Post by Old Line Jeff on Dec 16, 2021 9:16:16 GMT -5
The water in the harbor might have been beautiful, sparkling gold and blue in the summer sun, but the dank air that swept off it smelled of mud, rust, and small death.
Daeriq Damien took a deep breath and smiled.
It was a sweltering Sunday in late August, and although the more tourist-oriented parts of the docks were still teeming with people, the industrial areas were quiet. Just the sloshing sounds of the water lapping against the piers, and the groan of metal as the ships rocked in the waves.
He was waiting for someone.
Ronnie Long, it seemed, had developed something more of a spine than he’d expected. As stoic as his somewhat friend could be, at heart, Long was more of a follower than anything else. More often than not it was Jeff Andrews, but anyone persistent enough could usually convince the trenchcoat man to roll with whatever they came up with. Long was more effectively used as someone else’s weapon than on his own.
He was actually rather surprised that just showing up hadn’t been enough.
The sound of footsteps on wood echoed behind him.
Daeriq Damien didn’t turn around to look, because he already knew who it was, and he didn’t like looking at her.
The squeak of leather on leather gradually accompanied the bootsteps as the individual approached him.
“You told me that Ronnie Long was easily manipulated.”
The voice was cold enough that it sent a chill through his bones.
“I must confess to having underestimated his resolve. Don’t worry though, I’ll find an avenue to get through to him. He really is a good man, you know - a stupid and rather lazy one in the end, but his intentions are at least somewhat pure.”
The breeze kicked up. A cloud of dust from some unseen stretch of muddy coast kicked up, skating across the top of the harbor, causing the sunlight to dim.
“Your attempts at levity are not appreciated. I’m going to tell you this again, so make sure you understand it. I. Want. Andrews. Back.”
“If you really want Andrews back, why don’t you go after his protege? Kirsty McKenzie, I think her name is.”
“I never asked you for your opinion, and I explain my methods on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to know anything. You need to deliver what I have asked of you and hope that it is enough for the reward you were promised.”
Daeriq Damien was no boyscout. He had a strictly mercenary view of the sport of professional wrestling, combined with a remarkable lack of empathy. In his older age he had, in fact, come to regret some of the things he’d done over the years, but perhaps not enough so that he would have chosen a different path if given the choice. Yet that didn’t mean he was incapable of feeling something akin to remorse.
Right now? He wasn’t feeling remorse, but something even stranger (for him). Some people would call it ‘misgiving.’
Frankly, Daeriq was superstitious. Uncanny things happened to Jeff Andrews and the people surrounding him, and Daeriq, even though he was only on Andrews’ periphery, had seen things that he couldn’t explain.
And now one of those things was standing behind him.
“Take off your jacket.” The cold voice spoke.
Even in the heat of August, Daeriq Damien generally wore full suits. This particular suit was white, over a pale blue shirt. Swallowing the sigh before it escaped, Damien slid the coat off his shoulders and down his arms.
The person standing behind him took his right wrist in their hand. Or rather, they took hold of the metal brace wrapped around his wrist in their hand.
Damien was forced to his feet as the seemingly small, almost delicate hand exerted a surprising amount of power… or maybe it just seemed astonishing compared to the complete lack of power in his own arm. The arm that had put an end to his days as a wrestler with no forewarning while he was still at his physical peak. The arm that was contained entirely within a metal brace that ran wrist to shoulder.
“Old accidents can be repaired if you are able to pay the price, and the price that is being asked of you is really quite low. That is why it is exceptionally important that you not disappoint me.”
He could not bring himself to look up.
“I will do what I can to help you within the rules of the Great Game.” The cold voice spoke. “But fail me at your own Sorrow.”
His arm was released, and he snatched it back to his body. Already the upper arm was throbbing. He couldn’t look up.
The footsteps receded down the pier as Damien stared at his jacket. He’d somehow stepped on it, a footprint grey-brown with the harbor dirt, directly on the right arm of the jacket.
