After Ascension 54...
Drake Callahan and his ever present cadre of agents unwind in the locker room specifically designated for him. "Locker room" is a bit of an overstatement - it's apparently just a room in the back someone decided could be claimed for him. He doubted it was the best they could find, but it was a start. Someone around here, even if it was the peons, was starting to respect him. He thought on this as he stretched out, still in only his ring gear after his victory over Showtime. It had been Max's idea, to switch the matches on Showtime. It only required someone more amenable to persuasion than Big Dave, and Vance Bateman turned out to be that man. Maybe working on Ascension wasn't so bad after all.
Max: You about ready to get out of here, Drake?
Drake shook his head a bit and broke out of his reverie. Everyone else had all their things together and were inching closer to the door, leaving him alone in tights and boots with his things strewn across the room. He nodded slowly, not meeting Max's eye, but got up and began to gather things.
Max: You doing alright, champ? Want me to grab a trainer or something?
Drake shook his head again. It was hard to describe what he felt at that moment. He was physically tired - not exhausted, but tired. He was
mentally tired even more. He had never played this game - running around backstage, manipulating events, thinking and negotiating over contracts and matches and every little thing. Being surrounded by everyone all the time, everyone wanting this and that. Going into every match knowing he was the world champion, and he had everything to lose and nothing to gain. The weight of the title, the weight of his contract negotiations, and yes, the weight of his impending match with Showtime...all of it was getting to him.
What he said, though, was:
Drake: Why don't you guys head out without me? I want to be alone for a little while. I'll find my way to the hotel eventually.
Max and Stoya shared a look; Jason raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Max shrugged after a long moment.
Max: If that's what you want. Remember our flight out is at eight tomorrow.
Drake nodded and they left in silence, his back turned to them. When they were gone, he fell back into his chair and sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes. How much longer could this go on?
He leaned over to his side and picked up the world heavyweight champion belt, and despite himself, it brought a smile to his face. This was the source of his pain; this was the source of his pleasure. Holding this, looking into it, he knew what he was, and was he was worth. The thought of losing it was driving him insane. He was like some storybook dragon, holding onto a hoard of gold with all his might; and he knew full well that like the dragon, he was enslaved by it. He was ensnared by this belt, by his own doing, to follow a predetermined path. He had no choices, no actions of his own independence. Everything he could - would - do would be dictated by his ownership of this belt. He couldn't imagine any other way.
Deep down, he knew he
wouldn't want it any other way.
With a final sigh and vigorous shake of his head, he stood up and tossed the rest of his things into his bag, resting the belt on top. He threw on jeans and a T-shirt, feeling happy to be out of a suit for a change. Outside of his locker room, the arena was mostly empty; a few arena workers were hustling here and there, but this area of the building was mostly deserted. He strolled out unnoticed, and walked out into the night alone.
----
Most reasonable people would be afraid or at least wary of being out alone in the streets well after midnight. But Drake had spent years of his life drinking and cavorting until the sun came up, and he didn't do it in one place, or even inside at all. If he could handle these streets drunk, he could handle them sober - especially with his new training, ideal for close quarters combat. Such thoughts as these were mostly at the back of his mind anyway; out here, he was simply enjoying the night air and clearing his head. He was feeling better, too.
As he continued wandering the streets aimlessly, a few people would pass by. Mostly they were either drunk, prostitutes, or other suspicious characters. No one gave him trouble, though. Disheveled after a match and out of a suit, he didn't look like he had much money, but even more than that, he was carrying himself like a dangerous man. He smiled to himself; he
was a dangerous man. Another such type was approaching, wearing all black, hunched over on himself. Drake swung wide on the sidewalk to give him a wide berth; looking dangerous aside, bumping into someone out here was less than advisable -
The man suddenly broke towards him and smashed into him, sending Drake staggering back and desperately trying to keep his feet. Reeling, Drake got his bearing just as the man side tackled him and thrusted them both into an alley. Drake tried to escape the grip of the man; despite the man's strength, his technique was poor, and Drake got out of successfully and rolled away. He tossed his bag, slung over one shoulder, as far away as he could; it was only be a weakness here. He got to his feet just as the man charged at him again; Drake was able lunge aside at the last moment and the man overshot him. His assailant pulled up short and rounded on him, his hood slipping back, revealing the visage of an older man...
Drake: Joe?!
Joe spat and wiped his mouth.
Joe: Don't say my name. Don't need you dirtying it.
Drake looked incredulous and infuriated all at the same time.
Drake: How in the hell...what are you...how...?!
Still looking ready to pounce at any moment, Joe replied:
Joe: You're not the most difficult man to find. And I use the word "man" loosely. Simple as finding out where WZCW is, driving down, and waiting to find you alone. Didn't think you'd be stupid enough to go wandering the streets by yourself, but you always were stupid.
