Post by Dante "Vagabond" Coles on Jul 23, 2007 18:43:25 GMT -5
Sleep. Beauteous sleep was dawning upon him. And he knew it.
He could feel the world growing distant, yet it was around him as well. The sheets, which had been so warm yet so necessary all throughout the night, shunned to the side and brought back with welcoming arms, felt soft, protecting. The dull hum of city life outside his window was nothing but a distant rumble, barely audible.
And yet for some reason the heavy footsteps in the hall seemed so close.
Dante cracked an eye open, then the other one. The room around him was almost completely dark, except when the occasional car passed by, causing his room to glow eerily through the blinds and the ghosts of objects danced along the walls and ceiling. Somewhere outside his door, there was a thud. Someone else was returning to their room in the small, yet wondrous hotel.
He rolled over in bed and looked for the digital alarm clock. The glowing red numbers were blocked by a myriad of bottles; a couple bottles of liquor and many bottles of sleep-aids. He moved them all aside and looked lazily at the lights.
It took a moment for it to register in his head, still haunted by those images of Annabelle’s fading eyes, her scream as the bullet struck her, the feel of the gun in his hand and the cold rain battering around him. In a flash, he was sweating again, the scar on his neck aching simply at the thought of it.
Who am I, Harry fucking Potter?
The clock read 3:27 AM. Dante moaned to himself, rolling on to his back and looking at the dark ceiling, just able to make out the swirls in the darkness. They were no longer beige in color, but many tones of grey, eventually reaching blackness in shadows. He could only stare at it for so long, each swirl seeming to reshape into her eyes.
Rolling around restlessly, giving the quilt on the bed a heave to the floor, and kicking the comforter to his feet, Dante realized sleep had escaped his grasp once again. Cursing silently, he sat up and reached blindly for a bottle on the nightstand. He didn’t care which one.
His groping hand closed around the neck of a glass bottle, cool to the touch with a little bit of condensation on the side. He didn’t really care about this as he raised it and took a long draw from it, draining it dry, then discarding it to the floor. Without going to a doctor, where he might find himself in trouble once again, alcohol seemed to be the only thing that got rid of her eyes; her screams...
His guilt.
The streets of Fort McMurray were relatively quiet at this hour. There was the occasional car, driving by and illuminating the shadows between the streetlights momentarily before continuing on. There was always a beat coming from those cars; Dante could never be sure what song was playing, but even as they passed he felt the back beat to the music pulse through him.
The night sky above was cloudy, though not completely overcast. The brightest of stars managed to shine through both the clouds and the light pollution given off by the city at night. The moon was nowhere to be seen, but the night was surprisingly light, so it had to be somewhere in the sky. Hidden behind the disruptive skyline of the city, probably, hiding behind a skyscraper, or perhaps the cranes of some new project they were working on.
His duster swaying at his feet and his hat pulled low to his eyes, Dante allowed his feet to guide him along. They had always lead him before, in the days before the Two had come into his life, turned it upside down and crushed it like a beer can on some teenager’s forehead, or under their heel. He had allowed his feet to take him everywhere; they seemed to lead him wherever he should be; wherever he’s needed. Until they got him to St. John’s. That was where they betrayed him. Brought him to the gallows, the control of the Two.
Before he realized it, Dante was standing at the edge of an empty lot between two buildings. His feet had stopped. The streetlight he stood under had been broken, the glass on the ground before him. The entire area was shadowed, but Dante could just make out the empty lot and the silhouettes of the black brick buildings that rose on either side.
Between the two of them he looked up, a single star visible, one that had lead him along many times. It shone brightly, a beacon in the sky for wanderers, for those who were lost, who needed a way to go. The North Star, it was like an old buddy to him, but now he looked upon it with distaste.
Down the road Dante heard an approaching car. Long before he saw the lights, or heard the wheels, before the motor revved or the muffler roared, he heard the beat to the song that was playing.
Before he could pick it out, though, the headlights cut through the air and blinded him. He turned around to get them out of his eyes, and stared straight at the billboard posted on the side of one of the brick buildings flanking the lot. The ad had a muscular man with short brown hair flexing his bicep for the camera while in the background a well-toned black haired female was working on some machine.
