[2] WELCOME TO THE PLAYGROUND.
Dec 18, 2021 7:30:08 GMT -5
bennett, Alyssa Grace, and 1 more like this
Post by Henry Lee Hyde on Dec 18, 2021 7:30:08 GMT -5
[ON/OFF] SCENE ONE
It's late, the hotel room blanketed in a layer of shadow mingling with the hazy glow of the midnight moon. The pallid light silhouettes the man who dares stand before its sharp eye and rewards him with a halo upon his head, the glimmer painting Henry's features to us, the camera.
Mike doesn't know why he's filming. Probably says something about him that his first instinct upon being woken up by talking is to grab his camera and hit 'record'. His grogginess shows in the jittering of the image, the way it's out of focus. But the words come through all the same.
Who Henry's talking to can't be seen or heard. He holds the phone close to his ear, but his limbs don't have that same tightness to them now as they do under the watchful gaze of daylight and the bright lights.
“I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it for Christmas, so...” Henry says, sighing. “Yeah, I've already sent Ben's present off. Tell dad to keep an eye out for it, okay?” He laughs, a hearty laugh, the first of its kind Mike's heard. “Well, it's not a big thing, it just won't fit through the mail slot, y'know? And you know mailmen can be assholes around there – 'difficult area to mail to', all that. Yeah, next year. We can call, alright? Facetime, whatever.”
Whoever's on the other end seems to go on, and Mike hasn't seen Henry ever get cut off, ever get so stumped by whatever's being said.
“No, nothing's broken,” he finally interjects, rubs a hand over his face as if to make sure. “Just a bloody nose, that's it. How are you, been...” There's a hesitation pulling at his words. “Been walking more?”
Drops his head, almost the phone too. And Mike finally has the thought of maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't be filming this. “Yeah, yeah, they said it'd be a long recovery, never... Right. As long as you're doing alright.”
The moonlight is a traitorous friend. It shows the breath Henry holds, the slight tremble of his hand around the phone. Tremble in his lips too, in his words. “Okay, Jen. I'll send the money through tomorrow. Call you soon.”
Henry hangs up and tosses the phone onto his bed, allows a sigh to hiss through his teeth. In his face, cracks he tries to hold together. In his tremoring limbs, his bouncing leg, a deep restlessness; a struggling resolve.
“Who was that?” Mike asks, and Henry stiffens immediately.
“My sister,” he says, curt, as he dips into shadow, retreats into bed.
Careful with his words, Mike continues, “Everything okay?”
Silence. Henry disappears into the dark, as does any explanation. The weight of the camera is awkward in Mike's hands now.
“Alright then,” he whispers, before switching off.
Mike doesn't know why he's filming. Probably says something about him that his first instinct upon being woken up by talking is to grab his camera and hit 'record'. His grogginess shows in the jittering of the image, the way it's out of focus. But the words come through all the same.
Who Henry's talking to can't be seen or heard. He holds the phone close to his ear, but his limbs don't have that same tightness to them now as they do under the watchful gaze of daylight and the bright lights.
“I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it for Christmas, so...” Henry says, sighing. “Yeah, I've already sent Ben's present off. Tell dad to keep an eye out for it, okay?” He laughs, a hearty laugh, the first of its kind Mike's heard. “Well, it's not a big thing, it just won't fit through the mail slot, y'know? And you know mailmen can be assholes around there – 'difficult area to mail to', all that. Yeah, next year. We can call, alright? Facetime, whatever.”
Whoever's on the other end seems to go on, and Mike hasn't seen Henry ever get cut off, ever get so stumped by whatever's being said.
“No, nothing's broken,” he finally interjects, rubs a hand over his face as if to make sure. “Just a bloody nose, that's it. How are you, been...” There's a hesitation pulling at his words. “Been walking more?”
Drops his head, almost the phone too. And Mike finally has the thought of maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't be filming this. “Yeah, yeah, they said it'd be a long recovery, never... Right. As long as you're doing alright.”
The moonlight is a traitorous friend. It shows the breath Henry holds, the slight tremble of his hand around the phone. Tremble in his lips too, in his words. “Okay, Jen. I'll send the money through tomorrow. Call you soon.”
