Re: The Black Gael

by **krzy** Tue Aug 14, 2018 6:24 pm

It's over.

Rob Cross has emerged victorious as the new Light Heavyweight Champion, being in the right place at the right time to snatch down the belt despite Prince's valiant efforts to stop him.

But even as he celebrates, there's a commotion up the ramp.

An understandably frustrated Nikolas Hemmerling has blindsided Brandon Rayne with a crushing clothesline to the back of the head. Rayne staggers and drops to the ground, vulnerable, but not entirely defenseless. Rayne manages to kick Hemmerling away then he rolls backward onto his feet.

He doesn't immediately go on the offensive. Rayne backs away, telling Hemmerling that he shouldn't go through with this. The pleas fall on deaf ears. Hemmerling charges forward with a second clothesline, one that Rayne sees coming and one that Rayne ducks under easily.

In a single, smooth, practiced motion, Rayne twirls and greets Hemmerling with a crushing backfist to the jaw. The blow drops Hemmerling to a knee, the man now massaging his jaw, opening and closing it to check for sustained damage.

And that's all Rayne does.

That's all he can muster in his defense after Hemmerling's cheap shot.

That's all he can bother doing after failing to capture the Light Heavyweight Championship once again.

Failing.

Again.

Failure.

He is.

He is, and he always knew it.

He is, and he always will be.

He is, and the Black Gael would have won.

He is, and everyone is whispering it behind his back.

These voices.

They're unbearable.

They're at full volume.

They're going all out because Rayne can't muster up his usual defenses.

Because he can't.

Because he won't.

What does it matter anymore?

Who's he trying to save at this point? Himself? That's funny. He has nothing to live for. He lost his chance at the one thing worth fighting for. There's nothing worth saving anymore. Nothing left to save.

"FIGHT BRANDON!"

"PAPA! HE NEEDS YOU!"

Gael's voice. Familiar, but weaker. More faint as the voices of negativity, of dissent, battle back Gael's every syllable. Gael did all he could, but Brandon wasn't the hero he was looking for.

This inner conflict lasted one second in the real world. Maybe two. But to Rayne, it whas been a lifetime of this, and now he's closer to the end of the tunnel. The light's beautiful from this close.

In that one second, Rayne has fallen on his knees, hands pressed tight against his ears as if that can stop the voices. Blocking out any outside sound means his demon's verbal abuse are only amplified. Like a toxin grown exponentially more potent. Blocking out any outside sound means that Rayne doesn't hear when Hemmerling barks, "You pathetic son of a bitch! I should be champion! This is your fault! I'm gonna put you out of your misery once and for all!"

If nothing else, you can't say that Hemmerling is all bark. Blocking out any outside sound means that Rayne doesn't hear the wind whistle as Hemmerling's hand slices through it. Rayne only feels the impact when the fist clobbers him on the side of the head. Rayne drops to the ground, whimpering, but hands still pressed against his ears. Hemmerling may feel Rayne looks pathetic, but Hemmerling doesn't feel any pity.

"There people cheer for you. They believe in you," Hemmerling shouts over the booing crowd. "I'm gonna show them who you really are." Hemmerling pulls off Rayne's mask, mounts Rayne and then begins rubbing off the paint the hard way. Rayne still has his hands pressed against his ears, not even mounting a defense while Hemmerling rakes a forearm across Rayne's face, rubbing Rayne's flesh raw until the paint is completely gone.

Hemmerling pulls Rayne off the ground and again shouts in Rayne's face. He positions Rayne at the edge of the stage, a long fall to his doom awaiting the struggling, but reformed, alcoholic. "No one will miss you," Hemmerling shouts. Rayne finally lowers his hands and looks up.

There's a darkness in his eyes.

A look that causes even Hemmerling to freeze for a split second as a wave of doubt washes through him. That split second is all Rayne needs. Rayne headbutts Hemmerling, once, twice, a third time for the hell of it. Hemmerling is dazed on his feet after having his brain rattled inside of his skull. Rayne closes the gap between them with a long stride then twirls again, arm stretched with a backfist delivered with teeth-shattering impact. That time it wasn't an instinctual move; it was intentional. The intent to hurt very clear, and even more clear now when Rayne drives his forearm into Hemmerling's face, flooring him.

Rayne steps forward and places the sole of his boot onto Hemmerling's throat. If Hemmerling were conscious, your nightmares would be filled with the sound of him gasping, struggling for air. But he's unconscious, silent. Completely at the mercy of Rayne. Rayne pulls off the cloth draped over his shoulders and uses it to scrub away the paint markings on his torso.

