Post by Henry Lee Hyde on Mar 15, 2022 12:42:53 GMT -5
[ON/OFF] SCENE ONE
A gunshot cracks through the frigid air, heavy with the stench of rust.
This square of dust, caged in by the crumbling shell of what was once a factory. Hollowed out by the blaze, cracks in the floor collecting rainwater thick with smoke. People have tried to reclaim it, rebuild it, but the plans always fall through. This ground is cursed. Hexed by the very person who laid waste it, who stands in its corpse, shooting its bones.
Victor Romano is a patient man. Drowned in his own sweat working in this factory as a boy – burned it down as a man. Burned with it every chain that had ever worn his skin thin and became king of the ruins. Scarred these walls and torments them now, leaves fresh wounds with careless bullets. The rage of patience is a powerful force.
Perhaps that's why he should've known this would happen sooner rather than later. That someone else would be just as patient.
Victor fires off a warning shot at the very thought.
The Hyde brother.
He was a boogeyman. But not threatening, not real. Just some idiot seething 'cause Victor did what he did best and left scars. Robbed Hyde's sister blind. He didn't have enough evidence to actually do anything. Just some guy in some part of Portland. Little more than the dust under Victor's shoes.
Until Jackson ended up in hospital with his jaw smashed, wired shut. Odd for a guy who 'cleaned up'.
Then Rick fled town with a trail of blood and incomprehensible voicemails behind him. Something about snitching.
And the Hyde brother.
And some-fucking-how, things got worse.
Victor used to have a gang. Friends. The best crew a man could ask for. Ended up with unanswered texts and two brothers needing skin grafts. One with severe burns. One with half a face. Freddy didn't deserve it – he actually got cleaned up. Worked some diner cook job and didn't even steal from the tip jar.
Victor remembers sitting with Freddy's brother – tried not to stare at the thick, bloodied gauze covering one half of his face, but it was hard, y'know? Never liked hospitals: lights too bright, walls too white, you see every speck of pain. Victor hissed his question through gritted teeth. Asked him who did it. Who took his skin. Who went after Freddy.
The Hyde brother.
“Shoulda killed him, shouldn't I?” Victor waves the gun around, turns to face deep shadows that linger behind him. “Should've waited outside his sister's fuckin' house and shot him in that cue ball of a fuckin' head.”
No one replies, but Victor stares as if expecting them to. Because he's ever so talkative, that man in the shadows. The informant. Loves to talk, to whisper things in Victor's ear. Secrets. Names. Addresses.
Shows him videos. So many videos. Of what the Hyde brother's done, who he is. Who he really is. Victor's seen the wounds, the blood, the scars. The informant just raced to show him the burns from that last match. And in those burns, Victor saw familiar smoke. Saw the same ruins he stands in; he made. Funny how easily a monster can become a man.
How the Hyde brother became a man.
Henry Lee Hyde. He's not steel, not shadow, not bricks and mortar. Even if he was, Victor's burned worse. Etched the ash into his hands – his tattoos, memories.
Henry's a man. A person.
Flesh and blood.
A target.
This square of dust, caged in by the crumbling shell of what was once a factory. Hollowed out by the blaze, cracks in the floor collecting rainwater thick with smoke. People have tried to reclaim it, rebuild it, but the plans always fall through. This ground is cursed. Hexed by the very person who laid waste it, who stands in its corpse, shooting its bones.
Victor Romano is a patient man. Drowned in his own sweat working in this factory as a boy – burned it down as a man. Burned with it every chain that had ever worn his skin thin and became king of the ruins. Scarred these walls and torments them now, leaves fresh wounds with careless bullets. The rage of patience is a powerful force.
Perhaps that's why he should've known this would happen sooner rather than later. That someone else would be just as patient.
Victor fires off a warning shot at the very thought.
The Hyde brother.
He was a boogeyman. But not threatening, not real. Just some idiot seething 'cause Victor did what he did best and left scars. Robbed Hyde's sister blind. He didn't have enough evidence to actually do anything. Just some guy in some part of Portland. Little more than the dust under Victor's shoes.
