Post by Death Incarnate on Jan 31, 2016 0:03:48 GMT -6
The sensations still resounded within her mind, passing through the rest of her with a speed and ferocity akin to the most pleasant of carnal tingles. As winter-tainted nature rushed past the window in a blur, the slightly-hollow echo still reverberating down her arms and through her body as it had when refurbished steel collided with flesh and bone. The collective gasps of the audience viewing the slaughter and the shrieking exclamation of the victim’s partner upon witnessing the power of Chaos...ah, if the Mistress of Discord wasn’t careful she’d find herself making a u-turn and a beeline. Right into the arms of her Bloody Queen.
But let it never be said that Emma had no self-control. Some may question her sanity or motivations or the veracity of her grand plan, but none dare question her potency or focus. Steel smashing into flesh seemingly crushed the hopes of herself and Joanna where it comes to vying for the Twin City Championships, but Emma felt exactly zero remorse or loss. Events, in fact, transpired exactly as she wished them to. And the rush was still powerfully invigorating days after the fact. As she sits quietly in the passenger seat of Doll’s black Cadillac, her chin resting within her palm as she stares at the rapidly-passing rustic landscape, her mind does in fact wander. It wanders back to a time immemorial in the life of Death Incarnate.
Doll passes a glance Emma’s way a couple of times, as is her wont when the Nihilst gets that quiet, thoughtful look about her. She’d known Emma for a long time. Longer than anyone in the Chosen or the Horsewomen, in fact, and better than even Joanna herself. And something sinister percolated in the mind of the Nihilist. The heat near-palpably emanating from her told Doll as much along with the perfect stillness. Oddly enough, even the slight rush of air from the heating vents didn’t seem to cause a stirring of her attire. Clearing her throat softly, the tensing of Emma’s full form spied out of the corner of her eye, Doll addresses her Mistress quietly.
”We’ll arrive shortly,” she begins with some tentativity. A thoughtful Emma was often a dangerous one. ”If I may, Mistress, I’m a bit surprised that we’re even doing this. It seems, how would one put it...too literal?”
Silently, the Nihilist’s eyes avert in Doll’s direction.
”Would it utterly shock you, to your very core, if I were to equate this diversion to having, of all things, a ‘girly moment’?”
Having taking a hand from the wheel for a sip of something steaming from a stylish cup resting in the console, Doll is suddenly very glad that the vessel hadn’t reached her cotton candy pink lips. Coffee and leather simply do not mix and a spray of thermomolecularly-enhanced caffiene extract all over the windshield and dash would be a real pain...even if they weren’t on the road.
”Y-Yes...it would, actually.”
”...I thought as much.”
Attention replaced upon the roiling fields, fences and ramshackle buildings left to the ravages of time and nature, Emma continued to speak, albeit quietly.
”Time passes, old dusty windows and tattered doors long locked and barred to the whims of even their keepers are suddenly thrust open,” Emma continued quietly, having one of her poetic moments, ”and into the voids left within me at the hands of charlatans flow sights and sounds considerably alien.”
”Were you possessed of nightmares again, Mistress?”
Concern tinges Doll’s tone against her better judgment. Emma, she knew, didn’t take well to anything resembling coddling or pity. Not even from those who rightfully cared for her well-being. Mistress of Discord that she is, though, even she finds the currents of Chaos difficult to navigate from time to time. If a fierce rebuttal was expected, it was for naught.
”Not by the definition of others,” replies Emma coolly, finally giving Doll her full attention. ”You knew of the Emerald Bough, back in a place we once called home, did you not?”
Her expression twisting up cutely in thought, Doll pauses, then nods.
”I did, yes.”
”Memories of it lead me here, swaying on the winds of Chaos.”
”On such a note, you’ve not told me where ‘here’ is yet. Considering the environment,” Doll pauses, squinting through the sunlight pouring in from near-directly ahead, ’it is a wonder the GPS is of any use at all.”
Smiling thinly, Emma returns her attention to the window and says nothing further. Doll passes another glance her way, but the Nihilist is back within her own mind. Pondering the mention of the Emerald Bough in her own head, Doll presses on down the dirt-and-gravel path, feeling every bump and hearing every crunch as she eases the sedan along.
Presently, they come upon another of the hand-built fences, though this one is of higher quality. The same goes for the barn and other buildings a short distance ahead. Neither road sign nor other ubiquitous marker denotes this place as serving one purpose or the other. Is it a private, family farm? A commercial one? This one in particular has neither the swaying stalks of corn or rows of apple trees that one might expect, but there are plenty of animals about within the fenced areas and buildings. Horses, to be specific.
Now, Emma will never be considered the sort to “light up a room” nor has she ever been referred to as a “joy to be around”. In fact, the young lady has never shown interest in anything other than words and actions that further the mission she’s set herself upon. But there’s no way to say it other than to describe the Nihilist’s face as “lighting up” upon sight of the creatures now coming into view. And that smile isn’t a whole “wow, she can smile after all!” expression, either. It’s more of a Wednesday Addams’ “she’s scaring me!” expression...at least from our perspective.
”Ah,” murmurs Doll as the realization sets in. ”I understand now.”
A certain eagerness exists in Doll’s expression also, though it is no match for that of that of Emma.
”A facet of the mission, Mistress, or a moment of personal pleasure?”
In answering this, Emma seems to require time to consider her answer. The car comes to a stop outside the gates, allowing her to step from it and take in that distinct scent on the air. Tattered jeans, her old studded-and-strapped leather jacket and well-worn boots have her almost looking the part for the day, a few wisps of hair flying about in the breeze while the rest are drawn into a messy-yet-functional braid.
”One perhaps, the other certainly.”
Thanks to the chilly weather, Doll has foregone her usual shiny attire and dressed in a manner similar to Emma but with, shall we say, newer and fresher fashions. A middle-aged gentleman built by years of hard, honest work meets the two women at the gate and while Emma’s utter disdain for the less-fair sex is in full force, she finds the wherewithal to bite it back as she addresses the man, who tips his hat in greeting as he walks up.
