Post by Kaiser on Mar 15, 2014 21:21:46 GMT -6
If there are no heroes left alive, evil shall conquer.
The sky will turn black with pollution.
The sea will run red with blood.
The world will burn in hellfire.
A boy stands among all the filthy and malevolent.
Trained by a goddess, he wishes not to see evil prevail.
A hero he is destined to be.
The scene opened to Peyton’s back turned to the camera. The back of his black hoodie said in bright yellow letters “MSW’s Personal Hero”. His form obstructed the view of a piece of paper on the wall before him. Scribbling noises screeched into the camera. Soon enough, he stopped, putting the cap on a black marker. He turned to the camera, looking somewhat agitated. Stubble began to grow around his jawline, signalling the time that gone by since he appeared last.
A look of annoyance was plastered on his face and he moved to the side, revealing what the paper was. On the wall was the whole bracket for the “Best of the Best” tournament. Names were crossed out with black marker. It seemed that Peyton had everyone plotted out almost perfectly. Bonecrusher over McKnight. Harrison over Cruz. Windermear over SVD, that primadonna over Mason, the guy that needed to be in a mental ward over Harvey, and yeah, yeah, you get the idea. The only one he didn’t predict was Washington losing his match. Yet on the other side of the bracket, he had himself going to the finals.
Peyton, still silent, took out a red marker and drew a large “x” over all of the bracket and then turned belligerently. “You know, this tournament is already lost,” he began, putting away his writing utensils. “MSW’s Personal Hero no longer has his shot to be crowned the first ever MSW Heavyweight Champion,” he added, taking a fine look at the poster.
“This company already purged itself into the filth that lingers in this world. They have doomed themselves. Their poor championship is going to be tainted by the hands of whoever wins the championship,” a tone of melancholy dubbed over his as he stroked the paper as if it was the MSW Heavyweight Championship. Soon, his hand fell limp. He focused on the camera.
“Mister Stevenson, you have one chance to save MSW. I can save MSW! I do not have the power to do it alone, though. Once this tournament is over, allow me to face off and vanquish the corrupt soul who wins,” he put his hands together, genuinely pleading. “If you feel as if I cannot prove myself, allow me to face off to do so. Put me through a gauntlet, make me face three villains at once, anything. I love MSW. It bears that fresh innocence, like the first day of spring. I love the fans. They are passionate about what they see. They can spot the worst before I can.”
“You would horrid to allow MSW to be corrupted by those like Matt Ward, Ian Windermear, and Bryce Manning. Allow me to be your righteous warrior against their vileness. Grant me this one request. And whoever steps up to complain against your decision, allow them to face me. Allow me to silence them. I will not let anyone stop my conquest of virtue.”
Peyton grabbed the bracket off the wall and gazed upon it. He crushed it in his hand and dropped it in a trashcan.
He came back to the camera, smirking. A vagrant memory came in his mind.
"Especially Ian Windermear. I didn't get my chance to defeat him while we both near each other. He's the worst of them all. A man who still remains arrogant, but falls swiftly in front of his opposition. Sad."
Fade to black.