Henry hangs up and tosses the phone onto his bed, allows a sigh to hiss through his teeth. In his face, cracks he tries to hold together. In his tremoring limbs, his bouncing leg, a deep restlessness; a struggling resolve.
“Who was that?” Mike asks, and Henry stiffens immediately.
“My sister,” he says, curt, as he dips into shadow, retreats into bed.
Careful with his words, Mike continues, “Everything okay?”
Silence. Henry disappears into the dark, as does any explanation. The weight of the camera is awkward in Mike's hands now.
“Alright then,” he whispers, before switching off.
HENRY LEE HYDE.
WELCOME TO THE PLAYGROUND.
WIRED CONSEQUENCES II.
[ON/OFF] SCENE TWO
Morning breaks like waves on the shore, cold and grey. Mike squints awake to the sound of heavy footsteps and finds Henry stood at the hotel room door, pulling his hood up. He gives Mike a cursory glance, tips his chin in a half-nod, as if obliged to now he's realised Mike's awake.
“I'm going out,” says Henry, the dew of sleep still stuck to his words, “gonna have a run and then stop at the temple again.” He doesn't ask if Mike wants to go, doesn't say how long he'll be. Just opens the door and slips out, lets it shut behind him with a soft click.
And Mike lies there.
Considers getting up.
Reaches over to grab the TV remote off the bedside table before burrowing back into his bed.
Only to be jolted by the blaring, tooth-rottingly pleasant music of whatever show just happened to be on TV at that very moment, at that ungodly morning hour. Drilling the volume button down, Mike manages to get through the wall of noise, only to be met with a blue and pink title screen almost as garishly loud as the theme song.
The Promised Land Playhouse?
Mike grimaces. “Man, they make kids shows stupider and stupider nowadays, huh.”
In his haste to change the channel, the remote slips from Mike's sleep-riddled hold. He tries to catch it with the grace of a pig on ice and twists, knees something hard enough to yelp. A crash at his bedside and he jumps over to try to grab whatever it is. A suitcase, he realises too late. Henry's suitcase.
Mike curses as a folder spills out from the case's unzipped maw. Curses even louder when he tries to catch wayward papers only to crumple a few in his fist. Oh, Henry's gonna notice that, he thinks as he tries to straighten out a photo. Henry would notice the suitcase has been moved an inch, to be fair. Would notice a fucking hair on his pillow, bald f–
Wait.
One...one second.
The photos are photos. Polaroids, candid shots of people taken behind fences and from windows. And on the back are names, scrawled across them with a violent tilt. Victor Romano, Freddy White, Jackson Jones.
Jackson Jones?
The guy Henry attacked. Same twist in his face in the photo that he wore when Henry spoke to him, lured him out of his house. Same house, same white door – minus his own blood smeared down it.
This suitcase is a Pandora's box, the folder a book of blood that Mike can't help but gather up and trawl through. More photos, notes, police reports – and hidden in the very back, folded up and dry with age, a newspaper clipping.
Severe knocking at the door yanks Mike from his stupor. Stuffing the folder back into Henry's suitcase, he hurries towards the door, wiping the sweat from his palms before grabbing the handle.
“No room service, I'm still–”
A sudden explosion of gas, powder, something from the open door. Gritty against his teeth, dry against the back of his throat, clogging up his airways. Mike coughs, hacks, chokes. Gripping his throat, he drops to the floor, knocks Henry's suitcase and scatters polaroids and papers everywhere once more. He runs tracks into the carpet as he tries to scrape himself away from the door, tries to stand, tries to do anything.
But his limbs grow heavier; breathing shallower. His eyes fall closed as the last thing he hears rings through his head like a gunshot.
“Looks like someone could do with some fun!”
“I'm going out,” says Henry, the dew of sleep still stuck to his words, “gonna have a run and then stop at the temple again.” He doesn't ask if Mike wants to go, doesn't say how long he'll be. Just opens the door and slips out, lets it shut behind him with a soft click.
And Mike lies there.
Considers getting up.
Reaches over to grab the TV remote off the bedside table before burrowing back into his bed.
