Not Worth Chewing

The morning is a beautiful one of the sort that only winter could provide. The cold, clear air allows more of the rich greens and browns and the blue of the sky above to shine through. Out in the wilderness beyond the artifice and pollution of the city, the natural elegance of nature reigns.

Yet at this moment, it all seems so… so bland. It neither shines nor inspires.

Instead, it reminds a man of what he has lost.

”I will be back as soon as I can,” Sybil says, standing at the door with her duffel bag over her shoulder. She’s dressed warmly, not as keen on the winter air as the man she’s boarding with. ”Melissa can’t hide from me forever. We’ve been on this path before. So no worries, yah?”

Her candor is far from the usual flighty, giggly, saucy stuff that most people are used to when she is on camera. She has a serious mien.

”I leave it in your hands. You have my number if you need anything at all.

Nathaniel’s voice betrays all: fatigue, physical pain, mental anguish… emotional emptiness. He looks like hell warmed over, with his head still discolored from one of the many wounds given him by Damian Ayla weeks ago at Annihilation. His arm is still wrapped, and likely stitched beneath. Lord knows how his torso is faring beneath that loose black tee.

”Don’t worry. I’m good at this sort of thing,” Sybil replies with a smile. She raises up on booted toes and kisses Nathaniel’s cheek in a friendly manner. ”You stay here and rest. Don’t chop wood down or chase down a deer for supper. For real. Doctor’s orders, y’know...”

”That… was changed this morning.”

”Oh? Even before they take out the stitches and staples?”

”That’s in a few hours.”

Sybil pauses, then shrugs and laughs.

”Well, I can only keep track of so much! At the very least you’ll have something to occupy you, won’t you? You won’t have idle hands? The devil playthings and whatever,” she says with a grin… before it disappears and she pats his hand. ”I mean it. Leave this to me.”

”I heard you the first time.”

An attempt at disarming humor had fallen far short. Rather than exacerbating things, Sybil nods gently and takes her leave. Gnawing her lip in a worrisome way, she closes the door behind her. The click of the passage shutting takes the scene to black, whereupon it opens back up to Nathaniel in his 2021 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 392, exactly eight days later. Once he has his phone settled into the dash mount and centered on himself, he takes a moment to stare into the small-yet-powerful lens.

An empty-eyed stare. This is not the same Winter Wraith from before Annihilation. Perhaps it was suffering his first defeat in such a lauded main event? Maybe it was the litany of wounds and injuries visited upon him by Damian Ayla? Could still have been the fact that his girlfriend is missing, by her own hand, no less. Or all three. Nathaniel, despite gearing up to address his first match back since the pay-per-view, seems as though he would be less than keen to invite us into his head and heart for a taste of the truth.

Not in this mood. And not while staring down a potentially brutal match with La Andalucera.

”Damian Ayla.”

His voice is strained, as though every syllable hurts.

”You made a believer out of me at Annihilation. In the same moment, you ensured that you and I are far from done,” he continues, sighing as he places leather-gloved hands upon the steering wheel, his eyes downcast a bit. ”You may take that as you will. I intend to explain my reasons why at Victory, to your face, as befits warriors.”

Leaving it at that, Nathaniel takes a moment to start the vehicle, reaching out to shut off the radio and turn on the heat. Giving the Jeep a few moments to warm up, having not driven it for almost a week, the Winter Wraith has a few more moments to ruminate.

”Being a person who prides themselves on honesty, permit me to be blunt,” he continues. ”Every move, every step… hell, every breath that I take right now is pain. It has been since Annihilation. Let the people who think far too highly of themselves put on their facades of being hale and hearty after having their flesh torn apart and blood soak their bodies if they are so inclined. They are, as I have noted them to be in the past, no more than animals with delusions of grandeur. What does that make me, then? An animal who accepts what he is. To be false to the fans, the locker room, the office… or even my opponent? Would be the same as lying to myself. I’ll leave the lies to the cowards,” Nathaniel continues. in a firmer, more determined tone. He stares again at the camera. ”I am many things, not all of them good or worth lauding. But I am not a coward… nor am I someone who accepts their lot meekly.”

With one hand on the wheel, Nathaniel puts the vehicle into gear and pulls away from his wilderness home, down the well-trod, gravel-and-dirt path toward town… the civilization he is often loath to enter. He obviously cannot keep his eyes on the camera, but we can clearly watch and listen…

”The truth is that since Annihilation, I have been moving like a man four times my age. While men like Lewis Chad Pinkston and Allen Cheney both wow and entertain with their own special mix of shenanigans and violence,” he pauses, for a moment, to smile a little. Perhaps he, too, is enjoying their interludes? ”And people, for no reason I could possibly fathom, try to paint Zoey Madigan-Star as some kind of vicious, heartless assassin,” he is shaking his head as he says this, looking sad, ”I have been inactive, practically sedentary, frustrated beyond words at my inability to immediately return to the hunt. For only the past week have I even been able to train properly beyond the basest of isometrics when I’m not being watched like a hawk. Do you know what that is like, to take a person who thrives on activity and being vital and reduce them to a near invalid state? The madness that swirls in their heads, brought on by feeling useless and effective? If you do, if you have been there, know that I truly empathize with you now. And if you are the kind to make light of such a situation and find perverse humor in it?”

