Post by Valiant_ESQ on Apr 28, 2017 20:53:00 GMT
...so there are a few different methods I could employ to drag your focus into my current situation.
I could do that thing where I seem to be talking about someone or something unrelated at first, only to sharply turn back to relevance: Dennis Englehart is 37 years old. Born in Idaho. Caucasian. Hair in a buzzcut because that's what the Marines drilled into him. Before moving to a company-owned apartment, he lived with his brother Owen and their border collie Snaggles. And I expect I'll be getting in touch with them soon, because Dennis' face is peeling away from his skull in front of me, owing to the two-inch bullet hole punched through both.
Or maybe go into unnecessary detail about the texture of this precise moment: It's snowing in April, indoors. It's actually plaster fragments dancing through the thick, dusty air, dancing on the updraft from fresh fires. The dust gets in my eye, and I blink, forcing rivulets of hot, fresh blood to run down the perfect contours of my face. Not my blood, but the violent ejecta of exit wounds from the rapidly cooling corpse slumped before me, its lifeless fingers still clutching its own weapon...
Or, hey, there's always time for a joke: Look, let's not pretend this is the first time I've found myself laid out with a man's juices on my face. Nailed it!
But all of that is just deflecting from the unfortunate reality that I'm mentally reeling, can barely move, and there's a man pressing a knife against my back -
"No funny ideas, whore. The Council wants you alive but my loyalty's pretty flexible."
- a man I know isn't joking when he talks like that. It is...just possible I am way in above my head here.
Let's throw it back a few hours while I think up an escape plan.
My faith in that slob Israel's detective skills wasn't misplaced after all; he was right about Melanie's abductor escaping through the window, and while I was busy embarrassing myself on TV again he followed up the trail through municipal CCTV logs. Unfortunately for him, the trail ended with the perp driving into a McDonald's car park, which got him stonewalled on account of it being private property.
Fortunately for me, that's not the kind of law I take seriously.
"'Because the five-oh don't touch the one-percent, right'?"
Heh.
"...what was that, ma'am?"
Woops.
"Nothing. Just...something a missing friend would say if she was here. Then I'd tell her to shut up. It's a whole thing we did."
"Well, that...sounds - "
"Don't even try to replace her, that's well beyond your abilities. Just stick to what you're good at."
What Dennis and the four other men like him bundled into this Hummer are 'good at' amounts to very little beyond guns and intimidating body language, but I think we'll get by.
Bang on cue, we've arrived. The noisy boys barrel out with practised ease; I wait until they're gone before following, slipping on a pair of aviators as I go. Considered a disguise - I'm not looking forward to this. Being in a fast food chain, I mean. The spy-game skullduggery I can handle, but the smell of fryer oil makes me dry heave. Mouth breathing only after I'm inside (but try not to be too obvious) (makes you look like a goldfish) (not sexy).
The stench isn't the only thing I'm trying to avoid - there's also the stares. Understandable. It's normal business hours for this place, some folks are out for an early lunch break or whatever, last thing you need is to get interpellata sagina by armed goons and the hottest pair of legs in town -
"Stop staring, asshole!"
- especially when you brought your girlfriend along. Ouch. The staff are frozen stock-still, except for one short balding fatso I take to be the duty manager, approaching me - he dares? - with a bundle of cash. Oh, please.
"C'mon, do I look like I need any more money? No, what I need is a look through your computers, and yes, I'm sure there's a proper procedure for that, but it involves attorneys, and I had all of mine poisoned for telling me things I didn't like. So we do it my way, which is faster. Boys, a demonstration please?"
Turns out kicking down doors can also be added to their 'good at this' list. The frame around the lock splinters under a thick boot and the door slams into the wall behind with a satisfying thud. That gets us into the employees' area, and after leaving Mr. Duty Manager trembling in his now piss-filled boots, it's a short walk and another door down to find the unoccupied monitor room. Now it's up to my little USB doohickey here - technical term - which releases a tapeworm program, frauds its way past user authentication and dredges up all video for the specific time period I want. Yeah, it's basically sci-fi, and I love it.
