Post by Slayne on Apr 24, 2022 22:46:00 GMT -5
Pity.
Despite his young age, it was evident to Kurtis that the strange man pitied him. As the man stood outside his mother’s bedroom door, tucking his shirt back into his trousers, he turned to notice the unattended little boy sitting at the end of the hall for the first time. Maybe looking at Kurtis reminded him of his own children at home, the ones he was neglecting for a few brief moments of pleasure. Whatever it was, the look was unmistakable. He pitied Kurtis for being born to such a woman, for the station in life he’d inherited.
Then he noticed his own misplaced phone in the boy’s hands. With no toys of his own, Kurtis expressed his curiosity on whatever he could find, and whether by fate or by chance, he had managed to make a call.
“Hey there, buddy. I’m gonna need that back, okay?”
The stranger used a honeyed tone, as if he were trying to coax a wild animal into cooperation. Then, as the man looked down at Kurtis, he heard his wife’s voice coming from the phone’s receiver.
* “Bill? Bill, you son of a bitch! What the fuck are you doing? Answer me goddammit!” *
“What the fuck…you didn’t…”
Kurtis looked up at the man and gave him an innocent smile, likely none the wiser to the strife he had caused the strange man and his family. He had told the nice woman who answered his accidental call that her husband was busy wrestling with his mother. Then, he proceeded to answer the many questions she had to the best of his young ability.
The toe of the man’s boot struck Kurtis’ jaw moments after the reality of the situation entered the man’s mind. He lashed out without thinking of the damage he would cause, only concerned about his illicit vices being discovered.
It probably wasn’t the first time Kurtis had tasted his own blood, but it’s the first time he would remember it. As he laid on the floor, blood running out of his mouth like a sieve, the man scooped up his phone and began to make panicked excuses.
If his mother had more money or more concern for his well-being, she would have asked doctors why her toddler never shed a tear. Instead, she took it as a blessing. When the strange man stormed out of the cheap apartment, stammering to his angry spouse on the phone, Kurtis still didn’t bother to cry. Instead, he watched the man disappear with only one emotion coming to his young mind.
Pity.
There are no flashy graphics or dramatic sound effects when the video begins; simply a black and white image of Kurtis Slayne, sitting alone in a poorly lit, unremarkable room.
“This is about power, isn’t it, Mark?”
The camera focuses on him from a side angle, the half of his face painted to resemble skeletal features on full display.
“It’s about showing everyone that you’re the man in charge of Project: Underground, or at least what’s left of it. It’s clear that you don’t appreciate my contributions to the ‘brand-that-could-have-been’. You don’t like my actions or my attitude either. So, what better way to put me in my place than making me jump through hoops to earn something that was already mine to begin with? A swift kick when I'm already down.”
His knees are pulled up to provide a resting place for his elbows, as he focuses his cold, uninterested gaze forward.
“That’s okay, Mark. I’ll play your game. I’ll earn my spot all over again, even if it means that your little pet project has to suffer in the process. Anya Levy? Really? Has this child ever been in an actual fight before? Has she even pressed her gentle, little fingers into a fist at any point in her life? What did this girl do to deserve this kind of treatment, Mark? I can understand why you would want to punish me, but all you’re really doing is torturing her.”
He gives a slight shake of his head, as if the answers to his questions are out of reach.
“It’s sad, really. That in trying to make my life more difficult, you’re exposing a bright-eyed, young girl to a world of sadistic violence. You’ve chosen to show her the uglier side of this business before she even has a chance to see the facade of bright lights and cheering fans. You’re throwing her head-first into a world of blood, heartache, and pain. Perhaps, on some level, you’re trying to provide the young Miss Levy with some valuable life experience. Some tough love, as it were. And they have the audacity to call me a monster.”
Kurtis slowly turns his head to face the camera, his ice-blue eyes focused on the lens.
“For all my mortal flaws, the faint shred of humanity that I’ve buried deep down has been speaking to me as of late. It’s telling me to take it easy on Anya. It pleads with me to not break her fingers before she has a chance to make that first fist. It begs me not to scar her delicate features, to treat her as I’ve treated everyone else before her. It whispers to me from the darkness, asking for mercy. It echoes the same sounds that Anya will make when I’m twisting her limbs in inappropriate directions.”
As he continues to look at the camera, the unpainted side of his face is now visible, as if it represents the very moral dilemma he’s discussing.
“Unfortunately, for both Anya and for that weak shred of humanity within me, I will ignore those pleas. I won’t see a hopeful rookie in my match with Miss Levy. I’ll see you, Mark. I’ll see your smug face and all of that superiority you believe you have over me. Only it won’t end there. Once I’ve killed that phantom face of Mark Hunter, I’ll look at Anya and see my brother instead. I’ll use this match with her as a warm-up for my fight against Indy just a few days later. I’ll use that poor, outmatched girl as a surrogate, something to keep my hatred content until the bell rings for my match at Disputed Territory.”
As the name of the upcoming event echoes his own duality, Kurtis turns away from the camera once again, his head slightly hanging forward as if a sliver of regret remains.
“I’m sorry, Anya. I’m so very, very sorry that Mark has put you in this position. I’m sorry that your potentially bright career could end before it ever has a chance to begin, all because Mark needed a pawn. Most of all, I’m sorry you’re nothing more than practice.”
The video begins to fade until the only thing visible in the dimly lit room is the skeletal warpaint of The Bastard.
