Post by Salaryman/Raines/FIPW on Mar 7, 2015 16:39:33 GMT -6
The Offices of Piers Anthony & Ryder Morgan
Over three weeks ago…
It was an utterly dazed and confused Simon Raines that stepped out of a very well appointed office and back into the waiting room that he’d spent approximately fifteen minutes in. He had just finished meeting with the immaculately dressed and well-spoken FOX executive, Piers Anthony, and his head was still spinning in a thousand different directions. Few, if any of them, were good.
Raines carried a rather impressive looking stack of printouts with him, his gait coming in stops and starts. Finally, he could take no more, and he simply sank down into one of the surprisingly comfortable waiting room chairs to try and process the thirty-minutes he’d just spent with a businessman on a level far above anything he’d ever reach.
“What the Hell IS all of this,” Raines mused to himself, thumbing through pie charts with titles like “Do You Think Simon Raines is Crazypants?” - depicting 55% Yes, 30% No, 10% Undecided, and 5% Who The Hell Is Simon Raines?
The talk with Mr. Anthony had been cordial, but businesslike - great job with the character kid, it’s really innovative, but you’re doing too good a job. People are really starting to believe that you believe what you’re saying, and we’re getting some negative pushback from the focus groups.
Simon was, somehow, deeply curious what the focus groups had to say about mara, or Cthulhu Jones, for that matter. Or NoVaK. Regardless, Piers was the boss, and he had charts and tables to prove his point - things had gone a little too far with Simon for the comfort of a significant chunk of Revo and EXODUS viewers.
You’re in the uncanny valley, was more or less what Anthony’s argument boiled down to. All the other crazy people in EXODUS and Revo are obviously crazy. You look like a nice, normal guy in his early 20s. All the immortal warrior monk stuff’s sort of out there, but you play it with such conviction that it makes people start to wonder about you.
All of this was a significant problem, of course, because, well, Simon Raines was fairly sure that he was actually an immortal, or at least long lived, warrior monk. But the meeting with Anthony was starting to make him doubt that, if only a little. They’d run through a whole bunch of possibilities that Piers had come up with as to where the gimmick had come from, and he’d politely nodded his way through most of them, neither confirming nor denying that he was a huge Highlander fan, or that he’d been devouring comic books practically since the womb.
In the end, they’d at least come to an agreement - Simon would pull back on the “immortal warrior monk” routine on Twitter, and in return, Revo would start airing vignettes on Simon’s rather legitimate martial arts background - cheesy 80s style training montages.
Simon Raines could never resist a good cheesy 80s style training montage, so they’d shaken hands on it and Piers had sent Simon on his way with the pile of printouts that he was now poring over.
“So much detail,” Raines groaned. “I had no idea the FOX guys were going to be so hands on with even (R)evolution Wrestling. It’s kind of reassuring, in its own way.”
Piers Anthony had a firm handshake and a good manner about him. And yet, there was something about all of this that just wasn’t...right, somehow. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Grace Radley out of his mind, the woman who had told him things that very, very few people - and virtually no one that he could think of who was still alive, should have known about him.
Now, though, Grace was gone. On “vacation,” Piers had said. The entire thing was beyond suspicious, and it made Simon start to wonder just what else the businessman was capable of. One thing, though, was for sure - prying too much seemed like a very bad idea, indeed.
Simon had just flipped to a graph depicting viewers over the course of each internet broadcast of Revo, broken down by quarter hour, when he heard a rapping noise coming from the direction of the oaken desk that dominated much of the far wall of the waiting room.
When he looked up, he saw the assistant of Mr. Morgan sitting there, lazily twirling a pen in her hand, presumably the source of the rapping sound. She pointed to Simon with the pen - he made a “who, me?” gesture to which she nodded, and Simon finally stood, walking the short distance over to the desk in slight confusion.
“Genevieve Tate,” she said, extending a well-manicured hand for Simon to shake. “I am Ryder Morgan’s assistant, but until Ms. Radley returns from her vacation, should you have any need to contact Mr. Anthony, you are to go through me. Do you understand?”
Raines nodded his head, still a bit dazed by his entire experience here today. “How should I get in touch with you then,” he asked. He’d seen her on Twitter, of course, but that seemed a little informal for --
“Twitter is fine,” she replied, almost immediately, in a voice that Simon couldn’t find anything other than soothing. “Ah, but you are a formal gentleman, are you not? Perhaps this would suffice.”
Tate reached down into a drawer of her desk, coming out with a business card. She extended it to Simon with a smile and a nod. “My professional contact information, Mr. Raines. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a …meeting with Mr. Morgan that I do not wish to be late for. You can see yourself out, I trust?”
Simon nodded - and watched carefully as Genevieve stood, and gracefully made her way over to the door on the wall opposite the one Simon had entered when he’d arrived here. It opened and shut with no further hyperbole, leaving Simon alone in the waiting room, looking over the card in his hand.
“Genevieve Tate,” he read, “Personal assistant to Ryder Morgan.” Below that was a variety of contact information - phone, fax, and email. As he looked at the card, though, he could see…something bleeding through the other side of the card.
As Simon turned the card around, he found a number there, written in precise handwriting in pink ink. It was a ten digit number, and it was notably different from the phone number typed on the front of the business card she’d handed to him.
Raines rolled back his mental rolodex, thinking of some of the pictures Genevieve had posted on Twitter, before carefully tucking the card into his pocket as he went to go reclaim the charts and tables he’d left on the chair.
What exactly Simon Raines would do with that ten digit number, though, was a story for another time.
