Erik Reigns [vs] Neon Exodus

I summon Exodus the Forbidden Neon to the ring.

Yeah, that was a yugioh reference. What now?

“This is my gift…”

Truthfully, the exterior of the building left a lot to be desired. The house wasn’t decrepit, it wasn’t falling down—but the signs of neglect were evident. The yard wasn’t well maintained, and the pebble-strewn path had been compromised by the presence of weeds that any amateur gardener would have removed long ago. The off-white paint was chipping and peeling, in desperate need of a recoat, and the rusty, ochre colored trim on the shutters and edging on the roof were faded, weathered by an uncertain number of days spent under the assault of the hot, D.C. sun. An annoyance to the neighbors and an eyesore for an otherwise well maintained and kept neighborhood, it may have been a surprise to have been featured on IWF television, a strange change of pace and a stark contrast from the well built, maintained and luxurious homes and dwellings of many members of the IWF Roster. This dwelling wouldn’t house the trophy room of Griffin Hawkins or the numerous accolades and awards given to a man like Chuck Matthews, Alexander Remington or even The Devil You Don’t, Corey Casey. The house was certainly a bizarre oddity for the company’s fanbase.

But the car in the driveway most certainly was not.

The glossy black 1969 Oldsmobile sat diagonally in the driveway, the monstrous power plant underneath the hood dormant for the time being. As it was, as it had been in nearly every video clip or appearance it had made on IWF television, it was in pristine condition: Not a speck of dirt, road grime or dirt and mud was detectable against that oh so telling black surface.

“A hero exists only to fail, to fall short, and to remind us all that in the end, everything succumbs to evil, and evil cannot be overcome.”

The words of the Nightmare hit the viewer’s ears. Far away, almost, and echoing as the camera approached the front door to the structure, to the neglected home. A single, rectangular window stood just above dead center in the door; the lightly stained wood veneer peeling, cracking—again, a victim of D.C.’s harsh, arid climate.

The door slowly opened and the hinges groaned in protest, the squeaks a telltale sign that attention had drifted elsewhere, and that the yard wasn’t the only thing that’d been neglected at this particular property. The wooden floors were resplendent at one time, but like the rest of the property had fallen into ill repair.

“Sometimes it’s the little things in life…”

From the kitchen area steps the Nightmare himself, Erik Reigns. Either ignoring or unaware of the presence of the cameraman the videographer isn’t acknowledged by the former Special Ops solider. Wearing dark blue denim jeans, meticulously pressed and creased—as they always are—and a thick, black leather belt cinched in around his waist. A black tank top is tucked into the denim, and the rest of his body left bare. Scars dot his biceps and forearms and of course, that jagged, nasty scar encircling his throat; a parting gift from his past.

He steps closer toward the camera and pauses, reaching for a black, button down shirt draped over a chair nearby. The chair is pushed against a table, decorated with a lamp, a table cloth and a few pictures, but what is most intriguing is one small photograph tucked in a frame on the end. A professionally made photograph that features the Nightmare himself, but gone is the man that the IWF fanbase and locker room has come to know, and the brooding, stern visage is replaced by a happier man. The scowl is gone in this picture; replaced by a bright and genuinely happy smile. Erik Reigns, dressed in a dark green button down with a striped, matching tie is seated on a white carpeted ‘box’ for lack of a better term, has two children in his arms: A little girl with pigtails, her hair dark like the Nightmare himself and wearing a blue dress, and a little boy, wearing a dark green button down shirt and dressy blue jeans. Behind him leans a woman, her arms draping across his shoulders and affectionately resting her cheek against his, dressed in blue, just like the little girl. The warmth resonates from that photograph, a beacon of positivity in an otherwise bleak and altogether lifeless, neglected environment.

The button down is wrapped around Erik Reigns’s shoulders, but left unbuttoned even as he crosses past the camera and that table, sliding his arms through the sleeves and continuing down the hall and stopped at a door on his left hand side. Opening it slowly, Erik Reigns stepped into the darkness, with that cameraman following close behind.

The ‘click’ of the heavy light switch being flipped was replaced by the dull hum of fluorescent lighting as the overhead lights flickered on, powerful fluorescent bulbs illuminated the interior of this windowless room with that hyper-white, artificial light, and as the viewing public would quickly find out, this was no ordinary room.

Hundreds of photos lined the wall, right alongside magazine articles, newspaper clippings and printed pages from the internet, most likely, and all of them were of Neon Exodus. Promotions and publicity work-ups for charity events and appearances, autograph signings, interviews in magazine articles—and many, many glossy monochrome 8x10s of Neon in various stages of some of his most famous maneuvers. The Time Warp, the Dry Luck, and many different angles of the many moves Neon uses, and in varied stages of its execution; red text from a marker, in a sharp, cursive script dot many of the photographs, with lines drawn to points of interest—positioning of opponents or Neon himself, for example—and red circles along with that text; notes made to the viewer.

