Post by Kyle on Nov 24, 2017 23:05:22 GMT -6
“I stand upon a precipice . . .”
Abrupt scene opening to a scene frozen in time. A dozen reporters sat opposite the black backdrop of the UCI press conference. Two men stood beside one another, hands clasped together, with a wall of flesh flanked the leftmost man. Spencer Adams and Nathan von Liebert. A sight that excited some, frightened others, and left all wondering what was to come. And on the edge of the frame, Sebastian Knight stood, arms wrapped around his chest and a hard look on his face. Only behind his eyes could one see the hesitation weighing on his heart and on the words of the audio to follow.
“If you are listening to this, it means I have leapt into the darkness below instead of remaining in the light.”
The scene unfreezes and Spencer Adams drops NvL’s hand to turn and face the rest of the newest signings. Atticus Sinclair, Bernie McCalister, and Legion were three masks of the same grander ideal—zealous delight, cautious calculation, and brute force—and Knight . . . Sebastian Knight was the weapon wielded in the right hand of the God himself. Point, and he would respond with an efficiency unseen before from those who have crawled out of the divine’s shadow. Cold, hard, emotionless steel; Spencer Adams could only pat him on the shoulder because he was not even to be wielded by another. His eyes found the nearest camera and they didn’t not waver even when the flash nearly blinded him.
A tool that had an unforeseen crack from the very start.
“I felt his presence looming over my shoulder for months and I knew, eventually, that he and I would come face to face again. I knew that if I ever wanted my side of the story to be known, I would have to tell it before I found myself trapped again beneath his hand. So I have recorded a series of these tapes and left them in the possession of someone I hope will escape his gaze until I am ready for them to be released.”
Murmurs filled the room during the whole display, but silence reigned when NvL began to move. His gait was slow, deliberate, as he moved past his three devoted acolytes to stand beside him. Adams steps back to give the two men space while Knight moves to stand opposite him. A moment of anticipation hangs in the air until NvL lifted a single arm into the air as if gesturing for a hug.
[STATIC]
A second photo fills the frame for but a second. Two children stand opposite one another in a black and white frame. The one in the left had his face covered by the dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders, brushing against the fabric of his three piece suit. The child on the right had his black hair shaved closed to the skull, and wore a monotone uniform. One arm was pinned against his body in the grip of the a straight jacket, but the other had been slipped free and held out overhead of the two boys.
[STATIC]
Sebastian Knight steps into the grasp of NvL, allowing the man to draw his head close. This was the photo the UCI website used for their article announcing the signing of Ward 6: NvL standing proudly with Sebastian Knight held in a deep embrace. Only one eye of The Mimic was visible looking out at the crowd, a startling brown gaze that gripped the world.
“Until then, may God forgive me for the things I will have to do.”
“You think I’ll be the dark
Sky so that you can be the star?
I’ll swallow you whole.”
Abrupt scene opening to a scene frozen in time. A dozen reporters sat opposite the black backdrop of the UCI press conference. Two men stood beside one another, hands clasped together, with a wall of flesh flanked the leftmost man. Spencer Adams and Nathan von Liebert. A sight that excited some, frightened others, and left all wondering what was to come. And on the edge of the frame, Sebastian Knight stood, arms wrapped around his chest and a hard look on his face. Only behind his eyes could one see the hesitation weighing on his heart and on the words of the audio to follow.
“If you are listening to this, it means I have leapt into the darkness below instead of remaining in the light.”
The scene unfreezes and Spencer Adams drops NvL’s hand to turn and face the rest of the newest signings. Atticus Sinclair, Bernie McCalister, and Legion were three masks of the same grander ideal—zealous delight, cautious calculation, and brute force—and Knight . . . Sebastian Knight was the weapon wielded in the right hand of the God himself. Point, and he would respond with an efficiency unseen before from those who have crawled out of the divine’s shadow. Cold, hard, emotionless steel; Spencer Adams could only pat him on the shoulder because he was not even to be wielded by another. His eyes found the nearest camera and they didn’t not waver even when the flash nearly blinded him.
A tool that had an unforeseen crack from the very start.
“I felt his presence looming over my shoulder for months and I knew, eventually, that he and I would come face to face again. I knew that if I ever wanted my side of the story to be known, I would have to tell it before I found myself trapped again beneath his hand. So I have recorded a series of these tapes and left them in the possession of someone I hope will escape his gaze until I am ready for them to be released.”
Murmurs filled the room during the whole display, but silence reigned when NvL began to move. His gait was slow, deliberate, as he moved past his three devoted acolytes to stand beside him. Adams steps back to give the two men space while Knight moves to stand opposite him. A moment of anticipation hangs in the air until NvL lifted a single arm into the air as if gesturing for a hug.
