Post by Deleted on Mar 21, 2015 11:08:17 GMT -6
Three hours, five minutes and fifty seven seconds. That’s how long Rob had been sat there, in that damp, unfurnished cell, since Ryan Elias had left him there. And he knew that with some precision, because with literally nothing else there to distract him, he’d been counting the seconds one at a time, using that infernal ticking clock in his mind - the one that never stopped.
For around twenty percent of that time, he’d been twisting and manoeuvring his hands and wrists, trying to free himself of the handcuffs that bound him to the cold, uncomfortable metal chair - a chair which was, in turn, bolted to the floor. Unsurprisingly, the handcuffs wouldn’t give. Pushing his thumbs back almost to the point of dislocation still didn’t buy him enough space to slip through them, and the chains had been built with people like him in mind. He didn’t really expect any other outcome - lightweight cuffs in an institution for the criminally insane would be asking for trouble - but it had been a way to pass the time.
For another thirty percent of that time, he’d been trying to ignore the visions that floated in front of his eyes. The last thing Elias had done before he’d started talking was to bind some kind of linen cloth over his head - thin enough to allow air in but thick enough to deny light the same privilege. This left Rob in a world of sensory deprivation, where shadows danced in the vicinity of him outside the cloth without ever taking a definite shape, and in the absence of any visual stimulation, his mind had started to provide the pictures. He’d seen many things in that time.
He’d seen the broken clock, imagining the hands impossibly moving once more as the seconds ticked away.
He’d seen Valora, as if the mental picture of her had danced forth to bring him comfort - but only fleetingly, as it was quickly pushed aside by the horrors of old.
He saw his ex lover, the mother of his child, looking at him with disappointment in her eyes and slowly turning her back and walking away.
He’d seen his son - Sammy - as he’d last seen him thirteen years ago. Two years old with tear tracks winding down his cheeks. Looking at him with accusing eyes, full of hurt and abandonment. A look that sought comfort but also explanation and received neither. And Sammy, too, was being dragged back into the shadows of the vision by something unseen. Riot had cried out inside his mind, begging him to stay, but unable to reach out because of these damn restraints. Sammy faded and died inside the image and left him alone; and he almost convinced himself that as he faded he could hear him cry out to him. His son. A voice he hadn’t heard for over a decade. But there was something else at the edge of his hearing, too.
Laughter.
Laughter from the one source he always knew would come to mock him at his lowest. And there was the man himself, come to taunt him in his imagination just as much as he did in his waking hours. Hunter Valentyne. His tormentor and jailmate. Only in this vision, Hunter was every bit as free as Rob was incarcerated. Valentyne laughted, pointed and spat at Rob, wheeling around his chair again and again as he did so. Whispering the vilest, cruellest things into his ears. Things about Sammy. Things about Valora. Things about Chloe Logan - the girl he’d come to the aid of only to see his good deed turned into a weapon by this man he’d seemingly underestimated so critically. And Rob sat there, unable to react, unable to respond. Rob and Hunter in the dark.
And yet that still only accounted for a mere fifty percent of his time in there. Because for the rest of it, he was asking one question, and one question only.
How in the fuck had Ryan Elias got into this facility, and what was his business in doing so?
Elias wasn’t a new name on him; he’d crossed paths with him once before in a promotion long since dead. But Elias had come there for a holiday. Competed in one match and beat Rob. Again, much like with Hunter, Rob hadn’t done his research properly and hadn’t come to understand that Ryan was a threat, a capable wrestler and a smarter guy than your average. And on the night, he’d been the better man. No sooner did Rob come looking for a rematch, though, than Ryan skipped out on his contract. It had seemed at the time - and, from Rob’s point of view, ever since - that Ryan was smart enough to pick up on the obvious. With the element of surprise on his side, Elias could do whatever he wanted. On a level playing field, he wasn’t even in the same world as Rob Riot, and he knew it. So he’d tucked his tail and run away with his 1-0 record still in tact. When he found out that he’d been booked against him in New Edge, all these years later, Rob wouldn’t have been surprised to turn up on the night to find out that Ryan had requested and received an early release from his contract. Better to be remembered as a cowardly winner than a known loser.
