Post by strat on Aug 6, 2023 20:38:03 GMT -5
In the shadowed corridors of time, mankind has dared to dance at the edge of destiny, to toy with the threads that weave the tapestry of existence.
Such audacity, to believe one could pluck the strings of the cosmos, as if playing some celestial instrument, and not invite the wrath of powers beyond comprehension.
It is said that when mere mortals trespass into the realm of the divine, seeking to alter the course set before them, they do so at their own peril. For to intervene in the designs of the cosmos is to challenge entities who mold existence with a mere thought, who birth and extinguish stars with but a whisper.
And when such entities take umbrage, when their ire is stoked by the presumption of the insignificant, their retribution is neither quiet nor gentle.
It descends like a storm, ferocious and indiscriminate, reminding all of the delicate balance that holds the universe together.
It is a dangerous game to ponder the 'what ifs' and the 'maybes' of fate. One must tread lightly, for even the mightiest have fallen, undone by their own hubris.
An angered God takes no prisoners.
—
From my private balcony, I surveyed the sprawling expanse of Bermuda's most illustrious resort. It was a testament to human aspiration, with pristine white facades bathed in sunlight and accented with gold, symbolising opulence and aspiration. Gentle wafts of salt and exotic blooms intermingled, teasing the senses while the harmonious melodies of a distant string quartet underscored the elegance of it all.
Yet, amidst this splendour, memories of Puerto Rico's calamities invaded my reverie. The fierce lightning strikes, the unsettling darkness of unexpected power outages, and the disturbing disappearance of Leo. Were these mere coincidences? The disfavour of Gods, perhaps?
A movement caught my eye, pulling me from my contemplation. It was Marcus Welsh, on an adjacent balcony, his posture betraying a deep unease. The Trials had not been kind to us, or more accurately, the variables I couldn't strictly control were proving unpredictable.
A soft voice sliced through my ponderings.
"Stephen, you're brooding again." Demi remarked, gracefully appearing beside me. Her presence always had a way of grounding my spiralling thoughts.
I met her knowing gaze, realising she had discerned my inner disquiet. "It's just–" I began, but she lifted a hand, silencing me with a knowing smile.
"Chaos," she said, her voice lilting like a gentle summer breeze, "has its own kind of beauty. It's what keeps life interesting. You're meticulous, and I adore that about you. But sometimes, it's essential to let go and let the petals fall where they may."
Her words, simple yet profound, served as the soothing balm I hadn't known I needed.
I knew my strategies were sound. The flaw wasn't in my play, but in the pieces themselves. While I was orchestrating with precision, the ensemble, save for a few, danced to their own tune. And in the meticulous game of uniting the Triad, every misstep resonates.
Chaos is Sarah’s thing. I just needed to broaden my scope.
Invigorated, I pressed my bare feet into the cold stone floor and rose to a standing position. The palm of my hand briefly bracing against the small of Demi’s back as I pressed my lips into her forehead and thanked her.
She looked out to see what I’d been staring at as I disappeared out of the room, her eyes locking onto Welsh’s.
—
The resort's private bar, reserved solely for my team, radiated serenity. Bright and airy, the minimalist design offered a tranquil escape from the bustling world outside. I had entered on a whim, the weight of the conversation with Demi still fresh on my mind, and I sought clarity. There, at the bar, was Thaddeus Duke.
Despite our occasional interactions, I was always momentarily taken aback by his imposing stature. I had subconsciously built an image of Thad as a slight, bookish individual, but reality consistently defied my expectations.
He caught sight of me and raised his vodka cranberry in greeting. "Stephen," he began, his demeanour amiable, "Care for a drink?"
I paused, eyes drawn to the deep red liquid shifting against the ice cubes in his glass. "I've always felt," I replied, delicately choosing my words, "that the clearest minds are often preserved in the purest vessels. But I appreciate the offer." A subtle smile played at the corners of my mouth, leaving room for interpretation.
Still barefoot, I step over a barstool directly into a sitting position, and pour from a jug of iced water into an empty glass. A droplet of water runs, slowly at first, from the spout of the jug until it picks up speed and crashes, soaking into the white napkin laid on the bar for this very purpose.
Thad smirked at me, perhaps wondering to what he owed the dubious honour of my company. His calm, steady gaze met mine, a silent challenge. The air grew thick with anticipation.
"You had a rough go against Catalina Cortes in Puerto Rico," I began, my voice even, deliberately trying to shake his foundation. "She's something, isn't she? Must be nerve-wracking to face her again this week."
Thad took a sip from his drink, looking unperturbed. "Stephen, wrestling is wrestling. Puerto Rico, here, anywhere - at the end of the day, it's just another match."
I leaned in slightly, trying to read the man across from me. "You know, given your calibre, I'd suggest focusing on pinning Cat instead of Pinkeye. Not that he's not a challenge, but Catalina... she's the one everyone's got their eyes on." I mused internally, thinking of how Catalina's loss would open doors for Knox, a more malleable piece in this game.
