Re: The Black Gael

by **krzy** Tue Feb 13, 2018 7:32 pm

You haven't been excited in years, don't put that on me

by **Mr. Dashing** Tue Feb 13, 2018 9:50 pm

I for one enjoyed the development, nice job, buddy!

by **krzy** Mon Mar 05, 2018 2:37 am

This CMV.com exclusive video catches up with Black Gael, or Brandon Rayne rather, after he came up short in the Rising Star Championship bout. He has an unopened bottle of beer in his hands, he eyes it longingly, but is showing restraint in leaving it closed.

Brandon Rayne is who you get when you take the alcoholism, and unfortunately--depending on who you ask--the empathy, out of the Black Gael.

That’s conveyed in the way he speaks as well. Even, verging on monotonous. His emotions are in check, whereas Gael’s ran the show.

The Black Gael cried for me constantly, because I was the man he once was before he lost control. The alcohol gave him wanted he wanted, it let him FEEL, but he lost his life in the process. They sent me away to get “better” but this vice isn’t something that can be cured. It’s a demon that will always linger in the shadows waiting for me to slip up so it can feast on my mistakes.

I won’t let the real Gael get the chance.

So I’ll continue wearing the paint. I’ll continue to suffer for The Black Gael’s weakness. But, unlike him, I don’t don’t see the paint as a badge of honor. I don’t wear it in pride. It’s not for display.

What I will do, however, is pick up where he left off. He was on the right track; having something to fight for may very well help in distracting me from the real danger.

Rayne violently throws the beer bottle against the wall. The glass shatters, a beautiful metaphor for the shattering of the bonds that tethered him to that vice. Somewhere, Aaron wipes a single tear from his cheek.

by **krzy** Mon Mar 05, 2018 9:14 pm

The cameras catch up with Brandon Rayne as he tries to recoup after his match against Bryce Kanyon.

I realized the error of my ways.

The change was sudden and some of you may not have had the time necessary to adjust. Tonight was your closure, you last chance to say goodbye to the Black Gael.

But it's as I said.

He puts on the top he was wearing at the pay per view.

This paint is not a badge of honor.

He starts putting on the mask he wore.

Goodbye Black Gael.

by **krzy** Mon Mar 19, 2018 9:05 pm

Brandon Rayne is spotted doing nothing but sitting there, his newly-won Rising Star Championship draped across his lap.

He's just looking at it, as in a trance, as if in disbelief at how quickly things have come around. He inhales sharply when he runs his fingers along the nameplate that still reads Roderick G. Pullerman, holds it for what seems like an eternity, then releases it in a long, drawn out flow.

For the Black Gael, this very moment was the breaking point. When he was finally forced to admit what the voices were telling him all along: there was nothing out there that could fix him--no amount of alcohol, no major championship victory...it had to come from within.

But even then, I'll never really be fixed, will I?

A milestone like this in a career, in a life, could be marked with a celebratory drink. For me, that's a danger. For me, that could undo everything. There's no inbetween anymore. There either Black Gael or Brandon Rayne, and Black Gael was on a path few survive.

The best I can do is pick up where he left off.

It's still a startling difference. How evenly Rayne speaks, sounding almost monotonous, in contrast to Gael who wore his emotions on his sleeve.

This title won't make me whole, still it gives me a purpose, and at this point that's all I can ask for.

He kind of just leaves that hanging there, letting his sentence fade into an uneasy silence. It looks like things will end there only for Dulé Zaire, of all people, to walk into the shot. He looks a little uncomfortable, amplified by Rayne not looking up to acknowledge him.

Hey man, since we happened to both be on the show tonight, I just wanted to say that if there's one good thing that came out of what happened to my bar, it was you getting a second chance at things. It's been an eye-opener to see the other side of things, when you all stop being customers, but I'm happy you seem to be back on your own two feet, and...

The sentence trails off and a long, uncomfortable silence persists. Finally, Rayne speaks, both hands tightly clasping the championship as he struggles to maintain his composure, speaking in a shaky voice.

It's not your fault.

Zaire takes that for what it is, nodding in response before exiting the area. Several seconds go by before Rayne loosens his grip on the championship. He reaches up with one hand to slightly lift the mask worn to hide away the face paint. With the other hand reaches up and gently touches his cheek. He holds that hand out in front of him and sees the paint smeared on his fingers, wet.

by **krzy** Thu Mar 29, 2018 5:58 pm

After a successful match in his first appearance since regaining the Rising Star Championship, Rayne rolls out of the ring to retrieve the title. He stands there for seconds clutching that belt in his hands, almost for deal life, the life preserver that's kept him afloat.

