Post by Jon Moxley / The Wyatt Family on May 23, 2017 23:48:39 GMT -5
Deep in the swampy woods, a massive white banner had been raised between the trees. The followers of Abigail watched in brainwashed awe as Bray Wyatt dipped his finger in a tin bucket, covering his finger in a thick black liquid. He began drawing on the banner, the black pigment staining the white fabric easily. He marked ancient runes upon it, some intricate and some simple. But all were powerful.
Luke Harper stood to the side, staring at the banner as Bray marked it. Luke was like stone. Unchanging. His wide eyes barely moved, rarely did he blink. The broken man had no choice but to watch as his young mentor brought yet more evil upon the planet.
Missing from the gathering, however, was one Troy Motor.
That man in question was sitting in the barn, head hung low; his arms, legs and torso were strapped into the ancient wooden chair. This was his throne; it was made of wood and wire, and because of it, he felt as though his body was on fire. Each deep breath was a battle. Troy recalled the savage beating he received. A moment of confusion (clarity?) on RAW when they were face to face with (former family former family former family SHUT THE FUCK UP THEY ARE TRAITORS) Joey and Triana warranted restructuring. Troy could hear Bray preaching to his disciples; the Words of Abigail flowed out like a snake slithering in the grass (now the serpent was more subtil than any oth- QUIET)
Troy heard the crunching of twigs and leaves as someone approached the barn. (struggle struggle struggle escape BE QUIET I DESERVE THIS PAIN FOR ABIGAIL FOR ABIGAIL FOR ABIGAIL)
The sliding door creaked as someone pushed it; the sunlight was slowly disappearing. Troy tried to scream, but all that came out was a blood choked groan, a horrible ruined sound as he was bathed in darkness in a dirty old barn.
****
The smoky sepia toned room is occupied, as usual, by Bray. He rocks in his old rocking chair, the wooden joints creaking with every movement.
"I remember you, Triana."
Bray is looking downwards, hand clutching the arms of the chair.
"I remember you raising a young Bray Wyatt. I remember you teaching him the gospel that had been taught to you by the spirits of old. I vividly recall the softness of your voice; the kindness in your eyes. It's all there, Triana. She is with you, your strength strengthening her spirit. Do not lie and say you can't feel her presence everywhere you go, Triana. Don't lie and say my words don't affect you to your core."
Bray looks up at the camera. Faintly, thunder can be heard.
"Speak to me, Abigail. Please let me know this is a fruitful endeavor. I miss you, Abigail. Please."
Static overtakes the screen for a moment, and suddenly Troy and Luke are standing next to Bray.
Troy has a black eye, and his left arm has a long cut going down it, the rough sewing of his flesh only just visible.
****
Profundum: noun; a depth, abyss; a chasm.
It's raining in the woods tonight.
Troy is staring vacantly at the roof of his shed-like home; occasionally the tiny room will light up with a bright flash as lightning erupts in the sky, thunder growling high in the sky. Troy is uncomfortable in his bed, but sleep isn't coming easy for him, and he knows the rules; no roaming the compound at night. Another flash of lightning, an image of Joey standing across from Troy crashing around his head.
A dull ache begins forming in the center of his head.
Another flash of lightning.
Troy remembers the Hell in a Cell. He remembers looking around at the crowd as he stood on top.
Another flash of lightning.
Troy sits up, breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating; his eyes are wild, staring around his dark room.
"Where am I?" He says quietly to himself.
He remembers a wooden chair, he remembers the numb agony of electricity flowing through his body-
Then nothing.
Troy wakes up, feeling different, looking different, with no memory of why.
His head turns rapidly, staring around his room; a blood red sheep mask hangs on a hook that's nailed to the bare wooden wall. The sight fills Troy with dread.
He can feel something knocking around in his skull, his can feel his consciousness fading in and out, as something fights to take over.
Almost of instinct, he brings his right fist up, smashing it hard into his jaw. The pain feels like a bucket of ice water. Now he's focused.
Escape. Escape. Escape. Escape.