Drake: What the hell are you doing here?
Joe: I'm here to kick your ass, is what I'm here to do. You've had it coming for a long time, you bastard.
Drake: If this is about K - !
Joe: How can you even say her name? How can you say it without ripping your guts out at what a lousy bastard you are?
Drake: It has nothing to do with you, Joe.
Joe: No, I suppose it doesn't. But that isn't going to stop me from doing what I came here to do.
Drake: What, did she send you?
Joe: You son a bitch. She refused to press charges against you, but I guess you know that. Heard they were still going to take it up as a criminal case without her, somehow, but you got out of that too, I hear. So she goes back home, tells all her friends she fell down - and she calls me. Calls me, and says to me, I know you can find him. Find him and let him know...
Drake found his heart racing in anticipation. Was this it? Was this her final condemnation? What had she said?
Drake: What? Let me know what?
Joe bit his lip, looked down, and roared as he leapt onto Drake once more. Drake was caught off guard by the ferocity of the attack and backpedaled rapidly, hitting a wall in doing so. Joe threw a wild left hook that Drake was able to dodge, but didn't see the sharp right coming as it caught him in the temple. He staggered and was shoved from behind, headlong into the other wall. He struck his head and collapses, stars in his eyes. Through the daze he's barely able to register thumping kicks to his gut and chest. The assault lasts for long moments, before it mercifully ceases. His head clears just long enough to see Joe lean down and say something.
Joe: She said she's sorry. You miserable piece of shit.
The world goes black as the figure retreats, leaving Drake in cold darkness.
----
A light? No, not a light, but the absence of darkness. What? An alley? What is an alley? An alley, in a city. What city? What is a city?
A man with no face. Where is his face? Where has it gone? When will it be back?
No-face is closer. How do you recognize a man with no face?
"Aut vincere aut mori."
A coin from his hand slipped into mine, and it was cold like rain.
----
The light came in slowly as his eyes cracked open. It was painful to open his eyes; it was painful to
exist, it seemed. Each breath of air felt tight and constricted, like an elephant sat on his chest. He was able to groan loudly for half a second before the pain overwhelmed him; he worked his jaws in a silent scream. Soon, a hand was on his shoulder.
Max: Easy, easy, Drake. You're alright.
Drake took as deep a breath as he could manage and forced his eyes all the way open. Max was at his side in a hospital bed; Stoya leaned casually against the far well, looking at him almost lazily. Jason didn't appear to be there.
Drake: What...
It was all he could get out.
Max: When you hadn't shown up by four in the morning, I got worried enough to make some calls. I know a few people; the police sent some cars out. Found you half dead in an alley. Should never have let you go out by yourself, but I thought you could have handled it.
Drake grimaced and tried to sit up further, to no avail.
Drake: From...behind...no...chance...
Max nodded slowly.
Max: I thought as much. Didn't get a look at his face, did you?
Drake: ....Mask....
Max: Figured that too. But he didn't take anything; they found your bag in the same alley, everything still inside. Just some asshole hopped up on whatever it is the kids do these days.
Stoya rolled her eyes pointedly, but said nothing.
Max: Anyway, you got beat up pretty good. Blow to the head, but no concussion. One rib cracked, most of them bruised, but nothing broken. You're gonna be sore as all hell for a few days, and you'll feel like you have a migraine for a week. But the doctors say you'll be fine to compete at Apocalypse, so there's some good news.
Drake nodded slowly, all he could manage.
Max: From now on, you're not going anywhere without protection. I'm going to hire some of the best. Better than Secret Service, these guys. I don't want to hear anything about it either. We have a contract, and I have an obligation - professionally and personally - to keep you safe.
Drake grimaced, but nodded again. He'd need it, if that vigilante freak was still out there somewhere. None of his business anyway.
Max: Anyway, doctors say you'll be alright to get out of here tomorrow, so get some rest. We'll be back in the morning. Try not to let anyone kick your ass anymore, all right? It's not good for business.
With a hearty laugh at his own joke, Max made his exit, waving Stoya along. She hesitated a minute before taking a few steps before the door. She half made to turn back, but then turned to the door and exited rapidly. Drake barely noticed it; he might have imagined it entirely.
As he nodded off to sleep, he mumbled one word.
Drake: Sorry...
----
The day of Apocalypse...
Drake stepped out of the limousine into the late afternoon sunlight. He knew he made a dashing figure today; his best suit, $700 sunglasses, and the World Heavyweight Championship. He wished that he felt half as good as he looked; his ribs were still taped up and sore, though at least everything else had cleared up. He knew that Showtime would have a field day going after his ribs, but he would persevere. He'd gone through worse for less.