”Afternoon, ladies. We spoke earlier on the phone, I’m assumin’?”
”We did.”
The man’s brown eyes go from one to the other, searchingly, then settle on Emma again. Gesturing politely toward the largest of the barns behind the house, he turns on a booted heel in the assumption that they’ll follow.
”Come with me, then. I’m sure you’ll find somethin’ to yer likin’.”
Emma and Doll do just that, and the scene goes to black as they pass the fence. For them, it is a few hours later when next the scene comes to life. The sedan pulls up in front of the Compound, then around to the eastern side of the building where an addition to the building is seen. Four garage doors line the front of the outward-built portion and it is the first of these that Doll activates with a remote on her visor, pulling into the empty parking bay. The door close behind them as the engine is shut off, both women exiting the vehicle into an area that would serve the needs of any auto mechanic.
A small office sits in the corner, empty yet equipped, while the far wall bordering this area and the Compound proper is laden with racks, shelves and rolling cases of tools and other implements. A few labeled cabinets and locked cases, as well, are visible. The area is immaculate, having only been used for parking up to this point, but considering the growth of this place, in terms of personnel and square feet, it stood to reason that soon enough they would be employing someone to handle duties in this space. None of it gathers Emma’s attention, nor Doll’s, as they pass through the far door and into the Compound proper.
”Mistress, Ma’am...welcome back.”
The greeting comes via a calm voice from off to the right, the view swinging about to show Ellimere approaching the two women. She bows slightly, respectfully, a gesture which both Emma and Doll return with a nod of acknowledgement. Dressed in a simple black business suit, she has a folder tucked under her arm with a hand clasping it as she reaches the pair.
”If I may, Mistress, I need to speak with Miss Merriweather about a fax that came through during your trip,” Ellimere continues, keeping a respectful tone as she always did with these two. ”I was informed that it was urgent.”
”Urgent? Hmm, I wasn’t expecting anything today,” responds Doll musingly, running a hand through her reddish hair as she turns to Emma. ”I must tend to this, Mistress.”
Emma, appearing unnaturally calm, looks upon both women and nods gently without saying a word. As Ellimere and Doll take the steps up to the second floor office, Emma idly watching them go, the Nihilist sniffs the air briefly. Her expression hardens a little and she begins looking about, taking in another inhale or two before finally, and to anyone watching seemingly at random, heading off towards the main hall. She doesn’t get more than a few paces past the door when there’s a bit of an outburst from one of the offices, and out the flung-open door storms Joanna Thade.
One dark brow elevated, Emma stays where she is, arms folded as she briefly hears someone from within the room calling after the Warchild. It’s most likely Shields but what he says isn’t intelligible as Joanna slams the door behind her and stalks off down the hall. It isn’t until Emma clears her throat that Thade whirls around, finally noticing Emma there. There’s a tense silence before the Nihilist breaks it.
”You’ve the look that screams of blood and broken toys,” she says gently, tilting her head to the side a bit. ”Why?”
”Goldie, do you seriously need to ask that question? When have I ever needed a reason to maim or bloody things?! I’m your Warchild,” Joanna retorts, enunciating her nickname with authority. ”Destruction and War are what I do. The only question is who or what is in my way.”
Spreading her arms out a bit with a small shrug, Emma folds them back across her chest, looking at Joanna dead-on. It would seem that her moment of zen from earlier in the day was still, for the moment, impenetrable.
”Considering the direction you’re facing, that would put me in your way, my dear,” is Emma’s responds, delivered quietly and evenly. ”And I think that is for the best. So if you’re intent on making mayhem, come forth and show me your power. Or,” she continues, approaching the blue-haired mayhem-maker standing further down the hall, ”you can instead tell me what’s wrong and allow your Golden Princess a chance to lead her lover towards a bit of self-healing.”
Starring as Emma approached, Joanna seemed to have thoughts going a mile a minute within her head. So tightly coiled, she looked as though she could have cleared the several feet between them, driving Emma to the concrete floor and delivering damage before the Nihilist could properly react. Or, perhaps, the tension was just threatening to shake her to pieces. If Emma knew the whys and wherefores of Joanna’s situation, she wasn’t saying. If she feared an assault or worse, she didn’t show it. Instead, Joanna took a step back, pointing a blue-tipped finger at Emma.
”So first I get head-shrinking from Shields, off-schedule in fact, and now I have to put up with more mind games from you?! And in top of that you're so damn calm right now, as if this is funny?!”
Her words flowed as rapidly as her thoughts, giving Emma a momentary opening. Before Joanna’s senses could acclimate to the swift motion, Emma was already right in front of her, a hand tightly gripping the collar and neck of her shirt. Emma pulled the slightly-shorter Joanna forward a bit, enough that the tips of their noses touched, and whispered into her partner and lover’s face.
”If you’re going to strike me, do it. If you’re going to scream, curse or cry, do that, too,” Emma whispers, the distance assuring that despite the near-silent words, Joanna would hear them clearly. ”But after that is done, you’re going to give me the pieces of your soul and I’m going to put you back together whether you like it or not.”
The whisper became forceful and while Emma still exuded calm she, like Joanna, could fly off the handle at the drop of a pin.
”Our main force is so close to being complete. Now, more than ever, I need you to be the best you can be, my love. So let me do what I must.”
When first grasped, Joanna’s hands immediately went to grab hold of Emma’s, latching on tightly and digging her nails into the other woman’s sleeve. Had it been flesh upon flesh, Emma would be dripping blood right now. Had Joanna lunged an inch forward, she would have smashed Emma’s nose and probably knocked her back or down. But with those words from the Nihilist, Joanna seemed unable or unwilling to do either of those things. Instead, she altered her grip on Emma’s wrist, holding it not like an animal grasping a fresh kill with fangs and claws, but more akin to a lifeline.
