Post by DGS on Mar 24, 2020 21:51:02 GMT -8
March 10, 2020
Santa Monica, CA
Iconic Arena -- The Ring during Chaos
David lay flat on his back, staring with bright eyes and a clear head up at the lights. Their flare obscured everything else, taking the rest of his vision and hiding it away so that all he could see, all there was to see, was the sterile, fluorescent firmament they presented. The roar of the crowd rang dull in his ears; though the fans' discontent was overt and undisguised, he couldn't find it in himself to care.
allow yourself to feel it
Two minutes. Two-and-a-half, at the very most. That was how long it had taken him to rob them (and a great many others) blind; to imbue the affair with a degree of plausible deniability; to steer his head into the path of Zachariah Krähe's knee, make no attempt to free his arms as they were underhooked, brace himself as his head was driven down, and neglect to move so much as a muscle -- never mind a shoulder off the mat -- as the ref counted to three.
Two-and-a-half minutes. Point to Krähe.
the weakness cut away
David sat up without effort, allowing himself a moment to roll his head back and forth and relishing every snap, crackle, and pop his neck made in response. He then took a cursory glance around, blinking the spots from his eyes as he did so. The noise matched the scenery: those packed into the Iconic Arena, who'd paid to be packed into the Iconic Arena, seemed thoroughly displeased with his... performance. Of Krähe himself, David saw no sign. Run off to revel somewhere, no doubt. Off to smirk at nothing and bask in how quickly he'd bested the great and mighty DGS... even if he would outwardly downplay it all later.
the hallowed void left behind
David licked his lips and tasted blood. He brought a thumb up to dab at the spot, and couldn't help but crack a small smile when it came away shiny and crimson.
At least the guy could throw hands. Boded better for next time than nothing, he supposed.
allow yourself to see the necessity of it
the inevitability
David popped spryly to his feet, noting the looks of surprise the act drew from the front row. Giving his head another quick roll (snap, crackle, pop -- heavenly), he made his way to the ropes and then down to the outside mats, making an admittedly self-indulgent show of exiting the ring via handstand.
"What the fuck was that?!"
"Really slippin', Dave!"
"Aren't you supposed to be good, or something?"
The fans' admonitions went unacknowledged, never mind answered, and as he trekked up the ramp David instead mused idly on the strange feeling that had come over him: an alien sensation of lightness, of material and immaterial dissonance. Like a piece of him was missing, some faraway fragment he hadn't even realized was there until it was gone. Contrary to what might've been intuitive, there was no discomfort, no pain -- quite the opposite, in fact.
It felt right, in a way. Real, in a way few things ever had.
Maybe even fated.
only by submitting to the hammer is the blade honed
only by setting itself to the whetstone is it made sharp
David stopped at the top of the ramp, and turned on a whim to look back down at the ring. Even at this distance he could see where the white was marred by red, the scant few spots where his blood had stained the mat, and looking at it from such a distance he was stricken by how small it was, how infinitesimal in the grand scheme of it all.
And yet...
there is a blade here for you, shaped like
A tremor passed through him -- whether it was of excitement or horror, he couldn't be sure.
take up the blade
hone it
make it sharp
With a deep, shuddering breath and violent shake of the head, David hurried backstage.
the first cut is close -- can you feel yourself slipping?
Santa Monica, CA
Iconic Arena -- The Ring during Chaos
David lay flat on his back, staring with bright eyes and a clear head up at the lights. Their flare obscured everything else, taking the rest of his vision and hiding it away so that all he could see, all there was to see, was the sterile, fluorescent firmament they presented. The roar of the crowd rang dull in his ears; though the fans' discontent was overt and undisguised, he couldn't find it in himself to care.
allow yourself to feel it
Two minutes. Two-and-a-half, at the very most. That was how long it had taken him to rob them (and a great many others) blind; to imbue the affair with a degree of plausible deniability; to steer his head into the path of Zachariah Krähe's knee, make no attempt to free his arms as they were underhooked, brace himself as his head was driven down, and neglect to move so much as a muscle -- never mind a shoulder off the mat -- as the ref counted to three.
Two-and-a-half minutes. Point to Krähe.
the weakness cut away
David sat up without effort, allowing himself a moment to roll his head back and forth and relishing every snap, crackle, and pop his neck made in response. He then took a cursory glance around, blinking the spots from his eyes as he did so. The noise matched the scenery: those packed into the Iconic Arena, who'd paid to be packed into the Iconic Arena, seemed thoroughly displeased with his... performance. Of Krähe himself, David saw no sign. Run off to revel somewhere, no doubt. Off to smirk at nothing and bask in how quickly he'd bested the great and mighty DGS... even if he would outwardly downplay it all later.
the hallowed void left behind
David licked his lips and tasted blood. He brought a thumb up to dab at the spot, and couldn't help but crack a small smile when it came away shiny and crimson.
At least the guy could throw hands. Boded better for next time than nothing, he supposed.
allow yourself to see the necessity of it
the inevitability
David popped spryly to his feet, noting the looks of surprise the act drew from the front row. Giving his head another quick roll (snap, crackle, pop -- heavenly), he made his way to the ropes and then down to the outside mats, making an admittedly self-indulgent show of exiting the ring via handstand.
"What the fuck was that?!"
"Really slippin', Dave!"
"Aren't you supposed to be good, or something?"
The fans' admonitions went unacknowledged, never mind answered, and as he trekked up the ramp David instead mused idly on the strange feeling that had come over him: an alien sensation of lightness, of material and immaterial dissonance. Like a piece of him was missing, some faraway fragment he hadn't even realized was there until it was gone. Contrary to what might've been intuitive, there was no discomfort, no pain -- quite the opposite, in fact.
It felt right, in a way. Real, in a way few things ever had.
Maybe even fated.
only by submitting to the hammer is the blade honed
only by setting itself to the whetstone is it made sharp
David stopped at the top of the ramp, and turned on a whim to look back down at the ring. Even at this distance he could see where the white was marred by red, the scant few spots where his blood had stained the mat, and looking at it from such a distance he was stricken by how small it was, how infinitesimal in the grand scheme of it all.
And yet...
there is a blade here for you, shaped like
[ONLY NOW ARE YOU WORTHY OF MY TIME]
A tremor passed through him -- whether it was of excitement or horror, he couldn't be sure.
take up the blade
hone it
make it sharp
With a deep, shuddering breath and violent shake of the head, David hurried backstage.
the first cut is close -- can you feel yourself slipping?
