The Eye of the Storm

Asher’s body hovered inches above the ground, his muscles trembling with tension as he held a low plank. His forearms pressed firmly into the mat, beads of sweat mingling with the faint sheen of humidity that clung to his skin. The rain outside provided a soothing backdrop, each drop pattering against the window with a rhythm as steady as his controlled breaths.

Bzzzz. The phone vibrated against the counter, its sound sharp and grating against the serenity of the rain. Asher’s jaw clenched, his focus unwavering as he pushed through the strain in his shoulders, his gaze fixed on a single spot on the floor.

The rain intensified, the heavier drops striking the window with a resounding plink. Outside, the storm painted streaks across the glass, turning the world into a blur of muted grays and soft whites. Asher’s breathing slowed, matching the cadence of the falling rain, his core tightening as he dug deeper into the hold.

Bzzzz. The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. Asher shifted his weight slightly, the muscles in his back rippling with the movement. He exhaled sharply, his mind momentarily pulled from the physical strain and drawn to the steady symphony outside. The rain was relentless yet soothing, each drop a reminder of resilience.

The storm continued to build, the rhythm of the rain punctuated by the occasional rumble of distant thunder. It was the kind of storm that he would’ve watched as a kid, sitting on the porch in awe of its power, the kind of storm that stirred both chaos and calm.

Bzzzz. The phone buzzed for a third time, the sound cutting through the meditative quiet like an unwanted intrusion. Asher dropped to his knees, his breath coming in measured gasps as he wiped his forearm across his face. For a moment, he stared at the floor, his body still humming with the effort of the plank.

Rising to his feet, he turned toward the counter where the phone lay. His green eyes flicked to the window, where the rain continued its steady descent, streaking down the glass in mesmerizing patterns. Asher reached for the phone; his expression unreadable as his fingers hovered over the screen.

The rain outside showed no signs of stopping, its unrelenting rhythm filling the room with an almost hypnotic energy. But as Asher picked up the phone and read the name on the screen, the sound of the rain seemed to fade, replaced by a weight that settled heavily over his shoulders.

“MD Storm confirmed. You ready?”

Asher set the phone down without replying, his green eyes flickering toward the window. The rain was lighter now, almost peaceful. He leaned back against the headboard, exhaling deeply.

“I’ve been ready for storms my whole life.”

*******

Later that day

The minimalist, high-tech studio exudes a sleek professionalism. The golden sunburst backdrop, previously pristine, now incorporates faint, swirling storm clouds woven into its geometric design. Soft lighting shifts between warm gold and a muted gray. The polished steel side table remains the untouched glass of water, its surface shimmering as if anticipating disruption. A silver stopwatch ticks steadily, the rhythmic sound cutting through the silence like a countdown to the inevitable confrontation. The room feels charged, like the moments before lightning strikes, perfectly framing Asher Creed as he prepares to address the Prime Universe.

"In life, we’re told to learn from our mistakes. PRIME, I learned more than I bargained for in my debut. Kenny Freeman didn’t beat me; interference and desperation did. All things you would expect from such individuals. I’m not too proud to admit that I felt the communist hammer, funny thing is, I’m not a nail or some helpless person, so I’m not worried about how I was robbed, because I always get my receipts.”

Asher leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his green eyes glinting under the shifting light. His expression sharpens, the faint hum of thunder punctuating the tension in his voice as he pivots.

“And now, PRIME presents me with MD Storm. No tapes to study, no record to analyze, just a name. MD Storm. Funny, isn’t it? Like Maryland stormed into PRIME with a vengeance, I guess that’s what I’m fighting this week, a weather pattern masquerading as a wrestler.”

He straightens, adjusting his tie with a calm precision that belies the storm brewing in his words.

“So Maryland, I hope that it’s ok that I use your formal name, I guess it’s fitting with the rest of the world in the dead mists of winter, here in Australia, I’m met with a summer shower. But how does someone fight a force of nature?”