It wasn’t the pictures in the ad that kept his attention on it as the car approached, music still blaring through an open window. It was the slogan below the man’s bicep, tracing along under it as if it were a surface for him to lean his arm on when he finished his photo shoot for the ad.
Powerhouse Gym... Embrace the Burn!
It was as if someone had lifted the fog from his mind. And that was pretty much happened. The images of Annabelle’s fading eyes and the sound of her screaming was replaced with a new set of mental images. It was that night several days ago, and he could see the ring on fire, the two opponents still going at each other in the flame as employees ran about trying to put it out. What stood out in particularly through the flame was what was written on the back of the shirt of one of the wrestlers. Exactly as it had been printed on the ad. Embrace the burn.
The car sped past, going at least twenty over the limit. Its window was down, so Dante heard part of the song that was playing.
Dante wasn’t paying much attention to what was playing, his mind was racing. He didn’t know how he had missed it; now that it was laid before him it all seemed so obvious. Alistair “Stainless” Steele had known far too much about his opponent, had come way too prepared. The grey haired monster had known Lone Wolf was afraid of fire, and so he had a gas can ready.
But it was a match where no one knew their opponent, so there was no way he could know who he was fighting, let alone much about them. (Such as what they fear) It was far too convenient. He had to have outside connections, and Dante was fairly certain he knew who those connections were.
This all came on so fast that Dante had actually stumbled back against the blown out street light. He had found the next breadcrumb. But how would this lead him to Johnny and Roger. He couldn’t approach Steele as an enemy just yet. No, he had gone about his burning of the ring far too meticulously for a man forced to wrestle for the Two, but that didn’t mean Steele didn’t have anything on the line.
Dante had begun walking again, before he even knew it. He knew exactly where his feet were leading him, and he smiled to himself a few minutes later as the sign for the Homeland Hotel came into view.
Something told him he’ll get his sleep tonight after all.
He could feel the world growing distant, yet it was around him as well. The sheets, which had been so warm yet so necessary all throughout the night, shunned to the side and brought back with welcoming arms, felt soft, protecting. The dull hum of city life outside his window was nothing but a distant rumble, barely audible.
And yet for some reason the heavy footsteps in the hall seemed so close.
Dante cracked an eye open, then the other one. The room around him was almost completely dark, except when the occasional car passed by, causing his room to glow eerily through the blinds and the ghosts of objects danced along the walls and ceiling. Somewhere outside his door, there was a thud. Someone else was returning to their room in the small, yet wondrous hotel.
He rolled over in bed and looked for the digital alarm clock. The glowing red numbers were blocked by a myriad of bottles; a couple bottles of liquor and many bottles of sleep-aids. He moved them all aside and looked lazily at the lights.
It took a moment for it to register in his head, still haunted by those images of Annabelle’s fading eyes, her scream as the bullet struck her, the feel of the gun in his hand and the cold rain battering around him. In a flash, he was sweating again, the scar on his neck aching simply at the thought of it.
Who am I, Harry fucking Potter?
The clock read 3:27 AM. Dante moaned to himself, rolling on to his back and looking at the dark ceiling, just able to make out the swirls in the darkness. They were no longer beige in color, but many tones of grey, eventually reaching blackness in shadows. He could only stare at it for so long, each swirl seeming to reshape into her eyes.
Rolling around restlessly, giving the quilt on the bed a heave to the floor, and kicking the comforter to his feet, Dante realized sleep had escaped his grasp once again. Cursing silently, he sat up and reached blindly for a bottle on the nightstand. He didn’t care which one.
His groping hand closed around the neck of a glass bottle, cool to the touch with a little bit of condensation on the side. He didn’t really care about this as he raised it and took a long draw from it, draining it dry, then discarding it to the floor. Without going to a doctor, where he might find himself in trouble once again, alcohol seemed to be the only thing that got rid of her eyes; her screams...
His guilt.