It's only once the device is plugged in that the thought occurs to me: the perp, the Council, they could've wiped all the footage long before now. Or doctored it to hide their presence. These people aren't stupid - hell, the only reason the footage might still tell me something is if they want to be found. Which means I'm just playing their game, and Melanie is getting no closer...
But, I've come this far. If nothing else it might help to know what the bait looks like before trying to avoid the trap.
"Let's get a good look at you, you secretary-stealing, grey hair causing bastards."
The feed comes up promptly. It's at such an inconvenient angle I worry that perhaps I'll miss the inevitable exchange. My pulse quickens as a beige Chevy arrives, which circles the area before parking twenty metres shy of the camera. The driver steps out, wearing an expensive-looking pale suit, keeping his back turned the whole time. He wore that for a high-rise kidnapping? Weird.
Somewhere in that car, at this - at that moment, is Melanie. Was. And here I am just...just touching a computer screen like I can somehow pull her back here through it.
Blinking a sudden stinging sensation out of my eye - must be a loose lash - I fold my arms and start watching the timer in the corner of the screen count on. Five minutes and nothing, just the perp chaining onto another cig. Ten minutes, nothing. Get on with it...
Pins and needles are creeping up and down both my calves before fresh activity catches my eye - an unmarked van driving into view. The kidnapper waves at it, its lights briefly flash back in response, and - and it keeps driving until it's around the corner of the wall, out of sight.
"God dammit!"
And - yep, there goes the kidnapper, pulling Melanie out of the car and dragging her around to his unseen accomplices. I almost convince myself I hear the van pull away, despite the feed being totally mute. Well. That's it, I suppose. Dead end. Could barely see the van's license plate, definitely didn't see where it went - could go back to checking street cameras, I suppose, since we've got time of departure, but how long until it slips away from the city into a less monitored area? Fuck. Fuck!
And then. And then.
I almost remove the tapeworm gizmo too early to catch it, but after the van's gone, the kidnapper comes back to his car, and in the soft illumination from a drive-through menu sign I get a good look at his face. His familiar face.
"Oh, Goichi, you stupid, stupid son of a bitch."
I yank the gizmo. This is all the detail I need.
Goichi Takada is my brother-in-law. Well, ex brother-in-law now. And he is everything that my former husband wasn't.
While Jun was kind, efficient and tidy to a neurotic degree, Goichi is cruel, excessive (in both violence and luxury, not that I'm one to talk) and leaves a mess in his wake more suited to a surly teenager. While Jun escaped the ruins of a family tragedy to seek education in the west, eventually leading him through Yale and into my office, Goichi joined the Yakuza, at least until he got kicked out. Also, Jun always wore black and Goichi favours white. Because symbolism, probably.
Anyway, after that, Goichi finally made it to America and began to feed off Jun's bottomless wellspring of charity. This meant he was practically living with us, and boy, did he ever hate me right from the word 'go'. No idea why, I'm lovely in all respects -
You shut the fuck up.
- but Goichi never saw the light. His wedding gift to us was a coffee machine, which is of course the perfect "I remembered your happy day enough to do something about it but not enough to pretend I gave a shit" gift. When I offered him a cushy job in my security department he laughed in my face...although a look at the company financial records a few weeks later confirmed that he was willing to take my money. Just not in front of me.
He's a prick, is what I'm saying. And now he might well be the first positively-identified Shadow Council operative I've yet encountered. Most of them, as the name implies, are very good at remaining hidden, leaving only enough traces to confirm they exist...but like I said, Goichi is messy. Of course he'd slip up, and now I get to rub it in his face.
That singular goal - burn the bastard - floods through me like seawater, a cold rush that wipes out everything else. So I'm not really there when the boys finally figure out the sat-nav long enough to actually reach the old home we all shared once upon a merrier time. Not until one of the men - Dennis - checks the en-suite and a pistol shot splashes me with his brain juice. And when the rest of the team draw their weapons, the wall behind them explodes, and we all go tumbling down and, yeah, Goichi isn't as dumb as I thought.
