Post by The Lone Wolf on Jul 29, 2007 12:31:36 GMT -5
This was it. As inane as it sounded, this was the proverbial moment of truth. Time slowed obscenely, as if It had been drugged, except everything was still in pristine focus… every aspect of reality was in crystal sharp definition, knowable to the smallest degree, giving forth willingly immeasurable quantities of vital information. The crowd was pumped, drawn into the show by the action they’d already seen. Barely a person in the audience didn’t offer a cheer or a jeer for one wrestler or the other, but It ignored them completely. They were vermin to It, less than nothing. They could all keel over dead in an instant and it would make no difference to It. All that mattered was the man standing in the ring.
It made Its way slowly through the ignorant multitudes, deadly blue eyes locked on the ring. It took in every detail of the appearance of the opposition, the casual, smirking demeanor, the slight advantage the opponent boasted in height, his build, not quite as broad as Its own, the grey hair creating the illusion of age beyond the years this foolish little creature actually boasted. It sneered at him, hating him for all that he represented, and more so, hating him simply because he stood in Its way.
The opponent taunted It, wanting It to make the first move, but It would not comply. It forced the brash young one to commit first, and then took advantage of that commitment. Its movements were crisp, practiced, smooth. It had been away from the ring for a long time, but after the existence It has known, some things move beyond even instinct and into the land of reflexive action, ingrained, hardwired, unstoppable. The strikes came freely and accurately, driving his opponent back. It wanted to get Its hands on him, tear at his joints, make him scream out in pain and give in, but the opponent resisted, and that angered It. It drove the opponent out of the ring and took flight, feeling the familiar sensation of a momentary escape from the bounds of gravity as Its body glided through the air, risking Its own well being to strike at the heart of the hated adversary.
It was in control. It had the opponent dazed, off his feet, and now was Its moment… It wrapped Its limbs around the adversary, getting what It wanted, arms around his throat, legs around his torso, It squeezed the life out of him, tasting victory drawing nearer. This was it, this was what It had returned for, this was what It must do…
But then it all fell apart. The opponent pulled out a Zippo… Instantly, instinctively, as any living thing being burned would do, It pulled away. But the insignificant physical damage the tiny flame had done was only the beginning. It was nothing, truly, compared to the effects wrought by its aftermath.
The Lone Wolf twitched uncontrollably as a phantom light, blinding in intensity, flashed before his eyes. Another convulsion, followed by a flash of memory of a cold December night. The vision of a mask being torn away from a face, the sense of total shock and confusion, pain, strong hands on Its arms, men tossing It to the floor, forcing It into a chamber, locking the door, and then… and then…
Flames everywhere, engulfing It, consuming It. Agony. Searing, all pervading pain, pain like nothing It had experienced in centuries, pain like nothing it had ever known while trapped in the confines of an organic body. Pain, chaos, destruction…
It was confused, It could not remember where It was, what It was doing. It had been ripped from the present, plunged violently into the past, and now It was desperately trying to find Its way back to reality.
But the opponent took advantage of Its confusion, blindsided It, and then the ring was on fire…
Barely holding on to consciousness, It fought back against the wicked adversary, escaping his clutches, but plunging into the flame in the process. Panic! Blind panic, a desperate attempt to extinguish the flame, only a vague awareness of the others bringing forth those cold white clouds that smothered the awful fire to death.
Rage built up inside of It, but stronger still, the survival instinct, the need to continue. Its enemy sought to end Its life, he must be destroyed… The Lone Wolf launched himself at Steele with reckless abandonment, attempting to tear his limbs from his body. A maddening pace, mindless combat, time shot by too quickly to keep track of as limbs flew and bodies collided. It took control of the unholy enemy. By the Gods, It would destroy him!
But then, from nowhere, a mighty weight against Its skull, a stunning blow, then darkness. Hazy, blurry reality, almost nonsensical series of movements and shapes. It crushed the enemy, but was slammed down into a metallic jaw, steel teeth viciously biting into It, trapping It in place. Then It was covered by the putrid sickly stench of gasoline, that hideous aroma that spoke of more burning agony, of the return of fire. Gods, no, it could not happen again…
Another being now in the ring, someone else that stood against the enemy. The newcomer smashed the adversary down, but Its mind was already slipping away. The thinking, rational, reasoning part of Itself could not cope with coming so close to being set ablaze again, it faded away, and then there was nothing close to a man left, only a blind, raging, bezerk animal.
