Post by The Cosplay Playboy on Sept 26, 2015 3:54:15 GMT -6
September 23, 2015
San Diego, California
“ENOUGH! THAT ENOUGH FROM BOTH OF YOU!”
The voice of Ryoma a.k.a. Papa Arino rang out through the halls of his own home in San Diego as he witnessed the scene in front of him a few moments too late. Ryusei Arino was against the wall, clutching at his chest, eyes coldly staring across the room as he attempted to move but seemed to struggle to even take a step forward. But the important part of all of this had to do with the other two men in the room. One stood firmly, looking down at the other man in the tatami mat, wiping the blood away from his lips...to a certain extent, admiring the damage done to himself by the other man who clutched his own stomach and looked up at him as if a wounded predator just waiting on his target to step forward again before making his next move.
“...That wasn’t bad,” the man in street clothes, white socks and a jacket with the Libra constellation across the back stated. “But at this point? It’s not enough.”
The leer that the man yielding the Mark of Libra shoots down at the fallen foe is unlike anything one would expect out of the man formerly known as “Anderson Cobalt.”
“I can read you like a book, Chris Strike…”
Chris Strike got up to one knee, gritting his teeth and shooting a glare right back at Anderson.
“That the best you got?” He spat out, his own combination of saliva, blood and mucus landing right in between Jason Anderson Protivnik’s feet. Some of the effects from his match-up against Luther Thunder and his goons on Monday night elsewhere weren’t helping his physical condition, but there was no doubt that in a matter of a few short seconds, he got outclassed in a fight by this little punkass. It was on now... “Jolyne Dysart probably hits harder than you and she’s Imperium fucking scum.”
Protivnik’s eyes narrowed, ready to advance on Chris Strike and nail him yet again when Papa Arino stepped forward between both men, reaching up and smacking Protivnik upside the head. “GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF, CHILD! STOP FIGHTING IN MY HOUSE!” He yelled out, as Jason’s eyes widened before he turned to Chris. “AND YOU! STOP BEING ASSHOLE! THIS NOT TELEVISION IN EXODUS PRO DAMMIT!”
Strike’s hands kept themselves balled into fists as he finally returned to his feet, inhaling and exhaling. The initial purpose of this entire meeting between them was to figure exactly what the hell Jason Anderson Protivnik exhibited now that his Mark had fully been awoken and as to whose side was he really on. His own abilities were very similar to Ophelia Hildegard’s - a.k.a. GOTHRA, the Mark of Aquarius - and yet, there was a difference. Like, how on mere command alone, Ryusei Arino hadn’t been able to move from his spot no matter how many times he tried.
“I know you aren’t reading every single thought I have, kid,” Strike stated. “Ophelia and I made damn sure nobody can come close to it. And yet...you’ve been able to now dodge things you wouldn’t. Not to mention, what the fuck did you do to Ryusei…?”
Papa Arino’s eyes avert over to his son, immediate concern showing on his face as he approached him. “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice lowering as Ryusei nodded and uttered something in Japanese back to his father, causing Papa to look back at Anderson. “...Release him. Now.”
A tiny chuckle leaves the mouth of Anderson, as he briefly looks over at Ryusei. “He’s just doing what his mind says.” He said to start off, before looking back at Strike. “You see, I’ve learned a lot about my powers recently. I can lift things. I can read minds. I can push things away or pull them to me with a thought. But that’s all just window dressing. It’s the appetizer to what my power is.” He smiles, looking again at Ryusei, who looks quite worried to say the least about his inability to move his body. Anderson reaches out and pats the man on the cheek, as Papa glowers at him.
“You see, when I said I can read you like a book...that wasn’t being cute. When I use my powers, I don’t see things like your GOTHRA does. To me, the mind is a book. I can read it…” And at that point, a grin came to his face, as he looked at Strike again. “And I can rewrite it.”
He pointed at Ryusei. “He, right now, is following a simple command. “You will not move unless told to by Jason” which he is following so well. And, I’ll admit, I haven’t put this into much practice yet. But I could get so much more complex. I could tear memories out of his head, I could put new ones into him, I could make him choke his father, hell I could make him go right now and put his raving mad dog of a brother down.”
A small pause.
“Actually, to be honest, that’d be a very nice thing for me to do for everyone, wouldn’t it?”
Having stood up to his feet during the speech, Chris Strike joined Papa and Ryusei Arino, his eyes not averting from Ryusei as he examined the man for a moment, muttering something in Japanese before Ryusei finally took a few steps forward, nearly stumbling onto his feet and tripping over them before crashing against the nearby wall to hold himself back as Jason looked at the older son of Papa Arino in awe while Chris Strike stared back at him.
“Thank you for that, Jason...I think I can go ahead and erase that command off of you now,” Strike responded, crossing his arms. “...After all, you might be an overconfident dick inside of the ring, but you’re not so thick-headed as to just lay out every single bit of your own powers to three people you don’t particularly trust on your own.”
Anderson blinked. “What the fuck did you just do to me?!”
It was Papa Arino’s turn to be confused. “Yes, Chris. What did you just do?”
“I guess I should explain,” Strike stated, motioning for all parties at hand to take a seat before doing so himself regardless on the tatami mat, Indian-style. “My own abilities with my Mark of Sagittarius are mimicry. It’s a big part of how I was eventually able to resist Magdalena’s advances a year ago with the more time I spent around her and how I was able to rise up with every single bit of rage and fury from the grave against Furor, for example. While I can’t fully master other powers around me, I can certainly tap into them enough to use them when I need it most.”
Exhaling, Chris Strike looked down at his own chest, covered by a purple “My Neighbor Jotaro” t-shirt, which covered the bullet-shaped like scars that comprised his own Mark. “But the big thing is? These Marks respond to a lot of things, but it seems violence is the biggest trigger of them all. So, I provoked you into a fight, Jason. You wiped the floor with me. And in turn, you exposed your own power enough to where I was able to see into your own mind...and write a little something of my own.” Not even the next statement is enough to change Strike’s stone-faced expression. “You will tell Chris Strike, Ryoma Arino and Ryusei Arino the truth about your powers. And lo and behold, you did...all according to plan.”