Retrieving a thermal mug from the console, Nathaniel is quiet long enough to take a considerable amount from it before replacing it, thumbing a stray drop from his lips before glancing at the camera.

”There will be no sympathy for you when your turn comes.”

Turning his head slightly, bringing a loud pop from his neck and a slight wince to his face, Nathaniel exhales and continues.

”As for you, La Andalucera, I have a very simple question… one that I hope you can answer because your attitude and motivations are fairly mind-boggling,” he says quietly, a reference no doubt to the woman’s tweets of late. ”You were at Annihilation. You witnessed the battle between Damian Ayla and myself. Yes, woman,” he snaps irritably, as though he is already imagining her fingers or lips moving to interrupt, ”I am asking again because I truly believe you are too willfully ignorant to even understand the thrust of your own words and actions.”

Harsh…

”Some may have trouble believing it, but Damian and I? There’s no hate between us. Strife, professional rivalry, a dash of salt… all of that, yes. But nothing so strong as hate. He had something that I came to desire and he was unhappy with my words toward his lady coupled with a firm determination to keep his prize. But… no hate. Not even true anger, for that matter…”

A bright light shines for a split-second, leading to a short montage of some painful-looking shots from where Nathaniel received over thirty stitches in his arm across multiple wounds, a dozen staples in his head, and had foreign objects plucked from his body. He looked like the end result of a four-on-one back-alley war… or worse. A final flash emits and we are back to the present moment.

”...yet that is what he did to me. And I gave almost as good as I got. Is this sinking in yet? You hold yourself up like some kind of paragon of the broken and the buckled, and in your next breath chant at me about death paying for death as though I have wronged you. You poke and you prod, trying to bait me… to rile me. And for what? Do you not realize how counterproductive that is? Let me spell it out for you, then. No waxing philosophical, no references to the truth of the natural world… just one warrior to… whatever the hell you are.”

Nathaniel is clearly out of patience, the mere thought of his opponent’s sniping over social media drawing more than a touch of righteous ire… enough that he stops the Jeep with a grinding screech to make SURE he can lock on to the camera as though it were Andalucera’s face.

”At Victory II, you lost to Holly Rhodes and, at Victory III, to Betsy Granger. At Annihilation, you lost willfully to Tara Ayla despite clearly having the opportunity to take the win. Then at Victory V, you defeated Holly Rhodes on your second try. But, somehow, I should be wary of you. Cautious. I should be giving you a wide berth and moving as if my life is in danger because I’m entering a ring where you will be waiting for me. Is that accurate?”

There is nothing but disgust on Nathaniel’s face, a far cry from his usual calm.

”It took the most dangerous and dominant wrestler in Pro Wrestling Excellence to beat me, the undefeated Excellence Champion Damian Ayla, and he had to dig out guts from beneath guts to get that victory. Coated in my own life’s blood, torn open seven ways from Sunday and barely able to move, much less think, I pushed him beyond his limits and perhaps insulted him by refusing to tap the mat or voice words of submission,” he says in a low, measured tone, enunciating every word fully so that there is NO confusion about his meaning. ”You have ONE win on your record here and it took you two tries to get it. But I should be afraid, prepared to ‘pay for death with death’ and all that. That’s what you’re trying to hammer into everyone’s heads,” he continues with clear derision. ”And so I ask... who the HELL do you think you are?!”

Finally pulling away from that spot in the middle of the wooded drive, Nathaniel, now almost laughing from the sheer cheek of his opponent, shakes his head and continues addressing her.

”You’re as threatening as a mongrel on the street, yapping if someone comes too close but in the same breath begging for scraps just to survive. Pride only lasts so long before it becomes a burden, Andalucera. That is a lesson I had to learn recently. One that you are about to have drilled into you by me at Victory,” he says with another chuckle. ”No one fears you, not even with your blatant attempts to sidle up to the Ayla Dynasty. I expect that when Tara takes her shot at Zoey’s Impulse Championship, you’ll be right there… barking louder than usual and nipping at the heels of the Sorceress Supreme to ‘help’ give Tara her sought-after prize in the hopes that she’ll toss you the proverbial bone for your loyalty. But would she, if she knew that you were just using her talent and notoriety to advance your own agenda?”

Coming to the main road now, slowing to a stop before the sign, Nathaniel can’t help himself… he laughs again, heartily. It hurts him to do it, but… he just can’t stop for a moment or two. Eventually he does, and returns his gaze to the camera.

