“If ever there was a more dangerous structure than the Underlook Hotel, it would be the Gurnee Paper Mill. My only gripe is that I didn’t design it myself.” -Daedalus
“Two thousand fourteen. The Coalition’s only Run of the Mill match took place. Five competitors. Locked in a scenario that could have been created by Jigsaw himself.”
A low hum can be heard, but there is no picture for now. Just a black screen. The voice of Tempest is unmistakable however.
“There’s a reason it’s been buried deep within the history book of The Coalition. And fitting that it’s been resurrected with my name attached to it.”
The blackness fades, but not to reveal the owner of the voice. Instead, it cuts to footage from the Run of the Mill match at Horizons 2014.
Harley Addams performs an acrobatic blockbuster on Dirge through the broken window of an office door. The impact drives Dirge’s face into jagged shards of glass. He’s driven backwards, where the office door topples on top of him. The video freezes on the Momentum Killer buried beneath the carnage.
“Beautiful… isn’t it? Dirge would later be eliminated from this match because he rolled out onto the grass in an attempt to escape a maniac behind a barrel lift. Some might find that rule to be absurd… but I don’t.”
The video cuts to a still image of the Gurnee Paper Mill, the home of the Coalition’s first. Next to it, a beautifully landscaped lawn with trees seems out of place.
“In my eyes… pardon me, in my eye, I see the symbolism. The brutality of man is far more violent than the brutality of any god. And while it can be argued that the savagery of nature itself is a worthy opponent, the savagery of human nature is unmatched. Human nature destroys the nature around it. Because we humans are parasites. And the world is our host!”
A maniacal giggle escapes him. The screen cuts to Red Fusion yanking Harley Addams by the legs into a glue applicator, before tipping over a rack of cardboard sheets on top of her. The video shows Harley’s fight begin to slow as the glue hardens around her body and she looks frozen, like a mannequin. Another low chuckle can be heard as she is eliminated.
“I do believe that she and I would have gotten along… temporarily, of course, until I grew tired of playing with her.”
The next clip takes off, showing The Mainstreamer and Red Fusion battling on a platform hovering over a millipond. It looks to be almost two stories up from it. When The Mainstreamer connects with a Streamliner, Red Fusion falls to his defeat, and the fate of a new Cross-Hemisphere Champion becomes true as he is dethroned in a marvelous splash.
“In the words of Edward Nygma, ‘Surf’s up Big Kahuna!!!’”
The voiceover giggles again.
“And what travesty awaits…?”
The screen flips to the end, where The Mainstreamer is attacked by Warped Wrestling’s PKA, gifting the Vain One the victory and the Cross-Hemisphere Championship. The screen freezes on The Mainstreamer lying lifelessly on top of the bin that PKA DDTed him on top of.
“The Mainstreamer, one of the three faces of what he defined as Brutality, lies… defeated. And broken.”
The screen fades to darkness at first, and then the picture comes back. This time, Tempest is perched on top of a CNC machine. The label on the side of it is ‘Makino’ in black factory type. A low, constant hum can be heard as the machine lives, ready to do what it was meant to do with a simple push of a button.
The machine itself is about eight feet tall, and looms over a desolate factory floor. Below, in the front, are hydraulics and pneumatics ready to spring to life. A block of machined metal, called a tombstone, sits on a turntable, ready to clamp onto whatever part needs to be spun and machined on the inside of the Makino.
“And so, we come full circle. The Run of the Mill returns. And with it, Holden Orson is resurrected. It seems that you just can’t stay away, can you? How many machines have victimized Martin Graber? And have any of them destroyed you as badly as the Engine of Chaos machine?”
He climbs down from the machine, carefully stepping between cables and oil hoses that lead to the machine’s spindle. He exits the back of the machine and wanders around to the front, gazing into the camera.
“Hello Holden Orson. My name is Tempest. And I imagine I’m the only one in this match that you’re not familiar with. Oh, but I’m familiar with you. I might even go so far as to say, I’ve become infatuated with you.”
He tilts his head, his blind eye glistening in the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Not quite the level of your infatuation with Alan Wallace was. But, infatuated, nonetheless. Maybe you should stick around a while, let me climb into that craw of yours. Perhaps we can blend and balance our personalities, however many there may be lurking within.”
A sinister grin forms behind the mask.
“I can relate to your obsession with Alan Wallace. I have something of an obsession myself. You could say Sebastian Everett Bryce could potentially become my Vain One. Except… the Spider King consumes his obsessions, rather than falling to a knee before them.”
He takes a moment to ponder, about what is anyone’s guess, before shrugging and turning. He walks to the side of the machine and opens a door. The cameraman, presumably Daedalus, follows and zooms in on the tombstone inside to the left. To the right, a fairly thick drill bit is clamped in the spindle. Coolant oil drips down into a catch pan in a milky white river. The catch pan lets the coolant flow down and out of the machine and through a grating in the floor that takes it to be recycled elsewhere in the factory.
“I wonder… if Martin Graber is still somewhere in your consciousness. I wonder if you’re still hiding from The Mainstreamer persona. Or have you found peace in your absence?”