He was especially glad his head had finally cleared up. He'd had several nights filled with strange dreams, all of the memorable ones centering around a man with no face. They'd come and gone, not every night, usually when he had the most pain. It had been five straight nights without them, though, and he was finally beginning to feel rested. Just in time, too.
Surrounded by his party, with two new additions in Tyrus and Victor - hulking, six foot plus figures that looked like they knew how to hurt people. They did. Max had insisted incessantly; Drake had thought one would be enough, but apparently symmetry was important for appearances, or some other nonsense. It didn't matter. It was all about "business", in the end.
They entered the arena together, Drake leading the pack. Plenty of others were already here; he caught sight of a number of members of the roster getting ready for the night, along with a great deal of production staff and even friends and family. It
was a pay-per-view night, after all. None of them who knew him looked at him; plenty of old friends refused to meet his eye. That was normal.
Stoya flagged down one of the crew and found that a room had been prepared for him. When they arrived, he was pleasantly surprised to find a room of substantially better quality than last time. A proper dressing room, this, with leather chairs and couches, polished oak furniture, and even a bottle of sparkling cider. Someone had clearly been paying attention. There was a small note next to the bottle. He picked it up and read:
"Drake,
Impressive work with Kurtesy. I'm watching your match closely tonight.
- Dave"
The note brought a smile to Drake's face in spite of everything; it seemed like contract negotiations were progressing well. Surely his impending victory over Showtime would be the final piece necessary to get things moving. The thought of Showtime reminded him why he was here, and his mood darkened again, remembering everything. Joe dragging up the past. Nightmares. "I'm sorry." And looming above all of it, above all the demons, was Showtime. The man who was ready to take away his shield against the darkness. The man who wanted to turn him over to the wolves of his own heart. It would not be tolerated.
Stoya: I arranged for one of the girls to come and hear what you have to say.
Still half brooding over everything, Drake replied in a low tone:
Drake: Which?
Stoya: I don't know their names. The blonde girl.
That was a relief. Becky had been his friend once. At least Stacey had never liked him.
A knocking came at the door and, with a nod from Drake, Victor opened it. Two men with a camera and a boom mic came into the room. Stacey followed on their heels; Drake expected her not to meet his eyes, like all the rest, and was surprised to find himself staring into hazel eyes filled with fury. She walked up to him immediately and before he had any idea what was going on, she had slapped him across the face.
The room exploded in a cacophony of noise, Stoya looking ready to kill Stacey, Max shouting something about a lawsuit, Stacey screaming curses and profanities as she was practically lifted off the ground by both his guards at once in an attempt to restrain her. Drake waved them off and shouted at them to let her down, which turned out to be a mistake, as she struck him across the other cheek as well. He furiously waved off the guard again and this time caught her hand coming at him. The room silenced as he held her in his grip.
Stacey: Let me go!
Drake: Are you done?
Stacey: Let me - !
Drake: ARE. YOU. DONE?
Everyone appeared caught off guard by the sound of his voice, and its fury. Stacey, looking almost meek, nodded and mumbled something and Drake let her arm drop. She rubbed at her wrist as if he'd hurt her - as if
he'd hurt
her, after she struck him twice. Drake took in a deep breath through his nose before continuing.
Drake: Do you want to tell me what the hell that was about?
All the rage and indignation returned to Stacey immediately as she tore into him.
Stacey: You know exactly what that was about. You're sickening. Disgusting. That you have the - the - the balls to even ask me - or Becky! - to come anywhere near you, after what everyone knows you did!
Drake wanted to break his gaze with her, escape her accusing stare. But something seemed to come over him, and instead he looked into her eyes deeply. She seemed ready to continue to scream at him, but something in his eyes must have caught her off guard, as she hesitated, then stopped. He took a step closer and she tensed, as if she wanted to back away. His voice was almost a whisper.
Drake: She told me she was sorry. And if you're not ready to shut up and do your damn job - you will be too.
Stacey's face went white and she did back away this time, making for the door.
Drake: No! You do this, right here, right now, and you keep doing it whenever I tell you to do it, or I will have you tossed out of this company, and you know damn well I could.
Stacey stopped in the doorway, her back straight. She rounded on him, indignation and fear mixed up in her face, but all the same, she grabbed a microphone from one of the cameramen and stood next to him. As far away as she could be and still be described as "next to him", at least. He deliberately moved closer - he could see her bite her tongue, but she didn't move any further. The red light went on the camera and Stacey began.
Stacey: Sta...Stacey Madison here, with Drake Callahan.
Drake: I think you mean WZCW World Heavyweight Champion, Drake Callahan.
He waited a moment and looked at her, before she understood. Her eyes lit up, no doubt dying to rip him apart, but she said:
Stacey: WZCW World Heavyweight Champion, Drake Callahan.
