Chapter Text
His heart felt like it had stopped.
His fingers tingled. His head perspired.
Breath seemed hard to come by.
Dylan could only look on in horror as the news report on the TV played out in front of him. The banner remained unchanged, presenting those sickening, unbelievable words that turned his stomach:
“ROLAND POLAZZO FOUND DEAD”
Above the news banner, situated at the bottom of the screen, was the live feed from outside what looked like a large, fancy hotel. A reporter, illuminated by bright lights to cut through the darkness of the early morning, stood outside the hotel whilst a flurry of activity from police and forensics buzzed behind her. The intermittent flashing of blue lights against the night, early breaking sky only served to further hammer in the severity of the scene.
The news reporter, face serious and grim with microphone in hand, started to speak:
“It is now 4:30am in the morning and we are continuing with live round-the-clock coverage of this breaking news story that is set to shock the waking nation. Roland Polazzo, one of the most celebrated, decorated and revered players in Turf War history, has died. He was discovered unresponsive by hotel staff in his room earlier this morning.; paramedics were called to the scene and after unsuccessful attempts to revive Roland he was pronounced dead here, in his hotel room, at the age of thirty five.
Many will recall that this shocking news comes shortly after the conclusion of this year’s Turf War X-League season. Roland had very recently participated in the final X-League game of the season just two days ago; a narrow loss to Slipstream United which resulted in their three-year winning streak being broken. This was particularly noteworthy as it also represented the return of his rival, Lionel Demaude, winning his first X-League title in many years after an extended absence from the game.
But now, shocking revelations are coming to light, not just around Roland’s sudden and untimely death, but the circumstances that also surround it.”
Dylan fell back, landing on his sofa, slowly sinking into it as he was engulfed in complete shock.
I…
I literally saw him two days ago…
Dylan recalled their tense confrontation in the director's box that evening. At that point, Dylan wanted nothing more than to punch the slimy grin from off from Roland’s face.
But now, he felt nothing but a twisting sickness in his stomach.
H-he’s dead…
At once, he wondered about what the cause of death could have been. He recalled on the giant screens in the stadium the look of complete and utter despondency that was etched all over Roland’s face as he came to terms with his defeat.
An even more sickening thought came to mind:
Did he…take his own life?
But the thought lasted mere seconds; the news report switched over to a video report, the pre-recorded voiceover of a male reporter accompanying pictures that flashed up on the screen. The first was a picture of Roland, standing tall with his team mates, the X-League title in one hand and his spare hand with three fingers raised.
Three fingers; for three titles. It was a photo from the previous year.
“Roland Polazzo.” The voiceover started, different to that of the current reporter. “A name synonymous with his sport. Confident, talented, braggadocious, selfish, maverick-like. No matter how people described the man, one fact always remained clear. Roland was one of the most dominating players to have ever laced up a pair of boots. He is pictured here last year with his team, The Black Paladins, touting their third X-League title win in a row.”
The picture changed to video footage of the final X-League match that had happened two days ago. The footage switched between Roland fiercely battling against Lionel, and that of his reaction after the loss. Dylan remembered seeing the same footage on the stadium's big screens; it was surreal to relive sections of that night on his TV screen.
Dylan remembered vividly the ending to the match, and what the big screens in the stadium decided to show in that moment. He recalled the look of total defeat in Roland’s eyes.
It looked unnatural. The voiceover continued:
“Roland was last seen just two days ago, playing against Slipstream United and his old rival, Lionel Demaude, to decide the winner of the X-League title. After a very close match, the result went against Roland and the Black Paladins. There was to be no fourth league title of the season for them.”
The image then changed to that of the hotel that the reporter had been standing in front of.
“And just two days later, Roland was found dead in the hotel he had been staying in since the evening before the game. The police received a call at 3am this morning from hotel staff, who reported that one of their guests had become unresponsive. When paramedics arrived at the hotel…it was too late.”
The picture then changed to another of a younger looking Roland from years ago, in full colour, at a time Dylan recognised him to be in his absolute prime. The contrast in images of him between then and now we're stark: here he looked much more youthful, confident…
Almost happy.
“However, initial investigations are bringing to light unthinkable dimensions to the circumstances relating to Roland’s death. The first: the initial toxicology report of Roland’s ink, which confirmed traces of cyanide. Forensic teams revealed in initial findings that cyanide traces were also found in the coffee that was present in his mug, on the table next to where he was found dead.”
