Post by Kyle on Jan 21, 2018 18:49:45 GMT
Abrupt scene opening. Madison Square Garden was empty save a single soul.
Sebastian Knight sat in the center of the ring in the same steel chair he had used earlier that night. His herald, so to speak, proclaiming his position that three other men coveted. One worn the crown. Two sought it. Yet only he had stood tall this night. As it should be.
“The problem with being a king, Legato, is that your back is always against the wall. You put your throne high atop a pedestal on the farthest end of the court in a display of superiority. An air that is surface level, of course. Glimpse the situation through the lens of reality and you find a man with no where else to run but forward when the enemy comes knocking. Either you explode out of that chair, live or die fighting, or the royal brains on which the crown sits will be splattered against the back of your plush seat. In a way, you were fortunate, then. When Masatarou drove his knee between your eyes, you did fall backwards into empty air.”
Sebastian smiles.
“Because you are no king. Just a pawn in a larger fight.”
He casts his arms out to the empty expanse surrounding him.
“Black or white, no one cares. You’ve been molded with a singular purpose—move always forward, swinging elbows and knees wildly on the off-chance that some draws too close to your left or right—driven by the hope that you could overcome the obstacles and reach the other side. A hope that you could wield the same power that the best had simply possessed from the beginning. You consider yourself autonomous in this desire; you’ve convinced yourself that control is inherent to the individual. You convinced yourself that the whispered commands in the back of your mind are yours.
Ignorant until you find yourself sacrificed by Gods.
You probably believe your ascent to the Main Event of this company was an achievement worth celebrating in your dark and brooding way, but you fail to realize a simple truth: every temple devoted to the divine, every statue depicting the kings and generals, needs its marble foundation. And so your two forays to the limelight here in New Blood, Legato, have been nothing but an opportunity for men like Masatarou and myself to chip away at your stony stoic visage for the sake of our monuments we intend to erect. You think yourself to be the next face in a mountain.
You’re just the fucking chunks that get carted away from the site day after day.”
Sebastian Knight points to the ring beneath his feet.
“An afterthought. The only reason you were allowed to share this ring with me when I declared to Masatarou, Cassidy Kaine, and the entire world that I ruled in this company was because you hadn’t recovered enough for your beating to roll out the ring. But eventually you did; they all did. The fallen warriors departed, clutching wounds and lifting praises that I had spared them another day. Then the crowds departed, wondering why I still remained, watching them all leave. Only a few staff members remain waiting for my leave so that they can break down this very ring.
Last to leave, first to rise.
And rise I have done. Vincent Pryde looked an empty drawing board and had to decide who would sit at the top. It wasn’t fair to select a single person to start; we’re fighters and thus we deserved to fight for our place. Three men were selected. Alex Richards, the first ever UCI World Champion, earned it by prestige, K.L. Henson, executive producer for SyFy, by position. But me? Hadn’t been single in a wrestling ring in over six months save for a single match in UCI before it closed? I was certainly a shot in the dark, but can you say bulls-eye?”
He chuckled.
“Of course you can, Legato; you’ve still got one plastered across your forehead. Its already been hit once, of course, but there’s still enough left for a second shot. I, for one, do not shy away from bloodying a man virgin no longer in regards to perfection.
I cannot guarantee, however, that they’ll be enough of him left to get back up the next day.
Your nights of finding yourself on your back will soon catch up to you, Legato. Maybe your body will hold itself together, patched again and again by regretful hands. Maybe your mind will remain, escaping for another night its inevitable fracture under the weight of mediocrity. But your time here, in this ring, in any scenario where the World Championship is within your reach again? That will be gone, my friend, snatched away by the hands of men more deserving. And you cannot even muster any further protest because you tried . . .”
As abruptly as it opened, the scene closes to darkness. But a voice lingers for a moment.
“. . .and failed.”
Silence overwhelms the senses.
Sebastian Knight sat in a different chair in a different part of New York. His penthouse apartment in Manhattan overlooked Central Park which found itself blanketed by several inches of snow. From his height, it all looked serene, untainted by the dozens of feet crossing to and fro below, men, women, and children unperturbed by the chill of the January air. Their joy was inaudible but easily imagined. Sebastian sat, sipping at a glass of bourbon, doing just that. He liked how the window reflected, casting his image translucently across the scene like he was God himself
A hand suddenly appeared on his right shoulder. A red hand.
“We were like them too, once. Children.” A soft, dangerous voice said. “What happened to us?”
Sebastian Knight blinked in shock and turned to find himself alone. Only his shadow stretched behind him, mirroring his every move.