Asher’s finger slowly runs along the side of the table holding the glass of water, as his attention slowly shifts to the table with thought.

"When you don’t know who’s standing across from you, there’s only one approach: prepare for the worst. As we grow into adulthood, learn how to react to the world around us, we pick up small tricks here and there. I can’t speak for others, but with me, when I wasn’t sure of the ability of my opponents, I would train as if I was facing my doppelgänger. I would train as if my opponent knew and was equal in all my best talents. It’s taken me far, but there is still so much further to go. I know that’s impossible to do without growth, so let’s grow like a storm.”

Asher leans forward, his green eyes narrowing slightly.

"Some people fear storms, they can be destructive, loss of life happens in the worst of them. Growing up, I used to sit on the porch in Texas watching the summer storms rolled in. I was always fascinated by the beauty of the light show, the energy in the air, it really is a sight to see. Are you a sight to see Maryland?”

Asher leans back slightly, his hand resting on the armrest, fingers tapping as if mimicking the rhythm of raindrops. His voice carries a deliberate calm, like the eye of the storm.

"See, Maryland, the thing about storms is they’re unpredictable. They can be a gentle rain or a devastating hurricane. But here’s the catch, storms don’t choose their path. They just go where the winds take them, wreaking havoc without purpose or control. That’s the difference between you and me. I’m not some aimless tempest. I am the lightning that strikes exactly where I aim, the thunder that reminds every one of its presences long after it’s gone.”

The faint sound of the stopwatch ticking grows louder, the rhythmic beat accentuating his words.

"Do you have that kind of precision, Maryland? Or are you just another gust of hot air, blowing through PRIME without direction or intent? Because I’ll tell you this: storms like you don’t last. They make noise, sure, but they fade as quickly as they came. And when you’re standing in the aftermath, you realize the real force wasn’t the storm, it was the one prepared to weather it.” Asher picks up the untouched glass of water, studying the surface as it reflects the muted storm clouds on the backdrop. He sets it down again, the movement deliberate and confident.

"So here’s your chance, Maryland. Be the storm I have no doubt you want to be. Bring the rain, the wind, the thunder. But know this, I’ve faced storms before, and I’ve come out stronger every time. When the skies clear and the dust settles, the world will remember who stood tall, untouched, and unshaken.”

He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a near growl, the intensity in his green eyes piercing.

"Are you ready to be weathered, Maryland? Or are you just another passing cloud, disappearing without a trace?”

The Eye of the Storm

Fade to black

*******

Vlog 2: The Pressure Cooker March 21st 2013 The webcam flickers to life, revealing Asher seated in the same dimly lit room as before. The desk lamp casts shadows across his face, giving the scene a slightly more somber tone than the first vlog. He’s wearing a plain gray hoodie, his hair slightly neater but still falling into his eyes. He leans forward in his chair, arms resting on the desk, fingers nervously tapping.

"Hey, it’s me again. Uh… second vlog. Guess this is becoming a thing now."

He glances away from the camera, exhaling through his nose before locking eyes with the lens. His lips press together, as though weighing his words carefully. "I’ve been thinking about home a lot lately. I mean, I’m still in it, but you know what I mean. It’s… heavy here. Like, all the time. I think most people would say their parents want the best for them, right? Like, ‘Do your homework,’ ‘Eat your veggies,’ whatever. But my dad… he takes it to another level."

His fingers stop tapping, now gripping the edge of the desk as if to anchor himself.

"Nothing’s ever good enough. Not for him. You ace a test? Should’ve aced it faster. Score 20 points in a basketball game? Why not 30? It’s like every little achievement is just a stepping stone to the next thing, and if you don’t measure up, well… you’re not just a disappointment. You’re a failure."

Asher pauses, his jaw tightening as he looks past the camera, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"I’ve seen what that does to people. To Eric."

He leans back slightly, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of his words presses down on him.