Until Jackson ended up in hospital with his jaw smashed, wired shut. Odd for a guy who 'cleaned up'.
Then Rick fled town with a trail of blood and incomprehensible voicemails behind him. Something about snitching.
And the Hyde brother.
And some-fucking-how, things got worse.
Victor used to have a gang. Friends. The best crew a man could ask for. Ended up with unanswered texts and two brothers needing skin grafts. One with severe burns. One with half a face. Freddy didn't deserve it – he actually got cleaned up. Worked some diner cook job and didn't even steal from the tip jar.
Victor remembers sitting with Freddy's brother – tried not to stare at the thick, bloodied gauze covering one half of his face, but it was hard, y'know? Never liked hospitals: lights too bright, walls too white, you see every speck of pain. Victor hissed his question through gritted teeth. Asked him who did it. Who took his skin. Who went after Freddy.
The Hyde brother.
“Shoulda killed him, shouldn't I?” Victor waves the gun around, turns to face deep shadows that linger behind him. “Should've waited outside his sister's fuckin' house and shot him in that cue ball of a fuckin' head.”
No one replies, but Victor stares as if expecting them to. Because he's ever so talkative, that man in the shadows. The informant. Loves to talk, to whisper things in Victor's ear. Secrets. Names. Addresses.
Shows him videos. So many videos. Of what the Hyde brother's done, who he is. Who he really is. Victor's seen the wounds, the blood, the scars. The informant just raced to show him the burns from that last match. And in those burns, Victor saw familiar smoke. Saw the same ruins he stands in; he made. Funny how easily a monster can become a man.
How the Hyde brother became a man.
Henry Lee Hyde. He's not steel, not shadow, not bricks and mortar. Even if he was, Victor's burned worse. Etched the ash into his hands – his tattoos, memories.
Henry's a man. A person.
Flesh and blood.
A target.
HENRY LEE HYDE.
A PARADOX OF SCARS.
FALLOUT XXII: SPRING BREAK LOVE.
[ON/OFF] SCENE TWO
From her desk, Sherry finds Henry with a narrow stare, sharp as the point of a knife. He knew he shouldn't have told her.
"Run that by me again,” she says, shifting to face him, gaze unwavering in the face of his own intimidating stare.
“I went to the location,” Henry begins, still holding the phone that's had him running around, the lifeline, the catalyst of all this. “Checked the door and it was locked. Got a message, told me to find the key – it's in Victor's place.”
"The place he's moved away from. Out of the blue." Sherry rips away a bit of nail, works her way onto the next. "And you think it's a good idea to go in there?"
With a tension-riddled shrug, Henry asks, "Are there any better ideas?"
"I can try tracking Mike again.” Sherry's back to typing, searching, flashing past things on her screen quicker than Henry can take in. “Or continue tracking Victor, or Wright. And you've got the tapes-"
“Fuck the tapes,” he hisses. When he catches Sherry's frown, he quietens. “I don't have time for that. Mike's gone, Victor's involved somehow–”
“Maybe this'll change your mind.” She opens up a folder and Henry squints at the number of files it contains. “Those tapes aren't the only videos – I found more on the USB that came with them. And these ones? They're completely different. Absolute creeper shit.”
“What d'you mean?”
“See for yourself.”
The video ends abruptly, washing Henry's face in ghostly blue light.
“Why would Mike film this?”
“I don't know. But I have a feeling that, you know...we're not the only ones who've got these videos.”
"They feel personal," says Henry, the word feeling uncomfortably right.
"They are." Sherry opens another before Henry can ask what she means.
Another abrupt end. And then another video.
Once again, the video cuts suddenly and leaves Henry with jaw clenched and fists curled. Eyes searching for some answer that isn't quite clear in this collection of videos. Or one he's acting like isn't clear.
“Not just one of these is from Mike – they're all from him,” Sherry says, breaking a silence that lingered too long. “He's been filming us, stalking you. And for what?”
Henry shakes his head, lips twitching in search of some answer. One that hangs on the tip of his tongue, that he doesn't want to say. “Maybe he's being blackmailed. By Victor, or...or someone.”
