AS84: Steven Holmes vs. S.H.I.T.

[Ty Burna]

Deadline is Wednesday, September 10th at 11:59 PM Central Time.

 

[Miko]

Mercy.

Mercy was a beneficiary the strong gave the weak, one that those in charge dealt out from time to time. It was a way of making sure that people realised you weren't all bad, that you weren't an all controlling megalomaniac, it stopped the rabble from rising up, made them grateful for the smallest of kindnesses. It, however, should not happen often.

At least this is what Rex Burglary thinks. Contrary to belief most Humans are as short-sighted as S.H.I.T with their approach to different themes and ideas, the main difference is S.H.I.T is less hypocritical about it. Not Rex though, as with S.H.I.T Rex is well aware that his world view isn't the only one, perhaps even the only correct one, neither particularly care to hear a differing one however.

Stood in front of Rex was a man who required some mercy... Old Ronald Westen, oldest employee on the books, faithful as an ancient hound, the only man left with any sense of humour whatsoever. Ronald was not the kind of non-sentient being Rex liked, but he did reward faithfulness. However, this man was pally with that robot, and that robot had thrown Rex's kindness back in his own face, called his products 'crap' live on air. Rex looked at Ronald and stroked his own, admittedly brilliant, hair.

"Ronald," he said. The old man looked up, hope in his eyes, he couldn't afford to lose this job now, he was too old, but no so old that he could retire. "Ronald, you're fired." Rex said as all hope fled from the man's paling eyes.

Mercy was a tool, but it was always surprising against whom you could use it.

------- ------------------- -------

S.H.I.T stormed its way up the Hospital corridor, ignoring glances from staff and patients alike as it made its way towards Alhazred's ward. The doctors had informed the Machine that his condition had worsened for no discernable reason whatsoever and now he wants to see S.H.I.T personally, the Robot had cocked its head at them, fixed them with a stare and thanked their retreating backs for their kindness.

It almost respectfully opened the door to his ward to see two other figures in the room with him, one the Machine recognised vaguely as Mister but the woman was unknown, their heads bowed in sullen silence as Alhazred appeared to be unconscious. As they spy the Machines entrance they look up, Mister signalling to the other that they should depart. S.H.I.T moved to let them pass and went over to Alhazred's bedside. Upon hearing the footsteps Alhazred opens one eye wearily.

"S.H.I.T? Is that you?" He croaked.

Affirmative, the Machine answered, tone completely normal.

"I am afraid... I am afraid this might be the end, old friend." He said slowly, sadness in his voice.

The end of what? S.H.I.T replied, tone completely normal.

"The end of... me. Of Alhazred." Said Alhazred, sadness tinged with irritation in his voice.

S.H.I.T stared at Alhazred with a look like thunder, its usual look. Would you like your Diabolos mask back? It asked, tone completely normal.

"NO I..." Alhazred sat up and yelled, before his eyes widen in remembrance and he grabs his shoulder in pain. "No, I would not like my Diabolos mask back," he shut his eyes and panted, voice thick with what S.H.I.T could not help but calculate was undue strain. "Don't you get what I am saying?"

It would seem not.

"I think this injury will be my last..." he coughs pathetically, opening an eye and fixing the Machine with another glance.

Excellent. Once Human doctors have you repaired you can avenge yourself on Fallout by tearing him limb from limb.

"I don't think I am long for this world..." He said, watching carefully out of his one open eye.

There are no other known habitable...

"I mean I am dying!" He shouted finally.

That drew a long silence, punctuated only by Alhazred's pathetic breathing as S.H.I.T stood stock still.

Dying. It said, flatly. Alhazred nods sadly as S.H.I.T walks to the bottom of his bed and picks up his chart. A broken shoulder is a non-fatal injury. It said.

"Oh, and how would you know that?"

This one has a detailed knowledge of the Human anatomy. It said, too quickly as Alhazred begins to smirk. It makes this one more efficient at Human destruction. It felt the need to explain. Alhazred starts to smirk all the wider.

S.H.I.T knows what game you're playing, Alhazred. It said, and the Machine has no taste for it. It has never had a taste for Human games and manipulation.

Alhazred looks shocked but S.H.I.T continues, if you want this one to retaliate against Fallout, you need only to ask.