But to do this? This facility wasn’t a fucking zoo. Alisa had pulled strings to gain access in here to Hunter, and Valora had to fabricate a whole new identity to get to Rob, so how the Hell had Ryan Elias managed to get through security making no attempt - that Riot could see, at any rate - to hide who he was? Who was working security here? Was this Hunter at work again?
His musings were interrupted by the opening of the door at the end of the cell again, and the sound of footsteps walking towards him. Riot instinctively tensed, preparing for another assault of some kind, whether verbal or physical. And for the second time in those same few hours, he found himself wincing as the light hit his eyes - the cloth having been removed from his head. Riot immediately and instinctively spat on the floor, trying to remove the taste of stale linen from his mouth. He coughed, hard, twice, as clean air struck the back of his throat and reminded him what he’d been missing out on. Slowly; almost begrudgingly; the figure in front of him came into focus.
It wasn’t Ryan Elias. Nor was it Hunter. But something about the demeanour of the man did seem familiar. He’d have loved to say for certain, but it was impossible because of the hooded top the man wore, which was pulled up tight and down, shielding his facial features in shadow. And yet Riot had seen him before...
RIOT:
You were at the door. You let Ryan Elias in here in you. Who the fuck are you?
HOODED MAN:
I’m nobody. I work here. That’s all.
RIOT:
Bullshit. If you just work here, I’d start looking for another job. How do you think your boss is going to take it when he finds out you’ve been mistreating patients? And not just any patient, a patient under the personal care of the FBI....
HOODED MAN:
...under the care of agent Veronica Navarro? She doesn’t exist. You know that as well as I do. The senior staff here, however, don’t know that yet. And they don’t have to know, if you behave yourself. But your little trips outside of this facility are a thing of the past. Get that through your skull.
There was something very familiar about this man’s voice. If he could see even the slightest outline of his face, Rob was sure he’d put two and two together - but he couldn’t. Too much time spent in here was occluding his ability to think straight. He knew who this was. He was sure of it. So why couldn’t he name him?
RIOT:
So you’re a crook, at the very least. Who told you to let Ryan in here. Hunter? Are you part of the whole Hunter and Alisa circus? Is there anybody working here who isn’t completely corrupt? And what do you mean ‘behave myself’, I haven’t misbehaved in any way, shape or form since....oh.
Riot’s eyes had completely adjusted to the light now, and he realised the two of them weren’t alone. Lumbering near the doorway, wearing regulation institute-issue pyjamas, was a very large man, who was glaring daggers at him. A man with a shaved head and a long, thick, black beard. He seemed to twitch, both facially and throughout the sinews of his muscle, and he was cracking his knuckles as he stood, as if it was his way of passing the time. Rob smiled grimly to himself, and nodded his head.
RIOT:
“Behave myself”. Compete in your little fight club racket and don’t rat you out. I understand. You know what would make me more likely to co-operate with this? Give me Hunter. Give me Hunter and I’ll fight him every night for the rest of my stay in here. You won’t have to drug me or chain me to get my assistance with that. I’ll do to it willingly.
The hooded man snorted before he responded.
HOODED MAN:
That’s not going to happen. And if you’re as smart as you say you are, you’ll already know why. You’ll fight who you’re given to fight. Co-operate, and you’ll be rewarded. Don’t....and you’ll be seeing a lot more of this room.
RIOT:
Someone doesn’t want me and Hunter injuring each other whilst we’re in here. Interesting. Only two people I can think of would want me to be kept away from Hunter. One of them is Hunter himself - and based on what I’m learning about him, whatever the fuck he might be, he isn’t a coward. So that leaves one more. Jesse Styles. Am I getting warm?