She tries to hold it back – because part of her feels for him, she does – but Sherry can't stop the roll of her eyes, the hissing sigh. “You've always been the safe one, and now you can't even see this for what it is? Are you sure you even know who Mike is?”
“He wouldn't do all this on his own, I saved his life.”
“Did you?”
It's like a gunshot, Henry feeling the shock deep in his bones.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
He hates asking because it invites doubt. It lets her tear apart the thin threads holding together what Henry knows is real. What he thought was real. What made more sense than the nightmares, the chaos of Fallout, the possibilities.
“What if all this has been a game? Mike gets conveniently kidnapped by 'Mr. Wright', then you start seeing things, hallucinating – just like Mike did – and now he's gone again. And now Victor's involved.”
“Sherry.” Henry grabs her by the shoulders, turns her to face him, look him dead in the eyes. It's more to ground himself than anything. “This isn't a game. My family, my career, you, Mike, everything's at risk here.”
“Henry,” she replies, almost a whisper, rising from her desk, “this is a trap. It's all been a fucking trap, there's no other explanation–”
“That's not true. It's just Victor or Wright or one of them, they're doing all this to get to me.”
“So you're gonna walk right into it?”
Henry lets go of her, steps back. He still has the phone, the location, the mystery of what's behind that locked door. Where Mike is. “There's nothing else to do.”
Shaking her head, Sherry tries to grab him. But Henry's quicker, spurred on by a vicious need she knows well – it's what led her to him in the first place. “You can't do this.”
“I have to.”
“Henry,” she calls, watching him march to the door, through it. Their stares catch and in Henry's, she sees steel. Fire. “Henry!”
The door slams shut, locks. The last cry of his name, caught in her throat, dies with it.
"Run that by me again,” she says, shifting to face him, gaze unwavering in the face of his own intimidating stare.
“I went to the location,” Henry begins, still holding the phone that's had him running around, the lifeline, the catalyst of all this. “Checked the door and it was locked. Got a message, told me to find the key – it's in Victor's place.”
"The place he's moved away from. Out of the blue." Sherry rips away a bit of nail, works her way onto the next. "And you think it's a good idea to go in there?"
With a tension-riddled shrug, Henry asks, "Are there any better ideas?"
"I can try tracking Mike again.” Sherry's back to typing, searching, flashing past things on her screen quicker than Henry can take in. “Or continue tracking Victor, or Wright. And you've got the tapes-"
“Fuck the tapes,” he hisses. When he catches Sherry's frown, he quietens. “I don't have time for that. Mike's gone, Victor's involved somehow–”
“Maybe this'll change your mind.” She opens up a folder and Henry squints at the number of files it contains. “Those tapes aren't the only videos – I found more on the USB that came with them. And these ones? They're completely different. Absolute creeper shit.”
“What d'you mean?”
“See for yourself.”
The video ends abruptly, washing Henry's face in ghostly blue light.
“Why would Mike film this?”
“I don't know. But I have a feeling that, you know...we're not the only ones who've got these videos.”
"They feel personal," says Henry, the word feeling uncomfortably right.
"They are." Sherry opens another before Henry can ask what she means.
Another abrupt end. And then another video.
Once again, the video cuts suddenly and leaves Henry with jaw clenched and fists curled. Eyes searching for some answer that isn't quite clear in this collection of videos. Or one he's acting like isn't clear.
“Not just one of these is from Mike – they're all from him,” Sherry says, breaking a silence that lingered too long. “He's been filming us, stalking you. And for what?”
Henry shakes his head, lips twitching in search of some answer. One that hangs on the tip of his tongue, that he doesn't want to say. “Maybe he's being blackmailed. By Victor, or...or someone.”
She tries to hold it back – because part of her feels for him, she does – but Sherry can't stop the roll of her eyes, the hissing sigh. “You've always been the safe one, and now you can't even see this for what it is? Are you sure you even know who Mike is?”
“He wouldn't do all this on his own, I saved his life.”