Only to be jolted by the blaring, tooth-rottingly pleasant music of whatever show just happened to be on TV at that very moment, at that ungodly morning hour. Drilling the volume button down, Mike manages to get through the wall of noise, only to be met with a blue and pink title screen almost as garishly loud as the theme song.
The Promised Land Playhouse?
Mike grimaces. “Man, they make kids shows stupider and stupider nowadays, huh.”
In his haste to change the channel, the remote slips from Mike's sleep-riddled hold. He tries to catch it with the grace of a pig on ice and twists, knees something hard enough to yelp. A crash at his bedside and he jumps over to try to grab whatever it is. A suitcase, he realises too late. Henry's suitcase.
Mike curses as a folder spills out from the case's unzipped maw. Curses even louder when he tries to catch wayward papers only to crumple a few in his fist. Oh, Henry's gonna notice that, he thinks as he tries to straighten out a photo. Henry would notice the suitcase has been moved an inch, to be fair. Would notice a fucking hair on his pillow, bald f–
Wait.
One...one second.
The photos are photos. Polaroids, candid shots of people taken behind fences and from windows. And on the back are names, scrawled across them with a violent tilt. Victor Romano, Freddy White, Jackson Jones.
Jackson Jones?
The guy Henry attacked. Same twist in his face in the photo that he wore when Henry spoke to him, lured him out of his house. Same house, same white door – minus his own blood smeared down it.
This suitcase is a Pandora's box, the folder a book of blood that Mike can't help but gather up and trawl through. More photos, notes, police reports – and hidden in the very back, folded up and dry with age, a newspaper clipping.
ONE DEAD, TWO INJURED IN CAR CRASH
A collision that took place last night around 9 P.M. has left one man, local resident Ryan Galloway, dead and two others injured.
One of the injured people is Jennifer Hyde, who was driving with Galloway. She was taken to South Point Hospital, where she is in intensive care-
Severe knocking at the door yanks Mike from his stupor. Stuffing the folder back into Henry's suitcase, he hurries towards the door, wiping the sweat from his palms before grabbing the handle.
“No room service, I'm still–”
A sudden explosion of gas, powder, something from the open door. Gritty against his teeth, dry against the back of his throat, clogging up his airways. Mike coughs, hacks, chokes. Gripping his throat, he drops to the floor, knocks Henry's suitcase and scatters polaroids and papers everywhere once more. He runs tracks into the carpet as he tries to scrape himself away from the door, tries to stand, tries to do anything.
But his limbs grow heavier; breathing shallower. His eyes fall closed as the last thing he hears rings through his head like a gunshot.
“Looks like someone could do with some fun!”
[ON/OFF] SCENE THREE
When Henry returns, there's something not quite right with the room. The way the door leans on its hinges. There's a hollowness to its creaking and something in the air, some lingering rancid sweetness that makes him furrow his brow. He knew he'd been away much longer than expected – morning turning to late evening too soon – but he hadn't expected so much to change.
A run had turned into breakfast at a diner, which then turned into a lengthy conversation with locals he took some comfort in knowing would never remember his name. Then the visit to the temple, well – time in such a place is never a fixed thing. Just as the streets are never a fixed length, always beckoning him to walk, to wander, until they let him return here to a room of off-kilter shadow.
That's it. Shadows don't sit right here. Not like they did last night. When Henry switches the light on, he sees why.
Scattered across the floor, his belongings. Upon his bed, a present. Its pristine paper is held too-tight by blue ribbon, and trapped between the baby blue bite is a tag. Addressed to Henry. He tears it open, pries open the box, and finds nestled in its tissue paper viscera an assortment of items: a tourist map marked with a cross far from any landmark; a folded note; and Mike's camera. On the note, a simple message.
A demand.
Let's play hide-n-seek!
A run had turned into breakfast at a diner, which then turned into a lengthy conversation with locals he took some comfort in knowing would never remember his name. Then the visit to the temple, well – time in such a place is never a fixed thing. Just as the streets are never a fixed length, always beckoning him to walk, to wander, until they let him return here to a room of off-kilter shadow.
That's it. Shadows don't sit right here. Not like they did last night. When Henry switches the light on, he sees why.
