Post by Deleted on Mar 8, 2015 12:03:17 GMT -6
In life, there are certain scenarios within which you never expect to find yourself. For Rob Riot, there had been many.
He never expected to come back to professional wrestling in the first place after ten years away.
Having done so, he never expected himself to be working as a’face’, as those who pretended they were in the know tended to call his current role.
Even having done that - both crawled out from under the rock he’d hidden beneath for the best part of a decade, and somehow managed to embrace the love of the paying public, he didn’t expect to find room in his shattered and blackened heart to love again, or even entertain the idea. And it seemed he was wrong about that, too. These long nights and empty days spent lamenting the futility of his incarceration within this God forsaken facility had given him endless room for introspection, and he’d become certain of his emotions. He loved Valora. And that was a dangerous admission to make. Not only to himself - because it made him emotionally vulnerable in a way which he’d long since dismissed, but for her, too. Because it turned her into a route to him. She was more than capable of handling herself; she’d been doing so for years, and many times over - Hell, she’d even kicked his ass a couple of times into the bargain. But she also had her own way of attracting trouble - that was how one became adept at dealing with it, after all. Adding the hordes of people who would stop at nothing to upset or damage Riot to those troubles could be overwhelming, even for her. And even if it wasn’t, she was unlikely to thank him for adding them to her plate. Nothing says “I love you” like becoming the subject of a thousand abuses that were really meant for your lover. And, even worse than that, the person most keenly aware of how he felt about Valora was also the person by far and away most likely to use that information against him; Hunter Valentyne, his neighbour and apparent temporary partner in crime. And Hunter really was the most unlikely scenario of them all.
How....how in the world....had he somehow become involved in a conspiracy with a murderous, Machiavellian lunatic who used sex as currency and abuse as comfort? How had he been drawn into this web in the first place; allowing himself to be lured in by Hunter’s mind games, leading them both to this imprisonment; and then having reached this point, become co-dependant with the man in terms of any prospect of escaping?
As ever, pondering on the subject of Hunter was uncomfortable for Rob, so he snapped himself away from his naval gazing and back into the here-and-now....and then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was clear once again from the noises coming from next door that Hunter and Alisa - the cleverly disguised Alisa - were heavily enganged in some rather enthusiastic copulation. And nobody should be subjected to hearing that, least of all someone with such a delicate mental balance as Riot himself. Speaking of cleverly disguised romantic interests, Valora had managed to get herself in to see him a couple of times now- although not recently. She’d tried to assist him as best she could, but that didn’t extend to the sort of visitor benefits that Hunter was getting. How come it was always Hunter who got to have the most fun? Why, in fact, was Hunter the only person having any fun at all since this entire thing started? It almost seemed like he was enjoying his time in the asylum - which made a degree of sense, given that the man was quite clearly insane.
Somewhere within Riot’s brain, part of his consciousness answered him - presumably the part which was still giving all of its efforts in the name of trying to keep him sane.
“You’re not married to Valora, Rob. And Valora isn’t a cheap manipulative whore like Alisa is. It shouldn’t surprise you that the sort of woman who is willing to play dead to attract your attention is also the sort of woman who gets turned on by the prospect of sex in an institution for the deranged. You’ve never had sex with Valora. Even if she is interested, I doubt she wants the first time to happen in here. Plus, you’re still thinking about Hunter. You’re supposed to have stopped”.
His hind-brain made a good point - several of them, in fact. Comparing his situation to Hunter’s was never going to yield any degree of comfort purely because the man operated on a different sphere to him - he was, Rob freely admitted to himself - a more impressive specimen than he’d first assumed. A more gifted wrestler and a sharper mind. But, at the same stroke, there was something Colonel Kurtz-esque in the way Hunter carried himself. He was crystal clear in his mind, but his soul had gone insane. He suspected Hunter was once a King amongst men, a God of his own world, master of all he surveyed, and that the isolation of his supremacy had corrupted the very core of his being. The real world no longer existed, just Hunter’s, where his own will was law and his every whim became a keystone of his reality. As time had gone on, he’d just detached and detached further, never seeing the world change around him. Never seeing the approach of others. Just dining and feasting on his own ego, forcing his own dreams to become reality, surrounding himself with people who perpetuated his own myth, yet at the same time, calling himself the myth-killer. No wonder he hated Riot so much. He’d been so busy being king of his own world that he’d never seen the conqueror approach and yank the carpet out from right underneath him. One day Hunter had opened his eyes and realised that the ‘normals’ he spoke of with such disdain were no longer worshipping at his altar. They’d found a new God to pay homage to, and his name was Riot. And that was probably the day that all those tiny fissures in his mind had become cracks.