[STATIC]
A second photo fills the frame for but a second. Two children stand opposite one another in a black and white frame. The one in the left had his face covered by the dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders, brushing against the fabric of his three piece suit. The child on the right had his black hair shaved closed to the skull, and wore a monotone uniform. One arm was pinned against his body in the grip of the a straight jacket, but the other had been slipped free and held out overhead of the two boys.
[STATIC]
Sebastian Knight steps into the grasp of NvL, allowing the man to draw his head close. This was the photo the UCI website used for their article announcing the signing of Ward 6: NvL standing proudly with Sebastian Knight held in a deep embrace. Only one eye of The Mimic was visible looking out at the crowd, a startling brown gaze that gripped the world.
“Until then, may God forgive me for the things I will have to do.”
“You think I’ll be the dark
Sky so that you can be the star?
I’ll swallow you whole.”
~Warsan Shire
“It probably comes to little shock at all when it was announced that Ward 6 would be coming to UCI that the self-proclaimed Guardians would be the first to stand in our way. Granted, it was of no evident choice of their own to face us at Civil War. No, it seems the bonafide badass Bonnie Blue and her SPED-tacular partner Alex Richard were too busy bitching about unearned title shots and trashed Tonka trucks to even notice our arrival. ‘MA Vroom-Vroom!’ is what I imagine he said when he first saw it, tongue hanging loose to really articulate the sound it used to make.
Well tuck that pink snake away and wipe the spittle off your chin, you dumb fuck; Sunday is gonna be hard enough for you as is.
Hypocrisy. That’s the word to describe the situation I have witnessed in the short time I have been a part of this company. Between the resident boy scout cult leader and the Drunks and Dragons, UCI is defined by men and women unwilling to hold true to the simplicities of their callings. Do not call yourselves something you’re not capable of following through in. A brotherhood racked with dissension is not a brotherhood. Guardians too busy lashing out against of the very company they’re here to guard are not guardians. They are nothing more than selfish punks looking out for themselves under the guise of goodness. And don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with that kind of mindset when you own it.
I promise you this: no one will benefit from Ward 6 except Ward 6.
This is our stance, our vendetta. Our very name is an ode to a history we have always so desperately tried to distance ourselves from in the past. A prison to our bodies, our minds, and our souls. That, in a way, was a hypocrisy in itself, one that we will answer for just as you all will. The beautiful thing about life is that it often offers opportunities to do just that. A chance to circle around and tackle the past from behind. And we’ve already done more than just that: we’ve embraced it. We are no longer the oppressed, but the oppressors, and we will not hide behind promises of healing or wholeness. We will break you, UCI, so that you may finally see how broken you already are.
And the first ass crack to widen in the proverbial pane of glass is you, Alex.
I have been tasked to be your better this Sunday and your better I shall be. There’s no denying that your size puts you at an advantage, and even a brain soaked in ZimQuila could know enough to make the difference that is necessary. You’ll find, Alex, that I’ll never take away someone’s ability in the ring even if everything else about them is an affront to human decency. You’re a former World Champion and a two-time tag team champion in this company, accolades that I myself cannot boast. You’re formidable, Alex, there is no denying.
But I shall persevere
I’ve proclaimed myself The Mimic in professional wrestling because I pride myself on the ability to match opponents in their formidability. If you strike me, Alex, I will strike back. If you drop me on my head, you best be damn sure I’m getting back up to do the same. I am the mirror to your game plan and I shall be there beside you match you move for move. And when your legs begin to turn to jelly, mine will not. When you find it harder to get back up from that mat, I will not. The mirror, Alex, not the reflection. I shall remain stalwart when you begin to falter, stoic when you begin to stumble. You don’t have the stamina nor the drive to match mine, Alex, and you sure as hell don’t have the drive.
The beauty about being a multi-time champion is you know what it’s like to lose.
And you best get used to it. Ward 6 makes no promises that we’ll completely erase the Guardians out of the UCI history books—the thing about dealing with a time bitch is she’s never completely out of it—but we shall shift the spheres of influence and power until you bunch are left on the outside. Only from the sanctity of your little clubhouse will you feel like the Guardians are in control. Until life circles around for you again, that is, and you get that chance to come at us again, renewed and refocused. And we shall welcome it, too. Our regime will not be built on whining and moaning whenever a challenger arises, justified or otherwise, to try and oust us.
Do let me know when the irony of that begins to sink in, Alex.
Sunday is a taste, Alex, do not be deceived. This is not a declaration that the Guardians will be destroyed in the matter of a single night. So when you pick yourself off that mat, battered and bruised, don’t you dare convinced yourself that you and Bonnie won just because you survived. You’ve have only done the latter. But we’ll be back next week. And then again. And again. Week in and week out until the question is no longer “what will Ward 6 do?” but “what will the Guardians?” Then, and only then, will the hypocrisy be properly addressed. Sunday, Alex.
Until then, enjoy your chicken tendies, you spastic cunt.