Technical analysis.

And what was most prominent? A large photograph, enhanced and enlarged, of Neon attempting the Dry Luck on a larger opponent, with the opponent hoisted onto his shoulders, and then, in a photo of similar size next to it, the opponent countering out of the Dry Luck. Above that photo were the words “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” scrawled in jagged print, the red ink slapped across the glossy photo by an agitated hand.

“I am here to tell you, Neon , this would be the biggest challenge of your career. I know you think I am lying, I know you think that you can beat me and maybe, deep down inside, you think that my reputation was just a bit undeserved.”

Erik Reigns never turns or even moves his head away from the ‘study’, the walls in this windowless room blanketed, covered by all things Neon Exodus, but he speaks as if Neon were there in that same room. His tone is…intimate, but gentle, as gentle as he can manage through that hoarse, raspy baritone.

“But you and I, Neon , we’re going to dance at Battle Grounds and I’m interested in finding out just what you think when the match is over and done. Is it still an undeserved reputation?”

“Or am I everything I’ve ever said I was, and then some?”

Erik Reigns’s smile is faint, a slight twinge on his lips—a stark contrast, the antithesis even of the man who was in that photograph moments ago.

“You may hide the fact that you have been all too unwilling in all of this to acknowledge the severity of your situation. When I stand in the ring with you, at Battle Grounds, and before you even get there and air your little counter promo against me, you will freely ‘give your soul to the lord". And that? That will show me that you did understand my reputation, and that you are aware of how I obtained it and kept it throughout the years, from the military to muy indy days to now. I don’t doubt that you'll do your homework Neon . Youtube, Google—whatever you could find to do your research, you will do it. You will use so much resource material as you could find and you form your opinion. You will conclude that yes, I am everything these people have said I am. Chuck, JC Styles, UnCanny—anyone who was there to bear witness to what I have done, you will consult them.”

“And then…then you will step across from me in that ring, and then you will get a taste of what I’m all about. You will be given a personal, intimate look into what the Nightmare is, Neon . You will be given insight into the intricacy, the complexity, and multi-faceted terror that is part of my genetic makeup. It’s part of me, of who I am, and when you have looked into that, are you sure you’ll beready, you’ll be prepared to step into the ring across from me?”

“I will tell you last week I made JC Styles a broken and vulnerable man, and Battle Grounds it is going to be a trial by fire for you.”

Erik Reigns turns, lifting a stack of photographs up into his hand. Looking them over, he tosses them down one by one. The first photograph is of Neon lifting John Tolly into the Dry Luck. With John Tolly draped between his legs, Erik Reigns whips the black and white picture away to the desk. The next in line is Tolly being folded like a lawn chair after the Dry Luck. Discarded again, the third photo is Neon Exodus hitting the Time Warp. Tossed again to the side, Erik Reigns scowls as he looks into the camera.

“Disappointed. That’s what I am when I see things like this. That’s why I decided to pick you first, Neon . You are one of the brightest and best young stars. You are one of the most talked about. You are also part of chaos, a member of the asylum, and one furthuring his legacy. The man who 'created the chaos’, and that unstable, uncontrollable chaos is going to be snuffed out by me.”

“I could go on and lay out what I will do again, but why rehash that? You know what I’ve said and what I’ve told everyone. You’re a bright young mind, you’re a prodigy and the future of our business, and this company. But your time isn’t now. Why?”

“Because I’m not willing to surrender my control to somebody untested. I couldn’t give a shit less about men like Griffin Hawkins or JC Styles, Alexander Remington or Eric Steel. They are not a challenge to me or aren’t worth my time. No, my focus for this week will be you, Neon , and you alone. As you can see, I’ve been keeping track. I’ve been focused on you. I’ve been watching, as I always do. Some men keep files on their opponents, apparently, but it doesn’t do them any good. I analyze. I plan.”

“And then I destroy.”

There is the faint hint of that smirk once again and Erik Reigns tosses the stack of photos from one side of the desk onto another. The cherry finish on the wood is worn and peeling. Tilting his neck from side to side slowly, he continues to speak, but his eyes are drawn to a publicity photo of Neon. Smiling, in a black and white still. That sardonic smirk forms once again, and disdainfully, Erik Reigns pulls that picture from the wall. Cradling it in his hands, he stares at it while addressing Mister Neon.