That about brings us up to date, just as I'm pulled upright and shoved into a wall, left facing Goichi. There's sweat on his face, dust on his suit - it was white - and his fringe has flopped down over his eyes uninvited, but still full of confidence and spite. The knife he toys with in one hand is nearly a foot long and wickedly curved - so I'm just going to ignore it and focus on its douchey owner.
"Well, hah, fancy meeting you here, jackass. Y'know we sold this place off? Kinda figured it'd be reoccupied by now, or at least clean."
"It's mine. Needed somewhere to rest, an' wanted to be reminded of the good times."
"'Good times'?"
"Not-homeless times. Good enough. Turn out your pockets."
"Or what?"
Firelight glitters like Swarovski crystals on the edge of the thing I was trying to ignore, thanks.
"Think it's pretty fuckin' obvious what."
Honestly, right now? Back to a wall, unarmed, exhausted, it's pretty tricky to act unfazedhere. Luckily, I'm always good at bullshitting.
"Disagree. I know who you're working for, Goichi - hell, you blurted it out yourself about a minute ago."
His cheek twitches just there. Sloppy.
"And I know the Shadow Council don't want me dead, they just want me docile. Anyway, congratulations, I'm hurting, and you can tell your handler that I've learned my lesson and won't go following any more of their delivery boys home. Okay?"
I...may have slipped too much snark into that one. He's open-mouth snarling at me now - and just stepped a whole lot closer.
Very difficult to ignore that blade when it's barely an inch from your face.
"Not good enough. Kill or no kill, I aim to leave here tonight with a little piece of you for a memento. Now: turn. Out. Your. Pockets. I know your old tricks."
Don't actually have any tricks left to dispose of - but, knife, so. Away goes the purse, the phone, and that's....what's...oh, the computer gizmo -
With a USB cable on it.
Plan = forming.
"Hold on, it's...I swear, this pocket's not big enough..."
I make a point of holding the device by the cable and snake it out slowly. It's just enough to distract him.
"Quit screwing around and just drop it already."
"I'm trying, it's just - a bit - stuck - "
And here's where I move and pray I didn't misjudge the distances.
With a flex of my shoulder, I pull the gizmo out of my pocket and swing it in one motion. It catches Goichi right on his nose, and he falls - but something goes wrong. It doesn't connect at first, but a moment later I realize I
can't
fucking
SEE
out my left eye.
"You motherFUCKAAAH!"
Oh god I'm a fucking cyclops now and he punched me in the knee, falling, what do I do what -
Scream, I scream because the bastard gets one hand around my throat, and he's still got the knife - I raise a hand to stop his arm as the blade gets close, but he's stronger than I am now and need to use both arms just to hold on, c'mon woman think, there has to be something but there's nothing, just the still-burning pieces of the wall - ahah!
His arm doesn't want to move willingly. So I roll to my right and move him with me, and it gives me just enough range to push his hand down and into the flame.
The knife falling from his fingers is a relief. But the shriek is a pleasure. His chokehold falls away and I crawl free - and pick up the knife.
I could kill him. I should kill him. But I need him to talk, so I settle for clumsily pinning one hand to the opposite shoulder with the knife. It's enough to make him pass out.
I'm just able to send an emergency text before I collapse on my butt and begin to giggle uncontrollably.
When the relief team finds me half an hour later, I'm still laughing.
Man...after all that, I could really use an easy week at Phoenix.
Kidding! I'm in the main event and I love it. If Seth Black means to punish me - well, no, that's not fair. It wasn't his choice, was it?
Oh, Cassius, my king. My poor, beautiful fool. This didn't have to happen, you realize. You won! You quite rightly took advantage of my lingering apathy and clumsy attempts at rulebreaking, and defeated me. By rights, that should've been the end of the matter, you'd move onto greater glories, and I'd go crawling back down to mediocre opposition while the powers-that-be gloat at my expense.