Finally, Strike turns around, facing Papa Arino and placing his fists on the tatami mat, adjusting his position to where he is on both knees as he bows lowly to the man hosting them. “My deepest apologies for the insult I committed inside your home, Ryoma-san...but there was no other way to find out for sure what the kid was capable of unless I did so.”
Ryoma looks down at the bowing Strike and, after a moment’s contemplation, reaches down to place a hand on his shoulder. “You’re forgiven, Strike-san. I understand why you had to do that. And I know you could not tell me, because of his powers. Please stand, my friend.”
As Ryoma was saying this, Jason was taking in what he’d just been told. The cocky look on his face was replaced with a snarl, as one of his hands curled into a fist. “Like an idiot I fell for that.” He started. “My father won’t be happy to hear about this. Damn it. Damn it!” He looks at Strike and lets out a breath. “You’re impressively clever, Sagittarius. I’ll at least give you that.”
“Not a matter of cleverness, Libra,” Strike stated, a look of concern appearing on his face after having stood. “You’re among Sagittarius and the bloodline that’s carried the Leo Mark for a very, very long time now...and one among us bearers has begun to make their move to take all twelve of these for themselves. I’m just glad we found you before they did, because otherwise we’d b-”
“Wait! You say...something about father…”
The room looked over at Ryusei Arino’s direction as he uttered those six words, before the man once presumed dead to the world at large spoke once again, his English heavily accented and yet, slow and precise enough to where they can make out every word of it.
“So, like me...like father...you also part of bloodline…?”
Jason grinned at this, almost all of the earlier anger he had in his face falling away immediately at those words. “That’s correct. My father, Grant, also has the power of Libra. It’s just…” he pauses a moment, as he tries to find the right words. “It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s strong, sometimes it’s non-existent. He’s told me that it’s due to it being so much stronger in me that it interferes with his own use of it sometimes. Which...is a shame.” He frowns, deeply. “What a great world he could make if he could always use his power. But that’s why I will.” His look now is determined. “That’s why I’ll be keeping this power of mine. To make his world a reality.”
Both Ryusei and Papa frown at this, sharing a brief look between themselves and Strike. The three of them were aware of things he still wasn’t, and an unspoken agreement went between the three of them then. It was time to tell him what they had found out from Oshima. But they were interrupted.
They were interrupted by the sound of the door to the room opening, and a man stepping inside. A tall, lanky man, dressed in a lab coat. On his face he wore a medical mask and deep blue goggles. Even with the goggles, everyone could feel that his eyes were directly on Anderson. And from the looks on their faces, all of them were aware that not a one of them knew who the man was.
“Oi! Who the hell are you!?” Papa shouted at the man, who did not look away from Anderson to reply. When he spoke, it was with a strange, mechanical underlining to his voice. “Doktor. Alexander Adversary.” He nodded slightly in the direction of Anderson. “His father, Grant. My brother.” Anderson’s eyes widened in confusion. “The hell? My father has no siblings.”
A small tsking came from the man. “Expected. You don’t know many things. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is those words. To make his world a reality. That will need to be handled.”
He finally looked away from Anderson, to look at the three men in turn. As he did so, his left hand moves to the right side of his lab coat and brushed it away, letting them all see that at his belt a strange-looking handgun was holstered. “Gentlemen, a request. Please don’t get in the way.”
He looked back at Anderson.
“I need to have a “talk” with my nephew.”
-----------------------------------
“Life is true to form; records are meant to be broken.”
Our particular background in question resides in the village area of La Jolla, California and just a five mile drive away from the RIMAC Arena where Welcome Oblivion was set to happen in another day’s time. Under the keen direction of owner Lorna York, this 10,000 square foot space is a representation of artists who share her powerful and eloquent vision. Founded in 2001, the Madison Gallery is an environment committed to representing emerging, mid-career and established international artists who work in a range of media. Inspired by an earnest dedication and passion for art, the gallery consistently exhibits a high standard of contemporary art. One particular artist, in fact, was having his exhibit showcased here for the remainder of the week which coincided with the big iPPV event that EXODUS Pro would hold in the arena just a few miles up the road. Her name was Emily Crawford and her particular pieces of art had to do with pictures, in specific, newspaper articles and the like on many, many professional wrestlers all across the world over the last decade, detailing their very wins, losses, struggles, triumphs and all else in between…
One particular wing, however, was fully dedicated to the last few months of EXODUS Pro and its occurrences - the cameraman captured what he could within the shot, a small excerpt on Ruby Tyler and Kevin Hardaway’s infernal wars against one another, the rise and fall of Justin Brooks as International champion, the “Ace” Fiona Collins’ run throughout 2015, smaller excerpts on the rises of young (R)Evolution Wrestling stars but the main wall detailed perhaps what was nothing more than the most fitting background for the current EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight champion to be standing behind of in a three-piece suit from Brioni, made out of his super luxurious Vanquish II fabric, the stitching being made of white gold and rocking the same kind of look you’d expect from a secret agent with it, the EXODUS Pro World title resting comfortably on his right shoulder as usual.
A massive article detailing his journey over almost fourteen years, split into smaller articles detailing certain matches and victories but the key one being an article with a picture of him holding the EXPRO World Championship high in the air on top of a ladder at its center spot, the headline of it reading the following: “Will Chris Strike Make History As EXODUS Pro World Champion?”
