Matt Shanahan vs. LEGACY!

[Salem Croft]

The following contest is set for one-fall! Introducing first..."  

[Extremist-Saint-Joey]

"The future is bright. The future... is me!"

As LEGACY's name appeared in bright, bold gold on the titantron, The bold opening riff of Blind Guardian's "Control the Divine" began to send vibrations through the arena floor.

For what I was
I'm doomed to be
The tempter and the secret foe
Cause I am hell and hell is me
Pure hate will grow

Still I claim to be the chosen one
And still I claim this rebellion is rising



On cue, LEGACY stormed through the curtain, staring at the surrounding crowd from the corners of his eyes. He breathed heavily as he marched onward, towards the ring. Half way down the metal sheets which paved the path he walked, he stopped, dead in his tracks. He looked to the rafters above, as if seeking divine inspiration from the cables and shafts above. Looking back down, he turned around, staring up intensely at the towering titantron. He took a deep breath, and a single step backwards, before pivoting and facing the ring once again, continuing his walk.

Upon reaching the apron, LEGACY stopped once more. He was certainly taking his time to reach the ring. He showed a disdain, or perhaps apprehension? Was there a fear of Shanahan in his being? He headed to the steel steps, making his way to the innards of the squared circle. He halted on the upper echelons of the apron, at the edge of the ring, one hand resting on the tope rope. His calm hand torqued into a tight grip as he turned his head to look out over the audience. The tension hung in his face as they heckled, before he tore his eyes away, stepping between the ropes.

He did not head to the ring centre, but to the outskirts, where he asked for a microphone. One of the ringside crew obliged; LEGACY obviously wanted to say a few words before the match of his career.

Before saying a word, he headed to the middle of the canvas. He took none of his entrance gear off, leaving his ragged-yet-imperial cape and staff hung over his back and shoulder. He took a deep breath, and slowly began to descend into a seated position. He sat, with his legs crossed, and began to speak.

"Shanahan... We said some strong things last time we appeared. On that... that screen. We stood, and we decried you. But Matt, Matt, Matt... We don't think you understand. We don't think you 'got' it. It's not how you think, Shanahan. You might believe you're going to come out here, you might believe you're going to come out and win. You might believe you're going to beat us within an inch of our lives. That these people will chant your name, and all will be well. Another night, another cheque, another appeasement of your ever-growing rabid fanbase."

The fans, as if prompted, began a Shanahan chant, in reverence of the icon.

"And... maybe you will. Maybe. But Matt, that's not what we know. That's not what we were told. It isn't what we saw. You can believe what you want, Shanahan, but your belief is not required. This is something beyond you. This is beyond everybody in this arena! You don't understand. We don't truly understand it, Matt. It just is. It. Just. Is. And in due time, you will see it too. Everybody will see it. That is the beauty of your destiny, Matt. It's a public display!

Come out here. Face us, Matt. Face your destiny. And tonight, for the last time, the WWF:G fans will face a future that you aren't in."

He slowly lowered the microphone, placing it on the ground before him, facing the entrance to the arena. He put his hands together, and rested his chin on them, muttering to himself...

"... I will declare the decree: the Lord hath said unto me, Thou art my Son; this day have I begotten thee.
Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.
Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel.
Be wise now therefore, O ye kings: be instructed, ye judges of the earth.
Serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling.
Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little... "

 

[Punkology]

With LEGACY's final word, the fans sat in anticipation for The Storm to roll through; and wait they would, as Shanahan was seeming to take his time making his appearance. Minute after minute, it seemed like the chances of Matt truly accepting LEGACY's challenge were slowly dwindling. Maybe he thought that lowly of LEGACY. Maybe he thought himself above this challenge. Or maybe he had taken the man's words to heart. Maybe The Storm decided that it was time to roll on...

Suddenly, a roar of thunder echoed through the arena, sending the spotlights into a shaking fit. Those that truly supported the 'icon' jumped to their feet and screamed in approval just before the second thunderclap shook the arena. A bright flash followed, taking all the lights in the room with it; the lightning had sent the crowd into a sea of darkness.