Troy opens the loose door to the room, stepping out into a dark forested area; the rain pelts him, his body growing colder with each gust of wind. He begins running, no particular direction, just going. He can feel a mist in his mind clearing ever so slightly. He's going in the right direction, his mind tells him. Escape is onwards.
Troy comes upon an encampment of fifteen to twenty or so makeshift tent-like structures; he can feel that there is life within these tents, so he carefully walks around the perimeter, trying to be both fast and quiet simultaneously.
After he passed through the area, he came to a clearing, lightning flashing, revealing his savior.
A massive Hummer like vehicle, outfitted with flood lights and metal structures that appeared to be intended as battering rams; along the sides, weapons were tied; Troy sighted old shotguns, axes, and other deadly weapons. Troy took one last look around, before running around to the driver's side door; with relief, he realized it was unlocked, and he could see the keys on the dashboard. Freedom.
Another flash of lightning.
Troy felt a presence behind him.
He heard the pull of the ripcord, the deep growl of the engine as it began sputtering. Troy whipped around, another crash of lightning revealing the hulking giant Luke Harper, a chainsaw in his hands.
Troy's eyes widened, his fight or flight response kicking in. Harper revved up the chainsaw, and Troy grabbed at the axe strapped to the side of the vehicle; to his horror, it wouldn't budge. Fear began pooling in his stomach, heavier than lead. He could hear Harper approaching quick, the sharp teeth of the chainsaw impatiently growling for flesh.
The axe came loose, Troy swinging around quickly; the cutting edge of the axe head cut on the blade of the saw, the teeth stopping their spin, sparks showering them both as metal met metal. Harper pressed forward, his eyes alight with pure rage. Troy could feel the power of Luke; he wouldn't last if Harper pressed forward further.
Troy sidestepped, Harper stumbling forward, the blade cutting into the side of the truck. Troy felt a burst of adrenaline; his legs propelled him forwards.
The rain had soaked him completely; he realized vaguely that stones and sharp twigs were stabbing his bare feet, but he paid it no mind, the pain possibly even serving to focus him further.
He ran past the encampment, taking a right instead of going straight through to his cabin.
Troy ran harder than he possibly ever had before, the sound of the chainsaw fading behind him.
To his horror, he came upon a massive old house, a rickety looking old house with rotting wood, a barn with peeling red paint attached to it.
Something caused Troy to stop, to stare.
In one of the windows high up on the house, he could see a woman. Pale, ghostly pale, her hair just the same. Her hand was pressed against the window, and she was yelling; he could see the exertion, but he could hear no words. He could only stare, it was like his eyes were glued to her.
Troy felt the approach behind him, and only just moved out of the way.
The chainsaw sliced down where his head was; the saw swiped downwards, the target missing, and lodged into the dirt, cutting deep.
Acting quick, Troy brought the axe down. Harper managed to get his hands out of the way just as the axe crashed into the saw, gasoline spraying upwards in a temporary fountain, gushing against the downpour of rain.
Troy looked up, vision overtaken by Harper's fist.
He saw a flash of white, and he already knew his right eye was starting to swell up.
With only one open eye, pain coursing through his face, Troy couldn't defend from the second punch, right in his gut; he doubled over, spit gushing from his mouth. Harper grabbed ahold of his jaw and lifted him up. Troy looked into the eyes of the Rage of Abigail. Harper slapped his hard.
Troy stumbled to the side, grunting. Every inch of him seemed to hurt; it was like pain he hadn't felt was creeping back up from his missing days. His knee was in agony- what had he done to his knee?
Harper grabbed Troy's hair, lifting him up, and bringing his own skull down; Troy felt the flesh on his forehead split open, warm blood already gushing. The soft forehead skin of a pro wrestler. He cursed his career choice.
Troy could feel anger boiling in his blood, and he reeled back, punching Harper straight in the face. Harper wasn't expecting it, his nose crunching and blood spraying out. He stumbled backwards. Troy snarled, his left hand wrapping around Harper's throat; he brought his fist forwards once, twice, three times; he reeled back mightily, and cracked Harper straight to the jaw. Harper's head snapped to the right, and his legs gave out. Knocked out, Harper crumpled to the ground.