What persuaded someone to stay close to a man like that, though? He clearly had his charm. Whatever their status was now, he’d persuaded Blair into his influence once. And now Alisa. Alisa didn’t give Riot the impression of being simple of mind or of deed, so what was the appeal to her? What sort of a woman would be willing to play dead in order to help her husband entrap somebody she’d never met? What sort of a woman could idly stand by and look the other way when presented with evidence that her man was a near-rapist, a near-murderer, and an enthusiastic perpetrator of sexual violence against women? Not that Chloe Logan, Riot’s wounded intern, was likely to be the first. Hunter struck with a practised hand. There was surely a long line of victims out there somewhere, either paid or beaten into silence. But Alisa knew. Alisa knew and did nothing. Did that turn her on, too? Did she enjoy watching those girls suffer beneath Hunter? Did she like to imagine her husband with other women? Did she make him come home and tell her of his exploits, pleasuring herself as he regaled her with tales of his sexual prowess? Or was she slowly filling with a silent, terrible rage that ate her up a little more each time? Because that was a beaten woman’s response, too. To silently tolerate for a long, long time...months, years, decades in some cases...dying on the inside and still painting her face on the outside, smiling and nodding and indulging, but no longer feeling. Until one day when the rage boils over and the unkindness of years of abuse erupts, usually in the form of extreme violence toward her captor, her jailor, her abuser.
So what was Alisa, really? Was she Hunter’s aider and abator, or was she his future killer? That was an interesting prospect. Rob wondered if it was possible to speak to her when she was alone. He wondered how easy it was to get into her head. Anything Hunter could do, he could surely do better, right?
“There is another explanation, you know”, came that whispering voice from the back of his mind again. “She could be obsessed with you. She could have willingly done all of this to help Hunter bring you closer, because she wants you in her life. She could be waiting to turn on him at any second. Or they could be in it together. They could both be in love with you, Rob. They could want you physically, mentally, sexually. Perhaps they want to devour you. Perhaps they’re the biggest Rob Riot fans in the world.”
And....SNAP. Right back into reality again. This fucking place....he needs, needs, NEEDS to get out. With no other human soul to speak to other than Hunter, and nothing to occupy his mind other than those pieces of paper and the unspeakable sounds coming from next door down, he truly was going mad. His own fears of conspiracies and latent egotism were blending and twisting inside his head, painting awful pictures for him - but that last one was the worst one so far. If he stayed here much longer that was going to become a regular occurence for him, and his mind really would snap. He’d want it to snap, in fact. It was better than being sane and enduring the images forever.
Seeking a diversion back into the world of thought, his panicking mind directed him towards Hunter’s gift to him - the small, ornate clock that he was absent-mindedly turning over and over in his hands. Tick, tick, tick....it really did look like the one from his past - the one he had tattoo’d on his flesh. How Hunter had located it was beyond him - he must have had some help from someone on the outside. Probably Alisa again. Now that really was a labour of love....which only gave credence to his last, appalling flight of imagination. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The ticking was out of sync with the ticking within his head. The constant, eternal ticking of the broken clock tattoo had a specific metric, echoing within the walls of his head, and now he was paying attention to it, the ticking of this new clock was interrupting it, breaking the pattern, making it impossible to focus. Something had to be done to stop it, this was intolerable.....
.....SMASH.....
Much better. Glancing down with a nod of satisfaction at the freshly-shattered face of the clock, he poked his finger through the glass shards and wound the hands on the clock around until they were set to 8.15. That was the time, after all. That was always the time.