He stops when there's just a spot left.

A spot between madness and a pretense of sanity.

A spot between Brandon Rayne and a monster.

"You're right," Rayne says in response to Hemmerling's comment. Words spoken seemingly a lifetime ago. He wipes his chest clean of the protective paint then stomps on Hemmerling's throat without hesitation.

And here come the nightmare-inducing sounds. The gurgling, the coughing, the desperate inhalations. Lungs pleading for air. The crowd was cheering for Rayne a second before, giving him their energy so that he could mount a comeback, so that he could defend himself. Now they're silent. This isn't the Rayne, or the Gael, they've gotten to know all season.

This is someone else all together. Someone with that darkness still in their eyes, with a thick sheet of blackness that has seeped into his heart and soul altogether. It has merged into every fiber of his being driving away the empathy and compassion that made him so endearing...once upon a time.

This....this....thing...he looks down at Hemmerling, his lips twisted into a frown. Hemmerling seems to be recovering, his breathing ragged, but consistent. And that's a problem. The man lifts his boot again and stomps on Hemmerling's throat a second time. If there was any doubt that perhaps his foot slipped, or he missed his intended target with the first stomp, that's all gone with the second.

The man walks off without looking back.

Hemmerling is some one else's problem now.

by **krzy** Mon Aug 20, 2018 11:18 am

The following note was posted on CMV's official website:

To the CMV Universe:

First off, we here at CMV would like to thank each and every one of you for tuning in to Ascendance VI and making it one of the biggest and most successful pay per view events in this company's history.

Shows like Ascendance are a result of the hard work and the passion of CMV's wrestlers and staff, but without all of you faithful fans it would all be for naught.

On the heels of such a spectacular showcase of this company's finest and brightest, we are not going to rest on our laurels. As you all may have noticed, we have already begun taking steps into making next year's Ascendance even better with the blockbuster signings of Shay Hoxton and Jason Spade. Based on their incredible track record of captivating promos and jaw-dropping matches, we decided it would be best for Hoxton and Spade to head straight to the main roster and bypass NGW completely.

We have faith that these two superstars, who embody every sense of the word, will be able to instantly make a splash on CMV's biggest show.

It doesn't end with them.

Starting with tonight's Fusion, we are going to give other independent wrestlers the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of Hoxton and Spade. However, things will be different for them. They will have to earn their way onto Fusion by defeating an NGW alumni and showing they are good enough to cut to the front of the line.

We have faith that this will spark a new wave of talent entering the company to shake things up and allow us to continue to give the CMV Universe the quality of shows they have come to expect.

Thank you,
CMV Wrestling

We're taken backstage to where Guy. is taking his time approaching a man who we used to know as Brandon Rayne and the Black Gael. However, at Ascendance, we saw a side of this man we never have before.

Violent.

Remorseless.

And worst of all, relapsed.

This man is four-sixths of a way through his collection of beer cans. His face and chest have no paint on them, the only color on his face being the dark, heavy bags that hang underneath his eyes. Guy. goes to say something but this man crushes the beer can underneath his boot and stands.

"They were right," he says, words delivered with a hard edge. "I was strongest at my weakest." Words delivered more coherently and lucid than the Black Gael ever could, delivered with an undertone of anger that Rayne never had.

The man cracks open the last beer and walks off.

by **krzy** Mon Aug 20, 2018 9:33 pm

Victorious.

Dominant.

Flashes of both the Black Gael and Brandon Rayne, but with his own brutal twist. Even the springboard forearm, a move that's become synonymous with both of those personas, was delivered a little differently tonight, this man putting his full body weight into the move this time around.

But then here comes the shocker: the man turns and shakes Mason's hand. In that moment the old him is able to regain control, a side of him that believed in sportsmanship. A side that showed compassion, respect...a side of him with a heart, paint drawn over it.

The crowd is stunned silent, even Mason doesn't know what to make of this, but perhaps in fear, he opts to shake the man's hand and goes as far as to raise the man's arms in victory. Mason backs away and watches as the man's arms drops limply down to his side.

The moment Mason exits the ring, the man's head snaps in that direction. He's swallowed the light. Only dark remains.

The man charges over to the ropes, diving through them with a reckless dive that hits Mason on the back, knocking him to the ground. He never saw it coming. And now it's too late.

