Forces.

[Sabin / Madjinn]

…HUNGER…

The sound of people murmuring can be heard before we gain any visual. One voice penetrates through the darkness, a familiar tone, as an introduction is heard, “We are here–” just then, the visual aid does come in and we see the world renown reporter, Denzel Porter, sitting in a lounge chair across from Sabin Rene Spencer better known to the industry as Wraith as he leans back in a lounge chair of his own. Denzel, without missing a beat after the visual aid fades in, resumes his own introduction, “–with one of the youngest world champions that the industry has ever known! And a finalist in the IWFs Heir to the Throne tournament! Sabin– WRAITH! How’s your day going?”

Sabin nods his head enthusiastically, “It– it’s going pretty good.”

“I just wanna say first and foremost, thank you for taking the time to speak with me here today where we have had quite a few questions and statements pouring in from the fans, and I’d just like to mention a few with you right here…”

“Absolutely.”

“One of the top things that seems to always come up is–” Denzel stutters a moment, and he chuckles nervously under his breath before finishing the statement, “There are people in this industry, Sabin, that feel that you do not deserve to be in the position that you are in. There are people who say that you have the silver spoon and have had everything handed to you on account of who your mother is, and who your father is! Is that something you are comfortable talking about?”

Sabin draws in a deep breath and snickers. He shrugs one of his shoulders, and licks his lips while visibly contemplating how to answer. It only takes him a mere moment before speaking up, “That is something that I have heard– for a long time, Denzel. Ever since we decided there was no point in trying to hide who my mother is, it’s just been a constant scrutiny that people like to throw at me, and it’s just– it’s something that I don’t try to pay attention to, honestly. The fact is that people are always going to be preparing themselves with an excuse for why they lost, or why someone else is successful and they just… aren’t.”

He snickers and shakes his head, “Mother has never fought a fight for me, and neither has Father. When I won the IWF Men’s World Championship– I won it. Nobody fought for me. When I defeated Father, which people would argue that that was the reason I was the ideal number one contender for the championship, I defeated Father. Nobody did it for me. There is absolutely no denying that Spencer– Docherty– Blake– are three of the most famous names in the professional wrestling industry, but as great as the names are, I– we– Dean and me– cannot stand on our own unless we can deliver on our own! It’s a misconception that people like to throw out because they just have nothing else that they can battle us with. Because we are two of the youngest, and two of the best to move our industry forward.”

Denzel looks impressed with Sabin’s answer, and nods, “Alright! Alright! I hear you! Now– with that out of the way– you have proven yourself quite well as being one of the top talents by earning your way to the finals of Heir to the Throne, and let’s be real: your first time in the tournament, you had the second most points with only the overall winner, Roberto Verona, having more points than you. And let’s not forget what happened that year, too, where it was Angel Blake, your stepfather, distracting you from being able to capitalize against Roberto Verona–”

Sabin chuckles and nods.

“Your second time, last year, you went one-on-one with Angel Blake in the finals! And we came close to seeing a rematch! So close! But this is your third time in this tournament, and you are just one win away from being declared as the Heir to the Throne and earning a chance to have yet another match with your brother at Legacy with the title on the line! What would this mean for you to be able to walk out with this win, and as the number one contender?”

“It would–” Sabin briefly hesitates, a glazed out expression as he seems to lose himself in the fantasy of having himself declared as the winner of Heir to the Throne, “It would be probably one of the single greatest feats I could accomplish in my career, Denzel. This is something that– as you said– my third time in this tournament… My third time coming close, Denzel, so close to finally having my name etched into the record books! Before I ever won the championship from Ulf, I was put into this tournament, and I thought, Denzel, I really thought that there was nothing that would stop me then. But it just– it wasn’t meant to be.”

“What do you think you have this year that might be able to get you this win that you didn’t have in previous years?” Denzel asks and taps his finger against his chin.

Time seems to stand still as that question escapes from Denzel Porter, and Sabin is trying to fully process everything. He thinks of everything that he had in the previous years, everything he thought that he had in previous years, compared to what is different about the present. What would give him this win?

“Hunger.” Sabin mutters.

Just as the singular word escapes from behind his lips, the scene suddenly fades out momentarily.

