Tequila Sunrise

[Jay Omega]

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"It's funny how often we celebrate by poisoning ourselves."
-Johnny Moscato
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St. Regis Hotel, Mexico City
May 2nd, 2016
0121hrs, Local Time

~It hadn't taken long at all for DeMarcus Jordan to live up to his word, and put together a late-night celebration worthy of a first round victory in the Trios Cup Tournament. Now the party was in full swing, encompassing every inch of the St. Regis Suite; the largest and most expensive suite in the hotel of the same name. Celebrations had been few and far between in the recent history of Captain Jim Megaron, known colloquially in this reality as Jay Omega. And those few were generally limited to a single drink in somber silence, as such occasions generally came with a price paid by friends. But these people... He marveled at the way they simply enjoyed life with such reckless abandon.

  Though he was trained to adapt, and had had a week and a half to do so, he was still having some difficulty adjusting to this somewhat peaceful world. That he barely slept didn't help. Jim found it amusing that - in this world - people of power and import often stepped into a wrestling ring in order to settle grudges, and handle personal matters. Violence was still the go-to method of conflict resolution in Cpt. Megaron's reality of origin; it just wasn't televised for entertainment purposes, and had a tendency to be far more lethal. It was also a more grueling experience; some firefights lasting for hours at a time. His earlier wrestling match had hardly been fatiguing in comparison, and Jim felt he'd be getting no sleep tonight, either.

  And not only because of the surrounding festivities, though the revelry going on all about him was likely to last until the sun rose. Megaron wasn't sure how Jordan had gotten so many people to turn out for the celebration, and he was reasonably certain DeMarcus didn't actually know most of them. None of that really mattered, though; all that mattered was that the party was dope, fly, bumping, jumping, grooving, moving, and various other slang adjectives synonymous with enjoyable. Jim hadn't seen either DeMarcus or Bonnie Blue in a while, but the pungent odour of marijuana smoke wafting from the dining area gave him an idea as to Bonnie's location.

  Perhaps if Megaron were to try emulating the carefree attitudes of the party-goers around him, he'd be able to relax enough to sleep more than and hour and a half at a time. That led to an entirely new set of problems though; if he could somehow find solace in real sleep, then there was a good possibility he would also dream. Thoughts of what he knew awaited him there were enough to make Jim shudder, and reconsider his ambitions of actual rest. Of course, there was one solution... It wasn't viable on his world, but there was no war to speak of here; no need to keep his senses sharp and ready at all times. No reason not to get blackout drunk, and spend the night in the sweet embrace of oblivion.

  Megaron chuckled to himself as he slipped through the crowd; in this reality, that phrase had a far more horrific meaning than what he had in mind. Jim stepped into the kitchen, where the majority of the liquor was being kept, and ran an unpracticed eye over the assortment of bottles. The closest thing to alcohol he'd had in years had been sparing doses of something made by Gold Squad's mechanic, Natch. He called it "Huwhaha", which was the sound most people made after drinking it. The cloudy brown liquid smelled vile and tasted worse, but one drink was often more than enough to do the trick. It also pulled double duty as an industrial engine de-greaser.

  Ingrained association sent Megaron's hand reaching toward a bottle of clear liquor - his logic dictating color and opacity being indicative of quality - and he withdrew from the kitchen with a 26 ounce bottle of Patron tequila. Jim threaded his way through the sea of strangers, most dancing in an intoxicated frenzy to the beat of some Latin pop song he was unfamiliar with, and tried to make his way to the master bedroom at the back of the suite. The press of bodies became too great as he tried to edge out of the living area, and after a shove from behind, Megaron suddenly found himself looking into the large brown eyes of a bouncing, buxom señorita. Her full, pouty lips curved up into a dazzling smile as she recognized him.

  "You ... wrestler ... Omega!" Jim could barely hear her broken English over the bass-heavy electronic beat. He shrugged helplessly, and tapped at his ear with the forefinger of his free hand. The attractive woman's excited expression faded as she understood, and she began to turn away. On a whim, Megaron reached out and caught hold of her arm. She looked back at him with a surprised expression that melted into a pleasant smile, as he non-verbally invited her to come share the tequila with him. Jim led the way through the throng of people, a little more forcefully than he had before, until the pair were able to retreat into the sanctity of the master bedroom.

  "You are the wrestler, Jay Omega." She tried again once the closed door blocked out most of the pounding music. Megaron nodded in acknowledgement as he twisted the cap off the tequila held in his hand. "So it would seem." He replied casually, then took a pull straight from the bottle. Her face lit up in a smile once more, laughing at him as he choked on the potent liquor. The flavor was infinitely preferable to Natch's Huwhaha, but it packed just as much of a kick if you weren't prepared for it. Jim recovered quickly; he was trained to adapt after all. "Which puts me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours." He said, offering her the bottle.

  She relieved him of the alcohol, and took a long, slow draught from the bottle; a small shiver her only reaction as she lowered the bottle from her plump lips. "Mónica del Rosario." She said, with a tequila-induced husk to her voice. Mónica del Rosario extended a graceful, slim-fingered hand, which Megaron took in a light grasp and gave a shallow bow over. Mónica handed the bottle back, then withdrew her hand and went to sit on the king sized bed. "I'm sorry," She began haltingly, "I learn some, but I not talk English much well." Jim smiled as he moved to join her. "No se preocupe," He told her reassuringly, "Yo hable español." Megaron took another pull from the bottle as he sat down.