-----
Simon Raines’ Hotel Room
Ten days earlier…
“I’ve got to admit,” a grimacing Simon Raines groused, between sips of a cup of green tea he’d gotten to go from the coffee shop a block from the hotel everyone was staying in, “that Damon’s got me in a bit of a bind here.”
As he sighed from the perch that was his hotel room’s bed, he looked across the room to a woman sitting in the room’s only chair that likely wouldn’t be happy to concede any such point whatsoever.
She gave him a wry grin, enjoying a sip of coffee. Vivienne Robichaud leaned back in the chair, propping her feet up on the desk.
“Believe me, of all people, Damon Alexander does not have you in a bind. If you lose to Chris Strike, well… then your record remains as it is. But if you beat him, then it just goes to show that what you’ve been saying all along is true - that your secret is nothing more than extensive training. You can’t out-wrestle Strike, but if he gives you an opening, you sure as hell better take it. Prove to everyone, especially Damon, that you are not to be fucked with. He needs to leave the pedantic arguments to GRENDEL, he’s much better at them.”
Rolling her eyes, Vivienne took another sip of her coffee. “It’ll also send that pathetic chickenshit excuse for a man running for the hills. Which is a sight I would so love to see, second only to him on his knees, begging for my mercy. But I’ll take what I can get.”
Simon, on the other hand, seemed far less certain about the entire affair than Vivi did. That was possibly because he’d been thinking about it non-stop since Riley and Seymour had combined to make their decision on Twitter.
“You’re a lot more optimistic about this than I am,” Raines said. “If I put up anything resembling a good fight, Damon’ll be at Almasy’s door - and he has a case. I’ve been doing this for four months. Strike’s been at it over a decade. I should have ZERO chance against Chris Strike. I do have a chance, though, even if a tiny one, because of what I can do.”
For Raines, it was no win - either he got embarrassed by Chris Strike on national television, or he did well enough - God forbid he even WIN, somehow - that the Powers That Were decided he was too good for (R)evo and bumped up to the main roster, or sent off an excursion to Four Islands Pro Wrestling.
“GRENDEL *is* better at pedantic arguments,” Simon admitted, “but Damon’s not bad, and I think this plan of his is smarter than you do - it may even be smarter than he thinks it is, when all’s said and done.”
“Admittedly, since Damon began sniffing after that Lannister bitch I haven’t had much faith in his intelligence. And him running off to join REVOLUTION has not done anything to improve my estimation of his intellectual capabilities.” With a shrug, Vivienne drank more of her coffee and watched her best friend over the rim of her cup.
“Usually you’re the optimistic one, so this is new for me. But Damon isn’t going to get his way on this. They’ll see that you’re not ready for the main roster and they won’t want to send you to Four Islands because they’ll want to keep an eye on you here. So back down to Revo you’ll go. And you’ll give Strike a run for his money because you’ve got years and years of martial arts training that, if he gives you an opening, you can use to get the upper hand. At least for awhile.”
She grinned at him then. Only a few knew just how many years Simon had on Strike, and only she had seen verifiable proof of it.
“If you need moral support, I’ll be there. I believe you can do this.”
Simon regarded her with a thankful nod. “Thank you again for that last part, seriously,” Raines said, his shoulders slumping forward at yet another reminder of how little he had to be optimistic about. “Especially considering the cost and duress you’re doing it under.”
Raines liked Jonathan Collins, really. He didn’t always understand the owner of EXODUS, or the seemingly infinite network of information that he could draw from, but he did fully believe that Collins had EXODUS’ best interests in mind.
What that had to do with him being so worried about his friendship with Vivienne, though, he was considerably less certain about.
Setting her coffee cup aside, Vivienne got up from her chair and joined him on the hotel bed, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“So I have to deal with being watched more closely than normal. It’s nothing I can’t handle, Simon. If it had been anyone else he was asking me to stay away from, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But I’m not sure if Collins realizes that you’re more or less the only friend I have here.”
Raines almost…squeaked at that, a sound of surprise coming from his throat. He opened his mouth, to bring up someone else, anyone else. Naiser King was on the tip of his tongue, and yet he realized that there were things that she simply couldn’t talk about with Naiser. Things Naiser wouldn’t understand. Things, even, that she might have been trying to keep him away from.
At the end of the day? Of course a voodoo priestess’ best friend was an immortal warrior monk.
With two fingers, she lifted his chin and turned his head so that he was looking directly into her eyes. “Like I told you after Damon betrayed us. It’s you and me, Simon. And since I probably won’t be able to do this in the ring…”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, right between the brows.
“...A kiss for luck.”
“If you did,” Simon chuckled, though there wasn’t much mirth in it at all, “I think both Mr. King and Mr. Collins would get suspicious. I’ll need all the luck I can get against Strike, let alone with...everything else.”
The look on the warrior monk’s face was utterly serious as he draped his own arm around her shoulder. In public, Raines could often come off as carefree, though right now Simon was about as serious and stern as he could ever manage.
“If he fires you because of our friendship, I’m quitting,” Simon told her. “Damon’s already trying to divide and conquer us because he’s afraid of what he’s brought on himself. I don’t know what he has in that twelve page dossier on you, and nor do I care. I trust you.”
A wry little voice in the back of his head told him that the wrestling world wouldn’t be missing much, either, given his current (lack of) success in the so-called sport of kings.
“He won’t fire me because of our friendship. Ideally, he won’t have much of a reason to fire me at all, once this sit-down is done. I may not like the man, but I do respect him. And I’ll tell him everything he wants to know about me and Daisuke, though I’m not sure what else he thinks there is.”
Vivienne shrugged her shoulders and gave Simon a reassuring grin.
