Post by Damon Cross on Feb 3, 2021 13:30:21 GMT -8
”How would one term it when they move through life as if on auto-pilot, going through the motions without truly availing themselves of their God-given senses? Tunnel vision to some, seeing only the goal ahead, pushing aside all extraneous stimulus in order to give full, unadulterated attention to the endgame, often to the detriment of all else.
No, that isn’t it…”
Ticket Clerk: Boletos, por favor…
Dressed as he had been upon his arrival, in a stylish black suit sans tie and a crisp white shirt, sunglasses masking his eyes, Damon Cross produces an envelope from his jacket pocket and offers it to the tired clerk. She barely sweeps her eyes over the half-drawn materials in the paper sheath before passing it back, not even glancing at the monitor as Damon’s bags pass through. Not that there’s any contraband, of course, but… this really is just another day in the life for her. Chances are she doesn’t even recognize the man before her.
It’s just as well, Damon doesn’t want to be recognized. The aches and pains earned at Invasion, emphasized by his right arm being in a sling and some discoloration near his left eye, are clear. Standing at his side, already with her tickets in hand, is his fiancee, Danni Anderson. Even she, the queen of good vibes and one of the sweetest people on the planet, cannot muster much more than a faint upturn of bubblegum-pink petals, her attention constantly shifting back to Damon no matter where it turns. Her arm is linked with his every moment that it can be, a constant reminder that she is there for him. Damon is, naturally, thankful for this. Even if he isn’t showing it.
Ticket Clerk: Gracias. Disfruta tu vuelo.
Damon Cross: Gracias, señora.
His voice is practically monotone. Danni, gnawing at her lower lip, turns to the woman and likewise nods in gratitude, joining Damon in gathering their bags as they come through the other side of the conveyor. At this point, they had a little time to go before they could board and Damon angles toward the gift shop, blankly perusing the shelves for something, anything, to distract himself.
Danni Anderson: I’m going to get something to drink, baby. Would you like something?
Up on her toes, Danni kisses Damon’s cheek and moves off. Still blank of mood and expression, Damon pauses his perusal for a moment to bring his left fingertips to his cheek. Then he looks after Danni… and even with his eyes hidden his sadness is palpable.
”Dreams never happen on our own timelines. You also never know when you’re gonna wake up from them. I was World Heavyweight Champion for two weeks. Had one match as champion. Never made a single title defense. And then, just like that, pulling a trump card she’d been holding since before I had even signed a contract with NFW, Sativa Neveah pinched me. Hard. Several times. With a baseball bat. And a Sonic Screwdriver.”
A faint, dry, mirthless chuckle comes through the voice-over. Damon, turning back to the trinkets, postcards and other miscellany, resumes his time-consuming search for something, anything, that would trigger a moment of peace or inspiration. It is, unfortunately, a fruitless quest.
Congratulations, Sativa. I’m sure that’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? So there you go. Not for the reason you might be thinking of, but… congratulations. Truly.”
For what reason is something we are left to wonder about. As to the moment before our eyes, Damon has turned to a wooden rack. From it hangs many glass pieces, ornaments and what-not, some merely pretty or colorful, some with religious overtones. One piece in particular catches Damon’s eye, looking for all the world like a circular piece of a stained glass window, an angel and a devil depicted against the multicolored background, one in red, the other in black.
He stares at it for several long moments, the light from a window giving it an ethereal sparkle. After considering a bit longer, Damon takes it to the counter and places it down. The clerk, far more chipper than the woman taking tickets, smiles brightly at Damon.
Gift Shop Cashier: ¿Algo más, Señor?
Damon Cross: No gracias, señorita.
His downcast mood is either undetected or outright missed by the young woman, which Damon is thankful for inwardly. The transaction is completed and he walks out of the shop, taking a seat on the bench to wait for Danni. The well-wrapped ornament, for lack of a better term, is carefully placed in his carry on between some extra clothing, making sure it is safe on the trip home to Asheville. It is with some small comfort, Damon thinks, that he will be able to sleep in his own bed. Small, but welcome.
Danni exits the shop a few moments later, sipping on a bottle of authentic orange soda happily. She holds out a chilled bottle to Damon, filled with sweet mango nectar. He accepts it with the faintest of smiles, and twists the lid off with a satisfying pop sound. Taking a long draw of the contents, he exhales slowly. The cool, natural liquid is refreshing at least. Perhaps a hint of orange in there? He would have to check the bottle to be sure. But now isn’t the time. He rises, offering his arm to Danni, and the two of them continue on their way.