  The liquor was suprisingly much smoother the second time around, though it still set his throat aflame with its passage. He turned to offer it to Mónica again, and found her looking at him inquisitively. "So it would seem,*" She replied, "And quite well, I must say." Jim accepted the compliment as Mónica accepted the tequila. "It's one of a few languages I've picked up." She took a swallow from the bottle and passed it back, her fingers trailing slowly along his as their hands made contact. "Yes, I imagine traveling the world has perks." Mónica said teasingly. Megaron smiled in return. "I have been to some exotic places." He admitted, though it was hard to do any sight-seeing in a combat zone.

(*-Translated from Spanish. Read it with an accent or something.)

  "And what great battles you must have fought." He glanced over at her, surprised at how Mónica's words almost mirrored his thoughts, though he kept it from his face. Instead, he found her gazing down at his forearm, her fingers tracing over a thick weal of scar tissue. She was half right - in fact most of the nerve endings in the arm she was fondling had been scrambled - but that particular scar was surgical, and only tangentially related to combat. "Yeah, I've hurt a lot of people." She looked up at him then, the heat in her gaze only stoked by the cool detachment with which he spoke. Jim felt the alcohol begin to work its way through him, and he decided to change the subject before it loosened his tongue too much.

  "Most of my life is a matter of public record," Megaron said with a gesture that took it all in, then dismissed it. "What about you? What do you do for a living? You don't really look like a typical wrestling fan." Jim took another swig from the bottle, enjoying the distinct flavor, and Mónica chortled softly. "Wrestling is to Mexico as football is to America; even if you aren't a fan directly, you are at least aware of the more prominent teams." She explained, prompting Megaron to shrug. "Yeah, well, I'm Canadian, so..." He trailed off with a shrug, and Mónica playfully smacked him on the arm. "Hockey, then." She retorted, leaving him to concede in the face of a national pastime.

  "So, other than reinforce racial stereotypes, what do you do?" Mónica drew away from him, and Jim worried if he had offended her somehow. He looked over to find her once more looking at him inquisitively. "I... handle my father's finances." She said hesitantly, and reached for the tequila. After downing another shot she continued. "He's a major exporter to the United States, dealing in... party supplies, as well as painkillers and anti-depressants. He also provides many other services locally." Megaron narrowed his eyes as he read between the lines of what she was saying. "Son of a sloth, your dad's some kind of drug lord, isn't he?" Jim asked with a rueful shake of his head.

  That she was a criminal didn't bother him; running drugs didn't compare to some of the atrocities for which he was culpable. "Whatever. I don't understand why any of that stuff's illegal." Megaron shook his head, and drank from the bottle again, his thoughts beginning to feel a little misty. He barely noticed Mónica stand up. "No different from booze, really. If people want to get fucked up, they'll find a way. No sense trying to fight the symptom, instead of the cause." Jim smiled at his feet as he realized the irony of his statement. Then his ears detected the faint whisper of satin sliding against skin, the oh-so-soft, muffled thud of a Dolce & Gabbana evening gown hitting the shag carpet.

  Megaron looked up, and found himself nose-to-navel with one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever laid eyes on. Mónica stood before him wearing only a hungry expression; a fully ripe woman in the prime of her sexuality. Jim hadn't even realized the situation had been heading this way, though in retrospect, he really should have. But he was unused to dealing with women in this manner; ever since his wife had died at the beginning of the Uprising, the only intimate encounters he'd had were the frantic, frenzied, hormone-driven celebrations of survival most soldiers partook in after the conclusion of a battle. This was a different situation entirely, and an unexpected one at that. But he was trained to adapt.~

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"I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares."
-House of Leaves
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.::He stood on the peak of the roof; the sun shining down on him as he finished re-shingling the leak by the chimney. His wife's car pulled into the driveway of their small house - the best he could afford on a soldier's pay - and he waved down at Kari Megaron as she stepped out of the sleek electromagnetic conveyance. She waved back with a broad smile before--::.

"No."

.::--She opened the rear door to retrieve their two year old daughter, Jessie. A sense of dread filled him, as it did every time this scene played out behind his eyes. A small dot appeared on the horizon; the only blot marring an otherwise clear sky. It grew swiftly, and in the way of dreams, he could clearly see it to be a missile, though it was still some kilometres distant.::.

"No!"

.::He tried to cry out, to shout a warning, but no sound escaped his throat. In the driveway, Kari held Jessie up with one arm, pointing up at him with the other. Both smiled and waved, oblivious to what he knew to be coming. He threw down his tools and tried to run toward them, knowing it was futile, but needing to do something. The air turned to gel around him at his first step.::.

"NO!"

.::In the way of nightmares, he was powerless to affect what transpired next. Time seemed to slow as the missile dipped downward. As it tore through several houses in the surrounding neighbourhood, he could see every debris fragment with perfect clarity, right down to the smallest splinter. He could see every tiny detail of the fear on his wife's face when the warhead ripped through a house two and a half blocks away, and came to a stop in the middle of the street. In slow motion, Kari turned in the direction of the carnage, clutching Jessie tightly to her chest. He had only managed to take a second step toward them when the weapon detonated. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the flash, but could do nothing about the sound that rattled his bones like a thousand thunderclaps, nor the wave of concussive force that threw him into the neighbour's tree.::.

