Dear Diary... (Unbreakable Resolution 2)
Jan 7, 2022 22:40:15 GMT -5
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Post by OZYMANDIAS on Jan 7, 2022 22:40:15 GMT -5
SAS FLIGHT SK-932
“...here is your hot tea, some crema and sugar… oh, I’ll get you another couple of beers too. You seem to be going through those quite quickly!”
The air hostess was kind, she had been attentive to my needs and quite considerate despite my appearances. A quiet flight despite these trying times, tonight’s red-eye was somewhat sparse. A dozen or so passengers joined me on this fool’s errand, a non-stop voyage through the winter skies to greener pastures back East.
Four stops on this journey, a total of almost thirty hours of travelling time, and endless looks and stares by frightened passengers but it won’t stop me. It is time I revisited my past, my heritage, my legacy. It is time I went home, to where it all began.
“Here you go now, and just remember to push that button up there if you need anything else.”
The hostess returned promptly, pointing to a little lit-up button above my head. Her smile was broad and wide yet there was something behind her eyes, something concealed. I had seen it a hundred times before - fear. They forced me to remove my tribunal mask at the door, stating that air travel forbids anything that poses a threat or could be used as a weapon. Funny, they should have bound my hands then.
Typically I fly private, chartered airlines to-and-fro allow me the freedom to be myself. Wear my mask, not as a wall or barrier to hide behind, but to fly the true colours of my devotion, the very stark symbol of my worship to the tentacled God, Cthulhu. A metallic incarnation that I wear proudly, even that is seen to be a threat.
She smiles as she leaves me but the pace at which she moves to get away from me is amusing. I sit along near the rear of this flight, dozens of empty seats between me and the next passengers, my large frame occupying nearly three seats wide and my brow rubbing against the air vents above. To fully encapture this image, remove my mask and replace it with not one but two oversized facemasks and you can envision what the world of Ozymandias on public air looks like.
The flight ahead is long and tiring, so I use this time to catch up on my rest. I never forgot my roots, and I never will. My legacy changes with time, but where I have started will always remain true. This is my voyage home, my travel back to where it all started.
Reine. The day the Butcher was born.
“This is your Captain speaking, we are about to hit a small patch of turbulence, we expect to clear the area in ten or so minutes. It might be a bumpy ride so please obey the ‘fasten your seatbelts’ sign when lit up.”
The captain’s announcement was brief, but the turbulence never came. The lights dimmed and those that were on this flight were dozing, so I joined them in the world of Nod. I was perhaps asleep for a handful of moments before I heard the footsteps, several at once rushing to my location. With one sleepy eye open, I saw them, a handful of men each wearing the same attire; Syndicate fan-shirts.
The first came at me from the aisle, swinging fists to try and contain me. I ate several of his soft hands as I struggled to unlatch my belt buckle, but another joined from the front, his punches landing on my brow and skull.
Anger and rage stirred from deep within me.
A third climbed into the seats behind me, wrapping a piece of cord around my neck, trying his best to drown out my air and my light. I grasped at it with one hand, while the other frantically struggled with the belt buckle keeping me seated. Through this upheaval I spied three other figures looming in the aisle, hooded men watching for afar.
“Not…mine…”, I could barely say the words, affirmation to myself that these hooded men were not followers of the cult turning on me. These men were not lost worshippers that held scorn against Meredith or I. These men were different, they were something else. “Syn…dic…”, is all that I could gargle before the man behind me tugged harder. These were his goons, this was his message to me.
The Legacy Champion barely resided in my mind before this moment, a fresh young upstart that had yet to prove to me he was worth my time. His only saving grace, the ONLY thing that made me open my ear and hear his name was his crushing defeat over Elena DeDraca. Arguably the most dominant warrior I had seen in the halls of Project Honor to date, fierce and wild, chaotic and calculative. A formidable foe, an advantageous ally.
And Syndicate broke her reign, and her world in that one unfortunate night.
As I feel my eyes beginning to bulge, my vision askew from the lack of oxygen I resort to both hands on the rope around my neck and ignore the repeat attacks and fists aimed at my face and body. I can take a punch, but this machine needs oxygen. With both hands firmly on the rope, I realize its properties are tighter and more malleable. A rubber cord of sorts.
With all my strength I tug and tear the rubber cord in half, freeing myself from the strangulation. Quickly glancing down I spot that this as an oxygen mask, a makeshift weapon by these goons. Time to even the odds. Surging upright with all my might I thrust my hips forward and headbutt the fool before me, then backwards to connect with the goon to my rear. One hard sideways blow to my left and the aisle assailant goes down.
“This ends…NOW!”
I always was the biggest child in my village, a giant amongst men. This size brought me boons like my strength, but also painted a target on my back. I learned quickly that to be this size means to also wield a larger heart and to show compassion where I could. This time, that is the opposite. With one lengthy roar, I pull the buckle around my waist cleanly from the seat, my arresting device now quickly becoming a weapon in my hands. A loose belt, a buckle swinging on the end.
“Who sent you!” I yell as I use the makeshift flail to blast the aisle attacker with blows, the metal buckle lashing his skin. The other two have not recovered from their headbutts, and the three masked figures retreat to the cockpit. “Answer me! Who sent you!”
That is when I heard it. The pop, one sound that I will never forget. One of the three hooded figures has pulled the emergency door open, and the surge of air and pressure hit my ears like a ton of bricks. The first figure is pulled out immediately, while the other two remain my the cockpit. One shouts something, but the airflow is too much to hear.
The gunshots, however. I hear those. Multiple shots fired into the cockpit, followed by a severe nosedive in the flight, hurtling towards the ground at 45 degrees. These attackers, terrorists, henchmen of the Legacy Champion have nowhere to go as the plane nosedives. I spy one of them making for the opening on the side of the plane, clearly outfitted with a parachute for his escape.
“Is… is that…”, I stutter as I see it. Black mask and hood conceal his face, yet his loose blonde hair escapes the sides. “Syndicate…?” I say, anger swelling in my chest. This is his retribution for me tossing him from that balcony, this is his retribution but all that he has encountered with me, this is his prevention for all the suffering that might come his way?
The plane dips into an almost 90-degree dive towards the ground, so I use gravity to my advantage and hurtle towards the hooded figure, my knees and boots pinning him against the wall prior to the cockpit.
“Who are you!” I scream as I claw at his face, grabbing his entire mask with one bear-sized hand and ripping at his mask. The remaining hooded figure aims a gun at me and pulls the trigger, but a misfire or jam stops my flesh from receiving a hot piece of lead. I pull the mask with one hard tug, and reveal;
“Syndicate!”
Alas, it is not him, but another hired helper. Foolish of me, to think the ‘Outlaw” would get his own hands dirty. Surrounded by figures pulling his strings, this ‘Triad’... why should he. The man is a puppet, a plaything for their amusement now. I stand over my people. designating their movements yet he obeys their every command. A pity, I would gladly lose my life, watching the fear in his eyes as we crash land.
I look down, the Earth rapidly approaching us with near certain death awaiting us all. The remaining passengers on the flight have stayed seated dispute the events, yet I feel for them in this moment. Innocents, fragile and soft, seeking joy and love in this world but Syndicate has stole it from them. Just as he did when he took that belt undeservingly from Elena. Just as he did when he took that upsetting win in the Purge fight.
I will avenge Elena. I will avenge all of those that have had to endure the pain and suffering of Syndicate’s mere existence.
As we connect with the ground, a wave of fire and pressure greets me, and I am sure a smile stretches across my scarred and rough pocked face. Syndicate might have won this fight… but he will not win the war.
And so, I die.
“Sir? Sir??”
I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, but I cannot let go, I have Syndicate in my hands, tightly grasped around his neck. I squeeze, applying more and more pressure.
“Sir!”
I swing wildly with my left hand, blasting away anyone that might try to prevent me from my kill. And that it when reality hits me once again. The air hostess, shrieking in fear, stumbling backwards into the opposite aisle, watching my through terrified eyes as I mangle and dismantle the headrest of the seat before me.
“It…I… I was…”
A dream. A nightmare.
“I am sorry”, it is all I can blurt out as I realize the look of utter shock and fear on her face. The other handful of passengers are watching me from afar, not hooded and none standing. A dream, a sweat-filled, anger-fueling horrific dream.