Crossing the small floor space of his cell, he placed the clock on his windowsill and gazed at it for a moment, attempting to consider his situation without lapsing back into the kind of deep thought which seemed to serve only to torment him at present. He’d agreed to help Hunter. It was the only sensible thing to do, as it seemed to be the only means of getting out of here currently available to him. He’d get out on time, of course - presumably as soon as Jesse Styles felt like he’d earned his freedom. Styles was another man with no idea what was coming to him. Jesse had brought him into N.E.W on the pretence of it being the only way he’d be able to get his hands on Hunter. And no sooner had he signed him to a contract, he’d practically locked him up and kept him as a pet, freed every once in a while when Jesse had a job for him, but then kennelled again and expected to be grateful for the experience. Oh yes, Jesse would pay. Just as soon as Valentyne himself had been put down, Styles would be next. But before any of this, he had to get past Seth Iser.
On the topic of Seth himself, Hunter had been worse than useless. He’d told him nothing at all - instead just baiting him with the finer details of the escape plan in order to secure his agreement. And that was fair enough, it was a good plan, but it left him on his own when it came to Seth. So be it. As he’d speculated previously, there were only two reasons people wore masks - shame or insecurity - and whichever reason was the truth, it made Seth a lesser man than him. Rob knew who he was, knew what he stood for, and wasn’t afraid to allow the world to see him as such. That was, and always would be, a more powerful stance than a man who hides his face in order to hide his battles. Iser was a savage. He was no better than those animals n the Middle East, all of whom his their faces for the same reason. Riot was real, and reality always wins out over a nightmare, no matter how bad the nightmare may be at the time. Iser gave him nothing to fear other than pain, and he’d already seen enough of that to know not to fear it. He could endure pain in order to deliver a message. And the message he needed to send was important. “Cage me if you will, deny my rights if you will, forget me if you’d like to. I’m still here. And I’m getting stronger, not weaker”. That would be the mark he’d leave on Ignite this weekend. That would be the statement imprinted into the wind of all of those who stood to bear witness. And they would do well to remember it, because after this came Justice. And with Justice came Hunter.
Between now and then, though, came the uneasy alliance. The terms of the contest he’d just agreed to. When he and Hunter were out of here, Jesse lost control over them. The forces that intended constrain them would come looking and seek to cast them in irons once more, and Hunter was right - they couldn’t allow it. Whichever henchmen and footsoldiers Jesse deployed, they would have to be turned away. Nothing and nobody could be allowed to interfere with their date with destiny, and more to the point, nobody could be allowed to believe they could imprison him and get away with it, let alone do it twice. So between now and then, he would watch Hunter’s back, and Hunter would watch is. And if anybody came at Hunter, he would attack that person with all the fury and vengeance that he would muster if someone was attacking himself, or Valora, or his own son. He would repel them with his rage and his violence, and he would honour his word right up until the second the bell rung to signal the start of their contest at Justice, where the alliance would come to an end, and the man he protected would become the man he destroyed. Where else in nature would you find an arrangement like that?
Turkeys, that’s where. Raised in comfort, fattened on the best the land has to offer. Nurtured and fattened and, in a manner of speaking, loved. From Spring to Fall, a turkey lives the life of Riley. And then one day, the same hands that raised it come to wring its neck. It was raised only to be struck down, fattened only to become feed in its own right. It was protected from the fox only because a larger hunter had an end purpose for it. And that, right now, was the role he had to play for Hunter Valentyne.
Amusing himself with this thought, he banged hard on the wall, loudly enough to be heard above the rabid fucking that was clearly going on in there.
RIOT:
Hey, Hunter, can I ask you a question?
HUNTER: [sounding more than a little out of breath]
Can’t you tell I’m kinda fucking busy right now, Rob?
RIOT:
You got any plans for Thanksgiving?
HUNTER:
What? Why the fuck would you ask me that? What has that got to do with you?
RIOT:
Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Do carry on, old chap....
In the next room, with Alisa’s ankles either side of his ears, Hunter shook his red, sweaty head and muttered under his breath.
HUNTER:
And that mother fucker says I’m crazy. Damn Brits. Every single one is more fucked up than the last.
....and swiftly he got back involved with what he was doing before he was interrupted.
On the other side of the wall Riot slowly laid down on his bed, doing something he hadn’t done for a long time. First it was a quiet rumble, and then it was a howl, echoing off the walls and down the corridor, bouncing off every surface as he rocked with the force of it in his bed.