Scattered across the floor, his belongings. Upon his bed, a present. Its pristine paper is held too-tight by blue ribbon, and trapped between the baby blue bite is a tag. Addressed to Henry. He tears it open, pries open the box, and finds nestled in its tissue paper viscera an assortment of items: a tourist map marked with a cross far from any landmark; a folded note; and Mike's camera. On the note, a simple message.
A demand.
Let's play hide-n-seek!
[ON/OFF?] SCENE FOUR
Heart of Saint Peter Cemetery, midnight. Where the grass grows wild and the walls crumble. Nothing except the X on the tourist map and the daggers of rainfall knew where this place was. The earth's swallowed it up, fists of mud clinging to the gate and surging ever more past the boundary.
Jutting from the dirt outside the gate is a shovel, a blue, wilting bow tied around its handle. Beside it, a propped-up neon sign flickers. Its devilish glow reads 'BURIED ALIVE!', and underneath, 'Come and play! Silly Shovel will help you!'. In the middle of an 'o', the eye of a camera.
Henry rips the age-worn shovel from the mud, holds it like a bat at his side. God knows who's inside, dead or alive. The cemetery gate whines open and shouts shut. Only Henry's steps against the stone path – a crooked spine – break the silence.
The earth may have devoured the cemetery, but its spit out the coffins. Some lie completely rejected, cracked, sodden. Others try to bury their way back into their beds. A few have Christmas lights strangling them, washing the rest in dangerous reds and greens. But one coffin sticks out, propped upon a tombstone. And crying.
It's coming from inside, creeping through the crack of the door. Sounds muffled, distant, and when Henry tears it open it's clear why. It springs out at him like a jack-in the box – a two-way radio, wire coiled around it. Henry snatches it and brings it close to his ear, brow furrowing as he recognises the static coming from the other side. The panicked, weak calls for help.
Mike.
“Mike, you hear me?” Henry says into the radio, his only confirmation being the sudden silence on the other end. “D'you know where you are?”
“It's dark, I...” Mike's breathless, sobbing, slurring all at once. “Can't see, can't...can't move. Can't play. Hurts. Everything.”
“Listen to me, I'm gonna get you out, but you need to stay calm. Don't move around, don't waste a single breath, alright?”
“Mr. Wright told me to play dead.”
Henry scowls at the name, grip almost shattering the radio. Through clenched teeth, he says, “You do that, okay?”
How many coffins in a cemetery? Henry sure as hell doesn't know, isn't keeping count. Just cracking them open, grimacing at the faces inside. None of them Mike, at least. Doesn't make the withered flesh, the splayed jaws, the empty eye sockets loaded with glimmering cameras any easier to look at.
The stench is the worst though. It explodes out, sharp as it sinks into the eyes, the mouth, the heavy air stiff with rain. A rain that's getting louder, harder as it punches through the soaked fabric of Henry's hoody. Carries the death stench with it, just like the mud does. Like it gives them life, turns raindrops to acid and mud to skin that wants to suffocate every last living, breathing thing in this lost corner of the town.
And it does, so well. Wraps itself around the shovel with every stab Henry inflicts upon the earth, clogs and cloys and with one great tug it splinters the ageing wood of the tool into two. Henry roars into the rain, lets the wind tear it asunder. Then he rips it apart himself, claws through the rainfall, the ground, the wood. Digs dirt deep under his nails, into his flesh.
But of course, the spiteful ground doesn't like that.
It must be the tenth coffin he's ripped through that then rips through him.
The teeth are hidden by the dense dirt, but the wounds in his hands bleed a bright warning. He grabs at wood and again feels the fangs sink in, and as the weather washes away the earth's deception, Henry sees the cotton-candy pink snake of barbed wire coiled around the casket.
“You motherfucker,” he mutters as he pulls again, bleeds again.
And again, and again, until his hands are numb, his fingers blackened by mud and drying blood. Until the caskets become more distinguishable by the red handprints on their faces than they do by any other way.
Until Henry hears his own hollow footsteps echo back to him through the two-way radio. He pauses, eyes scurrying around the area.
“Mike?” Henry calls into the radio, hearing his own words come back, faint.
“Getting...warmer,” Mike mumbles.