I motion to help the air hostess but she does her best attempt at manners, waving at me to remain seated as if what just occurred was nothing. Like before, she hurriedly scatters from me, leaving me alone.
Ten hours of a flight and I have already terrified the entire passenger log. Great, only eight more hours to go.
REINE, HOME
Arduous and troublesome as it was, flying domestically with the general public is always a humbling experience. From the looks of fear to the remarks of admiration from fans, it is often easy to forget who you are deep down inside, or where you might have come from.
I came into this world to pursue a passion of mine, a sport for which I had a gift for. Athleticism never was my strongest defining feature, but strength and brawn were. And wrestling, despite its many criticisms has given me a life that I would have never imaged as a boy. Accolades and success aside, it has helped me grow into the man I am today.
Reine, is where that all began. Before Grand Championships, before record-breaking title reigns or career-high moments, I was once a teenager working the lands and the seas of the small Norwegian village. Son of a fisherman and a florist, a young boy with dreams and aspirations.
“Hei der”, I chant, passing everyone in the little village as I go. Not a single resident recognizes me, nor do they remember what I have done for this village. Alas, many moons have passed since that unfortunate night, the night of the fire.
“Hvor er Bjørn hjemme?”, I ask in my rusted Norwegian. Bjorn, a friend from my youth, a mere man when I last saw him. I reached out, I explained my pursuit of knowledge and nostalgia, and he kindly offered to host me. Of course, I omitted a few details, such as who I had become, or what my world was like now. “Hvor er Bjørn hjemme?” I ask again, seeking the home of my old friend.
“A-ha! Baldur! It is you, my venn.” Stout and plump, it is apparent the years were not kind to my friend. Or his waistline. “It is good to see you!”
“You too, old friend. I mean... venn.” We embrace in a hug, an act I have not performed in many many years. But to see an old face, a true old friend, it melts away the darkness and the chaos of the cult awaiting me back in Alaska. “I see you are not a farm boy anymore!”
I poke a little fun at his ballooning figure, which he laughs at with his fat jolly head.
“Not anymore, but I see you still are! What size you have grown into!”
He pokes back, touching my bulging arm. I am sure he expected my height, but not my stature, and upon pulling my face mask from my mouth he spies my scars and crusted mouth. Years of drinking seawater, drowning myself, getting as close to death so that I might converse with the Gods of the afterlife… it is apparent on my flesh. My appearance jarrs and appalls him, yet he braves through with a smile.
“Come come, my hjem is close by. I would carry your bags, but you are big now. Carry your own bagasje!”, he chuckles, leading me through the village. Onlookers continue to stare, and truthfully I stare back. The village has changed drastically since I remembered it, new homes have been built and old buildings demolished. The village has become a bustling town, with modern conveniences galore. I spy electric cars, modern cellphones and even a number of breweries, a sign that the village has truly caught up with the rest of the world.
This is where I began my journey, this is where my legacy began. And this is where my next chapter starts from.
We arrive at Bjorn’s home and he allows me time to get settled, unpacking my small bag and getting used to being so far away from home, as ironic as it sounds. We reunite at the table for supper, joined by his wife and three kids. We share a meal, some wine and his wife takes the children to bed so the boys can catch up.
“...so you mean to tell me, you are their champion?”
“I was, until recently. Their greatest champion, longest-running in their history. But not anymore.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear. My kondolerer to you my venn. You will get it back, no?” He raises his wine glass and clinks it to me. “And now you must fight their biggest champion? Their best champion?” I grunt, obviously catching him off guard.
“I am their biggest and their best, this boy is merely holding a belt for me. I have already seen this ‘Outlaw’ with my own eyes, and he has not impressed me. One time, one night, he did something remarkable and defeated a champion I admire so highly. But otherwise… he is a hurdle in my way.”
“And so you must beat him to become their best? I mean… to prove you are their best? I am not so sure how this all works.”
I shoot him a smirk, he is foolish but this world is far from him. Dropping a youthful life of farming in lieu of an IT-focused path, his life has grown softer and sounder than ever. I dare not even mention the world I live in Old Harbour, or the pilgrimage we are making to reincarnate the Great Elder God resides at the bottom of the sea.
“This marks a new day in my path, a new step. My legacy is about to begin, and this one man stands in my way. I have shown him first-hand my power, and he is aware of what will happen to him should he stumble or misstep. All that remains now, is to do it. We are judged on our actions, not overall but for each and every performance… he must bring his very best. Otherwise, it will be his downfall.”
Bjorn nods, understanding me. His second and third chins roll with each nod, amusing me but I conceal my disdain.
“And if he were to win? If this man was to defeat you?”
A good question, and one I have pondered. Until this point, all defeats on my record have been by my own volition, whether it’s sliding out of the ring during a rumble, or eliminating myself from a match to pursue a beating on my opponent. But losing my fight against Arata reminded me of something, a small little fact I had begun to forget.
I am still but a man.
This is the one thing I have tried to remind myself, but often dismiss it in the heat of the moment. When I can feel my opponent gasping for air in my arms as I bearhug them, or when they shake and try to escape before I powerbomb them to Hell itself, or lastly as I hold them above my head, hearing their pleas for mercy, only to end up breaking their body over my knee.
It is hard to remember than I am the same, a mortal man just like they. Only they differ to me in one way - they are weak and I am strong.
“Syndicate has achieved more than the legends of that company ever did. Names like Dickie Watson, Aiden Reynolds, Mark Hunter, Jason Long, names with bigger spotlights and greater followings have failed to seize that same belt. That same title has only been earned by three people to date.”
I pause, as the reality of the situation before me sinks in.
“Elena DeDraca, the greatest to ever hold it. Shawn Warstein, the false tyrant that broke beneath my boot. And Syndicate, the cheat that stole the prize for himself. I am winning this not just for me, but to give the company a true Legacy Champion they deserve.”
Bjorn smiles, excited to hear my story but still not fully comprehending it. His ignorance is welcome, however, for if he knew the man that sat across from him, what his friend had become, the monster he has let into his home…
“Look friend, my journey was long and my eyes are heavy. Let us finish this wine in peace, and leave the discussion of wars and battles until another time.”
“Sure Baldur, whatever you ask.”
We cheers one last time, finishing our cups before we find time to sleep.
THE FIRE
Much like my flight here, my dreams are restless and aggressive, flashes of memoires and thoughts of monstrous actions. A restless mind and restless body, I found myself awake throughout the night, pondering everything and anything I could. And endlessly, I came back to one single face, one lonely man.
Syndicate.
A foolish puppet, dancing for the carrot before his eyes by his unknown, unnamed and unseen collective he calls 'The Triad'. Not the Oriental gangland mobsters, but a new shadowed organization that somehow preys on weekend frail athletes. A man, nay, a Champion….that follows orders and commands from the shadows, but for what?
Fear? Worry? Do they hold a gun to his brother Colt’s head? Do they threaten the life of his wife Sophie? A man that has accomplished so much in his short life, nine times a champion in his past company and a current podium-topper in Project Honor.
It baffles me.
Why is he so afraid? Why does he cower and balk at their commands, their words? Even going so far as aligning himself with a motley crew or lost and confused fighters, hoping that this True Society will watch his back. He reinforces himself, he defends himself at every turn and I have to wonder… why not fight back? Why be the victim at all times?
An outlaw, that is commanded and followers orders.
An outlaw, that obeys and abides the word of others.
An outlaw, that acknowledges and works within the law.
Syndicate is a fake, a fraud, a phony. To call him the Legacy Champion, to honor him as the single most impressive star on the roster… it’s laughable. Those that earned it before him did through blood sweat and tears. Those that defended it before him did so admirably and heroically.
Syndicate is capable of many things, that is true. But for me to call him MY Legacy Champion? MY peer? MY greatest threat? I would rather sink to R’lyeh and visit the Deep Ones myself, than bend a knee to his false kingship.
As I grow more restless and more uncomfortable, it brings me back in time. Back to when my own Legacy begun. Back to the day the Butcher was born. Almost aimlessly I find myself getting dressed, boots on and headed for the door before I remember this is not Old Harbour. This is not my little village, where moonlight walks are normal. Where would I even go?