He's said it himself: that title broke the Black Gael because it couldn't save him. Now that title has saved Rayne because it's given him a distraction, a purpose, a means to never be Black Gael again. With the ever-growing support of the crowd, Rayne isn't a lone in this fight, and he's not the only one who has waged this kind of war.

The fact that he's winning is inspirational.

The fact that it's a fight that will be everlasting and can never be truly won is a harrowing one.

Rayne gets the microphone and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

Pullerman, you say you want to 'free' Gael.

I can't help but find that telling. Gael, for all his flaws, had emotions...he had empathy...

He showed mercy.

And mercy is what you're hoping for as we prepare to settle this once and for all inside one of the most dangerous matches ever conceived.

And it's fitting.

And it's the perfect way to end all of this.

You need to suffer.

You need to be punished, because the mere idea of bringing back Gael means unraveling years of hard work to get to where I am today. If you thought Gael was a mess before, imagine him in a time where he didn't have the structure of this company and the support of these people to keep him afloat.

I've only just broke through the undertow.

A man like you stands for everything I've tried to run away from in my life, because when they get to close is when my life is left in ruins.

You can't be allowed to walk these halls any longer.

For all your talk of freeing Gael, you've lost sight of what truly matters: no matter which one of us you've fought, you've never won when we're alone in that ring.

Goodbye.

Rayne holds the Rising Star Championship high in the air before the show fades into a video package.

by **krzy** Mon Apr 09, 2018 12:11 pm

After a hard fought victory over a game JT Fury, the crowed joins Rising Star Champion Brandon Rayne in celebration after a second retention of the title. He falls to his knees in exhaustion, giving every last bit of strength and energy he had to put down Fury once and for all. With championship in hand, Rayne rolls out of the ring to get a microphone.

To fight for a cause is a blessing.

To live for a purpose is a gift.

To bring the voices inside of your head from screams of temptations to whispers of contempt is more than I could have ever hoped for.

And now I've been presented with an option: relinquish this title for a chance at something grander.

But how could I?

How could I throw away what the Black Gael sacrificed the last bit of his sanity for?

No matter what, he still lives on. Through this paint we're bound for an eternity for its this paint that always separated us, truly separated us, from disaster....and tragedy.

I can't allow Black Gael to return and expect to live through it...so the least I can do is hold onto this title until the bitter end. I will defend this with everything I have and everything I am. Until there's nothing left of me, this title will be all that I live and breathe for.

You'll have to just about kill me if you want to be the next Rising Star Champion.

by **krzy** Tue Apr 24, 2018 12:44 am

Brandon Rayne is in his hotel room sitting on his bed, next to him his phone is playing a replay of Zach Smith winning his number one contenders match to earn a shot at the Rising Star Championship.

The very same championship that lies across Rayne's lap. The metal shimmers weakly under the dim hotel lights. A cockroach skittering along the floor, and unexplained smears of red on the wall, are all that would be needed to really drive home the dank place the champion finds himself in.

He sighs, a sound of both frustration and longing. He pulls off the cloth draped over his shoulder and hurls it against the wall. The fabric is so soft that it barely makes a sound when it connects, the equivalent of a feather tickling the skin when you're trying to throw a right hook that would impress Mike Tyson.

The backfiring of the action, the sensation of feeling robbed of the cathartic experience of smashing something against the wall sets a fire under Rayne. Seemingly literally with the way that he bursts onto his feet.

In two long strides he's in front of the mirror, staring back at the now slightly-smudged paint on his chest.

This paint is supposed to repel Gael, yet it might as well be a bullseye.

There's a sense of alleviation when he speaks. His voice, as it has been since his "transformation" from the Black Gael to Brandon Rayne, is monotonous and crystal clear. No slurred words exasperated by a sudden shift in emotions like the Black Gael. He's sober, thankfully, yet barely, desperately, hanging onto his sanity while the Black Gael would recklessly bounce between sanity and madness. He sighs and pulls off his mask revealing more painting underneath it. Again he speaks.

I want you all to see this.

I want you all to see this.

I want you all to see this.

He repeats it like a mantra. As if those six words are the key to setting him on the right track and any kind of deviation from this structure would spell doom. Still he takes the risk.

I want you all to see that I stayed strong.

