|| A pre-match video package came up on the screen for the TV viewers, the live fans saw the same on the Titantron before,
much like had happened on ICW.com, a feed overrode the production truck's display system. The audience was stunned to
silence at what they saw, now being broadcast. It was a very dimly lit room that looked to be either in the midst or in very
desperate need of renovation. Water leaked from broken pipes running along the ceiling down to the floor from the cracked
and broken plaster around the room. That sound is couple with a much more unnerving one, it is the sound of a human being
whimpering and sobbing softly to themself. The camera broadcasting the footage slowly moves to the center of the room where
a figure is hunched over limply, lacking the energy or strength to stand upright. As the view closes in on them, even through
the eerie darkness; scars, sores and open bleeding wounds are visible, decorating the person's body like a tapestry of pain.
Accompanying the chilling view, music begins to play. The camera begins a slow pan upward starting at the feet, filthy all in
their own right with overgrown nails that have developed a stomach churning amount of brown-green grime beneath them.
Attached to one slim, boney ankle is a rusted shackle attached to a mold consumed deadweight nearby it. Up goes the view as
the composition plays on along with the morose, hopeless emissions from the victim on display. The bone is clearly visible beneath
the skin, all the way to the knee as little to no flesh covers it. A soiled and tattered pair of boxers covers the crotch area, a chain
swinging softly in front of it. To reveal the connections, the camera pans back and shows they are connected to matching
shackles, locked around the captives bruised wrists. The center link connects an alternate chain that heads upwards, the viewers
must assume that it leads to the neck because the upper torso is covered by a strange metallic contraption that wraps around
the chest and over the shoulders. Finally the face comes into view as the music seems to reach the height of its intensity
and then dwindles to a slow melody. The scruff of a beard clarifies the victim to in fact be male. Their hair, oily and matted
about there head, does little too hide the sores and scars overrunning the pain racked face. After a moment of confusion
and internal guessing, the crowd releases a collective gasp as they realize that the man in question is ICW's own, Ryan Smith ||
----------
|| His eyes remain closed as he continues to cry out pitifully, the skin surrounding them is blackened from a lack of nutrients in the
system as well as external abuse. They burst open in fear as 3 seperate and unidentifiable hands reach out from the
darkness. One daintily on his left shoulder as the fingers, with notably sharp nails most likely by selective filing, tap
against the metal of the "thing" attached to Ryan. It extends to trace the protruding portion, which appears to be the
front half of a head mold, filled with nails that have been welded to it and attached at the neck is the match reverse
end of the mask. The obvious results, were the two pieces to come together, left even the most sadistic and
hardcore loving fans in the ICW arena, shaking their heads in disbelief. On the opposing side a large, wide palm with
onyx beads interwoven amongst its fingers rests half on the cold metal and half on the leathery, tested skin of Ryan's
right shoulder. The third hand, covered by a glove, takes the chain segment in the middle as the melody begins to once again
heighten to it's original level of intensity. Just prior to this, the chain is yanked and a speedy ticking begins. The hands all
disappeared into the darkness as Ryan's breathing becomes erratic and strained, he frantically runs his fingers over the
device while the ticking continues. Jerking his head in vain Ryan screams out loud, cursing, crying, begging for help when
out of the darkness a voice calls out "Time's almost up" and then the ticking comes to an end. Tumblers go off inside of the
device and without a milliseconds time to spare the large hand returns from the abyss with its pair and wrenches the device
from about Ryan's upper body as the mask slams shut above his head. Ryan begins to openly weep due to the combination
of fear, relief and stress. The relief leaves the equation as one of the rescuing hands latches onto Ryan's skull dragging him
into the blackness of the room, the other drops the machine to the ground with a loud "clang". Ryan cries out for mercy
and the requests fall on deaf ears as the sound of his chains rattling and the weight dragging behind stop, only to be
replaced by his bone chilling screams of excruciating pain. With a wet thud, Ryan's body flies forth from the black void
and lands on the floor. His back is practically a crimson sheet as blood spills from it, as his back comes closer into view,
it appears that a slew of letters have been sadistically carved into the flesh of his back, spelling out a cruel message ||
"Omnes clade obruti erunt, ex flamma aeterna armageddon resurgam..."