The two stare at each other, Alhazred seeking the right words while S.H.I.T just aims its piercing gaze back at him to see if it would get the question and answer it wanted.

"Please may you destroy Fallout for me, since I will be indisposed indefinitely?"

Negative.

"WHAT!?" He exploded.

That was a joke. Ha. Ha. Ha. S.H.I.T laughed with all the mirth of a graveyard.

"Oh, well, you need to work on that."

This one will destroy Fallout, S.H.I.T plunged on heedless, but it will do it at a time and place of its own choosing. Fallout will know the Machine is coming, he will know when, and he will know where.

"That doesn't sound very..."

And he will have a choice, as everyone must. He can choose whether he faces his destruction... Or not.

"WHAT?" He roared again, "you can't let him choose, you must kill him, destroy him, eviscerate him!"

I must not do anything... S.H.I.T said, leaving the room and shutting the door behind it.

Alhazred sat in silence for a long while, checking the plaster on his arm. "Well, that didn't go like I'd hoped."

------- ------------------- ------

Mercy.

S.H.I.T had none, Alhazred had learned that at the Lethal Lottery and Aftershock, though they'd repaired their fractured relationship for now at least, there was more both parties needed to say, S.H.I.T felt, but for whatever reason it had been left unsaid, S.H.I.T felt itself looking forward to another meeting with the little lunatic. Now, however, Fallout will learn that S.H.I.T has no mercy, but until then, he could wait. His time would come, because that was one thing S.H.I.T was never short of, time.

It looked at the countdown timer in front of it, counting down the days, hours and minutes until Kingdom Come. S.H.I.T thrived on destruction, and it had no shortage of targets to after, but Fallout had thrown himself in its crosshairs. His time would come. He would feel no mercy, because mercy was tool of the wicked and the guilty. The good were innocent, and they bought justice to the world, the wicked were guilty and so they invented mercy in the hopes that they would receive it when their time came. At least this is what S.H.I.T thought, it was something that it had been taught not long after its programming by a strange man in a lab coat. It was not sure if it was good or evil, really, but it certainly had no room for mercy, that much had been hammered home, at least.

Steven Holmes would learn this. S.H.I.T had no real history with Holmes apart from the odd time they'd shared a ring, but it had watched the Elite, a bunch of self important twerps far too proud of their own accomplishments, as far as it was concerned. Holmes, a former world champion was not an opponent S.H.I.T would overlook or take lightly, he'd make a fine example to any others who'd cross the wrecking Machines path in the future, but it also knew the other members of the Elite, John Constantine and Ty Burna, it had histories with both, Constantine and S.H.I.T had exchanged victories with S.H.I.T ending his Elite X title run and then making him submit at Unscripted, but before then Constantine had successfully defended the same title against the Machine and since then was responsible for its exit from the Lethal Lottery. Ty Burna, well, S.H.I.T's history with that malevolent force was well documented.

It would please it greatly if it could badly dent people who'd have the audacity to call themselves 'The Elite', people who had the audacity to turn on Showtime of all people, but especially if two of those people were John Constantine and Ty Burna, by taking out the third stooge of their party.

S.H.I.T cocked its head.

Come Ascension Steven Holmes had a choice, submit or be destroyed? If Fallout was watching, then all the better, because soon enough he'd have a choice to make as well.

The timer to Kingdom Come is ticking...

 

[FunKay the Inevitable]

Roots crawling, encircling, suffocating. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t do anything. Darkness approaches and I am entombed by an earthly monstrosity. There is no escape, there is no victory there is nothing but darkness. It is a prolonged, painful and outright pitiful experience that absorbs every fibre of my being. Then, as I assume it ends and there is peace in nothingness, a great big glaring set of red eyes leer at me and I scream. No air comes out, no sound either. It is my worst fear. I cannot be heard or felt. My eyes budge, my tongue vibrates, my brain swells. I am drowning in utter terror. And finally, I awake.