“Seven hundred and ninety-one days. That’s two years and a day shy of two months, for those of you who can’t particularly count that high. Although I, Strike, am confident you can all grasp that it is a very long period of time. Because ever since July 28th, 2013, what I, Strike, am about to do in the next twenty-four hours was described as damn near impossible. At best, that it would be a Herculean task to exceed the mighty and glorious reign of the woman this company thinks walks on fucking water, Fiona Collins. For seven hundred and ninety-one days, we have all had to hear this shit CONSTANTLY across every corner of the wrestling world, that for somebody to come into EXODUS Pro and win the World title was going to be a dogfight. And you know what? They weren’t wrong. It was and yet, here I, Strike, stand as one of two people to have ever done it more than once. But then here’s the kicker, of course. Because everybody in EXPRO will lovingly point out how I, Strike, choked up that first reign on my first defense and bravo, children. Like Spider-Man, everybody gets one and Abby Park got you just that. Of course that was all before she nearly lost the championship belt in a game of poker and then I, Strike, beat her senseless in Korakuen Hall to regain MY championship...and ever since that day?
I, Strike, have been outright unstoppable!
No matter who they have put in front of me and by all means necessary - just like I, Strike, told every single one of you fuckers the moment I returned to San Diego - I, Strike, have beaten just about everyone that there is to beat. And yet, the more I, Strike, kept racking up defenses and the more days that I, Strike, held this championship, the same goddamned things kept getting uttered again and again…
‘You can’t beat Fiona Collins’ record.’
‘You will never be as good as Fiona Collins was as EXPRO World Champion.’
...And yet, here I am! Already the longest reigning EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight champion at one hundred and eighty days, surpassing Christum Furor’s one hundred and seventy-five day record mark. Already tied for most defenses of this championship with your controversial little Seraph and on my way to breaking that record at Welcome Oblivion. But of course, there’s one more particular obstacle that’s in my way of doing just that. One man that I, Strike, have yet to defend in this company...
The Gatekeeper. The annoying ass, foul-mouthed, English-born troll of a guardian we seem to have around these parts...Beowulf.”
Crossing his arms, Chris Strike’s mind finds itself focused on the challenger in his V6 defense of the World championship, the man that stands between him and absolute immortality within EXODUS Pro. There was no doubt the events of Revolution Roulette II were still playing in his mind, given the fact that he was trapped in the “Monster Killer” and where he chose to submit in order to fight another day when there was no means of escaping without risking being choked out and put into far, far worse condition leading up to this defense. And yet, his decision to do so had inspired hope amongst the plebes in the audience. It gave people the confidence to truly and utterly believe that Beowulf was going to shut the gate on his historic feat and leave Chris Strike without the greatest weapon he could ever acquire over EXODUS Pro and the asinine management plus fan base that fueled it.
His pride was the only thing that hurt now...but he could bear this for now. He would bear it and by all means necessary, Chris Strike would remedy all of that by putting this fucking fiend on the ground himself at Welcome Oblivion along with making history.
“Oi, oi, Beowulf. Now three weeks ago, Beowulf...you and I, Strike, did this dance...and during it, you beat me. Tag team match or not, you made me submit. Right there and then, you did more to earn your spot in a fight against me for this very championship than just about every other motherfucker outside of Felicity Banks and Savannah Taylor who has fought me for this title. I, Strike, can admit to that much. I, Strike, can also respect your efforts in coming out victorious against me. That is because unlike the one victory that pesky little Seraph managed to grasp to stroke her own ego further in my absolutely DOMINANT reign as World champion...your victory over me was as clean as a whistle. Just the way you like it to be. So, here we are, twenty-four hours away from doing this dance except this time, without any partners to get in between us beating the living shit out of each other.
Now, if I’m not mistaken, this will be your FIRST ever chance at this EXODUS Pro World title and your second crack at a World title of any sort. Not that you’ve ever really demonstrated any kind of interest in the damned thing to begin with until good old Nicholas Gray came marching on in like a conquering hero after Battle Without Honor or Humanity and gave you that championship opportunity. Something that had likely to do with the fact that the Pantheon that has gathered under the banner of my reign as World champion causes all sorts of war flashbacks to you. Heaven forbid you understand their purpose to be the best professional wrestlers that they can be even if it means breaking the oh-so-sacred rules inside of the squared circle to do it. That’s one of your problems right there, Beowulf...you’re like every single fan who watches this product obsessively and dares not even turn your eyes towards the rest of the world. Much like these fanatics, you care about the short-term. You care about picking out every single tiny little detail and you lose focus on the big picture. Hell, the fact you don’t even give a shit about being THE MAN in the world of professional wrestling unless Nicholas Gray points out a threat for you to go and slay...it’s rather pathetic, Wulfy.
And yet...I, Strike, lost to you...submitted to you...allowing you and the rest of those little pricks watching to clutch onto it for dear life and think that you’re finally going to stand in between me and history itself. The fact that you have all the talent on the planet, that you can hold your own in a fight, that you have POWER to protect the things you cherish...and that you have absolutely no fucking ambition whatsoever to use any of it unless somebody points you in the direction to do it...the fact that I, Strike, lost to somebody like you alone...I can’t allow that to go unavenged.
My own pride would have demanded this match if it hadn’t been made already, Beowulf…my own pride won’t dare to stop until I damn near take off your fucking head and get my revenge. Why? Because you made me look like a fool, Wulf...and for that? You’re going to pay the price.
But most importantly, because I cannot let somebody like you take this championship away from me…”
Chris Strike looked at the EXODUS Pro World title that rested on his right shoulder, taking a moment to see his own reflection off of the giant X at its center and looking at a man who was so very close to the historical mark, so very close to placing his name in the history books permanently and looking at the eyes of a man who walked many, many miles to get to this particular point. Beneath the suit and the arrogant presence he presented to the public at large, he knew very well how close he was to the end of a certain chapter of his life...and to fail here…
No. There would be no failures at this juncture. Not after coming this far and not to a man who answered to everyone’s callings but his own!