HOODED MAN:
You’re asking too many questions. I’m your captor, not your friend. Remember that. If you ever want to get out of here, you’ll do everything that’s asked of you, and you won’t ask the reason why. Now, that man at the door? He was in regular jail already before he got here. For murder. He likes to strangle people. Animals too, as it happens. In fact he likes to strangle anything he can get his hands on. One day they made the mistake of taking the chains off and letting him do some recreation work in the yard. Within two hours three of the wardens were dead along with nearly half the prisoners. The other half were following him as if he were a God. They had to call the army in before shit got settled back down. So he might not be Hunter, but I wouldn’t take him lightly. After all...
The hooded man leans in closer to Riot, and whispers in his ear.
HOODED MAN:
....if you ask him, he’ll tell you he’s a direct descendant of Genghis Khan. He’s fucking crazy. But that’s why we’re all in here, right?
The hooded man slowly releases Riot from his handcuffs, chuckling to himself as he does so, and allows Riot time to stand and stretch his legs. Rob didn’t take his eyes off his opponent the whole time.
HOODED MAN:
Now....FIGHT!
WHOOSH. Riot barely had time to get the feeling back into his feet before he was bouncing off them, ducking under a wild haymaker that may well have snapped his head clean off his shoulders had it connected. He picked his head up, and immediately ducked back down as another one came back in the opposite direction. Bobbing and weaving like a boxer, Riot gradually manouvered himself around to the left, lining himself up with the chair he’d only moments ago freed himself from.
The would-be Genghis Khan threw another scything right, and Riot threw himself to the side of this hulking assailant, planting his left foot in front, and with his right foot kicking the man in the back of the knee - a drop toehold, sending the monster face first into the metal chair with a horrifying crunch.
Quick as a flash, Riot was back onto his feet, throwing lefts and rights into the side of the guys head before wrenching his head back and driving him face first into the seat of the chair....five times, six, seven, eight....until he became aware that the resistance he was meeting was coming from the hooded man, not from his opponent- as he tried to force a break.
HOODED MAN:
Stop! That’s enough! That’s enough! This is a fight club setup, not a fucking snuff film! Jesus Christ!
Riot backed away, checking his knuckles to see if he’d drawn blood. There was an adrenaline coursing through him that he felt almost ashamed to acknowledge - a pleasure in what he’d done. He tried as best as he could to ignore it as the hooded man checked on the felled colossus, who was showing no signs of movement.
The hooded man checked his vital signs and, seemingly, calmed a little. He looked from Riot to his victim and back again, and when he spoke again there was a trace of admiration in his voice.
HOODED MAN:
He’s alive - but he’s unconscious. That was barely thirty seconds. How the fuck do you do that?
RIOT:
A common brute will scare your average man in the street. To a trained fighter, he’s nothing. And I’m the best in the world. If the guy who runs this show doesn’t want to be answering questions about dead patients, he’d better work on sending me better opponents. Pass that message on for me. Are you sending Hunter bums like this to fight? You’ll get the same result. Like I said. If you want box office, give me Hunter.
HOODED MAN:
And I told you that you don’t get to ask questions. The nature of Hunter’s opponents; if indeed he has opponents at all; is entirely my business. You get to fight, but you don’t get to call the shots. You’re not running RSW from in here, Mr. Bigshot. But I’ll tell you what. Keep fighting like that and people will make a lot of money on you. The more you keep them happy, the more likely they are to make you happy one day.
It was the middle of the comment that bothered Rob the most. “If indeed he has opponents at all”. Until now, Rob had been working on the assumption that some bent pencil pusher involved in administration here had seen a chance to make some money from having two known fighters under his ‘care’, and had acted accordingly. But if Hunter wasn’t fighting - if it was just Rob - then it once again suggested that Hunter was involved in the process. Was this something he’d managed to arrange by exploiting Alisa’s contacts?
