Post by americangrime on Sept 9, 2021 10:50:36 GMT -5
The Chapel where we see Charon Seede next is different from one that most would be familiar with. It’s a bit of a hackneyed construction-rotting wood pews made of ashen black wood rest on either side of the long walkway to the altar, cloth rugs and coverings have been eaten almost to entirety by moths, and the stained-glass windows, long since left to fall into disarray and disrepair, are stained black-and-yellow by a presumptive combination of nicotine fumes and smoke residue. Seede takes a few steps into the massive chapel, the high-raised ceilings, and he runs his tongue along his teeth. The air here is stale, the smell here is rancid, the vibes are off.
He’s in love, though.
Seede had opted to turn to divine intervention regarding his upcoming match at Night of Honor. Surely, the main event was an excellent spot, and surely, the stakes were high, but the opponents were vast and many, and Seede himself wasn’t quite sure of the cohesion of his unit. Lazarus and Ellie, reliable, surely. He could trust them. But Destruction and...SWITCHBLADE? Seede knew little, and wished to know even less. Could they fight? Could they withstand the deluge of violence thrust upon them by men baited into this confrontation by their own greed?
Charon was uncertain. The feeling was unfamiliar to him, a man who so often had taken what he desired without even a moment’s hesitation. A man who had eschewed the world around him and the civilized manners of men for pursuits that many would find barbarous and cruel. Charon didn’t see them like that-and why would he? They were justified to them. He’d read a long time ago that the purpose of man was to find the song that made their hearts flutter. Many found it in love, or art, or simple pleasures like good food. Charon found it in the gore and gristle of the world, the very fibres that held this grand flesh together. Charon found it on the edge of very blade, the heat of every stove, the moment in the air before lightning strikes when your hair stands on edge.
He found it in the excitement and spontaneity of danger and death.
Charon takes a few steps further toward the altar, which hasn’t seen occupancy in, presumably, quite some time guessing by the state. He runs his fingers along the old marble, now overridden with dust and grime. His fingers come away black and grease-stained. He smiles, and as he loops around to the back of the altar, he looks to the ciborium, an object usually used to hold consecrated body of christ. This one, in particular, is an ornate box covered in gold leaf. Charon turns the key on the front of it, and lets it swing open. His eyes dance over the contents-an ivory-white skull, somehow kept in immaculate shape, wisps of hair still dancing on the top of its head, eyes inlaid with gold-leaf and gleaming gems.
Charon is breathless. Taken aback by its splendor. He looks around for a kneeler, and finds one, setting it at the front of the skull’s resting place. He takes a prostrate position, bowing his head in reverence.
“Dearest mother,” Charon whispers.
“I need your strength in this grandest killing.”
The skull does not respond. Charon’s words are lost as we fade out and cut away…
-
...and we return to the Chapel. Now, Charon’s lain himself across the altar, not bothering to rub the rest of the grime covering it off. He’s dressed in a black shirt, black jeans, black boots, black gloves-standard all-dark affair. He stares to the ceiling.
“Tell me...why do you all fight?”
Charon clasps his hands in a laying position.
“Because I look at the lineup assembled across from us, sent into the war-path of one Christian DeMarco by Indy Darling, and I find myself…confused. What do these men have in common? Two championships between the lot of them, and a handful of victories, sure, but those aren’t enough to assure competition, to assure cohesion. A living God, an egotist who’s already tasted my boot, a child, a man with no allegiances, and a man with a God Complex. Doesn’t quite seem like the ingredients for a recipe for victory for me, but hell, who am I to judge? After all...I’ve got quite a few screws loose, don’t I?”
Charon lets out a snarling laugh.