The Riot Star was laughing.
He never expected to come back to professional wrestling in the first place after ten years away.
Having done so, he never expected himself to be working as a’face’, as those who pretended they were in the know tended to call his current role.
Even having done that - both crawled out from under the rock he’d hidden beneath for the best part of a decade, and somehow managed to embrace the love of the paying public, he didn’t expect to find room in his shattered and blackened heart to love again, or even entertain the idea. And it seemed he was wrong about that, too. These long nights and empty days spent lamenting the futility of his incarceration within this God forsaken facility had given him endless room for introspection, and he’d become certain of his emotions. He loved Valora. And that was a dangerous admission to make. Not only to himself - because it made him emotionally vulnerable in a way which he’d long since dismissed, but for her, too. Because it turned her into a route to him. She was more than capable of handling herself; she’d been doing so for years, and many times over - Hell, she’d even kicked his ass a couple of times into the bargain. But she also had her own way of attracting trouble - that was how one became adept at dealing with it, after all. Adding the hordes of people who would stop at nothing to upset or damage Riot to those troubles could be overwhelming, even for her. And even if it wasn’t, she was unlikely to thank him for adding them to her plate. Nothing says “I love you” like becoming the subject of a thousand abuses that were really meant for your lover. And, even worse than that, the person most keenly aware of how he felt about Valora was also the person by far and away most likely to use that information against him; Hunter Valentyne, his neighbour and apparent temporary partner in crime. And Hunter really was the most unlikely scenario of them all.
How....how in the world....had he somehow become involved in a conspiracy with a murderous, Machiavellian lunatic who used sex as currency and abuse as comfort? How had he been drawn into this web in the first place; allowing himself to be lured in by Hunter’s mind games, leading them both to this imprisonment; and then having reached this point, become co-dependant with the man in terms of any prospect of escaping?
As ever, pondering on the subject of Hunter was uncomfortable for Rob, so he snapped himself away from his naval gazing and back into the here-and-now....and then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was clear once again from the noises coming from next door that Hunter and Alisa - the cleverly disguised Alisa - were heavily enganged in some rather enthusiastic copulation. And nobody should be subjected to hearing that, least of all someone with such a delicate mental balance as Riot himself. Speaking of cleverly disguised romantic interests, Valora had managed to get herself in to see him a couple of times now- although not recently. She’d tried to assist him as best she could, but that didn’t extend to the sort of visitor benefits that Hunter was getting. How come it was always Hunter who got to have the most fun? Why, in fact, was Hunter the only person having any fun at all since this entire thing started? It almost seemed like he was enjoying his time in the asylum - which made a degree of sense, given that the man was quite clearly insane.
Somewhere within Riot’s brain, part of his consciousness answered him - presumably the part which was still giving all of its efforts in the name of trying to keep him sane.
“You’re not married to Valora, Rob. And Valora isn’t a cheap manipulative whore like Alisa is. It shouldn’t surprise you that the sort of woman who is willing to play dead to attract your attention is also the sort of woman who gets turned on by the prospect of sex in an institution for the deranged. You’ve never had sex with Valora. Even if she is interested, I doubt she wants the first time to happen in here. Plus, you’re still thinking about Hunter. You’re supposed to have stopped”.
His hind-brain made a good point - several of them, in fact. Comparing his situation to Hunter’s was never going to yield any degree of comfort purely because the man operated on a different sphere to him - he was, Rob freely admitted to himself - a more impressive specimen than he’d first assumed. A more gifted wrestler and a sharper mind. But, at the same stroke, there was something Colonel Kurtz-esque in the way Hunter carried himself. He was crystal clear in his mind, but his soul had gone insane. He suspected Hunter was once a King amongst men, a God of his own world, master of all he surveyed, and that the isolation of his supremacy had corrupted the very core of his being. The real world no longer existed, just Hunter’s, where his own will was law and his every whim became a keystone of his reality. As time had gone on, he’d just detached and detached further, never seeing the world change around him. Never seeing the approach of others. Just dining and feasting on his own ego, forcing his own dreams to become reality, surrounding himself with people who perpetuated his own myth, yet at the same time, calling himself the myth-killer. No wonder he hated Riot so much. He’d been so busy being king of his own world that he’d never seen the conqueror approach and yank the carpet out from right underneath him. One day Hunter had opened his eyes and realised that the ‘normals’ he spoke of with such disdain were no longer worshipping at his altar. They’d found a new God to pay homage to, and his name was Riot. And that was probably the day that all those tiny fissures in his mind had become cracks.
