Post by Henry Lee Hyde on Feb 1, 2022 17:17:12 GMT -5
[ON/OFF] SCENE ONE
Candlelight chases away the evening's stretching shadows, incense burning away the raw memory of burning flesh and sweet exhaustion. The week had been a twisting maze of doors for Henry: some now jammed shut as they should always have been, others offering a bright future. He had endured a main event worthy of the history books and walked away the new Gatekeeper Champion. A great high that still lingers.
But now he rests in meditation, sitting alone. The only gold he wears is the flicker of flames painting his face and the sickly bruises that're still healing. Calm, in most ways.
In others, not. The waves within still crash, still break across a shore Henry can see behind his eyes is dyed a deep crimson. The waters boil, burn, as his face twists in an attempt to control how it feels beneath his skin. Tries to find the calm once more.
Until it's shattered completely.
An ear-ringing slam breaks open his eyes. He's no longer in the temple now, hands slipping on a grease-slicked tile floor as he scrambles up. Candles replaced with flickering fluorescent lights. Incense replaced with a viscous rot and rust that digs deep into his chest. He wants to say he's back in that diner kitchen, where he went too far, if only to give some ground to this world. But the objects around him slip out of his periphery when he tries to give them shape. Even his hands don't feel right; fingers curl too slowly, tense too much when he makes a fist.
The door remains the same though. Every time he's here. It stands in front of him, the only thing that doesn't flicker. Like it's something – the only thing – to believe in. Henry knows it's a nightmare by now – he won't fall for it, he won't. But every time he feels the dream's sweltering heat, every time he finds that door, he walks to it.
Follows its music. A tune that's familiar but played with the wrong notes. Light bleeds from beneath the door, so dark it's almost shadow. A deep, alluring red. Behind the door, the music swells. Sends tremors through his fingers as he finds the door handle. It melts, scalds his palm, until skin fuses with metal. Only then does the door open.
Does the music stop. Does the world become real again.
He thinks.
But now he rests in meditation, sitting alone. The only gold he wears is the flicker of flames painting his face and the sickly bruises that're still healing. Calm, in most ways.
In others, not. The waves within still crash, still break across a shore Henry can see behind his eyes is dyed a deep crimson. The waters boil, burn, as his face twists in an attempt to control how it feels beneath his skin. Tries to find the calm once more.
Until it's shattered completely.
An ear-ringing slam breaks open his eyes. He's no longer in the temple now, hands slipping on a grease-slicked tile floor as he scrambles up. Candles replaced with flickering fluorescent lights. Incense replaced with a viscous rot and rust that digs deep into his chest. He wants to say he's back in that diner kitchen, where he went too far, if only to give some ground to this world. But the objects around him slip out of his periphery when he tries to give them shape. Even his hands don't feel right; fingers curl too slowly, tense too much when he makes a fist.
The door remains the same though. Every time he's here. It stands in front of him, the only thing that doesn't flicker. Like it's something – the only thing – to believe in. Henry knows it's a nightmare by now – he won't fall for it, he won't. But every time he feels the dream's sweltering heat, every time he finds that door, he walks to it.
Follows its music. A tune that's familiar but played with the wrong notes. Light bleeds from beneath the door, so dark it's almost shadow. A deep, alluring red. Behind the door, the music swells. Sends tremors through his fingers as he finds the door handle. It melts, scalds his palm, until skin fuses with metal. Only then does the door open.
Does the music stop. Does the world become real again.
He thinks.
HENRY LEE HYDE.
SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN.
PROVING GROUND XXX: THE PATH OF TYRANTS.
[ON/OFF] SCENE TWO
The temple was cold when he left; his apartment is colder in a way he shouldn't notice. Silent. There's a dust of darkness over everything, thick as smoke. The floorboards death rattle beneath Henry's steps.
From the kitchen, a voice. Voices? No, a voice. It's familiar but not. Henry recognises those playful undertones, heard them from Wright's partner, Candi Cain. But they're not hers.
You sure they're not?
No. She can't be here, how would she even know how to find it? But Wright's known the little details no one else should've. And as Henry approaches, in the dark he sees figures. One more solid than the others, his narrowed gaze stalking them.
“Why'd you keep doing that stuff? Meditating?” Comes a voice, sickly sweet. “Not like you believe in it – not like it's ever done anything for you. Why not find something to believe in?”
For a split second, he's at that door again. The music plays in the back of his mind.
“You seeing things you shouldn't be?”
No, he should be seeing this, this figure. A woman, he realises now, close behind her.
“You need to look after yourself, Mr. Hyde.”