The newcomer tore It free from Its prison, but It could not perceive that It was being rescued, It only knew that a massive, muscular frame bent towards It, It only perceived a lethal threat…
It smashed into the new enemy with all that It had, seeking to end him, destroy him, take his life at all costs. It struck out again and again at the monster, but then another blow to Its skull, and nothing but darkness…
The world exploded back into being in a maelstrom of pain, anger, and terror. It leapt from the ring; tore out of the building, sprinted away from the Hell on Earth It had been plunged into.
As It found Itself in an alleyway, the terror subsided inside of It, overcome by the billowing, boiling, unending rage. It lashed out in mindless, unthinking retaliation against the world. Grabbing a trashcan, It tossed the can into a wall, smashing windows and crushing the receptacle. It barreled into a dumpster, crawling at it, grabbing it with inhuman strength, flipping the metal monster onto its side. It struck out at the dumpster, punching it again and again and again, denting it, slamming Its fingers into the metal until Its knuckles bled.
It stumbled backwards on shaky legs, and It screamed. It screamed an unholy sound, a monstrous howl, giving voice to a purity of rage never experienced by thinking man, letting forth a wail no human voice ever thrust into the night before. Its pain and rage exploded into the night like a nuclear detention, tearing through the streets, sending terrifying echoes out for blocks on end. Its rage bled out into the world, and It stumbled.
It railed too hard against Its fate, converted too much of the force of Its ancient mind to that omnipotent rage, and something broke inside of It. Deep in Its head, something ruptured, something spilled. Blood poured out of Its nose as It fell to Its knees, barely keeping from smashing face first to the ground below It. Its body was threatening to fail as Its mind bled away…
Deep inside of It something took control. Something saw how close It had come to collapse, and took action to prevent it. Ancient techniques took hold; slowly air flowed into Its lungs in careful, measured breaths. Timeless methods worked to restore balance to Its mind, bringing It back from the edge, giving It back control…
The Lone Wolf wiped the blood from Its nose and slowly rose to Its feet. It would survive the night. It had not succeeded, but It had not failed either. It was still alive, and planned to stay that way. As It stumbled forward, slowly growing sure in Its footing, It knew It had much left to prove. And It knew that It had new prey to hunt…
No simple victory would be sufficient. Its enemy must be wholly and totally vanquished. Its prey must be destroyed. As It moved rapidly away from the city, eager to end Its exposure to the parasitic humanity, It knew what it must do. Its lips pulled back, baring Its teeth. A low rumble started deep in Its throat, gaining strength, spilling from Its mouth in a thunderous growl, a growl that spoke of the prey It must hunt down, a growl that spoke of the only target in Its mind, a growl that approximated at least one syllable of vaguely coherent human speech…
“Steele…”
It made Its way slowly through the ignorant multitudes, deadly blue eyes locked on the ring. It took in every detail of the appearance of the opposition, the casual, smirking demeanor, the slight advantage the opponent boasted in height, his build, not quite as broad as Its own, the grey hair creating the illusion of age beyond the years this foolish little creature actually boasted. It sneered at him, hating him for all that he represented, and more so, hating him simply because he stood in Its way.
The opponent taunted It, wanting It to make the first move, but It would not comply. It forced the brash young one to commit first, and then took advantage of that commitment. Its movements were crisp, practiced, smooth. It had been away from the ring for a long time, but after the existence It has known, some things move beyond even instinct and into the land of reflexive action, ingrained, hardwired, unstoppable. The strikes came freely and accurately, driving his opponent back. It wanted to get Its hands on him, tear at his joints, make him scream out in pain and give in, but the opponent resisted, and that angered It. It drove the opponent out of the ring and took flight, feeling the familiar sensation of a momentary escape from the bounds of gravity as Its body glided through the air, risking Its own well being to strike at the heart of the hated adversary.
It was in control. It had the opponent dazed, off his feet, and now was Its moment… It wrapped Its limbs around the adversary, getting what It wanted, arms around his throat, legs around his torso, It squeezed the life out of him, tasting victory drawing nearer. This was it, this was what It had returned for, this was what It must do…
But then it all fell apart. The opponent pulled out a Zippo… Instantly, instinctively, as any living thing being burned would do, It pulled away. But the insignificant physical damage the tiny flame had done was only the beginning. It was nothing, truly, compared to the effects wrought by its aftermath.
