Amidst the chaos of Deathrow, the sound of classical music casts a contrasting backdrop. Harvey Escher sits, meticulously forming the diorama of a monstrous creature that sits within a battered room. All around the creature, furniture and various objects lay smashed and broken as if the beast had lain waste to the space.
Harvey smiles, adjusting his glasses as he looks upon his work.
“How does one slay a beast?”
With a small paintbrush, he begins flicking red paint across the beast’s room.
“The most obvious answer is by meeting the beast with brute force. To try and kill it with ones’ steely knives. But when knives don’t penetrate the thick hide of the beast, such archaic barbarism will only serve to anger the beast. And beasts, when they are angry… create messes.”
Splashes of red paint splatter across the diorama as he speaks.
“And we no longer have a Cleaner down here to tidy up our messes, do we?”
Maniacal laughter, fading to quiet focus. Classical music. Art.
“Trap the beast? Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”
He places chains around the limbs of the beast, the scene now turning from one of rampant destruction to that of a trapped animal fighting for survival.
“To truly trap a beast, one needs to ensure that it cannot break free of the trap. A strong enough trap to contain that beast. For if the beast springs free of the trap, things can… get messy.
One also needs to lure the beast into the trap. One must study the beast, know exactly the best way to isolate the beast. For a trap is only good if the beast takes the bait.”
Harvey places two figures into the diorama, a boy and a girl. He positions them in such a way to make them seem not like victims but as if the beast is protecting them, guarding them. Harvey then covers both of the small figures in more of the red paint.
“I trapped my own beast. Isolated by taking away everything the Beast holds dear. My beast finds itself trapped in solitary confinement, lured into isolation by the spilling of blood. Things… got messy, and the Beast didn’t like that. Solitary was the only safe place to put it.”
Harvey puts down the paintbrush, snarling.
“But I’ve caught wind of talks… of an Uprising of sorts. Those that seek to free my Beast. To undo all of my hard work. You see, I like the Beast where it is. Deathrow is a much nicer place to create art without it breathing down my neck.”
“At Titanfall, things are going to… get messy. I’m going to need to teach the fresh meat around here a lesson. One by one, they each must fall. Because around here, when somebody traps a Beast, it should damned sure stay trapped.”
“By the time the ring clears at Titanfall, Armataga Tuga is no longer going to be the name everybody down here fears. The Beast will be contained, and everybody will learn just how… messy… Harvey Escher can get.”