Post by PH RECORDS on Nov 29, 2020 17:53:30 GMT -5
There's a stagnant silence for a moment, and then the sound of hands clapping. A rhythmic, enthusiastic applause, the source of which suddenly becomes clear as Daniel Avers comes into frame. Avers, clad now in a black t-shirt with a pair of jeans and working boots, beams. He finishes applauding, and an eerie silence fills the air once again before he speaks, the dark room around him threatening to swallow the last bit of light as he begins.
"A heartfelt thank you and round of applause to Adrian Hil, for taking the bullets that were likely intended for me, for doing the vast majority of the work in that proving ground match, for showing up and being so intent on proving himself as the best technical wrestler in the world that he didn't notice a two hundred and fifty plus pound threat looming behind him. Truly, Adrian Hil is one of the most brilliant minds in the ring, with how cleverly he dispatched of Ragna Bramovich and Alex Kincaid, but he couldn't get the most important facet of this squared circle into that head of his, the fact that you always need to watch your back." Avers glances dead into the camera. "You, Adrian, were left unaware. You shouldn't have been surprised by my advantageous behavior. Perhaps that's just another lesson you can add to your education before you consider yourself the best in the fucking world."
Avers exhales, and smiles a bit too placidly. It's disconcerting. He continues.
"But enough about Adrian Hil and the other two still-warm corpses in my debut match. Let's talk about the facts. As they stand, I won my debut. I did what I claimed I was coming to do, and I ripped victory, kicking and screaming, out from the jaws of three other hungry competitors. I staked my ground in Project Honor, and I looked to continue to do so against whichever opponent I would stand across the ring from next. Imagine my surprise, however, when my advisor informed me I'd be manhandling the Warrior Rising champion, Zane." Avers pantomimes wiping sweat out of his eyes. "It's the kind of reward that makes a grown man blush, or at least, I figured it would be, until she followed that up by informing me that Zane's title wouldn't be in the mix."
Avers lets out a breath that's barely-contained rage, before he finally speaks.
"But it's alright, honestly. I can understand what's going on here-hell, I don't play politics myself, but I've been around those who do long enough. One of two things is happening here, and i'm honestly curious to see which comes to a full fruition. Is it, perhaps, that the upper management is frustrated at Daniel Avers? Is it, perhaps, that the warfare he brought to the ring, the violence that he inflicted upon the three competitors in his debut, least of all Adrian Hil, was too much for the virgin eyes in the programming booth to bare? Was it, maybe, that the chosen child of the Project: Honor corporate ladder fell short? Or, perhaps, is it that they want to bolster their champion up with an excellent showcase, with Zane primed to brutalize Daniel Avers to a point where he's nearly unrecognizable. After all, she's much more suited to be the face of the rising warriors, isn't she? At the very least, she's got, well, a full set of teeth." Avers shines his mismatched jawline, before he continues. "And they always want that insurance policy, so that when I nail Zane with a skull-rattling lariat, or stomp her head into a thin paste, she can live in solace knowing that they'll place that championship atop the cedar box they bury her six feet deep in."
Avers pauses for a moment. He lets his words loom.
"But that's not how it really works, is it?"
He continues.
"Nah, because Zane may not be defending her championship in this match, but that doesn't really matter when I step into the ring with her. I may not be fighting for the championship, but I'll be fighting to earn that championship by way of being the only logical fucking choice. Because when I get my hands on Zane, I'm going to drag her around the ring and beat her within an inch of her fucking life. I'm going to rain haymakers against her skull so severe that they dust her teeth. I'm going to run my knee, boot, and shin into her head that a PET scan will look like a fucking shotgun blast. I'm going to rip her limb from limb and leave a pile of appendages and extremities almost as tall as she is, and when I've crushed her into a near-unrecognizable pile of wasted stardust, I'll place my boot upon her skull as the referee makes a three count that has no real use, no purpose but to bring the ringing of the bells to end both a match that didn't need to happen, and a career that didn't need to sunset here and now. It's an unfortunate casualty, but one that Project: Honor has brought upon themselves.
Zane considers herself a young veteran, and I can respect that, in some aspects. Anyone who's done this for more than a decade can testify to such, especially from an exceptional youth. However, like all veterans know, there is a limited volume of damage one can take. There is a specific number of bumps one can take before their career finishes. No amount of training can sustain your physical form forever, can shake the damage of concussive blows, the wear-and-tear upon limbs, the general fatigue of war. Zane has been going at this for much, much longer than I have, but I can almost guarantee you that she's never seen something like me. Never gone toe to toe with something my size, with my propensity for violence, my desire to cave skulls, my desire to bring carnage. On a fresh frame? My artistry may be recoverable with a few weeks in a hospital bed, with a few emergency surgeries, you may lead a normal life. But on a frame with that wear and tear where the new car stench has long since vanished, there's little chance of recovery. My violence is a different breed, and I intend to showcase it fully. There's no Adrian Hil to take bullets, there's no Ragna Bramovich to delay the inevitable, there's only two of us, and only one of us is capable of the most raw form of art that man can display."
Avers stares into the camera. His teeth are gritted. His cold, dark eyes burn slightly.
"So if you wish to give me your champion without her championship in contention, I'll relish in the opportunity. I'll take what I'm given and i'll drink it up. Let the consequences be known, however; that your championship will be vacated. Your champion may never walk again. Your champion may never breathe on their own again. Your champion will fall to the Debt Collector, and her vacant belt will become my collateral, God Willing, and I'll have the opportunity I should have originally been gifted, the chance that I should have taken from the fucking start. Know that you have given me this match, know that you could have evaded this, and know that given the agency to inflict heinous punishment and critical damage upon an opponent that will forever further my career..."