What persuaded someone to stay close to a man like that, though? He clearly had his charm. Whatever their status was now, he’d persuaded Blair into his influence once. And now Alisa. Alisa didn’t give Riot the impression of being simple of mind or of deed, so what was the appeal to her? What sort of a woman would be willing to play dead in order to help her husband entrap somebody she’d never met? What sort of a woman could idly stand by and look the other way when presented with evidence that her man was a near-rapist, a near-murderer, and an enthusiastic perpetrator of sexual violence against women? Not that Chloe Logan, Riot’s wounded intern, was likely to be the first. Hunter struck with a practised hand. There was surely a long line of victims out there somewhere, either paid or beaten into silence. But Alisa knew. Alisa knew and did nothing. Did that turn her on, too? Did she enjoy watching those girls suffer beneath Hunter? Did she like to imagine her husband with other women? Did she make him come home and tell her of his exploits, pleasuring herself as he regaled her with tales of his sexual prowess? Or was she slowly filling with a silent, terrible rage that ate her up a little more each time? Because that was a beaten woman’s response, too. To silently tolerate for a long, long time...months, years, decades in some cases...dying on the inside and still painting her face on the outside, smiling and nodding and indulging, but no longer feeling. Until one day when the rage boils over and the unkindness of years of abuse erupts, usually in the form of extreme violence toward her captor, her jailor, her abuser.
So what was Alisa, really? Was she Hunter’s aider and abator, or was she his future killer? That was an interesting prospect. Rob wondered if it was possible to speak to her when she was alone. He wondered how easy it was to get into her head. Anything Hunter could do, he could surely do better, right?
“There is another explanation, you know”, came that whispering voice from the back of his mind again. “She could be obsessed with you. She could have willingly done all of this to help Hunter bring you closer, because she wants you in her life. She could be waiting to turn on him at any second. Or they could be in it together. They could both be in love with you, Rob. They could want you physically, mentally, sexually. Perhaps they want to devour you. Perhaps they’re the biggest Rob Riot fans in the world.”
And....SNAP. Right back into reality again. This fucking place....he needs, needs, NEEDS to get out. With no other human soul to speak to other than Hunter, and nothing to occupy his mind other than those pieces of paper and the unspeakable sounds coming from next door down, he truly was going mad. His own fears of conspiracies and latent egotism were blending and twisting inside his head, painting awful pictures for him - but that last one was the worst one so far. If he stayed here much longer that was going to become a regular occurence for him, and his mind really would snap. He’d want it to snap, in fact. It was better than being sane and enduring the images forever.
Seeking a diversion back into the world of thought, his panicking mind directed him towards Hunter’s gift to him - the small, ornate clock that he was absent-mindedly turning over and over in his hands. Tick, tick, tick....it really did look like the one from his past - the one he had tattoo’d on his flesh. How Hunter had located it was beyond him - he must have had some help from someone on the outside. Probably Alisa again. Now that really was a labour of love....which only gave credence to his last, appalling flight of imagination. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The ticking was out of sync with the ticking within his head. The constant, eternal ticking of the broken clock tattoo had a specific metric, echoing within the walls of his head, and now he was paying attention to it, the ticking of this new clock was interrupting it, breaking the pattern, making it impossible to focus. Something had to be done to stop it, this was intolerable.....
.....SMASH.....
Much better. Glancing down with a nod of satisfaction at the freshly-shattered face of the clock, he poked his finger through the glass shards and wound the hands on the clock around until they were set to 8.15. That was the time, after all. That was always the time.