“Damon won’t be successful either. You’re my best friend, Simon. If I wouldn’t let Jonathan Collins separate us, what makes you think I’ll allow a glorified lapdog like Damon Alexander to do so? He’s just mad that you have skills he can never hope to develop. And he can cry “unfair advantage” all he wants, but at the end of the day, he’s run off to join a group that enacted a four on one beating on you. He doesn’t give a shit about fair. He just wants to get ahead. But now, all he’s done is give you main roster exposure in a match that’s sure to make you look good, no matter the outcome. So he screwed himself, and quite well.”
It took Simon a moment or two, but after he finished listening, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I know he doesn’t give a shit about fair,” Raines agreed. “I was just...they always seem to come out ahead, somehow. REVOLUTION, I mean. But that can’t happen anymore. I’ve got Strike to deal with on this show, but when I come back down to RW, I’m figuring out a solution to the Damon Alexander problem. With your help. With Naiser’s help. And then once that problem’s solved? I can worry about the others, from Shozo on down.”
He owed vengeance to almost the entire group - but for now, he would fight the battles that he was prepared to fight. Damon Alexander, though talented, was trying to fight a mental battle now to avoid losing the physical battle later, to Simon’s eyes.
And he’d be damned if he succeeded.
“Talking to you always makes me feel better,” Simon said. “I couldn’t ask for a better best friend.”
“Neither could I. I’m going to head back to my room and see if I can nail down a date and time for this tete-a-tete Collins wants to have with me. But if you need anything, just shoot me a text or something.”
She stood and gave Simon a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. As she pulled back, she let her hands rest on his shoulders and looked up into his eyes, her expression serious.
“À bientôt, ma cher. Just remember - it’s not REVOLUTION this week. It’s Chris Strike. Don’t let the fact that this was Damon’s doing make you lose sight of who you’re actually going to be in the ring with. Don’t let him get in your head.”
And with those final words of advice, Vivienne went to go tend to her own business, leaving Simon alone in his room. Raines flopped back on his bed, arms and legs spread eagle.
As always, Vivienne Robichaud was right. Regrettably, Damon Alexander wouldn’t be across the ring from him on the sixteenth of March - Chris Strike - the War Machine, the burier of Christum Furor’s New Age - would be.
He’d already been in strict training with Vivi and Naiser King for what he knew would be the match of his life. Now, though? It was time to kick it into overdrive.
Because the best way to show Damon Alexander just what he’d trifled with was to go out there and give Chris Strike a fight that no one on Earth save his best friends truly expected he could give.
--------
Hakata Star Lanes
Fukuoka, Japan
Two hours before bell time…
“What the fuck am I doing here?”
It was a casual, flippant question from the lips of a man who had nothing to lose. Simon Raines, the so-called “warrior monk” of (R)evolution Wrestling, stood outside the doors of the the Hakata Star Lanes in Fukuoka. Dressed in the (R)evolution Dojo shirt he seemed to favor on camera most of the time (partially because the dojo gave them out to students) and a pair of blue jeans, to anyone not in the know, he’d look like just another random tourist exploring Japan.
On a day like today, though, Simon was anything but.
“The name’s Simon Raines,” he explained, to the segment of the EXODUS fanbase who didn’t tune in to (R)W’s internet shows. “I’ve been a professional wrestler since October of last year. And now, because of a series of ridiculous circumstances, I’m making my debut on FX in front of the world against one of the best wrestlers in the world, a former EXODUS World Champion. Might I add one final caveat? I...have one win to my resume. I’ve barely won a game of checkers with my friends since I entered the dojo, let alone a professional wrestling match. What happened in FIPW was pretty much all Vivi and Naiser, really.”
He could remember each and every loss, too - the fan conclave tag match with Anderson against Damon and Elizabeth that started his career (and the significance of debuting against THAT tandem was very much not lost right now on Simon). The Call Your Shot battle royale at the Autumn Effect 2, which in truth he hadn’t expected to win anyway. The Second Class Fatal Fourway, against Anderson, Vivi, and Damon.
There was his best showing, against Daniel Lanning in a losing effort in round one of the Top of the Class Tournament. A tag match with Charlie Mendoza as his partner, currently residing in the “Where Are They Now” file. Another tag match in which Anna Giovanna had kneed him in the groin and caused him to lose to Jackie Fucking Fowler, He Who Simon Disliked Very Much Indeed.
And then, of course, there was the final insult, the eight person tag match that he’d lost due to Damon Alexander driving a knife into his back. Loss after loss after loss.
And yet, the Artist of War was still here. Still fighting, still scratching, and still crawling after that elusive first direct pinfall, even on a night like this when it would be harder to find than it ever had been.
“I’m on this show,” Simon managed, with a wry shake of his head, “because I am, supposedly, in spite of my tremendous win-loss record, a danger to my fellow students in (R)evolution Wrestling. The evidence for this is that my former best friend, Damon Alexander, is butthurt that he couldn’t hit me in a training session that we had a month or two ago. The reality of the matter is that he doesn’t want me anywhere near him, because he knows that when I get my hands on him, I will make him regret joining REVOLUTION and hurting my friends and I.”
Simon shook his head - he could worry about that later. Vivi was right. Chris Strike was the here and the now, regardless of how this match had come about.
“But the decision’s been made by Almasy and Riley, and I don’t get any say in the matter. So here I am, a kid four months into my career, not close to graduating according to most of my trainers being thrown into pitched battle with Chris Strike. It’s a mismatch on practically every level. So I’m done, right? It’s hopeless. He’s going to beat me in a matter of minutes and Jimmy Riley’s going to feel like an idiot for ever listening to Damon Alexander’s ludicrous request. Right? Right?”
