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Zero's Road To Fallout


League Member
Jan 1, 2000
Hickory USA
Picking Scabs

The rushing sound of a faucet assaults the senses as the scene fades in on the interior of a small, dimly lit bathroom. The light tan, smoke-stained tiles are barely hanging onto the walls, and each one possesses at least one crack.

The little bathroom is lit only by a few randomly placed candles, many of them fastened in their location by their own melted wax. From somewhere in the bathroom, the wafting fumes of a stick of burning incense drift across the dim room.

A plain medicine cabinet mirror sits above the running faucet, and in its dingy, dirty reflection, we see the countenance of the man standing before the sink. He is shirtless, clad only in a pair of faded blue jeans that are spattered with a few drops of blood. His bare feet stand in a thin puddle of water that's forming under the sink; a result of the leaking, rusty pipes.

His shirt wadded up into a ball on top of the toilet, his chest is bare and wet from being in the shower. His chin-length dark blonde hair is still soaking and hangs in thick wet clumps about his shoulders. Noticing the seldom-seen tattoo of a fox's head on his chest, we know immediately that this is Nate Logan, also known as Zero.

He reaches up to his throat, which is covered in a hideous looking, discolored, blotchy bruise.

Zero: Ow. I believe I have you to thank for that, Mister Miller.

Zero touches the bruise lightly, wincing with visible pain as his fingers brush it. He then lets his hand travel up to his jaw, covered in a thick five-o'-clock shadow, as well as a bloody, scabbed over wound. He digs his fingernails into the scab, scratching repeatedly until the little chunks of dried blood start to peel off like a rotten banana peel.

Zero: Jesus. Nice kick, Cole.

He reaches off to the side, flicking on the light switch in the bathroom, flooding the small room with the artificial, flourescent light that fills the crypt-like Wal-Marts and Gas Stations of the world. This sudden revelation of light reveals that the entire right side of Logan's face is swollen to almost morbid proportion, mottled and purpled with swelling. Tiny beads of perspiration roll over the bulging pockets of whatever thick fluid lies inside.

Zero: I swear to God I can't go a damn month without getting mutilated by Chris.

Zero grabs his wrinkled t-shirt and pulls it on, clicking off the light of the bathroom and walking out of it, into his sparely decorated, tiny living room in his Charlotte, North Carolina apartment. He steps over the ratty sofa, which sits slightly slumping to the right due to a missing leg, and sits down on it, looking into the camera for the first time.

Zero: I entered into this Gauntlet not because I wanted to impress the front office with it, but so that I could know what kind of man I really was. On X-Perience I was beaten. It wasn't the first time, and I damn sure hope it's not the last. Even though I was beaten, it was still a complete success.

Nate leans back into the sofa, a thin smile on his lips, a rarity for him.

Zero: F*** the Gauntlet. I didn't win five straight matches, who gives a f***. I went up against some of the best and brightest in the GXW, and I'm still here. I didn't start this Gauntlet to prove myself to anyone, because I've already done that, by God. I've proved myself with blood. I've proved myself every time I've stepped out from behind those curtains and sacrificed my health just to one day be in the position I am now. It doesn't matter if I lost the title shot from the Gauntlet, I'm still alive. I'm still alive to fight another day and take what should be mine.

Logan leans forward, looking deeply into the camera.

Zero: As for this "meeting" with Dupree at Fallout...I don't know what you have up your sleeve, Chad, but I'm ready. For good or ill, I will be prepared for whatever you have in store for me. So at Fallout, come sir, and I will draw toward an end with you.

He pauses, a look of inspiration crossing his eyes. He leans forward even more, balling his hands into fists and speaking just above a raspy whisper.

Zero: For let Hercules do as he may. The cat will mew and dog will have his day.

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