Now it's a game. Henry steps around the open space – too open – and tries to feel out gaps, bumps, markers through the leather of his boots. A dull thud when he steps a little to the right, louder when he stomps. He brings his boot down hard and the ground splits open, the flimsy wood of a makeshift casket collapsing under the weight. He leans down, peers inside. Nothing.
“Getting closer,” Mike says, and Henry can hear him. Not just through the radio, but somewhere ahead, underground. His steps grow heavy, heavier still through the radio. Heavy against another hollow spot. There's no hesitation this time as he spears his boot into the ground. Into its maw.
In a flash of rotten wood, moonlit glass and sparking pain behind his eyes, the dirt eats him up. A tangle of powder-blue wire sinks into his flesh, the soil drinking his blood. Henry tries to pull his leg free, but the trap has wrapped itself around his shin, almost to his knee.
A broken laugh drifts from the radio; from somewhere beside him too. “You fell right into that one.”
“Fuck up,” Henry spits, half-trembling as he tries to leverage himself up out of his would-be shallow grave that's laughing at him, he realises. Laughing deep within, the glint of a camera taunting him beneath shards of wood. The fingers of dirt and wood and metal try to bury themselves into him and do so the more he pulls. Beads of sweat and rain streak down his face as he rips his leg free, free from the grave's hold, from the resistance of its nails in his skin.
Henry doesn't pause to check his weeping wounds, instead guided like a bloodhound to the wheezing laughs coming from a mere few inches away. He crawl-stumbles to a third shallow grave and claws through it. Tears chunks of it away with his bare hands. Doesn't stop until his blood paints the coffin, a fanciful pink and blue wooden box; now a deep red. Of course it's sealed with more barbed wire, of course. Henry pulls it loose – what's a couple more wounds on a hand of many? – and pries it open with a pained yell.
Inside, thankfully, is Mike. A quick glance over finds no obvious injuries. Although Henry's gaze struggles to settle on anything except the twisted, skin-wrenching grin upon Mike's face. His eyes, half-open, are bloodshot. His skin an odd purple, like a looming bruise. And his words are more slurred and slow now, as if being exposed to the night chill has frozen him.
“Don't know what the photos are, don't know...”
Henry gives Mike a couple of slaps, but all that does is shake the smile from his lips, makes his mutterings quieter.
“Don't know who's in the photos... Don't know his family, said he had a sister...”
Henry's blood runs cold, colder than the battering winds, than the sweat upon his brow. A coldness that sinks deep into his gut, a stone, that pulls down with it Henry himself.
The embrace of the shallow grave against his back, he closes his eyes, slackens his limbs. Lets the rain, the dark, lull him in...
“I'm sorry, man...”
One eye cracks open, finding Mike now sitting, clutching his head as if to keep it on.
“I'm sorry...” he whimpers.
Henry grimaces, shakes his head. He pulls Mike to his feet and throws one of his arms over his shoulders. “Come on,” he says, limping out of the grave, “let's get out of here.”
Jutting from the dirt outside the gate is a shovel, a blue, wilting bow tied around its handle. Beside it, a propped-up neon sign flickers. Its devilish glow reads 'BURIED ALIVE!', and underneath, 'Come and play! Silly Shovel will help you!'. In the middle of an 'o', the eye of a camera.
Henry rips the age-worn shovel from the mud, holds it like a bat at his side. God knows who's inside, dead or alive. The cemetery gate whines open and shouts shut. Only Henry's steps against the stone path – a crooked spine – break the silence.
The earth may have devoured the cemetery, but its spit out the coffins. Some lie completely rejected, cracked, sodden. Others try to bury their way back into their beds. A few have Christmas lights strangling them, washing the rest in dangerous reds and greens. But one coffin sticks out, propped upon a tombstone. And crying.
It's coming from inside, creeping through the crack of the door. Sounds muffled, distant, and when Henry tears it open it's clear why. It springs out at him like a jack-in the box – a two-way radio, wire coiled around it. Henry snatches it and brings it close to his ear, brow furrowing as he recognises the static coming from the other side. The panicked, weak calls for help.
Mike.
“Mike, you hear me?” Henry says into the radio, his only confirmation being the sudden silence on the other end. “D'you know where you are?”
