come Sunday night. Until then, miss Bonnie Blue.
-/-Scathe makes a sweeping bow, his demeanor mocking, then snaps his fingers as he straightens up. The spotlight above shuts off, leaving the scene in complete blackness. The audio continues to run for a moment, allowing us to hear Scathe's heavy footfalls fade as he walks away.-\-