The man peels Mason off the ground just so that he can toss Mason head first into the steel steps with such immense force that the top stair is knocked off. The man looks at the dislodged stair for one second, two. This isn't about contemplating his next move, he's once again frozen in place as an inner war wages within him. The paints gone.

So's his morality.

Mason has tried to crawl away, head spinning after colliding with stairs. He makes it over to the commentary table using it to try to pull himself off the ground. On his feet he at least has a better chance of putting up a fight.

That chance is dashed when, again, Rayne comes flying into the frame with an attack that sends both men tumbling onto and over the announce table and pretty much into Dashing's lap. The man drags Mason back over to the ringside area, and just like he did during the match, the man deadlifts Mason off the ground...but this time he powerbombs him onto the apron!

That should be enough.

That should be enough.

That should be enough.

Neither Gael nor Rayne would have gone this far to begin with. But the paint's gone, and that's alcohol, not blood, that flows through his veins.

"Please.

You'll kill him!

You'll kill him!"

This time those aren't the voices in Gael's head. It's Dashing, begging, pleading with this man to show some mercy, to allow Mason to live so that he may fight another day. The man walks over to Dashing, no signs of life in his eyes, no inkling of emotion on his face.

The man responds to Dashing's pleas, "You will all feel fear, not pity, when you look at me."

Dashing has no response to that.

"End him."

"Don't let anyone else stand in your way."

That time it was the voices.

The man walks over to Mason and stomps down on Mason's throat just as he did to Hememrling at Ascendance. It's scary how casual he made that look. No hesitation, no remorse.

He walks away, once again leaving someone else to clean up his mess.

by **krzy** Tue Aug 28, 2018 8:52 pm

He's like a serial predator.

Predictable.

Methodical.

Dangerous.

Deadly.

A modus operandi that leaves a trail of devastation wherever he goes.

Sparks should have seen it coming.

He should have been prepared.

But this man who looks like Rayne and wrestles like the Black Gael has suckered Sparks in with a handshake, the same way he did to his last victim. Sparks has completely dropped his guard after achieving a career goal of wrestling in CMV, and, unfortunately, he's dealing with a man who wants to pull the company with him on his downward spiral.

The man is still holding Sparks' hand when he suddenly spins and clocks Sparks in the jaw with a backfist. Sparks drops to the ground where almost immediately the man leaps into the air and stomps down on Sparks' throat.

The same ending as the weeks prior, but, this time, the man doesn't drag it out.

There's no savoring this.

There's no enjoying this.

Does he even know why he's doing this?

Does this cycle of violence have an end?

He's been standing there, as if contemplating those very same questions, looking down at Sparks struggling to breathe.

If he has been looking for answers in the bloodshed, he hasn't found them here.

by **krzy** Tue Sep 11, 2018 11:59 pm

Where is...he?

The people find themselves asking that despite themselves. Perhaps knowing exactly where he is provides more comfort than the idea that he could be anywhere.

That...thing.

Not quite the Black Gael.

Not quite Brandon Rayne.

A different being altogether.

A man consumed by hatred. Broken and emotionally drained, obsessed with hurting others. Bodies, innocent victims left in his wake week after week with no end in sight.

But where is he?

A string of violence doesn't stop like that. This man is far past feeling remorse. He's far past turning back and seeking forgiveness. There's simply no looking past what he's done. There's no unseeing the destruction he's caused and the devastation he's left behind.

There's no unliving his transgressions.

So why do the people want to know where he is? Denial? The fading hope that he'll see the light and come to his senses? The belief that the Black Gael or Brandon Rayne are somewhere in there still fighting to regain control? Denial it is.

They know, subconsciously or otherwise, that Gael and Rayne stopped fighting long ago. Otherwise...he wouldn't be...wherever he is.

Where is he?

We'll soon find out. His patience is slipping in direct proportion with his unquenchable thirst for chaos. Here he comes, and he's no longer waiting for a match to come and go before sinking his teeth into his prey.

by **krzy** Mon Sep 17, 2018 11:47 pm

A SOBERING ENDGAME: Part I of V

On this lost episode of Fusion, there’s a buzz in the arena. A tension building. A certain unsettling feeling creeping up the spines of the thousands packed into the building. A voice in the backs of their heads, telling them that something seems a little off, growing louder by the second.

It’s been too long, you know?

A little too quiet as far as the presence of the wrestler once known as Brandon Rayne and also formerly known as the Black Gael is concerned.

Where is he?

The same question that hounded these CMV faithful last week before it was answered in the most harrowing way. Most of them can still see it. The bloodied and mangled face of Wolverine Justice occasionally visits them at unsuspecting times. The caved in roof of the car he was dropped on, blue with spastic smears of red all over, is a sight seared into their brains.