.::He didn't remember the time he had spent dazed - less than half-conscious, more than half-dead - slumped at the base of the weathered old maple. The sky was growing dark when he came to his senses, though he could almost wish he hadn't. The smells hit him first; acrid smoke, and the sickly-sweet stench of burning meat. Then the sounds; roaring flames, wailing sirens. And the screams. Some of fear, some of pain, some of loss. The pain he felt was too tremendous to process properly, so his brain went into shock, and filed the sensations for later use. He didn't care; his condition wasn't important right now. He needed to find his family. He tried to push himself to his feet, but found his right arm uncooperative. A quick glance at the bloody, shrapnel-filled mess his forearm had become explained that. Didn't matter.::.

"Kari..."

.::His left leg apparently hadn't fared much better, and so standing didn't seem to be an option. With one working arm and leg, he dragged himself out from under the pile of branches, and various detritus from the explosion. Most of his house had collapsed and what remained was on fire. The neighbour's house on the side closest to the blast had been reduced to ash and splinters. The rest of the neighbourhood was either awash with flame, or simply gone; replaced with a smoking crater. He dragged himself back toward the street, dreading what he knew he'd find. In the blink of an eye, he was pulling himself around the corner of his burning house; the searing heat from the flames licking at his open wounds a secondary pain compared to the tight agony in his chest at the sight of the charred corpses draped over the twisted wreckage that had once been a car.::.

.::Combat boots and fatigues filled his view, barely heard voices babbled about getting him medical aid. He didn't care. He didn't want to go anywhere. He just wanted to lay here and die; to be with his family in the void of eternity. But such was not to be his fate, as he was lifted on a gurney and carried away. His eyes never left his family's bodies, though.::.

*flicker*

.::He stood motionless a few inches in from the makeshift doorway, plaster and drywall dust particles drifting slowly through the air, and the shock he felt mirrored on the face of the woman and child before him. This entire operation had gone to Sheol from the start; intel said there shouldn't be any civilians in the area, but the corpses on the floor in front of him said otherwise. He never would have authorized the mouse-holing operation if he had known there were non-combatants in the buildings. Well, he had made the call, and now he had to live with the fact that, because of him, another father wouldn't get to see his little girl grow up and get married. Because of him, a young boy would never get to play catch with his old man. Because of him, a wife and mother had just watched two very large pieces of her world get shredded by a breaching charge.::.

.::He wanted so badly to express his sorrow, but there were no adequate words to verbalize his emotions. It would have done him no good, anyway; the woman wasn't likely to accept even the most heartfelt of apologies, and he couldn't blame her in the slightest for it. Just as he couldn't blame her for what she did next; Sheol, he was doing the same damn thing. Though her face showed fear, it also showed a steely determination and resolve that a part of him registered as admirable. Then her shaking hand came up in a flash, clutching an antique revolver.::.

"For the Lord Protector!"

.::He reacted without thought. He squeezed the trigger of his phase-induced plasma rifle, and time stopped. That single second was frozen, allowing him to absorb every minute detail through the muzzle flare of his weapon firing. The bags under her crystal blue eyes which indicated she hadn't been sleeping properly. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and full-lipped mouth, implying that she smiled often. The weathered skin on her strong, yet delicate hands, insinuating frequent rough use. By all evidence, she was a caring woman; a hard-working, loving mother and wife. And he was about to murder her, just as he had murdered her husband and daughter.::.

.::That she was trying to kill him was irrelevant, illogical as that was. She was a civilian; he was supposed to be fighting to free people like her from the tyranny of Lord Protector Jonathan Rabid's rule; a self-proclaimed title, and a self-instated rule. Except she didn't seem to want to be free. Most of the population had turned against the Allied Resistance Forces shortly after the formation of the Ministry of Propaganda ten months prior. The boy. Every time, he felt sick by what he saw. What kind of parents would teach this to a child? Through the violet flare of a superheated plasma bolt discharging from his barrel, he could see the fear and confusion in the boy's eyes. The little one couldn't be more than six; far too young for what he'd just witnessed.::.

.::For what the boy was still witnessing. He couldn't un-pull the trigger, couldn't stuff the plasma bolt back into the magazine. Time resumed its normal flow, and the glowing purple ball that surged forth from the gun melted the revolver in the woman's hand. Along with her hand, a sizable piece of her chest, the chair she was sitting in, and the bookcase behind her. A heart-wrenching wail went up from the child's throat, piercing his soul. He knelt to try consoling the boy, unsure of what to say. The child was alone now, and so small. Which made the AN-14 thermite grenade in his hand seem so much larger.::.

.::The pin had already been pulled, and now the sobbing child dropped the incendiary device as he tried to scramble into his mother's lap. This was the so-called Lord Protector's doing; his influence shaping how the public even thought now. To teach an innocent child to kill... It was just one of the many things he would ensure Rabid paid for. He watched as the explosive seemed to take a lifetime to bounce and roll its way toward him, taking far more than the alloted three seconds.::.

"Grenade!"