***
The streets of Fort McMurray were relatively quiet at this hour. There was the occasional car, driving by and illuminating the shadows between the streetlights momentarily before continuing on. There was always a beat coming from those cars; Dante could never be sure what song was playing, but even as they passed he felt the back beat to the music pulse through him.
The night sky above was cloudy, though not completely overcast. The brightest of stars managed to shine through both the clouds and the light pollution given off by the city at night. The moon was nowhere to be seen, but the night was surprisingly light, so it had to be somewhere in the sky. Hidden behind the disruptive skyline of the city, probably, hiding behind a skyscraper, or perhaps the cranes of some new project they were working on.
His duster swaying at his feet and his hat pulled low to his eyes, Dante allowed his feet to guide him along. They had always lead him before, in the days before the Two had come into his life, turned it upside down and crushed it like a beer can on some teenager’s forehead, or under their heel. He had allowed his feet to take him everywhere; they seemed to lead him wherever he should be; wherever he’s needed. Until they got him to St. John’s. That was where they betrayed him. Brought him to the gallows, the control of the Two.
Before he realized it, Dante was standing at the edge of an empty lot between two buildings. His feet had stopped. The streetlight he stood under had been broken, the glass on the ground before him. The entire area was shadowed, but Dante could just make out the empty lot and the silhouettes of the black brick buildings that rose on either side.
Between the two of them he looked up, a single star visible, one that had lead him along many times. It shone brightly, a beacon in the sky for wanderers, for those who were lost, who needed a way to go. The North Star, it was like an old buddy to him, but now he looked upon it with distaste.
Down the road Dante heard an approaching car. Long before he saw the lights, or heard the wheels, before the motor revved or the muffler roared, he heard the beat to the song that was playing.
Before he could pick it out, though, the headlights cut through the air and blinded him. He turned around to get them out of his eyes, and stared straight at the billboard posted on the side of one of the brick buildings flanking the lot. The ad had a muscular man with short brown hair flexing his bicep for the camera while in the background a well-toned black haired female was working on some machine.
It wasn’t the pictures in the ad that kept his attention on it as the car approached, music still blaring through an open window. It was the slogan below the man’s bicep, tracing along under it as if it were a surface for him to lean his arm on when he finished his photo shoot for the ad.
Powerhouse Gym... Embrace the Burn!
It was as if someone had lifted the fog from his mind. And that was pretty much happened. The images of Annabelle’s fading eyes and the sound of her screaming was replaced with a new set of mental images. It was that night several days ago, and he could see the ring on fire, the two opponents still going at each other in the flame as employees ran about trying to put it out. What stood out in particularly through the flame was what was written on the back of the shirt of one of the wrestlers. Exactly as it had been printed on the ad. Embrace the burn.
The car sped past, going at least twenty over the limit. Its window was down, so Dante heard part of the song that was playing.
There's nothing wrong with me
There's something wrong with you
There's something wrong with me
I hope your stepson doesn't eat the fish
When we're crying for our next fix
There's something wrong with you
There's something wrong with me
I hope your stepson doesn't eat the fish
When we're crying for our next fix
Dante wasn’t paying much attention to what was playing, his mind was racing. He didn’t know how he had missed it; now that it was laid before him it all seemed so obvious. Alistair “Stainless” Steele had known far too much about his opponent, had come way too prepared. The grey haired monster had known Lone Wolf was afraid of fire, and so he had a gas can ready.
But it was a match where no one knew their opponent, so there was no way he could know who he was fighting, let alone much about them. (Such as what they fear) It was far too convenient. He had to have outside connections, and Dante was fairly certain he knew who those connections were.
This all came on so fast that Dante had actually stumbled back against the blown out street light. He had found the next breadcrumb. But how would this lead him to Johnny and Roger. He couldn’t approach Steele as an enemy just yet. No, he had gone about his burning of the ring far too meticulously for a man forced to wrestle for the Two, but that didn’t mean Steele didn’t have anything on the line.
Dante had begun walking again, before he even knew it. He knew exactly where his feet were leading him, and he smiled to himself a few minutes later as the sign for the Homeland Hotel came into view.
Something told him he’ll get his sleep tonight after all.