And without a second thought, I was walking briskly in the cold Reine night, with only one location in mind.
“Hello, Mother.”
Martha Magnus, the woman that bore a giant into this world. A sweet little son, innocent and plump. Not one day passes I don’t think of her, not one day passes I don’t dedicate all I do to her. My rock, my beacon, my purpose.
“It has been a while… I see they are keeping your flowers fresh, and your grave is clean. That is good.”
Her resting spot was far removed from those around her, separated by choice. This plot has three names on it, but only two reside in this grave - Mother and Father. I will never forget the day I lost you, I will never forget the grief and the anguish I felt. And I will never forget the anger that it ignited within me.
“Your little boy is all grown up now Mother, do you see? Baldur is no longer a little boy!”
Talk of Triads and Societies, of cults and criminals and gangs brings me back to that unfortunate night, a dozen years ago. Reine, once peaceful and quant was being infected by a local gang of hoodlums, a menacing threat from the nearby capital of Oslo. Extortion and laundering were just some of their asks, but when it came to physical abuse, beatings and lashing and sexual misconduct of the women in Reine… that is when someone needed to stand up.
All eyes turned to me, a boy still but their only hope. A promising star in the wrestling world, fighting under a different name in a different company in a different time. I was a champion in fiction, but to them they needed a warrior. A savior.
They needed what I was to become.
“I hope you and Papa are enjoying a feast, of mutton and lam and all the wine you can drink! They say the banquet halls of Valhalla are never empty of good foods and drinks, and merry music to enjoy too.”
The treacherous gang persisted, returning as they always did at odd times, unannounced and unwelcomed. Triads be gone, these pests were very real. And very close for comfort. Syndicate might cower and hide in his shadows, awaiting his next order form his unseen hooded directorate, but this maters needed swift in-person attention.
“I haven’t been home to see you in a while Mother, that is not good. Please, forgive me. It is hard for me… it has been very hard.”
I located the gangs headquarters, if you would even call it that. A shitty bar in Oslo that served drinks to degenerates like these fools. Brave and fearless I marched into the door, and told them to leave Reine out of their business. They met me with blank stares and expressions, but they understood me. I sealed the deal with letting them know they could speak with me if they had a problem. That was the mistake I must live with for my life now.
“I am sorry for what happen Mother… I am so so sorry. This is my fault, what happened was my fault. Papa assured me it wasn’t but it is true. I am so sorry Mother, I hope you can forgive me.”
Not even one night passed before this gang decided to show me what they were capable of. My cult wouldn’t do what they did. True Society even wouldn’t do what these cowards did. Syndicate and his Triads… I could see them being lowly enough to attack at night.
“The fire… the houses lost, the lives of our people… you… I am so sorry Mother.”
It was the screams that woke me that night, terrified shrieks from innocent people afraid of what might come. Papa grabbed me and we ran to the door, to see the commotion before our eyes. Homes and buildings ablaze, townsfolk scattered as they ran from the fires and to their safety. This was no hidden acts of Triads, this was no behind the scenes encounter with True Society. This was a full front assault.
“Those men, those terrible men… they paid for what they did. I know you won’t agree Mother, but they paid for what they did.”
My Father and I ran through the village, hearing the cries for help all around us, doing what we could to help the others. Smoke filled the air, thick course clouds of brimstone and scorched worlds. It was only when I heard their motorcycles that I looked back.
My home. Our family home. In flames, from floor to roof. They had waited, they had watched, and they attacked when my back was turned. By the time I got back, sprinting as fast as my lungs and legs could handle it was too late. Flames swallowed everything whole.
My home.
My world.
My Mother.
Nothing remained but ashes, a collapses symbol of what my life had become, what my future must become. My Legacy was written that day, it was up to me to decide to walk that path.
“I will make sure to always have fresh flowers here, sunflowers just like how you and Papa liked. The night is cold, but the sun shines brightly on your grave Mother. Looking down from Valhalla, it must look so peaceful.”
My Father begged, pleased with me not to go. He cried and clutched to me, a broken man. A frail and old man. He had lost everything. I knew what I had to do. I walked to the tool shed, ignoring all plea’s to forgive this, to ignore this, to let it go. But it meant nothing to me.
I grabbed my Fathers woodaxe and I walked. Ten miles to Oslo.
“I won’t be here for long, my trip is short. I wanted to come see you and Papa, for I do not know how long it will be before I can return. I will… I always miss you, both. Everything I do, I do it for my family.”
They say it was the most brutal crime scene in Norwegian history. It covered newspapers, radio stations, it made international news. The pictures were too vile to show, the images too disturbing. But I remember them.
I remember every moment of it.
Everything went black as soon as I entered that bar. The barkeep was afraid to kick them out, so it had become a refuge for them. A hairy, grizzled troupe of roaming bikers looking for a new home. Their guard was down, their bellies full of ale as they celebrated the desecration of a wonderful village.
As my axe entered the first mans head, I found my strength.
“I will always love you, Mother. Papa. Always I will be your son… Baldur.”
My Legacy was written in blood that day. None left that bar intact, none alive to tell their tales. I walked outside into the morning air, covered in blood and entrails, holding the weapon in my hands firmly. I expected the wrath of the law to come for me, but it never did. Eye witnesses stepped aside to let me through, but none spoke up against me. Authorities understood what had happened, but they did not pursue me.
I was an outlaw. A savior. A monster. A hero.
I was their Butcher.
GODS, DO YOU HEAR ME
Days pass and my ‘vacation’ nears its end. My friend tours the town with me, and I meet many older faces who had long forgotten about me. I greet elderly neighbours, who recognize me and gift me with pastries. I greet children who have heard my story, and follow my like a parade. I meet family I had long forgotten I had, cousins and distant relatives who light up with joy to hear my stories of America.
I am a monster. I am a butcher.
But I am THEIR butcher.
As my time abroad comes to its end I take a lone walk by the shores edge. My time away has been full of memories and reminiscing, however to say it is grating on me to be so kind and pleasant to these people is an understatement.
I hate it.
Dusk is fast approaching, and I can smell the change in seasons on the salted air of the shore. As I approach the lapping brooks, I cup my hand and savour the taste of the salted water, my mind racing and flooding with memoires of old and far, new an young.
“This is my Legacy… you are my Legacy…”
The sea. My entire life has been spent alongside it, living from shore to shore and adjusting to its mercy and its temper. The sea has given me gifts, given me life, taken life from me, taken my family and my destiny. But it has also shown me how to rewrite and recreate my own story.
My legacy.
“Funny, I used to come to this same shore when I was but a boy, and call out to you. Odin, to advise me. Thor, to prepare me. Frigg, to remind me. And Heimdall, to guide me. I called out, but you never answered. None of you.”
The God of Norse history are rich in stories and fables, yet I was never truly granted their audience or their ear. It seems foolish to speak of such things, but when one is lost and desperate for guidance, looking to the stars above is often the first step. Only my call, my answers never came from the skies.
“I asked you, Odin, what I should do next. I wondered if I should continue my career in wrestling, or remain at home to care and cater to my village. I wondered if I would do them a disserve by leaving, but your silence was deafening.”
Kicking stones into the water, something I always tend to do along this stony shore. It passes the time and somewhat relaxes me, per say.
“Odin I asked what I should do and you ignored me. So I continued on my path, I continued on my journey that brings me back here to this shore. An accomplished fighter, a seasoned warrior, beloved by many for the wrong reasons, hated by many for the right. A following of strong acolytes behind me, and a reign as a Champion that is unmatched and unbroken.”
I look to the stars, awaiting a might bolt to strike me down. But nothing happens.
“I have written my own story, my own adventure. But it time to work on building my legacy. What I will leave behind for others, not just stories of all I have achieved, but more so all I have conquered. If you do reside in Valhalla, if you do truly watch over me then heed this… I will take this world, in the name of a better God. And I will strike you down would you oppose me.”
To challenge the Gods is foolish, but sometimes life throws you into that situation. I have never claimed to be bestowed with godly powers like others might have claimed, I do not claim to harness the power of the Great Elder God, as it has been commentated upon. I am but a man.
But Odin be damned, I will fight like a man possessed. There is a golden prize I have climbed for too long and too hard to let it slip through my fingers, and this ‘Outlaw’ will not stop me from achieving my goal.