.::He dove toward the window, scant milliseconds before the blast engulfed the interior of the townhouse in flames burning at 2200°C. Shards of glass sliced a thousand tiny cuts across his exposed flesh, and he landed hard in the shrubbery behind the townhouse. A pair of hollow thumps reverberated in his chest as two more explosions shook the ground on the heels of the first, and jets of flame burst from several of the windows in the building behind him. As if the explosions had been a signal, the shrieking whistle of mortar fire began to split the night sky.::.

.::Rabid's forces had to know the area was occupied by civilians, yet still the shells came. Such wholesale slaughter twisted his gut. He didn't know if any of his squad had survived the initial blast, and he had no time to check. He had an army to avoid, an objective to reach. A family to avenge, and a Lord Protector to kill.::.

*flicker*

.::He fell endlessly. Starlight twinkled all around him, reflected in the shards of glass keeping pace with him during his plummet. Though the spire window from which he had been thrown was receding, in the way of dreams, he could still clearly see the mocking smile on the Lord Protector's face. The fight, if it could be called such, had been embarrassingly short and completely one-sided. He knew it had been foolhardy to challenge Rabid at the literal height of his power, but vengeance had consumed his life. Now, it seemed that his quest for vengeance would mean the end of his life, while Rabid yet lived to spread his terror across the Solar Colony.::.

.::In his dreams, the drop lasted much longer than it really had; giving him time to consider all the mistakes he had made. It was said that hindsight was always 20/20, but every disastrous mistake along the way had seemed so necessary at the time; the only viable options when there were none to be had. He had the time to reconsider every decision he'd made, but he always arrived at this moment, regardless. His course had been set the day that missile had taken everything that mattered away from him. And now it all came to a wasteful end, having accomplished nothing more than staining his own soul black with the lives of those who didn't deserve the fate he bestowed.::.

.::He twisted about in mid-air, looking down at the pounding waves that crashed against broken, jagged rocks at the base of the Lord Protector's spire. Though he fell toward them at a frightening pace, their distance seemed to remain constant, as was the way of dreams. In a moment of weakness and shame, overwhelmed with a longing for his family, he accepted his fate and surrendered to death. He knew he would not find peace, but no longer would he make others pay the price of his pride. A calm smile on his face, his lifted his gaze to the approaching rocks once more, and spread his arms wide just before the moment of impact.::.

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"Time doesn't always heal all wounds."
-Rise of the Morningstar
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St. Regis Hotel, Mexico
May 2nd, 2016
0716hrs, Local Time

~Megaron jolted awake on the too-soft bed, a light sheen of sweat coating his bare torso. A wave of nausea rolled over him as he sat up too quickly, prompting a few fresh beads of sweat to pop out along his brow. The faint smell of a tantalizing perfume still hung in the air, though a quick glance at the empty bed beside him revealed nothing more than a folded note left on the pillow, with Mónica's vibrant shade of lipstick pressed against the join to seal it with a kiss. When Jim opened it up, the flowing script had a business-like, yet feminine look to it, and even the paper still held traces of Mónica's earthy, flowery scent.

 Though written in Spanish, Megaron read the note as easily as if it were written in his native tongue. "I am sorry I couldn't be there when you woke," The missive began, "But I have business I must look after. You are an interesting man, and not at all what I was expecting; I wish I could have gotten to know you better. Do you know you talk in your sleep? You called out the name Carrie with such pain, I can only imagine you lost someone dear to you. I hope that, for a time at least, I was able to make you forget your pain. I know I will never forget the pleasure. Thank you for a wonderful night, and good luck in your tournament."

  The signature at the bottom read Mónica del Rosario Zambada Niebla, and something about that surname tickled at Jim's memory. He stood up with a mental shrug; if it was important, it would come to him. A brief look into the en suite bathroom assured him he was alone. Good; he was in no mood to deal with this hangover. "All right, Alice," Megaron said out loud, "Clean me out. I feel like a bag of smashed assholes." Though there was no one else in the room, a chastising female voice responded in his ear. "I should make you ride this out." Said the digital personality housed in his Adamantite Lattice Intelligent Combat Endoskeleton, in a disapproving tone.

  Jim stepped into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, though his gaze stayed on the sink. He gripped the edges of the counter top in preparation. "Just do it." He growled at the D.P. "Complying." Came the response, and the digital personality released a chemical cocktail into his bloodstream meant to purge toxins. Megaron's fingers tightened on the edges of the marble counter as liquid fire swept through his veins. Sweat poured down his face and chest in rivulets, and the sour stink of old ethanol filled the room. His breath came in ragged gasps as the pain wracked him, but thankfully the process only lasted the space of a few heartbeats.

  Jim caught sight of himself in the mirror as he pushed away from the sink. His skin was pale, his face drawn and haggard, and his damp hair clung to his head in a matted, disheveled tangle. "Solomon's beard, you look like shit." Alice told him bluntly. "Clean yourself up and get something to eat, then get us outside; I need to intake some sunlight." Megaron was already following her unnecessary advice, and in a few moments the bathroom was filled with steam from the shower. "You can eat first," Jim told the voice in his ear, "I still need a bit to settle before I can put anything in my stomach." His gut turned over once, as if for emphasis.