…DOMINANT…

Something mystical about the illustrious Heir to the Throne tournament that brought something out of everybody who ever had their name announced as a participant of the spectacle. Every year would bring a new set of gladiators that would fight just a little harder than the ones from the previous years, and this year was no different. Everybody came to fight. Everybody came to do their best. Everybody came prepared to lay it all on the line for one thing, and one thing alone.

The throne.

Wraith stands in front of the same obsidian seat that he has been eyeing since he was announced for the tournament this year… the same throne that he had been eyeing on his two previous attempts of being named Heir to the Throne. There was no denying that when every participant had been announced for the tournament, Wraith stood out as a favorite to win the entire thing. Like everybody else, he tapped into an aura – an energy – that superseded every strength he had, and nullified the weaknesses. Taking one bold step forward, he anxiously taps his fingers against his leg before taking another stride toward the throne. He continues until he is directly in front of the throne, then pivots on his heel…

…and finally takes his seat on the throne.

Both arms on the armrests, his fingers trace along the intricate details of every crevice carved into the smoothened stone. His eyes narrow as his gaze trails behind the blackened claw-like fingernails, until he finally wraps his hands around the ends of the armrests and grips tightly, his fingernails scratching against the surface. The gleaming crimson irises shift upward toward the camera, the audience, as he cocks his head, and the corner of his lips curl into a mischievous smirk. A confidence present in his demeanor and posture.

“For three years, I have entered this tournament with one thing in mind… Be named HEIR. TO. THE. THRONE. Each and every year that I have stepped into this tournament, I have been the one turning everybody’s heads. Three years…” Wraith says through gritted teeth, and inhales a deep breath. He closes his eyes to savor the breath, and crinkles his nose several times, sneering and snarling while recalling the previous two years.

“THREE. YEARS. I have fought to finally call myself The Heir… The HEIR to the THRONE. Three years, I have been the most dominating force in the tournament! THREE YEARS, I have taken on the very best each tournament has had to offer and have only ever been defeated by the very best!” Wraith scrunches his face and takes a momentary pause whilst his nail taps against the stone a couple of times before finally raising it and counting out the people who have bested him in the tournament, “Roberto Verona, Father, and Matt Knox…” he hisses out the third name with a disdain and venom lacing his tongue.

He slumps back into the throne, scratching at the side of his head while his gaze falters while recalling the failures from past years, and the failure from this year.

“This year was supposed to be different,” Wraith mutters while sneering.

He fixes his gaze on the camera ahead of him, “This year was supposed to be the year that I had a clean sweep! But–” he licks his lips, “–none of us left unscathed. Everybody knew what was at stake this year, and they brought everything they had! They brought every ounce of fight! Every bark! Every bite! Everything! And for that, none of us were unscathed. Father– could not win every single match leading to the finale. I– could not win every single match leading to the finale. I paid attention. I paid close attention to everything that was happening! I heard everything that everybody was saying from the beginning. I heard Nick Danger believing in himself and thinking that this was going to be his rocket to the top of the company, and another shot at the IWF Men’s World Championship. I heard James Gilmore saying that this was going to be his chance to prolong his career… to pull himself out of the slumps. Nick Knight– another chance for the title that keeps escaping him. Caleb Cannin– a chance for him to show that his acquisition of the Joker in the Pack was not merely lightning striking! The only person who didn’t seem to care was John Nash Strader… the only person who was hellbent on preventing me from reaching the finals was John Nash Strader! The only person who had a chance to run through the entire tournament could not hack it… Mentally; he was exhausted. Mentally, he was defeated. But like it has happened before, and like it will always happen, there is something that I do when I step into the ring no matter how tough the competition is! No matter how hard people want to fight! No matter whether my arm is raised as the winner, or if I have to endure hearing the name of my opponent resonating throughout the arena as they are declared the winner… I persevere. I persevere, and my opponent? They do not leave the ring the same way they walked in! It is a rather peculiar situation, isn’t it? When you walk out with your arm raised, but at what cost? At what cost?”

He chuckles under his breath, and cannot help but smile as he considers his own victims throughout his career, “Most of them are probably still telling themselves: it wasn’t worth it. And so I must ask my opponent this week… Pax… Stormcrow… is it worth it?”

WHO DO I FIGHT FOR?