But, you chose...mercy? Is that what you were going for? Honour? Because, to me, giving a beaten enemy another shot at your valuables doesn't sound like either of those.
It just sounds dumb.
Crediting you with some intelligence, though - maybe you wanted an easy night at Tempest. I can understand that. The Iron King wasn't easy for anyone, especially you, champ. So why take the chance on management throwing you up against a real mean machine? Nah, tell 'em you'll pick at the leftovers of the defeated and act like you're doing them a favour, rather than yourself. Makes sense.
But it's still dumb.
It's dumb because you didn't hurt me hard enough to really break my resolve. It's dumb because you already know I'm a cheat, and you're left to simply hope that the many insane rules of this sport don't bend in my favour this time. But most of all, Cassius, it's dumb because you're the champion. Hell, champion AND king. If success be thy food, you are well fattened indeed.
And I'm starving.
You don't know the hunger that gnaws at me, Cassius. Maybe you did once, but not now. It's like a black hole in my chest, and however much it hurts me - and fucking hell it's agony - the resolve it takes to just hold on against the gravity of depression gives me a strength that can't be measured. Show me a lifeline, a way to finally move beyond the event horizon, and it grows stronger still.
For you, retaining that belt is just a pat on the back, Cassius. You've already slaked your thirst for conquest - a little more here is nice, but it's a want, not a need. For me, the Rebirth title is...very aptly named, as it happens. It's the end of the nightmare that's been my time in Phoenix to date, and a better tomorrow beyond. Without it, there is nothing left for me but the black hole and I will not be consumed by myself anymore.
When we're all done talking and showing off, and back in the ring, don't look to my...physical frailties and expect to find reassurance, Cassius. Look instead into my one good eye, into my soul, and see the black hole tearing away inside. You will find its gravity enough to pull even the mightiest king down to his knees.
You could win at Tempest...
...but I can't lose.
Final tally: 2,868 words (not counting this bit)
I could do that thing where I seem to be talking about someone or something unrelated at first, only to sharply turn back to relevance: Dennis Englehart is 37 years old. Born in Idaho. Caucasian. Hair in a buzzcut because that's what the Marines drilled into him. Before moving to a company-owned apartment, he lived with his brother Owen and their border collie Snaggles. And I expect I'll be getting in touch with them soon, because Dennis' face is peeling away from his skull in front of me, owing to the two-inch bullet hole punched through both.
Or maybe go into unnecessary detail about the texture of this precise moment: It's snowing in April, indoors. It's actually plaster fragments dancing through the thick, dusty air, dancing on the updraft from fresh fires. The dust gets in my eye, and I blink, forcing rivulets of hot, fresh blood to run down the perfect contours of my face. Not my blood, but the violent ejecta of exit wounds from the rapidly cooling corpse slumped before me, its lifeless fingers still clutching its own weapon...
Or, hey, there's always time for a joke: Look, let's not pretend this is the first time I've found myself laid out with a man's juices on my face. Nailed it!
But all of that is just deflecting from the unfortunate reality that I'm mentally reeling, can barely move, and there's a man pressing a knife against my back -
"No funny ideas, whore. The Council wants you alive but my loyalty's pretty flexible."
- a man I know isn't joking when he talks like that. It is...just possible I am way in above my head here.
Let's throw it back a few hours while I think up an escape plan.
~V~
My faith in that slob Israel's detective skills wasn't misplaced after all; he was right about Melanie's abductor escaping through the window, and while I was busy embarrassing myself on TV again he followed up the trail through municipal CCTV logs. Unfortunately for him, the trail ended with the perp driving into a McDonald's car park, which got him stonewalled on account of it being private property.
Fortunately for me, that's not the kind of law I take seriously.
"'Because the five-oh don't touch the one-percent, right'?"
Heh.
"...what was that, ma'am?"
Woops.