Can't see her face. But the voice is hers, it is. His fist tenses, slow, trembling.
“We can't have our friends dropping dead.”
He grabs her, enough to turn her skin bone-white under his fingers, enough to get that ghostly voice to stop.
Replaced instead with a harsh shove to his chest. “Jesus, Henry,” comes a different voice, nowhere near as sickly-sweet as Candi's, or whoever's that was. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The smoke lifts and it's Sherry standing there, looking up at him with offence. Not fear; perhaps a mistake. But in their years of working together, she's seen enough people to actually be afraid of. He's probably never registered as one for her.
“I thought you were someone else,” he says, stepping back.
“Like?”
He shrugs a shoulder, turns away before she can see his deeply-furrowed brow, his searching eyes. “I don't know. We've gotta be careful, y'know? Made a lot of enemies.”
Enemies that're still plastered all over boards and files in his apartment, taunting him from the shadows. Their sneers a stark contrast to Mike passed out on the couch, his bottle of water dripping into the carpet. Henry can't even roll his eyes at him now, too tired, too drawn-in by one of the boards.
“We're so close,” Sherry says, following him over to the board of their targets. All crossed off except one. “Don't lose your head now.”
Henry huffs, sick of looking at that lone photo, that last survivor. He flips the board; snarls when he comes face-to-face with Wright. Crossed him out, stabbed him with pins too many times and yet there he sits, trapped and grinning. A champion, just like Henry. They're the same still.
Both have titles. Wins and losses. They know each other's bones. Know each other's family.
“D'you think you can do some investigating for me?” Henry asks Sherry as he pulls Wright's photo off the board, tears part of his face. That grin remains.
“What, like I've been doing for the past...two years?”
“A different target, this time.” He hands over the photo of Wright, and immediately she opens her mouth to protest. Henry's there a shade of desperation quicker. “No, not him. His...friend. Partner, whatever. Candi Cain.”
“Little Miss Personality Shift.”
They'd both seen it – you'd have to be blind not to, and even then you could've sensed it. That moment she was no longer Candi, but someone else. Herself.
“There has to be something there. Maybe if we can find out more about her, we can break through. Get her away from Wright, mess with him.”
“Find a crack in the armour,” she says, waving the photo around as if Wright hasn't left Henry with deep scars. “I like your thinking, Watson. Can't imagine there's a whole lot on her – bet it got wiped the moment Wright got his hooks in her – but...” She takes a seat at her desk, boots her computer up. “I can have a look.”
“There's always something,” Henry says, thinking back to his targets. To the past they couldn't outrun. “Can't hide forever.”
From the kitchen, a voice. Voices? No, a voice. It's familiar but not. Henry recognises those playful undertones, heard them from Wright's partner, Candi Cain. But they're not hers.
You sure they're not?
No. She can't be here, how would she even know how to find it? But Wright's known the little details no one else should've. And as Henry approaches, in the dark he sees figures. One more solid than the others, his narrowed gaze stalking them.
“Why'd you keep doing that stuff? Meditating?” Comes a voice, sickly sweet. “Not like you believe in it – not like it's ever done anything for you. Why not find something to believe in?”
For a split second, he's at that door again. The music plays in the back of his mind.
“You seeing things you shouldn't be?”
No, he should be seeing this, this figure. A woman, he realises now, close behind her.
“You need to look after yourself, Mr. Hyde.”
Can't see her face. But the voice is hers, it is. His fist tenses, slow, trembling.
“We can't have our friends dropping dead.”
He grabs her, enough to turn her skin bone-white under his fingers, enough to get that ghostly voice to stop.
Replaced instead with a harsh shove to his chest. “Jesus, Henry,” comes a different voice, nowhere near as sickly-sweet as Candi's, or whoever's that was. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The smoke lifts and it's Sherry standing there, looking up at him with offence. Not fear; perhaps a mistake. But in their years of working together, she's seen enough people to actually be afraid of. He's probably never registered as one for her.
“I thought you were someone else,” he says, stepping back.
“Like?”
He shrugs a shoulder, turns away before she can see his deeply-furrowed brow, his searching eyes. “I don't know. We've gotta be careful, y'know? Made a lot of enemies.”
Enemies that're still plastered all over boards and files in his apartment, taunting him from the shadows. Their sneers a stark contrast to Mike passed out on the couch, his bottle of water dripping into the carpet. Henry can't even roll his eyes at him now, too tired, too drawn-in by one of the boards.
“We're so close,” Sherry says, following him over to the board of their targets. All crossed off except one. “Don't lose your head now.”
