The scene opens out shortly after Havoc has ceased airing. (Hans): Die zeit wartet auf niemanden… He takes a few seconds, reflecting, before the mood takes him and he clenches his fist, breath hissing through his teeth as he lets it out. He’d won. He’d beaten Maniac. Not how he’d have wanted, Miller coming to the ringside wasn’t on the cards but then neither was Matthew not being ringside… (Hans): Havoc living up to its name again, jah… A weary smile, as he drops the crumpled bottle into the waste bin sat next to one of the tables in the room. (Vanessa): Well, how’s it feel to be the winner my love? They come together for a kiss, Hans careful to keep her somewhat at a distance so she doesn’t get her top marked with his blood. (Vanessa): That little b*stard caught you good there… (Hans): Jah, didn’t see the first one coming for him hiding it, then couldn’t see the second one coming… as, well… couldn’t see much at all… He tries to make light of it as she fusses over him. (Vanessa): That’d better not scar. (Hans): It might if you start poking at it. It’s a clean cut… He takes a step back from her. (Hans): Nein. Don’t prod at it. (Vanessa): Oh please, it’s not you who needs to worry about drawing blood. That fall she had off the ramp? Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. She spies the aspirin bottle on the table, gesturing towards it. (Vanessa): If I’d known, I’d have hidden all the other bottles in the arena and bought up all the ones in the stores nearby. Hope she sees nothing but stars and bright lights for days. They pause, smiling at one another. (Vanessa): Are you ok though? (Hans): Jah mein schatz, I am. Nothing a few more of those tablets won’t fix along with an ice bath or two and a good rest. Are you ok? (Vanessa): Yes, I’m fine… there was that moment when… (Hans): … Jah, when she grabbed the chair… (Vanessa): … yeah, then Hell’s Guardian was there. (Hans): Mein gott, if he hadn’t been. (Vanessa): I know, you’d have been there in a flash. (Hans): Did you see Matthew? (Vanessa): I did my love, I saw him walking backstage, he told me what you’d said, he’s the sweetest. It’s ok. Besides, Jason was getting himself ready to give her the biggest back hander ever, I could see him fighting with his headset to get it off and get past me. (Hans): That man, he’s something else. (Vanessa): I know, he could barely focus once she’d been dealt with, kept trying to sort his hair as he’d messed it up. Spent more time rooting in my handbag for a mirror than calling the match. They share a chuckle at the thought. (Vanessa): Yes, you’re back and you’ve won babe, I’m so proud. This is perfect. They stand like this for a few moments, before Hans notices the time, 5 minutes less than he’d had. (Hans): Scheiße, I need to grab a shower, I can’t go back out like this. (Vanessa): Oh the announcements… She gives him the once over again. (Vanessa): No, you can’t… there’s already too many maniacs in this federation without you looking like one. (Hans): Can you pull the jeans and fresh top from the locker please, I hung them up. (Vanessa): Of course, on one condition. He turns round to face back at her, reaching for the towel draped over the back of one of the chairs. (Hans): Jah? (Vanessa): You leave that shower curtain open. An eyebrow raises in response from Hans, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards. (Vanessa): I’d say you’d need a hand getting clean, but I don’t have time to do my makeup all over… so… get to it… you’re wasting time… She smiles at him innocently, while he rolls his eyes as he turns back to walk into the shower. (Butch): When two men meet in the ring out of mutual respect, no agenda, no pomp and circumstance…it epitomizes that vision and reality. Exactly.
The camera pans around, we view Hans von Richtoven’s locker room backstage at the Simmons Bank Arena.
Sitting on one of the tables, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees is Hans, still attired in his ring gear, bloody and bruised. He’s massaging his neck, kneading it, relieving the tension as best he’s able to.
After a few seconds, he leans back against the wall, exhaling loudly.
The events of the evening have come home to roost at this point of the night and he is, to put it mildly, done.