“Our team, well...three of us are a cohesive unit. The Killjoy Club is strong in the halls of Project Honor, and the other two have history elsewhere, men who aren’t afraid to die if that’s what it takes to get the job done. But we’re not fighting for DeMarco’s pride, not intentionally at least. I couldn’t give two shits about this little feud, two men with more power than I’ll ever see going at one another, trying to one-up themselves and overinflate their egos to the point of explosion. I’m fighting almost exclusively because DeMarco pays me to do what I do best-crack skulls, bash in faces, and draw blood from the best of them without consequence, without restraint or handcuffing.
Fallout is a land of violence, and because of that, The Massacre thrives. I thrive. Without this place, we’d be shackled by Indy Darling, the rules on Proving Ground, the likes of our...opposition in this match, who are so blindly catered to by the powers that be on that brand. If their defeat-the slashing of their throats and the ending of their lives-means that the proliferation of our message continues-then so be it. We’ll do what must be done.
We’ll do it without greed, too-the only thread holding the five across the ring from us together is the opportunity at a championship. DeMarco didn’t need to dangle a carrot in front of our face-the brutality that we can inflict is enough of an assurance for me to fight, the guarantee that I’ll be able to do what I do best is enough for me to survive this whole contest, to make damn sure that we succeed at the highest level that we possibly can. This is the line between myself and the opposition-I do this because I love it, I relish in it, not because I’m baited into it.”
Charon rises to a sitting position. He hangs his feet over the altar.
“So let’s see what we’ve got here. Let’s start with Mark Hunter. Mark, beloved, you and I have already had a meeting, you understood The Massacre straight up as we came for you and struck you down. How did that feel? Just a few months ago, you were Grand Champion. KING OF THE WORLD! You were the man to beat, and then you became the man getting beaten by two unknowns who had walked in, driven a stake into the heart of this company, into the skull on your shoulders. You should have been the icon of Project Honor, Mark! You’re the only former Grand Champion still in the fucking company, and yet, you ended up as a LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER! You fed the Massacre! Still, Indy Darling puts the opportunity for revenge on your shoulders, and still, he wants to grant you that opportunity to strike back at us?” Charon laughs. “I wish you luck. When we’ve walked out of Collision Course with these championships upon our shoulders, and when we walk into Night of Honor with your death on our minds, the continued spread of our holy word in our hands, you’ll know that any sort of revenge you could’ve garnered is misguided, any mission you sought to succeed will find itself as impossible.
Sad, but true, unfortunate for you. The most accomplished of your team, the quickest to become a footnote. You are, however, still an adult, which is more than I can say of TJ Thompson, better indicated as a leach hanging from the testicles of whichever creatures rises above the muck and mire with enough hype or drip,” The words leave Charon’s mouth with venom, “to catch his eye. Thompson behaves much like a moth to a flame, or a bright light, whatever shines brightest that he can use to climb up his own totem pole. TJ Thompson was crushed under a weight stronger than any he could ever fathom multiple times in the past year-the Warrior Rising championship, the X-Division Championship tournament. Shortcoming after shortcoming, I watched him get crushed under the weight of the vast majority of this organization being stronger than him. How can someone who’s faltered so many times expect to stand up to The Massacre? How can a boy masquerading as a man suppose that he’ll make it out alive? Lost in the shuffle of talents in this match, lost in the shuffle of this company…TJ Thompson will die trying to come up for air, as my hands hold him below the surface. I’d love to say it’s nothing personal, but you all know I love that violent touch.”
Charon slumps off of the altar and pops up behind it.
“And in this house of Gods, let us talk about the two most holy opponents in this contest. Ulf, you want to bring pride back to your beliefs, your lineage, where you come from? A modern viking in an era where the movement has been co-opted, corrupted, brought down at the heart and blackened in the chest by movements that I’m sure fall outside of the standard that you wish to bear? Let’s ignore all of that, though, and ask what your God will do for you here? Do you believe that Thor himself will be with you in the ring, that His blessings will save you, guide you and yours to victory when, I’m sure, the vast majority of your team doesn’t even have a goddamned cent to give in worship to your divine master. You are out of your element, Ulf, in banking that divine intervention will save you. Your survival is not guaranteed, is not even intimated, it is unlikely. It isn’t going to be a long ride for you, because when I drive my boot into your skull and feed you to the other four wolves in the ring...you’ll be heading to Valhalla much sooner than expected. You are no warrior, you are a fool, and you will die a death befitting of your title.