Where is he?

They won’t like the answer. They know they won’t. No one deserves to be beaten within an inch of their lives like that -- at least not the potential superstars that monster has been targeting. The fans can’t stop themselves from wondering where -- the kind of deep-seated curiosity that keeps eyes glued on car wrecks.

Where…

Where…

Where…

There.

There he is.

His entrance music battles back the crushing waves of boos. Boos that must hurt these people to deliver after the emotional rollercoaster they’ve been through with Gael. That coaster has hit rock bottom. They can’t support this man’s actions. They can’t love him the way that they used to. All they can do it vocalize that feeling of pain and betrayal. All they can do is watch as he slowly walks down that ramp.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“No, no, no, no, NO...what is he doing here? WHAT IS HE DOING HERE?! How many weeks are we going to watch as he decimate wrestlers for no other reason than something inside of him broke and can’t be fixed? I was a fan of the Black Gael. I was a fan of Brandon Rayne. But..I just can’t, you guys. I simply cannot stomach what’s become of him.”

Few people in the arena can.

The boos have subsided. They weren’t fueled by hatred or disdain as much as they were by frustration and betrayal.

He stands in the ring and waits. He’s not here to give answers or closure. He simply wants to inflict the same kind of pain that has crippled him ever since the addiction kicked in.

No music hits.

No opponent saunters through the curtains.

His lips twist down into a frown. His body stiffens. This is a game he doesn’t want to play. He wants to be fed. He wants his next victim. What he gets is the concerned face of the general manager that suddenly appears on the titantron. The boss has taken the wise route of speaking from the safety of his office.

[GENERAL MANAGER]
“Listen, Brandon, or whatever you’d like to go by, this is something I should have down after the first time, but after the stunt you pulled, I’m not waiting another second to put my foot down. You are hereby suspended without pay until it is determined, by a professional, that you will no longer be the menace to this roster in the capacity that you have been.”

Rayne tenses as a swarm of security make their way down the ramp and surround the ring. There's no other external reaction to the general manager’s words or recognition of the situation he finds himself in.

[GENERAL MANAGER]
“I'm hoping this can be done peacefully, Brandon. However, as you can see, I’m prepared for the worst. I'm begging you, Brandon, prove me wrong. Come without a fight, and let this be something that we can work past. I still believe in you, Brandon. These people still believe in you. ”

The GM has been repeatedly calling the man by his name, a last ditch cry to Rayne’s humanity. But those pleas have fallen on deaf ears. The point of no return has long since disappeared from the rearview. The GM sadly understands that this will have to be done the hard way. He gives the nonverbal signal for the security guards to make their move, but then a theme hits the speakers halting their advance for now.

In the dark I feel at home...

It could have been one of several black wrestlers to emerge with this music playing, but there’s only one who cares enough to stop this. When Dulé Zaire steps through the curtain these people finally have a reason to cheer.

They finally have a reason to hope for a happy ending.

Zaire grips the microphone tightly in his hand as he walks gingerly down the ramp. His body still ravaged from going to war inside of the elimination chamber, Zaire’s combined compassion and guilt has given him the energy to make it here tonight.

Here with a microphone. He's here to talk, not fight. He tries to convey as much through his expression, eyes wide and sympathetic, while he stands on the apron. Rayne finally meets Zaire’s gaze and something unrecognizable flickers in his own eyes. They stand there at an impasse. Neither wanting to make the first move.

The first mistake.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“For so long Zaire has spoken about how it has bothered him the way he fed Rayne’s addiction to the point where it led to the dissolution of Brulé when Zaire called Angel a ‘selfish prick’ for not wanting to help. You've gotta wonder how it affected him to then see Angel and Rayne come face to face, only for Angel to back off. I guess now it's Zaire’s turn. I can only hope, for his and his family’s sake, that he knows what he's doing. You know what they say about the road to hell. ”

by **krzy** Wed Sep 19, 2018 11:59 am

A SOBERING ENDGAME: Part II of V

Seconds pass, but it felt like minutes.

Minutes that are but a fraction of weeks, maybe months, that Brandon Rayne spent drinking in Dulé Zaire’s bar. Back then Rayne was just another drunkard that paid Zaire’s bills. Just another nameless lowlife Zaire had to wash off his front steps before closing up shop at the crack at dawn.

It’s funny how life works.

Funny how they both wound up in CMV.