Cut to Steven Holmes upright in his grandiose bed, sweat pouring off him. He is topless, the sweat coming from his chest arms and all over. What he has just experienced is a repeat of a nightmare he’s been having for well over a week now. He fears darkness will soon take him and he will be lost, abandoned, forgotten. He cannot have this. Taking a deep breath, he gulps, trying to prove to himself that this is truth, this is reality. He turns slowly and sees a sleeping blonde beauty, a warrior queen, his warrior queen, Celeste Crimson. She is as magnificent as he had remembered her and she seems at peace with her sleep. He needs further proof though.

Slowly and carefully, he rotates so that his feet are dangling out of the oversized bed. He quietly drops to the polished wooden floorboards, illuminated by the full moon dangling majestically ion the starless sky. Pausing, he looks at what is a white blot on an otherwise perfect darkness. He is thankful for it given his visions. Now, a return to business; he arises and as cautiously as possible, he makes his way to a crib. There he finds a sleeping babe. It is a chubby little creature, but a thing of beauty. This cherub is the spawn of his loins and he loves it dearly. Kinsey Holmes. She causes her usually cruel and tyrannical father to smile. Emotions are pulsating through the man known as the Elite. It is an...unusual feeling.

Then, the baby roars, crying it’s eyes forming little streams and canals coming off those in the form of droplets. The sheer quantity could save a drought ridden continent. Holmes puts out his bottom lip and extends his arms, ready to care, to love. But things are not as they seem. The babe’s eyes open – the blood red, piercing eyes of before. Holmes is aghast. What is this? He turns to Celeste, she too is upright in the bed with those eyes. Terror, horror, fear, all over again. Holmes turns once more to see the baby but it is now mere inches from his face, a toothy, sinister grin impossibly plastered on its face. Those tears of water are now rivers of blood. Kinsey, or whatever this is, opens her mouth and it is a never-ending abyss. Darkness not even the night’s sky can rival and so it envelopes and drowns Holmes once more. He had escaped one nightmare only to be swallowed up by another. It begins again.

Holmes wakes up once more. This time he has no tact and guile. He throws his covers off him and drops to the wooden floor, causing a bang. Caring not for his wife’s disgruntled remarks or his crying babe; he sprints to his bathroom where he desperately seeks a toilet bowl. What follows is an unspeakable flood of bodily fluids, best kept in rather than out, though on occasions such as this, sometimes required to depart the body.

_________________________​

Now, an office. It is your typical corporate environment; neutral colours, a potted plant, blinded windows, separating the imagination of the outside world and the sterile surroundings of the office. It is all very ordinary and crippling. There, looking through the blinds onto the busy outside is Steven Holmes. Once he would have looked at those going about their lives as weakling, mere ants to be crushed by his all powerful, all conquering fist. He was once a great and mighty dictator. In fact, he still is, but he has not felt so in recent times. A crippling series of dreams, ones you’ve no doubt heard of, have rendered him a tired and weary soul in the recent times. Developments in his other profession, one involving a squared circle, as unreasonable as that seems, have also lead to him pondering previously unconceivable thoughts.

At Ascension 83, “Showtime” David Cougar, father of the collective of talent known as “The Elite” in WZCW was cast out of the unit, betrayed. He was stabbed in the back, figuratively speaking of course, by Holmes, by Constantine and by Ty Burna. In all his time in WZCW Holmes had been a part of three other alliances. One he married, one he was embarrassed and provoked by and in the other he was the betrayed. Never before had he been the betrayer. It was a feeling that did not sit easily within his stomach, not one he wanted to feel. Perhaps his dreams had been exacerbated by this unease? Indeed the searing red eyes would make sense in relation to Ty Burna, a man associated with the occult, with darkness, with evil. Ty Burna; a man who was compared to Holmes at almost all times.

People would often say that Holmes was a poor man’s Burna, trying to rule WZCW as a dominate force, one the fans loved to loathe, one who spoke in eloquent sentences and complete statements. They both declared war and roared into battle in the most dramatic of fashions. Both men loved the feel of velvet and the descent of darkness. In fact both had acted as blasphemers, practically referring to themselves as God’s among men. They were both champions, both warriors, but the popular consensus was often that Burna was the superior. Holmes resented this and still did. To him the true superior of the two would and should have been decided by a battle, one that had never taken place when both were at the height of their powers. More so than all this though, Holmes cannot predict Ty Burna.