He hisses out the sentence while the camera slowly pans down his left arm revealing a tightly clenched fist. Blood oozes through his fingers and drips down onto the floor. He begins to unfurl the fist, the progress impeded by the pain he appears to be in. He finally does it, exposing a cut up palm and fingers, shards of broken glass peeking out through open wounds.

He holds up his hand to his face, closes his eyes and takes a sniff. The expression is of unfiltered bliss that flashes on and off a face already obscured by the paint. A droplet of blood flows down his forearm before plopping onto the ground where a crushed, not smashed, bottle of cheap liquor has found its resting place.

The harder I fight, the more I seem destined to lose.

Everyone wants to be a champion.

Every bottle feels like it has my name written on it.

The harder I fight, the tougher my challengers get.

The harder I fight, the more seductive the sweet nothings of the succubus sound in my ear.

Every night she beckons me to nest my head in her bosom. She promises me that in her embrace is the lone place I can find true happiness.

But I fight.

You can almost smell the liquor that wafts in the air, a scent that we're watching consume and overwhelm Rayne in slow-motion, helpless to help him. But he fights. He clenches is fist once more and clenches his jaw and the glass cuts new wounds into his palms.

Zach Smith.

I've watched your match over and over again. Watched as you fought so hard to earn this title match. I've sat and I wondered if I'm being selfish. I'm holding this title hostage for a sense of fulfillment that may never come. But I've seen it in your eyes, how badly you want this and it hurts me to say this: I'm not giving this title up without a fight. The Rising Star Championship broke the Black Gael, but it's the glue that holds me together.

This match is life or death for me. It's possible that that's not hyberbole. It's not a matter of will I win or will I lose. No!

I CAN'T lose, Zach.

I can't!

That's the most emotion he's shown, and that's without even a drop of alcohol hitting his tongue. Maybe the toxically alluring liquid did its damage just from seeping through the cut in his hands. Rayne seems to realize this and calmly begins washing his hand--scrubbing it, even. Glass be damned.

I've defended the Rising Star Championship three times already, but that doesn't put me at ease. I've seen you, Zach. You're something special, doing things inside of that ring that no one ever thought possible. This match will be my toughest battle to date, and I've already been through hell and back to stay champion. You are the epitome of what this title is supposed to represent. At the rate you're going, you'll be the future of this company whether they like it or not.

But when, not if, but when you get to the top, you'll look back on your career up to that point and the one thing missing from your laundry list of accolades will be: Rising Star Champion.

I have something to offer this company too.

I know I do.

And I'm not quite done with this championship yet.

Rayne's voice weakly trails off in the end, as though he were trying to himself as well. He looks into the mirror, but closes his eyes immediately. He doesn't like what he sees. He looks down at his chest and starts wiping away at the paint there. He's halfway through before he stops and second guesses himself, a trembling hand hovering over a half-smeared "G".

He takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub and buries his face into his good palm. The camera slowly zooms out then fades to black. Outside of the ring, he may be barely hanging on, but inside of the ring he's going to fight to his dying breath to emerge victorious.

It's the only way to keep from falling apart.

by **krzy** Tue May 01, 2018 10:26 pm

Brandon Rayne sits alone in the hallway after losing his Rising Star Championship, back pressed against the wall, eyes seemingly unable to look at anything but the ground. His chest rises and falls erratically in an off-beat harmony with his breaths. The camera zooms in on the fist that he repeatedly opens and closes. Shards of broken glass glisten in the light, still embedded in the thin, shredded flesh of his his red palms.

He's either numb to the pain by now, or the mask is pulling it's weight in obscuring his grimaces. He tucks one end of the fabric draped over his shoulder under his mask so that he can grip it with his teeth. He uses his good hand to tug at an angle tearing the cloth in along a straight strip. He tears a few more strips free then stars wrapping it around his cut hand.

With all that I've risked and lost to wrest myself free from your grasp, you've found a way to have the last laugh by taking one more thing away from me.

With the sloppy bandaging as good as it's ever going to be, Rayne clenches his fist to test if the amateur work is good enough to get him through the night, a trip to an actual doctor seemingly out of the question. He gets up, but he's initially unsteady on his feet. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, then looks down at his fist then down the hallway.

I will press on.

He walks off.

by **krzy** Wed Jun 20, 2018 11:28 am

The cameras cut backstage where the ever enigmatic and sympathetic Brandon Rayne is slumped against the all, a week removed from a brutal falls count anywhere match. An interviewer approaches the seemingly perpetually broken man and tries to pick Rayne's brain about these recent events and where this road he's on will lead him in the future. Rayne doesn't look up as if the appearance of the interviewer has gone unnoticed by him. The interviewer leans in closer prepared to repeat her question, but Rayne abruptly begins to speak, still not looking up at her as though she were no more than a disembodied voice.

