Post by Deleted on Jul 22, 2014 15:47:43 GMT -5
OOC: Like the title says, this is just a brief scaffolding piece to fill in the blank spots in DGS' character arc/mindset from when I was out of town the past few weeks. Not trying to have this take up any space in my actual S&S promos, so it's going here.
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July 11, 2014
Brooklyn, New York City, New York
Barclays Center – Backstage
He had nearly arrived at the gorilla position when he saw - no, not even saw. He was nearly at the bottom of the steps that led up to the entrance onto the Mayhem stage - decked out in his ring gear, adorned with his freshly retained EHWF Championship, and ready to take his lesser compatriots in Chris DeAngelo and Bill Ryder to school - when he heard it, emanating from out in the arena.
Rissi: It really is good to be back!
... what?
The voice stopped him dead, making a monolith of him in the middle of that otherwise-empty backstage corridor. He stood there for several minutes as the voice continued on, not focused so much on the words as he was on the voice itself, its subtle nuances and intricacies, its auditory niches and rises and crevices. They were familiar, each and every one of them, save one - the tone was slightly deeper, a minute change that often occurred as the result of a severe neck injury.
He knew a thing or two about that. And yet...
What?
He found himself moving, closing the remaining distance between himself and the gorilla staircase at an urgent pace. There was a flatscreen affixed to the wall beneath the stairs, airing the Mayhem broadcast for its duration, and he glued his eyes to it, transfixed by what he saw there. He watched and listened, his expression impassive, eyes unblinking, until the new owner of the Extreme Hardcore Wrestling Federation had said all he needed to say, absorbed all of the hollow praise he needed in order to satiate his depthless ego, and left the ring.
Amidst the din coming from out in the arena, he heard footsteps from above, atop the gorilla position. Something base, something primal, compelled him to step into the shadows beneath the staircase, and as Michael Rissi descended the stairs to the ground floor, David Gideon Smith crouched down on his haunches, the way many predators did before springing, and watched his back as he retreated down the corridor.
He stayed like that for some time, crouched there, hidden. Bill Ryder walked right past him, up the stairs, out onto the stage, and down to the ring. Chris DeAngelo did the same. When it was his turn he followed suit, but in an absent, detached way; his body made its way down to the ring, and his body wrestled the match to the best of its ability, but there is only so much a body can do without a mind to guide it, and his mind was most certainly elsewhere for the entirety of the affair. He vaguely registered pain when Chris DeAngelo's thumb found his previously injured eye, and felt a faint echo of impression at the Hardcore Champion's mastery of a move so basic as the Neckbreaker, but that was the extent of it.
As Bill Ryder covered him, stealing victory from one more worthy, he reached a conclusion foreign to him, one that he had never arrived at before and would likely never arrive at again: in light of recent events, kicking out was not worth it.
There was a voice in his ear - Ryder, likely gloating - but he paid it no more mind than he would have paid the buzz of a mosquito. As he lay there on the mat, squinting in the glare of the arena's overhead lighting, his mind could only focus on one thing, could only anchor itself to one rock of truth.
... so he's back.
Good.
Things got bad after that.
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July 18, 2014
Boston, Massachusetts
TD Garden
A week later he had, for reasons unknown, not been booked in a match, and thus watched the proceedings like a hawk from an isolated location in the bowels of the Garden. Fortunately, his eyes were not kept idle, as there was a great deal for him to observe and process, analyze and calculate.
The Legion. That's what they called themselves, the group of men who had seen fit to target him at the conclusion of the previous week's Mayhem. While their attack had fallen short of intimidating or inspiring (David thought he would've suffered more than a few cuts, bruising on his ribs and neck, and a re-aggravation of his right eye at the hands of four men), he was nonetheless intrigued. The potential challenge they posed held a certain appeal for him - now that every one of the so-called "allies" he'd been forced to stand beside at Aces High irreparably estranged from him, the Legion posed a far greater threat to him than the remnants of the ECWF could ever have hoped to.
To put it simply, the prospect excited him.
So he watched. Observed. Waited, until the time for him to intervene arrived.
When he at last made his presence known, running down to the ring, he did so with a few very specific goals in mind. The first was to extract retribution from Ryan Morgan for his actions in particular the previous week.
Yes, Ryan - the top championship in this company, the one you so desperately long for, does in fact belong to me.
Spear.
The second was to gauge Matthew Kazama's mindset, both in wake of their encounter at Trial of Tears and in light of the impending multi-man match at Scars and Stripes. Sure enough, Kazama appeared and, rather than going after the associates of Brandon Bash who he claimed to hate so very much, the man went right for David. The Devil Trigger he took was more than worth it, and told him all he needed to know about the Last Kazama.
The third was to draw his final, thitherto-undisclosed challenger out of hiding... and out he came. The Wacky One. Wilmer Patacky. He hadn't been the most likely possibility David had considered, but he had been one of them. Nevertheless, the speed and economy of movement with which he executed the complex maneuver known as the Lubrication Twist had caught David off-guard, and like Chris DeAngelo had a week prior, the combination impressed the EHWF Champion.
Not bad.
And as he lay there on the mat, waiting for his vision to clear and his equilibrium to return to him, he again found himself overcome by a sensation with which he was not terribly familiar: excitement. Giddiness, even.
Five of them, there now were. Five challengers, five opponents. Kazama, Morgan, Sykes, Mazzio, and Patacky, each of them vying to dethrone him, to disavow all that he had said and done, to take what was his for their own, and to attempt to reign supreme as he had done. The representatives of the Legion in Morgan and Sykes, the moral paragons in Kazama and Mazzio, and the wildcard in Patacky.
And, of course, he made six.
As he lay there on the mat, fully conscious and staring up at the lights as sound and chaos raged around him, David Gideon Smith began to smile.
The table is set. It's time to begin.
Watch closely, Michael, and see how things have changed in your absence.