THE CAMERA PANS TO THE RAMP
Joanna, getting ready to rip the metal door off of it’s hinges, hears a soft, but imposing voice behind her.
Lady Caleigh: You still have so much to learn, Joanna.
Joanna loosens her grip on the door, and looks behind her. Lady Caleigh, the mysterious leader of the House of Faith.
Lady Caleigh: You know that Morgan has to do this on her own. You’ve been here before, too. Remember?
Joanna: But, she needs to know she isn’t alone! She needs to know he isn’t real Caleigh!
Lady Caleigh: That’s the old you Joanna, the protector, the mother. You’re beyond this now, your third eye is open and you must let Morgan’s open on her own. Then. And only then, can you be her protector.
Lady Caleigh: Let her be. You know I’m telling you the truth. This is how it must be. She’s battling her demons. HER demons. She has to conquer them on her own. If you help her now, she’ll never get over that hill. When the screaming stops; when the cries cease to be, Morgan’s third eye will have opened, and she will no longer be that wounded dove that you found on Ambition.
Joanna sighs as the shouting and screaming inside of the rooms goes away and an eerie silence comes over the two women.
Suddenly, a soft but confident voice beings to be heard from inside the room. Joanna, looking at Caleigh approaches the door and puts her ear up to it. She can hear Morgan inside singing..
Morgan: Still don’t know what I was waitin’ for, and my time was runnin’ wild. A million dead end streets, and every time I thought I’d got it made; it seemed the taste was not so sweet. So I turned myself to face me, but I’ve never caught a glimpse, how the others must see the faker...
Joanna: She.. she’s singing? Why.. how.. What I-i just don’t understand how.
Lady Caleigh: She’s singing through her pain, Joanna. Morgan’s working through her demons, and it sounds like she’s finally conquering them.
The singing quiets down and eventually stops as finally the door to the chamber starts to twist open.
Joanna backs away as Lady Caleigh puts her hand on her shoulder and whispers into Joanna’s ear.
Lady Caleigh: Go to her when she comes out, be there for her just like I was to you, my silver haired warrior.
The door fully opens as out comes Morgan Blackheart, Blackheart head held high, looks like a reborn woman. Joanna walks up to the woman embracing her in a hug.
Joanna: You did it my little black dandelion, your third eye has opened and you see now that HE no longer holds anything over you. I’m so proud of you Morgan so proud.
Morgan, teary eyed and an absolute mess, looks down at her bloodied fingertips. She looks back up towards Joanna with a smile.
Morgan: He’s gone, Jo. He’s finally gone. He was everywhere, but now...he’s nowhere. You two were right. All along, you were right. I feel something I’ve never felt. It’s some kind of energy rushing through every fiber of my being. It’s like someone opened my veins and poured sunlight in. I feel warm. I feel in touch with everything around me…
Lady Caleigh looks at her two adherent’s as she calls out to them
Lady Caleigh: Come along you two, we have much work to do and so little time. Posthaste now my dears. Posthaste.
The three women begin walking shoulder to shoulder as the cameras pan down and fade to black.
TORNADO TAG GRUDGE MATCH
DOMINION vs. K'DANGELO & H20
As we continue with the OCW 16th Anniversary Show, it seems quite unnerving to think that some people thought that putting so many pyrotechnics in one place which could possibly send half of New York into the ocean was a good idea. Setting that rather unsafe thought aside, we turn now to The Mantis sitting on a small stool in a darkened room. His hands are together, and his head down, seemingly deep in contemplation. He shakes his head several times before looking up into the camera.
The Mantis: My friends...we have a problem. A problem which concerns a man many of you hold very dear. A man you may have had pictures with, or signatures from. Beneath his charming veneer, lies a very different man to the one you know and love. That man...is El Parca.
He stands up from the stool.
The Mantis: After my humiliating loss at our most recent title match, I did some...investigating. Indeed, I had a hunch for a while, but I had to be sure. I've studied past footage of his. I've observed him from afar. I've monitored his social media activity. I searched for anything out of the ordinary, anything that could link together. And I think I have it.
The Mantis: Three weeks ago on Turmoil, I stated why your International Champion was unfit to drape said title over his shoulder. But it appears I now have to spell it out for you all, so I shall. El Parca is sick. When I say "sick", I don't mean physically. We all know being a champion for as long as he has been requires incredible fortitude, and to be the very picture of health. No. Parca's malady lies...within.
The Mantis: This man appears to genuinely believe that he cannot be touched. He is never seen without his title, and whenever he is seen, he always clutches it tightly, as if whoever he's speaking to is plotting to steal it at any moment. When he speaks to other Superstars in the locker room, he appears to speak through the title, almost shoving it into everyone else's face, and talks about little else. When anyone dares rebuke him, he becomes hostile, spewing a barrage of insults, the context or even language immaterial. The way he traverses the arena premises carries an air of pretentious swagger, as if he owns the place, and the livelihoods of all whom he walks past.
The Mantis: This is not the behaviour of a champion, but of a narcissist. El Parca is the sort of person who would sooner allow another to drown if it meant keeping his title dry, or steal candy from a baby. If my theory is correct, and his attachment to his title is so damaging, then its removal becomes ever more crucial, before any more damage is done...assuming any more can still be done.
The Mantis quickly reaches down to the floor and rises up again, with a baseball bat in hand.
The Mantis: I had promised myself long ago that I wouldn't stoop to this level, but I'm afraid desperate times must call for desperate measures. So, Parca? I hope you can hear this over the sound of all the voices rattling inside of your head. You have brought nothing but shame and dishonor to the International Championship. By comparison, it would be better to urinate upon it than it is for it to remain draped around the likes of you for another day. The age of your tyranny and of your posturing is nearing its end, and mark my words, I will not stop until that title lies in the hands of whomever is truly worthy of it.
The Mantis: If it means either one of us has to be carried out on a stretcher, so be it. Often the greatest of victories require a great sacrifice. If I must give my career, or indeed my life, to the cause of bringing peace to this federation, then that is a price I am more than willing to pay. For I am The Mantis…
...and I've got your number.
The Mantis gently slaps the head of the bat against his palm, then walks out of the frame, eyes still locked to the camera, as the next match begins...