“Thor, I called out to you for strength and for exercise. I asked you to help me build myself to match your power, and to learn how to find as a warrior such as yourself. I stood here, on these very sands, calling to you… and you left me in silence.”
I didn’t need the Thunder Gods help, I didn’t need his training or preparation. I grew into the warrior I am today alone, learning how to fight and how to break my foes by my own nature. I have broken bones and spilled blood, something that Syndicate is all too aware of. When that bell rings and it is just us, alone, he will know. No lumberjacks, no safety at ringside.
Just the former Legacy Champion, the new Legacy Champion, and a puddle of blood and sweat on the mat beneath us.
“Thor I prayed to you night after night, to lend me your strength so that I could fight endlessly, fight eternally as you have done. I pleaded and begged for you aid, but you never answered my call. Instead, my call was answered by the seas. The wrath and the ferocity of the oceans called my name, and I answered them.”
I have spoken of sacrifices, ending lives for the honor and purpose of my God. And I have followed through with my promises. Sydney Irvine once said that I spoke a big game, but never followed it up. That was until that night where I showed him I was capable of anything, as I tossed his frail body from that balcony. The cameras did not catch it, but I heard it myself.
Whimpers. Begging. Pleading.
Pathethic.
An outlaw that obeys commands. An outlaw that follows orders. A champion, that can be tossed around.
Pathethic.
“Frigg, I came here to these sands for your wisdom, your grace and your love. I had lost it all, my Mother first then my Papa second. My entire world crashed around me, what I loved was gone to the fires, or to the ocean. I was so alone, a man in size but a boy at heart. And you ignored me.”
I have been around this world, but never was I so lost as then. A newly named ‘Butcher of Reine’, I had exacted my revenge but at what cost? My hands were stained with their blood, guilty blood. How was I to know where that would lead me, what it would do to me?
To see a man bleeding, fading, passing as I beat him. Break him. Squeeze him. It once frightened me that these very hands could do that to another person. But as time passes, I grew to savour it. The look of fear in a mans eye as I come crashing down upon him, as I hold him high by his throat, as he is hopelessly locked into a position he cannot escape from, awaiting the moment I decide to end it.
For Syndicate, being thrown from a balcony is only the beginning. There is much worse things in store for him. He has not truly tested my Sinking Faith. He has not heard or felt The Call. And sadly for Mr. Irvine, I do not think his body is capable of withstanding a World Ender.
Very few are.
“I came to these shores with one simple question… am I man, or have I become a monster? I have taken lives, many more since those days of old. I have ruined lives, countless and still growing. I have lost sight of what it means to show compassion or mercy. It pains me to feigns kindness, to try to revisit that side of me that still shares some shred of decency with humanity. I am still Baldur… but for how long? My entire life has been leading to this.”
She hears me and ignores me.
“My name now, is Ozymandias… if you hear my words Frigg, show yourself.”
Nothing.
A coward, just like those that oppose me. True Society once came knocking on my door, a rare opportunity they once told me. A chance to join the elite team in Project Honor. Oh how I laughed, knowing how easily I could discombobulate each member with my own bare hands. A formation of the best, yet each have proven themselves to be weaker than the last.
Following my battle with Syndicate, perhaps I should challenge his entire team to a gauntlet. See how many can withstand the might of Project Honors supreme warrior.
“Heimdall… you I called to last. When all others failed me, when my words fell on deaf ears it was you I turned to. The all-seeing, all-knowing gatekeeper. I reached out to you for guidance, to show me the correct path forward. To show me what I should become, what I would become.”
And just like the others, you ignored my calls.
I wonder how long into the fight it will be before the Legacy Champion calls out for help? How long before he realizes mercy is nonexistent, and that escape is futile. When will he call out to his Triads to come forth and aid him, or his mismatch band of allies to run to his aid. How long before Syndicate cheats, or tries to steal another victory from someone more deserving.
How long until he breaks?
“Heimdall, you ignored me just as the others. Valhalla is home to the Gods, but alas nobody seems to hear my knocking. If you truly see all, then see me now. My name, Baldur Magnusson… is no more. I will relinquish my name. I relinquish my heritage. Reine is no more my home, and its foul history and memories around me.”
I have spilled blood in this town, and my namesake is that cross to bear for life. I will always be the Butcher of Reine, but Reine will no longer be for me.
“Tell the Gods that stand beside you, that I, Baldur Magnusson, doubt them. I curse their names. I spit on their legacies!”
I stand there, yelling at the night sky like crazed lunatic, awaiting the skies to open and the Gods themselves to rush me… but alas, nothing.
“Cowards!”
I have spent my entire life surrounded by those that fail to match the lore and fantasy behind them. From Gods to man, it matters not. The skies above me are empty, this is known to me now. The seas beneath are home to the deep ones and the Great Elder God, for I have heard his voice. The middle-ground is still a place of contention.
“Damn you Gods, this ends today. My Mother and Papa have done more in their short lives that you did in your eternal worlds. You are pathetic… you are lies.”
The skies remain calm and clear, no forthcoming onslaught from the Norse Gods.
“Before my days end and I sink to the bottom of the depths, I must stand ground on this Earth with my fellow man. Many will oppose me and many will stand in my way, but few can match my raw power and my fortitude to succeed.”
I step forward, feeling my boots filling with the cold touch of the sea, the salted vapor hitting my lips and my lungs. “Syndicate.” I stir the waters surface, walking deeper so that my knees are submerged.
“You will soon learn of all that I am, and the power that is bestowed within me. You are a man, a fool with an improper moniker, and an entourage of the weakest links. You are a puppet in a shadowed game, and you are a failing commodity.”
As I walk further, the water rises to meet me, from my thighs to hips to my waistline.
“When the day comes, I will show you no mercy. Once the bell rings, it is man against man. There is nothing stopping us from tearing each other apart, it will be just you and I.”
I wade in further, until the freezing water hits my ribs. That is where I stop.
“There will come a time soon where you must admit defeat. You must accept that the fight is over, and you must surrender. Your gold will not be lost, for I will wear it with pride. Your legacy will not end, as your story is still being written. Your saga will not diminish, for you have many more fights to fight.”
I dip my hands into the water, and splash my face, the brisk cold liquid bringing me fully ot life.
“But do not stand against me when the fight is done. Do not stand against me and showcase your bravado. Do not goad me into ending your career, or your world. I will show you no mercy, but I will show you respect.”
I raise my arms, and take a deep breath, exhale. Breathe in, exhale.
“The Gods have turned a blind ear to me all my life, but I know that my words will reach you. Do. Not. Disappoint. Me. Only one man will walk out of that ring, and one will stumble and fall. There will be a world waiting for you if you give me what I need… but persist when it is already over? Then you will understand why they call it the ‘World Ender’.”
With one deep breath, I plunge myself into the deep water, allowing the icy cold tendrils to sneak all over my body, around my neck, in my ears and around my eyes. The heavens ignored my calls for years, but one dive into the frigid plunge is enough to remind me of one thing – I am alive!
Fight or flight kicks in and it is a matter of surfacing to breathe, or opening your lungs and swallowing. I choose the latter, filling my lungs with the arctic nectar until it feels like my chest will explode. Mere inches from the surface, from escape, but I do not allow myself.
Never surrender. Never quit.
Do or Die.
This is not the war Syndicate asked for. This is not the battle his brother Colt prayed for him, or his wife Sophie hoped for. This is not the mountain he wished to climb, but this is how it unfolds.
This will be his legacy as our champion, and this will be the beginning of mine.
All I lose consciousness, knowing that I am far from home, I open my eyes and see a faint glow in the depths before me. A pale, almost-there green glow. And that is when I realize.
They call to me, still, even when afar.
R’lyeh, the deep ones, and the Great Dreamer.
I plant my feet on the bed of the sea and spring upright, breaking the surface and spluttering out the water within my lungs. Gasping for air, sucking in the razor-sharp cold night as I work to regain consciousness. My fragile body, hungering for preservation.
Syndicate, I leave you with one parting phrase.
“All Men Must Fall”
Soon, you will meet the real me.