Not if Raines had anything to say about it.
“Wrong.”
A small, amused smile played itself about Simon’s lips. As much as he didn’t really like talking about his talents that much, the time had come to open up the cookie jar and reveal the goodies inside.
“What Damon Alexander fears so much is that which gives me a chance against anyone who steps across a ring from me. It’s years and years of martial arts training and expertise. It’s being able to look at someone and tell by their stance and posture what they’re going to throw and where they’re going to throw it. I can give away this nugget of information for one simple reason - even if you know what I do, there’s not a whole Hell of a lot you can do to stop me from reading your body.”
For Raines, it was simple enough, if one gave him the chance to use his talent. He’d been in a lot of tag matches and multi-man bouts. With chaos all around, it was often times hard to truly focus on just one opponent. Against Chris Strike, though, he would have that chance.
“Now, I can understand why some might be intimidated by such an ability, but what I do isn’t magic. It’s not sorcery. It’s talent, honed over the years. And it’s a talent that everyone involved in the extended EXODUS universe, from Phillippe Bertrand to Abby Park and everyone in between, has to respect. If they don’t?”
From his lax, casual stance, Raines snapped off a standing crescent kick. His foot arced through the air in a second or so, before returning exactly where it was, his aloof stance reassumed just as fast.
“Oyasuminasai. Good night. The end. For anyone,” Raines stated. “That’s not youthful arrogance, it’s a fact. I’ve got a shelf full of trophies at my parents’ house on Okinawa as proof. As a professional wrestler? I’m still kind of shit. But every match starts with both wrestlers on their feet, and while closed fists might technically be illegal, I can kick, elbow, and knee on a level that you cannot imagine.”
Saying it gave him more confidence. It was true - he was a martial artist the likes of which most in Revo or EXODUS had never reckoned with. It was high time for him to embrace that fact while he picked up the finer points of armdrags and hip tosses. One day, he’d be excellent at those.
For now? Kicks seemed the way to go.
“What all of that means is that I have a message for Chris Strike. He’s a good dude. We’ve shared a few beers on this tour. He’s taught me a lot, both about the business and life. And in turn, I’ve got something to teach him.”
He’d initially thrown his name out to face Strike when Reika Seragaki had put out a call for opponents. His friends and most fans had thought Simon crazy - and he probably was.
Simon, though, hadn’t gotten where he was in martial arts by challenging weak opponents. No, Raines had sought out the toughest tournaments he could find, to face the best competitors one could face. In fighting, as in most things, Raines believed that the best way to improve was to face those who were better than you, and Chris Strike was most certainly that.
“They say in this sport it takes three seconds for a match to end, Chris,” Simon said, a grin forming on his face. “Not me. I know better. It takes far less. A split second. The blink of an eye. You’re a better wrestler than I am, in almost every conceivable way. This is a mismatch on paper, and it may well be a mismatch in reality. But if you give me that split-second I need, War Machine, you’ll be the one counting the lights, the victim of the biggest upset this company’s ever seen.”
As ludicrous as it seemed to everyone else outside of Simon’s inner circle, he could visualize that victory - and just how little it would really take. An opening here, or an opening there. An elbow thrown that landed in just the right spot, behind the ear. A front kick to the chin, tapping Strike’s unconsciousness button just so. There were options. Strike would give him chances.
Simon would simply have to have the wherewithal to capitalize on those chances.
“You’re a machine of war,” Raines said, nodding his head. “Precise and unyielding. That nickname wasn’t given to you just because it sells t-shirts. It fits your style. Chris Strike’s not one to make mistakes. I know. I’ve scouted you. I’ve watched you. There’s just one thing - Chris. Things you do, things that are part of your ordinary courses of actions, things that aren’t mistakes against 99.9% of the professional wrestling population? They’re mistakes against me.”
He could see the match against Daniel Lanning in his mind’s eye - see the bounty hunter fire off the punch that Simon had caught as if it was moving in slow motion. At the time, Raines had thought it an aberration - a one-off.
Now, he knew better.
“I’m an artist, Chris,” Simon offered. “An Artist of War. I’ve been called that since long before I ever stepped into a professional wrestling ring for the first time. In combat, I search for those mistakes, and I weave beautiful tapestries out of them. If you give me a chance, I will make my name off of yours. I promise you that. It’s nothing personal. At all. Combat is, to me, a chance for two competitors to step into a ring, or a cage, or whatever and find out who the better man is. I relish this chance to step into an EXODUS ring with you, and I’m sorry that what was going to be a test of skill between two warriors has also become a pawn in my former best friend’s game to ensure that he never pays at my hand for what he did to me three weeks ago.”
Simon shook his head again. Whatever Almasy and Riley decided would be what they decided. He had little control over it. All he could do was his very best out there.
“Most of all, though? I’m sorry that cashing in on the chance of my lifetime means you’re going to have to have to suffer your third straight loss. But I was on seven straight. I can “afford” a loss to an athlete of your caliber. I know that. But I’m sick and tired of losing. It’s about Goddamned time that I pin someone or make them submit. It’s about time that I show the world that I can be a damned fine professional wrestler..”
The Artist of War smiled. In that moment, there were no nerves, no hesitation - just a quiet, determined confidence and a will to do the seemingly impossible.
“I’m walking into the Hakata Star Lanes a nigh-winless rookie,” Raines promised, “but when I walk out, Simon Raines is going to be the talk of the wrestling world. That much I can promise.”
Raines turned, walking towards the front doors of the building in which, he hopes, his destiny will change in front of the entire world.
Can a raw rookie really dismantle a War Machine?
Hell, can he even last five minutes with Chris Strike?