”As for you, Anton, I expected nothing less than your snide comments after the fact. A man of your standing, skills and power does not wear defeat well. I say that honestly, not as a way to razz you, though I have little doubt that you’ll take it otherwise. You said that you don’t make threats, but give options? Next time we clash, you’ll think twice before giving me a choice, perhaps make promises based upon that which you can control. You got to leave Invasion as champion, however, so you have that over me… loathe as I am to admit it.”
No doubt about that; Damon is clearly furious about being an ex-champion. Hell, they never got a chance to put his face up on the website before the title was back in the hands of the former, now three-time, champion. Hooray for procrastination for NFW’s webmaster.
”All is not lost, I suppose. The weekend did see me win ECWF’s Wartime Rumble at the World War 4 card. A guaranteed shot at their World Heavyweight Championship now resting in my hands. An opportunity, however, does not hold a candle to feeling the weight of a belt over your shoulder, your name engraved upon it. A chance is just that: a chance. No guarantees.
People are going to want to rail on me, not for losing, but for my reaction. To this self-serving look into the days after my short reign was ignominiously ended. Especially those who count themselves among my detractors. But until you’ve achieved a life-long dream only to have it snatched from you at a moment of weakness, being sent screaming from the mountaintop by the battle cry of the vengeful… don’t. Because you don’t know. And I hope you never have to.”
Thanks to the wonders of video editing technology, the next shot is one of a plane touching down at Asheville Regional Airport, some ten hours later. It is early evening by this point on the east side of the country and both Damon and Danni look rather tired. They trudge more than walk to the parking area, loading their luggage into the trunk of their car… something Danni has to do most of owing to Damon’s arm. She has to drive, too, though she hardly minds. The view changes to within the car and, within ten minutes, Damon is dozing in the passenger seat. Danni turns up the heat just a little bit and puts some music on at a low level, gently bobbing her head to the music.
Cut from there to arrival at their home in the Land of the Sky some forty-five minutes later (owing to a stop for some take-out from the Soul Garden, of course). They pull into the neat garage and, by now, Damon has awoken… mostly due to the good smells coming from the brown paper bag in the back seat. Gathering that along with the two carry-on bags, despite Danni protesting, Damon leads the way into the house… quiet for the moment since Leina is staying with the Donavans, no doubt enjoying her time with Liam and Alisa. They were practically family.
Damon Cross: I’m going to shower and change, reine fee… go ahead and eat. I wont be long.
Even without her title, even with her retired, Danielle is still Damon’s fairy queen.
Danni Anderson: Are you okay to do it by yourself? Your arm and all…
A worrisome look mars her sweet appearance, but Damon, sunglasses now off to show the black eye he earned at Invasion, shakes his head slowly with a faint smile.
Damon Cross: I’ll be fine.
Fine. When has anyone in the history of anything used the word ‘fine’ to actually indicate that they were, indeed, fine? Girlfriends say ‘fine’ to end an argument with their boyfriends, giving the guy an out to not dig his hole any deeper. Co-workers say they’re ‘fine’ when queried by another co-worker because why burden others with their pain? People say they’re ‘fine’ because they don’t want people worrying about their mental state because it would make it harder on them when the truth comes out.
“How did this happen? He/she said they were fine!”
You’ve probably been there. It isn’t fun. Thankfully, Damon is just trying to spare Danni the weight of his anger and frustration in this case.
”That’s the part that stings the most… the feeling that I let her down. She never told me to go out there and win the belt for her. It was not, to her, a matter of me fighting for her honor. To her, it was me making the most of an opportunity and achieving something I had sought since the genesis of my career. That… was not my perspective. Not entirely. Sativa hurt Danielle. I wanted to hurt Sativa. But rather than doing it as a scrupleless, violent creature, as I once was, I chose to do it in an honorable fashion, in a means kept to the confines of our chosen vocation.
I wanted to beat you in the middle of the ring and take that title from you, Sativa, and relieve you of what you fought so hard for, what you took from Danielle after manipulating her feelings for so long. And I did. Straight up, no nonsense, pillar to post. I beat you. The most dominant woman NFW has ever seen. I want you to remember that. When you look at that title belt, I want you to KNOW that I beat you without the need for a back door or a trump card. But in order to beat me, you had to strike me at my weakest. That does not prove to me that you can beat me without that advantage. And when I get my rematch, which I WILL, I will make that an unequivocal fact in front of the WORLD.
You won’t say my name, Sativa.
No… you’ll SCREAM it.
See you at the Crossroads.”
To the hallway, then the bathroom. Or at least that’s what happens between fades. The next shot is of the shower, the frosted glass door closed, steam billowing out as the hot water cuts through the grime and the sweat… the blood and the tears. To be fair, Damon isn’t crying over this. Not physically. There’s tears in that man’s soul, though. The blurry image is of him, hands resting upon the tile wall, his forehead pressed against the cool surface. A fist slams against the tile, making little noise… but the gesture is enough. The rage is there.