Rob had still been thinking about it when he’d been ushered back to his normal holding cell. And he waited until the hooded man had disappeared away before he rapped harshly on the wall, rousing Valentyne from his slumber.
HUNTER:
What the fuck? I’m asleep. If you want someone to read you a bedtime story, call a nurse.
RIOT:
Do you know where I’ve been?
HUNTER:
I can’t see into your room, you dumb limey bastard. How am I supposed to answer that?
RIOT:
Don’t fuck with me. Are you involved in what’s happening to me or not?
HUNTER:
“What’s happening to you?” What, your balls have dropped? You’re growing hairs on your chest? I’m not your daddy. There are doctors here who can talk you through it.
RIOT:
Shut the fuck up for one second and listen. I’ve just come back from some filthy holding cell in the bowels of this building. And whilst I was in there, Ryan Elias paid me a visit. He seems to know a little too much about how this place operates. He didn’t have any fancy pass like Alisa, he made no effort to hide his identity - someone just let him straight in. And then when he fucks off, I get brought some giant psychiatric patient to fight against. When I win, I’m told that someone’s making a lot of money off me. So question one, fuckface, is are you involved in getting me booked in illegal fights?
There is a pause whilst Hunter considers the question - or possibly whilst he chooses between another sarcastic response and a serious one.
HUNTER:
I’m going to kick your ass myself at Justice. I’ve told you that a thousand times. I also owed you payback for your shitty refereeing job, but I already got that. If you get hurt between now and then, it gives you the chance to cry and moan at Justice and say that I only beat you because you were injured in here. Plus I need you to be on your best form for this escape plan to work. What do I have to gain right now from you getting hurt in a fight, you dumb bastard?
Now it was Riot’s time to pause. He couldn’t - and didn’t - trust Hunter, but at the same time he recognised the logic in what Hunter was saying. Could he be telling the truth? His next question would answer that for him.
RIOT:
Ok. So you’re not involved in trying to get me beaten up in here. I’m willing to believe that. Which leads me on to question two. Hunter.....do they make you fight, too?
And Rob Riot waited for a response.
For around twenty percent of that time, he’d been twisting and manoeuvring his hands and wrists, trying to free himself of the handcuffs that bound him to the cold, uncomfortable metal chair - a chair which was, in turn, bolted to the floor. Unsurprisingly, the handcuffs wouldn’t give. Pushing his thumbs back almost to the point of dislocation still didn’t buy him enough space to slip through them, and the chains had been built with people like him in mind. He didn’t really expect any other outcome - lightweight cuffs in an institution for the criminally insane would be asking for trouble - but it had been a way to pass the time.
For another thirty percent of that time, he’d been trying to ignore the visions that floated in front of his eyes. The last thing Elias had done before he’d started talking was to bind some kind of linen cloth over his head - thin enough to allow air in but thick enough to deny light the same privilege. This left Rob in a world of sensory deprivation, where shadows danced in the vicinity of him outside the cloth without ever taking a definite shape, and in the absence of any visual stimulation, his mind had started to provide the pictures. He’d seen many things in that time.
He’d seen the broken clock, imagining the hands impossibly moving once more as the seconds ticked away.
He’d seen Valora, as if the mental picture of her had danced forth to bring him comfort - but only fleetingly, as it was quickly pushed aside by the horrors of old.
He saw his ex lover, the mother of his child, looking at him with disappointment in her eyes and slowly turning her back and walking away.
He’d seen his son - Sammy - as he’d last seen him thirteen years ago. Two years old with tear tracks winding down his cheeks. Looking at him with accusing eyes, full of hurt and abandonment. A look that sought comfort but also explanation and received neither. And Sammy, too, was being dragged back into the shadows of the vision by something unseen. Riot had cried out inside his mind, begging him to stay, but unable to reach out because of these damn restraints. Sammy faded and died inside the image and left him alone; and he almost convinced himself that as he faded he could hear him cry out to him. His son. A voice he hadn’t heard for over a decade. But there was something else at the edge of his hearing, too.