"My brother… he’s not dumb or lazy or anything like that. He’s actually really good at a lot of stuff. Baseball, for one. The guy could hit home runs like it was nothing. But that didn’t matter to Dad. He didn’t respect baseball. Said it was ‘too slow,’ that it didn’t build the kind of discipline a real athlete needed. So, no matter how much Eric loved it, it was never going to be good enough."

Asher lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"And when Eric started struggling, Dad didn’t help. He pushed harder. Screamed louder. Made sure Eric felt every mistake he made. I remember one time… Eric struck out during a game, and when we got home, Dad didn’t even let him change out of his uniform before he dragged him out back and made him run laps. For hours. And when Eric finally stopped, gasping for air, you know what Dad said?

‘That’s what failure feels like. Don’t forget it.’"

His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, quickly brushing his hand across his face. "I… I don’t know. Maybe Eric needed that, maybe he didn’t. But I see the way he looks at Dad now, like he’s trying so hard to prove himself but knows it’ll never be enough. And it scares the hell out of me because… what if that’s me one day? What if I screw up, and Dad looks at me the same way he looks at Eric?"

Asher leans forward again, his hands clasped tightly together.

"That’s why I push myself so hard. Why I stay up late studying or spend hours in the gym when I should be resting. Because I can’t be like Eric. I can’t let him down."

He pauses, his green eyes locking onto the camera with an intensity that feels almost accusatory.

"But you know what? Sometimes I wonder if it even matters. Like, what’s the point of all this pressure if it just turns you into someone you don’t even recognize? Eric loves baseball, but now he won’t even pick up a bat. I love basketball, but sometimes I catch myself hating it because it feels more like a job than something I actually enjoy."

Asher sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair and looking away from the camera.

"Anyway… I guess that’s enough for now. This is getting too heavy, even for me. Maybe next time I’ll talk about something lighter. Who knows?"

He reaches for the webcam, his hand hovering for a moment as if hesitating to turn it off. His voice softens as he mutters, almost to himself: "Just don’t end up like him, Asher. Don’t end up like Eric."

The screen goes black, the faint sound of the computer fan lingering for a moment before fading into silence.

*******

But not all storms are so easily dealt with. Sometimes even the lightest of storms can have some of the highest of consequences.

The rain fell in warm, gentle sheets, the kind that didn’t just wet the earth but seemed to breathe life into it. The drops were cool against Asher’s skin, but the humid summer air kept the chill at bay. The smell of wet grass and rain-soaked earth filled his lungs as he darted barefoot across the muddy yard, a basketball clutched tightly in his hands.

Nearby, his neighbor and closest friend, Jace, leaned casually against the trunk of an old oak tree, arms crossed with a mischievous grin plastered across his face. His shaggy blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping from the tips. “Alright, Creed! Let’s see what you’ve got! Show me those so-called moves you’re always bragging about!”

Asher grinned back, the challenge lighting a spark in his green eyes. “Oh, you’re about to see more than moves. You’re about to see why they call me the magic!”

He crouched low, dribbling the ball against the squelching mud, water splashing up to paint streaks across his legs. With a quick pivot, he feinted left, then spun right, ducking past Jace’s outstretched arms. The slickness of the ground threatened his balance, but he kept his footing, charging toward the makeshift hoop nailed to the oak tree. Leaping into the air, the ball left his fingertips with perfect precision, soaring through the rain and swishing cleanly through the hoop.

“Boom! Nothing but net!” Asher shouted triumphantly, throwing his hands up as if he’d just won the NBA Finals. The rain pelted his upturned face, droplets clinging to his lashes and rolling down his cheeks. He spun in place, his soaked clothes clinging to him, but he didn’t care. This moment—this freedom—was everything.

“Alright, alright,” Jace said, pushing off the tree with an exaggerated groan. “Don’t hurt yourself patting yourself on the back, dude. One good shot doesn’t mean you’re king of the court.”

“You’re just mad I broke your ankles,” Asher teased, sticking his tongue out as he grabbed the ball and dribbled it again.