Avers is quiet. His gritted teeth catch the light for a moment.
"...then I guess all that's left for me to do is kill again."
Avers lets out a grim chuckle as the darkness swallows him whole, and we can see, for a moment, his burning coal eyes before we fully cut to black.
"A heartfelt thank you and round of applause to Adrian Hil, for taking the bullets that were likely intended for me, for doing the vast majority of the work in that proving ground match, for showing up and being so intent on proving himself as the best technical wrestler in the world that he didn't notice a two hundred and fifty plus pound threat looming behind him. Truly, Adrian Hil is one of the most brilliant minds in the ring, with how cleverly he dispatched of Ragna Bramovich and Alex Kincaid, but he couldn't get the most important facet of this squared circle into that head of his, the fact that you always need to watch your back." Avers glances dead into the camera. "You, Adrian, were left unaware. You shouldn't have been surprised by my advantageous behavior. Perhaps that's just another lesson you can add to your education before you consider yourself the best in the fucking world."
Avers exhales, and smiles a bit too placidly. It's disconcerting. He continues.
"But enough about Adrian Hil and the other two still-warm corpses in my debut match. Let's talk about the facts. As they stand, I won my debut. I did what I claimed I was coming to do, and I ripped victory, kicking and screaming, out from the jaws of three other hungry competitors. I staked my ground in Project Honor, and I looked to continue to do so against whichever opponent I would stand across the ring from next. Imagine my surprise, however, when my advisor informed me I'd be manhandling the Warrior Rising champion, Zane." Avers pantomimes wiping sweat out of his eyes. "It's the kind of reward that makes a grown man blush, or at least, I figured it would be, until she followed that up by informing me that Zane's title wouldn't be in the mix."
Avers lets out a breath that's barely-contained rage, before he finally speaks.
"But it's alright, honestly. I can understand what's going on here-hell, I don't play politics myself, but I've been around those who do long enough. One of two things is happening here, and i'm honestly curious to see which comes to a full fruition. Is it, perhaps, that the upper management is frustrated at Daniel Avers? Is it, perhaps, that the warfare he brought to the ring, the violence that he inflicted upon the three competitors in his debut, least of all Adrian Hil, was too much for the virgin eyes in the programming booth to bare? Was it, maybe, that the chosen child of the Project: Honor corporate ladder fell short? Or, perhaps, is it that they want to bolster their champion up with an excellent showcase, with Zane primed to brutalize Daniel Avers to a point where he's nearly unrecognizable. After all, she's much more suited to be the face of the rising warriors, isn't she? At the very least, she's got, well, a full set of teeth." Avers shines his mismatched jawline, before he continues. "And they always want that insurance policy, so that when I nail Zane with a skull-rattling lariat, or stomp her head into a thin paste, she can live in solace knowing that they'll place that championship atop the cedar box they bury her six feet deep in."
Avers pauses for a moment. He lets his words loom.
"But that's not how it really works, is it?"
He continues.
"Nah, because Zane may not be defending her championship in this match, but that doesn't really matter when I step into the ring with her. I may not be fighting for the championship, but I'll be fighting to earn that championship by way of being the only logical fucking choice. Because when I get my hands on Zane, I'm going to drag her around the ring and beat her within an inch of her fucking life. I'm going to rain haymakers against her skull so severe that they dust her teeth. I'm going to run my knee, boot, and shin into her head that a PET scan will look like a fucking shotgun blast. I'm going to rip her limb from limb and leave a pile of appendages and extremities almost as tall as she is, and when I've crushed her into a near-unrecognizable pile of wasted stardust, I'll place my boot upon her skull as the referee makes a three count that has no real use, no purpose but to bring the ringing of the bells to end both a match that didn't need to happen, and a career that didn't need to sunset here and now. It's an unfortunate casualty, but one that Project: Honor has brought upon themselves.
Zane considers herself a young veteran, and I can respect that, in some aspects. Anyone who's done this for more than a decade can testify to such, especially from an exceptional youth. However, like all veterans know, there is a limited volume of damage one can take. There is a specific number of bumps one can take before their career finishes. No amount of training can sustain your physical form forever, can shake the damage of concussive blows, the wear-and-tear upon limbs, the general fatigue of war. Zane has been going at this for much, much longer than I have, but I can almost guarantee you that she's never seen something like me. Never gone toe to toe with something my size, with my propensity for violence, my desire to cave skulls, my desire to bring carnage. On a fresh frame? My artistry may be recoverable with a few weeks in a hospital bed, with a few emergency surgeries, you may lead a normal life. But on a frame with that wear and tear where the new car stench has long since vanished, there's little chance of recovery. My violence is a different breed, and I intend to showcase it fully. There's no Adrian Hil to take bullets, there's no Ragna Bramovich to delay the inevitable, there's only two of us, and only one of us is capable of the most raw form of art that man can display."
Avers stares into the camera. His teeth are gritted. His cold, dark eyes burn slightly.
"So if you wish to give me your champion without her championship in contention, I'll relish in the opportunity. I'll take what I'm given and i'll drink it up. Let the consequences be known, however; that your championship will be vacated. Your champion may never walk again. Your champion may never breathe on their own again. Your champion will fall to the Debt Collector, and her vacant belt will become my collateral, God Willing, and I'll have the opportunity I should have originally been gifted, the chance that I should have taken from the fucking start. Know that you have given me this match, know that you could have evaded this, and know that given the agency to inflict heinous punishment and critical damage upon an opponent that will forever further my career..."
Avers is quiet. His gritted teeth catch the light for a moment.
"...then I guess all that's left for me to do is kill again."
Avers lets out a grim chuckle as the darkness swallows him whole, and we can see, for a moment, his burning coal eyes before we fully cut to black.