He peers out from behind his mask, silent. And for a long time all that can be heard is the mechanical humming of the Makino beside him. He seems to be zoning out, but finally comes to and moves as if he hit a reset button within himself.
“You know… you and I are alike in other ways, too. You wear your masks, because you’re hiding from an identity. I wear my mask, because I’m ashamed of what I look like now. I can admit that. I couldn’t before, but I can now. I am ashamed of what I look like. I am ashamed of what I let The Arsonist do to me. In both cases, our masks are used for the same purpose. You may disagree. You may look down on someone like me.”
He shrugs and chuckles to himself, throwing his arms out in submission.
“You may scoff at me, despite how alike we are. Because deep down… you’re a High Society wannabe. You’ve always wanted to be initiated and accepted by the popular people. You’ve always wanted to fit in, that’s why you go out of your way to mock such things. I can relate. I always wanted to be, too. But sometimes, no matter how many masks you wear to fit in, it doesn’t conceal the monster that lives inside us.”
Another few moments of low, monotonous humming. Tempest steps away from the Makino a little, peering in with interest. He leans in, placing his hand on the spindle head and bringing his face dangerously close to the drill bit in the center.
“But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
He caresses the drill bit, just millimeters from its razor sharp edges. He seems a million miles away, and so does his voice as he addresses Holden Orson.
“We’re here to unchain the monsters inside us. Is it irony that eight years ago, you defined ‘brutality’ as being eight years of bottled up emotions? You defined it as eight years of beautiful insanity… unraveling further down the spiral, into a deeper insanity. Eight years of self-loathing and self-doubt. Eight years of obsession. Eight years of all of that, coming to fruition. Your definition of brutality wasn’t quite my brand. But that’s all right, I don’t mind. The original Run of the Mill might seem like the perfect example of what barbarity is. But, my version of the match has yet to be discovered.”
A low chuckle escapes him as he slaps the spindle head and leans back out of the machine.
“Now, forgive me as I defecate on holy ground, but nothing about Travis Pierce or Dave Rydell screams ‘brutal’ in my face. Hear me out, if you’re smart. Everyone will say, ‘You cannot overlook them if you are to win the most coveted prize in The Coalition.’ And I answer… ‘I will not only overlook Rydell and Pierce. I will disrespect them.’"
He scowls behind his mask.
“Dave Rydell, we could talk about his career. But then we would be talking about mediocrity. We would be talking about a man who has spent his entire career settling for a participation trophy. I hope that dig gets under your skin like a hookworm, too, Dave. I hope it does, because I want you to think about what I just said… as I’m ramming your head inside a machine that’s just begging me to bring it back to life. And put you out of your fucking misery.”
He pauses and his voice eerily climbs to a higher pitch, like a child’s.
“In Gnaw Bone, we call that a mercy killin’.”
He giggles, then turns quickly and marches behind and past the Makino towards another machine sitting in the corner of the area.
“The truth is, Rydell, I hate you not for your persistence, but for your inability to succeed. I hate you for the way that you’re given opportunity after opportunity after opportunity, only for you to find new ways of turning them into your own personal, cursed blunders. You’ve gone this long without sitting on the throne in this company. This may sting a little bit… but I don’t see you ever sitting on that throne. That throne… belongs to me.”
He continues on the path towards the lone machine in the corner.
“And as for Travis Pierce,” he says over his shoulder. The cameraman follows from a distance. Tempest’s voice echoes in the empty factory.
“The only thing I find brutal about him are his one liners about Konrad…”
He pauses, getting tripped up over his words before stopping and sighing.
“Well, okay. Maybe not those. Those are always well executed, I guess. But one can only sit through so many Johnny Hitmaker insults…”
Again, he pauses. He leans against the machine and brings a dirty hand up to his mask, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“No… no, that’s not right. My hope is that one day Johnny’s head literally explodes, and you’re as good a candidate as any to make that happen.”
He thinks harder. Frustration is visibly building.
“Your hair… no.”
Daedalus sighs behind the camera in annoyance. Tempest fumbles over some more attempted insults and finally lets out a guttural scream, grabbing a nearby brass hammer and hurling it across the factory. It pops loudly against the concrete twenty yards away. Tempest rushes forward and gets so close to the camera, only his good eye can be seen.
“Do you know why I hate you Pierce!? I hate you because I want so badly to hate you because you fit into a stereotype in my head. And I’m very particular. But as hard as I try, I cannot hate you. And I therefore hate you! Do you fucking understand me!? I hate you because I can’t hate you!”
His chest heaves up and down as he takes in big gulps of air, recovering from his temper tantrum. He’s audibly gasping for air as though he just ran a marathon. And, in a way, he did in order to get to his point. After a few moments, he calms down and his look of panic is replaced with a sly smirk.
“…and… and then there’s ‘The Omen.’”
He’s brought himself completely back down to a calm state of mind, and crouches down on the concrete floor. He shakes a disapproving finger at the camera.
“You’ve certainly had my number, Ms. Wylde. You’ve gotten the better of me, and I’ve driven myself insane trying to figure out how. How do you keep finding ways around the webs I weave? You’ve become the feeling of dread in me. And that’s the feeling that I pride myself in creating in others. I just… I can’t seem to get through to you. I can’t seem to get you to see things the way that I want you to see them. Why is that?”