EXODUS on FX #31 would tell the tale, one way or another.
Over three weeks ago…
It was an utterly dazed and confused Simon Raines that stepped out of a very well appointed office and back into the waiting room that he’d spent approximately fifteen minutes in. He had just finished meeting with the immaculately dressed and well-spoken FOX executive, Piers Anthony, and his head was still spinning in a thousand different directions. Few, if any of them, were good.
Raines carried a rather impressive looking stack of printouts with him, his gait coming in stops and starts. Finally, he could take no more, and he simply sank down into one of the surprisingly comfortable waiting room chairs to try and process the thirty-minutes he’d just spent with a businessman on a level far above anything he’d ever reach.
“What the Hell IS all of this,” Raines mused to himself, thumbing through pie charts with titles like “Do You Think Simon Raines is Crazypants?” - depicting 55% Yes, 30% No, 10% Undecided, and 5% Who The Hell Is Simon Raines?
The talk with Mr. Anthony had been cordial, but businesslike - great job with the character kid, it’s really innovative, but you’re doing too good a job. People are really starting to believe that you believe what you’re saying, and we’re getting some negative pushback from the focus groups.
Simon was, somehow, deeply curious what the focus groups had to say about mara, or Cthulhu Jones, for that matter. Or NoVaK. Regardless, Piers was the boss, and he had charts and tables to prove his point - things had gone a little too far with Simon for the comfort of a significant chunk of Revo and EXODUS viewers.
You’re in the uncanny valley, was more or less what Anthony’s argument boiled down to. All the other crazy people in EXODUS and Revo are obviously crazy. You look like a nice, normal guy in his early 20s. All the immortal warrior monk stuff’s sort of out there, but you play it with such conviction that it makes people start to wonder about you.
All of this was a significant problem, of course, because, well, Simon Raines was fairly sure that he was actually an immortal, or at least long lived, warrior monk. But the meeting with Anthony was starting to make him doubt that, if only a little. They’d run through a whole bunch of possibilities that Piers had come up with as to where the gimmick had come from, and he’d politely nodded his way through most of them, neither confirming nor denying that he was a huge Highlander fan, or that he’d been devouring comic books practically since the womb.
In the end, they’d at least come to an agreement - Simon would pull back on the “immortal warrior monk” routine on Twitter, and in return, Revo would start airing vignettes on Simon’s rather legitimate martial arts background - cheesy 80s style training montages.
Simon Raines could never resist a good cheesy 80s style training montage, so they’d shaken hands on it and Piers had sent Simon on his way with the pile of printouts that he was now poring over.
“So much detail,” Raines groaned. “I had no idea the FOX guys were going to be so hands on with even (R)evolution Wrestling. It’s kind of reassuring, in its own way.”
Piers Anthony had a firm handshake and a good manner about him. And yet, there was something about all of this that just wasn’t...right, somehow. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Grace Radley out of his mind, the woman who had told him things that very, very few people - and virtually no one that he could think of who was still alive, should have known about him.
Now, though, Grace was gone. On “vacation,” Piers had said. The entire thing was beyond suspicious, and it made Simon start to wonder just what else the businessman was capable of. One thing, though, was for sure - prying too much seemed like a very bad idea, indeed.
Simon had just flipped to a graph depicting viewers over the course of each internet broadcast of Revo, broken down by quarter hour, when he heard a rapping noise coming from the direction of the oaken desk that dominated much of the far wall of the waiting room.
When he looked up, he saw the assistant of Mr. Morgan sitting there, lazily twirling a pen in her hand, presumably the source of the rapping sound. She pointed to Simon with the pen - he made a “who, me?” gesture to which she nodded, and Simon finally stood, walking the short distance over to the desk in slight confusion.
“Genevieve Tate,” she said, extending a well-manicured hand for Simon to shake. “I am Ryder Morgan’s assistant, but until Ms. Radley returns from her vacation, should you have any need to contact Mr. Anthony, you are to go through me. Do you understand?”
Raines nodded his head, still a bit dazed by his entire experience here today. “How should I get in touch with you then,” he asked. He’d seen her on Twitter, of course, but that seemed a little informal for --
“Twitter is fine,” she replied, almost immediately, in a voice that Simon couldn’t find anything other than soothing. “Ah, but you are a formal gentleman, are you not? Perhaps this would suffice.”
Tate reached down into a drawer of her desk, coming out with a business card. She extended it to Simon with a smile and a nod. “My professional contact information, Mr. Raines. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a …meeting with Mr. Morgan that I do not wish to be late for. You can see yourself out, I trust?”
Simon nodded - and watched carefully as Genevieve stood, and gracefully made her way over to the door on the wall opposite the one Simon had entered when he’d arrived here. It opened and shut with no further hyperbole, leaving Simon alone in the waiting room, looking over the card in his hand.
“Genevieve Tate,” he read, “Personal assistant to Ryder Morgan.” Below that was a variety of contact information - phone, fax, and email. As he looked at the card, though, he could see…something bleeding through the other side of the card.
As Simon turned the card around, he found a number there, written in precise handwriting in pink ink. It was a ten digit number, and it was notably different from the phone number typed on the front of the business card she’d handed to him.
Raines rolled back his mental rolodex, thinking of some of the pictures Genevieve had posted on Twitter, before carefully tucking the card into his pocket as he went to go reclaim the charts and tables he’d left on the chair.
What exactly Simon Raines would do with that ten digit number, though, was a story for another time.
-----
Simon Raines’ Hotel Room
Ten days earlier…
“I’ve got to admit,” a grimacing Simon Raines groused, between sips of a cup of green tea he’d gotten to go from the coffee shop a block from the hotel everyone was staying in, “that Damon’s got me in a bit of a bind here.”