“Yeah, yeah. Talk while you can. Next time, I’m bringing my A-game,” Jace replied, jogging toward him. “But for now, let’s call it. I’m not trying to catch pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia? You sound like my mom.” Asher laughed, but he let the ball drop, the mud squelching beneath it.

The two walked toward the porch, their footsteps squishing against the wet grass. The storm rumbled softly in the distance, a comforting sound that seemed to blanket the world in peace. Jace shoved Asher lightly with his shoulder, a friendly nudge that made both of them laugh.

“Think we’ll be doing this when we’re old and gray?” Jace asked, grinning as he climbed the porch steps.

“Depends,” Asher said, matching his grin. “Think you’ll still be slow enough for me to beat you?”

“Man, I’ll always be faster than you,” Jace shot back, opening the screen door and letting it slam behind him. Asher lingered on the porch for a moment, watching the rain cascade off the roof in shimmering sheets.

The distant crackle of lightning brought him back, and he stepped inside, the warmth of the house immediately wrapping around him. He could hear Jace in the kitchen, probably raiding the fridge for leftovers, but something else caught his attention: the sharp, insistent ring of the phone.

His heart skipped a beat, a strange unease settling in his chest as he moved toward it. The landline sat on the counter, the bright red light blinking in time with the shrill sound. He picked it up, his voice tentative.

“Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end. A heavy, almost tangible silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The words blurred into static, or maybe it was his own mind refusing to process them. His grip on the phone tightened, the rain outside seeming to grow louder as if the storm had crept into the house. For a moment, the world stood still, the warmth of the house now feeling suffocating.

*******

Back at the hotel, the rain outside had softened, its relentless patter now a calming rhythm, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within Asher Creed. He stood by the window, his reflection blending with the streaks of water on the glass, creating a distorted but powerful image of a man caught between reflection and determination.

His green eyes pierced through the glass; his expression unreadable yet charged with purpose. Slowly, he turned away, his movements deliberate as he approached the camera, now set up in the same minimalist, storm-themed studio.

"Life has a way of testing us," he began, his voice low but steady, each word weighted with intent. "It throws storms at us when we least expect them, and it doesn’t care if we’re ready. What matters is how we respond. Do we break under the weight of the rain? Do we let the wind scatter us into nothing? Or do we stand tall, unwavering, until the storm passes?"

Asher stepped closer to the camera, his presence commanding as the storm clouds on the backdrop seemed to pulse with the dim glow of lightning.

"MD Storm, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know your story, your strengths, or your weaknesses. But here’s the thing—you don’t know mine either. And that puts us on equal footing. You see, I’ve spent my life preparing for that one moment that comes around once in a while that sets things on the path you want. I’ve weathered storms you can’t imagine, and I’ve come out stronger every time. You’re not the first storm I’ve faced, and you won’t be the last."

His hand brushed over the untouched glass of water on the steel side table, the subtle ripple on its surface mirroring the steady intensity of his words.

"You call yourself a storm, but I’ve learned storms are just nature’s way of clearing the path for something greater. So bring your thunder, bring your wind, and bring everything you’ve got, because I will not falter. When this is over, PRIME won’t remember the noise you made or the chaos you caused. They’ll remember the man who stood in the center of it all and refused to fall."

Asher leaned forward, his green eyes locking directly with the lens, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that carried more weight than a shout.

"The storm ends when I say it ends. PRIME, your Guiding Light is here, and I’ll shine through whatever darkness any storm may bring. So Maryland, or whoever you are, ask yourself this: Are you prepared to face what comes after the storm clears?"

He stepped back, his gaze lingering on the camera for a moment longer before turning away. The sound of the rain had faded completely now, replaced by an eerie stillness, the calm after the storm. Asher walked to the edge of the set, the faint tick of the stopwatch the only sound in the room.

Without looking back, he spoke one final line, his voice echoing with quiet intensity.

"When the dust settles, the world will remember one thing: I am inevitable."

The screen faded to black, the rhythmic ticking of the stopwatch continuing into the void before fading into silence.