|
|
|
|
|
|
|
At the wheel, in a plain grey shirt and yellow tie, his suit jacket and baseball cap discarded on the back seats, is Stevie Sol, looking bruised and battered from the violent assault in Talon�s tower. Had Eliza not rushed in on the attack, these minor injuries may not have been so slight. Despite a cut across one eyelid, Stevie remains concentrated on the road. This concentration is not mimicked by his passenger, the blonde-haired pro wrestler in tartan longshorts and sunshades, the NLW Tag Team Champion, The Jackrabbit. The Unorthodox One looks thoroughly bored, tired of these long journeys, their necessity holding no baring on him. It has been many days since his reinvigorating defeat of Nirvana, and many long days have followed spent cooped up inside Stevie�s Cinquecento, his new accomplice his only companion, and his Nintendo DS his only entertainment. He is restless now though, as like so many others before him, he has found out the hard way that there�s only so many times you can play fetch with a virtual Nintendog.
THE JACKRABBIT: �But I wanna stop! I wanna go run around and play Frisbee or summat! I wanna stop! I wanna stop! I wanna stop! I wann-�
STEVIE SOL: �We can�t stop, �Rabbit, how many times do you need telling? Radnik is out there, tracking us... hunting us... and if he catches us, you can say goodbye to all your Frisbees and video games... you can say goodbye to NLW and your Tag Team title reign... Radnik will have you locked right back up for prodding and poking, man, and he�ll reduce you to the husk you were before I sprung you from his cell.�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Oh...... that�s fine, you can just spring me again, Stevieo!�
STEVIE SOL: �Nah, �Rabbit... if he catches you again, he won�t be making the same mistakes as last time. Trust me, it�s better for both of us if we keep movin.� I�m not going to let him take you, I�m not gonna let you down. I�m going to do something... I�m going to be of some worth.�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Hmmmm... Hmpf... that�s nice, but can�t we just go back to Tal�s tower, it was betterer there... slightly...�
STEVIE SOL: �I don�t wanna go back there... Not after that attack by... whatever the hell they were... And besides... Something was going on in there, that I can�t quite put my finger on...�
The camera begins to swirl, losing all colour momentarily, the black and white gauze beginning to blur vision, as the now pallid Cinquecento begins to disappear in place of times already past. There is a dark tower, rising out of the indelible wasteland, days before this time. This monolith was refuge to the two weary travellers, a haven from a pursuing foe. Inside the dark tower, home of the Enigma, the camera now focuses on a single man, Steven Sol, clad this time in his full suit, tie and cap attire, looking less-than-relaxed on an ancient bed with a sprawling oaken frame in one of many guest rooms in this place. Stevie Sol looks frustrated as he hammers away at his laptop computer.
STEVIE SOL: �Damnit... What the hell type of place hasn�t got internet access...?�
Involved so heavily in his problems, Stevie Sol is entirely unaware of the dark figure in the doorway, obscured by the corner of the doorframe, his broad shoulders cowled by a long, black cloak, his piercing eyes staring down the preoccupied hacker. There is a cold, penetrating look in the eyes of the Enigma that is Talon. Freed now of the mental shackles imposed on him by the intrusive Cult of Apocalypse, the hunted turned hunter now imposes his own will, probing immediately into the conscious of the innocent and unaware.
The camera blurs and audible is a low screeching, resounding off imaginary walls, reverberating in endless space, resonating amongst a clutter of smooth, silver orbs. These orbs, hovering peacefully, calmly, are of one of calm disposition, one unperturbed by the stresses and strains of his past and present position. We fall into the first.
The room of a young Stevie Sol is not entirely different to that of the older incarnation, a technology paradise cluttered into a unfitting confined space. The remnants of half a decade of gadgetry lie scattered around what could vaguely be used as a bed, a duvet half-littered with wires and cables. In a swivelling chair, not much unlike the one currently occupying a hut in the middle of nowhere, sits a young man with matted brown hair, a yellow T-shirt and baggy cargos. He is ignoring the sounds of some distant argument elsewhere in his home, instead heavily engrossed in his computer monitor, its width taking up the best part of his desk, and the white commands running through his DOS window. With a few keystrokes, Stevie turns the block of text to a more personal yellow.
The air ripples, the memory flecked with age, but soon corrects itself as the young Stevie chews on a potato chip from a packet beside his speaker. As he does this, the door to his room is thrown open forcefully, and a large figure bounds in. The man�s face physically resembles what Stevie will one day grow to be, but his build is much larger, the product of a lot of training, tight beneath a grey T-shirt reading �Sol Boxers Facility.� The man, seemingly Stevie�s father, glowers at him across the room, his bellowing voice echoing around the recollection.