”The walls, ceilings...the people wandering the halls...the constant chattering and nagging...it’s getting to me, Goldie. I have no freedom here. I may as well be in a cell again...and the whispers…the whispers from Toad are back. Unhinged, crazy, psycho, I know I am above such words but they eat at me. I want and don't...I need and can't...must stop or end them. I need air! ”
Letting go, but not drawing from Joanna’s grip, Emma instead slides her hand back so that the Warchild is holding on to it. Most of what comes forth from the blue-haired woman at that point is in whispers, heated and furious one moment while whispered and tremulous the next. In the midst of this, Shields pokes his head out the door of the office with a concerned look but one stare from Emma has him freeze, nod and draw back in without a word.
Joanna, lost in her silent diatribe, doesn’t even notice.
The door shuts with a soft click. Pausing but not looking back, Joanna takes in a few breaths before regaining something resembling composure. She meets Emma’s gaze briefly before the Nihilist turns around and, still with a hold of Joanna’s hand, starts leading her back the way Emma came.
”Wait...where are you taking me?”
The question isn’t answered before we get another brief fade-out. Opening up again moments later, Emma and Joanna are shown striding into the woods by the Compound, past the mayhem left my the latter last time around. Following in their wake are two of the Chosen: Luca, the pretty, blonde audio/video expert who handles most of the Chaossworn’s promo tasks, is matching Joanna’s exact step. Pandora, who looks a touch younger and more colorful, and who by appearance alone could be the Suicide Squad Harley Quinn’s stunt double in a heartbeat, follows Emma with a spring in her step. The foursome come to a stopping point at the edge of the still-standing trees with Emma herself inhaling deeply of the natural ambiance as she looks about.
”Yes, this will do nicely,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. ”This should allow you a bit of peace to deliver your message, my Warchild. Luca will tend to your recording duties.”
A statement to which Luca nods happily, her favorite portable camera in hand and warmed up already. Emma, nodding to her, turns to Pandora just as the latter pops a rather large bubble of gum.
”And you will be coming with me, Pandora. I’m sure you won’t mind, will you?”
Her smile is not as sweet, but the devious wickedness makes up for it as Pandora nods enthusiastically. Emma then turns and walks to Joanna, her half-gloved hand going to the Warchild’s cheek. The blue-haired, hammer-wielding anarchist had barely turned before the Mistress of Discord had leaned in, pressing their lips together none-too-shyly. Typically, Emma wasn’t large on PDA, but at that moment she felt the undeniable urge.
Joanna was surprised, but only at first. Soon she was fully reciprocating...as if to let go of Emma was to let go of life itself. Emma’s fingers wove into the Warchild’s loose-hanging hair and gripped it in a moment of possessiveness before slipping loose as they parted. Drawing in a very necessary breath of air, the Nihilist licked her lips and rested her forehead against Joanna’s with a dangerous smile.
Out of their line of sight, Luca blushes at the sight and only dares glance out of the corner of her eye. Pandora, on the other hand, fans herself comically while watching with wide eyes. The Chaossworn, however, pay neither any mind for the moment. Emma’s entire focus is on Joanna and the Warchild...well, she needs a moment to catch her breath.
”Run and be free. Return to me without burden and I’ll see your energy put to proper use.”
Joanna nods as she bites her lower lip playfully. Taking a moment to place Hephty at Death's feet, Joanna motions for Luca to follow with a single finger.
“I will hunt for my words before returning with our message riveting off my tongue,” the Warchild calls as she takes off in a full run, deep into the forest, with Luca nipping at her heels.
”Lovely.”
Turning to Pandora with a raised brow, Emma watches as the resident tech head of the Chosen gets her act together in a heartbeat. Hoisting her camera up, she gives Emma the signal that she’s ready to record at her command. The Nihilist, cane in her right hand, heaves up Joanna’s treasured hammer and rests it over her left shoulder as she makes her own way into the woods, speaking over her shoulder to the camera as Pandora follows, now out of sight.
”They sought to placate us.”
Having been almost genial moments ago, the electronic eye of the camera upon her and the intangible-yet-present attention of thousands and more hanging upon every word and motion brought out Death Incarnate in all her glory. Even in her quiet voice, those words were weighty, laden with meaning.
”Akin to tossing meat before a slavering predator, hoping the seconds worth of diverted attention would allow a mostly-clean getaway, Sangue and her ilk set a pair of post-teen hipsters in our path. And to sweeten the pot, they dangled an opportunity at prestige in the form of leather and gold like a carrot upon a stick.”
The further her description goes, the colder her voice becomes.
”As if they sensed the impending doom,” Emma muses, her delivery becoming more contemplative than acidic. ”Mmm. Perhaps Sangue is craftier than I gave her credit for in the first place. But it is no matter. The sparkly children will have their opportunity at the gold as we have decreed.”
Stopping in her tracks, now a good distance into the woods, Emma pops Hephty off her shoulder and rams the head of the maul into the ground fiercely. The impact crushes a few stones easily beneath it, grinding them into the dirt and grass. Whipping her head around, hair dancing artfully about her half-scarred face, Emma stares coldly into Pandora’s camera.
”Those of you watching, listening...mark those words: As WE have decreed. You did not earn your opportunity at the Twin City Championships, children. You were GIVEN it. If you succeed, a debt is owed us. If you fail, you will have learned a powerful lesson,” even delivered at a medium tone, the words are forceful and direct. ”But the outcome concerns us not for, by the end of Double Jeopardy, our strength will have reached its pinnacle. And from there, a new rise toward the Heaven that we will rend to pieces. That those trinkets will adorn our waists in due time is ineffable fact. Those...and all others.”
She clips the cane to her left hip, letting it sway gently to the motions of her body. And then...she takes up Hephty herself. The weight of the weapon is something she is not used to, obviously, but she heaves the weapon with aplomb, smashing the maul portion into a tree, snarling out a name with every repeated impact.
”Katie Moicelle…”
The first blow dents the tree, bark crunching under the impact.
”...Tyler Storm…”
A second has a more muted noise upon impact, deepening the depression.
”...Tyron Bickerton…”
Sap oozes from the tree’s wound now, more of the living foliage splintering under the increasingly rapid impacts.