“Did you?”
It's like a gunshot, Henry feeling the shock deep in his bones.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
He hates asking because it invites doubt. It lets her tear apart the thin threads holding together what Henry knows is real. What he thought was real. What made more sense than the nightmares, the chaos of Fallout, the possibilities.
“What if all this has been a game? Mike gets conveniently kidnapped by 'Mr. Wright', then you start seeing things, hallucinating – just like Mike did – and now he's gone again. And now Victor's involved.”
“Sherry.” Henry grabs her by the shoulders, turns her to face him, look him dead in the eyes. It's more to ground himself than anything. “This isn't a game. My family, my career, you, Mike, everything's at risk here.”
“Henry,” she replies, almost a whisper, rising from her desk, “this is a trap. It's all been a fucking trap, there's no other explanation–”
“That's not true. It's just Victor or Wright or one of them, they're doing all this to get to me.”
“So you're gonna walk right into it?”
Henry lets go of her, steps back. He still has the phone, the location, the mystery of what's behind that locked door. Where Mike is. “There's nothing else to do.”
Shaking her head, Sherry tries to grab him. But Henry's quicker, spurred on by a vicious need she knows well – it's what led her to him in the first place. “You can't do this.”
“I have to.”
“Henry,” she calls, watching him march to the door, through it. Their stares catch and in Henry's, she sees steel. Fire. “Henry!”
The door slams shut, locks. The last cry of his name, caught in her throat, dies with it.
[ON/OFF] SCENE THREE
There's something wrong about Victor's house. About the way it sits amongst the weeds, the tall grass veering away from it. The windows are scarred over with heavy planks – fresh, untouched by the weather – but the door sits bared between them, glass panes inviting a peek into its innards.
Henry sits there in his car, watching the house. As if waiting for it to breathe, break its facade and let its walls down to reveal what it actually is. A trap, a cage. No wonder Victor left it.
From his jacket pocket, Henry feels the vibration of a phone and checks it to find a message from his trapper.
>Key's hidden under the welcome mat.
A careful look at the house finds a camera hidden just above the front door – of course. Every step Henry takes is careful, as if the ground's waiting to crack open and eat him. He finds the key under the mat, the phone true to its word, and unlocks the door with a tense push. It creaks open, as do his steps, their strangled whines echoing deep into the house. It's both empty and lived in, the walls thick with cigarette smoke, caught between layers of wallpaper and the stench of people.
On the floor, fluorescent markings light up in the dark. Arrows pointing into the shadows. He follows - doesn't step on them, like they're caustic - and finds an ajar door. Painted on it, a simple question: ENTER?
Henry takes a second to look around, wary of traps, cameras, people. The house is barren, yet dust is both settled and disturbed, empty bottles and boxes too fresh. As he inches closer to the door, he listens. Behind it, a hum, electric.
Breathing.
His hand scrambles for the switchblade tucked into his jacket. Dried blood still buried deep in its grooves from its last exercise. Henry's hand tightens around it as he turns the door handle, holds a breath. As he steps in, all he sees is someone sitting in the faint light, back turned to the door. Henry's blade glistens under the heated glow of the light; finds the man's throat, pressing against it.
"Tell me what the fuck's going on."
All he receives is a muffled whine. Henry's gaze narrows, before it catches a glint of something. An IV drip, tubing running down to the man. He retracts the knife, keeps it close as he circles round.
Desperate, bloodshot eyes follow him. He recognises the fear in them. Caused much of the same when he threw him into the trunk of his car, beat him until he spilled all he knew about Victor and the rest of his crew. He's one of Victor's own, Rick – Henry thought he'd left town.
But here he is, tied to a chair. An IV jammed into his bruised arm. Lips stitched and fused together.
Henry curses under his breath, bringing the blade to Rick's lips, careful to cut only the stitches. His lips split and crack open, a dry whimper dripping from the blood.
“Who did this?” Henry questions, eyes searching for some clue.
Rick spits something out, the object clinking onto the floor. It glistens under the faint light – a key. The key to the abandoned factory, the reason Henry's here. He wonders if whoever set this up intended for him to find it through Rick's spit, or through his blood.