As the image of a coffee mug appeared on one side of Roland's head, Dylan could only feel his heart growing colder and colder.
But nothing prepared him for what came next.
“The second: a folder that contained several contracts with Roland Polazzo’s signature, detailing his involvement in a several incidents of match-fixing. This included the recent controversy regarding The Black Paladins’ use of an ink packet to tilt a match day in their favour earlier in the season. The contracts, accompanied with tapes of phone conversations Roland held with as-yet unknown agents, dated back as far as four years. They detailed other numerous incidents of match-fixing: referees being paid off, technical hacking to tilt tight results towards the Black Paladins, sabotaging other teams weapons and equipment, and much more. But most notable are a pair of contracts relating to “the sabotage of Dylan Avery”, more specifically detailing a poison plot and the creation of match-fixing allegations. This, of course, was a more public sabotage against the up-and-coming Dylan Avery; a rising star in the game who suffered a career ending accident whilst facing Roland and the Black Paladins at Arowana Mall. The subsequent allegations tarnished his reputation as a player. We now know that there was much more to it than initially seemed...”
Dylan's chest felt incredibly tight.
Incredibly, incredibly tight.
So tight, that breathing now seemed nigh on impossible. That he now sucked breath through the narrowest of airways. That his trachea felt it was at the mercy of a vice grip, tightening further and further. His vision blurred. His mouth became dry.
It became even worse when his very own image appeared on the infographic on the TV, beside a picture of the contracts, as part of the story.
I…
I don't believe it…
Roland…it was him.
He was the one who destroyed my career!!!
Dylan's mind flashed back again to their last encounter. He recalled clearly the cocky, arrogant, almost threatening behaviour that he subjected Dylan to.
Now it was all becoming clear. The bravado, the arrogance, the toxicity of his behaviour.
It was a front.
So all along…he was a fraud. The last four years…his dominance was founded on lies and deceits.
I was just one of his victims. But now?
But Dylan's thoughts could not pause the continued stream of news. The news piece carried on.
“And thirdly, the nature of the contracts and tapes themselves: the contracts blank out all mentions of the agent or person responsible for actually administering each of the nefarious activities. Only Roland's name, as the signatory, is named on the contracts as he gives the green light. On the tapes, the voice of the person Roland is talking to, is disguised and warped beyond recognition.”
The picture now turned back to a photo of Roland, taken the night of his final loss to Slipstream United. It was a stark contrast to the more triumphant picture from before. Away from his team, he stood, head bowed, eyes full of darkness, walking down the tunnel.
Never to be seen again.
“The early investigation, while ongoing, paints a much more disturbing picture of the man considered Turf War’s greatest player. A man who, in the last four years, turned to criminal organisations to cement his own standing at the top of the game. Now, at just thirty-five years of age, the death of Roland Polazzo has had a seismic effect not just on the game of Turf War…but on the world of sports itself.”
The news feed cut back gradually to the reporter standing outside of the hotel, the same bustling scene as before. She continued to speak as she had before:
“Well if you're just tuning in to the news this morning, we are reporting on the seismic news that Turf War superstar Roland Polazzo has been found dead at his hotel room in the earlier hours of this morning. And we have some more breaking news that has just come in…”
The reporter pressed a finger to her ear. It appeared that she, quite literally, was receiving updates hot off the press as the news broadcast went on.
“...And we have just received word from the chief of the investigation team working tirelessly behind me on the cause of death; a statement has just been provided which I'll read to the viewers watching this at home. The statement says: we can confirm that we are working towards the most likely assumption that Roland Polazzo took his own life, and can confirm that the most likely cause of death is cyanide poisoning. However, the investigation cannot rule out murder in this instance, owing to some emerging evidence of other persons in and around the scene of the crime at the estimated time of death.”
The reporter's image then suddenly gave way to an image that showed a still from a camera footage reel. Dylan watched the still closely: it depicted a man, one of the hotel bellboys, walking into a room in the hotel. The image, with a 00:54 timestamp below it, also had a second image of the same bellboy walking out of the room, time stamped 01:24.