Henry huffs, sick of looking at that lone photo, that last survivor. He flips the board; snarls when he comes face-to-face with Wright. Crossed him out, stabbed him with pins too many times and yet there he sits, trapped and grinning. A champion, just like Henry. They're the same still.
Both have titles. Wins and losses. They know each other's bones. Know each other's family.
“D'you think you can do some investigating for me?” Henry asks Sherry as he pulls Wright's photo off the board, tears part of his face. That grin remains.
“What, like I've been doing for the past...two years?”
“A different target, this time.” He hands over the photo of Wright, and immediately she opens her mouth to protest. Henry's there a shade of desperation quicker. “No, not him. His...friend. Partner, whatever. Candi Cain.”
“Little Miss Personality Shift.”
They'd both seen it – you'd have to be blind not to, and even then you could've sensed it. That moment she was no longer Candi, but someone else. Herself.
“There has to be something there. Maybe if we can find out more about her, we can break through. Get her away from Wright, mess with him.”
“Find a crack in the armour,” she says, waving the photo around as if Wright hasn't left Henry with deep scars. “I like your thinking, Watson. Can't imagine there's a whole lot on her – bet it got wiped the moment Wright got his hooks in her – but...” She takes a seat at her desk, boots her computer up. “I can have a look.”
“There's always something,” Henry says, thinking back to his targets. To the past they couldn't outrun. “Can't hide forever.”
[ON/OFF] SCENE THREE
Everything's static, dim. It has to be – too much going on lately, Henry just needs focus. Just needs to sit, a calm storm, title in his lap, and talk.
“Being in that match at Fallout XIX – the main event, with main eventers – it was a career-defining experience. Not just because I walked away a champion. But because I got a taste of what it means to be at the top, to be against wrestlers who are at their peak, who offer a challenge.”
“And I got to show them what I can do too. I got to push myself, to forge my name in fire and blood and history by outdoing some of those stars to become the new Gatekeeper Champion.”
He's not even looking at the camera, but he's speaking as if to a captive audience. Face twisting and jaws snapping.
“But while I was there, while I've proved the kind of wrestler I am, the things I will do, I heard some things said about me. Dismissals. Outright lies. And I know, right, it's just shit talk. The type of stuff people say when they don't wanna admit you're on their level. The type of talk from people that lose titles.”
“But I'd be lying if I said it didn't piss me off knowing there's people here who think I ain't good enough. People who think I'm mediocre, generic, a jobber. Way I see it, people like me?”
“People who're real?”
“People who're fighters, people who let their actions speak for themselves?”
“We're in short supply in Project: Honor. I look around, I see arrogance. I see cult leaders and demons, supervillains and psychopaths. And as much as, let's say Angelo, tried to drag my name, my work, through the mud, I'll give him one thing: he brought a fire to his reign. You could tell through the BS, he wanted nothing more than to fight to his last breath to defend the Gatekeeper Championship. And fight he did.”
“Until I beat him.”
A twitch of a smirk pulls at his lips.
“Now I get to fight, I get to write the terms this title is defended upon. Because I'm the Gatekeeper. I'm the measure for who's strong enough, determined enough, to take this title. I get to set the standard. I get to control how the future of Project: Honor will be built. Get to fix the arrogance, the entitlement, the corruption that's made its way in so far.”
“And at Proving Ground, one of my opponents will be an example of how far I'll go to fix that darkness.”
Henry finds the camera and snarls.
“Officer Greyfield, you should be something people can respect. A safe haven, a man people can point at and say “I wanna be like him”.”
“Instead you wield that badge like your greatest weapon and you make people's lives hell. Someone like you isn't fit to walk the streets, let alone become a champion here, a marker for success. Corruption like yours is the kind I want to fight. You don't deliver justice – you don't even stand for justice. Probably can't even spell the word. But I'll break down some words for you. Words that'll be familiar. Words you'll be living by more than the words on your badge: D.O.A. Dead on arrival.”
“Best way to describe you going into this match.”
“Then we've got John Blade, not bad by any means compared to Greyfield. Just pretty deluded. Guy's suffered what, twelve losses, won no titles? And he'll still come out and say the same old thing, do the same old shit, and expect a different result. Still thinks he's 'Big Match John' – more 'match' in the sense he burns out quickly. It's all arrogance, even if it's dressed up in a harmless little package. And I can't let someone as stagnant and deluded as you, John, take this title. You're not the future – you're just stuck in reverse.”
“And finally DIANA. What's there to say?” He shrugs a brow, reclines. “Lot of energy, lots of spirit. It's good, good to have. But it's misguided.”