“You do not deserve this EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight championship, Beowulf Erikssen and I, Strike, will not let you take this away from me! Not after everything I, Strike, have been through to get this championship, not after overcoming every obstacle that has been put in front of me...and I’m not going to let this championship go, much less let it go in the hands of the goddamned Imperium! I, Strike, did not come this far just to fumble the ball at the last second and let somebody else take it to the house. I, Strike, will claim my place in history. I, Strike, will prove to every single fucker who has doubted that I could break Fiona’s record that they were wrong. And I, Strike, will prove to you that you are not better than me now or ever…and I’m going to do it by beating your ass in the center of that ring by ANY. MEANS. NECESSARY.
You will be the final sacrifice. The defense that will take me from matching a record to utterly and completely surpassing it. You will be sixth name on a rather nice list of ‘who’s who’ in professional wrestling...and for that, you will be remembered in history. Not as a vigilante. Not as a man who has fought LEGION and Gods & Monsters.
But as the man who fell to Chris Strike’s lightning bolt in that moment when he made history as the longest reigning, defending, undisputed...EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight champion of all time!
So as to answer the headline above me…?
The answer is yes.
Because Beowulf...and you too, EXODUS Pro…
You’re all in Strike’s World now.
...And there isn’t a damned thing...that any of you can do about it!”
-----------------------------------
April 9, 2012
Asakusa, Tokyo, Japan
Reika Seragaki had no idea just what in the hell had possibly hit her as she stared up at the ceiling, not being able to feel any of her limbs, feeling her own blood evacuate her body as if there was a catastrophic force of nature who was coming for every single of them in Japan. Yet, her mind couldn’t quite connect the pieces just yet as to how in the world she went from being huddled by her computer, multiple books open and being knee-deep into research. She recalled the very reasons why, to boot. A certain tattoo she had gotten in a parlor, eloquently drawn across her left wrist - all of the stars in it shining bright as if plucked from the sky itself and placed on her arm. Eighteen stars, a “V” like shape and a representation of her zodiac sign of Pisces. The place itself looked shady, although the old man who put this particular piece of art into her was a wrestling legend whose artwork was one Reika had admired for years to where she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have something done unto her by him. Normally, this was a tattoo that could be considered rather normal...nowhere near something one could quite research into so deeply, of course, until she very well found herself being able to do things that normal human beings couldn’t even come close to doing.
The last time she strolled down the street and turned the corner into the next block...stepping through into almost a completely different environment that is yet the very same. Sometimes, she would see herself just a few steps ahead of her walk before the scene would return completely to normal...at others, she’d be taking a completely different path to the location she was trying to travel. At first, she thought these to be weird dreams but with the more constant they became, Reika thought she was hallucinating...it was by luck, in fact, that she realized before any of these weird visions would start that her wrist’s tattooed stars would glow for a brief moment. At first, again, she thought they were hallucinations. It terrified her enough to not leave home for nearly a week, shutting herself away from the world at large and thinking she was going insane. But enough of those glows led her to one simple conclusion...and that was a visit to the same tattoo shop in Asakusa where she got this tattoo one week ago.
One week later, after discovering this thing was nothing more than a glorified curse from the mouth of the man who put it into her, Reika Seragaki had started doing just about everything in her power to find out how in the possible hell to remove it. Her own tastes for the occult and the weird, for once, had bitten her right in the ass…
...And as she laid in the floor of her own kitchen, she gradually realized that may apply in more ways than one. Her gaze nearly fails her by almost slipping into unconsciousness, as she realized just how much blood she was losing from the wounds on her abdomen. Finally, within her view, a man appears. Bloodied knife in his gloved left hand, a hardened look on his face with features she couldn’t quite make out at this stage outside of the fact there wasn’t a trace of facial hair on him. He knelt by her, a syringe coming out from one of his pockets and into his right hand, which he swiftly inserted into one of Reika’s veins, drawing out more blood from her until it was completely filled before removing it. Yet, he didn’t stop...from his jacket’s pocket, he kept pulling out syringes...filling them up with her blood, one by one, pocketing all of them back into it with the exception of one which he kept in hand.
“...It's a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming…”
The man with the knife proceeds to sheathe the knife under a cover near his waist, looking at the girl in front of him with no readable expression on his face as he glanced at Reika while he brought out a small tube that he popped up the cap with his left hand and began to squeeze it, covering Reika Seragaki’s body with it from head to toe as she winced at how it hit some of her wounds and covered her with a rather foul smell...one she would certainly be able to make out if she didn’t have bigger things to worry about, like trying to stop the blood coming out of her.
“On days like this, foolish, naive little kids like you…kids who are so willing to throw away such a precious gift like the one you were chosen to carry...”
The man disposes of the squeezable bottle by tossing it right next to the fallen woman, standing over the fallen and bleeding Reika Seragaki’s visage before turning over his gaze to the syringe, giving it a very small squeeze before inserting it into his own veins and squeezing the drawn out blood from the woman into him. For a moment, there is silence but his eyes change, glowing a faint white color as he finally grinned, before they both began to scream out in pain...Reika feeling the jolting pain through her entire body while the glow seemed to expand all around the man’s body until it all finally dissipated into the air…
The man in front of Reika Seragaki pants, breathing in and out deeply while the syringe drops to the ground before him as well. The grin never leaves his face as he slowly returns to a full, erect standing position - eyes glowing a red color as he then pulled out a Zippo lighter from his pocket, igniting it...
“S H O U L D B E B U R N I N G I N H E L L !!”
...As he tossed it onto Reika Seragaki’s fallen body, the man didn’t even bother to look back as she audibly screamed and howled in pain as she now burnt alive, quickly making his way out of her home through the back area and into the alleys in order to make his escape. There wasn’t any need to see Reika Seragaki off to the next world. He’d gotten what he needed out of the foolish woman who had the responsibility to bear the Mark of Pisces. A Mark that he would now bear alongside his own…
The Mark of Gemini couldn’t help himself as he made his escape…
“One down...ten to go…”
San Diego, California
“ENOUGH! THAT ENOUGH FROM BOTH OF YOU!”