It’s been a little over 7 and a half months since his last competitive bout, he’d missed that tension and nervousness in his step as he waits for his music to erupt from the speakers in the arena. That pacing about like a caged animal behind the curtain, psyching himself up out of sheer habit even though he was already amped and ready to go.
He’d missed that roar of the crowd feeding him energy.
He’d missed the challenge, both physical and mental.
He’d missed that raising of his arm by the referee in victory.
What he didn’t miss, was that persistent pulse of a headache, right behind the eyes. It’s not that he didn’t get them from time to time, but when he caused them, it was usually down to staring at a screen for too long or taking in too much information that he didn’t quite understand for hours on end and trying to make heads and tails of it.
In this case, two blows from a sap hidden in Maniac’s boot and then having the cut pounded open have had a delayed impact. The EMT had patched him, nothing a few disposable stitches wouldn’t sort out long term, but the sting was there still even if the blood had stopped flowing.
Running his hand through the stubble on his face, a small grimace forms, some of his blood had dried in. Lovely. The sooner he could shower the better.
First things first though, something for the headache.
Two aspirins and a bottle of water are found and quickly downed, Hans finding himself needing to root for the former in his duffel bag, the latter provided by the arena.
Scrunching the bottle up, Hans finds himself looking at his reflection in the mirror set up on one of the walls. He gives himself the once over, some bruising starting to form on his leg from where Maniac had targeted him early in the match. He’d find it difficult to walk later on once the adrenalin stopped flowing. The cut on his forehead, it’d stopped bleeding for now. One or two other bruises are forming…
He turns around, glancing over his shoulder, one right between his shoulderblades where he’d bumped up against the turnbuckle.
He’d had worse.
He’d also been younger when that’d happened.
Given what had gone down, Hans had last seen him when the pair of them had dragged Butch away and gotten him backstage. Seeing the state his friend was in, he’d relieved Matthew of any obligation for him to be ringside and left to get changed into his ring attire. He’d been completely ignorant of everything else that had happened in that time, only finding out once he’d gotten backstage post-match and even then, through hear-say and half-heard snippets from the crew and arena techs.
Anyway, he’d dissect the match later on once he had the time, not that he would feel sorry for the manner in which he won. Two cheapshots with a sap from Maniac would disabuse anyone of such thoughts after all.
Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he sees he’s got half an hour left; one of the tech’s letting him know that Butch was calling a conference and wanting all talent out in the ring as he was on the way back to his locker room.
Time for that shower.
At this point, the door to his lockerroom opens, his wife sticking her head in, checking it was just him, her face displaying the biggest grin possible, though even that is tempered as she fully takes in the impact the match has taken on him as she comes into the room fully.
She inspects him, turning his head one way then the other.
Staring happily up at her husband, Vanessa wraps her arms around him, uncaring of the blood and sweat on his torso, Hans not fighting it.
Glee in her voice, she carries on.
He takes a step back, pointing up to the clock.
The scene fades out briefly, fading back to the ring as the announcements for ‘The Art of War’ have been made and as the various roster members begin to filter out and up the ramp past the frenzy of reporters and camera crews.
Hans finds himself alongside Red Dragon, both walking in silence, comfortable in that but deep in their own thoughts.
Being given the guest referee spot was… unexpected. That the match was happening at Michelle’s request… good that she was facing things head on. He’d spend time with her back at the Academy, work on some more of what they’d been practicing the previous few weeks. Maybe bring in some things that weren’t what he’d normally teach, but would be good for taking to Erica in a fight… he’d been trying to teach her technical and submission moves.
Moves that would allow her to disregard her size difference or work it to her advantage. He’d not yet taught her moves that would hurt her opponent explicitly. There was a difference. Maybe it was time to change it up.
His eyes drift up towards Jeremy, talking with Sarah ahead of them.
This would be a good match.
Butch’s words ring out in his head.
He notices Red Dragon looking at him, having noticed his own glance up at Jeremy. They share a nod to one another, knowing what the other is thinking.
By this time, they’re at the top of the ramp, past the photographers and reporters as the scene fades slowly to black.
Message Thread
« Back to index