Laughter.
Laughter from the one source he always knew would come to mock him at his lowest. And there was the man himself, come to taunt him in his imagination just as much as he did in his waking hours. Hunter Valentyne. His tormentor and jailmate. Only in this vision, Hunter was every bit as free as Rob was incarcerated. Valentyne laughted, pointed and spat at Rob, wheeling around his chair again and again as he did so. Whispering the vilest, cruellest things into his ears. Things about Sammy. Things about Valora. Things about Chloe Logan - the girl he’d come to the aid of only to see his good deed turned into a weapon by this man he’d seemingly underestimated so critically. And Rob sat there, unable to react, unable to respond. Rob and Hunter in the dark.
And yet that still only accounted for a mere fifty percent of his time in there. Because for the rest of it, he was asking one question, and one question only.
How in the fuck had Ryan Elias got into this facility, and what was his business in doing so?
Elias wasn’t a new name on him; he’d crossed paths with him once before in a promotion long since dead. But Elias had come there for a holiday. Competed in one match and beat Rob. Again, much like with Hunter, Rob hadn’t done his research properly and hadn’t come to understand that Ryan was a threat, a capable wrestler and a smarter guy than your average. And on the night, he’d been the better man. No sooner did Rob come looking for a rematch, though, than Ryan skipped out on his contract. It had seemed at the time - and, from Rob’s point of view, ever since - that Ryan was smart enough to pick up on the obvious. With the element of surprise on his side, Elias could do whatever he wanted. On a level playing field, he wasn’t even in the same world as Rob Riot, and he knew it. So he’d tucked his tail and run away with his 1-0 record still in tact. When he found out that he’d been booked against him in New Edge, all these years later, Rob wouldn’t have been surprised to turn up on the night to find out that Ryan had requested and received an early release from his contract. Better to be remembered as a cowardly winner than a known loser.
But to do this? This facility wasn’t a fucking zoo. Alisa had pulled strings to gain access in here to Hunter, and Valora had to fabricate a whole new identity to get to Rob, so how the Hell had Ryan Elias managed to get through security making no attempt - that Riot could see, at any rate - to hide who he was? Who was working security here? Was this Hunter at work again?
His musings were interrupted by the opening of the door at the end of the cell again, and the sound of footsteps walking towards him. Riot instinctively tensed, preparing for another assault of some kind, whether verbal or physical. And for the second time in those same few hours, he found himself wincing as the light hit his eyes - the cloth having been removed from his head. Riot immediately and instinctively spat on the floor, trying to remove the taste of stale linen from his mouth. He coughed, hard, twice, as clean air struck the back of his throat and reminded him what he’d been missing out on. Slowly; almost begrudgingly; the figure in front of him came into focus.
It wasn’t Ryan Elias. Nor was it Hunter. But something about the demeanour of the man did seem familiar. He’d have loved to say for certain, but it was impossible because of the hooded top the man wore, which was pulled up tight and down, shielding his facial features in shadow. And yet Riot had seen him before...
RIOT:
You were at the door. You let Ryan Elias in here in you. Who the fuck are you?
HOODED MAN:
I’m nobody. I work here. That’s all.
RIOT:
Bullshit. If you just work here, I’d start looking for another job. How do you think your boss is going to take it when he finds out you’ve been mistreating patients? And not just any patient, a patient under the personal care of the FBI....
HOODED MAN:
...under the care of agent Veronica Navarro? She doesn’t exist. You know that as well as I do. The senior staff here, however, don’t know that yet. And they don’t have to know, if you behave yourself. But your little trips outside of this facility are a thing of the past. Get that through your skull.