|| The video feed fades to black and the Titantron returns a camera view
of the crowd, everyone in the arena, including ICW staff is stunned silent ||
[[ Backstage reactions from anyone allowed ]]
much like had happened on ICW.com, a feed overrode the production truck's display system. The audience was stunned to
silence at what they saw, now being broadcast. It was a very dimly lit room that looked to be either in the midst or in very
desperate need of renovation. Water leaked from broken pipes running along the ceiling down to the floor from the cracked
and broken plaster around the room. That sound is couple with a much more unnerving one, it is the sound of a human being
whimpering and sobbing softly to themself. The camera broadcasting the footage slowly moves to the center of the room where
a figure is hunched over limply, lacking the energy or strength to stand upright. As the view closes in on them, even through
the eerie darkness; scars, sores and open bleeding wounds are visible, decorating the person's body like a tapestry of pain.
Accompanying the chilling view, music begins to play. The camera begins a slow pan upward starting at the feet, filthy all in
their own right with overgrown nails that have developed a stomach churning amount of brown-green grime beneath them.
Attached to one slim, boney ankle is a rusted shackle attached to a mold consumed deadweight nearby it. Up goes the view as
the composition plays on along with the morose, hopeless emissions from the victim on display. The bone is clearly visible beneath
the skin, all the way to the knee as little to no flesh covers it. A soiled and tattered pair of boxers covers the crotch area, a chain
swinging softly in front of it. To reveal the connections, the camera pans back and shows they are connected to matching
shackles, locked around the captives bruised wrists. The center link connects an alternate chain that heads upwards, the viewers
must assume that it leads to the neck because the upper torso is covered by a strange metallic contraption that wraps around
the chest and over the shoulders. Finally the face comes into view as the music seems to reach the height of its intensity
and then dwindles to a slow melody. The scruff of a beard clarifies the victim to in fact be male. Their hair, oily and matted
about there head, does little too hide the sores and scars overrunning the pain racked face. After a moment of confusion
and internal guessing, the crowd releases a collective gasp as they realize that the man in question is ICW's own, Ryan Smith ||
----------
|| His eyes remain closed as he continues to cry out pitifully, the skin surrounding them is blackened from a lack of nutrients in the
system as well as external abuse. They burst open in fear as 3 seperate and unidentifiable hands reach out from the
darkness. One daintily on his left shoulder as the fingers, with notably sharp nails most likely by selective filing, tap
against the metal of the "thing" attached to Ryan. It extends to trace the protruding portion, which appears to be the
front half of a head mold, filled with nails that have been welded to it and attached at the neck is the match reverse
end of the mask. The obvious results, were the two pieces to come together, left even the most sadistic and
hardcore loving fans in the ICW arena, shaking their heads in disbelief. On the opposing side a large, wide palm with
onyx beads interwoven amongst its fingers rests half on the cold metal and half on the leathery, tested skin of Ryan's
right shoulder. The third hand, covered by a glove, takes the chain segment in the middle as the melody begins to once again
heighten to it's original level of intensity. Just prior to this, the chain is yanked and a speedy ticking begins. The hands all
disappeared into the darkness as Ryan's breathing becomes erratic and strained, he frantically runs his fingers over the
device while the ticking continues. Jerking his head in vain Ryan screams out loud, cursing, crying, begging for help when
out of the darkness a voice calls out "Time's almost up" and then the ticking comes to an end. Tumblers go off inside of the
device and without a milliseconds time to spare the large hand returns from the abyss with its pair and wrenches the device
from about Ryan's upper body as the mask slams shut above his head. Ryan begins to openly weep due to the combination
of fear, relief and stress. The relief leaves the equation as one of the rescuing hands latches onto Ryan's skull dragging him
into the blackness of the room, the other drops the machine to the ground with a loud "clang". Ryan cries out for mercy
and the requests fall on deaf ears as the sound of his chains rattling and the weight dragging behind stop, only to be
replaced by his bone chilling screams of excruciating pain. With a wet thud, Ryan's body flies forth from the black void
and lands on the floor. His back is practically a crimson sheet as blood spills from it, as his back comes closer into view,
it appears that a slew of letters have been sadistically carved into the flesh of his back, spelling out a cruel message ||
"Omnes clade obruti erunt, ex flamma aeterna armageddon resurgam..."
|| The video feed fades to black and the Titantron returns a camera view
of the crowd, everyone in the arena, including ICW staff is stunned silent ||
[[ Backstage reactions from anyone allowed ]]
