Post by Henry Lee Hyde on Feb 15, 2022 12:53:48 GMT -5
[ON/OFF] SCENE ONE
The nightmares haven't quite gone, but they're hiding. The air feels a little cleaner in Henry's lungs, the floor a little more stable. When he opens the door of his apartment, the heavy slam of it rings through his bones with a clarity he hasn't felt in a few weeks. Sherry's made a habit of keeping at least one light on for when he returns – they don't need a repeat of last time.
Sherry finds Henry before he does her, yanking him towards her computer desk.
“I found something,” she says, bringing up some tabs.
There's a bright spot in his voice as he asks, “On Candi? Wright?”
“No – well, a bit, not much, but they're not priority right now. It's our last target.” She brings up CCTV footage, photos. Henry skims them over, catches the face of the man he's been staring at on their board of victims for the past few weeks now. The root cause of his entire scheme. “He's on the move. Feels like someone tipped him off.”
“Knew this'd happen. Fuck.” Henry kicks a nearby cabinet, the metal rattling. “Should've acted sooner.”
Not easy, though. Not with the weight of the Gatekeeper Championship on him now, a different kind of target on his back. When it was just him, he could at least focus on Wright and his targets alone. Now it's him and a circle of sharks, out in the middle of the sea – it takes effort, time, to stay afloat.
Sherry doesn't seem too bothered though, and Henry's thankful for that. An anchor. “I can track him, but it'll take some time to see where he settles.”
“Do it. Gives me time to focus on The Crowning, at least.” Speaking of, he needs to start filming some content for it. A glance around the apartment leaves him with a creased brow. “Where's Mike?”
Sherry's brow furrows now too. “He said he was going to find you? Took his camera and...said you were meeting him somewhere.”
No.
Not this again.
Henry's eyes narrow. “Where?”
Sherry finds Henry before he does her, yanking him towards her computer desk.
“I found something,” she says, bringing up some tabs.
There's a bright spot in his voice as he asks, “On Candi? Wright?”
“No – well, a bit, not much, but they're not priority right now. It's our last target.” She brings up CCTV footage, photos. Henry skims them over, catches the face of the man he's been staring at on their board of victims for the past few weeks now. The root cause of his entire scheme. “He's on the move. Feels like someone tipped him off.”
“Knew this'd happen. Fuck.” Henry kicks a nearby cabinet, the metal rattling. “Should've acted sooner.”
Not easy, though. Not with the weight of the Gatekeeper Championship on him now, a different kind of target on his back. When it was just him, he could at least focus on Wright and his targets alone. Now it's him and a circle of sharks, out in the middle of the sea – it takes effort, time, to stay afloat.
Sherry doesn't seem too bothered though, and Henry's thankful for that. An anchor. “I can track him, but it'll take some time to see where he settles.”
“Do it. Gives me time to focus on The Crowning, at least.” Speaking of, he needs to start filming some content for it. A glance around the apartment leaves him with a creased brow. “Where's Mike?”
Sherry's brow furrows now too. “He said he was going to find you? Took his camera and...said you were meeting him somewhere.”
No.
Not this again.
Henry's eyes narrow. “Where?”
HENRY LEE HYDE.
THE BEST LAID PLANS.
THE CROWNING II.
[ON/OFF] SCENE TWO
One of the old docks. Doesn't see much use now except as a tourist thing, the occasional fishing boat latching to its rickety wooden frame, swaying in the stinging sea air. Only the roar of wind and the crash of waves occupies this corner of the city. Yet as Henry approaches, he surveys it like it's a lion's den. Like someone will claw their way up from under the boards, the cracks in the ground, the darkening clouds.
Every step creaks and Henry wonders how many more this dock can take. Wonders if Mike's shoes were some of the last to leave prints on the murky, damp wood. He walks down slow, into the wind's grasp, and as he gets closer to the edge there's a part of him that hopes this wasn't where Mike was. At the mercy of the cold, the deceptively slippery ground. Into the waiting maw of the sea, churning, calling.
Phantom hands at Henry's back and he swings around into the bite of the frigid air. Finds nothing, no one – thinks he does, for a second, some passing shadow between the jagged rocks upon the shore. But he's alone.
So when the buzz of a ringtone goes off, it startles him. He's gotten jumpier lately, Sherry said. There's reason this time, as he turns to realise the sound is coming from below.
Tied to the very edge of the dock, a duffle bag. Soaked by the water, heavy with sea salt and mystery. Henry snatches it, drops it onto the deck, almost tears it open and roots through its viscera to find the phone. He reaches it just before it dies, the number on it one he doesn't recognise. The phone itself not one he recognises either; a positive sign, maybe.