As he sighed from the perch that was his hotel room’s bed, he looked across the room to a woman sitting in the room’s only chair that likely wouldn’t be happy to concede any such point whatsoever.
She gave him a wry grin, enjoying a sip of coffee. Vivienne Robichaud leaned back in the chair, propping her feet up on the desk.
“Believe me, of all people, Damon Alexander does not have you in a bind. If you lose to Chris Strike, well… then your record remains as it is. But if you beat him, then it just goes to show that what you’ve been saying all along is true - that your secret is nothing more than extensive training. You can’t out-wrestle Strike, but if he gives you an opening, you sure as hell better take it. Prove to everyone, especially Damon, that you are not to be fucked with. He needs to leave the pedantic arguments to GRENDEL, he’s much better at them.”
Rolling her eyes, Vivienne took another sip of her coffee. “It’ll also send that pathetic chickenshit excuse for a man running for the hills. Which is a sight I would so love to see, second only to him on his knees, begging for my mercy. But I’ll take what I can get.”
Simon, on the other hand, seemed far less certain about the entire affair than Vivi did. That was possibly because he’d been thinking about it non-stop since Riley and Seymour had combined to make their decision on Twitter.
“You’re a lot more optimistic about this than I am,” Raines said. “If I put up anything resembling a good fight, Damon’ll be at Almasy’s door - and he has a case. I’ve been doing this for four months. Strike’s been at it over a decade. I should have ZERO chance against Chris Strike. I do have a chance, though, even if a tiny one, because of what I can do.”
For Raines, it was no win - either he got embarrassed by Chris Strike on national television, or he did well enough - God forbid he even WIN, somehow - that the Powers That Were decided he was too good for (R)evo and bumped up to the main roster, or sent off an excursion to Four Islands Pro Wrestling.
“GRENDEL *is* better at pedantic arguments,” Simon admitted, “but Damon’s not bad, and I think this plan of his is smarter than you do - it may even be smarter than he thinks it is, when all’s said and done.”
“Admittedly, since Damon began sniffing after that Lannister bitch I haven’t had much faith in his intelligence. And him running off to join REVOLUTION has not done anything to improve my estimation of his intellectual capabilities.” With a shrug, Vivienne drank more of her coffee and watched her best friend over the rim of her cup.
“Usually you’re the optimistic one, so this is new for me. But Damon isn’t going to get his way on this. They’ll see that you’re not ready for the main roster and they won’t want to send you to Four Islands because they’ll want to keep an eye on you here. So back down to Revo you’ll go. And you’ll give Strike a run for his money because you’ve got years and years of martial arts training that, if he gives you an opening, you can use to get the upper hand. At least for awhile.”
She grinned at him then. Only a few knew just how many years Simon had on Strike, and only she had seen verifiable proof of it.
“If you need moral support, I’ll be there. I believe you can do this.”
Simon regarded her with a thankful nod. “Thank you again for that last part, seriously,” Raines said, his shoulders slumping forward at yet another reminder of how little he had to be optimistic about. “Especially considering the cost and duress you’re doing it under.”
Raines liked Jonathan Collins, really. He didn’t always understand the owner of EXODUS, or the seemingly infinite network of information that he could draw from, but he did fully believe that Collins had EXODUS’ best interests in mind.
What that had to do with him being so worried about his friendship with Vivienne, though, he was considerably less certain about.
Setting her coffee cup aside, Vivienne got up from her chair and joined him on the hotel bed, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“So I have to deal with being watched more closely than normal. It’s nothing I can’t handle, Simon. If it had been anyone else he was asking me to stay away from, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But I’m not sure if Collins realizes that you’re more or less the only friend I have here.”
Raines almost…squeaked at that, a sound of surprise coming from his throat. He opened his mouth, to bring up someone else, anyone else. Naiser King was on the tip of his tongue, and yet he realized that there were things that she simply couldn’t talk about with Naiser. Things Naiser wouldn’t understand. Things, even, that she might have been trying to keep him away from.
At the end of the day? Of course a voodoo priestess’ best friend was an immortal warrior monk.
With two fingers, she lifted his chin and turned his head so that he was looking directly into her eyes. “Like I told you after Damon betrayed us. It’s you and me, Simon. And since I probably won’t be able to do this in the ring…”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, right between the brows.
“...A kiss for luck.”
“If you did,” Simon chuckled, though there wasn’t much mirth in it at all, “I think both Mr. King and Mr. Collins would get suspicious. I’ll need all the luck I can get against Strike, let alone with...everything else.”
The look on the warrior monk’s face was utterly serious as he draped his own arm around her shoulder. In public, Raines could often come off as carefree, though right now Simon was about as serious and stern as he could ever manage.
“If he fires you because of our friendship, I’m quitting,” Simon told her. “Damon’s already trying to divide and conquer us because he’s afraid of what he’s brought on himself. I don’t know what he has in that twelve page dossier on you, and nor do I care. I trust you.”
A wry little voice in the back of his head told him that the wrestling world wouldn’t be missing much, either, given his current (lack of) success in the so-called sport of kings.
“He won’t fire me because of our friendship. Ideally, he won’t have much of a reason to fire me at all, once this sit-down is done. I may not like the man, but I do respect him. And I’ll tell him everything he wants to know about me and Daisuke, though I’m not sure what else he thinks there is.”
Vivienne shrugged her shoulders and gave Simon a reassuring grin.