”...Hardcore Heath…”
A double swing, either on purpose or as a note to the referred champions being of the tag variety, occurs before verbal continuation.
”...Ryder Blade…”
A rustle to go along with the sharp crack now. It would seem that, should this keep up, someone had best be ready to yell Timber. Sweat beads on Emma’s features, her eyes wide and wild as Death Incarnate gives in to her own potent, chaotic wrath.
”...Casanova English!”
The tree yet stands, but that last swing would make Harley Quinn proud: the hammer is embedded in the tree trunk for several seconds before it finally falls to the grass, dirt and debris. Breathing heavily, Emma throws her head back and laughs shriekingly up at the slowly-darkening sky. Spreading her arms wide, she embraces the encroaching darkness, now whispering to it and to those named, those possessed of gold.
”The day approaches when the lot of you shall submit your medals and accolades to we. One at a time or all at once, we shall trample the land flat with your bodies beneath it. Who shall be first and who shall have the displeasure of watching the dismantling to the very end as they await their time? Chaos shall decide,” Emma pontificates, her right hand reaching toward her left hip, clasping the handle of her cane. ”But lest they think themselves as forgotten as the neon wenches…”
The motion is reminiscent of the Japanese art of iadio, the draw-slash. Swift, clean and precise. Emma’s blade flashes from its case, cleaving in two a low branch upon the hammered tree, which clings for a single heartbeat before falling. The other, due to the vertical direction, takes a few more heartbeats than the last but soon joins its mate in the floral carnage at the Nihilist’s feet.
”...Patrick Jones and Owen Gonsalves…”
Shaking the debris loose with a flick of her blade, Emma sheaths it with a soft click as she feels a shadow step into place near her. She turns, spotting Joanna after a fashion, allowing a trace smile to appear.
”...we would not pity you even had we the capacity.”
“No longer do we rely on shadows. We are the Chaossworn. And if anyone has an issue they'd like to address, we’re not hard to find.”
Joanna boasts as Pandora needs only shift just slightly to take in not only Joanna and Emma, but Luca as well. Even in the low light Joanna’s cerulean locks have a glow all their own, still slightly mussed from Emma’s grip earlier. Emma knew that her partner would eventually find her and was pleased that it did not take longer.
As the woman kneels before her, Emma sets her hands upon the woman’s shoulders with both affection and reverence. They are silent until Emma breaks the respite, releasing her touch that Joanna might retrieve her hammer from the forest floor.
”You, like the rest, shall seek to judge us. We will be called many things: stalkers, evil women, psychotics...more and more, colorful, hateful and otherwise. Patrick Jones will try to call upon the past, as though his victory over the mere shell of my Warchild, wrapped in the cocoon of false hope and prostration, means anything in the here and now,” Emma says softly, still gazing at her Warchild unerringly. ”You barely survived War at much less than her full potential. By my side, with a freedom none other can offer her, her power is a magnificent disaster of bloody delight. You will be crushed. Even the so-called dangerous nature of your partner is of no consequence. Yes, Owen, I’ve heard the tales…”
Joanna scoffs at Emma’s mention of PJ’s partner. With a tone that cries out for competition and bloodshed, the Warchild expresses her opinion of Owen’s history.
“You mean the bedtime stories? If you want to see danger and damage, our locker room is open. If you want to see a restrained massacre you’ll enjoy our match at Double Jeopardy.”
As the words drip from her lips, Joanna rises to her feet with Hephty in hand, positioned as a scepter of power. She stands barely shorter than her partner, but even more menacing. While Death is calm, collected and patient, War is impassioned, hungry and restless. Their bodies echo their namesakes and only Death’s cool words keep War from brandishing her hammer.
”Alone we are powerful, even whilst masks and cloaks restrain our true power and influence the masses to our liking. Together...such devastating force spreads not just as a cohesive unit, but singly. This Joanna, alone, many weeks ago would have turned you into paste, Jones,” Emma states with conviction, giving her partner a knowing look. ”At her rightful place by my side, still fighting on her own? We would be speaking of the late Patrick Jones. And you, Owen? You’re a virgin in terms of facing power such as ours. You’ll beg for another chance to tangle with the magic lass after we flay you open like bovines for the slaughter.”
Joanna licks her lips as Emma alludes to a fantasy Joanna had expressed plenty of times. But now with such fat cows presented War could almost taste the blood, so much she had to speak up.
“‘Tis a feast for all the world to see, boys. For no man would look at the coming storm and try to brave. Wisdom would have them running for this hills, yet here you stand, foolish children holding onto each other for a nice jerk-off. Well, put your cocks away, boys, if you want to keep them, and pray the ref does his job. Consider yourselves lucky Sangue didn’t approve our request for a much more fun version of our match. But alas, I’ll leave Death to her devices, I’ve what I came for”
Lifting Hephty over her shoulder, the Warchild achieves an unnatural angle as she bends her head and back towards Death for a brief kiss on Emma’s exposed neck. Lingering to take a deep breath, Joanna gasps weakly as Emma places her cold grip on her neck and cheek. The two share a moment before simultaneously nodding and Joanna skips off into the woods and out of Pandora’s view. Luca follows after her swiftly and we’re left staring Death in the face...figuratively and literally.
”As if there were any more to say…”
She remarks with a measure of fondness, looking after her Warchild. But as it is so many times, it takes but a breath or a breeze to take away a smile and replace it with a scowl. Or, in Emma’s case, to wipe the visual slate that is her face clean. Her expression, now, is little other than a cold mask.
”...but isn’t there always? You lot...like to talk. The greater the pressure put upon you, the more erratic the delivery and frequency,” Emma continues, not dashing off into the darkness like Joanna but staying in the midst of her destructive tendencies, ”until you end up saying nothing, resembling babbling toddlers with less sense than the real thing. The true failing? You don’t produce. Your actions ring emptier than your words.”
A soft snap is heard and Emma takes the sheathed blade from her side. She brings up the skull-adorned handle up, gazing into it’s ‘eyes’. One would swear that she was conversing with it from the way her lips moved, yet no sound came from the sword...or her.
