The scene opens The crowd is buzzing after the match between the two competitors. The arena fully lit, Hawk paces the ring, microphone in hand, still out of breath from the match that had just fished taking place.
His intensity fills the air as he stops in the center, raising the mic to his lips in between short gasps for air.
Jacob Hawk: My first match. My first win. Riot. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? You see, Riot isn't just the name of the show. It's who I am. I am the chaos. I am the raging storm that will shatter the fragile illusion of power you think you hold onto.
The crowd responds with a mix of cheers and boos, the atmosphere crackling with energy.
Jacob Hawk: But as I stand here, in MY new home, looking at this company, at that locker room, I see nothing but hypocrites. Everywhere I turn, I see inflated egos wrapped in shiny masks. People who call themselves champion but hide behind masks like cowards. People pretending to be something they’re not. People who claim to be underground and elite at the same time.
The mention of the faction draws a loud reaction, a mix of boos and intrigue. Hawk sneers slightly.
Jacob Hawk: Underground? Elite? Well here's a little message for you, Swo! (English: Idiot) You can’t stand on your in your shiny outfits preening in the spotlight, and call yourselves underground. You're not underground. You’re not rebels. You're not punks! you’re just another group clawing for power while pretending you’re different. You’re frauds. And me? I’m a real punk!
Hawk steps closer to the ropes, leaning over slightly as his voice takes on a more deliberate, cutting tone.
Jacob Hawk: And while you pretenders and sheep all cling to your titles and your little factions, I’m here planting the seeds for something far greater. Something none of you can stop.
The crowd roars, feeling the intensity from his words. Hawk straightens up, his tone cold and deliberate. He pauses, scanning the crowd before locking eyes with the camera.
Jacob Hawk: So to the fake rebels, boot lickers, and cowards in the locker room, to management, and anyone else watching…your time in the sun is coming to an end. The silence is stirring. The seeds have been planted. And when destiny manifests, you’ll realize it wasn’t some misstep or bad luck of the draw that brought you down. It was me.
With that, Hawk tosses the mic to the mat with a loud thud. His music hits as he climbs the turnbuckle, raising his arms in defiance while the crowd erupts in a mixture of cheers and boos. He exits the ring with a confident stride, leaving his words echoing in the arena.
UE BACKSTAGE PRE MATCH
Another weekend, another blizzard in Brooklyn, and another edition of Riot to warm the cockles of your heart. We find ourselves in the locker room, where, just before his Tag Team Division match-up against Underground Elite, Damian Bourne is getting ready.
A knock on the door is then heard. Bourne turns towards the door in confusion, not expecting visitors, before standing up and walking over to it.
Bourne opens the locker room door to find The Mantis standing there, carrying a large bag in his hand and wearing casual clothing, save for one very non-casual exception; an industrial-looking mask over his mouth, laid on top of his regular mask. After a brief, somewhat awkward pause, Bourne nods at The Mantis, before inviting him inside.
The Mantis: Hey. He says curtly, his voice muffled, and evidently strained.
Damian Bourne: Sheesh…that’s definitely a new look for you. You sure they were thinking straight clearing you to wrestle, or are you just trying to prove you’re not an easy bug to kill?
He forces a chuckle to lighten the mood.
Damian Bourne:
Because, uh…mission accomplished.
The Mantis: Good questions. I'm to wear this thing at all times. He says, pointing at the mask. It's got little oxygen cans in the sides so I can breathe easier.
The Mantis:
Have to change them out every eight hours, when I wake up, and when I go to sleep. They're supposed to have this pain relieving stuff in them, but all I feel is someone drilling into my head with a thermic lance.
He says, more complaining than explaining, with a noticeable tinge of pained annoyance.
Damian Bourne: Damn, that sounds painful as all hell. To be frank, I’m shocked the American healthcare system could choose to only support you with that. Look, I won’t lie, when my nation saw I would be teaming up with you, they thought about exiling me from every province and territory.
The Mantis: Ah, and they decided against it? What a pity.
He says, dripping with sarcasm, before placing his bag on a nearby bench with a thud.
Damian Bourne: They didn’t decide against it, as such. They soon realized I didn't have a choice. And if I want to continue to bring legacy and pride to Canada, there’ll always be obstacles in the way of greatness.
The Mantis: Oh, don't I know it. El Parca robbing me of the International Championship, Elliot Parker swiping the Future Investment contract from me, Belakor folding up my spine like a cheap suit and - gahh!
The Mantis’ breathing suddenly sharpens, cutting his rant off, before holding a gloved hand up to his head for a moment to ease the pain.
The Mantis: Y-you get my point. We've got at least one thing in common.
Damian Bourne: I think it could do you some good, tagging with me. And how often do you think people get to wrestle with a talent such as myself, trained by the many greats and legends of Winnipeg?
Damian Bourne:
Y’know, I have been in the ring with you before, and I know you’re good. Real good. Lately, you’ve just had some hiccups out there, but if we can sync up with true coordination, some real technical wrestling, none of that silly flying around the ring? Yeah…I believe we can win this thing, no question.
The Mantis: You really think so? You're sure you're not just gonna get drunk off the sound of the crowd? Lose your focus right when you need it? I think Luis Bishop saw to that a few weeks ago.
The Mantis says with a muffled huff, before glancing at a nearby clock, then quickly moving to unzip his bag and get ready himself.
Damian Bourne:
Well, we can decide that later. We're on in ten. I'll see you out there.
Damian Bourne: Hey, Luis may have got the best of me, but you saw how I left Deaver on the mat last week on Riot, so, yeah, I’ll see you out there. And hey, try not to make me regret this. You let me down out there, you let Canada down. And if you hurt everything I stand for, I don’t know what our future holds.
The Mantis: Well, know this.
He says, looking Bourne right in the eye.
The Mantis: Deaver and his Dixie-whistling friend won't exactly lie down and fall for us. Deaver will be looking to make right on his loss to you. Just make sure he doesn't. For both our sakes.
With that, Bourne walks out of the locker room as The Mantis begins to get dressed, and the scene fades to black…
ROOKIE TAG CHALLENGE UNDERGROUND ELITE
vs.
DAMIAN BOURNE & THE MANTIS
The locker room opens up; various roster members are going about their business, and most of the dookits have been filled with ring gear and various other belongings.
One remains empty, save for what appears to be a box of chocolates and a handwritten envelope that reads “Jordan Trance.”
The man in question walks into view, heading towards his locker; Jordan slips his bag off his shoulder, looking down at the would-be gifts.
He pinches his nose and groans, knowing exactly who it’s from.
Jordan: B-17.
He snatches up the letter, tearing it open before reading it aloud.
Jordan: Dear Jordan, look at this photograph. Every time I do, it makes me laugh. This photo is a special one to me. The Invictus fishing trip is a memory I am never going to forget. Your dad was still under 320 lbs, Lee was so obsessed with Twitter that he cried when his phone fell into the river, and Aries was going on about time travel. If you look closely, you can see Parca hiding in a tree. They are all special to me in their own way, and I know you want to hate me because of how things turned out. But we all made our choices. We all became different people. It’s no one’s fault, and I doubt they have any regrets, too, but I also believe they don’t fixate on what things were. I think I understand why you do. Trust me when I say this: let the past be memories, not your future.
Jordan scoffs, balling up the paper before hurling it toward the trash. It hits the rim and bounces out as Jordan sits down, staring at the ball on the ground. He sighs and gets up, going over and putting it where it belonged before returning to his locker.
As we return to the action, he picks up the chocolates and shrugs them before opening them.