He turned back the window and took another sip. A long, long sip.
The scene fades once more.
Sebastian Knight sat in the center of the ring in the same steel chair he had used earlier that night. His herald, so to speak, proclaiming his position that three other men coveted. One worn the crown. Two sought it. Yet only he had stood tall this night. As it should be.
“The problem with being a king, Legato, is that your back is always against the wall. You put your throne high atop a pedestal on the farthest end of the court in a display of superiority. An air that is surface level, of course. Glimpse the situation through the lens of reality and you find a man with no where else to run but forward when the enemy comes knocking. Either you explode out of that chair, live or die fighting, or the royal brains on which the crown sits will be splattered against the back of your plush seat. In a way, you were fortunate, then. When Masatarou drove his knee between your eyes, you did fall backwards into empty air.”
Sebastian smiles.
“Because you are no king. Just a pawn in a larger fight.”
He casts his arms out to the empty expanse surrounding him.
“Black or white, no one cares. You’ve been molded with a singular purpose—move always forward, swinging elbows and knees wildly on the off-chance that some draws too close to your left or right—driven by the hope that you could overcome the obstacles and reach the other side. A hope that you could wield the same power that the best had simply possessed from the beginning. You consider yourself autonomous in this desire; you’ve convinced yourself that control is inherent to the individual. You convinced yourself that the whispered commands in the back of your mind are yours.
Ignorant until you find yourself sacrificed by Gods.
You probably believe your ascent to the Main Event of this company was an achievement worth celebrating in your dark and brooding way, but you fail to realize a simple truth: every temple devoted to the divine, every statue depicting the kings and generals, needs its marble foundation. And so your two forays to the limelight here in New Blood, Legato, have been nothing but an opportunity for men like Masatarou and myself to chip away at your stony stoic visage for the sake of our monuments we intend to erect. You think yourself to be the next face in a mountain.
You’re just the fucking chunks that get carted away from the site day after day.”
Sebastian Knight points to the ring beneath his feet.
“An afterthought. The only reason you were allowed to share this ring with me when I declared to Masatarou, Cassidy Kaine, and the entire world that I ruled in this company was because you hadn’t recovered enough for your beating to roll out the ring. But eventually you did; they all did. The fallen warriors departed, clutching wounds and lifting praises that I had spared them another day. Then the crowds departed, wondering why I still remained, watching them all leave. Only a few staff members remain waiting for my leave so that they can break down this very ring.
Last to leave, first to rise.
And rise I have done. Vincent Pryde looked an empty drawing board and had to decide who would sit at the top. It wasn’t fair to select a single person to start; we’re fighters and thus we deserved to fight for our place. Three men were selected. Alex Richards, the first ever UCI World Champion, earned it by prestige, K.L. Henson, executive producer for SyFy, by position. But me? Hadn’t been single in a wrestling ring in over six months save for a single match in UCI before it closed? I was certainly a shot in the dark, but can you say bulls-eye?”
He chuckled.
“Of course you can, Legato; you’ve still got one plastered across your forehead. Its already been hit once, of course, but there’s still enough left for a second shot. I, for one, do not shy away from bloodying a man virgin no longer in regards to perfection.
I cannot guarantee, however, that they’ll be enough of him left to get back up the next day.
Your nights of finding yourself on your back will soon catch up to you, Legato. Maybe your body will hold itself together, patched again and again by regretful hands. Maybe your mind will remain, escaping for another night its inevitable fracture under the weight of mediocrity. But your time here, in this ring, in any scenario where the World Championship is within your reach again? That will be gone, my friend, snatched away by the hands of men more deserving. And you cannot even muster any further protest because you tried . . .”
As abruptly as it opened, the scene closes to darkness. But a voice lingers for a moment.
“. . .and failed.”
Silence overwhelms the senses.
Sebastian Knight sat in a different chair in a different part of New York. His penthouse apartment in Manhattan overlooked Central Park which found itself blanketed by several inches of snow. From his height, it all looked serene, untainted by the dozens of feet crossing to and fro below, men, women, and children unperturbed by the chill of the January air. Their joy was inaudible but easily imagined. Sebastian sat, sipping at a glass of bourbon, doing just that. He liked how the window reflected, casting his image translucently across the scene like he was God himself
A hand suddenly appeared on his right shoulder. A red hand.
“We were like them too, once. Children.” A soft, dangerous voice said. “What happened to us?”
Sebastian Knight blinked in shock and turned to find himself alone. Only his shadow stretched behind him, mirroring his every move.
He turned back the window and took another sip. A long, long sip.
The scene fades once more.