What Lurks in the Darkness

by **krzy** Tue Jun 23, 2020 8:18 pm

Listen to them.

Thousands of voices drawn together in harmony, their boos delivered like a single, harrowing note.

Beautiful.

Their collective ire is palpable, drowning out anything Tailcoat Val may even want to say. She’s been standing in the ring patiently for at least five minutes--alone, arms behind her back, head slowly swiveling from left to right as though scanning each and every face, marking them for retribution in response to this extended display of disrespect.

“Christopher Proudfoot,” she finally says. The name of the pompous pious worshipper of his God only agitates the crowd further.

“Shay Hoxton.” Again, boos. Though after the show of respect between himself and Jason Spade, some cheers pierce the veil of negativity.

“Jason Spade.” The rush of euphoria from Spade’s historic victory at DefCon carries over into tonight, although the taste of his name is soured as it slips through Val’s lips.

“Thank you.” Little by little the crowd quiets down. The curious statement drawing them in despite their resistance.

“Xander Slate. Bob Luger. Thank you.” Through her plague doctor mask, Tailcoat Val’s eyes are piercing--again studying the faces in the crowd, deriving a sick kind of satisfaction for how her deliberate wording got them in the palm of her hands--no yelling, no bargaining with the angry mob, just pure manipulation.

“DefCon was bookended by the culmination of years of anger, jealousy and materialistic longing,” she says. “The greatest matches to celebrate the greatest rivalries, setting bars that may never be reached. When such a bright light is shone, even darker shadows are cast where all manner of foul things lurk. You’d be surprised at what one can get away with when no one is watching.”

A deliberate pause. “Who you can get away with.”

Well, that sets the crowd off like a jolt of electricity that awakens them from the trance they slipped into through listening to Val’s words. This time it’s not just boos; their melody has lyrics.

“WE WANT ANGEL!”

“SURACI!”

Val raises her left hand in the air.

“Very well.”

She snaps her fingers.

Through thick clouds of smoke that rise over the ringside area, silhouetted figures emerge. Security precautions have begun to be taken by CMV staff, and a wall akin to those seen during hockey games have been erected to protect audience members in the front row. The three wrestlers in the ring, however, are beyond saving.

Brett Angel. Suraci. Amaiyah Williams.

Val addresses them in the same order. “The past. The present. The future. Who they were no longer matters. They are tools. They are nothing. They. Are. Mine.”

The three stand before her with the same unsettling look in their eyes--dead men’s stares straight ahead into nothingness.

“My Arsenal was embarrassed by a cat and his human ally masquerading as a cat. Jared Leon sabotaged my alliance with the Justice Family with his shortsightedness. It became necessary to rebuild.” She glances at the three wrestlers completely in her thrall. “No matter the cost.”

She walks over to Angel and gently caresses his cheek.

“As the losses in and out of the ring piled up, you slowly lost your grasp on reality. But within you lies a resolve that’s nearly overwhelming to be in the presence of. That’s why you’ve been selected.”

Her voice turns cold.

“Kneel.”

It’s horrifying to watch as one of the most strong willed wrestlers on the roster does as he’s told.

“You are gifted with what you desperately longed for: peace.”

She removes a vial from her coat that houses a strange-looking liquid. Val pours the contents of the vial down Angel’s throat. He gags on the taste, but otherwise doesn’t react to it. A cloudy film covers his eyes before he collapses to the mat.

“You are One of the Forsaken.”

Walking past Suraci, Val stands in front of Amaiyah, running her fingers through the rookie’s thick, curly hair.

“It was brought to my attention that, contrary to what I believed, my ban from NGW carried over into Crossfire.” She shrugs. “I could have fought it. Instead, I chose to play the game.” As Ken Donahue sought to breathe new life into his women’s division, he sent his poor, easily influenced--or so I’ve heard--assistants to scout for talent. With preparations for Validation and the stress that comes with the battle for brand superiority, he didn’t think twice about why they were clamoring for these particular contracts to be signed as soon as possible. Now he knows. Now it’s too late. Now, go forth to Crossfire and bring with you a miasma of fear and chaos.

Suddenly, Amaiyah bursts to life. She cackles maniacally before jumping out of the ring and theatrically banging on the panels that separate her from the crowd. She half runs, half dances out of the arena. If there were a word to encapsulate the dual, contrasting feelings of terror and amusement that the audience is feeling watching her, it would find great use here.

Finally, Val walks to Suraci.

She retrieves a second vial and places her other hand over Suraci’s heart.

“A true, compassionate, selfless soul. A rare thing in this industry. Due to the cruelty of one man and the selfishness of another, you’re mine to do with as I see fit. I get to dig deep into the depths of your psyche and soul to learn what a man like you is made of.”

Her voice hardens.

“Kneel. You are Two of the Forsaken.”

Suraci obeys. Val pulls down Suraci’s mask then positions the vial over his opened mouth as the crowd watches in horror. Before a drop hits his tongue, Val’s eyes widen as she’s struck by an idea. She can’t stop herself--she laughs coldly as the thought grows and morphs and corrupts inside of her twisted brain.

“No.”

She covers the vial and tucks it back into her pocket.

“Not you. Not yet. The dying light in your eyes may still have use.”