Ozymandias, Butcher of Reine, Tyrant of Project Honor, Warrior of R’lyeh, Breaker of Champions, Unrelenting and Unstoppable.
Unfathomable.
“...here is your hot tea, some crema and sugar… oh, I’ll get you another couple of beers too. You seem to be going through those quite quickly!”
The air hostess was kind, she had been attentive to my needs and quite considerate despite my appearances. A quiet flight despite these trying times, tonight’s red-eye was somewhat sparse. A dozen or so passengers joined me on this fool’s errand, a non-stop voyage through the winter skies to greener pastures back East.
Four stops on this journey, a total of almost thirty hours of travelling time, and endless looks and stares by frightened passengers but it won’t stop me. It is time I revisited my past, my heritage, my legacy. It is time I went home, to where it all began.
“Here you go now, and just remember to push that button up there if you need anything else.”
The hostess returned promptly, pointing to a little lit-up button above my head. Her smile was broad and wide yet there was something behind her eyes, something concealed. I had seen it a hundred times before - fear. They forced me to remove my tribunal mask at the door, stating that air travel forbids anything that poses a threat or could be used as a weapon. Funny, they should have bound my hands then.
Typically I fly private, chartered airlines to-and-fro allow me the freedom to be myself. Wear my mask, not as a wall or barrier to hide behind, but to fly the true colours of my devotion, the very stark symbol of my worship to the tentacled God, Cthulhu. A metallic incarnation that I wear proudly, even that is seen to be a threat.
She smiles as she leaves me but the pace at which she moves to get away from me is amusing. I sit along near the rear of this flight, dozens of empty seats between me and the next passengers, my large frame occupying nearly three seats wide and my brow rubbing against the air vents above. To fully encapture this image, remove my mask and replace it with not one but two oversized facemasks and you can envision what the world of Ozymandias on public air looks like.
The flight ahead is long and tiring, so I use this time to catch up on my rest. I never forgot my roots, and I never will. My legacy changes with time, but where I have started will always remain true. This is my voyage home, my travel back to where it all started.
Reine. The day the Butcher was born.
“This is your Captain speaking, we are about to hit a small patch of turbulence, we expect to clear the area in ten or so minutes. It might be a bumpy ride so please obey the ‘fasten your seatbelts’ sign when lit up.”
The captain’s announcement was brief, but the turbulence never came. The lights dimmed and those that were on this flight were dozing, so I joined them in the world of Nod. I was perhaps asleep for a handful of moments before I heard the footsteps, several at once rushing to my location. With one sleepy eye open, I saw them, a handful of men each wearing the same attire; Syndicate fan-shirts.
The first came at me from the aisle, swinging fists to try and contain me. I ate several of his soft hands as I struggled to unlatch my belt buckle, but another joined from the front, his punches landing on my brow and skull.
Anger and rage stirred from deep within me.
A third climbed into the seats behind me, wrapping a piece of cord around my neck, trying his best to drown out my air and my light. I grasped at it with one hand, while the other frantically struggled with the belt buckle keeping me seated. Through this upheaval I spied three other figures looming in the aisle, hooded men watching for afar.
“Not…mine…”, I could barely say the words, affirmation to myself that these hooded men were not followers of the cult turning on me. These men were not lost worshippers that held scorn against Meredith or I. These men were different, they were something else. “Syn…dic…”, is all that I could gargle before the man behind me tugged harder. These were his goons, this was his message to me.
The Legacy Champion barely resided in my mind before this moment, a fresh young upstart that had yet to prove to me he was worth my time. His only saving grace, the ONLY thing that made me open my ear and hear his name was his crushing defeat over Elena DeDraca. Arguably the most dominant warrior I had seen in the halls of Project Honor to date, fierce and wild, chaotic and calculative. A formidable foe, an advantageous ally.
And Syndicate broke her reign, and her world in that one unfortunate night.
As I feel my eyes beginning to bulge, my vision askew from the lack of oxygen I resort to both hands on the rope around my neck and ignore the repeat attacks and fists aimed at my face and body. I can take a punch, but this machine needs oxygen. With both hands firmly on the rope, I realize its properties are tighter and more malleable. A rubber cord of sorts.
With all my strength I tug and tear the rubber cord in half, freeing myself from the strangulation. Quickly glancing down I spot that this as an oxygen mask, a makeshift weapon by these goons. Time to even the odds. Surging upright with all my might I thrust my hips forward and headbutt the fool before me, then backwards to connect with the goon to my rear. One hard sideways blow to my left and the aisle assailant goes down.
“This ends…NOW!”
I always was the biggest child in my village, a giant amongst men. This size brought me boons like my strength, but also painted a target on my back. I learned quickly that to be this size means to also wield a larger heart and to show compassion where I could. This time, that is the opposite. With one lengthy roar, I pull the buckle around my waist cleanly from the seat, my arresting device now quickly becoming a weapon in my hands. A loose belt, a buckle swinging on the end.
“Who sent you!” I yell as I use the makeshift flail to blast the aisle attacker with blows, the metal buckle lashing his skin. The other two have not recovered from their headbutts, and the three masked figures retreat to the cockpit. “Answer me! Who sent you!”
That is when I heard it. The pop, one sound that I will never forget. One of the three hooded figures has pulled the emergency door open, and the surge of air and pressure hit my ears like a ton of bricks. The first figure is pulled out immediately, while the other two remain my the cockpit. One shouts something, but the airflow is too much to hear.
The gunshots, however. I hear those. Multiple shots fired into the cockpit, followed by a severe nosedive in the flight, hurtling towards the ground at 45 degrees. These attackers, terrorists, henchmen of the Legacy Champion have nowhere to go as the plane nosedives. I spy one of them making for the opening on the side of the plane, clearly outfitted with a parachute for his escape.
“Is… is that…”, I stutter as I see it. Black mask and hood conceal his face, yet his loose blonde hair escapes the sides. “Syndicate…?” I say, anger swelling in my chest. This is his retribution for me tossing him from that balcony, this is his retribution but all that he has encountered with me, this is his prevention for all the suffering that might come his way?
The plane dips into an almost 90-degree dive towards the ground, so I use gravity to my advantage and hurtle towards the hooded figure, my knees and boots pinning him against the wall prior to the cockpit.
“Who are you!” I scream as I claw at his face, grabbing his entire mask with one bear-sized hand and ripping at his mask. The remaining hooded figure aims a gun at me and pulls the trigger, but a misfire or jam stops my flesh from receiving a hot piece of lead. I pull the mask with one hard tug, and reveal;
“Syndicate!”
Alas, it is not him, but another hired helper. Foolish of me, to think the ‘Outlaw” would get his own hands dirty. Surrounded by figures pulling his strings, this ‘Triad’... why should he. The man is a puppet, a plaything for their amusement now. I stand over my people. designating their movements yet he obeys their every command. A pity, I would gladly lose my life, watching the fear in his eyes as we crash land.
I look down, the Earth rapidly approaching us with near certain death awaiting us all. The remaining passengers on the flight have stayed seated dispute the events, yet I feel for them in this moment. Innocents, fragile and soft, seeking joy and love in this world but Syndicate has stole it from them. Just as he did when he took that belt undeservingly from Elena. Just as he did when he took that upsetting win in the Purge fight.
I will avenge Elena. I will avenge all of those that have had to endure the pain and suffering of Syndicate’s mere existence.
As we connect with the ground, a wave of fire and pressure greets me, and I am sure a smile stretches across my scarred and rough pocked face. Syndicate might have won this fight… but he will not win the war.
And so, I die.
“Sir? Sir??”
I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, but I cannot let go, I have Syndicate in my hands, tightly grasped around his neck. I squeeze, applying more and more pressure.
“Sir!”
I swing wildly with my left hand, blasting away anyone that might try to prevent me from my kill. And that it when reality hits me once again. The air hostess, shrieking in fear, stumbling backwards into the opposite aisle, watching my through terrified eyes as I mangle and dismantle the headrest of the seat before me.
“It…I… I was…”
A dream. A nightmare.
“I am sorry”, it is all I can blurt out as I realize the look of utter shock and fear on her face. The other handful of passengers are watching me from afar, not hooded and none standing. A dream, a sweat-filled, anger-fueling horrific dream.