“And you’ve made it so easy for me, Neon . You will learn that legends are made from vulnerable men, and you are at your weakest point. The heart doesn’t make people strong, Neon . Emotions won’t do anything for you but weigh you down in a fight like this. That attachment you have to people—your ‘inspiration’—is like the Albatross around your neck. Weighing you down. A curse, a detriment, and after Battle Grounds it will be a constant reminder of your failure, of your inability to rise to meet your greatest challenge to date. I’ve taken that heart, that emotion. I’ve squeezed it in my fist, and I’ve watched many squirm over it. The anger, the…the ‘murder’ in your eyes in your matches are priceless. You shattered the opponent, like a coveted nine iron over the back of a ’69 or ’70 model Oldsmobile. It's nice symbolism—I like and value that. But while you might have impressed the Plebeians like Corey Casey, like Jaxx Ryder and Gordon Fury, it told me all that I needed to know. It confirms what I already suspected: I’ve beaten you already.”

“Mentally, I’ve conquered you, Exodus. I found your Achilles Heel, and it’s just what I thought it would be. All men like you, Neon , possess the same weakness. Your heart, your drive, your desperate search for approval from men like Matthews and his sister, your inspiration, only make you a victim in the end. They make you vulnerable, and a man like me will sink his teeth into that and never let go.”

“Just so you know, though. I keep track of your movements. Week in and week out, how you've pushed yourself, how you've tested yourself, how you've prepared your mind, just to see how far it could be pushed by you. Like a science experiment, and you’ve yet to disappoint. Week in and week out I’ve been able to say ‘got him again’, but now that’s drawing to a close. I got you Tuesday night on Battle Grounds when I live up to my nickname and keep my promise: I will oblierate you, Neon Exodus. You thought process has you thinking differently, don’t it? You are worried, you are concerned that I’ll break you into pieces and grind your bones to dust, ending your miserable little ride you call a career. That maybe, I am more then what you expect.”

“Well, first, that’s true about me—that’s what separates me from your usual opponents, Neon . I’m better than that. And second, I keep my word, I keep my promise: I WILL hurt you.”

“But, on the other hand…”

There again was that slight smirk. Cold, cruel and sardonic.

“…well, I better not speak of what might come, or should I?”

“But despite your unorthodox style, I have one-upped you before the bell has rung. I have scouted you out, something you thought I wouldn’t do. You’ll come to find out Neon that I’m a man who honors his agreements and upholds the promises that he makes. I wouldn’t be a man of such…esteemed integrity if I didn’t and such upstanding moral fiber.”

“And I am, Neon Exodus. My word is my bond, and as I’ve promised you, you’ll get the full scope of what I’m capable of at Battle Grounds. No holding back. No mercy, No forgiveness. No rest, no unbridled freedom or unrestrained brutality are in store for you. Bring your Dry Luck. Bring your ‘Time Warp’—nice touch, by the way—and be prepared to use it.”

“An education is my final gift to you, Neon Exodus. An education in brutality, in pain, and in suffering.”

“You’re in my environment. This is where I’ve made my name, this is where I’ve forged my Legacy of Brutality, Neon. In causing pain, I’ve become something of an artist. Where Picasso used oils and Michelangelo worked in marble, I create my masterpieces with my hands, and the agony of brutalized opponents. When we come to Miami, I don’t want to mold you in my image. I don’t want to twist your mind, and I don’t want to turn you into me. No Neon —this isn’t about that all. This isn’t about turning you into my protégé; I’ve already got one of those. Oh no. This is so much more than that. I don’t want to twist your mind; I want to break it. I want to shatter it, bend it, warp it. I want every second that you’re in the ring with me to feel like an eternity. I want the freedom of that arena to confine you. I want the freedom of this match to subjugate you. And I want to scar you with the kind of pain and brutality that only I am able to bring. I want you to feel what it’s like to be powerless. To know that no matter what you do, in the end, it is inconsequential.”

“I want to smooth away those blemishes you have. I want to temper that confidence and ego of yours with my creativity and my propensity for violence. I want you to get the full effect of what exactly The Nightmare truly is. I want you to see why so many are afraid of the night, and scared to walk those hallways alone.”

“I want to turn you, Neon Exodus, into my greatest accomplishment.”

With that, Erik Reigns smiles faintly and tilts his head skyward. He looks up into those lights above them for a moment and blinks once, then twice, before finally turning his head to the camera. He looks into that lens for a moment, unblinking, unyielding, before he passes by without so much as another passing glance or giving the impression of acknowledgement. He steps out of the room and grasps the door handle. Before closing that door however, he reaches over and flips the light switch, plunging the room into darkness; the only light spilling in from the hallway, from other light sources in that house.

“This is my curse…”

The door closes slowly, finally, and as it does so it plunges the world back into darkness. The feed ends, the darkness replaced for a few seconds by the Battle Grounds logo before fading once more, finally, to black.

(Ooc: I'm doing everything from my phone now for a while so please bare with me lol