CEO
USER IS OFFLINE
Years Old
I bury hatchets, but I keep maps to where I put 'em.
601 POSTS & 58 LIKES
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Post by Eden on Jul 11, 2020 22:10:10 GMT -5
Roleplay Deadlines: Friday, July 3rd, 2020 at 9 PM PST, 12 AM EST, 11 PM CT(US) Saturday, July 4th, 2020 at 1 AM(UK)
24 Hour Deadlines, 1 Post Deadlines Thursday, July 2nd, 2020 at 9 PM PST, 12 AM EST, 11 PM CT(US) Friday, July 3rd, 2020 at 1 AM(UK)
Roleplay Limit 2 RPs, up to 1000 words apiece OR A single RP, up to 2000 words
For tournament brackets updated as we progress, go here!
Semi-Main (Tournament): DreamState Rematch Jacob Knight vs V
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Former Champion
USER IS OFFLINE
Years Old
Male
Warning: Passive Aggressive
6 POSTS & 1 LIKE
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Post by V on Jul 24, 2020 22:31:27 GMT -5
Jacob Striker.You've been quiet, man. You've been real quiet. You had a lot to say before you got to the Sanatorium. Is it because I won last time we faced?At DreamState, I was the better man. I was the better fighter that night. But that's not the question, the question is who's the better fighter on Sunday. And as I sit here after a workout in the Sanatorium gym, covered in my own sweat and the film of filth that permeates this place, I don't know the answer to that question.Maybe you ask yourself, if I was the better man that night, then what is goodness? You, fighting for something you believe in, me fighting for something I didn't and still don't. Fuck the Sanatorium. That's right, I said it. My sister crusaded for this place, to make this place better, and she couldn't get a god damned thing done, because there is no justice in this 'justice system'. They give you privileges if you win a title, but it's not enough to help anybody else, and that's by design. They gotta keep people jealous of you, keep us ready to tear each other apart. And I'd like to be the solution to that, but...I can't be.Something broke in me at DreamState, when I pinned you. Something old and mortared over just couldn't hold up. It'd been patched up tight for ten fucking years. I'd done the right thing, or the closest to it that I know, for a decade. Longer than most in this place have wrestled at all. Longer than some of you have even been watching professional wrestling. But I've got a couple hair triggers, big red buttons if you will, that outrank doing the right thing. That's the few people I care about, and my own sense of self-preservation. Eden's clever, she hit both of 'em. And I was miserable about that, about selling out, but life goes on, and I couldn't lay on my couch like an invalid about it forever. That's something I had to learn very early in life, and it was my initial strength in the ring. I was a shit fighter when I started, but I just wouldn't stay down. As long as you didn't knock the lights out, I'd keep getting back up on autopilot, taking more damage. And I've still got that. I've been fighting since 1999. I hurt every single day, whether I've got a match or not. I work out anyway. Younger guys talk about their routines, but for me that makes as much sense as talking about my shit-shower-shave routine. It's maintenance, I'm pretty sure my body would just fall the fuck apart at this point without built up muscle holding everything together in compensation.Do you think you can take advantage of that? You couldn't last time. Here's the thing. When you hurt every day, you either quit or you just get used to hurting. Hurting ceases to be this little alarm in your head telling you something's wrong. Hurting is the starting point. You become intimate with it. I wouldn't call pain a lover, but it's the oldest fucking friend I've got.See, you come down to Sanatorium to save us all, mister bigshot, crusader of human rights, but have you stopped to ask who among us deserves saving? I might have people I care about still, but there's something missing in my chest. It's been gone for twenty two years. I won't get into the specifics of how it went, but I learned very vividly just how easily it is for entitled, privileged people to snuff out the life of someone who's considered worthless by society. How easy it is for them to get away with it. No missing child posters, no hard suspects; no justice, no peace isn't just a catchy chant. It's fact. The echo of that seeped into the marrow of my bones, and it's still there. Restlessness, like some drug-fueled anxiety, setting my teeth on edge.You don't want to know the things I had planned for the man I was going to kill. I didn't want to torture him to death because he was a monster; I wanted to torture him to death because I'm one, and his also being one of the right type made it okay. And I'd have done it again, and again. Maybe I already have.And I don't have room to be picky on type when I'm constantly locked up in here.I don't know you well enough to call you monster, but I do know you well enough to think you could use another dose of that reality shock I've got living in the core of me. It needs to run wild sometimes, else I become something far, far worse than I am. Because twenty two years later, there's still no peace. Because she wasn't the last, and more bodies like her have piled up since then. Because those who loved those bodies when they were people are like I was-- fucking helpless, sick with it, burning alive inside like they've got Dante's inferno in their guts. Because if there's a God, then he's not the fucking good guy, and Hell is other people.
Tell me it wasn't you. The email sat, marked 'unread', in his inbox. He'd read it, but re-marked it out of habit when he still needed to respond to something. As if he'd forget this time. Not possible. Tell me it wasn't you that knocked me out last Sanatorium. I could tell you that, but would you believe me? hovered unstruck in his fingertips. Should I tell you that? You need to let go. But if I told you that, that leaves some potential unknown danger, even if I have my suspicions and think if you'd just stay away from the Sanatorium...And the worst one... It should've been me.
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