”I will bear no fear for a cur who does not possess the inner strength to fight for their own opportunities. I will show no respect to a false prophet who is satisfied with being a follower rather than bettering themselves and blazing their own trail. You are no paragon, Andalucera, and you’re certainly no warrior. All you are, to me,” he starts, needing only a second to turn that smile to a snarl, that familiar look that Nathaniel gets when he has his opponent’s scent, ”is prey.”

A snort of irritation or derision. Perhaps both.

”In fact, you aren’t worth mounting. You’re no prize, barely even worth chewing. I’m just going to rip you apart and leave you lying in the middle of that ring,” he snaps with conviction. “Yes, with an arm that still looks like raw hamburger fresh from the grinder, a constant headache from metal being jammed into my flesh to hold it together and the motor skills of a crash dummy after a 90mph collision. With all that, I am STILL going to put you down like the dog that you are. Tara can have whatever’s left of you… though if I were her, I’d step over you and not give you a second thought.”

Flipping on the turn signal, Nathaniel reaches for the phone, but pauses before ending the recording.

”So I dare you, Andalucera: Make me angry. Push me to a point where I no longer care enough to control myself in that ring. For the first time since I began wrestling, make me go into a match with rage in my broken heart. You’re already going to lose to me, battered and broken as I am, and you clearly love doing things the hard way. So take that last step. For the first time in your career, be that paragon you claim to be… become the example of what happens when the Winter Wraith lets his fury burn white-hot.

For once in your time here in Pro Wrestling Excellence? Actually do something worth being proud of.”

From there, Nathaniel shuts off the camera.

Mere moments for us, but much longer for the Winter Wraith, we see Sybil Halter stepping off a bus at the modest station on the outskirts of Montreal. She is bundled up even more so now than when she left eight days ago. Bag over her shoulder again, looking a mite heavier than prior to her departure, the young lady looks around for her ride. Yet it is not until the bus pulls away that she sees Nathaniel standing next to the running Jeep, awaiting her. She smiles, albeit faintly. Almost as if something is weighing on her mind.

Nathaniel opens the door for her to get in, taking her bag and putting it in the back seat. Climbing in himself as Sybil gratefully tugs off her gloves and holds her pale hands before the heating vents with a sigh of relief, Nathaniel pauses. He wants to ask her already, his patience gone, but… the young woman deserves some time to get her bearings and relax. So he puts the Jeep in gear and backs up, pulling out of the lot and toward home and the dinner promised her.

”I know what you want to ask,” she starts, speaking carefully. ”There’s good news and there’s bad news.”

”We… can talk about it later. First, let’s get you back to the house. Dinner is waiting.”

That’s enough to spark a smile on Sybil, who buckles her seat belt.

”Wonderful!”

The scene pauses, glows brightly, then fades. It goes back to another time and place, many months before, in fact. To the set of Afterlife as the first episodes of Season Two are being put together. Nathaniel, as Miles Wright, is making his way over to the catering table after finishing up his scene. Unlike the man we know in the here and now, his boyish smile and disarming eyes are on full display. He walks up to a ferociously beautiful redhead in a stylish blue hoodie and grey leggings, standing by the table as well while cradling a cup of coffee in both hands.

Nathaniel sees her and changes his trajectory. The woman smiles in response, setting the cup down and willingly stepping into Nathaniel’s arms. He embraces her, even picking her up and spinning her, prompting a sweet laugh, before setting her down again.

”You make me blush!”

”And you make me grin like a little kid! Equivalent exchange!”

Smirking, Melissa leans up to kiss Nathaniel on the lips, not caring one whit about who might be watching. And they do have a watcher or two who likewise smile at the sweetness exuded by the young, new couple.

”I’m just here for the coffee and to watch you work.”

”Well, I’m happy to have you. Are you still up for dinner afterward?”

”Mm-hmm.”

That makes his grin a little bit wider.

”A dream come true-”

At that point, one of the production assistants comes up and whispers in Nate’s ear. He nods and speaks back quietly before turning to Mel with a smile and a soulful shrug.

”Looks like they have one more scene for me before the weather turns. I’ll see you in a bit.”

”You had better!”

Laughing, Nathaniel walks off with the assistant, Melissa making no mistake of watching him go with an admiring eye. He catches her looking over his shoulder and their eyes meet for a moment.

Then it’s back to the present… the painful, aching present. Sybil is staring at Nathaniel as he blankly drives down the road, luckily not swerving into something thanks to that little flashback. She wants to say something, but doesn’t have the words. Instead, she gives the hand that rests on the console between them a gentle pat. Nathaniel doesn’t turn, but he blinks. Quite a bit actually. Like he’s trying to hold something back.

The road stretches out before them. Fade to black.