“Damon won’t be successful either. You’re my best friend, Simon. If I wouldn’t let Jonathan Collins separate us, what makes you think I’ll allow a glorified lapdog like Damon Alexander to do so? He’s just mad that you have skills he can never hope to develop. And he can cry “unfair advantage” all he wants, but at the end of the day, he’s run off to join a group that enacted a four on one beating on you. He doesn’t give a shit about fair. He just wants to get ahead. But now, all he’s done is give you main roster exposure in a match that’s sure to make you look good, no matter the outcome. So he screwed himself, and quite well.”
It took Simon a moment or two, but after he finished listening, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I know he doesn’t give a shit about fair,” Raines agreed. “I was just...they always seem to come out ahead, somehow. REVOLUTION, I mean. But that can’t happen anymore. I’ve got Strike to deal with on this show, but when I come back down to RW, I’m figuring out a solution to the Damon Alexander problem. With your help. With Naiser’s help. And then once that problem’s solved? I can worry about the others, from Shozo on down.”
He owed vengeance to almost the entire group - but for now, he would fight the battles that he was prepared to fight. Damon Alexander, though talented, was trying to fight a mental battle now to avoid losing the physical battle later, to Simon’s eyes.
And he’d be damned if he succeeded.
“Talking to you always makes me feel better,” Simon said. “I couldn’t ask for a better best friend.”
“Neither could I. I’m going to head back to my room and see if I can nail down a date and time for this tete-a-tete Collins wants to have with me. But if you need anything, just shoot me a text or something.”
She stood and gave Simon a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. As she pulled back, she let her hands rest on his shoulders and looked up into his eyes, her expression serious.
“À bientôt, ma cher. Just remember - it’s not REVOLUTION this week. It’s Chris Strike. Don’t let the fact that this was Damon’s doing make you lose sight of who you’re actually going to be in the ring with. Don’t let him get in your head.”
And with those final words of advice, Vivienne went to go tend to her own business, leaving Simon alone in his room. Raines flopped back on his bed, arms and legs spread eagle.
As always, Vivienne Robichaud was right. Regrettably, Damon Alexander wouldn’t be across the ring from him on the sixteenth of March - Chris Strike - the War Machine, the burier of Christum Furor’s New Age - would be.
He’d already been in strict training with Vivi and Naiser King for what he knew would be the match of his life. Now, though? It was time to kick it into overdrive.
Because the best way to show Damon Alexander just what he’d trifled with was to go out there and give Chris Strike a fight that no one on Earth save his best friends truly expected he could give.
--------
Hakata Star Lanes
Fukuoka, Japan
Two hours before bell time…
“What the fuck am I doing here?”
It was a casual, flippant question from the lips of a man who had nothing to lose. Simon Raines, the so-called “warrior monk” of (R)evolution Wrestling, stood outside the doors of the the Hakata Star Lanes in Fukuoka. Dressed in the (R)evolution Dojo shirt he seemed to favor on camera most of the time (partially because the dojo gave them out to students) and a pair of blue jeans, to anyone not in the know, he’d look like just another random tourist exploring Japan.
On a day like today, though, Simon was anything but.
“The name’s Simon Raines,” he explained, to the segment of the EXODUS fanbase who didn’t tune in to (R)W’s internet shows. “I’ve been a professional wrestler since October of last year. And now, because of a series of ridiculous circumstances, I’m making my debut on FX in front of the world against one of the best wrestlers in the world, a former EXODUS World Champion. Might I add one final caveat? I...have one win to my resume. I’ve barely won a game of checkers with my friends since I entered the dojo, let alone a professional wrestling match. What happened in FIPW was pretty much all Vivi and Naiser, really.”
He could remember each and every loss, too - the fan conclave tag match with Anderson against Damon and Elizabeth that started his career (and the significance of debuting against THAT tandem was very much not lost right now on Simon). The Call Your Shot battle royale at the Autumn Effect 2, which in truth he hadn’t expected to win anyway. The Second Class Fatal Fourway, against Anderson, Vivi, and Damon.
There was his best showing, against Daniel Lanning in a losing effort in round one of the Top of the Class Tournament. A tag match with Charlie Mendoza as his partner, currently residing in the “Where Are They Now” file. Another tag match in which Anna Giovanna had kneed him in the groin and caused him to lose to Jackie Fucking Fowler, He Who Simon Disliked Very Much Indeed.
And then, of course, there was the final insult, the eight person tag match that he’d lost due to Damon Alexander driving a knife into his back. Loss after loss after loss.
And yet, the Artist of War was still here. Still fighting, still scratching, and still crawling after that elusive first direct pinfall, even on a night like this when it would be harder to find than it ever had been.
“I’m on this show,” Simon managed, with a wry shake of his head, “because I am, supposedly, in spite of my tremendous win-loss record, a danger to my fellow students in (R)evolution Wrestling. The evidence for this is that my former best friend, Damon Alexander, is butthurt that he couldn’t hit me in a training session that we had a month or two ago. The reality of the matter is that he doesn’t want me anywhere near him, because he knows that when I get my hands on him, I will make him regret joining REVOLUTION and hurting my friends and I.”
Simon shook his head - he could worry about that later. Vivi was right. Chris Strike was the here and the now, regardless of how this match had come about.
“But the decision’s been made by Almasy and Riley, and I don’t get any say in the matter. So here I am, a kid four months into my career, not close to graduating according to most of my trainers being thrown into pitched battle with Chris Strike. It’s a mismatch on practically every level. So I’m done, right? It’s hopeless. He’s going to beat me in a matter of minutes and Jimmy Riley’s going to feel like an idiot for ever listening to Damon Alexander’s ludicrous request. Right? Right?”
Not if Raines had anything to say about it.
“Wrong.”