“It's dark, I...” Mike's breathless, sobbing, slurring all at once. “Can't see, can't...can't move. Can't play. Hurts. Everything.”
“Listen to me, I'm gonna get you out, but you need to stay calm. Don't move around, don't waste a single breath, alright?”
“Mr. Wright told me to play dead.”
Henry scowls at the name, grip almost shattering the radio. Through clenched teeth, he says, “You do that, okay?”
How many coffins in a cemetery? Henry sure as hell doesn't know, isn't keeping count. Just cracking them open, grimacing at the faces inside. None of them Mike, at least. Doesn't make the withered flesh, the splayed jaws, the empty eye sockets loaded with glimmering cameras any easier to look at.
The stench is the worst though. It explodes out, sharp as it sinks into the eyes, the mouth, the heavy air stiff with rain. A rain that's getting louder, harder as it punches through the soaked fabric of Henry's hoody. Carries the death stench with it, just like the mud does. Like it gives them life, turns raindrops to acid and mud to skin that wants to suffocate every last living, breathing thing in this lost corner of the town.
And it does, so well. Wraps itself around the shovel with every stab Henry inflicts upon the earth, clogs and cloys and with one great tug it splinters the ageing wood of the tool into two. Henry roars into the rain, lets the wind tear it asunder. Then he rips it apart himself, claws through the rainfall, the ground, the wood. Digs dirt deep under his nails, into his flesh.
But of course, the spiteful ground doesn't like that.
It must be the tenth coffin he's ripped through that then rips through him.
The teeth are hidden by the dense dirt, but the wounds in his hands bleed a bright warning. He grabs at wood and again feels the fangs sink in, and as the weather washes away the earth's deception, Henry sees the cotton-candy pink snake of barbed wire coiled around the casket.
“You motherfucker,” he mutters as he pulls again, bleeds again.
And again, and again, until his hands are numb, his fingers blackened by mud and drying blood. Until the caskets become more distinguishable by the red handprints on their faces than they do by any other way.
Until Henry hears his own hollow footsteps echo back to him through the two-way radio. He pauses, eyes scurrying around the area.
“Mike?” Henry calls into the radio, hearing his own words come back, faint.
“Getting...warmer,” Mike mumbles.
Now it's a game. Henry steps around the open space – too open – and tries to feel out gaps, bumps, markers through the leather of his boots. A dull thud when he steps a little to the right, louder when he stomps. He brings his boot down hard and the ground splits open, the flimsy wood of a makeshift casket collapsing under the weight. He leans down, peers inside. Nothing.
“Getting closer,” Mike says, and Henry can hear him. Not just through the radio, but somewhere ahead, underground. His steps grow heavy, heavier still through the radio. Heavy against another hollow spot. There's no hesitation this time as he spears his boot into the ground. Into its maw.
In a flash of rotten wood, moonlit glass and sparking pain behind his eyes, the dirt eats him up. A tangle of powder-blue wire sinks into his flesh, the soil drinking his blood. Henry tries to pull his leg free, but the trap has wrapped itself around his shin, almost to his knee.
A broken laugh drifts from the radio; from somewhere beside him too. “You fell right into that one.”
“Fuck up,” Henry spits, half-trembling as he tries to leverage himself up out of his would-be shallow grave that's laughing at him, he realises. Laughing deep within, the glint of a camera taunting him beneath shards of wood. The fingers of dirt and wood and metal try to bury themselves into him and do so the more he pulls. Beads of sweat and rain streak down his face as he rips his leg free, free from the grave's hold, from the resistance of its nails in his skin.
Henry doesn't pause to check his weeping wounds, instead guided like a bloodhound to the wheezing laughs coming from a mere few inches away. He crawl-stumbles to a third shallow grave and claws through it. Tears chunks of it away with his bare hands. Doesn't stop until his blood paints the coffin, a fanciful pink and blue wooden box; now a deep red. Of course it's sealed with more barbed wire, of course. Henry pulls it loose – what's a couple more wounds on a hand of many? – and pries it open with a pained yell.