But when he lets the pallid sunlight hit the inside of the bag, that sign fades. Mike's camera sits, lens cracked, at the bottom. With it are numbered tapes, a USB, a note. Written in handwriting he recognises too well, cursive that's stuck with Henry since the first time he saw it, the first time Mike vanished. Taken by Mr. Wright.
'Let's play a game of follow the leader.'
Henry crushes the note, throws it into the hungry sea. The wind tries to push him as he takes the bag, but he's rooted, still in thought. He thought he'd gotten away from all this – take some time away from Wright and the side effects will fade.
And he'd believed that, somehow. Their paths hadn't crossed for a while, at least not in reality. But the nightmares have always been there, watching, waiting. That door's been opened and it won't be closed. Not ever.
Now Wright's walked through it. Drawing away focus again.
This needs to end.
Every step creaks and Henry wonders how many more this dock can take. Wonders if Mike's shoes were some of the last to leave prints on the murky, damp wood. He walks down slow, into the wind's grasp, and as he gets closer to the edge there's a part of him that hopes this wasn't where Mike was. At the mercy of the cold, the deceptively slippery ground. Into the waiting maw of the sea, churning, calling.
Phantom hands at Henry's back and he swings around into the bite of the frigid air. Finds nothing, no one – thinks he does, for a second, some passing shadow between the jagged rocks upon the shore. But he's alone.
So when the buzz of a ringtone goes off, it startles him. He's gotten jumpier lately, Sherry said. There's reason this time, as he turns to realise the sound is coming from below.
Tied to the very edge of the dock, a duffle bag. Soaked by the water, heavy with sea salt and mystery. Henry snatches it, drops it onto the deck, almost tears it open and roots through its viscera to find the phone. He reaches it just before it dies, the number on it one he doesn't recognise. The phone itself not one he recognises either; a positive sign, maybe.
But when he lets the pallid sunlight hit the inside of the bag, that sign fades. Mike's camera sits, lens cracked, at the bottom. With it are numbered tapes, a USB, a note. Written in handwriting he recognises too well, cursive that's stuck with Henry since the first time he saw it, the first time Mike vanished. Taken by Mr. Wright.
'Let's play a game of follow the leader.'
Henry crushes the note, throws it into the hungry sea. The wind tries to push him as he takes the bag, but he's rooted, still in thought. He thought he'd gotten away from all this – take some time away from Wright and the side effects will fade.
And he'd believed that, somehow. Their paths hadn't crossed for a while, at least not in reality. But the nightmares have always been there, watching, waiting. That door's been opened and it won't be closed. Not ever.
Now Wright's walked through it. Drawing away focus again.
This needs to end.
[ON/OFF] SCENE THREE
The darkness breathes behind Henry. A guttural, rasping breath.
A hum, too. Electric, crackling. Static and muted colours from a TV screen crawl across his face. Tells the story of what he sees. What we can't.
The static etches his ashen skin in sickly greys and deep shadows. Except for his eyes. They glow under the static's charm, glisten as faint images play across his irises.
“The Crowning. Some will take it literally, spout off tired metaphors about kings and queens and royalty. But I prefer the meaning of triumph, a pinnacle point, a culmination of tireless work, bodies and blood.”
“That's what this match is for the Gatekeeper Championship. For me right now in Project: Honor. The entire history of the title in one match. And I'm the defending champion.”
“The one with the most to lose.”
The screen darkens, turning Henry into navy shadow.
“Earl and Angelo, I've got no doubts they see this as a crowning moment. One of them could become the first two-time Gatekeeper Champion. Earl could ascend back into relevancy and Angelo could prove himself – again – to True Society.”
“But I'm no one's redemption arc. I'm no one's stepping stone. They won't drink my blood from my crown,” he jabs his temple, grinning, “and they won't wear this gold again because it doesn't fit them any more. It's outgrown them.”
“Not the other way around. Make no mistake.”
“I'm not gonna be a disappointment. Not like you must feel to True Society, Angelo. Surprised you're not in the main event with your fellow True Society members – not even in the battle royal with Havoc either. Guess they think the only thing you're good for is chasing your tail in circles like a fuckin' dog.”
The screen paints Henry's skin in red, black, bone-white, the colours seeping into his snarl.