The voice of Ryoma a.k.a. Papa Arino rang out through the halls of his own home in San Diego as he witnessed the scene in front of him a few moments too late. Ryusei Arino was against the wall, clutching at his chest, eyes coldly staring across the room as he attempted to move but seemed to struggle to even take a step forward. But the important part of all of this had to do with the other two men in the room. One stood firmly, looking down at the other man in the tatami mat, wiping the blood away from his lips...to a certain extent, admiring the damage done to himself by the other man who clutched his own stomach and looked up at him as if a wounded predator just waiting on his target to step forward again before making his next move.
“...That wasn’t bad,” the man in street clothes, white socks and a jacket with the Libra constellation across the back stated. “But at this point? It’s not enough.”
The leer that the man yielding the Mark of Libra shoots down at the fallen foe is unlike anything one would expect out of the man formerly known as “Anderson Cobalt.”
“I can read you like a book, Chris Strike…”
Chris Strike got up to one knee, gritting his teeth and shooting a glare right back at Anderson.
“That the best you got?” He spat out, his own combination of saliva, blood and mucus landing right in between Jason Anderson Protivnik’s feet. Some of the effects from his match-up against Luther Thunder and his goons on Monday night elsewhere weren’t helping his physical condition, but there was no doubt that in a matter of a few short seconds, he got outclassed in a fight by this little punkass. It was on now... “Jolyne Dysart probably hits harder than you and she’s Imperium fucking scum.”
Protivnik’s eyes narrowed, ready to advance on Chris Strike and nail him yet again when Papa Arino stepped forward between both men, reaching up and smacking Protivnik upside the head. “GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF, CHILD! STOP FIGHTING IN MY HOUSE!” He yelled out, as Jason’s eyes widened before he turned to Chris. “AND YOU! STOP BEING ASSHOLE! THIS NOT TELEVISION IN EXODUS PRO DAMMIT!”
Strike’s hands kept themselves balled into fists as he finally returned to his feet, inhaling and exhaling. The initial purpose of this entire meeting between them was to figure exactly what the hell Jason Anderson Protivnik exhibited now that his Mark had fully been awoken and as to whose side was he really on. His own abilities were very similar to Ophelia Hildegard’s - a.k.a. GOTHRA, the Mark of Aquarius - and yet, there was a difference. Like, how on mere command alone, Ryusei Arino hadn’t been able to move from his spot no matter how many times he tried.
“I know you aren’t reading every single thought I have, kid,” Strike stated. “Ophelia and I made damn sure nobody can come close to it. And yet...you’ve been able to now dodge things you wouldn’t. Not to mention, what the fuck did you do to Ryusei…?”
Papa Arino’s eyes avert over to his son, immediate concern showing on his face as he approached him. “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice lowering as Ryusei nodded and uttered something in Japanese back to his father, causing Papa to look back at Anderson. “...Release him. Now.”
A tiny chuckle leaves the mouth of Anderson, as he briefly looks over at Ryusei. “He’s just doing what his mind says.” He said to start off, before looking back at Strike. “You see, I’ve learned a lot about my powers recently. I can lift things. I can read minds. I can push things away or pull them to me with a thought. But that’s all just window dressing. It’s the appetizer to what my power is.” He smiles, looking again at Ryusei, who looks quite worried to say the least about his inability to move his body. Anderson reaches out and pats the man on the cheek, as Papa glowers at him.
“You see, when I said I can read you like a book...that wasn’t being cute. When I use my powers, I don’t see things like your GOTHRA does. To me, the mind is a book. I can read it…” And at that point, a grin came to his face, as he looked at Strike again. “And I can rewrite it.”
He pointed at Ryusei. “He, right now, is following a simple command. “You will not move unless told to by Jason” which he is following so well. And, I’ll admit, I haven’t put this into much practice yet. But I could get so much more complex. I could tear memories out of his head, I could put new ones into him, I could make him choke his father, hell I could make him go right now and put his raving mad dog of a brother down.”
A small pause.
“Actually, to be honest, that’d be a very nice thing for me to do for everyone, wouldn’t it?”
Having stood up to his feet during the speech, Chris Strike joined Papa and Ryusei Arino, his eyes not averting from Ryusei as he examined the man for a moment, muttering something in Japanese before Ryusei finally took a few steps forward, nearly stumbling onto his feet and tripping over them before crashing against the nearby wall to hold himself back as Jason looked at the older son of Papa Arino in awe while Chris Strike stared back at him.
“Thank you for that, Jason...I think I can go ahead and erase that command off of you now,” Strike responded, crossing his arms. “...After all, you might be an overconfident dick inside of the ring, but you’re not so thick-headed as to just lay out every single bit of your own powers to three people you don’t particularly trust on your own.”
Anderson blinked. “What the fuck did you just do to me?!”
It was Papa Arino’s turn to be confused. “Yes, Chris. What did you just do?”
“I guess I should explain,” Strike stated, motioning for all parties at hand to take a seat before doing so himself regardless on the tatami mat, Indian-style. “My own abilities with my Mark of Sagittarius are mimicry. It’s a big part of how I was eventually able to resist Magdalena’s advances a year ago with the more time I spent around her and how I was able to rise up with every single bit of rage and fury from the grave against Furor, for example. While I can’t fully master other powers around me, I can certainly tap into them enough to use them when I need it most.”
Exhaling, Chris Strike looked down at his own chest, covered by a purple “My Neighbor Jotaro” t-shirt, which covered the bullet-shaped like scars that comprised his own Mark. “But the big thing is? These Marks respond to a lot of things, but it seems violence is the biggest trigger of them all. So, I provoked you into a fight, Jason. You wiped the floor with me. And in turn, you exposed your own power enough to where I was able to see into your own mind...and write a little something of my own.” Not even the next statement is enough to change Strike’s stone-faced expression. “You will tell Chris Strike, Ryoma Arino and Ryusei Arino the truth about your powers. And lo and behold, you did...all according to plan.”
