Post by Henry Lee Hyde on Jan 2, 2022 16:55:39 GMT -5
[ON/OFF] SCENE ONE
“You've ruined Christmas,” is all Patrick Hyde – the family patriarch – says when he finds his son stood on his doorstep, “again.”
Henry tries to cross the threshold of the Hyde home, walls bowing under the weight of the family tree, but a hand keeps him in place. Meeting his father's gaze, Henry sees Hyde blood boiling behind icy blues.
“You're not coming in here until you get rid of that.” He nods at the heap hidden beneath a car sheet, the metal bone of its chassis jutting against the skin. The 'gift' from Mr. Wright. One that stings more than the wound on Henry's head.
Did Henry know Wright was going to drag that car up from the depths of hell it had been left to rot in? That metal coffin that had almost been his sister's resting place? Of course not. If he had, he would've been here in Portland before it could arrive. Or maybe wherever Wright was.
But right now it's sitting on the Hyde lawn, leaving a patch where the frost can't settle. Bleeding some viscous blackish fluid into the soil where it'll probably stain, grow, kill everything around it.
Wright had aimed for Jen, for her son, but he struck Henry first. It hurt not just in his head, where that lucky strike landed, but deep in his chest. Lodged there like a bullet and hurting with every breath.
Hurts with every step Henry takes towards the car, and when he places a hand upon the cover, it burns. The car creaks and groans at the slightest touch. Peeking under the sheet is enough of a glance, Henry catching a flash of rust and the police sirens of that dark night.
“It's probably not even the same car,” he says, turning to his father, “he's just made it look like it is.”
“Looks close enough.” Patrick crosses his arms, stares at it. Like it'll spark to life, rattle and maul him if he dares not to watch it. “Too fuckin' close.”
Too close for Patrick, made clear by the slam of the front door as he retreats inside and leaves Henry to the mercy of the car.
Henry tries to cross the threshold of the Hyde home, walls bowing under the weight of the family tree, but a hand keeps him in place. Meeting his father's gaze, Henry sees Hyde blood boiling behind icy blues.
“You're not coming in here until you get rid of that.” He nods at the heap hidden beneath a car sheet, the metal bone of its chassis jutting against the skin. The 'gift' from Mr. Wright. One that stings more than the wound on Henry's head.
Did Henry know Wright was going to drag that car up from the depths of hell it had been left to rot in? That metal coffin that had almost been his sister's resting place? Of course not. If he had, he would've been here in Portland before it could arrive. Or maybe wherever Wright was.
But right now it's sitting on the Hyde lawn, leaving a patch where the frost can't settle. Bleeding some viscous blackish fluid into the soil where it'll probably stain, grow, kill everything around it.
Wright had aimed for Jen, for her son, but he struck Henry first. It hurt not just in his head, where that lucky strike landed, but deep in his chest. Lodged there like a bullet and hurting with every breath.
Hurts with every step Henry takes towards the car, and when he places a hand upon the cover, it burns. The car creaks and groans at the slightest touch. Peeking under the sheet is enough of a glance, Henry catching a flash of rust and the police sirens of that dark night.
“It's probably not even the same car,” he says, turning to his father, “he's just made it look like it is.”
“Looks close enough.” Patrick crosses his arms, stares at it. Like it'll spark to life, rattle and maul him if he dares not to watch it. “Too fuckin' close.”
Too close for Patrick, made clear by the slam of the front door as he retreats inside and leaves Henry to the mercy of the car.
HENRY LEE HYDE.
NO GODS, NO MASTERS.
FALLOUT XVIII: THE CHOICES WE MAKE.
[ON/OFF] SCENE TWO
The nearest junkyard isn't too far, but the car won't go quietly. It kicks and screams and cuts Henry when he prepares to tow it himself, and so a call needs to be made. It's a call that's made with reluctance, slowed not by the frigid wind, the jet lag, but by a deep groaning in Henry's bones.
A groaning he bites back now the cause sits beside him in his car.
“Been over a year,” says Will – better known as Billy Payne in these parts – in a way that twists like a knife. “Didn't think you'd be the one calling me first.”
“Needed help and you were the only one around,” Henry says, grip tightening on the steering wheel. A glance at the rearview mirror finds the car wreck still attached to the back – Billy hadn't fucked up something, at least.
“What about your friend? Mike, was it?”
“He needs some time to rest.”
“Standard for people who have to deal with you.”
With a huff, Henry snaps, “And where's all your friends?”