But you’re not the only one aligned with the Divine in this bout, as we have a God amongst Men walking among us, the Gaijin Killer himself. Arata Asakura, you’ve tried to expand your dominion further and further along the way, from OWA to SSW and now to here. The stronghold of the Golden Dragon grows only further and further, and I’m glad to finally get to test your mettle. You and I have faced off before, when I used a different name, a different face. Despite your godliness, I took you to the limit, nearly broke your jaw and nearly put you in the soil. Nearly took your gold, too. But I am a changed man-reborn in the waters of brotherhood, the blood of the covenant, I will not falter. You may have been the Zenith, then, but now? Now I’m more than I ever could have been there. Now I’m a tool of violence, and I intend to use my knife to take what I was owed, the life of a God from the center of his chest.”
Charon vaults over the altar, and falls to his knees.
“And finally, Shelldrake. You confuse me the most, because in this rogue’s gallery of fools, you strike me as having the most potential. You’ve only taken a few losses in your short time here in Project Honor, but you advertise yourself as a man with no banner, you strike me as a powerful individual but yet you find yourself mixed in with this gang. Is it really worth a shot at the Grand Championship, something that you could likely secure on your own? Something that you could, without a doubt, receive with just a few more matches? Let me give you a suggestion-walk away. Don’t allow yourself to be buried under the mountain of shit that your teammates find awaiting them. You may believe in similar goals to us, and we are pursuing a similar prize...turn your attention to that.”
Charon smiles.
“The balance of power is changing in Project Honor; no longer should Fallout find themselves buried under the established show of Proving Ground. Men like Lazarus, Mason, SWITCHBLADE, and women like Ellie Quinn are the standard-bearers, the carriers of flags that allow us to carry on our most volatile violence. I have no true love or devotion for DeMarco, but if he’s going to allow me to continue my killing?”
Charon’s smile turns into a toothy sneer.
”Then I’ll gladly serve.”
The camera begins to come to static as Charon draws closer to it...before we fade to nothing.
He’s in love, though.
Seede had opted to turn to divine intervention regarding his upcoming match at Night of Honor. Surely, the main event was an excellent spot, and surely, the stakes were high, but the opponents were vast and many, and Seede himself wasn’t quite sure of the cohesion of his unit. Lazarus and Ellie, reliable, surely. He could trust them. But Destruction and...SWITCHBLADE? Seede knew little, and wished to know even less. Could they fight? Could they withstand the deluge of violence thrust upon them by men baited into this confrontation by their own greed?
Charon was uncertain. The feeling was unfamiliar to him, a man who so often had taken what he desired without even a moment’s hesitation. A man who had eschewed the world around him and the civilized manners of men for pursuits that many would find barbarous and cruel. Charon didn’t see them like that-and why would he? They were justified to them. He’d read a long time ago that the purpose of man was to find the song that made their hearts flutter. Many found it in love, or art, or simple pleasures like good food. Charon found it in the gore and gristle of the world, the very fibres that held this grand flesh together. Charon found it on the edge of very blade, the heat of every stove, the moment in the air before lightning strikes when your hair stands on edge.
He found it in the excitement and spontaneity of danger and death.
Charon takes a few steps further toward the altar, which hasn’t seen occupancy in, presumably, quite some time guessing by the state. He runs his fingers along the old marble, now overridden with dust and grime. His fingers come away black and grease-stained. He smiles, and as he loops around to the back of the altar, he looks to the ciborium, an object usually used to hold consecrated body of christ. This one, in particular, is an ornate box covered in gold leaf. Charon turns the key on the front of it, and lets it swing open. His eyes dance over the contents-an ivory-white skull, somehow kept in immaculate shape, wisps of hair still dancing on the top of its head, eyes inlaid with gold-leaf and gleaming gems.