Well tuck that pink snake away and wipe the spittle off your chin, you dumb fuck; Sunday is gonna be hard enough for you as is.
Hypocrisy. That’s the word to describe the situation I have witnessed in the short time I have been a part of this company. Between the resident boy scout cult leader and the Drunks and Dragons, UCI is defined by men and women unwilling to hold true to the simplicities of their callings. Do not call yourselves something you’re not capable of following through in. A brotherhood racked with dissension is not a brotherhood. Guardians too busy lashing out against of the very company they’re here to guard are not guardians. They are nothing more than selfish punks looking out for themselves under the guise of goodness. And don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with that kind of mindset when you own it.
I promise you this: no one will benefit from Ward 6 except Ward 6.
This is our stance, our vendetta. Our very name is an ode to a history we have always so desperately tried to distance ourselves from in the past. A prison to our bodies, our minds, and our souls. That, in a way, was a hypocrisy in itself, one that we will answer for just as you all will. The beautiful thing about life is that it often offers opportunities to do just that. A chance to circle around and tackle the past from behind. And we’ve already done more than just that: we’ve embraced it. We are no longer the oppressed, but the oppressors, and we will not hide behind promises of healing or wholeness. We will break you, UCI, so that you may finally see how broken you already are.
And the first ass crack to widen in the proverbial pane of glass is you, Alex.
I have been tasked to be your better this Sunday and your better I shall be. There’s no denying that your size puts you at an advantage, and even a brain soaked in ZimQuila could know enough to make the difference that is necessary. You’ll find, Alex, that I’ll never take away someone’s ability in the ring even if everything else about them is an affront to human decency. You’re a former World Champion and a two-time tag team champion in this company, accolades that I myself cannot boast. You’re formidable, Alex, there is no denying.
But I shall persevere
I’ve proclaimed myself The Mimic in professional wrestling because I pride myself on the ability to match opponents in their formidability. If you strike me, Alex, I will strike back. If you drop me on my head, you best be damn sure I’m getting back up to do the same. I am the mirror to your game plan and I shall be there beside you match you move for move. And when your legs begin to turn to jelly, mine will not. When you find it harder to get back up from that mat, I will not. The mirror, Alex, not the reflection. I shall remain stalwart when you begin to falter, stoic when you begin to stumble. You don’t have the stamina nor the drive to match mine, Alex, and you sure as hell don’t have the drive.
The beauty about being a multi-time champion is you know what it’s like to lose.
And you best get used to it. Ward 6 makes no promises that we’ll completely erase the Guardians out of the UCI history books—the thing about dealing with a time bitch is she’s never completely out of it—but we shall shift the spheres of influence and power until you bunch are left on the outside. Only from the sanctity of your little clubhouse will you feel like the Guardians are in control. Until life circles around for you again, that is, and you get that chance to come at us again, renewed and refocused. And we shall welcome it, too. Our regime will not be built on whining and moaning whenever a challenger arises, justified or otherwise, to try and oust us.
Do let me know when the irony of that begins to sink in, Alex.
Sunday is a taste, Alex, do not be deceived. This is not a declaration that the Guardians will be destroyed in the matter of a single night. So when you pick yourself off that mat, battered and bruised, don’t you dare convinced yourself that you and Bonnie won just because you survived. You’ve have only done the latter. But we’ll be back next week. And then again. And again. Week in and week out until the question is no longer “what will Ward 6 do?” but “what will the Guardians?” Then, and only then, will the hypocrisy be properly addressed. Sunday, Alex.
Until then, enjoy your chicken tendies, you spastic cunt.
The scene reopens to Sebastian Knight standing alone in a modern kitchen with a cell-phone pressed against his ear. He leaned his body against the black marble countertop, free hand resting against the cold stone, while only the dial tone echoed through the dead room. That too disappeared and Knight was left in silence say for the inaudible voice on the other end. And then he spoke.
“Hi, Dad.”
Efron Knight’s response again was silent, but from the way Sebastian Knight winced, it cut deep.
“I was just calling to see how you and Mom—“
This time, the response was as clear as day: Yu made your choice.
And then silence again as the line went dead.
Knight slammed the phone onto the marble, shattering it. Running his hands through his hair, he took a few deep breathes to compose himself before moving towards the swinging door across the room. A voice welcomed him as he stepped into the dining hall on the other side.
“We’ve been waiting for, you Sebastian.”
NvL sat at the head of dining table before a thanksgiving meal while the rest of Ward 6 sat around him; Atticus on his left while Legion and Bernie McCalister sat further down the table. The only empty seat was on Nathan’s right. Knight, without response moved to sit there. Only when he was settled did NvL lift in his right hand a glass of red wine.
“A toast,” he said, looking around the room, “to family.”
Sebastian Knight was the last the lift his glass and the quietest to speak. But he did, nevertheless.
“To family.”
And so they ate. The scene faded a moment later