  Once his shower had been completed, Megaron made his way up to the rooftop helipad. At the top of the stairs, he discovered that the access door had been barred shut from the inside. Thinking nothing of it, Jim removed the steel rod, pushed open the door, and stepped out into a beautiful Mexican morning. Looking forward to recharging in solitude, Megaron was nonplussed when a sharp Leeds accent rang out. "Oi! 'Old the bloody door!" His hand snapped out like a viper striking, and caught the handle of the door just before it latched shut. The utilitarian metal stairs shook as a pair of out of shape young men in their mid-twenties jogged up from the roof below, one carrying a camera bearing a WCF logo.

  "Fanks, mate," Said the camera-carrier, scratching at his patchy beard, "Been stuck up 'ere all night fanks to a couple-a right twats. Blimey, you's Jay Omega, ain'tcha? Oi! Reggie! We been saved by Jay Omega, idn't that bloody irony?" The motor-mouthed young man slapped at his companion's shoulder, then turned back to Megaron. "We was tryin' to bob into your party last night, guess a couple-a blokes didn't like me accent. Nex' fing I know, me an' Reggie is up 'ere on the roof, and the bloody door's locked from the inside. I tell ya mate, this city might be hot as Lucifer's balls durin' the day, but it gets feckin' cold at night, innit?" The young man glanced down at the camera he held, then back up at Jim.

  "Oi, I don't s'pose you maybe wanna shoot a vid 'bout your next Trios match while we're all up 'ere, eh?" The young man asked hopefully, "You'd be doin' me a huge favour; it'd raise me stock in the company quite a bit." Megaron considered for a moment, then reached inside the grab the bar which had been used to lock the door, and instead used it to prop the door open. "Sure. Why not." Jim said, before he walked up the remaining flights of stairs, and out onto the helipad to position himself against the Mexico City skyline.~

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"If it were easy, it would not be any fun."
-T. Jay Taylor
==============================

*Our scene fades in on a clear blue sky, unbroken by clouds or avian wildlife. The shot pans down slowly, and the rocky peaks of distant mountains come into view. The scene drops a little lower, showing the glass and concrete jungle stretching out to the base of the foothills on the horizon. A little lower still, and we center on the sight that will be our visual focal point for the duration of the video, one Jay Omega. His blue and white, unbuttoned silk shirt is printed to resemble Saiyan armor - of Dragon Ball Z fame - while his lower body is covered by a pair of black denim cutoffs. An unlit cigar is settled firmly between his teeth, and we watch he he cups his hands around a camo Zippo to fire up his stogie.*

Jay Omega: Morning.

*Omega puffs at the cigar, then removes it from his mouth; the wind wipping the smoke away almost before it can leave his mouth.*

Jay Omega: So here we are in round two of Trios. A solid start for Rebel Scum with a first round victory, to absolutely no one's surprise. But really, the first round of a tournament like this is set up purely to have an even number for competition purposes. The second round is when the tournament truly begins, now that we've separated the wheat from the chaff. But the sifting isn't over yet; there are still weevils in the grain that need to be excised. So who's next on the docket? The next trio to face defeat at the hands of this band of Rebel Scum? Why, the unorthodox team of Sarah Twilight, easily the most vile woman to ever be employed by Dubya See Eff, plus double champion Andre Holmes, who holds one half of the Tag Team Championships, as well as my personal favourite belt; the Hardcore Championship.

*Jay draws on his cigar, and smirks at the camera as he exhales a bluish cloud.*

Jay Omega: I'd ask you to keep that shiny for me, Andre, but to be honest, I'm just going to have a new one made when I take the title back. But hey, let's not forget the odd woman out on this team of extremes, Crystal Knight. Could you be any more a polar opposite to your teammate, Sarah Twilight? Little miss bubbly, bouncy, happy, sparkles. I'll get to you in a moment, Crystal; let me deal with the legitimate threats first.

*Omega puffs at his stogie again, then uses it to gesture at the camera as he speaks.*

Jay Omega: I'll start with Sarah Twilight, because I feel more familiar with her than anyone else. Now, I might come from an alternate reality, and a whole lot of things are different between here and there. For instance, Al Envy was actually a legitimate, top-tier competitor where I come from. I understand he didn't amount to much here. However, as many as the differences are, it turns out that some things are constant, no matter the reality. Where I come from, Sarina Dusk is the Minister of Propaganda, and she's got a silver tongue that's forked. I'm lead to believe that Sarah Twilight is much the same; able to spin rather convincing webs of deceit, that can sucker the weak-minded into doing her bidding. But I'll get to Andre Holmes in a moment.

*A dark shadow crosses behind Jay's eyes, and his features take on a feral expression.*

Jay Omega: Now, I know you're not Sarina Dusk. I understand that you aren't responsible for the horrors that wretch has incited. But that knowledge is not going to diminish the immense pleasure I'm going to derive from beating the ever-loving shit out of you, Sarah. I doubt there's a single person alive who could honestly say you don't deserve it, for one reason or another. I'm sure there are hundreds of reasons, too. I'd say it's nothing personal, but in a strange way, it very much is for me. I'm sure you understand. And I don't really give a damn if you don't, though it is all a little complex, to be fair. Y'know what's not complex, though? Andre Holmes.

