Post by EmbodimentOfFear on Sept 22, 2018 7:30:32 GMT -5
* * * * *
The first person I encountered this night is the Grim Harvester, his head tilted to the side as he studies the live band.
“Have you ever heard someone so clearly untalented playing a drum so poorly?”
“I must confess that I have not.”
“This party is rather tepid for my tastes. Now the Romans, the Romans knew how to throw a party. If this was back in the good days of the Empire, such a poor performer would deservedly starve, or likely be sent to work the mines.”
Necron pauses a moment and surveys the rest of the band.
“Come to think of it, the other players aren't that great either. Better entertainment would be to throw them into a cage and force them to fight to the last man for the amusement of the party goers.”
“Perhaps they should use a cattle prod, or even a sledgehammer.”
The Harvester smirks.
“An inconvenience, to be sure, but I have survived and outlasted far worse in my time.”
“A word of caution from the mouth of experience. Morgan is deeply accustomed to having her way.”
“I’m sure she is. Pity we all can’t always get what we want.”
“Getting what we want is a matter of perception.”
“True. If you’ll excuse me, I wish to share my current perception with this maladroit fool.”
* * * * *
September 18
The position of “Captain” was always going to be an awkward one for Gabriel Baal. He is, after all, a follower first and foremost, one that embodies the sentiment the best path once one is beaten is to join his superior.
We come now upon the anniversary of the death kneel of his career, when he was confounded in the Outlast Tournament and respond by joining with those that had made a mockery of him. The once promising career of Gabriel Baal, the man who had proven himself one of the fastest rising stars and hottest talents in our history, took a sharp turn and waded into mediocrity.
A reality of this world is that most people are incapable of considering a perspective beyond their own. As such, they project their own choice-making upon others, assuming that they would react to circumstances in the same manner. Perhaps this is the flaw that drove Baal to draft Rogan MacLean and believe it was a good choice, after it was MacLean himself that dethroned Baal a year ago, and later it was Baal that played a hand in MacLean exiting UGWC himself.
It is a small wonder that Baal did not join the Cool Kids after Prison Break. They likely would have made for quite the harem.
* * * * *
The Queen of Red overlooks the gala from above, taking a gentle sip from her cocktail as I emerge from the shadows.
“Such a lovely gathering.”
“Merci.”
“Unfortunate what happened to the drummer.”
“It’s of no concern. There is a string ensemble ready to take over.”
“Fortune does favor the prepared. I would expect nothing less from the edge of God.”
She turns to face me and offers a coy smile.
“And what have you prepared, Incarnation de la Peur?”
“I took a pass through your kitchen and made a few improvements.”
“I look forward to experiencing the result. Now be a dear and share with me what’s actually on your mind.”
Her directness is appreciated. There is no need to waste time.
“For all the criticism that could be lobbed at our opponents, what is not in question is their unity. Baal and Morgan have rendered themselves nearly interchangable, and they would not have dug up MacLean if they did not feel they could control him.”
“And they’ll be joined by a masked demon that was exposed as summarily worthless a week ago, whereas we defeated the trio you just named. What possible concern could there be?”
“You.”
She flashes an innocent smile.
“Me?”
“I recognize the sense of pride you took in being the Chaos Champion. I have long felt a similar passion for the Cross-Hemisphere Title. Necron is the person that took it from you.”
“And Travis Pierce took it from him. It would seem to me that my quarrel now lies with him.”
“Nevertheless.”
“We all have our own goals, to pursue in our own way. Rest assured, dear Phrixus, I stand unwavered in pursuit of mine.”
“I should expect nothing less, chère Reine.”
* * * * *
September 20
It is no small feat to defend the World Heavyweight Championship at the Outlast tournament. I failed in my own attempt to do so years ago. It is easy to point at the advantage of the champion, competing in only a single match as opposed to two, facing a line-up of opponents that may already be spent, but this underestimates the challenge and having to mentally prepare for twenty-four different possible challengers, the identities of whom will be revealed mere minutes in advance, and all of whom have prepared specifically for you.
Alan Wallace is a person who has succeeded in this task. This alone is not enough to guarantee repeated success. Hastings learned this lesson the hard way when he lost in 2014, five years after successfully defending in the 2009 tournament. It is easy to say that Wallace is a person that knows how to do this. It is perhaps more accurate to say he is a person feeling a unique pressure of living up to himself to do something that nobody else ever has.
Wallace is about to learn that Outlast is not like the Blessed One Yahtzee Invitational. Some things are one and done.
* * * * *
I spot him at the hors d’oeuves table, eyeing each item on display as though it were resting in a bed of thorns. It pleases me to watch him suffer discomfort.
“I understand you are here to carry the bags.”
Somers glances at me with contempt.
“Why does everybody keep asking me that?”
“Apologies. It was not a question.”
He grunts with indignation, and for a moment we stand side-by-side.
“The pork tenderloin crostini is particularly delectable.”
“Are those crab cakes?”
“Indeed, with a pineapple-cucumber salsa.”
“That’s...interesting. And pigs in a blanket?”
“Chicks, actually. A dough-wrapped chicken-apple sausage. I recommend the experience.”
He reaches for one, only to hesitate and give me a side-eye.
“What is it you want, Fear?”
“You and I both know what lies ahead of us. We have danced this dance before, allied in this tournament before.”
“We have.”
“You walked out on me once.”
“I did.”
“Last year you allowed yourself to be eliminated as part of a convoluted plot to destabilize and take control of the main event.”
“You’re wondering if I can be trusted.”
“As would you, were the situation reversed.”
“That’s fair.”
He takes a deep breath before continuing.
“Outlast is a crapshoot. I dare you to refute that.”
“I would not.”
“Then you know as well as I do that trying to find a team dynamic here is a waste of time, trying to play chess with the main event is a waste of time. I’ve tried, obviously. We’re all trying to make that main event, and that means we’ll all fight tooth and claw to eliminate the other team...and then to eliminate each other.”
“Agreed.”
“Pretending anything else just puts us on the same level as Baal, Rogan, and Morgan.”
“Agreed.”
“Like you said, we’ve danced this dance before.”
“Speaking of which.”
I nod and direct his attention towards the string orchestra.
“I hear you are leading a dance number.”
* * * * *
September 23
The sight of Jet Somers leading a large group in performing Thriller can be summarized with only two words.
It happened.