He beamed at her, all teeth and no eyes.
Drake: Thank you, Stacey. Now, how about a question? I'm a very busy man, after all.
Stacey inhaled deeply, as if preparing for a tirade, though what she said was:
Stacey: Everyone wants to know if you have any last words for Showtime going into tonight's match.
Drake: I do. I do have some last words. Or rather, Stacey, I have one last word for Showtime: "Goodbye." Or maybe a few more: "Good riddance." Actually, I think also: "Thank God." Thank God, Showtime, that it's finally over. Thank God we'll never have to see you again. Thank God that after tonight, no one in WZCW will ever have to see you again, and you can go back to whatever hole it is you crawled out of. Think of all the time you'll be able to put into your talk show. You can get all the fat pregnant girls you want, line 'em up, and find out who their "baby daddys" are, or whatever it is you do on your terrible program. I wouldn't know. You'll finally be able to work on your golf game, you'll have all the time you ever wanted to travel, and just think of all the books you can read. Showtime, I'm doing you a favor. I'm sending you to a long, blissful retirement, and we can all get on with our lives without you. And for that, I say again, halleluiah, praise the Lord, and God bless us all, everyone.
Drake realized there was a smile across his face, and he saw one on Max's too. Even Stoya appeared ready to crack. He took a sidelong glance at Stacey, though, and saw nothing but cold anger, hatred, and beneath it, just a tinge of fear.
Stacey: If that's all...
Drake: Actually, Stacey, I don't think that will be all. I want to disabuse the WZCW Universe of an unfortunate notion they might have. They might think that this is a battle of good versus evil. They might think that me, being so twisted in the heart, cannot possibly overcome the goodness and righteousness of Showtime. They might even think that Showtime, with his back against the wall, with all the chips on the table, with his career on the line, is going to have some supreme strength to defeat me. And the truth is that none of those things are the truth. I've beaten Showtime at every turn. I just beat him on Ascension. His career is on the line because he wants an out. He knows he can't do this anymore, he knows he's not good enough to do this anymore. He wants someone to end him so he doesn't have to just admit that he's not good enough to hang with the best in the world.
He smiles and takes a breath, preparing to deliver his closing statement, but Stacey cuts in.
Stacey: And how would you respond to those that wonder if your recent personal and legal problems will adversely effect you in this match?
Drake turned to her slowly and looked at her evenly. She stared back with the hint of a smile on her face, and more than a hint in her eyes.
Drake: Excuse me?
Stacey: I'm sorry, Drake, I'm just doing my job as a professional journalist to get all the facts.
All of his mirth gone, Drake takes a deep breath and responds.
Drake: Anything you might have heard on that front is just rumor. My ind is 100% on this match. And now, if that's all -
Stacey: One more question, Drake. What if you lose?
Drake: What?!
Stacey gave him the sweetest, fakest smile he'd ever seen.
Stacey: Inquiring minds want to know - what happens if you lose? What happens if despite everything, despite all the history, it's you who isn't good enough? What happens if Showtime beats you? What happens if you lose? Where do you go from there?
Drake takes a long moment to think, thoughts of Showtime, and Joe, and the man with no face running through his head. Thoughts of Kate. Thoughts of sorrow and repentance. He grabs the mic.
Drake: You would all love it, wouldn't you? You would all be so happy if Showtime won. If he beat me after everything I've done. If he stood victorious and saved his career, if he took the title out of my hands, if it was him who led this company, instead of me. You sycophants in the audience, the backstabbers in this company, you, Stacey, you and all your little politicking friends. Everyone wants to see the end of Drake Callahan. Everyone wants to make me a footnote, everyone wants my reign to be short and forgettable, and no one, no one, for a moment thinks of what it means for me to be champion. This is everything. This is my life. This is what I live and breathe for. If I don't have this - Stacey, you want an answer? If I lose this title, I am nothing. I am nobody. If I lose this title, I lose everything. You think Showtime has all the chips on the table? You have no idea.
He looked once more at Stacey, still smiling smugly, thinking she'd gotten the best of him. Maybe she had. But he didn't see her. He saw a woman he'd once loved. He saw Kate, crying, crying for him, crying for him to love her. She said she was sorry. She apologized to him. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He had thrown it all away - he had thrown her away. For one thing, and one thing only. He had made his choice.
Drake: Showtime, you cannot possibly imagine what sacrifice is. You couldn't begin to fathom what I've gone through getting this championship. But you will find out tonight what I'll do to keep it.
One last breath. It was show time - no, it was his time. He had bought and paid for it; here it was.
Drake: If you want this title, Showtime, if you want to call yourself a champion, if you want to save your career, if you want to be the best in the world, then so help me God, David, you're going to have to kill me for it.