“Does it hurt to know that that's all they think you're good for? Doing the same thing, over and over again like a tool, like old fuckin' reliable – except you're not reliable, are you? Let everyone down at Fallout XIX and let the Gatekeeper title slip from True Society's grasp. Didn't even prove yourself against your own people back at Fallout XX – now that, that I bet hurt. Knowing you got the shit kicked outta you when True Society first formed, went against your better judgment and joined them – caved in to the people you should've hated – and yet you still ain't better.”
“How long until they realise you don't actually bring anything to them now? You don't have a title. Don't have impressive victories, don't have connections, didn't even get your moment in the sun with them. Got shown up by Savannah joining True Society – I think that says enough. You were never even their favourite toy to play with before you got thrown back into the box.”
“You had some strong words for me before – all of them hollow, much like the space between your ears – but there's something in there. Some deep desire to prove yourself, to show you're not a failure. After all, weapons don't need brains, don't need a deep-rooted strategy, they just aim and shoot and kill.”
“Like you, you just aim and hit anyone you can. Got put up against your own and you didn't hold back – I respect that. You may not return it, may have lost, but I respect that tenacity, that fight. You were a worthy Gatekeeper Champion.”
“You won't be that again.”
“'Cause see you've been bled fuckin' dry. Been here a short while and I've noticed that's what True Society like to do. They take people and turn them into...”
Henry catches a laugh between his teeth.
“You. Then they slot them into their rightful places like nails in a coffin and when those nails rust, they get rid of 'em.”
“You're a tool, but you're not their best. And even if you won at The Crowning II, you still wouldn't be their favourite weapon. You are a pawn, Angelo. You were a tick in a checkbox – “we have one more title on our list”. And now?”
“You're nothing to them but a nail in a coffin. A coffin that's falling apart. That stench is heavy in the air and soon they're gonna have to start pulling teeth. And they'll get a better tool to yank you out.”
Henry bows his head and it's as if every bit of heat within him escapes with a hissing sigh.
“Then there's Earl. I almost feel sorry for you, Earl. Not because I don't think you have a chance – you were the first-ever Gatekeeper Champion, I have a bit of respect for you. But I feel bad because everyone around you has lied.”
“They've made you believe you're more than just a fan favourite. More than just an everyman. And there ain't nothing wrong with that, in a place like Project: Honor where people seem to prefer getting booed, ain't nothing wrong with wanting to be someone the fans can root for. Ain't nothing wrong with being like anyone else. But that's all you are right now. The Gatekeeper Championship was your ceiling.”
“And you ain't broken through it. How're you supposed to be a 'Gatekeeper' now if you can't even break through the fuckin' door you helped build? Break through the glass ceiling? First-ever Gatekeeper Champion, well fuckin' done, but you look at the details and it's clear you'll never elevate it and yourself past that foundation level. You're not building up. You can beat the likes of DIANA and Noah Hope, but go up against a real challenge, like Elena DeDraca or Angelo and you don't make the cut. And me? I walked away from a match with both those two in it with this title. They walked away with nothing.”
“Like you will, Earl.”
“You set the foundation for this title, props for that, but you won't elevate it. And you Angelo, we all know you feel you're better than this, better than me. You said as much before, I doubt it's changed. You'll have excuses, threats, claims. But I beat you. I'm the one who knocked you out. You don't want this title. You want recognition, revenge, you wanna silence the people who say you're not as good as everyone else in True Society and that's a losing battle.”
“But me?”
“What do I want?”
Henry chuckles, low and dark, like the shadows around him.
“I just wanna win. Prove I am what this title says I am: a Gatekeeper, a standard, a challenge. I have the highest fall to risk, but you two have the heaviest weights on your shoulders. Slowing your ascents. But I'm already on top. At the peak, the crown of the mountain. And the view?”
“It's one I'll kill for.”
A hum, too. Electric, crackling. Static and muted colours from a TV screen crawl across his face. Tells the story of what he sees. What we can't.
The static etches his ashen skin in sickly greys and deep shadows. Except for his eyes. They glow under the static's charm, glisten as faint images play across his irises.
“The Crowning. Some will take it literally, spout off tired metaphors about kings and queens and royalty. But I prefer the meaning of triumph, a pinnacle point, a culmination of tireless work, bodies and blood.”
“That's what this match is for the Gatekeeper Championship. For me right now in Project: Honor. The entire history of the title in one match. And I'm the defending champion.”
“The one with the most to lose.”
The screen darkens, turning Henry into navy shadow.
“Earl and Angelo, I've got no doubts they see this as a crowning moment. One of them could become the first two-time Gatekeeper Champion. Earl could ascend back into relevancy and Angelo could prove himself – again – to True Society.”