”Before setting foot within a VoW ring, we bred a miasmatic fear that enveloped this place. From the very first, we stained our hands with blood and put before this company, including you, Owen and Patrick, a choice,” Death Incarnate’s tone necessitates Pandora edging closer with her camera. ”And to this very moment, you have all forced us to make your choice for you. How many must fall before you realize your folly? Before setting foot in your rings, the bodies seen and unseen stacked to the ceiling. Before we have finished, they will scrape the clouds. We have neither opponents nor enemies...only victims.”
Bringing the weapon closer, Emma places the lightest of kisses upon the silver skull, her eyes closing. Whispering still, her exhales caress the handle of her blade in, quite honestly, an enticing fashion.
”Wins and losses have their proper place, something we recognize but the rest of you do not. Beating the socialite swine was unnecessary yet desirable, so we made it fun by embarrassing them both; first by chasing away Rebecca Taint like a scolded beast and then putting her delusional partner down like one,” a faint smile shows amusement at that particular interlude. ”The neons...we decimated them and fed the remains to the Requiem on the proverbial silver platter for reasons I’ve not a care to rehash. On which level of the spectrum do you two fall, Patrick and Owen?”
Taking a knee before the battered tree, Emma touches the tip of her sheathed weapon to the forest floor, her hands still clasping it tight as her head bows.
”Just another example. Defeating you earns attention for the uprising. Destroying offers more mortar and stone for the monument we will build upon VoW’s scalded remains. Defeat by you…”
Licking her lips, Emma bites the tip of her tongue as she draws the blade loose about an inch, pressing the pad of her thumb against the razor-sharp edge. Blood immediately begins to flow from the cut, and a squeeze of her fingers into her palm increases that flow. Turning her hand, she sets the blade down and lets the dark red liquid pool in her other palm.
”...hastens the latter. Pinning one of us, making one of us tap out...you would be fools to think that so simple an outcome would equate to victory. As the neons tromp like lemmings to their promised opportunity at glory, do they truly LOOK like winners with their swollen wounds and discolored flesh?”
Seemingly satisfied with the small pool of crimson in her hand, Emma draws fingertips worth of it from her flesh, rubbing it against the bashed-open portion of the tree, where it will show most prominently.
”It will be the same for you two. Falling to our tandem onslaught, truly, is your only chance to escape without permanent scarring. But are you even intelligent enough to sacrifice your precious win/loss records for the sake of your careers and lives? Owen is too reckless for such consideration. You, Patrick? Maybe,” she says before pausing, eyeing her ‘art’ with a critical eye before continuing both in speech and...er…’painting’. ”But I have already seen how it will be: you will hurl yourselves at us with reckless abandon, counting in part on the size difference to offer you an advantage. With certainty, your reputations are for naught, as is whatever passes for talent within your fleshy shells. Finite, limited examples of discordant focus and physicality...versus the heralds of change, bearing the mantles of destiny-altering warriors whom angels and demons alike have come to fear. Patrick Jones and Owen Gonsalves...versus the Chaossworn.”
Pushing up to her feet, Emma licks the excess blood from her thumb, then closes the hand which had borne her living paint, staining nearly the entire surface that is her palm and fingers. Pressing that hand against the undamaged portion of the battered wooden effigy, she crouches again, momentarily, to pick up her blade. The look on her face? One of utter satisfaction.
”Strife shall rend your emotions asunder as Fury sears your very soul and War crushes the shells containing both before the lot will cast your remains before Death. That is the future for you, Patrick and Owen, as well as all of VoW. The Horsewomen ride as one for the first, leading to the last...at Double Jeopardy.”
She turns on her heel, striding away from the tree. Ever curious, Pandora ambles over to the tree, to where she can get a clear view of what Emma had been drawing with her own life’s blood. What she takes in, for but a moment, is this:
”Pandora!”
The camera is quickly whipped around, with Emma already staring right at it. She gestures with a motion of her head, again turning and walking visibly toward the Compound even as clouds gather above. The scene then fades to final darkness.
But let it never be said that Emma had no self-control. Some may question her sanity or motivations or the veracity of her grand plan, but none dare question her potency or focus. Steel smashing into flesh seemingly crushed the hopes of herself and Joanna where it comes to vying for the Twin City Championships, but Emma felt exactly zero remorse or loss. Events, in fact, transpired exactly as she wished them to. And the rush was still powerfully invigorating days after the fact. As she sits quietly in the passenger seat of Doll’s black Cadillac, her chin resting within her palm as she stares at the rapidly-passing rustic landscape, her mind does in fact wander. It wanders back to a time immemorial in the life of Death Incarnate.
Doll passes a glance Emma’s way a couple of times, as is her wont when the Nihilst gets that quiet, thoughtful look about her. She’d known Emma for a long time. Longer than anyone in the Chosen or the Horsewomen, in fact, and better than even Joanna herself. And something sinister percolated in the mind of the Nihilist. The heat near-palpably emanating from her told Doll as much along with the perfect stillness. Oddly enough, even the slight rush of air from the heating vents didn’t seem to cause a stirring of her attire. Clearing her throat softly, the tensing of Emma’s full form spied out of the corner of her eye, Doll addresses her Mistress quietly.
”We’ll arrive shortly,” she begins with some tentativity. A thoughtful Emma was often a dangerous one. ”If I may, Mistress, I’m a bit surprised that we’re even doing this. It seems, how would one put it...too literal?”
Silently, the Nihilist’s eyes avert in Doll’s direction.
”Would it utterly shock you, to your very core, if I were to equate this diversion to having, of all things, a ‘girly moment’?”
Having taking a hand from the wheel for a sip of something steaming from a stylish cup resting in the console, Doll is suddenly very glad that the vessel hadn’t reached her cotton candy pink lips. Coffee and leather simply do not mix and a spray of thermomolecularly-enhanced caffiene extract all over the windshield and dash would be a real pain...even if they weren’t on the road.
”Y-Yes...it would, actually.”