There was something very familiar about this man’s voice. If he could see even the slightest outline of his face, Rob was sure he’d put two and two together - but he couldn’t. Too much time spent in here was occluding his ability to think straight. He knew who this was. He was sure of it. So why couldn’t he name him?
RIOT:
So you’re a crook, at the very least. Who told you to let Ryan in here. Hunter? Are you part of the whole Hunter and Alisa circus? Is there anybody working here who isn’t completely corrupt? And what do you mean ‘behave myself’, I haven’t misbehaved in any way, shape or form since....oh.
Riot’s eyes had completely adjusted to the light now, and he realised the two of them weren’t alone. Lumbering near the doorway, wearing regulation institute-issue pyjamas, was a very large man, who was glaring daggers at him. A man with a shaved head and a long, thick, black beard. He seemed to twitch, both facially and throughout the sinews of his muscle, and he was cracking his knuckles as he stood, as if it was his way of passing the time. Rob smiled grimly to himself, and nodded his head.
RIOT:
“Behave myself”. Compete in your little fight club racket and don’t rat you out. I understand. You know what would make me more likely to co-operate with this? Give me Hunter. Give me Hunter and I’ll fight him every night for the rest of my stay in here. You won’t have to drug me or chain me to get my assistance with that. I’ll do to it willingly.
The hooded man snorted before he responded.
HOODED MAN:
That’s not going to happen. And if you’re as smart as you say you are, you’ll already know why. You’ll fight who you’re given to fight. Co-operate, and you’ll be rewarded. Don’t....and you’ll be seeing a lot more of this room.
RIOT:
Someone doesn’t want me and Hunter injuring each other whilst we’re in here. Interesting. Only two people I can think of would want me to be kept away from Hunter. One of them is Hunter himself - and based on what I’m learning about him, whatever the fuck he might be, he isn’t a coward. So that leaves one more. Jesse Styles. Am I getting warm?
HOODED MAN:
You’re asking too many questions. I’m your captor, not your friend. Remember that. If you ever want to get out of here, you’ll do everything that’s asked of you, and you won’t ask the reason why. Now, that man at the door? He was in regular jail already before he got here. For murder. He likes to strangle people. Animals too, as it happens. In fact he likes to strangle anything he can get his hands on. One day they made the mistake of taking the chains off and letting him do some recreation work in the yard. Within two hours three of the wardens were dead along with nearly half the prisoners. The other half were following him as if he were a God. They had to call the army in before shit got settled back down. So he might not be Hunter, but I wouldn’t take him lightly. After all...
The hooded man leans in closer to Riot, and whispers in his ear.
HOODED MAN:
....if you ask him, he’ll tell you he’s a direct descendant of Genghis Khan. He’s fucking crazy. But that’s why we’re all in here, right?
The hooded man slowly releases Riot from his handcuffs, chuckling to himself as he does so, and allows Riot time to stand and stretch his legs. Rob didn’t take his eyes off his opponent the whole time.
HOODED MAN:
Now....FIGHT!
WHOOSH. Riot barely had time to get the feeling back into his feet before he was bouncing off them, ducking under a wild haymaker that may well have snapped his head clean off his shoulders had it connected. He picked his head up, and immediately ducked back down as another one came back in the opposite direction. Bobbing and weaving like a boxer, Riot gradually manouvered himself around to the left, lining himself up with the chair he’d only moments ago freed himself from.
The would-be Genghis Khan threw another scything right, and Riot threw himself to the side of this hulking assailant, planting his left foot in front, and with his right foot kicking the man in the back of the knee - a drop toehold, sending the monster face first into the metal chair with a horrifying crunch.
Quick as a flash, Riot was back onto his feet, throwing lefts and rights into the side of the guys head before wrenching his head back and driving him face first into the seat of the chair....five times, six, seven, eight....until he became aware that the resistance he was meeting was coming from the hooded man, not from his opponent- as he tried to force a break.