Crossing the small floor space of his cell, he placed the clock on his windowsill and gazed at it for a moment, attempting to consider his situation without lapsing back into the kind of deep thought which seemed to serve only to torment him at present. He’d agreed to help Hunter. It was the only sensible thing to do, as it seemed to be the only means of getting out of here currently available to him. He’d get out on time, of course - presumably as soon as Jesse Styles felt like he’d earned his freedom. Styles was another man with no idea what was coming to him. Jesse had brought him into N.E.W on the pretence of it being the only way he’d be able to get his hands on Hunter. And no sooner had he signed him to a contract, he’d practically locked him up and kept him as a pet, freed every once in a while when Jesse had a job for him, but then kennelled again and expected to be grateful for the experience. Oh yes, Jesse would pay. Just as soon as Valentyne himself had been put down, Styles would be next. But before any of this, he had to get past Seth Iser.
On the topic of Seth himself, Hunter had been worse than useless. He’d told him nothing at all - instead just baiting him with the finer details of the escape plan in order to secure his agreement. And that was fair enough, it was a good plan, but it left him on his own when it came to Seth. So be it. As he’d speculated previously, there were only two reasons people wore masks - shame or insecurity - and whichever reason was the truth, it made Seth a lesser man than him. Rob knew who he was, knew what he stood for, and wasn’t afraid to allow the world to see him as such. That was, and always would be, a more powerful stance than a man who hides his face in order to hide his battles. Iser was a savage. He was no better than those animals n the Middle East, all of whom his their faces for the same reason. Riot was real, and reality always wins out over a nightmare, no matter how bad the nightmare may be at the time. Iser gave him nothing to fear other than pain, and he’d already seen enough of that to know not to fear it. He could endure pain in order to deliver a message. And the message he needed to send was important. “Cage me if you will, deny my rights if you will, forget me if you’d like to. I’m still here. And I’m getting stronger, not weaker”. That would be the mark he’d leave on Ignite this weekend. That would be the statement imprinted into the wind of all of those who stood to bear witness. And they would do well to remember it, because after this came Justice. And with Justice came Hunter.
Between now and then, though, came the uneasy alliance. The terms of the contest he’d just agreed to. When he and Hunter were out of here, Jesse lost control over them. The forces that intended constrain them would come looking and seek to cast them in irons once more, and Hunter was right - they couldn’t allow it. Whichever henchmen and footsoldiers Jesse deployed, they would have to be turned away. Nothing and nobody could be allowed to interfere with their date with destiny, and more to the point, nobody could be allowed to believe they could imprison him and get away with it, let alone do it twice. So between now and then, he would watch Hunter’s back, and Hunter would watch is. And if anybody came at Hunter, he would attack that person with all the fury and vengeance that he would muster if someone was attacking himself, or Valora, or his own son. He would repel them with his rage and his violence, and he would honour his word right up until the second the bell rung to signal the start of their contest at Justice, where the alliance would come to an end, and the man he protected would become the man he destroyed. Where else in nature would you find an arrangement like that?
Turkeys, that’s where. Raised in comfort, fattened on the best the land has to offer. Nurtured and fattened and, in a manner of speaking, loved. From Spring to Fall, a turkey lives the life of Riley. And then one day, the same hands that raised it come to wring its neck. It was raised only to be struck down, fattened only to become feed in its own right. It was protected from the fox only because a larger hunter had an end purpose for it. And that, right now, was the role he had to play for Hunter Valentyne.
Amusing himself with this thought, he banged hard on the wall, loudly enough to be heard above the rabid fucking that was clearly going on in there.
RIOT:
Hey, Hunter, can I ask you a question?
HUNTER: [sounding more than a little out of breath]
Can’t you tell I’m kinda fucking busy right now, Rob?
RIOT:
You got any plans for Thanksgiving?
HUNTER:
What? Why the fuck would you ask me that? What has that got to do with you?
RIOT:
Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Do carry on, old chap....
In the next room, with Alisa’s ankles either side of his ears, Hunter shook his red, sweaty head and muttered under his breath.
HUNTER:
And that mother fucker says I’m crazy. Damn Brits. Every single one is more fucked up than the last.
....and swiftly he got back involved with what he was doing before he was interrupted.
On the other side of the wall Riot slowly laid down on his bed, doing something he hadn’t done for a long time. First it was a quiet rumble, and then it was a howl, echoing off the walls and down the corridor, bouncing off every surface as he rocked with the force of it in his bed.
The Riot Star was laughing.