Billy laughs. “I knew you still had a sense of humour. Kept that with you on your travels with Project: Honor.” There's a sting to that last part, like it's bitter on Billy's tongue. “Didn't think you'd even have time to come back here.”
“Some things need to be done.”
Like some of the things Billy finds. In search of the mythical cigarettes Henry supposedly hides in his glovebox – he hasn't smoked in five years – he finds them. They spill out quick enough for Billy to catch and Henry to miss.
Newspaper clippings, police reports. Photos of his targets, fresh.
Billy groans. “You're not still doing this.”
“Heard one of them's still in Portland,” says Henry. “I just wanna talk to him.”
“Right, like you 'just wanted to talk' to that guy you beat up on camera. What's Jen think of all this?”
Henry breathes deep. “Jen doesn't know I'm doing this.”
Hand to his head, Billy sighs. “So you're doing this revenge crusade for someone who doesn't even know? Maybe we really do need to talk about our feelings like grown men.”
“This ain't a joke, Billy.”
“I'm not joking.” He glares at Henry. “I've seen what you've been doing. Look at your fuckin' head, your hands, your leg.” He points to the bandages peeking out from the leg of Henry's jeans, remnants of Wright's games. “You're tangling yourself up in worse and worse situations, and for what? For a title match? To get revenge? I know Jen wouldn't even want you doing this.”
“You don't know my sister, and you don't understand what needs to be done,” Henry snarls. “Those people in those photos hurt Jen, hurt my nephew, hurt me. And the people on Fallout, they've gone to further extremes than I have. I'm not putting myself in the fire for no reason, okay? And if I get burnt? I've been burnt, and it ain't killed me. So don't...” he's shaking now, fist upon the steering wheel threatening to break it, “tell me what I need to do. I'm providing for my family, I'm fixing things. Okay?”
They're silent for a second that goes too long, before Billy replies, “Why don't you go be with your family, Henry? Before you go down your path of destruction.”
There's a million different retorts held within Henry's clenched jaw. None of which are said.
A groaning he bites back now the cause sits beside him in his car.
“Been over a year,” says Will – better known as Billy Payne in these parts – in a way that twists like a knife. “Didn't think you'd be the one calling me first.”
“Needed help and you were the only one around,” Henry says, grip tightening on the steering wheel. A glance at the rearview mirror finds the car wreck still attached to the back – Billy hadn't fucked up something, at least.
“What about your friend? Mike, was it?”
“He needs some time to rest.”
“Standard for people who have to deal with you.”
With a huff, Henry snaps, “And where's all your friends?”
Billy laughs. “I knew you still had a sense of humour. Kept that with you on your travels with Project: Honor.” There's a sting to that last part, like it's bitter on Billy's tongue. “Didn't think you'd even have time to come back here.”
“Some things need to be done.”
Like some of the things Billy finds. In search of the mythical cigarettes Henry supposedly hides in his glovebox – he hasn't smoked in five years – he finds them. They spill out quick enough for Billy to catch and Henry to miss.
Newspaper clippings, police reports. Photos of his targets, fresh.
Billy groans. “You're not still doing this.”
“Heard one of them's still in Portland,” says Henry. “I just wanna talk to him.”
“Right, like you 'just wanted to talk' to that guy you beat up on camera. What's Jen think of all this?”
Henry breathes deep. “Jen doesn't know I'm doing this.”
Hand to his head, Billy sighs. “So you're doing this revenge crusade for someone who doesn't even know? Maybe we really do need to talk about our feelings like grown men.”
“This ain't a joke, Billy.”
“I'm not joking.” He glares at Henry. “I've seen what you've been doing. Look at your fuckin' head, your hands, your leg.” He points to the bandages peeking out from the leg of Henry's jeans, remnants of Wright's games. “You're tangling yourself up in worse and worse situations, and for what? For a title match? To get revenge? I know Jen wouldn't even want you doing this.”
“You don't know my sister, and you don't understand what needs to be done,” Henry snarls. “Those people in those photos hurt Jen, hurt my nephew, hurt me. And the people on Fallout, they've gone to further extremes than I have. I'm not putting myself in the fire for no reason, okay? And if I get burnt? I've been burnt, and it ain't killed me. So don't...” he's shaking now, fist upon the steering wheel threatening to break it, “tell me what I need to do. I'm providing for my family, I'm fixing things. Okay?”
They're silent for a second that goes too long, before Billy replies, “Why don't you go be with your family, Henry? Before you go down your path of destruction.”