ALAN SOL: �Steven, downstairs now, your fuckin� mother�s dishing the food.�
YOUNG STEVIE: �Alright, dad, I just gotta finish up this string...�
ALAN SOL: �No, you�ll get your ass downstairs right now!�
YOUNG STEVIE: �Dad, please, I�ll lose the whole set, it doesn�t have a pause y�know?�
ALAN SOL: �Don�t you talk to me like that! I don�t give a damn about your stupid computer games..-�
YOUNG STEVIE: �It�s not a computer game, dad, it�s an algorithm I�ve been working on, it allows users to bypass the...-�
ALAN SOL: �Don�t get smart with me, Steven. When I was your age you didn�t see me playing with stupid toys, I was out training every morning until six o�clock every night.�
YOUNG STEVIE: �Yeah I know, but dad...�
ALAN SOL: �But nothing! Do you think I got so far in my career by sitting around in a ... pit like this? No. I worked, Steven, I pushed and pushed. Where have you got? I bet you couldn�t even throw a punch! You�re a lazy good-for-nothing, you must have got that from your mother�s side. And sitting around day in day out, you�ll end up like that uncle of yours, a nobody.�
YOUNG STEVIE: �Dad, I...�
ALAN SOL: �You let me down, boy. You watch, you�ll amount to nothing, Steven, nothing at all. You�re worthless...�
The young Stevie just stares on at his father now, entirely lost for words at this latest outburst. Behind him, an error message informs him that the delay in response has caused a restart in the algorithm, but Stevie is oblivious to this as he father just shakes his head and turns around.
ALAN SOL: �Downstairs.�
The scene begins to swirl, the memory falling back into regression within the confines of a liquid quicksilver globe, the silver orb from which the Enigma pulled his harrowing recollection. Soon it is lost amongst its many identical counterparts, the stream of spheres rushing past until another is plucked, its surface rippling, granting access. We fall into the second.
The scene is afresh, the clutter of Stevie�s bedroom forgotten in place of a car park that leads on to a large complex building, its high segmented office blocks rising in sections, suspended walkways leading between each. It is at the base of one of these blocks that Stevie Sol is seen, still in his younger carnation, clad in a similar-looking yellow T-shirt and a pair of old denim jeans. A laptop bag is thrown over his shoulder, and he approaches the door. On the door is a telling sign, just readable in this memory. �Building deemed unsafe, do not enter without permit.� Stevie ignores the sign entirely, though he gives a nervous glance over his shoulder before pushing open the rusted door and entering the abandoned complex.
The interior of the building is spacious and empty, clearly derelict for some time now, the only remnants being discarded, unwanted office items from former employees here. Biting his lip, Stevie walks slowly, cautiously, around the complex, seeking something he deems a suitable space. Pushing open a slightly ajar door, Stevie peers in to find an office that had clearly been well-kept in its days of use, and thoroughly cleaned out before its desertion. Quietly he enters the room, and settles himself down on an old chair. Placing his laptop, ancient and blocky compared to his modern equivalent, onto the dusty desk, he opens it up and takes just a moment to re-assess his prohibited residence. His command screen blinks to life; with a few keystrokes, Stevie turns the block of white text to a more personal yellow. Here he will not be judged and disturbed, here in his isolation he will not be condemned for his choices.
YOUNG STEVIE: �Freedom.�
The surface bubbles, the abandoned complex becoming lost in an instant, and the scene is returned at once to the guestroom within the dark tower, to the older incarnation of Stevie Sol in the modern day, still unable to locate any wireless connectivity within the wilderness, and still unknown to him is the looming presence of the Enigma, Talon. Returned now from the depths of the psyche, Talon folds his arms over his cloaked chest, and lowers his head. He is startled, however, by the arrival of another man now tugging on his sleeve, behind him, and he quickly hurries the both of them out of the guestroom and into the constricted corridor.
TALON: �Jay.�
Sure enough, The Jackrabbit is attached to Talon�s sleeve, pulling and tugging and looking up at him through those ever-present sunshades.
