A graveyard. Amidst the burial plots is one that is out of place compared to the others. Instead of packed soil and overgrown grass we instead find a hole in the ground long since dug up. The tombstone at its head simply reading ‘Drewitt’. The name of the very man standing next to it.
“Does anyone else know how it feels to die?” He glances at his grave, wiping the dirt from his name. “The feeling of a knife being dragged across your neck, bleeding you until there’s nothing left for your heart to pump? The terrifying realization that you can’t breathe as you gargle out your last words?”
Drewitt reaches to his neck, caressing it. “Perhaps the feeling of a bullet traveling through your skull, the gray matter splattering a shallow grave? Maybe even the feeling of immolation as fire licks at your skin, smoke fills your lungs, and every last cell in your body begs for reprieve only for peace to come when they’re simply too burnt to feel anymore?”
War simply shakes his head, sitting on the side of his grave, both feet hanging over the edge. “No, I don’t believe anyone in OSW but myself truly understand how it feels to die. Even Muerte only deals death, he does not suffer it.” Drewitt chuckles at the absurdity of it as he looks down into the abyss below.
“Yet,” he says with a sigh, “it seems as though everyone in Arcadia believes they can step foot in Lambs to the Slaughter and endure the horrors it brings. It’s almost funny. All of OSW fighting one another, trying to tear them down simply so they can get a sliver of a chance at claiming the world title at the end of the tunnel.”
“A slew of people digging their own graves as they walk down the ramp. By the end of the night there will be twenty graves dug, yet only nineteen bodies laid to rest.” War stands up, looking out behind himself at the countless graves, shaking his head.
“Every last one of you wants to slaughter the other, and as with war, you may very well do it. One by one the coffins will lower until only one man stands above an empty grave.” Drewitt grabs a shovel, slowly beginning to dump dirt into the grave at his feet.
The hole slowly fills, Drewitt working at a leisurely pace. “And that man shall be me. No matter how hard anyone tries, I’ll always get back up. You cannot slaughter what cannot die. Because if you knock me down, no matter what, I’ll always get back up.”
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
With every shovelful the hole gets more full, Drewitt filling it completely. “I am undying, unchanging. At the end of the night there will be nineteen bodies on the ground of Olympus.”
“And no matter how hard anyone tries, I’ll never be one of them.”
The hole fills to the brim, Drewitt tamping it down.
“Because I’m War.”
“And War? War doesn’t die. War never changes.”
Cut.