There's a million different retorts held within Henry's clenched jaw. None of which are said.
[ON/OFF] SCENE THREE
It's not quite family, but it's close. The junkyard sits unsettled in silence, floodlights casting tall shadows across the patches of dirt not littered with wrecks. Amongst them is Henry, sitting in the hollow shell of a car. Not just any car, though.
The car he brought here, the car Wright had 'gifted' his family. The would-be casket, now his resting place, sitting half in it as if to taunt the waiting jaws. He doesn't quite know what possessed him to sit between its withering teeth. Whatever it was has filled him with a heavy dread that he swallows back, that returns in his rattling breaths. And a choking, numbing anger.
“The past can't control you if you let it go, right?”
Somewhere deep in the junkyard, a ghostly knocking.
“But the past right here in this match ain't worth letting go yet. It's still got its teeth in me – and I've got mine in it too. 'Cause see I don't wanna let the past go, not yet.”
“Not until I'm done with you, Wright.”
“Did I think we'd be seeing each other in the ring again so soon? No. But am I glad we are?”
“Absolutely.”
“See I don't wanna let this fire burn out. Before our match at Wired Consequences, I realised something. I let you get to me – I admit it. I let you crawl into the wounds you left behind, and I let you – your little games – get to me. Almost let them get to my family too. It wasn't fear, I'm not giving you that, but it was a realisation that this is what Fallout is really about. It's not about people who follow rules, morals. It's about people like you, people who don't see limits, people who see a door and don't just kick it down, but set it on fire before walking through it.”
“Crazy motherfuckers.”
“And I don't just have you, Wright, I've got two more to deal with. One that thinks she's a viking and does blood sacrifices in national parks, and a guy with a history of deathmatches written on his back in the form of scars. Then throw the Ascension Championship in the mix, and you've got a fatal four-way with four of the most ferocious fuckers on Fallout.”
“Lucky me, right?”
“But then you break it down, and well, I think that thing I mentioned before:
Control.”
“It gives me the upper hand here. Look at Valkyrie. You might think she's got the most control here, right? Coming in as champion, with eight defences, and yet she's fighting two people she's never fought before, and one she is, was, in True Society with, so he's probably got the dirt on her. Sure, she could bring in back-up from the Leeches of Odinn, but that's just another unpredictable variant, another body she has to keep eyes on, and she's only got two. So who's she keeping hers on?”
“Graham Baker? He's been around the globe, learning new tricks from new challenges. Learning the fine technical details I know, but also learning the meaning of violence. How to do a bit of everything. But as the saying goes:
A jack of all trades, but a master of none.”
“Here in Project: Honor, Graham's not a master like he is elsewhere, and why's that? Lack of focus? Body finally falling apart? Way things are going, this might be the last we see of him here, and what's the world-travelled star done? Clung to True Society like a life ring, been left backstage and bloodied whilst other people pick up the slack? In other places, he's been in control, but here? He's not even a master of his own destiny. He could've done that by bowing out graciously and focusing on main events elsewhere.”
“Now he's about to be torn apart by people hungrier than him.”
“People like me, people like you, Wright. Now I know, through all this talk of 'control', you've probably been thinking to yourself that you're the one with the most. After all, I just admitted you had some control over me prior to Wired Consequences, didn't I? But you see, you're both my biggest challenge and my biggest advantage. I've fought you before, didn't win, didn't lose, but I know your tactics. On the other hand, you're the only one in this match who knows what I'm capable of. But see, people make the mistake of thinking a fatal four-way is a match where you have to overcome three others. No.”
“It's a match where you need to find one advantage out of three.”
“And who's got the biggest advantage out of us? Valkyrie's got the most to lose. Graham's got experience he's not living up to.”
“So that leaves you and me, Wright. Who's got the advantage out of us? Well let's put it this way.”
“In your world, last week I got knocked out by a monster, a messiah. But you? You got knocked out by a mere man. You had your aura, your mystery, shattered by just a man, that was it.”
“Me, I don't need blood sacrifices, don't need deathmatches, don't need tricks up my sleeve to be a threat. I do it with my own two fists and my own heart, and with my head in this match – Wright, you know how much damage it does – I'll walk out no longer a 'mere man'.”
“I'll become a champion.”
The car he brought here, the car Wright had 'gifted' his family. The would-be casket, now his resting place, sitting half in it as if to taunt the waiting jaws. He doesn't quite know what possessed him to sit between its withering teeth. Whatever it was has filled him with a heavy dread that he swallows back, that returns in his rattling breaths. And a choking, numbing anger.