I failed.

I tried to tap into a violence, a viciousness, a mean streak, I no longer have in sobriety.

There's a brief cut to the turnbuckle that Rayne exposed but couldn't bring himself to use.

I tried to be someone that I'm not.

So the who am I?

He forces himself to stand and walk away from that question, a thought that's haunted him, hounded Brandon Rayne since the Black Gael ceased to be.

A question he knows, deep down, that he'll never truly be able to escape.

All while from the rafters stands a man mostly hidden in the darkness above the lights. His eyes, they weren’t just fixated on Brandon Rayne, but what lies within. Just as Brandon walks backstage, a soft whisper can be heard if you listen hard enough.

“Goodbye”

by **krzy** Wed Jul 11, 2018 11:13 am

The legendary CMV interviewer Guy. stands by backstage this time with Brandon Raynne who's just...there...staring off into the ether as though having an out-of-body experience. Ever the trooper, Guy. takes in a deep breath and gets to doing his job.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to Monday Night Fusion. This is your main man Guy. and I'm here with the enigmatic, troubled Brandon Rayne. Brandon, thanks for joining me.

Silence--Rayne doesn't even acknowledge that another man is standing next to him or that there's a camera in his face. He's just---gone.

Oh my God...Right, so you've been on a bit of a downward spiral since your clash for the Light Heavyweight Championship. From an outsider's perspective, ever since you...changed...from the Black Gael, you've been on a bit of a slump.

Rayne's head snaps around at the mention of Gael, making Guy. jump. However, he doesn't respond verbally. Rayne only nods at Guy. in acknowledgment as though Guy. did him a favor. Rayne walks off, and, once he's out of the frame, Guy. throws up his arms in frustration.

Another successful interview.

by **krzy** Thu Aug 09, 2018 10:15 pm

Brandon Rayne is pacing back and forth backstage, mask and shirt both torn off, flesh exposed, the paint that adorned the surface rubbed raw, save for a few splotches of red here and there.

If what he's said to be believed, then those few splotches are all that stands between a loosening grip on sanity and a complete sprial into madness.

Those few blobs are what's able to keep him standing.

They're what keep him talking.

They're what make it possible for him to keep fighting another day.

But for how much longer?

How much longer?

With how much passion?

It's all dwindling by the week. Every reserve operating at a deficiency, with depleting resources. It's evident in his movements. The ways his steps of what are supposed to be progress are hampered, nearly paralyzed by a certain uncertainty. He doesn't feed off the crowd in the same way. Doesn't ooze the same charisma. Doesn't excite with the same electricity.

He looks down at the scrubbed paint and sighs deeply in a way that conveys all his frustration, stress and anxiety in a way that mere words couldn't.

He used to call my name.

He'd scream it, but it would never sound harsh or ragged.

"Brandon, help me."

"Brandon, be careful."

"Brandon, SAVE me!"

It would be smooth, soft, a scream somehow barely audible.

That's because if you wanted to hear real screaming--the violent and ear-splitting stuff-- those were the ones coming from the other voices. The ones inside of his head. The ones that lead him down a dark path. The ones that told him he could drown his sorrows at the risk of one day drowning himself.

I know because I was there.

I know because I was one of them.

I was one of the voices, but I didn't want to hurt him. I was the voice begging and pleading with him to find the light. To wear the paint. To fight against Gael.

He tries to listen but the other voices overpowered me; I was never strong enough to fight them off. He was never strong enough to help. Then the unimaginable happened. He broke free of the cycle, and left his life in my hands.

And I failed.

The path we were on is a maze, and I'm lost somehwrre in the middle.

Like a man stranded in on an island, I'm cold; I'm hungry; I'm thirsty; I'm desperate;

I'm alone.

So what happens now, Gael? What happens now that Brandon was too weak to help or save you?

Maybe it's time to stop being careful.

His trembling hand hovers over what's left of the paint--that tenuous bond between rationality and impenetrable darkness. For a moment, it looks as though he's going to do it, wipe the paint clean and allow the hibernating monster to step forth and assume control.

But he hesitates. He hesitates, and that split second allows a coherent, rational thought to talk him down from the ledge. Rayne lowers his hand. He sighs.

He walks away.

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