THE JACKRABBIT: �Howdy-doody Talaroony! Watchya doin�?�
TALON: �Nothing of your concern, Jay.�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Why�s ya in Stevieo�s room?�
TALON: �To muse on thoughts of the nature of power - its forms and theories, its causes and effects, its--�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Ah, you were chillaxing, I see! Are you ready, Tal?�
TALON: �For what, Jay?�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Are you steady, Tal?�
TALON: �For what, Jay?�
THE JACKRABBIT: �To go go go to Turban-Ants!�
TALON: �I assume you mean Turbulence, my errant ally.�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Yesh, like I said! We get to play with them Texicans, Tal, them Southern Combfeets. See, I does pay attention, Tal! We did real good against them Oh-Dub-Ef lot, and I made quick�n�easy work of old Iguana... I�m rolling again, Tal, and you knows why I�m rolling? �Cos lately, I�ve been on fire! And when you�re on fire, Tal, there�s only one thing to do, and that�s stop drop and roll, don�tchya know? So now The Jackrabbit... that�s me!... is on fire and rollin, weeee! Hahahaaa!
But you and me, Tal, we gotta take this fire-rollin� and turn it into super-splendorific butt-kickery of Southern Combfeets, to get back at �em for all the beatings they been cheatingly putting on us, and all the harsh nasty things they been sayin� about Fusion, Tal. See, these Texicans have been goodness knows where, probsably off wrestlin� cows and drinkin� their Ribena shots, while Fusion have been wrestlin� every single show that old Sully has to offer, and then some! That really toots my horn, Tal, really toots my horn y�know? They come in �ere thinking they�re all bad bum, knocking us on our heads left right up down A B C start, shouting about gettin� shots at our Tag Team Champeenoships of the Wooooooorld, like they somehow deserve �em? Haahaaaaa! What did those two screwballs even do to deserve to wrestle with Talon and The Jackrabbit, let alone shoot at our belts? I�ll tell you what they done, Tal, I�ll tell you good and proper.
They licked Sully�s do-dahs.
His boots, I mean. Y�see, I figures the only way two random Texicans can go gettin� random shots at our random belts for some random reason, is if they went and did some little chores to get on Sully�s good books, so he�d give them this shot to try and ruin Fusion, and Explicit Content. Haaaa! See, I knows and you knows that Sully don�t like us. And Sully knows he don�t like us, and even all the �Rabbit Fans worldwide, and nationwide too!, they know that Sully don�t like us. He�ll do anything everything and something if he can, to strip us of our golds. Hahahaa! But you know what, Tal? He can go find all the Texicans he can, in fact, he can go find all the Australasians, all the Canadans, all the United Kingdomers, all the Mississipians.. any country he likes!... he can go find a team from every dumb country he knows, and he can throw �em into big paper viewing matches with us... and we�ll do what we always do... we�ll knock �em down and line �em up! Hahahaa! At the end of the day, or the beginning or the middle or the end, wherever Sully wants to put it really, the outcome is the same... Fusion always get The Last Laugh! Hahahahahahahaaaa!�
The Jackrabbit is in a fit of hysterics, laughter echoing down the corridor as Talon backs him slowly away from the guestroom in case Stevie Sol should hear them. The Unorthodox One looks thoroughly happy to have got his feelings off his chest, and Talon casts one final glance towards the guestroom, still preoccupied with his ponderings of the recollections he has witnessed.
The camera begins to swirl again, slowly returning the colour to the gauze of vision, as the pallid imprint of the long corridor and guestroom within the tower begin to dissipate in favour of the returning scene of a yellow Cinquecento on the open road. The sands stretch out, regaining their faded amber, a building in the distance rising up out of a shady car park. Within the speeding car, The Jackrabbit has finally relaxed, slumped down in his chair, his Nintendo DS lying atop his gold Tag Team Championship belt on his lap. Stevie Sol remains focused on driving beside him, a smile creeping to his lips as he sets eyes on their destination finally approaching.
THE JACKRABBIT: �Are... we... there... yet?�
STEVIE SOL: �That�s the sixteenth time now, �Rabbit... and as it happens, yes. We are.�
THE JACKRABBIT: �Ooooooooooh.�
The pair step out of the vehicle as Stevie brings it to a halt in the car park. The Jackrabbit, jumping onto the car roof for no apparent reason, looks in uncertainty at the abandoned complex before them, it�s segmented office blocks and elevated walkways jutting out from the darkness. Stepping forward briskly, Stevie pushes the creaking door, entirely ignoring the sign reading �Building deemed unsafe, do not enter without permit.� Looking around at the deserted offices, the entrance to the room he so long ago chose as his own seems untouched. Stevie has a homely smile on his face as he looks on the place that, for so long, was his hideout from a misunderstanding family.
STEVIE SOL: �Let me show you around...�
|
|
