Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2018 2:28:19 GMT -5
06.26.2018
Nashville, TN
Nashville Municipal Auditorium
It was exactly as he'd remembered.
The plan they'd agreed upon was a simple one: wait until Saint's contest with Stuart had concluded to make their play, irrespective of the outcome and not a moment sooner. It had been the product of compromise on both sides. Brianna had wanted to strike sooner, to catch Saint before the bell and, if they were lucky, lay Stuart out on the mat alongside him; he'd said no, refusing to tarnish or annul the scheduled match. He'd also been opposed to her making a full stage-entrance and all but announcing him via live microphone, deeming it unnecessary and ill-advised from a tactical standpoint; but she wouldn't budge, adamant that the display was as much about putting the rest of Anarchy - the rest of the EHWF - on notice as gaining retribution on Saint.
Thus had things taken shape the way they did. Thus had David Gideon Smith made his return to the EHWF, rising out of darkness and oblivion to fell a helpless giant and then departing without a word.
Thus did he find himself wandering the halls of the Nashville Municipal Auditorium in a state of idle reverie, waylaid by memory and musing alike. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him where they would, and as they did so - as he was ferried to and fro, taking in every sight and sound and extraneous bit of stimuli his senses could accommodate - it was to a single, simple thought that his mind kept returning.
It was exactly as he'd remembered.
All of it, every little piece, the differences in year and brand and governing power be damned, remained utterly unchanged since he'd last taken his leave from the EHWF.
He wasn't sure how to feel about that.
Presently, David found himself at the entrance to one of Anarchy's main locker rooms, the dressing spaces allocated to those on the roster without championship gold. It was here that his feet faltered, bringing him to an abrupt halt at the threshold. He remained there for a moment, rooted to the spot; a quick look inside told him the room was deserted, and it was only armed with this knowledge that he was finally able to enter.
An aura of displacement, of dread, of complete and utter wrongness, set upon him almost immediately.
Worse still, something in him - something old and wicked, something he'd thought long-buried - stirred in response to it.
No... no, no, no, this isn't right. I... I shouldn't be here.
And yet you are.
No, I shouldn't - I don't belong here, I don't -
Oh, but you do.
David closed his eyes, took a slow, deep breath, and forced himself to relax. He'd had words before with this voice, curiously low and unpleasant, that came echoing up from the chasm between hemispheres of his brain. It was a heinous thing, black and oily and writhing, but it held no power over him. Not anymore.
... no.
There came no further reply.
David opened his eyes to find himself stood in the exact center of the locker room, just as alone as he'd been when he entered. He took another breath, this one catching in his throat, and ran a quivering hand through his hair.
DGS: Jesus, Dave...
His voice came out as a low, tightly-wound mutter. He put one hand on his hip and brought the other to his forehead, thumb and forefinger massaging tight circles into his temples.
DGS: What're you doing, coming back here? Huh?
A moment later David stopped, suddenly feeling eyes on him, a presence at his back. He didn't immediately turn, merely lowering his hand from his face, and he didn't speak; whoever saw fit to intrude upon him here, now, mere minutes after he'd lain waste to the largest and, arguably, strongest competitor on either roster, did so for a reason. So he stayed quiet, stayed still, keeping his back to whoever stood in the doorway until they - whoever they were - made their intentions known.
Nashville, TN
Nashville Municipal Auditorium
It was exactly as he'd remembered.
The plan they'd agreed upon was a simple one: wait until Saint's contest with Stuart had concluded to make their play, irrespective of the outcome and not a moment sooner. It had been the product of compromise on both sides. Brianna had wanted to strike sooner, to catch Saint before the bell and, if they were lucky, lay Stuart out on the mat alongside him; he'd said no, refusing to tarnish or annul the scheduled match. He'd also been opposed to her making a full stage-entrance and all but announcing him via live microphone, deeming it unnecessary and ill-advised from a tactical standpoint; but she wouldn't budge, adamant that the display was as much about putting the rest of Anarchy - the rest of the EHWF - on notice as gaining retribution on Saint.
Thus had things taken shape the way they did. Thus had David Gideon Smith made his return to the EHWF, rising out of darkness and oblivion to fell a helpless giant and then departing without a word.
Thus did he find himself wandering the halls of the Nashville Municipal Auditorium in a state of idle reverie, waylaid by memory and musing alike. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him where they would, and as they did so - as he was ferried to and fro, taking in every sight and sound and extraneous bit of stimuli his senses could accommodate - it was to a single, simple thought that his mind kept returning.
It was exactly as he'd remembered.
All of it, every little piece, the differences in year and brand and governing power be damned, remained utterly unchanged since he'd last taken his leave from the EHWF.
He wasn't sure how to feel about that.
Presently, David found himself at the entrance to one of Anarchy's main locker rooms, the dressing spaces allocated to those on the roster without championship gold. It was here that his feet faltered, bringing him to an abrupt halt at the threshold. He remained there for a moment, rooted to the spot; a quick look inside told him the room was deserted, and it was only armed with this knowledge that he was finally able to enter.
An aura of displacement, of dread, of complete and utter wrongness, set upon him almost immediately.
Worse still, something in him - something old and wicked, something he'd thought long-buried - stirred in response to it.
No... no, no, no, this isn't right. I... I shouldn't be here.
And yet you are.
No, I shouldn't - I don't belong here, I don't -
Oh, but you do.
David closed his eyes, took a slow, deep breath, and forced himself to relax. He'd had words before with this voice, curiously low and unpleasant, that came echoing up from the chasm between hemispheres of his brain. It was a heinous thing, black and oily and writhing, but it held no power over him. Not anymore.
... no.
There came no further reply.
David opened his eyes to find himself stood in the exact center of the locker room, just as alone as he'd been when he entered. He took another breath, this one catching in his throat, and ran a quivering hand through his hair.
DGS: Jesus, Dave...
His voice came out as a low, tightly-wound mutter. He put one hand on his hip and brought the other to his forehead, thumb and forefinger massaging tight circles into his temples.
DGS: What're you doing, coming back here? Huh?
A moment later David stopped, suddenly feeling eyes on him, a presence at his back. He didn't immediately turn, merely lowering his hand from his face, and he didn't speak; whoever saw fit to intrude upon him here, now, mere minutes after he'd lain waste to the largest and, arguably, strongest competitor on either roster, did so for a reason. So he stayed quiet, stayed still, keeping his back to whoever stood in the doorway until they - whoever they were - made their intentions known.
TBC: Anyone