“Victor,” he says, hoarse. “He's not been acting right. Hunted me down, kept talking about...an informant, voices. Kept taking those,” he nods at a pill bottle resting across from him on a table, the empty glass beside it, “'cause he was told they help with the hallucinations. Just made it worse.”
Henry grabs the key off the floor, dries it on his sleeve, before finding the pills Rick pointed out. The label is covered in strings of letters – medical terms, probably, all going over Henry's head. But he recognises a few words, printed in bold: EXPERIMENTAL, SIDE EFFECTS, HALLUCINATIONS. When he holds the bottle under his nose, that sharp smell cuts open fresh scars. Nightmares, visions, memories Mike said would go away if Henry just took care of himself.
Mike always had water on hand. Looking out for him, he said. Helps to stay hydrated with all he does. Now it makes sense why that water always brought with it a bitter taste and bitterer visions. Visions of Wright and Candi, visions of True Society, of monsters and hell.
It really was Mike all along. Henry can't hide his grimace; betrayal's more bitter than whatever Mike's been drugging him with.
Henry sits there in his car, watching the house. As if waiting for it to breathe, break its facade and let its walls down to reveal what it actually is. A trap, a cage. No wonder Victor left it.
From his jacket pocket, Henry feels the vibration of a phone and checks it to find a message from his trapper.
>Key's hidden under the welcome mat.
A careful look at the house finds a camera hidden just above the front door – of course. Every step Henry takes is careful, as if the ground's waiting to crack open and eat him. He finds the key under the mat, the phone true to its word, and unlocks the door with a tense push. It creaks open, as do his steps, their strangled whines echoing deep into the house. It's both empty and lived in, the walls thick with cigarette smoke, caught between layers of wallpaper and the stench of people.
On the floor, fluorescent markings light up in the dark. Arrows pointing into the shadows. He follows - doesn't step on them, like they're caustic - and finds an ajar door. Painted on it, a simple question: ENTER?
Henry takes a second to look around, wary of traps, cameras, people. The house is barren, yet dust is both settled and disturbed, empty bottles and boxes too fresh. As he inches closer to the door, he listens. Behind it, a hum, electric.
Breathing.
His hand scrambles for the switchblade tucked into his jacket. Dried blood still buried deep in its grooves from its last exercise. Henry's hand tightens around it as he turns the door handle, holds a breath. As he steps in, all he sees is someone sitting in the faint light, back turned to the door. Henry's blade glistens under the heated glow of the light; finds the man's throat, pressing against it.
"Tell me what the fuck's going on."
All he receives is a muffled whine. Henry's gaze narrows, before it catches a glint of something. An IV drip, tubing running down to the man. He retracts the knife, keeps it close as he circles round.
Desperate, bloodshot eyes follow him. He recognises the fear in them. Caused much of the same when he threw him into the trunk of his car, beat him until he spilled all he knew about Victor and the rest of his crew. He's one of Victor's own, Rick – Henry thought he'd left town.
But here he is, tied to a chair. An IV jammed into his bruised arm. Lips stitched and fused together.
Henry curses under his breath, bringing the blade to Rick's lips, careful to cut only the stitches. His lips split and crack open, a dry whimper dripping from the blood.
“Who did this?” Henry questions, eyes searching for some clue.
Rick spits something out, the object clinking onto the floor. It glistens under the faint light – a key. The key to the abandoned factory, the reason Henry's here. He wonders if whoever set this up intended for him to find it through Rick's spit, or through his blood.
“Victor,” he says, hoarse. “He's not been acting right. Hunted me down, kept talking about...an informant, voices. Kept taking those,” he nods at a pill bottle resting across from him on a table, the empty glass beside it, “'cause he was told they help with the hallucinations. Just made it worse.”