Funny how quickly Rayne spiraled without the comfort of that bar.

Funny how Zaire quickly began to care when the guilt couldn’t be washed away.

Funny.

Yet neither of these men are laughing.

Seconds pass before Rayne takes a step backward, ever so slight. It’s enough of a signal for Zaire to know he can step through the ropes and enter the ring without Rayne humoring an animalistic urge to defend his territory.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“I can only imagine what’s going through Zaire’s head. I can’t even think of what kind of game plan he would have to defuse this situation. If he’s winging it, then I hope he’s a savant at thinking on his feet.”

Zaire considers taking a step closer to close the gap between himself and Rayne, but thinks twice about it when he sees how intensely Rayne is watching him. Zaire opts to remain where he is, back pressed against the ropes, somehow held captive in such an open area. He raises the microphone near his mouth, soft eyes search for humanity in Rayne’s hard glare.

[DULÉ ZAIRE]
“Hey man, I..”

His voice trails off. Rayne clenches his jaw.

[DULÉ ZAIRE]
“This path you’re on can only end in a handful of ways. Buddy, you dove headfirst into the darkness, and I want to help you get to a point where there’s at least a sliver of light for you to cling to. I’m not much for this soap opera crap. I’ve lived through too much to agree when people want to paint situations in black or white. There’s always so much nuance that they leave behind. I know you’re not a bad guy, Brandon. You’re hurt and you’re lost and you’re confused, but this has gone too far.

You want to know why I left this business all those years ago? Because of men like you. Because of friends like you. Good men, Brandon, who let their vices get the better them. So many withered away before my very eyes. So many funerals I’ve been to for people who were supposed to be the future of this business who lost the fight against their demons. These vices can be a monster that chews you up, but doesn’t always spit you back out.

Trust me. I’d know better than anyone.

That’s why I got out while I could. Ironic then that I would open a bar. The plan was for it to be different, a controlled environment. It’s just as I said though, it’s not so black and white--people fall through the cracks.”

Rayne flinches when Zaire delivers those last words, and his body language changes. He’s less hostile, no longer looking as though he’d pounce at any second. Zaire turns to the guards still around the ring and motions that they should leave.

[DULÉ ZAIRE]
“It’s okay guys, I got it from here. All you’re doing is making him nervous.”

Some of the guards hesitate, and some follow the order to depart without second thought, but, when it’s all said and done, they all file out of the arena. For every security personnel that exits, a layer of tension is added to the situation. Sure, Zaire claims to have things under control, but leaving him alone in the ring with Rayne brings the same kind of unease that came with Siegfried & Roy claiming to have complete control over their white tigers.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“Goddamnit, Zaire. You’re not his psychiatrist, and I hate to say this, but it’s too late to try and be his friend. This isn’t a negotiation. This isn’t an intervention.”

Zaire is finally feeling confident enough to take a step toward a smiling Rayne. He’s actually smiling. Shades of when emotions weren't so hard to come by. Before Zaire can continue his plea, Rayne holds up a hand to stop him then motions for someone at ringside to bring him his own microphone. The mic is brought at lightning speed, though it’s slid under the bottom rope to circumvent any threat of contact with Rayne.

[THE BLACK GAEL | BRANDON RAYNE]
“Gael always liked you. Brandon always hated you. You provided the sustenance that kept Gael happy but made Brandon miserable. You provided the fantasy world and the cold harsh reality. You provided a reason to live and a crushing desire for it all to end.

Me?

I’m indifferent. You’re nothing to me. The men that I’ve laid waste to are nothing to me.”

He chuckles as the memories come flooding back to him. Somehow sweeter in hindsight than they were in the moment.

[DULÉ ZAIRE]
“Do you even underst---do you even know why you’re doing this?”

Rayne squeezes out a response between his laughs.

[THE BLACK GAEL | BRANDON RAYNE]
“No.”

Zaire takes another step forward.

[DULÉ ZAIRE]
“You can stop. Put an end to it all.”

Rayne stops laughing.

[THE BLACK GAEL | BRANDON RAYNE]
“No.”

Zaire clenches his jaw.

[DULÉ ZAIRE]
“You’re the Black Gael. You’re Brandon Rayne. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t pretend away your failures. They will follow you no matter how far you run, and find you no matter where you hide. And they will haunt you until you rise up and meet them head on.”

Zaire’s voice hitches--he could have very well have spoken those lines to a certain someone else, but it was Rayne who ended up receiving the message here. Now it’s Rayne who takes a step forward. They’re eye to eye in the center of the ring, noses practically touching.