There was no problem working with Constantine, the man who had previously betrayed him, because he knew what to expect. He knew there was a calculated risk in working with his old ally. The same for his old adversary “Showtime” David Cougar. He respected both, knew both and understood both. Indeed to him “The Elite” group was one of a common theological understanding. These were the three best in-ring competitors in WZCW. They were kings and there were none better. Those who thought they could rebel would be invited into their court and they would build up their hopes of believing they belonged amongst the Elite only to dash them and show them just how far away they truly were.

In theory, Ty Burna would fit with this theology, but Holmes did not and does not know Burna in the same way he does Cougar and Constantine. There has been no glorious battle or war. Only a fleeting alliance on the cusp of the Lethal Lottery and Kingdom Come’s of two years prior, and even then, Holmes could feel Burna peering down his nose at him. So why betray Burna, why sacrifice Cougar? He wasn’t a liability, he wasn’t causing problems and there was no major friction, none that would or should lead to a grand treachery. Holmes had rationalised that this was trading in one great competitor for another. That Constantine was dim enough to not be a threat and would hallmark any attempt to betray Holmes and that Showtime would be harder to pin down. But surely so would Ty. A Stalin approach, sleeping in different rooms every night, trading in one great king for another time after time. It felt slimy, wrong, weak, spineless.

And then Holmes remembered that Cougar had lorded his EurAsian Championship triumph, a triumph Holmes had facilitated, over the original Elite. Holmes remembered how he was the one who was the original Elite. How he was the father of the term in a wrestling sense and how he was the fighting king who ruled his keep. It gave him spirit. Indeed jealousy was an emotion Holmes had felt the twinge of with Burna in the past, but it was the past. Rubbing salt in Holmes’ wounds was a foolish mistake on Cougar’s part and his failure to establish a united front with Holmes by failing to save him in the Lethal Lottery match was the final straw. He had to be eliminated and then Ty Burna slithered into the scenario, his own frustrations, his own possible jealousy drove Holmes, and to a lesser extent, Constantine to accept him as an equal. He believed in the Elite philosophy and he belonged. Equals among Gods.

Holmes felt his spine returning to his fleshy back, giving confidence and his kingly manner returned. He looked on at those lesser creatures beneath him tiny in their own lives, struggling, scraping to make a living. They did not even deserve to live in his realm, but he, the kindly man he was, allowed them because he could. He could crush them, but where would the fun in that be? Watching them run around like rats in a maze was far too much fun to end.

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There is this story, one written you would imagine by candlelight. It speaks of a Prometheus, one unbound. Of experimentation and the follies of that. It is a story of misunderstanding and on the foolishness of playing God. That story has long been told throughout the generations and is regarded as a classic tale, a warning even to not play God. Others have revisited and reinvented it time after time, but it’s core message is still always “Don’t. Play. God.” And indeed that’s true, ‘playing’ God is for the weaklings, the petty, the spineless and the cowardly. Screaming “It’s Alive!” just to fill yourself with purpose and the sense of being the all-father is a pathetic act. But for some of us, we can declare ourselves as Gods and these days there is a trio, a holy trinity who are omnipotent, who are greater than all others. All men were created equal but so were the three Gods; Elite’s.

In the story, men, a hoard of them, brought the experiment to an end, slaying it like St. George did the dragon of folklore. The monstrous creation was brought to its knees and slaughtered. Some say it was misunderstood, butchered out of fear. I would say it needed to die for man cannot be allowed to believe in his own God-hood. It is something that cannot be shown. Indeed this is what shall happen again, only mere mortal will not slay the unnatural creature. The mechanisations of deluded fools will instead be slain this time by a lord, a king, a God. An immortal will ride a pale horse, just as death does and cut, maim and defeat the Prometheus of today, casting it onto the rock and unleashing a bird to peck at it forever more. It has passed before and so it shall again.

Death is a constant as is the omnipotence of the holy trinity. We will know if you dare question our power, our talent, our ability and we will know if you bring into this would unspeakable monstrosities against our laws, the law of the trinity. We will bring you to your knees and extinguish the flame of life from your creations. The people will witness this execution and it will strike fear into them once more. Again the people will fear the Gods and the creature will be defeated.