“DIANA, one minute you're fighting for your fans, getting a foothold in Project: Honor. Next you feel stuck, like you haven't changed, like you're burning out. What is it? You moving forward, picking up steam? Or are you going backwards, don't know what you're doing?”
“Don't even know why I'm asking though, 'cause you don't know. You don't know what you're fighting for. Disappointing, 'cause you've got the drive, got the will to do well, to impress, to make an impact here. But that don't mean anything unless you know which direction you're going in.”
“Unfortunately for you, I know which direction I'm going in. I'm heading to Proving Ground to defend my title and make my name here in Project: Honor. I'm here to fix things, to set a standard, from the bottom of the card to the top. After all, every good thing starts with a solid foundation.”
“So let's get building.”
“Being in that match at Fallout XIX – the main event, with main eventers – it was a career-defining experience. Not just because I walked away a champion. But because I got a taste of what it means to be at the top, to be against wrestlers who are at their peak, who offer a challenge.”
“And I got to show them what I can do too. I got to push myself, to forge my name in fire and blood and history by outdoing some of those stars to become the new Gatekeeper Champion.”
He's not even looking at the camera, but he's speaking as if to a captive audience. Face twisting and jaws snapping.
“But while I was there, while I've proved the kind of wrestler I am, the things I will do, I heard some things said about me. Dismissals. Outright lies. And I know, right, it's just shit talk. The type of stuff people say when they don't wanna admit you're on their level. The type of talk from people that lose titles.”
“But I'd be lying if I said it didn't piss me off knowing there's people here who think I ain't good enough. People who think I'm mediocre, generic, a jobber. Way I see it, people like me?”
“People who're real?”
“People who're fighters, people who let their actions speak for themselves?”
“We're in short supply in Project: Honor. I look around, I see arrogance. I see cult leaders and demons, supervillains and psychopaths. And as much as, let's say Angelo, tried to drag my name, my work, through the mud, I'll give him one thing: he brought a fire to his reign. You could tell through the BS, he wanted nothing more than to fight to his last breath to defend the Gatekeeper Championship. And fight he did.”
“Until I beat him.”
A twitch of a smirk pulls at his lips.
“Now I get to fight, I get to write the terms this title is defended upon. Because I'm the Gatekeeper. I'm the measure for who's strong enough, determined enough, to take this title. I get to set the standard. I get to control how the future of Project: Honor will be built. Get to fix the arrogance, the entitlement, the corruption that's made its way in so far.”
“And at Proving Ground, one of my opponents will be an example of how far I'll go to fix that darkness.”
Henry finds the camera and snarls.
“Officer Greyfield, you should be something people can respect. A safe haven, a man people can point at and say “I wanna be like him”.”
“Instead you wield that badge like your greatest weapon and you make people's lives hell. Someone like you isn't fit to walk the streets, let alone become a champion here, a marker for success. Corruption like yours is the kind I want to fight. You don't deliver justice – you don't even stand for justice. Probably can't even spell the word. But I'll break down some words for you. Words that'll be familiar. Words you'll be living by more than the words on your badge: D.O.A. Dead on arrival.”
“Best way to describe you going into this match.”
“Then we've got John Blade, not bad by any means compared to Greyfield. Just pretty deluded. Guy's suffered what, twelve losses, won no titles? And he'll still come out and say the same old thing, do the same old shit, and expect a different result. Still thinks he's 'Big Match John' – more 'match' in the sense he burns out quickly. It's all arrogance, even if it's dressed up in a harmless little package. And I can't let someone as stagnant and deluded as you, John, take this title. You're not the future – you're just stuck in reverse.”
“And finally DIANA. What's there to say?” He shrugs a brow, reclines. “Lot of energy, lots of spirit. It's good, good to have. But it's misguided.”
“DIANA, one minute you're fighting for your fans, getting a foothold in Project: Honor. Next you feel stuck, like you haven't changed, like you're burning out. What is it? You moving forward, picking up steam? Or are you going backwards, don't know what you're doing?”
“Don't even know why I'm asking though, 'cause you don't know. You don't know what you're fighting for. Disappointing, 'cause you've got the drive, got the will to do well, to impress, to make an impact here. But that don't mean anything unless you know which direction you're going in.”
“Unfortunately for you, I know which direction I'm going in. I'm heading to Proving Ground to defend my title and make my name here in Project: Honor. I'm here to fix things, to set a standard, from the bottom of the card to the top. After all, every good thing starts with a solid foundation.”
“So let's get building.”
END.