[“The Black Gael” Brandon Rayne]
“You can’t save me.”

He walks by Zaire, bumping shoulders as he does so.

By the time Rayne reaches the ropes, Zaire has already made up his mind.

It shouldn’t have come to this.

Yet this is where they are.

Zaire turns around and lunges.

The Last Laugh is his.

by **krzy** Fri Sep 21, 2018 7:51 pm

A SOBERING ENDGAME: Part III of V

For all intents and purposes, Rayne should be dead to rights. Zaire has Rayne in his grasp, and all that’s left is to toss Rayne up and overhead with the Last Laugh.

On any other night, this nightmare would finally be over.

Unfortunately, Zaire is still smarting from that elimination chamber, particularly that moment where he risked it all with a dive from the side of the cage only to find nobody home when he landed on the laughably thin padding outside of the ring.

He risked it all, and it cost him. Not just that match last night, but this fight tonight. Zaire is simply in too bad of shape to pull off his signature maneuver. That second he spends attempting to battle through the pain is more than enough time for Rayne to seize advantage of the situation.

One sharp elbow from Rayne strikes Zaire on the side of the head. Zaire staggers, giving Rayne the opening he’s been looking for. Rayne snaps around so quickly that for a second it doesn’t look like he moved, but when his fist crashes into Zaire’s jaw, with momentum only matched by a runaway train, it’s clear that Rayne put everything he had into the strike. Again Zaire is staggered, stumbling backward into the ropes. His legs are like jelly, but those ropes are like a life vest, keeping him afloat in the angry waters Rayne is trying to drown him in.

Rayne charges ready to deliver a clothesline with enough force to decapitate the man who was only here to help. Zaire shows a flash of coherence, remembering where he is and the immediate danger posed by an unhinged man. Zaire lowers himself an inch then pops up at just the right moment to launch Rayne over the top rope. The bar owner was hoping to send Rayne crashing and burning on the outside, but those hopes are dashed when Rayne shows off his agility, repositioning himself in midair and landing with cat-like precision on the apron.

Zaire crawls over to the middle of the ring putting some distance between himself and Rayne. He shakes his head to unjumble his thoughts then smacks himself on the forehead once, twice, looking for the same results, but it’s all for naught. Those two strikes by Rayne might have concussed him, and there’s no hoping for any medical attention in the middle of this. He gets up, barely able to stand, but he gets up. He’s not going out without a fight. He turns around in time to see Rayne soaring through the sky. Rayne’s right arm is cocked back in preparation of nailing Zaire with a third vicious hit to the head, this one being the patented forearm that’s ended a ton of matches all season long.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“MAMA MIA!

ZAIRE CAUGHT HIM!

ZAIRE CAUGHT HIM!

I don’t know how he did it, but Zaire just snatched that sick bastard out of the air and dropped him with that side slam of his. Now THAT’S the Zaire we’ve come to know and love over the course of the season. The man with the heart of the gold and the spirit of a warrior who never. backs. down. until every ounce of fight is drained from his being, and even then he still finds a way to kick out at two and keep going.

I don’t know if it was instinct or intentional, but I’m glad he did it. If there was ever a time for him to dig down de--

Oh my god, you guys. Look at his eyes. Look at Zaire’s eyes. That glazed over thousand-yard stare--he has absolutely no idea where he is. He can barely stand.”

Barely, yes, but he does it. On shaky legs, he stands. His ears must still be ringing from the hits he took to the head, but he still has to be hearing the way the crowd is cheering for him, chanting him on, doing what they can to will him to fight on--he’s the only one standing between Rayne and sunshine. Zaire bends over and starts pulling Rayne off the ground.

One arm around the neck.

One arm hooking the leg.

He’s going for the Last Laugh! With adrenaline coursing through his veins and a righteous fire burning within him, Zaire has enough left in the tank for one last big move. He lets out a primal cry, his voice cracking from the strain put on his vocal cord and the physical exhaustion and exertion. The fans get on their feet ready for the good guy to emerge victorious after overcoming suffocatingly insurmountable odds.

And Rayne robs them of that fairy tale ending.

Rayne manages to dig his fingers into Zaire’s eye socket, freeing himself of the bigger man’s grasp. Now it’s Rayne who grabs Zaire from behind; it's Rayne who hooks the leg. Whether it’s sadistic instinct or an immutable side effect of the weight difference, Rayne doesn’t get Zaire all the way overhead. The moment Zaire lands on his neck, a hush falls over the crowd. It’s an ugly--the neck isn’t meant to bend like that. It’s understandable why some members of the audience are now looking away.