A mix of blood and rain got into Troy's good eye. He rubbed it out, thanking whatever god there is that he successfully took down Harper. With one last look at the (now empty) window of the cabin, Troy ran back towards his salvation.
He could feel the pain already, as the haze of adrenaline faded. His right eye was already swollen shut; blood still leaked from the cut on his forehead.
He felt relief when he came to the massive Hummer. He jumped in quick, shoving the keys in the ignition and turning them.
Nothing.
"Come on..." Troy moaned weakly, turning the keys again.
Nothing.
"Damn it..." He tried one more time.
Nothing.
"DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!" He screamed, throat raw, hitting the wheel over and over.
Suddenly, the vehicle started with a deep rumble.
Troy sighed in relief, praising whoever was looking out for him as he began driving, the wheels hitting old cracked pavement. Troy was breathing heavily, relief washing over him, along with the pain.
He could see a light in the distance.
He pressed his aching foot against the gas pedal, accelerating smoothly towards the light.
He realized too late.
He doesn't know what it is or who it is; he knows it's someone holding a lantern aloft.
Out of instinct, Troy swerved, the heavy car tipping off of the road. He hit his head off of something, be it the window or the roof, but he lost consciousness quickly. His last thoughts were panicked and multilayered, but filtered down to simply this: "This is it. This is how I die."
The vehicle came to a stop upside down, the windows busted, wheels still spinning.
Maybe hours, maybe minutes, maybe seconds later, figures begin approaching the upturned vehicle. They all wore some variation of that mask that infected Troy's dreams. The damned sheep.
The two at the lead crouched down, grabbing inside the dark vehicle; they lifted Troy's limp bloodied body out of the vehicle.
The massive gathering collectively is humming softly, as the ones closest lift Troy high above their heads, and begin moving him back, like a crowd surf, but different, more ritualistic, ancient.
As they pass him forwards, the group begins moving, walking towards the compound.
Their leader holds a lantern high, his face mournful. Bray began singing to the melody of the humming, his voice soft but very much audible amongst the noise.
"He's got the whole world in his hands...
He's got the whole world in his hands...
He's got the whole wide world in his hands..."
They move forward, the rain stopping as the bring Troy back home.
****
"Troy. Speak."
Troy looks up at the camera, a grimace slowly forming on his face.
"Joey..."
Troy speaks the word slowly, his voice grinding, rough, raw.
"You wish for forgiveness for your sins. I wished for the same, for the years of mistakes to be wiped away. I am still a work in progress. You haven't even had the work begin. You uselessly protect the one you claimed to love, the one you used. You may see her as your love, your salvation.
We see her vessel as our property."
Troy steps forward, towards the camera, intensity radiating from him, intensity unseen in his tenure under Bray Wyatt.
"Think of the battles we have been through, Joey. Remember the Extreme cage match? We baptized each other in the other's blood. Though we didn't know it, we formed a bond through our shared plasma. For so long I was distrustful of you. For so long I could almost feel your knife in my damn back. But it was only recently I realized, that night, we formed a bond stronger than iron. Do you forget that it was me and you who formed the New Age? Looking back on it now, I still labored under misguided delusions of ethics and the machine. But even now, I can see the truth.
We are blood brothers, Joey."
Gone is the misty, emotionless facial expression. Troy looks like an actual, emoting human now.
"And Triana. You are the strongest woman I know. Of course Abigail would reincarnate within you. Your beauty, your intelligence, your raw strength. And yet, you fight the pull in your heart. You allow misguided love for Joey to guide you away from the light."
Bray is looking at Troy with a smile on his face, a look of pure pride.
"We only wanted you Triana. But it is my realization that has made us understand. You and Joey can come into the light together. Not as lovers, not even as friends. Come to the light as two beautifully broken souls, one inhabited by the spirit of the teacher of truth herself. Joey, my brother. Our bond will snap back stronger than ever. Come to us."
Troy steps back, turning his head down to look at Bray, who smiles, lifting up his lantern.
"If you need help finding us, all you have to do is... Follow the Buzzards!"
Bray laughs and blows out the flame in the lantern.
Darkness.