Charon is breathless. Taken aback by its splendor. He looks around for a kneeler, and finds one, setting it at the front of the skull’s resting place. He takes a prostrate position, bowing his head in reverence.
“Dearest mother,” Charon whispers.
“I need your strength in this grandest killing.”
The skull does not respond. Charon’s words are lost as we fade out and cut away…
-
...and we return to the Chapel. Now, Charon’s lain himself across the altar, not bothering to rub the rest of the grime covering it off. He’s dressed in a black shirt, black jeans, black boots, black gloves-standard all-dark affair. He stares to the ceiling.
“Tell me...why do you all fight?”
Charon clasps his hands in a laying position.
“Because I look at the lineup assembled across from us, sent into the war-path of one Christian DeMarco by Indy Darling, and I find myself…confused. What do these men have in common? Two championships between the lot of them, and a handful of victories, sure, but those aren’t enough to assure competition, to assure cohesion. A living God, an egotist who’s already tasted my boot, a child, a man with no allegiances, and a man with a God Complex. Doesn’t quite seem like the ingredients for a recipe for victory for me, but hell, who am I to judge? After all...I’ve got quite a few screws loose, don’t I?”
Charon lets out a snarling laugh.
“Our team, well...three of us are a cohesive unit. The Killjoy Club is strong in the halls of Project Honor, and the other two have history elsewhere, men who aren’t afraid to die if that’s what it takes to get the job done. But we’re not fighting for DeMarco’s pride, not intentionally at least. I couldn’t give two shits about this little feud, two men with more power than I’ll ever see going at one another, trying to one-up themselves and overinflate their egos to the point of explosion. I’m fighting almost exclusively because DeMarco pays me to do what I do best-crack skulls, bash in faces, and draw blood from the best of them without consequence, without restraint or handcuffing.
Fallout is a land of violence, and because of that, The Massacre thrives. I thrive. Without this place, we’d be shackled by Indy Darling, the rules on Proving Ground, the likes of our...opposition in this match, who are so blindly catered to by the powers that be on that brand. If their defeat-the slashing of their throats and the ending of their lives-means that the proliferation of our message continues-then so be it. We’ll do what must be done.
We’ll do it without greed, too-the only thread holding the five across the ring from us together is the opportunity at a championship. DeMarco didn’t need to dangle a carrot in front of our face-the brutality that we can inflict is enough of an assurance for me to fight, the guarantee that I’ll be able to do what I do best is enough for me to survive this whole contest, to make damn sure that we succeed at the highest level that we possibly can. This is the line between myself and the opposition-I do this because I love it, I relish in it, not because I’m baited into it.”
Charon rises to a sitting position. He hangs his feet over the altar.
“So let’s see what we’ve got here. Let’s start with Mark Hunter. Mark, beloved, you and I have already had a meeting, you understood The Massacre straight up as we came for you and struck you down. How did that feel? Just a few months ago, you were Grand Champion. KING OF THE WORLD! You were the man to beat, and then you became the man getting beaten by two unknowns who had walked in, driven a stake into the heart of this company, into the skull on your shoulders. You should have been the icon of Project Honor, Mark! You’re the only former Grand Champion still in the fucking company, and yet, you ended up as a LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER! You fed the Massacre! Still, Indy Darling puts the opportunity for revenge on your shoulders, and still, he wants to grant you that opportunity to strike back at us?” Charon laughs. “I wish you luck. When we’ve walked out of Collision Course with these championships upon our shoulders, and when we walk into Night of Honor with your death on our minds, the continued spread of our holy word in our hands, you’ll know that any sort of revenge you could’ve garnered is misguided, any mission you sought to succeed will find itself as impossible.