The Blake-Docherty Estate

Present Day

Inside Tara's home office, Tara leans back in her office chair while Sabin sits on the couch. Sabin sits on the couch with Mikaela Jade cradled in his arms, sound asleep. While cradling her, Sabin is lost a little bit within the confines of his own mind… admittedly, he is a little bit ahead of himself… The fantasy, the daydream, cannot escape his mind as he considers how close he is to finally being able to call himself Heir to the Throne.

“I am… so fucking close!” Sabin exerts. The expletive comes out in a hushed tone, but a word that Sabin couldn’t find the will to refrain from despite the presence of his daughter. Tara was adamant about not swearing in front of the children.

Tara glances over at Sabin with a mild smile on her face, but she prevents herself from getting carried away in the same manner as her son.

“Just one more match,” Sabin tells himself, unable to contain the smile on his face.

“Remember what happened last time…” Tara says.

The words seem to break Sabin out from his fantasy as he blinks his eyes several times, bringing himself back to the realization that there was still one more person standing between himself and Heir to the Throne. It was a mistake that he could not afford to make this year. It was a mistake he could not afford to make this week.

Tara sighs as she can see the confidence almost erase from Sabin’s face.

“I don’t mean to discourage you, baby, I just– I don’t want you to get too far ahead of yourself, and fall. I don’t want you to beat yourself up over the thought that you might not win. I don’t want you to think that this is– everything–” Tara fumbles a bit over her own words.

“I know,” Sabin answers.

“There are always going to be more opportunities.” Tara reassures him.

There wasn’t– Sabin thinks to himself, I have to win it this year.

Despite the thought racing through Sabin’s mind that this was do or die, he repeats, “I know, but this is also my third time. I’ve been– disappointed. Disappointed in myself when I failed the last two times, and, Tláa, you can’t imagine how disappointed I felt when I thought that I was losing it all this year… When I lost to–”

“You learned from your mistake, and you bounced back from it! And now… here you are… in the finals of Heir to the Throne yet again, and one of the biggest opportunities ahead of you. Pax– he has his reasons for wanting this. He has his reasons for needing this, and he’s not going to be a pushover. He did just beat Angel. So– what do you want this for?”

“I want this for Mikaela…” Sabin answers without hesitation.

“Sabin–”

“I said before she was born that I wanted her to be able to see me– her dad– as a champion. And I’m tired, Tláa, I’m tired of everybody trying to talk me out of this mindset! I’m tired of everyone trying to justify it for me, and tell me that I made some sort of mistake by making a promise that they don’t feel I can keep… It’s a promise that I am going to keep! I lost the title before she was born– I am going to take it back, and I am going to prove everybody wrong, Tláa; I am going to prove to everybody that I am not some– transitional champion.” His voice is filled with determination, yet the term “transitional champion” comes out with utter disgust.

“One step at a time…” Tara reminds Sabin.

Sabin nods and strokes Mikaela’s chin while merely watching her sleep.

“Your daddy is going to be a champion, Mikaela,” Sabin says in a low tone even inaudible for Tara to hear him. “He is.” Sabin reassures both his daughter and himself as we are merely days away from when Sabin would march into the ring to face off against Pax Stormcrow in the finals of Heir to the Throne.

…BRING EVERYTHING…

The imagery returns to the throne as Wraith is staring off into the void. He lets out a short huff, restraining himself from letting out a chortle when he considers who is standing across from him this week as the only other combatant left in Heir to the Throne and the only one standing between himself and acquiring the desired accolade.

“Is it worth it?” Wraith asks again.

“You are like everybody else…” Wraith mutters and turns his attention ahead.

“Like me, Pax Stormcrow stands across from me– damaged. After you lost to Nick Knight, there was that lingering question: were you going to be able to rebound? Were you going to be able to earn a chance to compete in the finals of Heir to the Throne? Let me go ahead and say that everybody who was watching from the stands, everybody who was watching from their homes, everybody that was watching would have bet anything that we were going to see a rematch from last year! Everybody would have told you that Father and I would be headlining the finals for the second year in a row!” A low chuckle escapes from behind Wraith’s lips as he subtly shakes his head.