“Accept my pity for your well-being, Anya…because I will not offer my restraint.”
Despite his young age, it was evident to Kurtis that the strange man pitied him. As the man stood outside his mother’s bedroom door, tucking his shirt back into his trousers, he turned to notice the unattended little boy sitting at the end of the hall for the first time. Maybe looking at Kurtis reminded him of his own children at home, the ones he was neglecting for a few brief moments of pleasure. Whatever it was, the look was unmistakable. He pitied Kurtis for being born to such a woman, for the station in life he’d inherited.
Then he noticed his own misplaced phone in the boy’s hands. With no toys of his own, Kurtis expressed his curiosity on whatever he could find, and whether by fate or by chance, he had managed to make a call.
“Hey there, buddy. I’m gonna need that back, okay?”
The stranger used a honeyed tone, as if he were trying to coax a wild animal into cooperation. Then, as the man looked down at Kurtis, he heard his wife’s voice coming from the phone’s receiver.
* “Bill? Bill, you son of a bitch! What the fuck are you doing? Answer me goddammit!” *
“What the fuck…you didn’t…”
Kurtis looked up at the man and gave him an innocent smile, likely none the wiser to the strife he had caused the strange man and his family. He had told the nice woman who answered his accidental call that her husband was busy wrestling with his mother. Then, he proceeded to answer the many questions she had to the best of his young ability.
The toe of the man’s boot struck Kurtis’ jaw moments after the reality of the situation entered the man’s mind. He lashed out without thinking of the damage he would cause, only concerned about his illicit vices being discovered.
It probably wasn’t the first time Kurtis had tasted his own blood, but it’s the first time he would remember it. As he laid on the floor, blood running out of his mouth like a sieve, the man scooped up his phone and began to make panicked excuses.
If his mother had more money or more concern for his well-being, she would have asked doctors why her toddler never shed a tear. Instead, she took it as a blessing. When the strange man stormed out of the cheap apartment, stammering to his angry spouse on the phone, Kurtis still didn’t bother to cry. Instead, he watched the man disappear with only one emotion coming to his young mind.
Pity.
There are no flashy graphics or dramatic sound effects when the video begins; simply a black and white image of Kurtis Slayne, sitting alone in a poorly lit, unremarkable room.
“This is about power, isn’t it, Mark?”
The camera focuses on him from a side angle, the half of his face painted to resemble skeletal features on full display.
“It’s about showing everyone that you’re the man in charge of Project: Underground, or at least what’s left of it. It’s clear that you don’t appreciate my contributions to the ‘brand-that-could-have-been’. You don’t like my actions or my attitude either. So, what better way to put me in my place than making me jump through hoops to earn something that was already mine to begin with? A swift kick when I'm already down.”
His knees are pulled up to provide a resting place for his elbows, as he focuses his cold, uninterested gaze forward.
“That’s okay, Mark. I’ll play your game. I’ll earn my spot all over again, even if it means that your little pet project has to suffer in the process. Anya Levy? Really? Has this child ever been in an actual fight before? Has she even pressed her gentle, little fingers into a fist at any point in her life? What did this girl do to deserve this kind of treatment, Mark? I can understand why you would want to punish me, but all you’re really doing is torturing her.”
He gives a slight shake of his head, as if the answers to his questions are out of reach.
“It’s sad, really. That in trying to make my life more difficult, you’re exposing a bright-eyed, young girl to a world of sadistic violence. You’ve chosen to show her the uglier side of this business before she even has a chance to see the facade of bright lights and cheering fans. You’re throwing her head-first into a world of blood, heartache, and pain. Perhaps, on some level, you’re trying to provide the young Miss Levy with some valuable life experience. Some tough love, as it were. And they have the audacity to call me a monster.”
Kurtis slowly turns his head to face the camera, his ice-blue eyes focused on the lens.
“For all my mortal flaws, the faint shred of humanity that I’ve buried deep down has been speaking to me as of late. It’s telling me to take it easy on Anya. It pleads with me to not break her fingers before she has a chance to make that first fist. It begs me not to scar her delicate features, to treat her as I’ve treated everyone else before her. It whispers to me from the darkness, asking for mercy. It echoes the same sounds that Anya will make when I’m twisting her limbs in inappropriate directions.”
As he continues to look at the camera, the unpainted side of his face is now visible, as if it represents the very moral dilemma he’s discussing.
“Unfortunately, for both Anya and for that weak shred of humanity within me, I will ignore those pleas. I won’t see a hopeful rookie in my match with Miss Levy. I’ll see you, Mark. I’ll see your smug face and all of that superiority you believe you have over me. Only it won’t end there. Once I’ve killed that phantom face of Mark Hunter, I’ll look at Anya and see my brother instead. I’ll use this match with her as a warm-up for my fight against Indy just a few days later. I’ll use that poor, outmatched girl as a surrogate, something to keep my hatred content until the bell rings for my match at Disputed Territory.”
As the name of the upcoming event echoes his own duality, Kurtis turns away from the camera once again, his head slightly hanging forward as if a sliver of regret remains.
“I’m sorry, Anya. I’m so very, very sorry that Mark has put you in this position. I’m sorry that your potentially bright career could end before it ever has a chance to begin, all because Mark needed a pawn. Most of all, I’m sorry you’re nothing more than practice.”
The video begins to fade until the only thing visible in the dimly lit room is the skeletal warpaint of The Bastard.
“Accept my pity for your well-being, Anya…because I will not offer my restraint.”