I motion to help the air hostess but she does her best attempt at manners, waving at me to remain seated as if what just occurred was nothing. Like before, she hurriedly scatters from me, leaving me alone.
Ten hours of a flight and I have already terrified the entire passenger log. Great, only eight more hours to go.
REINE, HOME
Arduous and troublesome as it was, flying domestically with the general public is always a humbling experience. From the looks of fear to the remarks of admiration from fans, it is often easy to forget who you are deep down inside, or where you might have come from.
I came into this world to pursue a passion of mine, a sport for which I had a gift for. Athleticism never was my strongest defining feature, but strength and brawn were. And wrestling, despite its many criticisms has given me a life that I would have never imaged as a boy. Accolades and success aside, it has helped me grow into the man I am today.
Reine, is where that all began. Before Grand Championships, before record-breaking title reigns or career-high moments, I was once a teenager working the lands and the seas of the small Norwegian village. Son of a fisherman and a florist, a young boy with dreams and aspirations.
“Hei der”, I chant, passing everyone in the little village as I go. Not a single resident recognizes me, nor do they remember what I have done for this village. Alas, many moons have passed since that unfortunate night, the night of the fire.
“Hvor er Bjørn hjemme?”, I ask in my rusted Norwegian. Bjorn, a friend from my youth, a mere man when I last saw him. I reached out, I explained my pursuit of knowledge and nostalgia, and he kindly offered to host me. Of course, I omitted a few details, such as who I had become, or what my world was like now. “Hvor er Bjørn hjemme?” I ask again, seeking the home of my old friend.
“A-ha! Baldur! It is you, my venn.” Stout and plump, it is apparent the years were not kind to my friend. Or his waistline. “It is good to see you!”
“You too, old friend. I mean... venn.” We embrace in a hug, an act I have not performed in many many years. But to see an old face, a true old friend, it melts away the darkness and the chaos of the cult awaiting me back in Alaska. “I see you are not a farm boy anymore!”
I poke a little fun at his ballooning figure, which he laughs at with his fat jolly head.
“Not anymore, but I see you still are! What size you have grown into!”
He pokes back, touching my bulging arm. I am sure he expected my height, but not my stature, and upon pulling my face mask from my mouth he spies my scars and crusted mouth. Years of drinking seawater, drowning myself, getting as close to death so that I might converse with the Gods of the afterlife… it is apparent on my flesh. My appearance jarrs and appalls him, yet he braves through with a smile.
“Come come, my hjem is close by. I would carry your bags, but you are big now. Carry your own bagasje!”, he chuckles, leading me through the village. Onlookers continue to stare, and truthfully I stare back. The village has changed drastically since I remembered it, new homes have been built and old buildings demolished. The village has become a bustling town, with modern conveniences galore. I spy electric cars, modern cellphones and even a number of breweries, a sign that the village has truly caught up with the rest of the world.
This is where I began my journey, this is where my legacy began. And this is where my next chapter starts from.
We arrive at Bjorn’s home and he allows me time to get settled, unpacking my small bag and getting used to being so far away from home, as ironic as it sounds. We reunite at the table for supper, joined by his wife and three kids. We share a meal, some wine and his wife takes the children to bed so the boys can catch up.
“...so you mean to tell me, you are their champion?”
“I was, until recently. Their greatest champion, longest-running in their history. But not anymore.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear. My kondolerer to you my venn. You will get it back, no?” He raises his wine glass and clinks it to me. “And now you must fight their biggest champion? Their best champion?” I grunt, obviously catching him off guard.
“I am their biggest and their best, this boy is merely holding a belt for me. I have already seen this ‘Outlaw’ with my own eyes, and he has not impressed me. One time, one night, he did something remarkable and defeated a champion I admire so highly. But otherwise… he is a hurdle in my way.”
“And so you must beat him to become their best? I mean… to prove you are their best? I am not so sure how this all works.”
I shoot him a smirk, he is foolish but this world is far from him. Dropping a youthful life of farming in lieu of an IT-focused path, his life has grown softer and sounder than ever. I dare not even mention the world I live in Old Harbour, or the pilgrimage we are making to reincarnate the Great Elder God resides at the bottom of the sea.
“This marks a new day in my path, a new step. My legacy is about to begin, and this one man stands in my way. I have shown him first-hand my power, and he is aware of what will happen to him should he stumble or misstep. All that remains now, is to do it. We are judged on our actions, not overall but for each and every performance… he must bring his very best. Otherwise, it will be his downfall.”
Bjorn nods, understanding me. His second and third chins roll with each nod, amusing me but I conceal my disdain.
“And if he were to win? If this man was to defeat you?”
A good question, and one I have pondered. Until this point, all defeats on my record have been by my own volition, whether it’s sliding out of the ring during a rumble, or eliminating myself from a match to pursue a beating on my opponent. But losing my fight against Arata reminded me of something, a small little fact I had begun to forget.
I am still but a man.
This is the one thing I have tried to remind myself, but often dismiss it in the heat of the moment. When I can feel my opponent gasping for air in my arms as I bearhug them, or when they shake and try to escape before I powerbomb them to Hell itself, or lastly as I hold them above my head, hearing their pleas for mercy, only to end up breaking their body over my knee.
It is hard to remember than I am the same, a mortal man just like they. Only they differ to me in one way - they are weak and I am strong.
“Syndicate has achieved more than the legends of that company ever did. Names like Dickie Watson, Aiden Reynolds, Mark Hunter, Jason Long, names with bigger spotlights and greater followings have failed to seize that same belt. That same title has only been earned by three people to date.”
I pause, as the reality of the situation before me sinks in.
“Elena DeDraca, the greatest to ever hold it. Shawn Warstein, the false tyrant that broke beneath my boot. And Syndicate, the cheat that stole the prize for himself. I am winning this not just for me, but to give the company a true Legacy Champion they deserve.”
Bjorn smiles, excited to hear my story but still not fully comprehending it. His ignorance is welcome, however, for if he knew the man that sat across from him, what his friend had become, the monster he has let into his home…
“Look friend, my journey was long and my eyes are heavy. Let us finish this wine in peace, and leave the discussion of wars and battles until another time.”
“Sure Baldur, whatever you ask.”
We cheers one last time, finishing our cups before we find time to sleep.
THE FIRE
Much like my flight here, my dreams are restless and aggressive, flashes of memoires and thoughts of monstrous actions. A restless mind and restless body, I found myself awake throughout the night, pondering everything and anything I could. And endlessly, I came back to one single face, one lonely man.
Syndicate.
A foolish puppet, dancing for the carrot before his eyes by his unknown, unnamed and unseen collective he calls 'The Triad'. Not the Oriental gangland mobsters, but a new shadowed organization that somehow preys on weekend frail athletes. A man, nay, a Champion….that follows orders and commands from the shadows, but for what?
Fear? Worry? Do they hold a gun to his brother Colt’s head? Do they threaten the life of his wife Sophie? A man that has accomplished so much in his short life, nine times a champion in his past company and a current podium-topper in Project Honor.
It baffles me.
Why is he so afraid? Why does he cower and balk at their commands, their words? Even going so far as aligning himself with a motley crew or lost and confused fighters, hoping that this True Society will watch his back. He reinforces himself, he defends himself at every turn and I have to wonder… why not fight back? Why be the victim at all times?
An outlaw, that is commanded and followers orders.
An outlaw, that obeys and abides the word of others.
An outlaw, that acknowledges and works within the law.
Syndicate is a fake, a fraud, a phony. To call him the Legacy Champion, to honor him as the single most impressive star on the roster… it’s laughable. Those that earned it before him did through blood sweat and tears. Those that defended it before him did so admirably and heroically.
Syndicate is capable of many things, that is true. But for me to call him MY Legacy Champion? MY peer? MY greatest threat? I would rather sink to R’lyeh and visit the Deep Ones myself, than bend a knee to his false kingship.
As I grow more restless and more uncomfortable, it brings me back in time. Back to when my own Legacy begun. Back to the day the Butcher was born. Almost aimlessly I find myself getting dressed, boots on and headed for the door before I remember this is not Old Harbour. This is not my little village, where moonlight walks are normal. Where would I even go?
And without a second thought, I was walking briskly in the cold Reine night, with only one location in mind.
“Hello, Mother.”