The familiar guitar notes began to serenade the audience, layered under the sounds of thunder and pouring rain. The only thing that dared illuminate the pitch black arena was the titantron; it gave little assistance, as it only showed dark, churning storm clouds. The message was clear in it all: The Storm was coming.

Short Change Hero - The Heavy

The intro to Matt Shanahan's near-iconic theme song continued to haunt through the room, until it began to draw to a close. The thunder had began to grow silent, as had the rain. With the final pluck of the guitar's strings, the arena fell into a prolonged silence...

BOOM!!!

That silence was interrupted abruptly as a lightning bolt streak through the room and zapped the stage, causing an explosive thunderclap on impact. The lights seamlessly glowed to life with dark blue hues, bathing the room in their eerie glow. The drumbeat to the song kicked in as slow, melancholic guitar notes followed after it. And, without missing a beat, fog began to flow out from a hole in the center of the stage.

I can't see where you comin' from,
But I know just what you runnin' from.
And what matters ain't the "who's baddest" but,
The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby...

As the first verse progressed, a dark figure began to rise up from the fog. Concealed by the billowing clouds and the hood covering his face, The Storm rose and was met with the cheers and boos that he was used to. The audience was never too clear on their opinion on him, but one thing was clear: they liked him a lot more than they liked LEGACY.

And you feel like you're feelin' now,
Doin' things just to please your crowd.
But I love you like the way I love you,
And I suffer, but I ain't gonna cut you 'cause...

Just as the stage finished pulling him out from the ground, the first verse was drawing to a close. Standing in the fog, hidden by his trenchcoat, baseball bat in hand... was the man of the hour. Matt Shanahan. With another clap of thunder, a spotlight zapped on to reveal the man on stage, staring ahead at his opponent from underneath the hood...

 

[Extremist-Saint-Joey]

As Matt got to the stage, Legacy slowly stood up. He walked towards him, drawn to him. He stopped at the ropes, never leaving the ring. Resting his arms on the top rope, he pushed down on them as he leaned over, staring intently at the man on the stage. A grin started to form as he pierced the cloak with his intense gaze...

Rumble

Rumble. Rumble.

The arena itself had begun to shake, it seemed. Something was happening. Something strange.

The shaking intensified.

Rumble. Rumble. Rumblerumblerumblerumble-

BOOM

At the quaking's apex, a sudden eruption of spark and flame burst from the titantron screen. Glass shards flew outwards, shrapnel as the first sign of something going horribly, horribly awry. The quaking began to petre out, as a large creaking groan came from the stage, followed slowly by repeated thuds.

And then, suddenly, and to great alarm, came the greatest crash of all; the titantron fell. Piece by giant piece. It fell from the ceiling, from the wall, down on to the stage.

The stage where Shanahan was stood.

 

[Punkology]

That last clap of thunder seemed to be the trigger to an event beyond comprehension for most of the audience. Glass shards began to spill down onto The Storm like sharp raindrops, bathing the stage and him in the dangerously sharp edges. They scratched at his trenchcoat as they fell, damaging his attire.

It was very clear that something had gone wrong, but Shanahan stood firm. He didn't turn to witness what was about to rain down on him. He didn't turn to try to run away from whatever had exploded. No.

He stared ahead, his black pupils glaring into LEGACY's, fixated on the man that dared challenge him. His eyes never left the man that called for The Storm's attention. Cold, haunting eyes, unblinking as his trenchcoat was ruined by the falling glass. None of it seemed to phase him. But did he truly know what was going on overhead?

 

[Extremist-Saint-Joey]

Whether Shanahan realised what was happening was irrelevant. As the sky fell, Shanahan stood, unwavering, staring into Legacy's being. Legacy's grin, which had emanated so proudly from his face, slowly began to twitch, fading into a blank, almost fearful expression. Matt knew something was wrong, yet he stood there, bravely. Stupidly. 'Run,' thought Legacy, 'run.' His lips slowly contorted to shape the words, giving them form in a low whisper. But Matt was no coward; his fate was sealed. No matter what was about to happen to him, Shanahan wasn't moving.