”...I thought as much.”
Attention replaced upon the roiling fields, fences and ramshackle buildings left to the ravages of time and nature, Emma continued to speak, albeit quietly.
”Time passes, old dusty windows and tattered doors long locked and barred to the whims of even their keepers are suddenly thrust open,” Emma continued quietly, having one of her poetic moments, ”and into the voids left within me at the hands of charlatans flow sights and sounds considerably alien.”
”Were you possessed of nightmares again, Mistress?”
Concern tinges Doll’s tone against her better judgment. Emma, she knew, didn’t take well to anything resembling coddling or pity. Not even from those who rightfully cared for her well-being. Mistress of Discord that she is, though, even she finds the currents of Chaos difficult to navigate from time to time. If a fierce rebuttal was expected, it was for naught.
”Not by the definition of others,” replies Emma coolly, finally giving Doll her full attention. ”You knew of the Emerald Bough, back in a place we once called home, did you not?”
Her expression twisting up cutely in thought, Doll pauses, then nods.
”I did, yes.”
”Memories of it lead me here, swaying on the winds of Chaos.”
”On such a note, you’ve not told me where ‘here’ is yet. Considering the environment,” Doll pauses, squinting through the sunlight pouring in from near-directly ahead, ’it is a wonder the GPS is of any use at all.”
Smiling thinly, Emma returns her attention to the window and says nothing further. Doll passes another glance her way, but the Nihilist is back within her own mind. Pondering the mention of the Emerald Bough in her own head, Doll presses on down the dirt-and-gravel path, feeling every bump and hearing every crunch as she eases the sedan along.
Presently, they come upon another of the hand-built fences, though this one is of higher quality. The same goes for the barn and other buildings a short distance ahead. Neither road sign nor other ubiquitous marker denotes this place as serving one purpose or the other. Is it a private, family farm? A commercial one? This one in particular has neither the swaying stalks of corn or rows of apple trees that one might expect, but there are plenty of animals about within the fenced areas and buildings. Horses, to be specific.
Now, Emma will never be considered the sort to “light up a room” nor has she ever been referred to as a “joy to be around”. In fact, the young lady has never shown interest in anything other than words and actions that further the mission she’s set herself upon. But there’s no way to say it other than to describe the Nihilist’s face as “lighting up” upon sight of the creatures now coming into view. And that smile isn’t a whole “wow, she can smile after all!” expression, either. It’s more of a Wednesday Addams’ “she’s scaring me!” expression...at least from our perspective.
”Ah,” murmurs Doll as the realization sets in. ”I understand now.”
A certain eagerness exists in Doll’s expression also, though it is no match for that of that of Emma.
”A facet of the mission, Mistress, or a moment of personal pleasure?”
In answering this, Emma seems to require time to consider her answer. The car comes to a stop outside the gates, allowing her to step from it and take in that distinct scent on the air. Tattered jeans, her old studded-and-strapped leather jacket and well-worn boots have her almost looking the part for the day, a few wisps of hair flying about in the breeze while the rest are drawn into a messy-yet-functional braid.
”One perhaps, the other certainly.”
Thanks to the chilly weather, Doll has foregone her usual shiny attire and dressed in a manner similar to Emma but with, shall we say, newer and fresher fashions. A middle-aged gentleman built by years of hard, honest work meets the two women at the gate and while Emma’s utter disdain for the less-fair sex is in full force, she finds the wherewithal to bite it back as she addresses the man, who tips his hat in greeting as he walks up.
”Afternoon, ladies. We spoke earlier on the phone, I’m assumin’?”
”We did.”
The man’s brown eyes go from one to the other, searchingly, then settle on Emma again. Gesturing politely toward the largest of the barns behind the house, he turns on a booted heel in the assumption that they’ll follow.
”Come with me, then. I’m sure you’ll find somethin’ to yer likin’.”
Emma and Doll do just that, and the scene goes to black as they pass the fence. For them, it is a few hours later when next the scene comes to life. The sedan pulls up in front of the Compound, then around to the eastern side of the building where an addition to the building is seen. Four garage doors line the front of the outward-built portion and it is the first of these that Doll activates with a remote on her visor, pulling into the empty parking bay. The door close behind them as the engine is shut off, both women exiting the vehicle into an area that would serve the needs of any auto mechanic.
A small office sits in the corner, empty yet equipped, while the far wall bordering this area and the Compound proper is laden with racks, shelves and rolling cases of tools and other implements. A few labeled cabinets and locked cases, as well, are visible. The area is immaculate, having only been used for parking up to this point, but considering the growth of this place, in terms of personnel and square feet, it stood to reason that soon enough they would be employing someone to handle duties in this space. None of it gathers Emma’s attention, nor Doll’s, as they pass through the far door and into the Compound proper.
”Mistress, Ma’am...welcome back.”
The greeting comes via a calm voice from off to the right, the view swinging about to show Ellimere approaching the two women. She bows slightly, respectfully, a gesture which both Emma and Doll return with a nod of acknowledgement. Dressed in a simple black business suit, she has a folder tucked under her arm with a hand clasping it as she reaches the pair.
”If I may, Mistress, I need to speak with Miss Merriweather about a fax that came through during your trip,” Ellimere continues, keeping a respectful tone as she always did with these two. ”I was informed that it was urgent.”
”Urgent? Hmm, I wasn’t expecting anything today,” responds Doll musingly, running a hand through her reddish hair as she turns to Emma. ”I must tend to this, Mistress.”
Emma, appearing unnaturally calm, looks upon both women and nods gently without saying a word. As Ellimere and Doll take the steps up to the second floor office, Emma idly watching them go, the Nihilist sniffs the air briefly. Her expression hardens a little and she begins looking about, taking in another inhale or two before finally, and to anyone watching seemingly at random, heading off towards the main hall. She doesn’t get more than a few paces past the door when there’s a bit of an outburst from one of the offices, and out the flung-open door storms Joanna Thade.