It feels wrong.

It feels hopeless.

Rayne sits up. The camera zooms in. His eyes are cold, lips pressed into a thin line. No smile. No frown. No happiness. No anger. What is he getting from this? Only he can answer that. Rayne’s on his feet now. He rolls Zaire onto his back with a casual shove with his boot, then looks down at his wounded prey. Zaire is panting, grimacing, in a world of pain that his brain can’t even properly make sense of because of his potential concussion. Rayne places his boot onto Zaire’s throat. Softly at first, then firmer until air is harder to come by. Why take it this far? Only he can answer that, but when he opens his mouth, it isn't to provide answers.

THE BLACK GAEL | BRANDON RAYNE
“You can't even save yourself.”

He says, completing a statement spoken so long ago.

He does nothing for a long time. Then Rayne lifts his foot into the air.

by **krzy** Mon Sep 24, 2018 10:47 am

A SOBERING ENDGAME: Part IV of V

He does nothing for a long time.

Hesitating with his boot in the air as though the Black Gael and Brandon Rayne were fighting like hell for this man to reclaim his humanity and morality--not even all of it, some of it. A compromise. A sliver. Just enough for him to think twice about what he’s about to do.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“If there was any part of you that wasn't beyond redemption. You wouldn't do this. You wouldn't snuff out the ONE man who tried to do the right thing. The ONE man who tried to help you and expected nothing in return. ”

Then Rayne stomps down on Zarie’s throat.

He stands there motionless and silent, a stark contrast to Zaire who is thrashing around the ring, shockwaves of pain rippling throughout his body.

Dashing is on his feet screaming at the top of his lungs, a stark contrast to a crowd that no longer has the energy to stand, losing their voices the same time Zaire did.

[DASHING ON COMMENTARY]
“I HOPE YOU ROT, YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU'RE GONNA BURN FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE, AND I HOPE I'M THERE TO WATCH, BECAUSE I’LL ENJOY EVERY SECOND OF IT! IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE YOU FUCKING GET WHAT’S CO--”

Rayne’s head whips around, a glare aimed at Dashing that’s so wicked and evil it cuts the commentator off in the middle of his impassioned tirade.

Rayne heard every word.

Dashing backs up until he bumps into the barricade. He looks behind him for just a split second, and by the time he looks at the ring again Rayne is already on the apron. Dashing opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

He'd only be echoing the bleak obvious, anyway.

There’s nowhere to run.

by **krzy** Thu Sep 27, 2018 1:32 am

A SOBERING ENDGAME: Part V of V

Rayne could have hopped off the apron. It would have been faster.

But what's the rush?

He walks over to the stairs and slowly descends to the ringside area…

step

by

step.

A few more steps bring him in front of the announcer's table. He places both palms on the table covering to maintain his balance as he leans in close.

He doesn't have to verbalize anything. It's written in his eyes, and Dashing can read them clearly: there’s nowhere to run.

Dashing already knew that. It's why he quickly takes matters into his own hands. An expert toss sends an open bottle of mountain dew flying into Rayne’s eyes. It might have been funny if such a heads-up move wasn't the difference between Dashing continuing his career or never being able to speak again.

Rayne staggers backward until he bumps into the apron, clawing at his eyes as the burning carbonated beverage threatens his sight.

There's an opening.

Dashing takes it.

He scurries past the table then hustles to get around the ring and to the foot of the ramp as quickly as possible.

The threat of lost sight was only a tease. Rayne sharply turns around, now-reddened eyes locked on Dashing. Rayne fills the air with the sound of a scream, of anguish, of anger. Either way, it startles enough Dashing enough for him to take his eyes away from his escape route. It was only a quick glance back at Rayne, still, that's what causes Dashing to trip up and take a nasty spill on the ground.

He quickly gets up, but he's limping now. Rayne sees it, and now he's not running in pursuit anymore. It's more like a casual stroll as though he were on his way to the grocery store, not about to physically dismantle a man who was only trying to do his job. Dashing makes it midway up the ramp before his knee gives out, and he crumbles to the ground.

The people try to cheer him on as though their desperate support could distract him from the pain.

It's working.

How?