"Nothing. Just...something a missing friend would say if she was here. Then I'd tell her to shut up. It's a whole thing we did."
"Well, that...sounds - "
"Don't even try to replace her, that's well beyond your abilities. Just stick to what you're good at."
What Dennis and the four other men like him bundled into this Hummer are 'good at' amounts to very little beyond guns and intimidating body language, but I think we'll get by.
Bang on cue, we've arrived. The noisy boys barrel out with practised ease; I wait until they're gone before following, slipping on a pair of aviators as I go. Considered a disguise - I'm not looking forward to this. Being in a fast food chain, I mean. The spy-game skullduggery I can handle, but the smell of fryer oil makes me dry heave. Mouth breathing only after I'm inside (but try not to be too obvious) (makes you look like a goldfish) (not sexy).
The stench isn't the only thing I'm trying to avoid - there's also the stares. Understandable. It's normal business hours for this place, some folks are out for an early lunch break or whatever, last thing you need is to get interpellata sagina by armed goons and the hottest pair of legs in town -
"Stop staring, asshole!"
- especially when you brought your girlfriend along. Ouch. The staff are frozen stock-still, except for one short balding fatso I take to be the duty manager, approaching me - he dares? - with a bundle of cash. Oh, please.
"C'mon, do I look like I need any more money? No, what I need is a look through your computers, and yes, I'm sure there's a proper procedure for that, but it involves attorneys, and I had all of mine poisoned for telling me things I didn't like. So we do it my way, which is faster. Boys, a demonstration please?"
Turns out kicking down doors can also be added to their 'good at this' list. The frame around the lock splinters under a thick boot and the door slams into the wall behind with a satisfying thud. That gets us into the employees' area, and after leaving Mr. Duty Manager trembling in his now piss-filled boots, it's a short walk and another door down to find the unoccupied monitor room. Now it's up to my little USB doohickey here - technical term - which releases a tapeworm program, frauds its way past user authentication and dredges up all video for the specific time period I want. Yeah, it's basically sci-fi, and I love it.
It's only once the device is plugged in that the thought occurs to me: the perp, the Council, they could've wiped all the footage long before now. Or doctored it to hide their presence. These people aren't stupid - hell, the only reason the footage might still tell me something is if they want to be found. Which means I'm just playing their game, and Melanie is getting no closer...
But, I've come this far. If nothing else it might help to know what the bait looks like before trying to avoid the trap.
"Let's get a good look at you, you secretary-stealing, grey hair causing bastards."
The feed comes up promptly. It's at such an inconvenient angle I worry that perhaps I'll miss the inevitable exchange. My pulse quickens as a beige Chevy arrives, which circles the area before parking twenty metres shy of the camera. The driver steps out, wearing an expensive-looking pale suit, keeping his back turned the whole time. He wore that for a high-rise kidnapping? Weird.
Somewhere in that car, at this - at that moment, is Melanie. Was. And here I am just...just touching a computer screen like I can somehow pull her back here through it.
Blinking a sudden stinging sensation out of my eye - must be a loose lash - I fold my arms and start watching the timer in the corner of the screen count on. Five minutes and nothing, just the perp chaining onto another cig. Ten minutes, nothing. Get on with it...
Pins and needles are creeping up and down both my calves before fresh activity catches my eye - an unmarked van driving into view. The kidnapper waves at it, its lights briefly flash back in response, and - and it keeps driving until it's around the corner of the wall, out of sight.
"God dammit!"
And - yep, there goes the kidnapper, pulling Melanie out of the car and dragging her around to his unseen accomplices. I almost convince myself I hear the van pull away, despite the feed being totally mute. Well. That's it, I suppose. Dead end. Could barely see the van's license plate, definitely didn't see where it went - could go back to checking street cameras, I suppose, since we've got time of departure, but how long until it slips away from the city into a less monitored area? Fuck. Fuck!
And then. And then.