Wash it away. That isn’t who you are anymore.
The future beckons.
No, that isn’t it…”
Ticket Clerk: Boletos, por favor…
Dressed as he had been upon his arrival, in a stylish black suit sans tie and a crisp white shirt, sunglasses masking his eyes, Damon Cross produces an envelope from his jacket pocket and offers it to the tired clerk. She barely sweeps her eyes over the half-drawn materials in the paper sheath before passing it back, not even glancing at the monitor as Damon’s bags pass through. Not that there’s any contraband, of course, but… this really is just another day in the life for her. Chances are she doesn’t even recognize the man before her.
It’s just as well, Damon doesn’t want to be recognized. The aches and pains earned at Invasion, emphasized by his right arm being in a sling and some discoloration near his left eye, are clear. Standing at his side, already with her tickets in hand, is his fiancee, Danni Anderson. Even she, the queen of good vibes and one of the sweetest people on the planet, cannot muster much more than a faint upturn of bubblegum-pink petals, her attention constantly shifting back to Damon no matter where it turns. Her arm is linked with his every moment that it can be, a constant reminder that she is there for him. Damon is, naturally, thankful for this. Even if he isn’t showing it.
Ticket Clerk: Gracias. Disfruta tu vuelo.
Damon Cross: Gracias, señora.
His voice is practically monotone. Danni, gnawing at her lower lip, turns to the woman and likewise nods in gratitude, joining Damon in gathering their bags as they come through the other side of the conveyor. At this point, they had a little time to go before they could board and Damon angles toward the gift shop, blankly perusing the shelves for something, anything, to distract himself.
Danni Anderson: I’m going to get something to drink, baby. Would you like something?
Up on her toes, Danni kisses Damon’s cheek and moves off. Still blank of mood and expression, Damon pauses his perusal for a moment to bring his left fingertips to his cheek. Then he looks after Danni… and even with his eyes hidden his sadness is palpable.
”Dreams never happen on our own timelines. You also never know when you’re gonna wake up from them. I was World Heavyweight Champion for two weeks. Had one match as champion. Never made a single title defense. And then, just like that, pulling a trump card she’d been holding since before I had even signed a contract with NFW, Sativa Neveah pinched me. Hard. Several times. With a baseball bat. And a Sonic Screwdriver.”
A faint, dry, mirthless chuckle comes through the voice-over. Damon, turning back to the trinkets, postcards and other miscellany, resumes his time-consuming search for something, anything, that would trigger a moment of peace or inspiration. It is, unfortunately, a fruitless quest.
Congratulations, Sativa. I’m sure that’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? So there you go. Not for the reason you might be thinking of, but… congratulations. Truly.”
For what reason is something we are left to wonder about. As to the moment before our eyes, Damon has turned to a wooden rack. From it hangs many glass pieces, ornaments and what-not, some merely pretty or colorful, some with religious overtones. One piece in particular catches Damon’s eye, looking for all the world like a circular piece of a stained glass window, an angel and a devil depicted against the multicolored background, one in red, the other in black.
He stares at it for several long moments, the light from a window giving it an ethereal sparkle. After considering a bit longer, Damon takes it to the counter and places it down. The clerk, far more chipper than the woman taking tickets, smiles brightly at Damon.
Gift Shop Cashier: ¿Algo más, Señor?
Damon Cross: No gracias, señorita.
His downcast mood is either undetected or outright missed by the young woman, which Damon is thankful for inwardly. The transaction is completed and he walks out of the shop, taking a seat on the bench to wait for Danni. The well-wrapped ornament, for lack of a better term, is carefully placed in his carry on between some extra clothing, making sure it is safe on the trip home to Asheville. It is with some small comfort, Damon thinks, that he will be able to sleep in his own bed. Small, but welcome.
Danni exits the shop a few moments later, sipping on a bottle of authentic orange soda happily. She holds out a chilled bottle to Damon, filled with sweet mango nectar. He accepts it with the faintest of smiles, and twists the lid off with a satisfying pop sound. Taking a long draw of the contents, he exhales slowly. The cool, natural liquid is refreshing at least. Perhaps a hint of orange in there? He would have to check the bottle to be sure. But now isn’t the time. He rises, offering his arm to Danni, and the two of them continue on their way.
”As for you, Anton, I expected nothing less than your snide comments after the fact. A man of your standing, skills and power does not wear defeat well. I say that honestly, not as a way to razz you, though I have little doubt that you’ll take it otherwise. You said that you don’t make threats, but give options? Next time we clash, you’ll think twice before giving me a choice, perhaps make promises based upon that which you can control. You got to leave Invasion as champion, however, so you have that over me… loathe as I am to admit it.”