Doesn't matter; it’s working. It has to. There's no other way. Dashing grits his teeth and pushes himself off of the ground. It has to work. He looks over his shoulder, another risky glance. Rayne has stopped following. His pursuer stands at the foot of the ramp with arms crossed and lips tilted in a slight smirk. He’s enjoying this, savoring it, watching as Dashing claws his way to an intangible freedom

Dashing is back on his feet where he takes a shaky, but defiant, step toward safety. Rayne is behind him in a flash, kicking out his leg from under him. Dashing howls in pain, gripping at his knee slowly moving his leg to test its dwindling range of motion. Nothing broken, at least. It's the little things.

The little things like how rolling on to all fours prompts Rayne to lunge with a sharp kick to Dashing’s side. As if Dashing needed a reminder, Rayne’s leg is working just fine. Dashing stays on his back this time, using his good leg to push himself up the ramp.

[DASHING OFF COMMENTARY]
“You don't have to do this. Please.”

What’s the point?

He hasn’t listened before.

He won’t start listening now.

[DASHING OFF COMMENTARY]
“I swear I’ll sing your praises from the rooftops. I’ll say you were the good guy in all of this. Anything you want. Anything.”

Between every other word Dashing chances glances behind him at the stage, hoping for some kind of divine intervention. It isn’t long before Rayne catches on. He realizes now that Dashing doesn’t have any intentions of following through on his promises, it’s merely a stall tactic. Rayne closes the gap between them. He steps on Dashing’s leg to keep the commentator from moving.

[DASHING OFF COMMENTARY]
“What would Gael say? Please! This isn’t--”

The words stop the moment the air way is cut off. Rayne has is boot on Dashing’s throat. Dashing wheezes as air squeezes through the narrow corridor like water trickling from a faucet. Dashing grabs at Rayne’s boot focusing all of his energy into alleviating the pressure. It works! No! Rayne is choosing to life his foot.

[THE BLACK GAEL | BRANDON RAYNE]
“Your voice will no longer condemn me.”

And down his foot goes. No! The calvary finally come?

It’s a question because it’s only a lone security guard who stumbles through the curtain. Just one. Out of the dozen or so the general manager of Fusion had surround the ring minutes before. One. And the man looks like he’s already been through hell. His lip’s bloodied. His shirt’s torn. His eye’s already black and blue. The guard only makes it a few steps onto the stage before collapsing in a heap. Not long after that, a second guard emerges. They’re starting to trickle from backstage like, well, yeah. It’s just one guard, though. But at least this guy is in better shape. He charges right for Rayne, tackling him to the ground.

As they scuffle on the ground, Dashing crawls on one good leg onto the stage. He can’t stand, it’s an awful truth, but one he can work around. He just needs something to defend himself with. He reaches to where the first guard fell and tries to remove a baton from its holster. A little hard to do with his hands shaking so badly. He gets it unhooked, but Rayne is already on top of him, hands wrapped around Dashing’s neck.

[DASHING OFF COMMENTARY]
“HELP!”

It’s only a second later Dashing realizes he can scream again.

Which means he can breathe again.

Which means he is free again.

Which means--

Brett Angel has a cloth wrapped tightly around Rayne’s neck. Rayne fades quickly. He never saw this coming, and Angel isn’t holding back, the bigger man putting every ounce of his power into damn near beheading Rayne with this cloth. Angel does let go just before Rayne passes out. Angel now wraps the cloth around his fist, the crowd’s cheering growing louder and louder with every loop. Rayne is coughing, sputtering, ironically unable to speak in the condition his throat is in. Shame no one gives a fuck what he has to say. Rayne turns around right into a monstrous right hook that knocks him out before he hits the ground.

Angel walks over and places his boot onto Rayne’s throat. The sweetest karma is incoming. The crowd roaring Angel’s name is their stamp of approval. They want this. Need this, even. A happy ending to chase away the nightmares. Angel lifts his boot and brings it down.

No! He’s pulled away by the general manager of Fusion at the last moment.

[GENERAL MANAGER]
“Just who in the hell do you think you are?!”

Initially, it’s an absurd question.

He’s a hero. He saved the day.

Some fans pick up on it sooner than others.

Where did the blood on his shirt come from? Neither he nor Rayne are bleeding. Only the one guard is.

And how long has he been in the building? What are the odds that he happened to show up at the perfect time?

The questions are damning, and they’re starting to pile up. The boos trickle from the crowd like...you get it by now. Angel turns his head to face the GM without turning his body, something dark and unsettling in his eyes.

[BRETT ANGEL]
“Looks like you got room on the roster after all.”

Angel doesn’t stick around for a response. He grabs his scarf and walks off, the night’s blackness thickening around him.

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