Henry grabs the key off the floor, dries it on his sleeve, before finding the pills Rick pointed out. The label is covered in strings of letters – medical terms, probably, all going over Henry's head. But he recognises a few words, printed in bold: EXPERIMENTAL, SIDE EFFECTS, HALLUCINATIONS. When he holds the bottle under his nose, that sharp smell cuts open fresh scars. Nightmares, visions, memories Mike said would go away if Henry just took care of himself.
Mike always had water on hand. Looking out for him, he said. Helps to stay hydrated with all he does. Now it makes sense why that water always brought with it a bitter taste and bitterer visions. Visions of Wright and Candi, visions of True Society, of monsters and hell.
It really was Mike all along. Henry can't hide his grimace; betrayal's more bitter than whatever Mike's been drugging him with.
[ON/OFF] SCENE FOUR
Henry sits in chaos. Surrounded by ripped papers, torn files, toppled cabinets left dented and scratched. The fluorescent light above him is splintered, hanging, reaching for him. Taunts him with its flickers, electric hum a laugh every time it destroys his shadowy shield – reveals his mottled skin. The burns sustained in his match against Latoya still itch, still stretch raw-red across his skin. His fingers, bandaged, twitch against his knees.
“Y'know, when it feels like you've lost everything,” he begins, almost a mutter, his stare vacant as it fixates on the floor ahead, past the camera, “you gain something. It's a...paradox of scars.” A grin, teeth sharp in the dark. “Fancy, huh? Big words for me.”
Henry chuckles, then scowls, brow furrowing as he finally looks to the camera.
“Ah, how fuckin' rude of me. I'm just so,” he jabs his temple, “up here lately, people keep saying.”
“Welcome to Project: Honor, Tate. Eddie. You'll probably be...more acquainted with the people here than Tate. Really. They see a friend, a relative, a trainer, it's like throwing chum to sharks. The people here on Fallout, they're fuckin'...crazy. Ain't no better word for it. I got set on fire by Latoya Hixx. Latoya Hixx! I think that says all you need to know about Fallout, that even the people going on losing streaks act like they've got nothing left to lose.”
“And me, I'm the – I'm the gatekeeper. The warden, the welcome party. The gatekeeper of Fallout now, officially, now it's a Fallout-only title. The Gatekeeper.”
“And this might not be a title match, but it's a statement. I go out there, I let someone like you, Tate, stomp my blood into the mat; what does that say? What's that say? About me, about this title, about the state of Project: Honor – that someone can just come in and tear apart the gatekeeper, the standard, the person that's supposed to represent the future here. The person that's supposed to take the damage, the wave of the new blood and live to fight another day.”
“It not only says that I'm worthless, but it says the scars I've collected were for nothing. Says the past is nothing. 'Cause I've beaten the past – Earl, Angelo. I've beaten present, I am present. Now I get to beat the future. And I will beat it - 'cause I'm not letting my legacy be defined by a future I couldn't stand up to.”
“Not gonna kill it – you – though, Tate. Not like you said you would in your last match – basically did, I mean that was nasty. It, you, that was what some people here would say is more worthy of being on Fallout than I am. I'm sure you'll have murder on your mind when you fight me. Wanna kill me, wanna wear my blood like I wear my title? I bet that'd be more of an achievement to you than any slice of gold, right?”
“But you see..”
Henry's lips twist into a wry smile.
“I always thought murderous intentions...”
A shrug.
“Were for cowards.”
“I doubt Carny and Zack even remember most of what the fuck happened in your match. So who they gonna tell about the legend of Tate Selby? They don't remember you. They don't feel those rattling breaths in the middle of the night, they don't feel your hands around their throat, they don't remember your name. Don't spread it like a curse that touches and drains and warns everyone they meet, they speak it to. When you kill, when you destroy, when you do what you did to them, you choose a life of isolation. A life of ease. A life of obscurity.”
“'Cause when you're stamped out of Project: Honor, Tate, who's gonna tell your stories for you? Not the people like Zack and Carny that you've disposed of. Maybe no one at all. Am I gonna tell the story of the violent upstart I beat early in my Fallout career?”
“No. But you'll tell my story. When you go back to LA or Kent, and people ask you about those scars, you'll have nothing else to say except my story. The story of how I tore into you, how I showed you what Fallout is really about. What it takes to succeed here.”