Martha Magnus, the woman that bore a giant into this world. A sweet little son, innocent and plump. Not one day passes I don’t think of her, not one day passes I don’t dedicate all I do to her. My rock, my beacon, my purpose.
“It has been a while… I see they are keeping your flowers fresh, and your grave is clean. That is good.”
Her resting spot was far removed from those around her, separated by choice. This plot has three names on it, but only two reside in this grave - Mother and Father. I will never forget the day I lost you, I will never forget the grief and the anguish I felt. And I will never forget the anger that it ignited within me.
“Your little boy is all grown up now Mother, do you see? Baldur is no longer a little boy!”
Talk of Triads and Societies, of cults and criminals and gangs brings me back to that unfortunate night, a dozen years ago. Reine, once peaceful and quant was being infected by a local gang of hoodlums, a menacing threat from the nearby capital of Oslo. Extortion and laundering were just some of their asks, but when it came to physical abuse, beatings and lashing and sexual misconduct of the women in Reine… that is when someone needed to stand up.
All eyes turned to me, a boy still but their only hope. A promising star in the wrestling world, fighting under a different name in a different company in a different time. I was a champion in fiction, but to them they needed a warrior. A savior.
They needed what I was to become.
“I hope you and Papa are enjoying a feast, of mutton and lam and all the wine you can drink! They say the banquet halls of Valhalla are never empty of good foods and drinks, and merry music to enjoy too.”
The treacherous gang persisted, returning as they always did at odd times, unannounced and unwelcomed. Triads be gone, these pests were very real. And very close for comfort. Syndicate might cower and hide in his shadows, awaiting his next order form his unseen hooded directorate, but this maters needed swift in-person attention.
“I haven’t been home to see you in a while Mother, that is not good. Please, forgive me. It is hard for me… it has been very hard.”
I located the gangs headquarters, if you would even call it that. A shitty bar in Oslo that served drinks to degenerates like these fools. Brave and fearless I marched into the door, and told them to leave Reine out of their business. They met me with blank stares and expressions, but they understood me. I sealed the deal with letting them know they could speak with me if they had a problem. That was the mistake I must live with for my life now.
“I am sorry for what happen Mother… I am so so sorry. This is my fault, what happened was my fault. Papa assured me it wasn’t but it is true. I am so sorry Mother, I hope you can forgive me.”
Not even one night passed before this gang decided to show me what they were capable of. My cult wouldn’t do what they did. True Society even wouldn’t do what these cowards did. Syndicate and his Triads… I could see them being lowly enough to attack at night.
“The fire… the houses lost, the lives of our people… you… I am so sorry Mother.”
It was the screams that woke me that night, terrified shrieks from innocent people afraid of what might come. Papa grabbed me and we ran to the door, to see the commotion before our eyes. Homes and buildings ablaze, townsfolk scattered as they ran from the fires and to their safety. This was no hidden acts of Triads, this was no behind the scenes encounter with True Society. This was a full front assault.
“Those men, those terrible men… they paid for what they did. I know you won’t agree Mother, but they paid for what they did.”
My Father and I ran through the village, hearing the cries for help all around us, doing what we could to help the others. Smoke filled the air, thick course clouds of brimstone and scorched worlds. It was only when I heard their motorcycles that I looked back.
My home. Our family home. In flames, from floor to roof. They had waited, they had watched, and they attacked when my back was turned. By the time I got back, sprinting as fast as my lungs and legs could handle it was too late. Flames swallowed everything whole.
My home.
My world.
My Mother.
Nothing remained but ashes, a collapses symbol of what my life had become, what my future must become. My Legacy was written that day, it was up to me to decide to walk that path.
“I will make sure to always have fresh flowers here, sunflowers just like how you and Papa liked. The night is cold, but the sun shines brightly on your grave Mother. Looking down from Valhalla, it must look so peaceful.”
My Father begged, pleased with me not to go. He cried and clutched to me, a broken man. A frail and old man. He had lost everything. I knew what I had to do. I walked to the tool shed, ignoring all plea’s to forgive this, to ignore this, to let it go. But it meant nothing to me.
I grabbed my Fathers woodaxe and I walked. Ten miles to Oslo.
“I won’t be here for long, my trip is short. I wanted to come see you and Papa, for I do not know how long it will be before I can return. I will… I always miss you, both. Everything I do, I do it for my family.”
They say it was the most brutal crime scene in Norwegian history. It covered newspapers, radio stations, it made international news. The pictures were too vile to show, the images too disturbing. But I remember them.
I remember every moment of it.
Everything went black as soon as I entered that bar. The barkeep was afraid to kick them out, so it had become a refuge for them. A hairy, grizzled troupe of roaming bikers looking for a new home. Their guard was down, their bellies full of ale as they celebrated the desecration of a wonderful village.
As my axe entered the first mans head, I found my strength.
“I will always love you, Mother. Papa. Always I will be your son… Baldur.”
My Legacy was written in blood that day. None left that bar intact, none alive to tell their tales. I walked outside into the morning air, covered in blood and entrails, holding the weapon in my hands firmly. I expected the wrath of the law to come for me, but it never did. Eye witnesses stepped aside to let me through, but none spoke up against me. Authorities understood what had happened, but they did not pursue me.
I was an outlaw. A savior. A monster. A hero.
I was their Butcher.
GODS, DO YOU HEAR ME
Days pass and my ‘vacation’ nears its end. My friend tours the town with me, and I meet many older faces who had long forgotten about me. I greet elderly neighbours, who recognize me and gift me with pastries. I greet children who have heard my story, and follow my like a parade. I meet family I had long forgotten I had, cousins and distant relatives who light up with joy to hear my stories of America.
I am a monster. I am a butcher.
But I am THEIR butcher.
As my time abroad comes to its end I take a lone walk by the shores edge. My time away has been full of memories and reminiscing, however to say it is grating on me to be so kind and pleasant to these people is an understatement.
I hate it.
Dusk is fast approaching, and I can smell the change in seasons on the salted air of the shore. As I approach the lapping brooks, I cup my hand and savour the taste of the salted water, my mind racing and flooding with memoires of old and far, new an young.
“This is my Legacy… you are my Legacy…”
The sea. My entire life has been spent alongside it, living from shore to shore and adjusting to its mercy and its temper. The sea has given me gifts, given me life, taken life from me, taken my family and my destiny. But it has also shown me how to rewrite and recreate my own story.
My legacy.
“Funny, I used to come to this same shore when I was but a boy, and call out to you. Odin, to advise me. Thor, to prepare me. Frigg, to remind me. And Heimdall, to guide me. I called out, but you never answered. None of you.”
The God of Norse history are rich in stories and fables, yet I was never truly granted their audience or their ear. It seems foolish to speak of such things, but when one is lost and desperate for guidance, looking to the stars above is often the first step. Only my call, my answers never came from the skies.
“I asked you, Odin, what I should do next. I wondered if I should continue my career in wrestling, or remain at home to care and cater to my village. I wondered if I would do them a disserve by leaving, but your silence was deafening.”
Kicking stones into the water, something I always tend to do along this stony shore. It passes the time and somewhat relaxes me, per say.
“Odin I asked what I should do and you ignored me. So I continued on my path, I continued on my journey that brings me back here to this shore. An accomplished fighter, a seasoned warrior, beloved by many for the wrong reasons, hated by many for the right. A following of strong acolytes behind me, and a reign as a Champion that is unmatched and unbroken.”
I look to the stars, awaiting a might bolt to strike me down. But nothing happens.
“I have written my own story, my own adventure. But it time to work on building my legacy. What I will leave behind for others, not just stories of all I have achieved, but more so all I have conquered. If you do reside in Valhalla, if you do truly watch over me then heed this… I will take this world, in the name of a better God. And I will strike you down would you oppose me.”
To challenge the Gods is foolish, but sometimes life throws you into that situation. I have never claimed to be bestowed with godly powers like others might have claimed, I do not claim to harness the power of the Great Elder God, as it has been commentated upon. I am but a man.
But Odin be damned, I will fight like a man possessed. There is a golden prize I have climbed for too long and too hard to let it slip through my fingers, and this ‘Outlaw’ will not stop me from achieving my goal.