Sad, but true, unfortunate for you. The most accomplished of your team, the quickest to become a footnote. You are, however, still an adult, which is more than I can say of TJ Thompson, better indicated as a leach hanging from the testicles of whichever creatures rises above the muck and mire with enough hype or drip,” The words leave Charon’s mouth with venom, “to catch his eye. Thompson behaves much like a moth to a flame, or a bright light, whatever shines brightest that he can use to climb up his own totem pole. TJ Thompson was crushed under a weight stronger than any he could ever fathom multiple times in the past year-the Warrior Rising championship, the X-Division Championship tournament. Shortcoming after shortcoming, I watched him get crushed under the weight of the vast majority of this organization being stronger than him. How can someone who’s faltered so many times expect to stand up to The Massacre? How can a boy masquerading as a man suppose that he’ll make it out alive? Lost in the shuffle of talents in this match, lost in the shuffle of this company…TJ Thompson will die trying to come up for air, as my hands hold him below the surface. I’d love to say it’s nothing personal, but you all know I love that violent touch.”
Charon slumps off of the altar and pops up behind it.
“And in this house of Gods, let us talk about the two most holy opponents in this contest. Ulf, you want to bring pride back to your beliefs, your lineage, where you come from? A modern viking in an era where the movement has been co-opted, corrupted, brought down at the heart and blackened in the chest by movements that I’m sure fall outside of the standard that you wish to bear? Let’s ignore all of that, though, and ask what your God will do for you here? Do you believe that Thor himself will be with you in the ring, that His blessings will save you, guide you and yours to victory when, I’m sure, the vast majority of your team doesn’t even have a goddamned cent to give in worship to your divine master. You are out of your element, Ulf, in banking that divine intervention will save you. Your survival is not guaranteed, is not even intimated, it is unlikely. It isn’t going to be a long ride for you, because when I drive my boot into your skull and feed you to the other four wolves in the ring...you’ll be heading to Valhalla much sooner than expected. You are no warrior, you are a fool, and you will die a death befitting of your title.
But you’re not the only one aligned with the Divine in this bout, as we have a God amongst Men walking among us, the Gaijin Killer himself. Arata Asakura, you’ve tried to expand your dominion further and further along the way, from OWA to SSW and now to here. The stronghold of the Golden Dragon grows only further and further, and I’m glad to finally get to test your mettle. You and I have faced off before, when I used a different name, a different face. Despite your godliness, I took you to the limit, nearly broke your jaw and nearly put you in the soil. Nearly took your gold, too. But I am a changed man-reborn in the waters of brotherhood, the blood of the covenant, I will not falter. You may have been the Zenith, then, but now? Now I’m more than I ever could have been there. Now I’m a tool of violence, and I intend to use my knife to take what I was owed, the life of a God from the center of his chest.”
Charon vaults over the altar, and falls to his knees.
“And finally, Shelldrake. You confuse me the most, because in this rogue’s gallery of fools, you strike me as having the most potential. You’ve only taken a few losses in your short time here in Project Honor, but you advertise yourself as a man with no banner, you strike me as a powerful individual but yet you find yourself mixed in with this gang. Is it really worth a shot at the Grand Championship, something that you could likely secure on your own? Something that you could, without a doubt, receive with just a few more matches? Let me give you a suggestion-walk away. Don’t allow yourself to be buried under the mountain of shit that your teammates find awaiting them. You may believe in similar goals to us, and we are pursuing a similar prize...turn your attention to that.”
Charon smiles.
“The balance of power is changing in Project Honor; no longer should Fallout find themselves buried under the established show of Proving Ground. Men like Lazarus, Mason, SWITCHBLADE, and women like Ellie Quinn are the standard-bearers, the carriers of flags that allow us to carry on our most volatile violence. I have no true love or devotion for DeMarco, but if he’s going to allow me to continue my killing?”
Charon’s smile turns into a toothy sneer.
”Then I’ll gladly serve.”
The camera begins to come to static as Charon draws closer to it...before we fade to nothing.