Finally, Strike turns around, facing Papa Arino and placing his fists on the tatami mat, adjusting his position to where he is on both knees as he bows lowly to the man hosting them. “My deepest apologies for the insult I committed inside your home, Ryoma-san...but there was no other way to find out for sure what the kid was capable of unless I did so.”
Ryoma looks down at the bowing Strike and, after a moment’s contemplation, reaches down to place a hand on his shoulder. “You’re forgiven, Strike-san. I understand why you had to do that. And I know you could not tell me, because of his powers. Please stand, my friend.”
As Ryoma was saying this, Jason was taking in what he’d just been told. The cocky look on his face was replaced with a snarl, as one of his hands curled into a fist. “Like an idiot I fell for that.” He started. “My father won’t be happy to hear about this. Damn it. Damn it!” He looks at Strike and lets out a breath. “You’re impressively clever, Sagittarius. I’ll at least give you that.”
“Not a matter of cleverness, Libra,” Strike stated, a look of concern appearing on his face after having stood. “You’re among Sagittarius and the bloodline that’s carried the Leo Mark for a very, very long time now...and one among us bearers has begun to make their move to take all twelve of these for themselves. I’m just glad we found you before they did, because otherwise we’d b-”
“Wait! You say...something about father…”
The room looked over at Ryusei Arino’s direction as he uttered those six words, before the man once presumed dead to the world at large spoke once again, his English heavily accented and yet, slow and precise enough to where they can make out every word of it.
“So, like me...like father...you also part of bloodline…?”
Jason grinned at this, almost all of the earlier anger he had in his face falling away immediately at those words. “That’s correct. My father, Grant, also has the power of Libra. It’s just…” he pauses a moment, as he tries to find the right words. “It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s strong, sometimes it’s non-existent. He’s told me that it’s due to it being so much stronger in me that it interferes with his own use of it sometimes. Which...is a shame.” He frowns, deeply. “What a great world he could make if he could always use his power. But that’s why I will.” His look now is determined. “That’s why I’ll be keeping this power of mine. To make his world a reality.”
Both Ryusei and Papa frown at this, sharing a brief look between themselves and Strike. The three of them were aware of things he still wasn’t, and an unspoken agreement went between the three of them then. It was time to tell him what they had found out from Oshima. But they were interrupted.
They were interrupted by the sound of the door to the room opening, and a man stepping inside. A tall, lanky man, dressed in a lab coat. On his face he wore a medical mask and deep blue goggles. Even with the goggles, everyone could feel that his eyes were directly on Anderson. And from the looks on their faces, all of them were aware that not a one of them knew who the man was.
“Oi! Who the hell are you!?” Papa shouted at the man, who did not look away from Anderson to reply. When he spoke, it was with a strange, mechanical underlining to his voice. “Doktor. Alexander Adversary.” He nodded slightly in the direction of Anderson. “His father, Grant. My brother.” Anderson’s eyes widened in confusion. “The hell? My father has no siblings.”
A small tsking came from the man. “Expected. You don’t know many things. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is those words. To make his world a reality. That will need to be handled.”
He finally looked away from Anderson, to look at the three men in turn. As he did so, his left hand moves to the right side of his lab coat and brushed it away, letting them all see that at his belt a strange-looking handgun was holstered. “Gentlemen, a request. Please don’t get in the way.”
He looked back at Anderson.
“I need to have a “talk” with my nephew.”
-----------------------------------
“Life is true to form; records are meant to be broken.”
Our particular background in question resides in the village area of La Jolla, California and just a five mile drive away from the RIMAC Arena where Welcome Oblivion was set to happen in another day’s time. Under the keen direction of owner Lorna York, this 10,000 square foot space is a representation of artists who share her powerful and eloquent vision. Founded in 2001, the Madison Gallery is an environment committed to representing emerging, mid-career and established international artists who work in a range of media. Inspired by an earnest dedication and passion for art, the gallery consistently exhibits a high standard of contemporary art. One particular artist, in fact, was having his exhibit showcased here for the remainder of the week which coincided with the big iPPV event that EXODUS Pro would hold in the arena just a few miles up the road. Her name was Emily Crawford and her particular pieces of art had to do with pictures, in specific, newspaper articles and the like on many, many professional wrestlers all across the world over the last decade, detailing their very wins, losses, struggles, triumphs and all else in between…
One particular wing, however, was fully dedicated to the last few months of EXODUS Pro and its occurrences - the cameraman captured what he could within the shot, a small excerpt on Ruby Tyler and Kevin Hardaway’s infernal wars against one another, the rise and fall of Justin Brooks as International champion, the “Ace” Fiona Collins’ run throughout 2015, smaller excerpts on the rises of young (R)Evolution Wrestling stars but the main wall detailed perhaps what was nothing more than the most fitting background for the current EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight champion to be standing behind of in a three-piece suit from Brioni, made out of his super luxurious Vanquish II fabric, the stitching being made of white gold and rocking the same kind of look you’d expect from a secret agent with it, the EXODUS Pro World title resting comfortably on his right shoulder as usual.
A massive article detailing his journey over almost fourteen years, split into smaller articles detailing certain matches and victories but the key one being an article with a picture of him holding the EXPRO World Championship high in the air on top of a ladder at its center spot, the headline of it reading the following: “Will Chris Strike Make History As EXODUS Pro World Champion?”