*Omega rolls his eyes, and shakes his head in disbelief.*

Jay Omega: First Greybeard, now this guy. Look, I can understand the appeal of dressing up in armor, and letting off some steam with simulated combat, but once you start bringing experience points, and shit like orcs into the mix... well, it's kind of a deal-breaker for me.

Voice(offscreen): Beg pardon, mate, but 'oo ya talkin' bout?

*Jay narrows his eyes at the camera, mildly annoyed by the operator's interruption.*

Jay Omega: One of my opponents. Andre Holmes, that absent-minded LARP guy?

Voice(offscreen): Naw, mate; 'at's Andre Jenson you're finkin' of. You got Andre Holmes, mate.

Jay Omega: That Beach Crew dipshit? Used to call himself Sharky, or something stupid?

Voice(offscreen): Nope, 'at's Jared Holmes. Y'got Andre mate. The Relentless One.

*A look of recognition comes to Omega's face, and he snaps his fingers.*

Jay Omega: Right, Bonnie and DeeJay's buddy. Heh, derp.

*Jay clamps the cigar butt between his teeth, and gives a shrug with a "what can you do" expression.*

Jay Omega: Okay, sho, the Relentlesh One, huh? Tell me, Andre, what you know about bein' relentlesh? Hmm? You think you know what that word even meansh? 'Cauzhe I don't think you do. Oh shure, you might give me shome academic definition of the word, or maybe even shome short of metaphor about how you're unyielding, like shome peesh of shteel. Maybe give me a diatribe about how you can't be bent, or broken. Well, I've got newsh for you, shun...

*Omega removes the cigar, licks his lips, and exhales a cloud of smoke.*

Jay Omega: I've straight up destroyed harder men than you, and I'm lookin' to do the same once that bell rings Sunday night. Don't think the fact that you're bosom buddies with my current teammates is gonna earn you any sort of leniency, either. Not only would that be an insult to Bonnie and DeeJay, but it just ain't my style. Besides which, your present company kind of makes you a target, anyway. Now, I've fought for days at a time, against an enemy that's been... changed. They don't feel fear, they don't think about self-preservation. Their only purpose is to fight and kill endlessly, and they absolutely do not stop unless you make them. I've personally put down more than two dozen of those... things that used to be my countrymen, and I've learned a few things from the experience. And because I'm such a nice guy, I'll pass that knowledge on. So when Sunday night rolls around Andre? Prepare to learn what "relentless" really means.

*Jay sticks the cigar back in his mouth, turns, and begins to walk away. He only takes two steps before he pauses, snaps his fingers, and turns around with the index finger of his right hand raised; a sheepish smile on his face.*

Jay Omega: Whoopsh. Almosht forgot about Cryshtal. Although, in my defensh, she izh kind of an afterthought.

*Omega removes the stogie once more, and exhales bluish smoke into the Mexican air.*

Jay Omega: You are quite the diametrical damsel on this team, aren't you, Crystal? If social media is to be believed, you don't exactly agree with your teammates on... well, anything, really. Except winning, though you're bitterly at odds as to how to achieve that. On the one hand, I commend you for your positive, sportsmanlike attitude. But on the other hand... what kind of naive child are you? This is a violent physical sport, and when two unyielding forces collide, well, desperate times call for desperate measures. That's why your partners aren't too keen on letting you in the ring, missy. You're soft. You're an adorable, fuzzy little kitten, mewling at a pack of alley Toms about to scrap over territory.

*Jay shrugs nonchalantly, stuffs the cigar in the corner of his mouth, and continues.*

Jay Omega: Now, there'sh nothin' shayin' you can't grow into a feersh tigresh yershelf. But azh it shtandsh, yer teeth ain't sharp enough to do any real damage, an' I can't really blame Twilight an' Holmezh for keeping a hindransh like you out of the ring. That'sh not a problem on my shide of the ring.

*A stream of smoke trails out after the cigar as Omega removes it from his mouth. His empty left hand is presented to the side.*

Jay Omega: DeMarcus Jordan is a hell of a young man. Grew up with what you would consider a hard life, but he struggled, worked hard, persevered, and overcame the obstacles barring a young black man. Now he's a somewhat successful, world-class athlete, with a good education. You think that shit was easy for him? No. I guarantee you he had to do some skeevy shit to get to where his is today, and I'll bet he ain't proud of some of it. But he'll tell truly when he says he did what he had to do to survive, thrive, and win.

*Jay's stogie finds its way back into the corner of his mouth, and his empty right hand is presented off to the side in a mirror image of his left.*

Jay Omega: Bonnie Blue izh alsho a remarkable young woman. She an' I have shared a shtory or two while gettin' to know each other, an' I think it'sh shafe to shay she'zh a tough cookie. Without even going into all the crazy shit she had to do to shurvive while shtranded in the Timestream, you gotta conshider her originzh. No, not the time dishplaysht clone part. The bit about her bein' the genetic offshpring of Johnny Reb. If you haven't sheen what that shon of a shloth can do in the ring, you've been living under a rock. Not really the point, though, shinsh Bonnie izh Reb'zh shuperior in almosht every ashpect. Shmarter, fashter, shtronger, believe it or not. She might be your friend, Cryshtal, but thish week she'zh your opponent first, and your friend shecond. And the final variable in thish equazhin?