HOODED MAN:
Stop! That’s enough! That’s enough! This is a fight club setup, not a fucking snuff film! Jesus Christ!
Riot backed away, checking his knuckles to see if he’d drawn blood. There was an adrenaline coursing through him that he felt almost ashamed to acknowledge - a pleasure in what he’d done. He tried as best as he could to ignore it as the hooded man checked on the felled colossus, who was showing no signs of movement.
The hooded man checked his vital signs and, seemingly, calmed a little. He looked from Riot to his victim and back again, and when he spoke again there was a trace of admiration in his voice.
HOODED MAN:
He’s alive - but he’s unconscious. That was barely thirty seconds. How the fuck do you do that?
RIOT:
A common brute will scare your average man in the street. To a trained fighter, he’s nothing. And I’m the best in the world. If the guy who runs this show doesn’t want to be answering questions about dead patients, he’d better work on sending me better opponents. Pass that message on for me. Are you sending Hunter bums like this to fight? You’ll get the same result. Like I said. If you want box office, give me Hunter.
HOODED MAN:
And I told you that you don’t get to ask questions. The nature of Hunter’s opponents; if indeed he has opponents at all; is entirely my business. You get to fight, but you don’t get to call the shots. You’re not running RSW from in here, Mr. Bigshot. But I’ll tell you what. Keep fighting like that and people will make a lot of money on you. The more you keep them happy, the more likely they are to make you happy one day.
It was the middle of the comment that bothered Rob the most. “If indeed he has opponents at all”. Until now, Rob had been working on the assumption that some bent pencil pusher involved in administration here had seen a chance to make some money from having two known fighters under his ‘care’, and had acted accordingly. But if Hunter wasn’t fighting - if it was just Rob - then it once again suggested that Hunter was involved in the process. Was this something he’d managed to arrange by exploiting Alisa’s contacts?
Rob had still been thinking about it when he’d been ushered back to his normal holding cell. And he waited until the hooded man had disappeared away before he rapped harshly on the wall, rousing Valentyne from his slumber.
HUNTER:
What the fuck? I’m asleep. If you want someone to read you a bedtime story, call a nurse.
RIOT:
Do you know where I’ve been?
HUNTER:
I can’t see into your room, you dumb limey bastard. How am I supposed to answer that?
RIOT:
Don’t fuck with me. Are you involved in what’s happening to me or not?
HUNTER:
“What’s happening to you?” What, your balls have dropped? You’re growing hairs on your chest? I’m not your daddy. There are doctors here who can talk you through it.
RIOT:
Shut the fuck up for one second and listen. I’ve just come back from some filthy holding cell in the bowels of this building. And whilst I was in there, Ryan Elias paid me a visit. He seems to know a little too much about how this place operates. He didn’t have any fancy pass like Alisa, he made no effort to hide his identity - someone just let him straight in. And then when he fucks off, I get brought some giant psychiatric patient to fight against. When I win, I’m told that someone’s making a lot of money off me. So question one, fuckface, is are you involved in getting me booked in illegal fights?
There is a pause whilst Hunter considers the question - or possibly whilst he chooses between another sarcastic response and a serious one.
HUNTER:
I’m going to kick your ass myself at Justice. I’ve told you that a thousand times. I also owed you payback for your shitty refereeing job, but I already got that. If you get hurt between now and then, it gives you the chance to cry and moan at Justice and say that I only beat you because you were injured in here. Plus I need you to be on your best form for this escape plan to work. What do I have to gain right now from you getting hurt in a fight, you dumb bastard?
Now it was Riot’s time to pause. He couldn’t - and didn’t - trust Hunter, but at the same time he recognised the logic in what Hunter was saying. Could he be telling the truth? His next question would answer that for him.
RIOT:
Ok. So you’re not involved in trying to get me beaten up in here. I’m willing to believe that. Which leads me on to question two. Hunter.....do they make you fight, too?
And Rob Riot waited for a response.