“Seven hundred and ninety-one days. That’s two years and a day shy of two months, for those of you who can’t particularly count that high. Although I, Strike, am confident you can all grasp that it is a very long period of time. Because ever since July 28th, 2013, what I, Strike, am about to do in the next twenty-four hours was described as damn near impossible. At best, that it would be a Herculean task to exceed the mighty and glorious reign of the woman this company thinks walks on fucking water, Fiona Collins. For seven hundred and ninety-one days, we have all had to hear this shit CONSTANTLY across every corner of the wrestling world, that for somebody to come into EXODUS Pro and win the World title was going to be a dogfight. And you know what? They weren’t wrong. It was and yet, here I, Strike, stand as one of two people to have ever done it more than once. But then here’s the kicker, of course. Because everybody in EXPRO will lovingly point out how I, Strike, choked up that first reign on my first defense and bravo, children. Like Spider-Man, everybody gets one and Abby Park got you just that. Of course that was all before she nearly lost the championship belt in a game of poker and then I, Strike, beat her senseless in Korakuen Hall to regain MY championship...and ever since that day?
I, Strike, have been outright unstoppable!
No matter who they have put in front of me and by all means necessary - just like I, Strike, told every single one of you fuckers the moment I returned to San Diego - I, Strike, have beaten just about everyone that there is to beat. And yet, the more I, Strike, kept racking up defenses and the more days that I, Strike, held this championship, the same goddamned things kept getting uttered again and again…
‘You can’t beat Fiona Collins’ record.’
‘You will never be as good as Fiona Collins was as EXPRO World Champion.’
...And yet, here I am! Already the longest reigning EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight champion at one hundred and eighty days, surpassing Christum Furor’s one hundred and seventy-five day record mark. Already tied for most defenses of this championship with your controversial little Seraph and on my way to breaking that record at Welcome Oblivion. But of course, there’s one more particular obstacle that’s in my way of doing just that. One man that I, Strike, have yet to defend in this company...
The Gatekeeper. The annoying ass, foul-mouthed, English-born troll of a guardian we seem to have around these parts...Beowulf.”
Crossing his arms, Chris Strike’s mind finds itself focused on the challenger in his V6 defense of the World championship, the man that stands between him and absolute immortality within EXODUS Pro. There was no doubt the events of Revolution Roulette II were still playing in his mind, given the fact that he was trapped in the “Monster Killer” and where he chose to submit in order to fight another day when there was no means of escaping without risking being choked out and put into far, far worse condition leading up to this defense. And yet, his decision to do so had inspired hope amongst the plebes in the audience. It gave people the confidence to truly and utterly believe that Beowulf was going to shut the gate on his historic feat and leave Chris Strike without the greatest weapon he could ever acquire over EXODUS Pro and the asinine management plus fan base that fueled it.
His pride was the only thing that hurt now...but he could bear this for now. He would bear it and by all means necessary, Chris Strike would remedy all of that by putting this fucking fiend on the ground himself at Welcome Oblivion along with making history.
“Oi, oi, Beowulf. Now three weeks ago, Beowulf...you and I, Strike, did this dance...and during it, you beat me. Tag team match or not, you made me submit. Right there and then, you did more to earn your spot in a fight against me for this very championship than just about every other motherfucker outside of Felicity Banks and Savannah Taylor who has fought me for this title. I, Strike, can admit to that much. I, Strike, can also respect your efforts in coming out victorious against me. That is because unlike the one victory that pesky little Seraph managed to grasp to stroke her own ego further in my absolutely DOMINANT reign as World champion...your victory over me was as clean as a whistle. Just the way you like it to be. So, here we are, twenty-four hours away from doing this dance except this time, without any partners to get in between us beating the living shit out of each other.
Now, if I’m not mistaken, this will be your FIRST ever chance at this EXODUS Pro World title and your second crack at a World title of any sort. Not that you’ve ever really demonstrated any kind of interest in the damned thing to begin with until good old Nicholas Gray came marching on in like a conquering hero after Battle Without Honor or Humanity and gave you that championship opportunity. Something that had likely to do with the fact that the Pantheon that has gathered under the banner of my reign as World champion causes all sorts of war flashbacks to you. Heaven forbid you understand their purpose to be the best professional wrestlers that they can be even if it means breaking the oh-so-sacred rules inside of the squared circle to do it. That’s one of your problems right there, Beowulf...you’re like every single fan who watches this product obsessively and dares not even turn your eyes towards the rest of the world. Much like these fanatics, you care about the short-term. You care about picking out every single tiny little detail and you lose focus on the big picture. Hell, the fact you don’t even give a shit about being THE MAN in the world of professional wrestling unless Nicholas Gray points out a threat for you to go and slay...it’s rather pathetic, Wulfy.
And yet...I, Strike, lost to you...submitted to you...allowing you and the rest of those little pricks watching to clutch onto it for dear life and think that you’re finally going to stand in between me and history itself. The fact that you have all the talent on the planet, that you can hold your own in a fight, that you have POWER to protect the things you cherish...and that you have absolutely no fucking ambition whatsoever to use any of it unless somebody points you in the direction to do it...the fact that I, Strike, lost to somebody like you alone...I can’t allow that to go unavenged.
My own pride would have demanded this match if it hadn’t been made already, Beowulf…my own pride won’t dare to stop until I damn near take off your fucking head and get my revenge. Why? Because you made me look like a fool, Wulf...and for that? You’re going to pay the price.
But most importantly, because I cannot let somebody like you take this championship away from me…”
Chris Strike looked at the EXODUS Pro World title that rested on his right shoulder, taking a moment to see his own reflection off of the giant X at its center and looking at a man who was so very close to the historical mark, so very close to placing his name in the history books permanently and looking at the eyes of a man who walked many, many miles to get to this particular point. Beneath the suit and the arrogant presence he presented to the public at large, he knew very well how close he was to the end of a certain chapter of his life...and to fail here…
No. There would be no failures at this juncture. Not after coming this far and not to a man who answered to everyone’s callings but his own!