I almost remove the tapeworm gizmo too early to catch it, but after the van's gone, the kidnapper comes back to his car, and in the soft illumination from a drive-through menu sign I get a good look at his face. His familiar face.
"Oh, Goichi, you stupid, stupid son of a bitch."
I yank the gizmo. This is all the detail I need.
~V~
Goichi Takada is my brother-in-law. Well, ex brother-in-law now. And he is everything that my former husband wasn't.
While Jun was kind, efficient and tidy to a neurotic degree, Goichi is cruel, excessive (in both violence and luxury, not that I'm one to talk) and leaves a mess in his wake more suited to a surly teenager. While Jun escaped the ruins of a family tragedy to seek education in the west, eventually leading him through Yale and into my office, Goichi joined the Yakuza, at least until he got kicked out. Also, Jun always wore black and Goichi favours white. Because symbolism, probably.
Anyway, after that, Goichi finally made it to America and began to feed off Jun's bottomless wellspring of charity. This meant he was practically living with us, and boy, did he ever hate me right from the word 'go'. No idea why, I'm lovely in all respects -
You shut the fuck up.
- but Goichi never saw the light. His wedding gift to us was a coffee machine, which is of course the perfect "I remembered your happy day enough to do something about it but not enough to pretend I gave a shit" gift. When I offered him a cushy job in my security department he laughed in my face...although a look at the company financial records a few weeks later confirmed that he was willing to take my money. Just not in front of me.
He's a prick, is what I'm saying. And now he might well be the first positively-identified Shadow Council operative I've yet encountered. Most of them, as the name implies, are very good at remaining hidden, leaving only enough traces to confirm they exist...but like I said, Goichi is messy. Of course he'd slip up, and now I get to rub it in his face.
That singular goal - burn the bastard - floods through me like seawater, a cold rush that wipes out everything else. So I'm not really there when the boys finally figure out the sat-nav long enough to actually reach the old home we all shared once upon a merrier time. Not until one of the men - Dennis - checks the en-suite and a pistol shot splashes me with his brain juice. And when the rest of the team draw their weapons, the wall behind them explodes, and we all go tumbling down and, yeah, Goichi isn't as dumb as I thought.
~V~
That about brings us up to date, just as I'm pulled upright and shoved into a wall, left facing Goichi. There's sweat on his face, dust on his suit - it was white - and his fringe has flopped down over his eyes uninvited, but still full of confidence and spite. The knife he toys with in one hand is nearly a foot long and wickedly curved - so I'm just going to ignore it and focus on its douchey owner.
"Well, hah, fancy meeting you here, jackass. Y'know we sold this place off? Kinda figured it'd be reoccupied by now, or at least clean."
"It's mine. Needed somewhere to rest, an' wanted to be reminded of the good times."
"'Good times'?"
"Not-homeless times. Good enough. Turn out your pockets."
"Or what?"
Firelight glitters like Swarovski crystals on the edge of the thing I was trying to ignore, thanks.
"Think it's pretty fuckin' obvious what."
Honestly, right now? Back to a wall, unarmed, exhausted, it's pretty tricky to act unfazedhere. Luckily, I'm always good at bullshitting.
"Disagree. I know who you're working for, Goichi - hell, you blurted it out yourself about a minute ago."
His cheek twitches just there. Sloppy.
"And I know the Shadow Council don't want me dead, they just want me docile. Anyway, congratulations, I'm hurting, and you can tell your handler that I've learned my lesson and won't go following any more of their delivery boys home. Okay?"
I...may have slipped too much snark into that one. He's open-mouth snarling at me now - and just stepped a whole lot closer.
Very difficult to ignore that blade when it's barely an inch from your face.
"Not good enough. Kill or no kill, I aim to leave here tonight with a little piece of you for a memento. Now: turn. Out. Your. Pockets. I know your old tricks."
Don't actually have any tricks left to dispose of - but, knife, so. Away goes the purse, the phone, and that's....what's...oh, the computer gizmo -
With a USB cable on it.
Plan = forming.