Thad simply shrugged, sipping his drink. "Some luck played a part in Cat's win. She's skilled, sure, but not in a league of her own. Whether it's Cat or Pinkston, I couldn't care less who takes the fall."
Raising an eyebrow, I offered, "But, you know, if you ever need any... arrangements to ensure a better outcome, just let me know."
A hint of tension seeped into Thad's demeanour. "Stay out of my way, Stephen. I've given receipts to those that have tried to interfere on my behalf in the past. I know I just seem like a pretty boy, but there's so much more than meets the eye. And I've used that weapon to my advantage for 6 years."
I smirked, the gears turning in my head. "All I'm saying is that if Knox manages even a single point this week, and another the next, then you stop Cortes from scoring anything and I do the same? Cat can't win. If she's off the board, it's smooth sailing for the rest of us."
Thad cocked an eyebrow, a sly grin of his own forming. "Speaking of smooth sailing? When you stand face to face with Penelope tomorrow, don't let the fact that she wears mascara better than you rattle your cage."
“I’d be surprised if she turned up at the right venue,” I mused, giving him a look that dared him to read between the lines.
Thad's light smirk faded a bit, his tone switching gears entirely. “Speaking of being in the right place, I saw the Third Bird earlier today,” he began, a hint of amusement colouring his voice. “He was outside, fiercely debating with himself about the contents of his Bermuda shorts' pockets and how exactly to access them. Honestly, it was a sight to behold.”
I couldn’t help but crack a smile, the image alone of Alexander Raven's typical intensity directed at something as mundane as shorts, “One day, he’s going to finally connect all the wires in his head without short-circuiting, and then we’ll all be fucked, mate.”
Rising from the barstool, I shot a wink at Thad. The atmosphere felt slightly lighter, the undercurrent of tension momentarily forgotten. Without another word, I turned and made my way out of the private bar, the soft clink of glass echoing gently in the otherwise silent room.
—
MERICA. His name replayed in my mind with a mix of admiration and strategic understanding. Our previous encounter had shown me the heart of a lion. Noble, steadfast, and a paragon of sportsmanship. His determination to fight with integrity was commendable. And yet, I waited, a spider at the centre of a web, feeling every vibration until the right moment to strike revealed itself. Lachlan Kane, poor guy, became the unwitting prey to my calculated patience. The mat had met his shoulders, my hand raised in triumph. Nobility can be a double-edged sword, often leaning more towards vulnerability than virtue. While he fought with heart, I fought with precision. I saw him try to do the right thing, but it's a dog-eat-dog world, and the clock is ticking. He does not have the time to evolve from a white knight into a battle-hardened warrior.
Now, Penelope. The juxtaposition couldn't be starker. Where MERICA stood as a beacon of earnestness, Penelope's been barking, snarling, growling, snapping at the heels of others, creating a cacophony that's hard to ignore. However, despite her bluster, there's a glaring emptiness beneath; like the famous Trojan Horse, impressive to behold but hollow within. More distraction than substance.
Her narratives, ever shifting, were as fluctuating as the tides surrounding Bermuda — one moment a tropical storm, the next, a whimper. With every setback, a new line of defence, a fresh tale of woe. As if seeking sympathy would be her ladder to the pinnacle. But in our world, where power and prowess dictate the outcome, sentimentality is a frivolous luxury.
Her self-proclaimed reign was built on a foundation of sand — easily shaken and easier still to crumble. And Penelope, with her litany of excuses, appeared more an architect of her own undoing than a force to be reckoned with. She might believe her bluster is her shield, but I've seen through more intricate veils than hers. If one's bite doesn't match their bark, they're just adding to the noise.
In the larger scheme, while we manoeuvre to unite The Triad, there's a cautionary undercurrent. We're on borrowed time, and every action, every alliance and betrayal, might be awakening dormant deities, watching us, weighing our worthiness. While the end game remains crucial, I'll be damned if I let the cacophony of others' inadequacies drown my orchestrated symphony of strategy. The gods might be watching, but they'll soon realise I'm not one to be trifled with.
—
The brightness of the sun gave the pool a shimmering, azure hue, with the laughter of children and murmurs of relaxed conversation forming a tranquil backdrop. Wrestlers' families lounged on the deck chairs, basking in the serenity that Bermuda offered. Children splashed, their innocence starkly contrasting the tensions of the tournament.
My phone rang, breaking the idyllic scene. I glanced at the caller ID. Welsh.
"Marcus," I answered, my voice betraying none of the surprise I felt.
I listened intently, the weight of his words bearing down on me. "And you’re sure he has the logistical means to do that?" I questioned, my eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for an answer in the infinite expanse.
The responses from the other end seemed to grow more urgent, more perturbed. But my demeanour remained unruffled. "What else have you heard?"
As he continued, my fingers tapped against the phone in contemplation. "Look," I interrupted as Marcus began detailing a plan, "let it play out. We've seen chaos before. We know how to navigate it."
There was a pause, a heavy silence filled only by the distant splashes of the pool. And with a final, resolute breath, I ended the call, leaving Marcus with his plans and myself with the weight of the coming storm.