My head was pounding, pounding, pounding, blood pulsing in and out; I felt every single one like an avalanche. I felt aware of everything, like I could see and hear and feel everything going on around me, but that was wrong; where did he come from, all of a sudden? A man in black shining something into my eye. He wasn't there, and then he was there, and he was gone again. Some part of me knew it was wrong. I tried to focus on something, anything, but nothing that I wanted to came into focus clearly. I saw a woman who might have been Stoya, but I couldn't tell. Everything I heard came in as if from a distance. It didn't make any sense. How had this happened?
A moment of clarity, a rush. I had planned the attack on him, on D.C. - I had charged the ring, taken him out, just as I'd planned. But why did I stand and fight when the cavalry came? I felt it again as I had then - a madness in my heart, the idea that I could beat them all, that I was the hero of the storybook, that it would end there.
Pain and clouds returned. I lost it all. Who was the hero of the storybook? I was never Prince Charming; only the Beast who had become something worse. Another man came into my field of view, my incomprehensibly limited field of view, and why? Who was he? Why was he making sound? Was he -
"Drake, can you hear me? Drake?" He said, clear as a summer sky.
"Yes," I said, my own voice coming slowly and thickly. I felt...drunk. I knew this feeling, all of a sudden. I knew part of it. I was slow, I was on the edge of pain, I just wanted to close my eyes...but this pounding in my head, my lack of vision, that wasn't it. I hadn't had anything to drink. Had I?
That's what it had felt like in the ring. Drunk. Drunk on the moment, drunk on the glory, drunk on the notion that maybe, just maybe, they were all about to cheer for him. That I was the hero again. I was an idiot. But God, it was so easy. The roar of the crowd in your ears. You would do anything for just a second more. And they made you an addict, kept giving it to you until you snapped and gave them the bloodsport. That's what the cheers were for. The crowd - what parts of it were cheering for me, they weren't cheering for me at all. They were cheering for what they were hoping the Sacrificial Altar would do to me. They were cheering for D.C.'s broken arm. Never for me.
"Drake?" A woman this time. Reality snapped back into place. Stoya was in front of me, holding my chin with one hand.
"Yes," I said again.
"Is he alright?" she asked someone standing over to the side. I had to turn to see him; the man in black from before. A paramedic?
"I'm tentatively ruling out a concussion, but he should still be monitored overnight," he responded.
"Ruling out a concussion? Look at him!"
"He may seem dazed, yes, but he's going in and out of it. He's not presenting the usual signs, just intermittent confusion."
"He clearly has some trouble seeing - his eyes aren't focusing right."
"I know," the paramedic said. "He took a hard blow to that side of his head - I think his eyes may simply be...temporarily weakened, if you will. Like I said, you should monitor him overnight and he still shouldn't sleep, but I think his head is alright all in all. I'll check the rest of him out in a minute, I just need to consult with the rest of the team."
The paramedic gathered up his things and left under the harsh glare of Stoya. She muttered something under her breath as he opened the door. As he was about to leave, I turned over my shoulder to him.
"Send a camera," I said, my voice stumbling back to its usual cadence.
"Uh," he stuttered. "I can't do that -"
Stoya took two steps and came even with him, fixing her glare on him. She stood a few inches shorter than him, but even so, she managed to look down at him.
"If he wants a camera, he gets a camera. Do you understand?"
The paramedic's mouth opened for a moment, before he simply closed it, turned around, and left the room.
Stoya sighed and sagged her shoulders as soon as he left, putting her hand on her forehead. She rounded on me with her glare all intact, though.
"What the hell were you thinking out there, Drake? One on four? You're stupid sometimes, but I thought you could at least count - "
I raised a hand and, somewhat to my surprise, she stopped talking.
"Not right now, Stoya. I need...I just need to talk to the camera right now, okay? My head is killing me. I can't think about anything else."
In a remarkable imitation of the paramedic, Stoya's mouth hung open for a second before snapping closed. We waited in silence for a few minutes before there was a knock at the door. Stoya glared at me for a moment before opening it and in walked Leon Kensworth, followed by a cameraman with all his gear.
"Drake," Leon began, looking a little unsure. "Are you alright? This isn't where we usually..."
"Turn the camera on. Turn the mic on. And get out of the shot, Leon."
Leon and his cameraman shared a glance, but Leon only shrugged and stepped back for the cameraman to do his thing. In a few moments, Leon handed me the microphone and the cameraman signaled that the camera was recording.
"This is a message for the Sacrificial Altar," I began. My eyes were still having trouble focusing, but nonetheless, I tried to stare into the camera with my best glare.
"I'm not done."
"I may not have played my cards right this time," I said, grimacing and not faking it, "but understand that I'm not finished."
"You beat me. You beat me bad. My head is probably broken up inside in a dozen different places. But it's going to heal. It's going to fix itself. But you? No ones going to just heal you. You're not going to fix yourself. That's my job."
I tried to sit up straighter, getting up a little before a shot of pain went through my side and I grabbed hold of my abdomen, wincing.
"I told you someone was watching. I told you someone had noticed. That's me. I want to understand something here. I believe in wrestling. I believe that we can do this and we don't have to march out an endless parade of sideshow characters with this tragedy and that grand plan to build their sandcastle empires. It's been an endless procession since Joseph Rios, through Ty Burna, and now it's the Sacrificial Altar. What the hell do you think? You're going to take over the world through a wrestling company? Is that really what you buy into?"
"Because even freaks like you should know that's a load of bullshit."
"You're never going to have an empire. You're never going to rule the world. You're just going to run over this company and draw the blood of innocents until the puppetmasters get tired of holding your strings and let you implode like people like you always do. But your implosion is going to drag down another piece of this company - this business's - soul with it. And that's what I can't stand to watch anymore. I don't care about the brass rings, I don't care about the fans, but I do care about this business. Because it's what I do. Because it's the only thing I want to do. Because it's the only thing I can do. And I'm sick and damn tired of watching maniacs like you try to tear it down, sick and tired of watching its so called managers encourage it because all they see are the dollar signs on the spreadsheet."
"So understand this - I'm not letting you go this easy. You are the cancer eating at the heart of WZCW, and I am going to cut you out. I am going to end you before your dying can rip apart WZCW again. I am going to send you to the grave before you can hurt anyone else. No matter what you do to me, I'm going to come back. Bash my skull in all you like - it's thick enough to last. I'm not going to go away."
"I am Drake Callahan, and I am still watching. I am still watching, and I am still fighting."
"I am still fighting."