"Hold on, it's...I swear, this pocket's not big enough..."
I make a point of holding the device by the cable and snake it out slowly. It's just enough to distract him.
"Quit screwing around and just drop it already."
"I'm trying, it's just - a bit - stuck - "
And here's where I move and pray I didn't misjudge the distances.
With a flex of my shoulder, I pull the gizmo out of my pocket and swing it in one motion. It catches Goichi right on his nose, and he falls - but something goes wrong. It doesn't connect at first, but a moment later I realize I
can't
fucking
SEE
out my left eye.
"You motherFUCKAAAH!"
Oh god I'm a fucking cyclops now and he punched me in the knee, falling, what do I do what -
Scream, I scream because the bastard gets one hand around my throat, and he's still got the knife - I raise a hand to stop his arm as the blade gets close, but he's stronger than I am now and need to use both arms just to hold on, c'mon woman think, there has to be something but there's nothing, just the still-burning pieces of the wall - ahah!
His arm doesn't want to move willingly. So I roll to my right and move him with me, and it gives me just enough range to push his hand down and into the flame.
The knife falling from his fingers is a relief. But the shriek is a pleasure. His chokehold falls away and I crawl free - and pick up the knife.
I could kill him. I should kill him. But I need him to talk, so I settle for clumsily pinning one hand to the opposite shoulder with the knife. It's enough to make him pass out.
I'm just able to send an emergency text before I collapse on my butt and begin to giggle uncontrollably.
When the relief team finds me half an hour later, I'm still laughing.
~V~
Man...after all that, I could really use an easy week at Phoenix.
Kidding! I'm in the main event and I love it. If Seth Black means to punish me - well, no, that's not fair. It wasn't his choice, was it?
Oh, Cassius, my king. My poor, beautiful fool. This didn't have to happen, you realize. You won! You quite rightly took advantage of my lingering apathy and clumsy attempts at rulebreaking, and defeated me. By rights, that should've been the end of the matter, you'd move onto greater glories, and I'd go crawling back down to mediocre opposition while the powers-that-be gloat at my expense.
But, you chose...mercy? Is that what you were going for? Honour? Because, to me, giving a beaten enemy another shot at your valuables doesn't sound like either of those.
It just sounds dumb.
Crediting you with some intelligence, though - maybe you wanted an easy night at Tempest. I can understand that. The Iron King wasn't easy for anyone, especially you, champ. So why take the chance on management throwing you up against a real mean machine? Nah, tell 'em you'll pick at the leftovers of the defeated and act like you're doing them a favour, rather than yourself. Makes sense.
But it's still dumb.
It's dumb because you didn't hurt me hard enough to really break my resolve. It's dumb because you already know I'm a cheat, and you're left to simply hope that the many insane rules of this sport don't bend in my favour this time. But most of all, Cassius, it's dumb because you're the champion. Hell, champion AND king. If success be thy food, you are well fattened indeed.
And I'm starving.
You don't know the hunger that gnaws at me, Cassius. Maybe you did once, but not now. It's like a black hole in my chest, and however much it hurts me - and fucking hell it's agony - the resolve it takes to just hold on against the gravity of depression gives me a strength that can't be measured. Show me a lifeline, a way to finally move beyond the event horizon, and it grows stronger still.
For you, retaining that belt is just a pat on the back, Cassius. You've already slaked your thirst for conquest - a little more here is nice, but it's a want, not a need. For me, the Rebirth title is...very aptly named, as it happens. It's the end of the nightmare that's been my time in Phoenix to date, and a better tomorrow beyond. Without it, there is nothing left for me but the black hole and I will not be consumed by myself anymore.
When we're all done talking and showing off, and back in the ring, don't look to my...physical frailties and expect to find reassurance, Cassius. Look instead into my one good eye, into my soul, and see the black hole tearing away inside. You will find its gravity enough to pull even the mightiest king down to his knees.
You could win at Tempest...
...but I can't lose.
~V~
Final tally: 2,868 words (not counting this bit)