“It takes more than murder. Than violence. Than wanting to see people suffer. To succeed here, you don't just need the will to survive – you need the will to live. That's what the worst of the worst here have. When you lose everything, you gain perspective. And every bandage is a medal, every cross you carried is a step, and every death threat becomes the same fuckin' joke I've gotten bored of laughing at.”
“You won't 'kill' me like you did Carny and Zack, Tate. And when you stand across from me at Fallout XXII, you'll realise why. My scars, they're a warning sign. Warning you about my blood running through those ring ropes. My skin that's been burned into that canvas. And when your shoulders are on that mat and you hear that one, two three,” Henry slaps his hand against his knee, hard, in time with the count, “you'll know that's my hearbeat deep in that ring. Beating, hammering like a fuckin' beast that you'll never kill.”
“You'll get my blood – think of it as a little, uh, “I fought Henry Lee Hyde and I lost” memento. But you won't get my heart, my brain, my death. You'll get a better gift: my mercy. A scar on my body, maybe. A little story for me to tell when someone asks, “whatever happened to Tate Selby?”.”
“I mean, don't worry, I'll give you some scars too. Been through a lot, haven't you, got a few already? These ones will be a little heavier to carry. Heavier to carry than that fuckin' cross you've got, you martyr, you. But I commend you, Tate, no matter what I've just said. I respect someone who can carry a burden like that. I've done it too, for a long time, it hurts. Can break your back. You've endured a lot, I know you have, you didn't need to say it. Carried your cross this far, well done.”
“Fallout XXII, I'm gonna nail you to it.”
“Eddie next to you, of course. You might've chosen the path of the lone wolf, the outcast, but I won't let you carry the weight of those nails, those scars, alone. They're heavy, y'know? You know.”
“I know.”
“Got plenty, means I've faced death a lot. A lot. Every week here on this brand is death. Yet here I am – still a champion, still on Fallout. So try to kill me, Tate. Kill the man that dared to live.”
“And we'll see how long you survive.”
“Y'know, when it feels like you've lost everything,” he begins, almost a mutter, his stare vacant as it fixates on the floor ahead, past the camera, “you gain something. It's a...paradox of scars.” A grin, teeth sharp in the dark. “Fancy, huh? Big words for me.”
Henry chuckles, then scowls, brow furrowing as he finally looks to the camera.
“Ah, how fuckin' rude of me. I'm just so,” he jabs his temple, “up here lately, people keep saying.”
“Welcome to Project: Honor, Tate. Eddie. You'll probably be...more acquainted with the people here than Tate. Really. They see a friend, a relative, a trainer, it's like throwing chum to sharks. The people here on Fallout, they're fuckin'...crazy. Ain't no better word for it. I got set on fire by Latoya Hixx. Latoya Hixx! I think that says all you need to know about Fallout, that even the people going on losing streaks act like they've got nothing left to lose.”
“And me, I'm the – I'm the gatekeeper. The warden, the welcome party. The gatekeeper of Fallout now, officially, now it's a Fallout-only title. The Gatekeeper.”
“And this might not be a title match, but it's a statement. I go out there, I let someone like you, Tate, stomp my blood into the mat; what does that say? What's that say? About me, about this title, about the state of Project: Honor – that someone can just come in and tear apart the gatekeeper, the standard, the person that's supposed to represent the future here. The person that's supposed to take the damage, the wave of the new blood and live to fight another day.”
“It not only says that I'm worthless, but it says the scars I've collected were for nothing. Says the past is nothing. 'Cause I've beaten the past – Earl, Angelo. I've beaten present, I am present. Now I get to beat the future. And I will beat it - 'cause I'm not letting my legacy be defined by a future I couldn't stand up to.”
“Not gonna kill it – you – though, Tate. Not like you said you would in your last match – basically did, I mean that was nasty. It, you, that was what some people here would say is more worthy of being on Fallout than I am. I'm sure you'll have murder on your mind when you fight me. Wanna kill me, wanna wear my blood like I wear my title? I bet that'd be more of an achievement to you than any slice of gold, right?”