“Thor, I called out to you for strength and for exercise. I asked you to help me build myself to match your power, and to learn how to find as a warrior such as yourself. I stood here, on these very sands, calling to you… and you left me in silence.”
I didn’t need the Thunder Gods help, I didn’t need his training or preparation. I grew into the warrior I am today alone, learning how to fight and how to break my foes by my own nature. I have broken bones and spilled blood, something that Syndicate is all too aware of. When that bell rings and it is just us, alone, he will know. No lumberjacks, no safety at ringside.
Just the former Legacy Champion, the new Legacy Champion, and a puddle of blood and sweat on the mat beneath us.
“Thor I prayed to you night after night, to lend me your strength so that I could fight endlessly, fight eternally as you have done. I pleaded and begged for you aid, but you never answered my call. Instead, my call was answered by the seas. The wrath and the ferocity of the oceans called my name, and I answered them.”
I have spoken of sacrifices, ending lives for the honor and purpose of my God. And I have followed through with my promises. Sydney Irvine once said that I spoke a big game, but never followed it up. That was until that night where I showed him I was capable of anything, as I tossed his frail body from that balcony. The cameras did not catch it, but I heard it myself.
Whimpers. Begging. Pleading.
Pathethic.
An outlaw that obeys commands. An outlaw that follows orders. A champion, that can be tossed around.
Pathethic.
“Frigg, I came here to these sands for your wisdom, your grace and your love. I had lost it all, my Mother first then my Papa second. My entire world crashed around me, what I loved was gone to the fires, or to the ocean. I was so alone, a man in size but a boy at heart. And you ignored me.”
I have been around this world, but never was I so lost as then. A newly named ‘Butcher of Reine’, I had exacted my revenge but at what cost? My hands were stained with their blood, guilty blood. How was I to know where that would lead me, what it would do to me?
To see a man bleeding, fading, passing as I beat him. Break him. Squeeze him. It once frightened me that these very hands could do that to another person. But as time passes, I grew to savour it. The look of fear in a mans eye as I come crashing down upon him, as I hold him high by his throat, as he is hopelessly locked into a position he cannot escape from, awaiting the moment I decide to end it.
For Syndicate, being thrown from a balcony is only the beginning. There is much worse things in store for him. He has not truly tested my Sinking Faith. He has not heard or felt The Call. And sadly for Mr. Irvine, I do not think his body is capable of withstanding a World Ender.
Very few are.
“I came to these shores with one simple question… am I man, or have I become a monster? I have taken lives, many more since those days of old. I have ruined lives, countless and still growing. I have lost sight of what it means to show compassion or mercy. It pains me to feigns kindness, to try to revisit that side of me that still shares some shred of decency with humanity. I am still Baldur… but for how long? My entire life has been leading to this.”
She hears me and ignores me.
“My name now, is Ozymandias… if you hear my words Frigg, show yourself.”
Nothing.
A coward, just like those that oppose me. True Society once came knocking on my door, a rare opportunity they once told me. A chance to join the elite team in Project Honor. Oh how I laughed, knowing how easily I could discombobulate each member with my own bare hands. A formation of the best, yet each have proven themselves to be weaker than the last.
Following my battle with Syndicate, perhaps I should challenge his entire team to a gauntlet. See how many can withstand the might of Project Honors supreme warrior.
“Heimdall… you I called to last. When all others failed me, when my words fell on deaf ears it was you I turned to. The all-seeing, all-knowing gatekeeper. I reached out to you for guidance, to show me the correct path forward. To show me what I should become, what I would become.”
And just like the others, you ignored my calls.
I wonder how long into the fight it will be before the Legacy Champion calls out for help? How long before he realizes mercy is nonexistent, and that escape is futile. When will he call out to his Triads to come forth and aid him, or his mismatch band of allies to run to his aid. How long before Syndicate cheats, or tries to steal another victory from someone more deserving.
How long until he breaks?
“Heimdall, you ignored me just as the others. Valhalla is home to the Gods, but alas nobody seems to hear my knocking. If you truly see all, then see me now. My name, Baldur Magnusson… is no more. I will relinquish my name. I relinquish my heritage. Reine is no more my home, and its foul history and memories around me.”
I have spilled blood in this town, and my namesake is that cross to bear for life. I will always be the Butcher of Reine, but Reine will no longer be for me.
“Tell the Gods that stand beside you, that I, Baldur Magnusson, doubt them. I curse their names. I spit on their legacies!”
I stand there, yelling at the night sky like crazed lunatic, awaiting the skies to open and the Gods themselves to rush me… but alas, nothing.
“Cowards!”
I have spent my entire life surrounded by those that fail to match the lore and fantasy behind them. From Gods to man, it matters not. The skies above me are empty, this is known to me now. The seas beneath are home to the deep ones and the Great Elder God, for I have heard his voice. The middle-ground is still a place of contention.
“Damn you Gods, this ends today. My Mother and Papa have done more in their short lives that you did in your eternal worlds. You are pathetic… you are lies.”
The skies remain calm and clear, no forthcoming onslaught from the Norse Gods.
“Before my days end and I sink to the bottom of the depths, I must stand ground on this Earth with my fellow man. Many will oppose me and many will stand in my way, but few can match my raw power and my fortitude to succeed.”
I step forward, feeling my boots filling with the cold touch of the sea, the salted vapor hitting my lips and my lungs. “Syndicate.” I stir the waters surface, walking deeper so that my knees are submerged.
“You will soon learn of all that I am, and the power that is bestowed within me. You are a man, a fool with an improper moniker, and an entourage of the weakest links. You are a puppet in a shadowed game, and you are a failing commodity.”
As I walk further, the water rises to meet me, from my thighs to hips to my waistline.
“When the day comes, I will show you no mercy. Once the bell rings, it is man against man. There is nothing stopping us from tearing each other apart, it will be just you and I.”
I wade in further, until the freezing water hits my ribs. That is where I stop.
“There will come a time soon where you must admit defeat. You must accept that the fight is over, and you must surrender. Your gold will not be lost, for I will wear it with pride. Your legacy will not end, as your story is still being written. Your saga will not diminish, for you have many more fights to fight.”
I dip my hands into the water, and splash my face, the brisk cold liquid bringing me fully ot life.
“But do not stand against me when the fight is done. Do not stand against me and showcase your bravado. Do not goad me into ending your career, or your world. I will show you no mercy, but I will show you respect.”
I raise my arms, and take a deep breath, exhale. Breathe in, exhale.
“The Gods have turned a blind ear to me all my life, but I know that my words will reach you. Do. Not. Disappoint. Me. Only one man will walk out of that ring, and one will stumble and fall. There will be a world waiting for you if you give me what I need… but persist when it is already over? Then you will understand why they call it the ‘World Ender’.”
With one deep breath, I plunge myself into the deep water, allowing the icy cold tendrils to sneak all over my body, around my neck, in my ears and around my eyes. The heavens ignored my calls for years, but one dive into the frigid plunge is enough to remind me of one thing – I am alive!
Fight or flight kicks in and it is a matter of surfacing to breathe, or opening your lungs and swallowing. I choose the latter, filling my lungs with the arctic nectar until it feels like my chest will explode. Mere inches from the surface, from escape, but I do not allow myself.
Never surrender. Never quit.
Do or Die.
This is not the war Syndicate asked for. This is not the battle his brother Colt prayed for him, or his wife Sophie hoped for. This is not the mountain he wished to climb, but this is how it unfolds.
This will be his legacy as our champion, and this will be the beginning of mine.
All I lose consciousness, knowing that I am far from home, I open my eyes and see a faint glow in the depths before me. A pale, almost-there green glow. And that is when I realize.
They call to me, still, even when afar.
R’lyeh, the deep ones, and the Great Dreamer.
I plant my feet on the bed of the sea and spring upright, breaking the surface and spluttering out the water within my lungs. Gasping for air, sucking in the razor-sharp cold night as I work to regain consciousness. My fragile body, hungering for preservation.
Syndicate, I leave you with one parting phrase.
“All Men Must Fall”
Soon, you will meet the real me.
Ozymandias, Butcher of Reine, Tyrant of Project Honor, Warrior of R’lyeh, Breaker of Champions, Unrelenting and Unstoppable.
Unfathomable.