No doubt about that; Damon is clearly furious about being an ex-champion. Hell, they never got a chance to put his face up on the website before the title was back in the hands of the former, now three-time, champion. Hooray for procrastination for NFW’s webmaster.
”All is not lost, I suppose. The weekend did see me win ECWF’s Wartime Rumble at the World War 4 card. A guaranteed shot at their World Heavyweight Championship now resting in my hands. An opportunity, however, does not hold a candle to feeling the weight of a belt over your shoulder, your name engraved upon it. A chance is just that: a chance. No guarantees.
People are going to want to rail on me, not for losing, but for my reaction. To this self-serving look into the days after my short reign was ignominiously ended. Especially those who count themselves among my detractors. But until you’ve achieved a life-long dream only to have it snatched from you at a moment of weakness, being sent screaming from the mountaintop by the battle cry of the vengeful… don’t. Because you don’t know. And I hope you never have to.”
Thanks to the wonders of video editing technology, the next shot is one of a plane touching down at Asheville Regional Airport, some ten hours later. It is early evening by this point on the east side of the country and both Damon and Danni look rather tired. They trudge more than walk to the parking area, loading their luggage into the trunk of their car… something Danni has to do most of owing to Damon’s arm. She has to drive, too, though she hardly minds. The view changes to within the car and, within ten minutes, Damon is dozing in the passenger seat. Danni turns up the heat just a little bit and puts some music on at a low level, gently bobbing her head to the music.
Cut from there to arrival at their home in the Land of the Sky some forty-five minutes later (owing to a stop for some take-out from the Soul Garden, of course). They pull into the neat garage and, by now, Damon has awoken… mostly due to the good smells coming from the brown paper bag in the back seat. Gathering that along with the two carry-on bags, despite Danni protesting, Damon leads the way into the house… quiet for the moment since Leina is staying with the Donavans, no doubt enjoying her time with Liam and Alisa. They were practically family.
Damon Cross: I’m going to shower and change, reine fee… go ahead and eat. I wont be long.
Even without her title, even with her retired, Danielle is still Damon’s fairy queen.
Danni Anderson: Are you okay to do it by yourself? Your arm and all…
A worrisome look mars her sweet appearance, but Damon, sunglasses now off to show the black eye he earned at Invasion, shakes his head slowly with a faint smile.
Damon Cross: I’ll be fine.
Fine. When has anyone in the history of anything used the word ‘fine’ to actually indicate that they were, indeed, fine? Girlfriends say ‘fine’ to end an argument with their boyfriends, giving the guy an out to not dig his hole any deeper. Co-workers say they’re ‘fine’ when queried by another co-worker because why burden others with their pain? People say they’re ‘fine’ because they don’t want people worrying about their mental state because it would make it harder on them when the truth comes out.
“How did this happen? He/she said they were fine!”
You’ve probably been there. It isn’t fun. Thankfully, Damon is just trying to spare Danni the weight of his anger and frustration in this case.
”That’s the part that stings the most… the feeling that I let her down. She never told me to go out there and win the belt for her. It was not, to her, a matter of me fighting for her honor. To her, it was me making the most of an opportunity and achieving something I had sought since the genesis of my career. That… was not my perspective. Not entirely. Sativa hurt Danielle. I wanted to hurt Sativa. But rather than doing it as a scrupleless, violent creature, as I once was, I chose to do it in an honorable fashion, in a means kept to the confines of our chosen vocation.
I wanted to beat you in the middle of the ring and take that title from you, Sativa, and relieve you of what you fought so hard for, what you took from Danielle after manipulating her feelings for so long. And I did. Straight up, no nonsense, pillar to post. I beat you. The most dominant woman NFW has ever seen. I want you to remember that. When you look at that title belt, I want you to KNOW that I beat you without the need for a back door or a trump card. But in order to beat me, you had to strike me at my weakest. That does not prove to me that you can beat me without that advantage. And when I get my rematch, which I WILL, I will make that an unequivocal fact in front of the WORLD.
You won’t say my name, Sativa.
No… you’ll SCREAM it.
See you at the Crossroads.”
To the hallway, then the bathroom. Or at least that’s what happens between fades. The next shot is of the shower, the frosted glass door closed, steam billowing out as the hot water cuts through the grime and the sweat… the blood and the tears. To be fair, Damon isn’t crying over this. Not physically. There’s tears in that man’s soul, though. The blurry image is of him, hands resting upon the tile wall, his forehead pressed against the cool surface. A fist slams against the tile, making little noise… but the gesture is enough. The rage is there.
Wash it away. That isn’t who you are anymore.
The future beckons.