First came the metal plates. Then came the bars. Piece by piece, that shrine to vanity fell from its place above the stage, until that giant screen, that staple of the wrestling arena, fell from the arena wall, crashing down, the glass shattering loudly. As loud as thunder.

It fell. As did Shanahan. Crushed, buried. Done. The audience gasped, aside from those in stunned silence. Even the boldest in the bloodthirsty crowd was taken aback, staring at the rubble. A single arm protruded from the metal and glass. A bloodied arm, with an open, limp hand. Unmoving.

As the arena fell silent, alongside the collapsing structure, one sound could be heard. The sound of a baseball bat, rolling down the ramp. It had fallen from Matt's hand as the wreckage crushed him, expelled, as if Matt's will to fight had forced it onwards towards the ring in his place. It slowed as it reached the base of the ramp, the ground levelling from the slant of the metal ramp to a flat surface. It stopped before it reached the ring apron.

Legacy looked down at the weapon, Shanahan's symbol. It was broken. Cracked down the middle. He took his hands off the ropes, and his eyes off the baseball bat. He stood straight, staring up at the rafters. The fear was gone. Slowly, his grin returned.

"...Blessed are all they that put their trust in him."

 

[Punkology]

One moment, Matt Shanahan stood ready for his first match in 2015. He looked as menacing as ever. He looked ready to take down the man that dared challenge the legend of The Storm.

The next moment... he was gone. The only thing left to ensure Matt's existence was his arm protruding from the rubble, limp and lifeless. While his coat's sleeve covered the majority of the arm, tears littered the formerly pristine leather. Blood leaked out of the end of the sleeve, pooling around his gloved hand. It seemed like that was all that was left of The Storm.

Once the rubble was done falling and fans were sitting in a shocked state of silence, the crew members of WWF:G refused to sit idle. Immediately, calls for medical staff echoed through the room. Gloved staff members began to pour out from backstage area, but their hesitance to touch the rubble was clear. They didn't know what was safe to touch, what electrical equipment might still be dangerous to touch, or even where to begin. The stage and the surrounding area was a mess of metal bars and plates, glass, and electric wires. How would they get to Shanahan?

It was a few long moments before one man finally stepped up to begin digging through the mess that was once the titantron. Following his example, others began to pull and tug at bars and plates, trying to get the metal out of the way and off of the Hall of Famer.

It had been nearly five minutes before the first pieces on top of Shanahan were getting moved. While the cameras were turned away, everyone wondered the same thing: who, or what, caused this? That question was soon put on hold as The Storm was finally spotted by the crew members, and fans were witness to a sight they never wanted to see. Matt was slowly pulled out of the rubble after the last pieces of metal plating were removed. The crew were cautious in moving him out of the rubble, and it took a handful of them just to lift the heavyweight without risking major damage to whatever might have been crushed in the titantron's wake. The ripped, mangled leather trenchcoat barely hung to his body, clearly suffering just as much damage as Matt in the final result. His face was bloodied, with deep scratches littering his face. His hair was a mess, the black locks soaked in his own blood. The clothes underneath his coat had suffered some integrity damage, but most of it came from the blood stains that painted his jeans. His exposed chest was covered in wounds, with slow trickles of blood visible from the impacts. While his bones weren't visible, it would be madness to assume he didn't sustain significant damage to his bone structure.

Matt could've went against the whole roster in a Street Fight and came out in better condition than this. Falling forty feet out of the air hadn't done this amount of damage. Engaging in all of his hardcore-styled bouts didn't remotely compare to this event. The fans watched in silence as a crushed, crimson-faced, lifeless Matt Shanahan was lifted out of the wreckage and lowered down onto a stretcher beside the stage. As soon as he touched down, the medical staff began to strap him in and check his pulse; judging by their panic to get an oxygen mask on his face, things weren't looking good.

Fans searched for some sign that Shanahan was okay as they began to rush him out of the area and towards the back, where surely an ambulance was waiting for him. They expected to see him come stumbling off of the gurney like he had over two years ago, when he was last wheeled out of the arena by medics. They hoped it was all a trick, that Matt would suddenly charge down to LEGACY and have the match that they had been anticipating.

As The Storm disappeared from sight, it was clear that this match was not going to happen.