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The Moonchild

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1 The Moonchild on Wed Nov 29, 2017 5:54 pm

Humans. So many humans.

So loud, pushy, infuriating, the streets busy even now. Social animals trying a little too hard, laughing a little too long, everyone out to impress and flirt and out do one another. Posing for endless infantile selfies, striking poses banal and recycled. Their eyes as dull as a freshly euthanised cow, with less of the wit.

Early evening, the sun just starting to go down. Men and women walking out from the jobs they despise, jumping in a car they can't afford, home to a house they'll never pay for to be with family who bore them to tears. Their hopes and dreams subsumed in the minutiae of day to day life, petty workplace politics, the passive aggressive games that pass for relationships. Others staying out that little bit longer, the illusion of freedom at the bottom of the fourth pint in an hour, a comfort blanket to make domestic life tolerable.

Ever so much potential, yet all of it squandered, pissed away like the town drunk passed out in a gutter at three in the afternoon. They are so weak, so flabby, so…passive, allowing life to happen to them with no more concern than the corpse of some waterfowl, long since dead, swept along by the river's tide toward the sea.

I am not dead. I am alive. And I swim against the tide.

I am the Moonchild. “One without constraint, without morality, without fear or regret or doubt. One forged in Strength - Strength of Body, Strength of Mind, Strength of Soul, Strength of Will. Trained in the sciences - natural, social, physical, occult. One who, by their very nature, would be simply better. Stronger. Superior. The first of a coming breed.”

This is what I am. What I was made to be.

I make my way down the busy Philadelphia street, on my way to some cheap dive, the address clear in my mind's eye. The masses, the herd, jostle me left and right. One of them, a young man in his teens, earphones blaring, brushes against my shoulder. I turn, fix him with a stare. The blood drains from his face and he mumbles out an apology before backing off.

Week by week they rise, week by week they fall. First my return to the CWF, to the public eye after so many years away. There are those who know me and know to fear me, others who are learning that lesson anew. None of them know the truth.

And now to HSW. A fresh hunting grounds, fresh prey. Sole Survivor, a whirlwind of chaos and revenge and ambition, where loyalty goes to die. My sort of party.

Some are familiar. Maya Jensen, still blinded. My doing. Fumbling her way about in the world, desperate to succeed, scared of dropping out and being forgotten.

I remember it vividly even now (http://s6.zetaboards.com/CWF_Wrestling_Forums/topic/10024087/1/#new). The two of us head to head in a match at Evolution. At the last minute, when all eyes were off, my fingertips coated in a specially prepared compound, smeared in her eyes. Then the victory, and the attack in the aftermath. Her lying helpless, visionless. Her eyes streaming like tears that would never end, her body desperate to purge what was harming her as it ate away her sight.

Beautiful.

Yet now she has learned to fight, through sound,touch, instinct. This is her home territory. And she is no doubt out for revenge.

Let her seek it. To strike get down once was a pleasure; to do it twice, before the eyes of the world, would be a privilege.

Then there is the hoarde of rats from CWF, here eager to see their name writ large, to feed their sense of self importance as the big time cross promotional superstar. The ego trip to end all ego trips. Predictable and tedious. Valentine, the Moxleys. Ingrates and parasites all.

And then there is Amber.

The Bitch.

The thorn in my side back after all this time, crawling out like worms after rain, after the downpour I set in motion. Seven years ago we did battle in the Tower, one of the most brutal matches in history, an orgy of bloodshed and mayhem. Now, as I prepare to enter the Tower a second time, she has resurfaced like a particularly determined bout of gonorrhoea. And as she has entered CWF, so I enter HSW. Each the hunter, each the hunted.

Nothing was settled between us all those years ago, my thirst for her blood is as desperate as hers for mine. Poor Amber, sweet, precious Amber. The Bitch. How have the years been treating you, I wonder?

And HSW proper. Some talented, some worthless, all fuelled to bursting with their petty little dreams and ambitions and desires.

Even here, a few of them know my name. Kelsi Parr, self appointmented defender of HSW against outside invasion - so scared that competition from the outside world might expose the company’s pretensions to be the elite, the best of the best, as just so much hot air, a structure of lies built on sand.

She saw what I did to Maya, the image burned in her mind forever more. She knows to fear me, yet in truth, she knows nothing.

Soon.

There are those for whom this match is their debut to the big time, others motivated by personal rivalries or lust for gold. I study them as a scientist studies rats - lower specimens to be examined, tested upon, meddled with for research or simple curiosity. Eventually to be gassed, their bodies thrown in the trash with the rest to rot in the midday sun.

I am here because I choose to be.

I am here to indulge myself.

I am here to set brother against brother, sister against sister.

I am here for blood.

I am -

I am here.




I enter. The pretentious wailings of some dire local musical outfit assault my ears like a skewer heated to a hundred degrees. The walls are awash with artwork that looks like Picasso's dog ate his paints and shit out a travesty. The customers are young, trendy, with the odd fifty-something old man staring lecherously at the college students with their midriff tops and complicated views on Marxism.

I spot him by the bar. The one person in this Sole Survivor spectacle who does not deserve contempt.


Elisha: You wanted to meet with me, Jaiden?

He smiles.

Jaiden: Indeed I do, Elisha. We have much to discuss ahead of this Sole Survivor match. HSW will crumble at our feet. They have no idea what’s about to hit them.

I nod, fix the bartender with a certain look. She comes over quickly, expression distressed.

Bartender: Everything okay?

Elisha: A bottle of whiskey. Two glasses.

Pause. What is it…

Elisha: Thank you.

I nod. She reaches behind the bar, takes out a bottle and two glasses, hands them over. I slip a hand into Jaiden's pocket, withdraw wallet and money, pay. He glances at me a moment, then at the bottle, mouths the word thanks. My pleasure, Mr Rishel. Believe me.

Bartender: Uh, just so you know. He's already had a few before you got here.

Elisha: As intended.

Bartender: What?

I shrug and she makes her way off down the bar to serve some indie rock fan with jeans so tight they risked cutting off circulation to his feet. Jaiden and I make our way to a table and take a seat. I pour two shots and we toast.

Jaiden: To the Eternals.

Elisha: To the Moonchild, and the Trinity.

Jaiden: To the CWF.

Elisha: And to burning HSW to the fucking ground.

Jaiden: Yes. But Paragon first. Amber Ryan's little pack of running dogs, who invaded (http://hswefed.forumotion.com/t35-hsw-paragon-invade-cwf-at-last-night-s-evolution#51) our show - MY fucking show, by birthright and by law - and blindsided us. Sole Survivor is just the beginning.

He downs his drink.

Jaiden: I'm not going to be humiliated, Elisha. Not by Paragon, not by anyone in HSW, and definitely not by that obnoxious prick Jace Valentine. He's got a target on his back and the sooner he's neutralised the better. Fuck Valentine, fuck HSW, fuck…

He trails off.

Jaiden: I need a piss.

Jaiden leaves. In vino veritas, as they say. Whoever they might be.

Paragon are indeed an annoyance, the Bitch and friends having already fired the first shots. Yet they will not be the last. Vengeance is ours, in time. We do not lose.

The Frost Elite, too, out for revenge at the blinding of little Miss Jensen.

Yet there are still more, more with faces I have not seen, voices I have not heard. New bodies, fresh meat. There for the devouring.

I sip whiskey, smiling as the fluid passes through my body, warming, soothing. We are unbreakable. And at Sole Survivor, we will set HSW on fire.

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