“And as you can see here from the images just released by the investigation team now, it depicts one of the hotel bellboys entering the room that Roland was found dead in, and then exiting half an hour later. While this does not prove anything and the investigation team are continuing their work, they have asked that the bellboy in the images be treated as a potential suspect.”
Still plagued by the dizzying revelations, Dylan could do naught but stay rooted to his sofa.
The entirety of the last few years: the end of his career, the match-fixing allegations, his descent into nothingness, his rise through the Salmon Run ranks, the Big Run…
All of these roads now suddenly ran through Roland. The one single man had been responsible for setting in motion the chain of events that had changed Dylan's life completely. The feelings of conflict that ran through his mind were as strong as ever: the pure hatred for the man who destroyed his previous life clashed vigorously against the confusion and mystery around his sudden death.
And above all, one question, one word, stood taller than the others.
Why?
At that moment, Dylan felt the familiar vibration of something through the sofa. More alert, he turned to look at his phone, which was ringing again. He'd completely forgotten that Roberto had been on the line to him earlier, and he didn't even hang up.
I wonder if he's calling back.
But as he looked at the caller ID, he saw something unexpected. Such lack of expectation quickly turned to shock when he saw the name:
Marco!
Frantically, Dylan started to the call and brought the phone to his ear.
“Marco!” Dylan said quickly. “Marco, where the hell have you been the last few days???”
There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Confused, Dylan pressed further. “Marco? Marco, are you there?”
“... I'm afraid he isn't. I, however, am calling on his behalf.”
The voice was one that Dylan had never heard before.
“Who’s this?” Dylan asked. “Is Marco there?”
“He…isn't, I'm afraid.” The voice said. It was a low, relaxed voice, with a certain purring timbre to it. “But I know he would love to see you again. Very much so, in fact.”
Dylan furrowed his brow. He started to feel very suspicious. “I'm only gonna ask once: who are you?”
“It's been fun, Dylan.” the voice continued, ignoring Dylan completely to his chagrin. “But I think it's time we put an end to the fun before anyone else gets seriously hurt. I think it's time you learned the truth about Marco.”
Dylan started to feel angry. He couldn't help but feel he was being interrogated by this voice over the line.
“What have you done with him?” Dylan accused, his voice rising. “And I already know Marco's secret. I know who he really is, and who he used to be.”
The voice on the other end of the line started to chuckle gently, which only unsettled Dylan further.
“Oh, I know you know all of that. Marco told me about it himself, you know. A fallen idol, a reclusive father…yes, I know you know that. But he's not been as thorough as he could have been, hm? You've not yet learned the full truth about him.”
“What…?” Dylan remarked. “The…full truth?”
“I'd like to invite you to Angelfish Heliport so we can discuss this a little more in person. Come down as soon as you're able to. I look forward to…speaking with you, Dylan.”
“Hang on!” Dylan countered quickly, gripping the phone so tightly that it threatened to shatter in his hand. “What makes you think I'm just gonna rock up to Angelfish Heliport when I don't even know who you are or what you want with me. Cut the bullshit; tell me who you are!”
“Hmm…okay.” The voice said. “If I tell you who I am, you'll come to meet me at Angelfish Heliport. Do we have a deal?”
Dylan stood quietly for a moment. He had every inclination to end the call, throw the phone on the sofa and forget the call had ever taken place. A couple of times in his mind, the intention to do so surged strongly.
But he couldn't. There was one thing that stopped him at the last, each time.
…The real truth. About Marco.
Has he been hiding something else from us?
Such curiosity was too much for Dylan, and he relented.
“Fine.” he conceded. “I'll make my way down now. Now tell me, who the fuck are you?”
There was a short silence on the other end of the line as a slow intake of breath could be heard. Then finally, the voice spoke again:
“I'm Marco’s boss.”
And just like that, the call disconnected. Dylan didn't even get a chance to ask more, or clarify what he had just heard.
Marco’s boss.
Given how senior Marco already was in Grizzco, Dylan could only assume that it would have been one of the most senior figures in the entire corporation. But Dylan would not be drawn on further speculation. He realised that he potentially had another chance to find Marco, and maybe figure out a solution to telling Cailtin the truth about him.
That truth spurred him onwards into the early morning light to take the long and convoluted public transport system all the way out into the sticks of the Splatlands, and to the place where he had gone to so many times before in a different chapter of his life.
And on his mind the entire way…was Marco.