He pretends to think hard, gazing up at the metal beams above him. On the other side of the factory, he can see an overhead crane sleeping peacefully like a killer bear hibernating. He stops his act and glares back into the camera.
“It’s because you don’t believe in me. In this.”
He displays his mask, as well as the factory around him.
“You don’t believe in the horrors that I create. You treat my stories as fiction. Make believe. Fairytales. You treat me as though I’m not real. You look right past it as if I’m a normal, defeatable, weak-minded human being. Because you don’t think I’m sincere.”
He spits across the floor in disgust, something that’s become a habit of his.
“Well I’m real. All of this, is real. As real as I want it to be, mama.”
He smirks behind the mask.
“And I had an epiphany. I realized that I simply wasn’t trying hard enough to make you believe in me. And so, two weeks ago?”
Another low chuckle that could also qualify as a growl climbs out of his throat like a corpse climbing from its grave.
“You believed then, didn’t you? I hit you where it hurt. And it was so obvious, I was disgusted I hadn’t thought of it before. The only person who truly matters to you. Rogan MacLean. That’s how the ghosts get in to haunt your home. Through the Dark Man himself. Isn’t it ironic?”
He throws his head back with victorious laughter and holds his belly. After his laughter subsides, he gazed back into the camera.
“It may have taken much longer to make a nest inside your head, Lucy Wylde. But I’ve finally dug a hole and burrowed inside there. And I plan on residing there for a long, long time.”
He smiles a toothy grin, then puts his hands on his hips as if thinking about what to say next.
“So… what about me?”
His grin widens as he takes a step back and the camera comes forward, centering on Tempest and the machine.
“This is a lathe machine. It’s a rotating machine used to cut cylindrical objects, among many other functions.. This axis rotates. It doesn’t stop. If you try to stop it with your hand, it rotates and snaps your bones. And continues to rotate, pulling your arm into it, to your armpit. After that? The rest of your body gets pulled into it as well. It will eat you and continue rotating until you’re completely pulled through the machine. And then it continues rotating after that.”
His hand hovers but never touches the axis that rotates when powered on.
“The machine I was at before? It’s designed to cut metal. It has programs telling it where to move each tool that it pulls from a magazine carousel on the side of the machine. And it shapes the metal into whatever you want. If your hand gets in the way? It shapes your hand. If your head is in the way? It drills and threads holes into your skull. And it doesn’t care.”
Another long stretch of silence. He steps closer to the camera, slowly.
“My father has always worked in a factory just like this. When I was a child, he brought me in and showed me around. He couldn’t have chosen a worse day to give his baby boy a tour of the facility that he claimed I would eventually be working in.”
His voice lowers as he speaks, and for the first time, lets his audience into his life before this.
“As I was walking along the factory floor, I remember my father telling me not to touch anything. Not long after, I heard the screams. They were the most startling, blood-curdling screams I’ve ever heard. I turned to look at the source and managed to see him before my father did. So I saw him before anyone could get to me to preserve my innocence. I’ll never forget the way his arm was contorted in that lathe. And even from some distance away, I could see his bone sticking out of his skin, snapped like a stick. My father later told me they had to amputate to get him free. And even then, he nearly died from infection.”
He turns to look at the lathe machine behind him, cautiously as if it can hear him tell the horror stories of its family. He turns back to the camera.
“As I think back to that day, I realize what true brutality is. Brutality is what these machines are. Beautiful disregard for anything, or anyone, in their path. Brutality is blatant disinterest for the feelings of others. Brutality is the vacancy of sympathy or empathy. These machines, they feel nothing as they destroy to create. These machines are inhumane. These machines…”
He takes a moment to let his eye lock onto the camera and his audience on the other side.
“…are just like me. I am inhumane. I am barbaric. I am ferocity… and I am brutality.”
His words linger above the low humming that’s now in the distance.
“This match has been accidentally designed just for me. I have no sense of remorse for what I’ve done to those in the past, and for what I’ll do to the four unfortunate victims who must share the mill with me. Brutality… is what Dave Rydell will feel when I’m through with him. Brutality… is what Travis Pierce will see every time he switches from camera A to camera B. Brutality… is what Holden Orson will feel after not eight, but sixteen, years of dissatisfaction. Brutality…”
He inches closer to the camera. His face has filled the screen.
“Brutality is what Lucy Wylde will feel, when I’ve taken something from her that she’s worked so hard for. This match is a horror movie personified. And the four of you? You’ll just be relieved when it’s over. It’ll be like finally escaping the Firefly family…”
A small, subtle smile pulls at the unscarred corner of his mouth.
“Except it isn’t. Because with Tempest reigning as the Coalition’s World Champion, it’ll be as if the rest of you are locked inside that house of a thousand corpses. And there truly will be no escape, until my reign ends.”
He stands and straightens up, adjusting his jumpsuit as does.
“All hail the Spider King. All hail the Master of the Mill… and all hail… the new God of Brutality.”
His chuckle is as low as the mechanical humming in the background. The screen fades to black.