“Imagine the shock when Pax Stormcrow had his name announced as the winner…” He taps his fingers against the edge of the armrest a couple of times, still shaking his head, and he clicks his tongue, “I am not going to sit here and diminish what you are, Pax. I am not going to sit here and remind you about how high you have climbed every single time, just to fall! Just to stumble! Every single time. Because let me go ahead and tell you my thoughts when I get into the ring with you…”

He clasps his hands together, and hunches forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Drawing in a deep breath, the silence lingers for a couple of seconds but the gaze remains fixated ahead of him. He scrunches his face again, a coy smile still formed at the corner of his lips.

“I see perseverance. I see determination. I see strength. I see someone who has, for good reason, has reached the finals of Heir to the Throne! I see someone who has, for good reason, been a winner of Joker in the Pack! I see someone who, for good reason, has been able to come back, and come back, and come back, and immediately get their name tossed in with the greatest that our company has to offer! I mentioned earlier that there are only a handful of people who have been able to walk out with a victory over me and still be the same person. It takes a special person to not only defeat me, but to be able to walk back into the ring after they have done so. It takes a special person to gather everything I took from them and be able to get back into the ring! Father– Angel. Brother– Dean… they have been the only two that have been able to get back into the ring after defeating me. You are not weak, Pax. That is why when I step into the ring with you, I am not looking at someone who is lesser in any way. I am not looking at someone who is lesser because he has never won the big title! I am not looking at someone who is lesser because he failed at cashing in a case because of– pride… Because let’s not kid ourselves, Pax, if you had wanted to snag the grand prize, all you had to do was cash in the case when the opportunity presented itself.”

He takes a momentary pause and chatters his teeth a couple of times before resuming, “That’s not you. That’s not you… taking a shortcut. You have always been a stand-up person. You have always wanted your opponent to be primed! You have wanted them to be ready! There are not enough people like you, Pax. There are not enough people who have that level of respect for the competition, especially in our line of work. Everybody–” he snorts out heavily, disgusted, “–is willing to do anything for glory. They are willing to take the shortcuts. They are willing to take cheap shots. But then! They will tell you that they earned it… They will tell you that they deserved it. But not you, Pax. Not you, and–” His voice resonates with pride, and he slouches back against the throne, tilting his head back and forth hearing the subtle cracks in his neck while also crossing his arms in front of him, “–not. Me.” The statement lingers for several seconds.

Wraith adjusts his posture in the throne and sneers at the camera, “I have never liked the idea of having an easy target, and I have never liked the idea of someone fighting my fights for me! I have always wanted my opponent to be fresh… ready… primed… for when they got in the ring with me because there is nothing, Pax, there is absolutely nothing I despise more than someone having an EXCUSE ready the moment that they are proven beneath me! I do not like excuses, Pax, and that is something that I admire about you. I admire that every time you have stumbled, every time you have fallen, you have never made an excuse as to why it was… You accepted your fault, and you moved on for the next challenge. It was as simple as that. There will be no excuses.”

Wraith sniffles quickly before snorting out, and licks his lips while continuing, “When this tournament started, there was something coursing through my veins. Something that– carried me. It is something that I have acknowledged because it has brought out a whole new side of me that–” a low chuckle escapes, “–frightens even me. It frightens me because of what I am going to do to anyone who stands across from me! It frightens me because it means that I am not going to stop! It frightens everybody because they should know– just as I know– that I am just… getting… started. And do you know this– entity– this energy that I feel pulsing inside of me, I can see that it is also in you! I can see that you are performing at a level that is utterly shocking to everybody… I can see that you are performing at a level that would scare everybody away! You are performing at a level that would make everybody believe that you are unstoppable… Just like me. Just like I have been deemed unstoppable.”

With a smirk still on his face, Wraith sits back in the throne and allows his fingers to trace back over the details on the chair.

“You are performing at the best you have ever performed, and I am performing at the best I have ever performed! When we get into the ring with each other, I have no doubt in my mind that sparks are going to fly. I have no doubt in my mind that we are going to wage war with each other! And that is what I want, Pax. I want to have a war... I want there to be blood... I want there to be carnage! I do not want an easy fight! But as hard as you fight, Pax, as good as you are, as great as you have been!” He grits his teeth, and sneers, “I am going to have to just be that much better. Bring… everything… Pax. Bring everything.”

END.