Inside, thankfully, is Mike. A quick glance over finds no obvious injuries. Although Henry's gaze struggles to settle on anything except the twisted, skin-wrenching grin upon Mike's face. His eyes, half-open, are bloodshot. His skin an odd purple, like a looming bruise. And his words are more slurred and slow now, as if being exposed to the night chill has frozen him.
“Don't know what the photos are, don't know...”
Henry gives Mike a couple of slaps, but all that does is shake the smile from his lips, makes his mutterings quieter.
“Don't know who's in the photos... Don't know his family, said he had a sister...”
Henry's blood runs cold, colder than the battering winds, than the sweat upon his brow. A coldness that sinks deep into his gut, a stone, that pulls down with it Henry himself.
The embrace of the shallow grave against his back, he closes his eyes, slackens his limbs. Lets the rain, the dark, lull him in...
“I'm sorry, man...”
One eye cracks open, finding Mike now sitting, clutching his head as if to keep it on.
“I'm sorry...” he whimpers.
Henry grimaces, shakes his head. He pulls Mike to his feet and throws one of his arms over his shoulders. “Come on,” he says, limping out of the grave, “let's get out of here.”
[ON/OFF] SCENE FIVE
Thunder whips across the sky, rain now a storm. It's been concealed, though, reduced to a feeble patter upon the steel of the high roof of this nondescript room Henry sits in. A curtain of shadow hangs behind him, the single, shaking light above him flickering with a concerning hum.
He tightens a length of bandage around his left hand, dots of red already soaking through. There's still soil on his hands, under his nails. But the worst of his injuries no longer cry; his leg wrapped heavily from knee to ankle.
“I'm already getting dragged into their games.”
He inspects his bandaged hand, one eye rolling up to look at the camera ahead, grimace letting the shadows run deep into his skin.
“I come here, make an impression against Bianca, and the first taste of spotlight that shines on me gets taken because of Arik Holt. Was supposed to be fighting Jacob Steele at Wired Consequences and I was ready. But that chance got stolen away.”
He grabs a half-empty bottle resting beside his chair, unscrews the cap with with enough force to threaten to shatter the glass.
“Now it's Mr. Wright.” he says, chewing over the name, bottle trapped between his wrapped, rattling fingers. “A would-be puppetmaster who wants to play games too. Already has.”
Henry holds up his bare right hand. The cuts may not be bleeding, but they still look just as violently raw, skin fraying, wrinkles deep rivers of blood. Holding it down in front of him, he tips the bottle – alcohol, the label says – toward it.
“Wanna play games, I've got games I wanna play too.”
He traps air between his teeth as the alcohol soaks into his cuts, hand spasming, throbbing with pain as he quickly finds his roll of bandages and starts applying it.
“It's all been fun and fuckin' games. And don't get me wrong, I didn't come to Fallout blissfully unaware of all that. Can see very well that it's a playground for Holt, for True Society, for the people running around with knives and guns and bad fuckin' ideas. But this ain't child's play for some of us.”
Finished with his bandages, Henry lets the roll drop, his stare turning to the camera.
“Wright, you picked the wrong person to try to play with. I know some people might see you and think you're some kind of joke because you haven't walked in here with a knife or a Halloween mask or a list of victims under your belt, but I didn't take you lightly before tonight and now?” He glances at his hands. “I definitely don't take you lightly now.”
“Some might say I'm at a disadvantage because all I know of you is the facade. Ain't seen you in the ring yet, don't know anything about you other than what I've heard. Don't know the rules of your game. But I've met people like you before. Might've been a different type of person, might've been dressed in different colours, a different outlook, but they're all the same. Deep down. They like to spend too much of their time up here,” he jabs a finger into his temple, “because they fear what's waiting for them in the palm of one of these.” He raises a hand, closes it into a coiled fist.
“Never get their hands dirty. And my hands, well, they've never been clean. What's the saying? Idle hands are the devil's plaything? My hands, they're not succumbing to the power of some devil,” he gestures at the camera, and as if at Wright himself, “because they're always clawing, reaching, fighting. And Wright, I'm gonna be honest, I might not know exactly what you are, what you do, how you've gotten here, you've got that edge. But I know what I do. I fight, and I feast. Bianca was a fine opponent at Fallout, but she was predictable. She was a starter, an appetiser, and you? That mystery, that threat, it's something for me to rip into. I've licked my wounds,” he chuckles, glances at his bandaged hands again, “but I've not been sated yet.”