“But I'm no one's redemption arc. I'm no one's stepping stone. They won't drink my blood from my crown,” he jabs his temple, grinning, “and they won't wear this gold again because it doesn't fit them any more. It's outgrown them.”
“Not the other way around. Make no mistake.”
“I'm not gonna be a disappointment. Not like you must feel to True Society, Angelo. Surprised you're not in the main event with your fellow True Society members – not even in the battle royal with Havoc either. Guess they think the only thing you're good for is chasing your tail in circles like a fuckin' dog.”
The screen paints Henry's skin in red, black, bone-white, the colours seeping into his snarl.
“Does it hurt to know that that's all they think you're good for? Doing the same thing, over and over again like a tool, like old fuckin' reliable – except you're not reliable, are you? Let everyone down at Fallout XIX and let the Gatekeeper title slip from True Society's grasp. Didn't even prove yourself against your own people back at Fallout XX – now that, that I bet hurt. Knowing you got the shit kicked outta you when True Society first formed, went against your better judgment and joined them – caved in to the people you should've hated – and yet you still ain't better.”
“How long until they realise you don't actually bring anything to them now? You don't have a title. Don't have impressive victories, don't have connections, didn't even get your moment in the sun with them. Got shown up by Savannah joining True Society – I think that says enough. You were never even their favourite toy to play with before you got thrown back into the box.”
“You had some strong words for me before – all of them hollow, much like the space between your ears – but there's something in there. Some deep desire to prove yourself, to show you're not a failure. After all, weapons don't need brains, don't need a deep-rooted strategy, they just aim and shoot and kill.”
“Like you, you just aim and hit anyone you can. Got put up against your own and you didn't hold back – I respect that. You may not return it, may have lost, but I respect that tenacity, that fight. You were a worthy Gatekeeper Champion.”
“You won't be that again.”
“'Cause see you've been bled fuckin' dry. Been here a short while and I've noticed that's what True Society like to do. They take people and turn them into...”
Henry catches a laugh between his teeth.
“You. Then they slot them into their rightful places like nails in a coffin and when those nails rust, they get rid of 'em.”
“You're a tool, but you're not their best. And even if you won at The Crowning II, you still wouldn't be their favourite weapon. You are a pawn, Angelo. You were a tick in a checkbox – “we have one more title on our list”. And now?”
“You're nothing to them but a nail in a coffin. A coffin that's falling apart. That stench is heavy in the air and soon they're gonna have to start pulling teeth. And they'll get a better tool to yank you out.”
Henry bows his head and it's as if every bit of heat within him escapes with a hissing sigh.
“Then there's Earl. I almost feel sorry for you, Earl. Not because I don't think you have a chance – you were the first-ever Gatekeeper Champion, I have a bit of respect for you. But I feel bad because everyone around you has lied.”
“They've made you believe you're more than just a fan favourite. More than just an everyman. And there ain't nothing wrong with that, in a place like Project: Honor where people seem to prefer getting booed, ain't nothing wrong with wanting to be someone the fans can root for. Ain't nothing wrong with being like anyone else. But that's all you are right now. The Gatekeeper Championship was your ceiling.”
“And you ain't broken through it. How're you supposed to be a 'Gatekeeper' now if you can't even break through the fuckin' door you helped build? Break through the glass ceiling? First-ever Gatekeeper Champion, well fuckin' done, but you look at the details and it's clear you'll never elevate it and yourself past that foundation level. You're not building up. You can beat the likes of DIANA and Noah Hope, but go up against a real challenge, like Elena DeDraca or Angelo and you don't make the cut. And me? I walked away from a match with both those two in it with this title. They walked away with nothing.”
“Like you will, Earl.”
“You set the foundation for this title, props for that, but you won't elevate it. And you Angelo, we all know you feel you're better than this, better than me. You said as much before, I doubt it's changed. You'll have excuses, threats, claims. But I beat you. I'm the one who knocked you out. You don't want this title. You want recognition, revenge, you wanna silence the people who say you're not as good as everyone else in True Society and that's a losing battle.”
“But me?”
“What do I want?”
Henry chuckles, low and dark, like the shadows around him.
“I just wanna win. Prove I am what this title says I am: a Gatekeeper, a standard, a challenge. I have the highest fall to risk, but you two have the heaviest weights on your shoulders. Slowing your ascents. But I'm already on top. At the peak, the crown of the mountain. And the view?”
“It's one I'll kill for.”
END.