“But you see..”
Henry's lips twist into a wry smile.
“I always thought murderous intentions...”
A shrug.
“Were for cowards.”
“I doubt Carny and Zack even remember most of what the fuck happened in your match. So who they gonna tell about the legend of Tate Selby? They don't remember you. They don't feel those rattling breaths in the middle of the night, they don't feel your hands around their throat, they don't remember your name. Don't spread it like a curse that touches and drains and warns everyone they meet, they speak it to. When you kill, when you destroy, when you do what you did to them, you choose a life of isolation. A life of ease. A life of obscurity.”
“'Cause when you're stamped out of Project: Honor, Tate, who's gonna tell your stories for you? Not the people like Zack and Carny that you've disposed of. Maybe no one at all. Am I gonna tell the story of the violent upstart I beat early in my Fallout career?”
“No. But you'll tell my story. When you go back to LA or Kent, and people ask you about those scars, you'll have nothing else to say except my story. The story of how I tore into you, how I showed you what Fallout is really about. What it takes to succeed here.”
“It takes more than murder. Than violence. Than wanting to see people suffer. To succeed here, you don't just need the will to survive – you need the will to live. That's what the worst of the worst here have. When you lose everything, you gain perspective. And every bandage is a medal, every cross you carried is a step, and every death threat becomes the same fuckin' joke I've gotten bored of laughing at.”
“You won't 'kill' me like you did Carny and Zack, Tate. And when you stand across from me at Fallout XXII, you'll realise why. My scars, they're a warning sign. Warning you about my blood running through those ring ropes. My skin that's been burned into that canvas. And when your shoulders are on that mat and you hear that one, two three,” Henry slaps his hand against his knee, hard, in time with the count, “you'll know that's my hearbeat deep in that ring. Beating, hammering like a fuckin' beast that you'll never kill.”
“You'll get my blood – think of it as a little, uh, “I fought Henry Lee Hyde and I lost” memento. But you won't get my heart, my brain, my death. You'll get a better gift: my mercy. A scar on my body, maybe. A little story for me to tell when someone asks, “whatever happened to Tate Selby?”.”
“I mean, don't worry, I'll give you some scars too. Been through a lot, haven't you, got a few already? These ones will be a little heavier to carry. Heavier to carry than that fuckin' cross you've got, you martyr, you. But I commend you, Tate, no matter what I've just said. I respect someone who can carry a burden like that. I've done it too, for a long time, it hurts. Can break your back. You've endured a lot, I know you have, you didn't need to say it. Carried your cross this far, well done.”
“Fallout XXII, I'm gonna nail you to it.”
“Eddie next to you, of course. You might've chosen the path of the lone wolf, the outcast, but I won't let you carry the weight of those nails, those scars, alone. They're heavy, y'know? You know.”
“I know.”
“Got plenty, means I've faced death a lot. A lot. Every week here on this brand is death. Yet here I am – still a champion, still on Fallout. So try to kill me, Tate. Kill the man that dared to live.”
“And we'll see how long you survive.”
[ON/OFF] SCENE FIVE
Henry's apartment building is just as the videos described. Deep-red bricks staining the fog, rooting deep into the veins of the ashen street. Even in all its monolithic glory, it still feels too cosy to belong to a boogeyman. A man, like him. With scars under his clothes and blood under his nails.
But Victor recognises it from the videos. He looks up to the very top floor, sees the windows with the curtains drawn. As if he hasn't seen everything inside through the grainy veneer of a camera. As if he doesn't know who's hiding in there.
It doesn't just belong to Henry, after all. Belongs to his brain, his fear. And Victor can't wait to meet her.
But Victor recognises it from the videos. He looks up to the very top floor, sees the windows with the curtains drawn. As if he hasn't seen everything inside through the grainy veneer of a camera. As if he doesn't know who's hiding in there.
It doesn't just belong to Henry, after all. Belongs to his brain, his fear. And Victor can't wait to meet her.
END.