“I'm just hungrier.”
“Your smoke is choking and your mirrors are sharp and cutting, I know that sting. I'll be feeling it going into our match, I know. But when you stand across from me at Wired Consequences you'll realise too late that they can't save you. That you can't manipulate everything to your will. That what you see on TV, in your little world, your little show, your little game – it ain't the same as what's on this side of the screen.”
“You're stepping out of your Playhouse and into my playground. And Wired Consequences? That's the endgame for you, Wright. And just the beginning for me.”
He tightens a length of bandage around his left hand, dots of red already soaking through. There's still soil on his hands, under his nails. But the worst of his injuries no longer cry; his leg wrapped heavily from knee to ankle.
“I'm already getting dragged into their games.”
He inspects his bandaged hand, one eye rolling up to look at the camera ahead, grimace letting the shadows run deep into his skin.
“I come here, make an impression against Bianca, and the first taste of spotlight that shines on me gets taken because of Arik Holt. Was supposed to be fighting Jacob Steele at Wired Consequences and I was ready. But that chance got stolen away.”
He grabs a half-empty bottle resting beside his chair, unscrews the cap with with enough force to threaten to shatter the glass.
“Now it's Mr. Wright.” he says, chewing over the name, bottle trapped between his wrapped, rattling fingers. “A would-be puppetmaster who wants to play games too. Already has.”
Henry holds up his bare right hand. The cuts may not be bleeding, but they still look just as violently raw, skin fraying, wrinkles deep rivers of blood. Holding it down in front of him, he tips the bottle – alcohol, the label says – toward it.
“Wanna play games, I've got games I wanna play too.”
He traps air between his teeth as the alcohol soaks into his cuts, hand spasming, throbbing with pain as he quickly finds his roll of bandages and starts applying it.
“It's all been fun and fuckin' games. And don't get me wrong, I didn't come to Fallout blissfully unaware of all that. Can see very well that it's a playground for Holt, for True Society, for the people running around with knives and guns and bad fuckin' ideas. But this ain't child's play for some of us.”
Finished with his bandages, Henry lets the roll drop, his stare turning to the camera.
“Wright, you picked the wrong person to try to play with. I know some people might see you and think you're some kind of joke because you haven't walked in here with a knife or a Halloween mask or a list of victims under your belt, but I didn't take you lightly before tonight and now?” He glances at his hands. “I definitely don't take you lightly now.”
“Some might say I'm at a disadvantage because all I know of you is the facade. Ain't seen you in the ring yet, don't know anything about you other than what I've heard. Don't know the rules of your game. But I've met people like you before. Might've been a different type of person, might've been dressed in different colours, a different outlook, but they're all the same. Deep down. They like to spend too much of their time up here,” he jabs a finger into his temple, “because they fear what's waiting for them in the palm of one of these.” He raises a hand, closes it into a coiled fist.
“Never get their hands dirty. And my hands, well, they've never been clean. What's the saying? Idle hands are the devil's plaything? My hands, they're not succumbing to the power of some devil,” he gestures at the camera, and as if at Wright himself, “because they're always clawing, reaching, fighting. And Wright, I'm gonna be honest, I might not know exactly what you are, what you do, how you've gotten here, you've got that edge. But I know what I do. I fight, and I feast. Bianca was a fine opponent at Fallout, but she was predictable. She was a starter, an appetiser, and you? That mystery, that threat, it's something for me to rip into. I've licked my wounds,” he chuckles, glances at his bandaged hands again, “but I've not been sated yet.”
“I'm just hungrier.”
“Your smoke is choking and your mirrors are sharp and cutting, I know that sting. I'll be feeling it going into our match, I know. But when you stand across from me at Wired Consequences you'll realise too late that they can't save you. That you can't manipulate everything to your will. That what you see on TV, in your little world, your little show, your little game – it ain't the same as what's on this side of the screen.”
“You're stepping out of your Playhouse and into my playground. And Wired Consequences? That's the endgame for you, Wright. And just the beginning for me.”
END.