“The past can't control you if you let it go, right?”
Somewhere deep in the junkyard, a ghostly knocking.
“But the past right here in this match ain't worth letting go yet. It's still got its teeth in me – and I've got mine in it too. 'Cause see I don't wanna let the past go, not yet.”
“Not until I'm done with you, Wright.”
“Did I think we'd be seeing each other in the ring again so soon? No. But am I glad we are?”
“Absolutely.”
“See I don't wanna let this fire burn out. Before our match at Wired Consequences, I realised something. I let you get to me – I admit it. I let you crawl into the wounds you left behind, and I let you – your little games – get to me. Almost let them get to my family too. It wasn't fear, I'm not giving you that, but it was a realisation that this is what Fallout is really about. It's not about people who follow rules, morals. It's about people like you, people who don't see limits, people who see a door and don't just kick it down, but set it on fire before walking through it.”
“Crazy motherfuckers.”
“And I don't just have you, Wright, I've got two more to deal with. One that thinks she's a viking and does blood sacrifices in national parks, and a guy with a history of deathmatches written on his back in the form of scars. Then throw the Ascension Championship in the mix, and you've got a fatal four-way with four of the most ferocious fuckers on Fallout.”
“Lucky me, right?”
“But then you break it down, and well, I think that thing I mentioned before:
Control.”
“It gives me the upper hand here. Look at Valkyrie. You might think she's got the most control here, right? Coming in as champion, with eight defences, and yet she's fighting two people she's never fought before, and one she is, was, in True Society with, so he's probably got the dirt on her. Sure, she could bring in back-up from the Leeches of Odinn, but that's just another unpredictable variant, another body she has to keep eyes on, and she's only got two. So who's she keeping hers on?”
“Graham Baker? He's been around the globe, learning new tricks from new challenges. Learning the fine technical details I know, but also learning the meaning of violence. How to do a bit of everything. But as the saying goes:
A jack of all trades, but a master of none.”
“Here in Project: Honor, Graham's not a master like he is elsewhere, and why's that? Lack of focus? Body finally falling apart? Way things are going, this might be the last we see of him here, and what's the world-travelled star done? Clung to True Society like a life ring, been left backstage and bloodied whilst other people pick up the slack? In other places, he's been in control, but here? He's not even a master of his own destiny. He could've done that by bowing out graciously and focusing on main events elsewhere.”
“Now he's about to be torn apart by people hungrier than him.”
“People like me, people like you, Wright. Now I know, through all this talk of 'control', you've probably been thinking to yourself that you're the one with the most. After all, I just admitted you had some control over me prior to Wired Consequences, didn't I? But you see, you're both my biggest challenge and my biggest advantage. I've fought you before, didn't win, didn't lose, but I know your tactics. On the other hand, you're the only one in this match who knows what I'm capable of. But see, people make the mistake of thinking a fatal four-way is a match where you have to overcome three others. No.”
“It's a match where you need to find one advantage out of three.”
“And who's got the biggest advantage out of us? Valkyrie's got the most to lose. Graham's got experience he's not living up to.”
“So that leaves you and me, Wright. Who's got the advantage out of us? Well let's put it this way.”
“In your world, last week I got knocked out by a monster, a messiah. But you? You got knocked out by a mere man. You had your aura, your mystery, shattered by just a man, that was it.”
“Me, I don't need blood sacrifices, don't need deathmatches, don't need tricks up my sleeve to be a threat. I do it with my own two fists and my own heart, and with my head in this match – Wright, you know how much damage it does – I'll walk out no longer a 'mere man'.”
“I'll become a champion.”
[ON/OFF] SCENE FOUR
Henry's quick to turn the camera off, check it over. Only then, when he's certain it's switched off, does he turn back to the car. To the persistent knocking from within.
“Told you there's no point making noise.”
He pries open the trunk, lets the floodlights fall on one of the subjects of his photos. His target. Bloodied, snivelling, helpless.
“Your friends all left you on your own here,” he says, voice a steady knife. “And you're gonna tell me where they scurried off to.”
“Told you there's no point making noise.”
He pries open the trunk, lets the floodlights fall on one of the subjects of his photos. His target. Bloodied, snivelling, helpless.
“Your friends all left you on your own here,” he says, voice a steady knife. “And you're gonna tell me where they scurried off to.”
END.