“We were sucked into this, Ronnie. It’s not my fault, I swear it isn’t. We’ll get through it. If only I can convince you to just give up on Andrews and leave him to the fate he chose for himself…”
Daeriq Damien took a deep breath and smiled.
It was a sweltering Sunday in late August, and although the more tourist-oriented parts of the docks were still teeming with people, the industrial areas were quiet. Just the sloshing sounds of the water lapping against the piers, and the groan of metal as the ships rocked in the waves.
He was waiting for someone.
Ronnie Long, it seemed, had developed something more of a spine than he’d expected. As stoic as his somewhat friend could be, at heart, Long was more of a follower than anything else. More often than not it was Jeff Andrews, but anyone persistent enough could usually convince the trenchcoat man to roll with whatever they came up with. Long was more effectively used as someone else’s weapon than on his own.
He was actually rather surprised that just showing up hadn’t been enough.
The sound of footsteps on wood echoed behind him.
Daeriq Damien didn’t turn around to look, because he already knew who it was, and he didn’t like looking at her.
The squeak of leather on leather gradually accompanied the bootsteps as the individual approached him.
“You told me that Ronnie Long was easily manipulated.”
The voice was cold enough that it sent a chill through his bones.
“I must confess to having underestimated his resolve. Don’t worry though, I’ll find an avenue to get through to him. He really is a good man, you know - a stupid and rather lazy one in the end, but his intentions are at least somewhat pure.”
The breeze kicked up. A cloud of dust from some unseen stretch of muddy coast kicked up, skating across the top of the harbor, causing the sunlight to dim.
“Your attempts at levity are not appreciated. I’m going to tell you this again, so make sure you understand it. I. Want. Andrews. Back.”
“If you really want Andrews back, why don’t you go after his protege? Kirsty McKenzie, I think her name is.”
“I never asked you for your opinion, and I explain my methods on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to know anything. You need to deliver what I have asked of you and hope that it is enough for the reward you were promised.”
Daeriq Damien was no boyscout. He had a strictly mercenary view of the sport of professional wrestling, combined with a remarkable lack of empathy. In his older age he had, in fact, come to regret some of the things he’d done over the years, but perhaps not enough so that he would have chosen a different path if given the choice. Yet that didn’t mean he was incapable of feeling something akin to remorse.
Right now? He wasn’t feeling remorse, but something even stranger (for him). Some people would call it ‘misgiving.’
Frankly, Daeriq was superstitious. Uncanny things happened to Jeff Andrews and the people surrounding him, and Daeriq, even though he was only on Andrews’ periphery, had seen things that he couldn’t explain.
And now one of those things was standing behind him.
“Take off your jacket.” The cold voice spoke.
Even in the heat of August, Daeriq Damien generally wore full suits. This particular suit was white, over a pale blue shirt. Swallowing the sigh before it escaped, Damien slid the coat off his shoulders and down his arms.
The person standing behind him took his right wrist in their hand. Or rather, they took hold of the metal brace wrapped around his wrist in their hand.
Damien was forced to his feet as the seemingly small, almost delicate hand exerted a surprising amount of power… or maybe it just seemed astonishing compared to the complete lack of power in his own arm. The arm that had put an end to his days as a wrestler with no forewarning while he was still at his physical peak. The arm that was contained entirely within a metal brace that ran wrist to shoulder.
“Old accidents can be repaired if you are able to pay the price, and the price that is being asked of you is really quite low. That is why it is exceptionally important that you not disappoint me.”
He could not bring himself to look up.
“I will do what I can to help you within the rules of the Great Game.” The cold voice spoke. “But fail me at your own Sorrow.”
His arm was released, and he snatched it back to his body. Already the upper arm was throbbing. He couldn’t look up.
The footsteps receded down the pier as Damien stared at his jacket. He’d somehow stepped on it, a footprint grey-brown with the harbor dirt, directly on the right arm of the jacket.
“We were sucked into this, Ronnie. It’s not my fault, I swear it isn’t. We’ll get through it. If only I can convince you to just give up on Andrews and leave him to the fate he chose for himself…”
