The thin veil that had covered the true power of Broken Halo is slowly wasting away. No one knows where the first tear will be made, but sooner or later everyone knows every hand in Broken Halo will push through, and the holes will be blown larger than Hell itself.
This weekend, the fist that is destined to hold the Hardcore belt pill punch through the veil and take Dark Angel by the throat. It will take Juggernut by the throat. It will take Adrean by the throat. That fist belongs to Ichabod.
Ichabod sits with his hands to his head. His position is that of misery, but his face, alight with pure determination, purpose. Or insanity...
The room is metal. Sheets of copper in six by four sheets make the floor, walls, and ceiling of this room. Only one part of the room is different, a twelve inch squared hole in the wall with buttons on it. Steve stands looking at Ichabod in the corner.
Ok, Ichy. Lets do this.
Ichabod rises from the floor in an almost daze. He smiles insanely at Steve before flattening himself on the floor of the room. He immediately begins doing pushups. Ichabod is perched on top of one of the panels in the room, seeing nothing but the faces of the three men who will melt away this weekend. He pushes harder and harder, each breath that he draws enunciated with a grunt of effort. The smile never leaves his face as he pushes and pushes and pushes.
Steve presses one of the buttons on the panel, and Ichabod pushes.
The smell of sweat begins to fill the room. Steve turns a dial, and Ichabod pushes.
The seams between the panels suddenly seem blacker, thicker, and before long, blue flames flip up in sequence all around the panel where Ichabod pushes.
The quiet with which Ichabod pushes, other than his breathing, leaves enough room for the sound of blistering flesh to crackle throughout the room. Ichabod pushes.
The panel, already copper, begins to take on an even redder color. Before long, it begins to glow in the dark room. The glow surrounds Ichabod, bathing his face in surreal sadism. He pushes.
As Ichabod pushes, another red begins to cover the panel, the red of life. Ichabod's hands have blistered, and now the blisters have burst, and pus and blood begin to leak out of his palms. And he continues to push.
Steve adjusts the panel a little, causing the flames to leap up a little higher. The red panel glows so brightly that Ichabod is only a dark blur, pushing and pushing harder and harder.
The cuff of Ichabod's pants catches fire. He pushes.
Steve holds Ichabod up as he half leads, half carries him down the hallway.
Ichabod is dropped onto the floor of the shower, and the water comes on a second later. It washes him in icy cold freshness, soothing his burns.
No fire may completely consume me. It is without doubt that I come forth into the knowledge that I alone stand ready to do battle with three men of will. Their will is to fight, to cause trouble, to be hardcore. But their will is not strong enough to provide the way to victory. Their will, their wits, their desires, all nothing at all in the great scheme of things. The fires are stoked within me, and they burn, taking their turn as fuel instead of consumer, driving me to what I must do.
Juggernut... It is true that I had you beaten. Had not this Dark... Angel... stepped in to borrow fate's hands for a moment, throwing the already ragged scheme of things into further disarray, I would be your champion. But you still, beside the fact that it took two men to keep that title in your possession, brag to me about your championship. I hope you are enjoying the extension of your reign, because where before you had something to brag about, now you should only be ashamed. Your title reign has been cheapened for you, and you ACCEPT IT! I had respect for you before now, but with your pathetic acceptance of this as a real victory, I only feel sorry for you. How sad it is that your idle words and empty thoughts are powered by a stream of bullshit. I wonder now, how many times before me have you won this way. Must have been a lot, because you seem pretty comfortable with the fact that YOU didn't win, that someone won for you. That won't be the case Saturday. In there it is every man for himself, and no one will be throwing you on top of me. No one will be knocking another man down and you capitalizing. You have three men, maybe more, to worry about now. With your narrow minded swallowing of this victory, I doubt you can focus on all three of us long enough to mount even a defense for your gold.
Adrean... what can I say? Another face, another face, another face. How many will be put in front of me before the eyes which see all find me worthy to rise? How many skulls crushed beneath my boot, how much blood spilled over my hands, before the time for waiting runs out and I become what I already am to myself, the one true champion of hardcore. Consider yourself lucky that after all that I have destroyed, fate has chosen you to challenge me. But consider yourself numbered, marked, and timed, because your days are so.
And Dark... Angel... what gives you the right? Who put the wheel in your hands and asked you to steer. You have no business in affairs this great, so stop trying to climb my pedestal and knock me off before I kick you back down so hard you'll never get back up. From what I understand, you have beef with Jug. Why, then, involve me? Why help him retain his ability to spout his bullshit about victories and dynasties? It makes no sense. Just like your involvement in my business. Why does the little guy feel he must pick no the larger guy in order to be noticed? Does it make you feel better to bring yourself harm? The soil of a man's heart is stonier, Angel, and you must reap what you sow. You bought misery, you bought pain, you bought Hell. It is paid for and now you must tend to it. You must own it. Saturday, your destiny will be meddled with in turn. Your fate changed. Your less than glorious return to the ring, no doubt, was supposed to mark the beginning of something big for you... but your exit will come as quickly, and once more everyone will forget the name of Dark... Angel.....
A four man match... how appropriate. I ripped into this fed with both hands like an eager drunk with a bag of pretzels. My first match was a four man match, even though one deemed himself not brave enough to step into my ring. With that match I entered the hardcore division. How appropriate that with that same match I will take over the same division. It is the key that unlocked the door to this house, and it is the key that I will wear about my neck as keeper of that home.
Steve kills the water as Ichabod finishes speaking, but Ichabod remains face down on his hands and knees contemplating. He finally stands and walks past Steve, some other matter trying his mind for the moment.
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