A small, amused smile played itself about Simon’s lips. As much as he didn’t really like talking about his talents that much, the time had come to open up the cookie jar and reveal the goodies inside.
“What Damon Alexander fears so much is that which gives me a chance against anyone who steps across a ring from me. It’s years and years of martial arts training and expertise. It’s being able to look at someone and tell by their stance and posture what they’re going to throw and where they’re going to throw it. I can give away this nugget of information for one simple reason - even if you know what I do, there’s not a whole Hell of a lot you can do to stop me from reading your body.”
For Raines, it was simple enough, if one gave him the chance to use his talent. He’d been in a lot of tag matches and multi-man bouts. With chaos all around, it was often times hard to truly focus on just one opponent. Against Chris Strike, though, he would have that chance.
“Now, I can understand why some might be intimidated by such an ability, but what I do isn’t magic. It’s not sorcery. It’s talent, honed over the years. And it’s a talent that everyone involved in the extended EXODUS universe, from Phillippe Bertrand to Abby Park and everyone in between, has to respect. If they don’t?”
From his lax, casual stance, Raines snapped off a standing crescent kick. His foot arced through the air in a second or so, before returning exactly where it was, his aloof stance reassumed just as fast.
“Oyasuminasai. Good night. The end. For anyone,” Raines stated. “That’s not youthful arrogance, it’s a fact. I’ve got a shelf full of trophies at my parents’ house on Okinawa as proof. As a professional wrestler? I’m still kind of shit. But every match starts with both wrestlers on their feet, and while closed fists might technically be illegal, I can kick, elbow, and knee on a level that you cannot imagine.”
Saying it gave him more confidence. It was true - he was a martial artist the likes of which most in Revo or EXODUS had never reckoned with. It was high time for him to embrace that fact while he picked up the finer points of armdrags and hip tosses. One day, he’d be excellent at those.
For now? Kicks seemed the way to go.
“What all of that means is that I have a message for Chris Strike. He’s a good dude. We’ve shared a few beers on this tour. He’s taught me a lot, both about the business and life. And in turn, I’ve got something to teach him.”
He’d initially thrown his name out to face Strike when Reika Seragaki had put out a call for opponents. His friends and most fans had thought Simon crazy - and he probably was.
Simon, though, hadn’t gotten where he was in martial arts by challenging weak opponents. No, Raines had sought out the toughest tournaments he could find, to face the best competitors one could face. In fighting, as in most things, Raines believed that the best way to improve was to face those who were better than you, and Chris Strike was most certainly that.
“They say in this sport it takes three seconds for a match to end, Chris,” Simon said, a grin forming on his face. “Not me. I know better. It takes far less. A split second. The blink of an eye. You’re a better wrestler than I am, in almost every conceivable way. This is a mismatch on paper, and it may well be a mismatch in reality. But if you give me that split-second I need, War Machine, you’ll be the one counting the lights, the victim of the biggest upset this company’s ever seen.”
As ludicrous as it seemed to everyone else outside of Simon’s inner circle, he could visualize that victory - and just how little it would really take. An opening here, or an opening there. An elbow thrown that landed in just the right spot, behind the ear. A front kick to the chin, tapping Strike’s unconsciousness button just so. There were options. Strike would give him chances.
Simon would simply have to have the wherewithal to capitalize on those chances.
“You’re a machine of war,” Raines said, nodding his head. “Precise and unyielding. That nickname wasn’t given to you just because it sells t-shirts. It fits your style. Chris Strike’s not one to make mistakes. I know. I’ve scouted you. I’ve watched you. There’s just one thing - Chris. Things you do, things that are part of your ordinary courses of actions, things that aren’t mistakes against 99.9% of the professional wrestling population? They’re mistakes against me.”
He could see the match against Daniel Lanning in his mind’s eye - see the bounty hunter fire off the punch that Simon had caught as if it was moving in slow motion. At the time, Raines had thought it an aberration - a one-off.
Now, he knew better.
“I’m an artist, Chris,” Simon offered. “An Artist of War. I’ve been called that since long before I ever stepped into a professional wrestling ring for the first time. In combat, I search for those mistakes, and I weave beautiful tapestries out of them. If you give me a chance, I will make my name off of yours. I promise you that. It’s nothing personal. At all. Combat is, to me, a chance for two competitors to step into a ring, or a cage, or whatever and find out who the better man is. I relish this chance to step into an EXODUS ring with you, and I’m sorry that what was going to be a test of skill between two warriors has also become a pawn in my former best friend’s game to ensure that he never pays at my hand for what he did to me three weeks ago.”
Simon shook his head again. Whatever Almasy and Riley decided would be what they decided. He had little control over it. All he could do was his very best out there.
“Most of all, though? I’m sorry that cashing in on the chance of my lifetime means you’re going to have to have to suffer your third straight loss. But I was on seven straight. I can “afford” a loss to an athlete of your caliber. I know that. But I’m sick and tired of losing. It’s about Goddamned time that I pin someone or make them submit. It’s about time that I show the world that I can be a damned fine professional wrestler..”
The Artist of War smiled. In that moment, there were no nerves, no hesitation - just a quiet, determined confidence and a will to do the seemingly impossible.
“I’m walking into the Hakata Star Lanes a nigh-winless rookie,” Raines promised, “but when I walk out, Simon Raines is going to be the talk of the wrestling world. That much I can promise.”
Raines turned, walking towards the front doors of the building in which, he hopes, his destiny will change in front of the entire world.
Can a raw rookie really dismantle a War Machine?
Hell, can he even last five minutes with Chris Strike?
EXODUS on FX #31 would tell the tale, one way or another.