The Lone Wolf twitched uncontrollably as a phantom light, blinding in intensity, flashed before his eyes. Another convulsion, followed by a flash of memory of a cold December night. The vision of a mask being torn away from a face, the sense of total shock and confusion, pain, strong hands on Its arms, men tossing It to the floor, forcing It into a chamber, locking the door, and then… and then…
Flames everywhere, engulfing It, consuming It. Agony. Searing, all pervading pain, pain like nothing It had experienced in centuries, pain like nothing it had ever known while trapped in the confines of an organic body. Pain, chaos, destruction…
It was confused, It could not remember where It was, what It was doing. It had been ripped from the present, plunged violently into the past, and now It was desperately trying to find Its way back to reality.
But the opponent took advantage of Its confusion, blindsided It, and then the ring was on fire…
Barely holding on to consciousness, It fought back against the wicked adversary, escaping his clutches, but plunging into the flame in the process. Panic! Blind panic, a desperate attempt to extinguish the flame, only a vague awareness of the others bringing forth those cold white clouds that smothered the awful fire to death.
Rage built up inside of It, but stronger still, the survival instinct, the need to continue. Its enemy sought to end Its life, he must be destroyed… The Lone Wolf launched himself at Steele with reckless abandonment, attempting to tear his limbs from his body. A maddening pace, mindless combat, time shot by too quickly to keep track of as limbs flew and bodies collided. It took control of the unholy enemy. By the Gods, It would destroy him!
But then, from nowhere, a mighty weight against Its skull, a stunning blow, then darkness. Hazy, blurry reality, almost nonsensical series of movements and shapes. It crushed the enemy, but was slammed down into a metallic jaw, steel teeth viciously biting into It, trapping It in place. Then It was covered by the putrid sickly stench of gasoline, that hideous aroma that spoke of more burning agony, of the return of fire. Gods, no, it could not happen again…
Another being now in the ring, someone else that stood against the enemy. The newcomer smashed the adversary down, but Its mind was already slipping away. The thinking, rational, reasoning part of Itself could not cope with coming so close to being set ablaze again, it faded away, and then there was nothing close to a man left, only a blind, raging, bezerk animal.
The newcomer tore It free from Its prison, but It could not perceive that It was being rescued, It only knew that a massive, muscular frame bent towards It, It only perceived a lethal threat…
It smashed into the new enemy with all that It had, seeking to end him, destroy him, take his life at all costs. It struck out again and again at the monster, but then another blow to Its skull, and nothing but darkness…
The world exploded back into being in a maelstrom of pain, anger, and terror. It leapt from the ring; tore out of the building, sprinted away from the Hell on Earth It had been plunged into.
As It found Itself in an alleyway, the terror subsided inside of It, overcome by the billowing, boiling, unending rage. It lashed out in mindless, unthinking retaliation against the world. Grabbing a trashcan, It tossed the can into a wall, smashing windows and crushing the receptacle. It barreled into a dumpster, crawling at it, grabbing it with inhuman strength, flipping the metal monster onto its side. It struck out at the dumpster, punching it again and again and again, denting it, slamming Its fingers into the metal until Its knuckles bled.
It stumbled backwards on shaky legs, and It screamed. It screamed an unholy sound, a monstrous howl, giving voice to a purity of rage never experienced by thinking man, letting forth a wail no human voice ever thrust into the night before. Its pain and rage exploded into the night like a nuclear detention, tearing through the streets, sending terrifying echoes out for blocks on end. Its rage bled out into the world, and It stumbled.
It railed too hard against Its fate, converted too much of the force of Its ancient mind to that omnipotent rage, and something broke inside of It. Deep in Its head, something ruptured, something spilled. Blood poured out of Its nose as It fell to Its knees, barely keeping from smashing face first to the ground below It. Its body was threatening to fail as Its mind bled away…
Deep inside of It something took control. Something saw how close It had come to collapse, and took action to prevent it. Ancient techniques took hold; slowly air flowed into Its lungs in careful, measured breaths. Timeless methods worked to restore balance to Its mind, bringing It back from the edge, giving It back control…
The Lone Wolf wiped the blood from Its nose and slowly rose to Its feet. It would survive the night. It had not succeeded, but It had not failed either. It was still alive, and planned to stay that way. As It stumbled forward, slowly growing sure in Its footing, It knew It had much left to prove. And It knew that It had new prey to hunt…
No simple victory would be sufficient. Its enemy must be wholly and totally vanquished. Its prey must be destroyed. As It moved rapidly away from the city, eager to end Its exposure to the parasitic humanity, It knew what it must do. Its lips pulled back, baring Its teeth. A low rumble started deep in Its throat, gaining strength, spilling from Its mouth in a thunderous growl, a growl that spoke of the prey It must hunt down, a growl that spoke of the only target in Its mind, a growl that approximated at least one syllable of vaguely coherent human speech…
“Steele…”