“You do not deserve this EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight championship, Beowulf Erikssen and I, Strike, will not let you take this away from me! Not after everything I, Strike, have been through to get this championship, not after overcoming every obstacle that has been put in front of me...and I’m not going to let this championship go, much less let it go in the hands of the goddamned Imperium! I, Strike, did not come this far just to fumble the ball at the last second and let somebody else take it to the house. I, Strike, will claim my place in history. I, Strike, will prove to every single fucker who has doubted that I could break Fiona’s record that they were wrong. And I, Strike, will prove to you that you are not better than me now or ever…and I’m going to do it by beating your ass in the center of that ring by ANY. MEANS. NECESSARY.
You will be the final sacrifice. The defense that will take me from matching a record to utterly and completely surpassing it. You will be sixth name on a rather nice list of ‘who’s who’ in professional wrestling...and for that, you will be remembered in history. Not as a vigilante. Not as a man who has fought LEGION and Gods & Monsters.
But as the man who fell to Chris Strike’s lightning bolt in that moment when he made history as the longest reigning, defending, undisputed...EXODUS Pro World Heavyweight champion of all time!
So as to answer the headline above me…?
The answer is yes.
Because Beowulf...and you too, EXODUS Pro…
You’re all in Strike’s World now.
...And there isn’t a damned thing...that any of you can do about it!”
-----------------------------------
April 9, 2012
Asakusa, Tokyo, Japan
Reika Seragaki had no idea just what in the hell had possibly hit her as she stared up at the ceiling, not being able to feel any of her limbs, feeling her own blood evacuate her body as if there was a catastrophic force of nature who was coming for every single of them in Japan. Yet, her mind couldn’t quite connect the pieces just yet as to how in the world she went from being huddled by her computer, multiple books open and being knee-deep into research. She recalled the very reasons why, to boot. A certain tattoo she had gotten in a parlor, eloquently drawn across her left wrist - all of the stars in it shining bright as if plucked from the sky itself and placed on her arm. Eighteen stars, a “V” like shape and a representation of her zodiac sign of Pisces. The place itself looked shady, although the old man who put this particular piece of art into her was a wrestling legend whose artwork was one Reika had admired for years to where she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have something done unto her by him. Normally, this was a tattoo that could be considered rather normal...nowhere near something one could quite research into so deeply, of course, until she very well found herself being able to do things that normal human beings couldn’t even come close to doing.
The last time she strolled down the street and turned the corner into the next block...stepping through into almost a completely different environment that is yet the very same. Sometimes, she would see herself just a few steps ahead of her walk before the scene would return completely to normal...at others, she’d be taking a completely different path to the location she was trying to travel. At first, she thought these to be weird dreams but with the more constant they became, Reika thought she was hallucinating...it was by luck, in fact, that she realized before any of these weird visions would start that her wrist’s tattooed stars would glow for a brief moment. At first, again, she thought they were hallucinations. It terrified her enough to not leave home for nearly a week, shutting herself away from the world at large and thinking she was going insane. But enough of those glows led her to one simple conclusion...and that was a visit to the same tattoo shop in Asakusa where she got this tattoo one week ago.
One week later, after discovering this thing was nothing more than a glorified curse from the mouth of the man who put it into her, Reika Seragaki had started doing just about everything in her power to find out how in the possible hell to remove it. Her own tastes for the occult and the weird, for once, had bitten her right in the ass…
...And as she laid in the floor of her own kitchen, she gradually realized that may apply in more ways than one. Her gaze nearly fails her by almost slipping into unconsciousness, as she realized just how much blood she was losing from the wounds on her abdomen. Finally, within her view, a man appears. Bloodied knife in his gloved left hand, a hardened look on his face with features she couldn’t quite make out at this stage outside of the fact there wasn’t a trace of facial hair on him. He knelt by her, a syringe coming out from one of his pockets and into his right hand, which he swiftly inserted into one of Reika’s veins, drawing out more blood from her until it was completely filled before removing it. Yet, he didn’t stop...from his jacket’s pocket, he kept pulling out syringes...filling them up with her blood, one by one, pocketing all of them back into it with the exception of one which he kept in hand.
“...It's a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming…”
The man with the knife proceeds to sheathe the knife under a cover near his waist, looking at the girl in front of him with no readable expression on his face as he glanced at Reika while he brought out a small tube that he popped up the cap with his left hand and began to squeeze it, covering Reika Seragaki’s body with it from head to toe as she winced at how it hit some of her wounds and covered her with a rather foul smell...one she would certainly be able to make out if she didn’t have bigger things to worry about, like trying to stop the blood coming out of her.
“On days like this, foolish, naive little kids like you…kids who are so willing to throw away such a precious gift like the one you were chosen to carry...”
The man disposes of the squeezable bottle by tossing it right next to the fallen woman, standing over the fallen and bleeding Reika Seragaki’s visage before turning over his gaze to the syringe, giving it a very small squeeze before inserting it into his own veins and squeezing the drawn out blood from the woman into him. For a moment, there is silence but his eyes change, glowing a faint white color as he finally grinned, before they both began to scream out in pain...Reika feeling the jolting pain through her entire body while the glow seemed to expand all around the man’s body until it all finally dissipated into the air…
The man in front of Reika Seragaki pants, breathing in and out deeply while the syringe drops to the ground before him as well. The grin never leaves his face as he slowly returns to a full, erect standing position - eyes glowing a red color as he then pulled out a Zippo lighter from his pocket, igniting it...
“S H O U L D B E B U R N I N G I N H E L L !!”
...As he tossed it onto Reika Seragaki’s fallen body, the man didn’t even bother to look back as she audibly screamed and howled in pain as she now burnt alive, quickly making his way out of her home through the back area and into the alleys in order to make his escape. There wasn’t any need to see Reika Seragaki off to the next world. He’d gotten what he needed out of the foolish woman who had the responsibility to bear the Mark of Pisces. A Mark that he would now bear alongside his own…
The Mark of Gemini couldn’t help himself as he made his escape…
“One down...ten to go…”