One dark brow elevated, Emma stays where she is, arms folded as she briefly hears someone from within the room calling after the Warchild. It’s most likely Shields but what he says isn’t intelligible as Joanna slams the door behind her and stalks off down the hall. It isn’t until Emma clears her throat that Thade whirls around, finally noticing Emma there. There’s a tense silence before the Nihilist breaks it.
”You’ve the look that screams of blood and broken toys,” she says gently, tilting her head to the side a bit. ”Why?”
”Goldie, do you seriously need to ask that question? When have I ever needed a reason to maim or bloody things?! I’m your Warchild,” Joanna retorts, enunciating her nickname with authority. ”Destruction and War are what I do. The only question is who or what is in my way.”
Spreading her arms out a bit with a small shrug, Emma folds them back across her chest, looking at Joanna dead-on. It would seem that her moment of zen from earlier in the day was still, for the moment, impenetrable.
”Considering the direction you’re facing, that would put me in your way, my dear,” is Emma’s responds, delivered quietly and evenly. ”And I think that is for the best. So if you’re intent on making mayhem, come forth and show me your power. Or,” she continues, approaching the blue-haired mayhem-maker standing further down the hall, ”you can instead tell me what’s wrong and allow your Golden Princess a chance to lead her lover towards a bit of self-healing.”
Starring as Emma approached, Joanna seemed to have thoughts going a mile a minute within her head. So tightly coiled, she looked as though she could have cleared the several feet between them, driving Emma to the concrete floor and delivering damage before the Nihilist could properly react. Or, perhaps, the tension was just threatening to shake her to pieces. If Emma knew the whys and wherefores of Joanna’s situation, she wasn’t saying. If she feared an assault or worse, she didn’t show it. Instead, Joanna took a step back, pointing a blue-tipped finger at Emma.
”So first I get head-shrinking from Shields, off-schedule in fact, and now I have to put up with more mind games from you?! And in top of that you're so damn calm right now, as if this is funny?!”
Her words flowed as rapidly as her thoughts, giving Emma a momentary opening. Before Joanna’s senses could acclimate to the swift motion, Emma was already right in front of her, a hand tightly gripping the collar and neck of her shirt. Emma pulled the slightly-shorter Joanna forward a bit, enough that the tips of their noses touched, and whispered into her partner and lover’s face.
”If you’re going to strike me, do it. If you’re going to scream, curse or cry, do that, too,” Emma whispers, the distance assuring that despite the near-silent words, Joanna would hear them clearly. ”But after that is done, you’re going to give me the pieces of your soul and I’m going to put you back together whether you like it or not.”
The whisper became forceful and while Emma still exuded calm she, like Joanna, could fly off the handle at the drop of a pin.
”Our main force is so close to being complete. Now, more than ever, I need you to be the best you can be, my love. So let me do what I must.”
When first grasped, Joanna’s hands immediately went to grab hold of Emma’s, latching on tightly and digging her nails into the other woman’s sleeve. Had it been flesh upon flesh, Emma would be dripping blood right now. Had Joanna lunged an inch forward, she would have smashed Emma’s nose and probably knocked her back or down. But with those words from the Nihilist, Joanna seemed unable or unwilling to do either of those things. Instead, she altered her grip on Emma’s wrist, holding it not like an animal grasping a fresh kill with fangs and claws, but more akin to a lifeline.
”The walls, ceilings...the people wandering the halls...the constant chattering and nagging...it’s getting to me, Goldie. I have no freedom here. I may as well be in a cell again...and the whispers…the whispers from Toad are back. Unhinged, crazy, psycho, I know I am above such words but they eat at me. I want and don't...I need and can't...must stop or end them. I need air! ”
Letting go, but not drawing from Joanna’s grip, Emma instead slides her hand back so that the Warchild is holding on to it. Most of what comes forth from the blue-haired woman at that point is in whispers, heated and furious one moment while whispered and tremulous the next. In the midst of this, Shields pokes his head out the door of the office with a concerned look but one stare from Emma has him freeze, nod and draw back in without a word.
Joanna, lost in her silent diatribe, doesn’t even notice.
The door shuts with a soft click. Pausing but not looking back, Joanna takes in a few breaths before regaining something resembling composure. She meets Emma’s gaze briefly before the Nihilist turns around and, still with a hold of Joanna’s hand, starts leading her back the way Emma came.
”Wait...where are you taking me?”
The question isn’t answered before we get another brief fade-out. Opening up again moments later, Emma and Joanna are shown striding into the woods by the Compound, past the mayhem left my the latter last time around. Following in their wake are two of the Chosen: Luca, the pretty, blonde audio/video expert who handles most of the Chaossworn’s promo tasks, is matching Joanna’s exact step. Pandora, who looks a touch younger and more colorful, and who by appearance alone could be the Suicide Squad Harley Quinn’s stunt double in a heartbeat, follows Emma with a spring in her step. The foursome come to a stopping point at the edge of the still-standing trees with Emma herself inhaling deeply of the natural ambiance as she looks about.
”Yes, this will do nicely,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. ”This should allow you a bit of peace to deliver your message, my Warchild. Luca will tend to your recording duties.”
A statement to which Luca nods happily, her favorite portable camera in hand and warmed up already. Emma, nodding to her, turns to Pandora just as the latter pops a rather large bubble of gum.
”And you will be coming with me, Pandora. I’m sure you won’t mind, will you?”
Her smile is not as sweet, but the devious wickedness makes up for it as Pandora nods enthusiastically. Emma then turns and walks to Joanna, her half-gloved hand going to the Warchild’s cheek. The blue-haired, hammer-wielding anarchist had barely turned before the Mistress of Discord had leaned in, pressing their lips together none-too-shyly. Typically, Emma wasn’t large on PDA, but at that moment she felt the undeniable urge.
Joanna was surprised, but only at first. Soon she was fully reciprocating...as if to let go of Emma was to let go of life itself. Emma’s fingers wove into the Warchild’s loose-hanging hair and gripped it in a moment of possessiveness before slipping loose as they parted. Drawing in a very necessary breath of air, the Nihilist licked her lips and rested her forehead against Joanna’s with a dangerous smile.