*Omega's hands curl into fists, and he bends his arms at the elbows, pointing at himself with his extended thumbs. With the help of a few gestures, some facial movements, and some very expressive eyebrows, Jay non-verbally asks if he really needs to say anything about himself, then accepts that yeah, he really should. He probably ought to remove the cigar from his mouth first, though.*

Jay Omega: Personally, I'm an equal opportunity ass-kicker. I don't give a rat's ass if your baby-maker's on the inside or the out, and that goes triple for the other two ladies on your team. The fact that sexism is still rampant over here just further reinforces my belief that mine is the superior reality. Women are just as capable as men in most tasks, and more so in some. Shit, the best sniper I know sports a forty double dee bust, and that's one Sweet Nightmare you don't want to deal with. Point is, just 'cause your hair is long, your skin is smooth, and you smell like peaches and cream, does not mean I'm going to show you even an ounce of mercy if you are unfortunate enough to find yourself in the ring with me. But that's not too likely, because as we've discussed, your partners aren't likely to let you into the action very much.

*Omega shakes his head in distaste, and puffs at his cigar.*

Jay Omega: That's not gonna be a problem in the ranks of Rebel Scum. Trust isn't an issue either. But you team with a known snake like Sarah Twilight, and it's just a matter of time before you find the knife you practically asked for buried up to the hilt between your shoulder blades. Both Crystal and Andre have the right idea not to trust Twilight, though that competitive nature between Twilight and Holmes is likely to be their undoing. I personally have no interest in the World Championship, though if I happen to be the one making that final pin, so be it. Though I wouldn't be opposed to seeing Bonnie Blue earn a shot at becoming the second female World Champion. I think she could take Logan, so long as she doesn't let him get in her head. But that's neither here nor there.

*Jay takes one final puff from his cigar, then pitches the butt off to the side. The wind takes it, and we watch the smoldering tobacco tube flip end over end as it sails over the edge of the roof.*

Jay Omega: What's right here, and will be there Sunday night, is one finely tuned ass-kicking machine, versus a jumbled mess of a team whose personal philosophies couldn't possibly be any more disparate. Now, I'm not gonna say that Holmes, Twilight, and Knight can't pull off the upset; miracles happen every day, and I've seen stranger things with my own eyes. But this really should be an open and shut case. The personal strengths of Sarah Twilight and Andre Holmes can't overcome the dead weight of Crystal Knight, let alone the totally terrifying, tremendously terrific trio of titanic teammates taking this tournament to town; tossing trifling trash and taking titles to boot. I hope you three have enjoyed your time in the tournament, but it's just about over for you. Andre, Crystal, no hard feelings. Twilight... I mean... I don't know you... not this you. But fuck you for being this world's Sarina Dusk.

*Omega makes the universal "cut" motion with his right hand, and the scene fades to black.*

==============================
"If trouble comes when you least expect it then maybe the thing to do is to always expect it."
-The Road
==============================

St. Regis Hotel, Mexico City
May 2nd, 2016
0822hrs, Local Time

~Once the camera had been lowered, Jim clutched at his gut. "Ooh, that would be nature calling," He said in a slightly strained voice, "Really don't want to let that go to voicemail. I'm not really done here, though. I dig that backdrop, you understand? You guys wanna hang out for another couple of minutes while I go take care of business? I'll be right back." Megaron had been walking toward the stairs the whole time, his hand still massaging his intestines from the outside. The pair of tech-monkeys were amenable to the idea at first, until the clang of the door slamming shut reached their ears.

  "Oh bollocks." Said the cameraman. "Oi, Mark. Rwy'n meddwl bod y drws yn unig gau." Said Reggie, his first words in more than an hour. "Yeah, I know the door closed, ya daft cunt. I got ears, don't I?" Came the irritated reply. Once inside, Jim dropped his hand away from his belly, and quickened his pace. He made it down to the floor his suite was on in record time, though it wasn't an impending morning constitutional that had him moving so swiftly. He simply had a bit of excess energy now that his internal counterpart had absorbed her fill of solar energy. It was now his turn to get breakfast, and he thought perhaps his Trios teammates might like to join him.

  A knock at Bonnie's door followed by some patient waiting produced no results, and Megaron wondered if perhaps he had missed them. One or both could very well already be downstairs, in one of several luxuriant dining areas. Just to be safe, Jim decided to check DeMarcus' room as well. However, as he approached the door preparing to knock, the aperture opened and Bonnie popped out, nearly running into him as she quietly closed the door behind her. Megaron raised an eyebrow, and gave Bonnie's rumpled appearance a once over with a knowing expression. The young blonde blushed modestly, but her gaze held firm; direct, and unashamed. "You're up early. Somethin' wrong?" She asked.

  Though the touch of concern in her voice invited him to open up, Jim shook his head. "Nothing to worry about." He replied a little too casually, "Old ghosts haunting my dreams, chasing me from sleep. That's all." Despite his attempts, a hint of bitterness crept into his voice. An expression of understanding and commiseration crossed Bonnie's features. "Yeah, I hear that. Me too." Megaron suspected that the subject, if not necessarily the content, of their respective nightmares had been the same: Johnny Rabid. Bonnie cast an involuntary glance back at Jordan's door, "Came out here to clear my head." She finished, somewhat distractedly.

  Jim nodded in understanding, then indicated the roof access stairwell at the end of the hall. "Roof is a good place for that." He offered, then ducked his head in acknowledgement. "Well, it was. There's a camera crew up there now. Told them I'd be right back, so they wouldn't follow me." Consideration crossed Blue's face. "Hell, it might help if I go up there, get a couple of things off my chest." She hesitated slightly, and caught herself before she looked back at DeMarcus' door again. "Sort the rest out later." Megaron could certainly understand that. Jim offered a mock salute as Bonnie seemed to set her course. "Okay. See ya." He said cheerily.

  Megaron smiled after Bonnie as she walked away, then turned and headed for the elevator. His stomach released a timely growl, reminding him that he could look forward to real food with fresh ingredients, instead of MREs and protein paste. Jim daydreamed about the delicacies he might try all the way to the dining room. Once seated, he gave instructions to the waiter to ensure that word was sent to DeMarcus' room, so that Jordan could find and join him when he finished grooming himself. In the meantime, Megaron busied himself with inspecting the menu, though he wasn't sure what a good portion of the items were. At length, he decided on what he thought to be a plain dish, and ordered nine pieces of French toast.

  When the delicious-smelling meal was brought to him a few minutes later, his eyebrows tried to climb into his hairline. He had been expecting something along the lines of toasted French bread, but this seemed like a far better deal. The first experimental bite Jim cut for himself was the most divine thing he had tasted since the night before. Then he tried adding some of the maple syrup that had come with the plate, and Mónica moved down to a close second. Megaron took a moment to process the sweet sensations flooding his mouth, then tucked into his meal with such fervor, you would think him a starving man who hadn't eaten in days.

  So great was his hunger that he had devoured five of the nine slices - plus a cup of equally exquisite coffee - by the time DeMarcus Jordan stepped out of the elevator, less than five minutes later. DeMarcus glanced around, then caught sight of him and headed over, stopping along the way to grab a plate of thin meat strips. "What's up, amigo?" Jordan asked, and Jim glanced upward. "Um, the ceiling. And more rooms. And that's racist." Megaron replied, frowning at DeMarcus, who put on a confused face. "That's not racist." He said flatly, causing Jim to quirk an eyebrow. "Amigo means 'dirty Jew'." Megaron replied, as though stating the obvious.

  Jordan blinked in surprise, then shook his head disbelievingly. "... It's Spanish for 'friend'." Jim waited for DeMarcus to laugh, then realized he wasn't joking. "Man, our worlds are different." He said, hoping he hadn't accidentally insulted Mónica the night before. "Yeah. Hey, I got you some of this." Jordan pushed the plate of meat strips forward, and Megaron's nose twitched as he picked up the enticing scent. "What is this?" He asked, his voice a mix of caution and curiosity. "It's bacon." DeMarcus answered, "Just another excellent meat that comes from a pig." Jim picked up a strip and eyed its greasy length curiously for a moment, then shrugged and took a bite.

  The euphoria that swept over this man who had never tasted bacon before - had not even known of its existence - was akin to the delight of a young child on Christmas morning, coupled with a virgin's first orgasmic experience, and topped with the joy of a Marvel fanboy at a marathon screening of the MCU. An expression of the purest awe overcame Megaron's face, and as he met Jordan's eye, he said the only thing he could. "Holy shit." Jim began to shovel the bacon strips into his mouth in a frenzy, his remaining French toast forgotten. "Whoa there, guy, relax." DeMarcus said, laughing. "It's delicious, but it's not very good for you. You don't want to be dragging ass all week long."

  Megaron finished chewing, and swallowed before he replied. "God, see, in my world there are no pigs." He said, reaching for another handful of delectable pork flesh. "... No pigs?" Jordan asked in confused disbelief. Jim shook his head, and bit into the bacon in his hand. "Fucking Crusades, man." Megaron was referring to the Second Kosher Crusade, in which the Knights Solomon had eradicated pigs from his Earth, more than 800 years prior. DeMarcus was unaware of this of course, not being from that reality. "Uh... I'm not even going to ask." The young man said with a shake of the head. "Hey, have you seen Bonnie?" Jordan asked, his head tilting to the side.

  "I thought you weren't going to ask." Jim said, an amused twinkle in his eye. "No, about the pigs." A playful smile tugged at the corner of Megaron's mouth, though his voice was mockingly insulted. "Bonnie isn't a pig." DeMarcus blinked in surprise, and his already dark cheeks became slightly darker. "I... I know. She's..." Jordan cut off as Jim's smile spread, and it became apparent he was messing with his teammate. DeMarcus put on a serious expression, and tried again. "Have you seen her?" He asked. Megaron grinned broadly, then nodded and grabbed another piece of bacon from the rapidly diminishing pile on the plate.

  "Yeah, she headed to the roof about ten minutes or so ago. You might be able to catch her still." Jordan returned Jim's broad smile and stood up from the table. "Okay. Thanks!" DeMarcus said, then snatched the last piece of bacon from the plate just before Megaron's fingers closed around it. Jordan was halfway to the elevator before he looked back to find Jim comically shaking a fist at him; his wide-eyed expression a parody of anger. Once he had gone, Megaron chuckled to himself. Ah, to be young again, he mused. Before that train of thought took him along a dark track, Jim signaled to the waiter, intent on getting himself some more bacon.~