Out of their line of sight, Luca blushes at the sight and only dares glance out of the corner of her eye. Pandora, on the other hand, fans herself comically while watching with wide eyes. The Chaossworn, however, pay neither any mind for the moment. Emma’s entire focus is on Joanna and the Warchild...well, she needs a moment to catch her breath.
”Run and be free. Return to me without burden and I’ll see your energy put to proper use.”
Joanna nods as she bites her lower lip playfully. Taking a moment to place Hephty at Death's feet, Joanna motions for Luca to follow with a single finger.
“I will hunt for my words before returning with our message riveting off my tongue,” the Warchild calls as she takes off in a full run, deep into the forest, with Luca nipping at her heels.
”Lovely.”
Turning to Pandora with a raised brow, Emma watches as the resident tech head of the Chosen gets her act together in a heartbeat. Hoisting her camera up, she gives Emma the signal that she’s ready to record at her command. The Nihilist, cane in her right hand, heaves up Joanna’s treasured hammer and rests it over her left shoulder as she makes her own way into the woods, speaking over her shoulder to the camera as Pandora follows, now out of sight.
”They sought to placate us.”
Having been almost genial moments ago, the electronic eye of the camera upon her and the intangible-yet-present attention of thousands and more hanging upon every word and motion brought out Death Incarnate in all her glory. Even in her quiet voice, those words were weighty, laden with meaning.
”Akin to tossing meat before a slavering predator, hoping the seconds worth of diverted attention would allow a mostly-clean getaway, Sangue and her ilk set a pair of post-teen hipsters in our path. And to sweeten the pot, they dangled an opportunity at prestige in the form of leather and gold like a carrot upon a stick.”
The further her description goes, the colder her voice becomes.
”As if they sensed the impending doom,” Emma muses, her delivery becoming more contemplative than acidic. ”Mmm. Perhaps Sangue is craftier than I gave her credit for in the first place. But it is no matter. The sparkly children will have their opportunity at the gold as we have decreed.”
Stopping in her tracks, now a good distance into the woods, Emma pops Hephty off her shoulder and rams the head of the maul into the ground fiercely. The impact crushes a few stones easily beneath it, grinding them into the dirt and grass. Whipping her head around, hair dancing artfully about her half-scarred face, Emma stares coldly into Pandora’s camera.
”Those of you watching, listening...mark those words: As WE have decreed. You did not earn your opportunity at the Twin City Championships, children. You were GIVEN it. If you succeed, a debt is owed us. If you fail, you will have learned a powerful lesson,” even delivered at a medium tone, the words are forceful and direct. ”But the outcome concerns us not for, by the end of Double Jeopardy, our strength will have reached its pinnacle. And from there, a new rise toward the Heaven that we will rend to pieces. That those trinkets will adorn our waists in due time is ineffable fact. Those...and all others.”
She clips the cane to her left hip, letting it sway gently to the motions of her body. And then...she takes up Hephty herself. The weight of the weapon is something she is not used to, obviously, but she heaves the weapon with aplomb, smashing the maul portion into a tree, snarling out a name with every repeated impact.
”Katie Moicelle…”
The first blow dents the tree, bark crunching under the impact.
”...Tyler Storm…”
A second has a more muted noise upon impact, deepening the depression.
”...Tyron Bickerton…”
Sap oozes from the tree’s wound now, more of the living foliage splintering under the increasingly rapid impacts.
”...Hardcore Heath…”
A double swing, either on purpose or as a note to the referred champions being of the tag variety, occurs before verbal continuation.
”...Ryder Blade…”
A rustle to go along with the sharp crack now. It would seem that, should this keep up, someone had best be ready to yell Timber. Sweat beads on Emma’s features, her eyes wide and wild as Death Incarnate gives in to her own potent, chaotic wrath.
”...Casanova English!”
The tree yet stands, but that last swing would make Harley Quinn proud: the hammer is embedded in the tree trunk for several seconds before it finally falls to the grass, dirt and debris. Breathing heavily, Emma throws her head back and laughs shriekingly up at the slowly-darkening sky. Spreading her arms wide, she embraces the encroaching darkness, now whispering to it and to those named, those possessed of gold.
”The day approaches when the lot of you shall submit your medals and accolades to we. One at a time or all at once, we shall trample the land flat with your bodies beneath it. Who shall be first and who shall have the displeasure of watching the dismantling to the very end as they await their time? Chaos shall decide,” Emma pontificates, her right hand reaching toward her left hip, clasping the handle of her cane. ”But lest they think themselves as forgotten as the neon wenches…”
The motion is reminiscent of the Japanese art of iadio, the draw-slash. Swift, clean and precise. Emma’s blade flashes from its case, cleaving in two a low branch upon the hammered tree, which clings for a single heartbeat before falling. The other, due to the vertical direction, takes a few more heartbeats than the last but soon joins its mate in the floral carnage at the Nihilist’s feet.
”...Patrick Jones and Owen Gonsalves…”
Shaking the debris loose with a flick of her blade, Emma sheaths it with a soft click as she feels a shadow step into place near her. She turns, spotting Joanna after a fashion, allowing a trace smile to appear.
”...we would not pity you even had we the capacity.”
“No longer do we rely on shadows. We are the Chaossworn. And if anyone has an issue they'd like to address, we’re not hard to find.”
Joanna boasts as Pandora needs only shift just slightly to take in not only Joanna and Emma, but Luca as well. Even in the low light Joanna’s cerulean locks have a glow all their own, still slightly mussed from Emma’s grip earlier. Emma knew that her partner would eventually find her and was pleased that it did not take longer.
As the woman kneels before her, Emma sets her hands upon the woman’s shoulders with both affection and reverence. They are silent until Emma breaks the respite, releasing her touch that Joanna might retrieve her hammer from the forest floor.
”You, like the rest, shall seek to judge us. We will be called many things: stalkers, evil women, psychotics...more and more, colorful, hateful and otherwise. Patrick Jones will try to call upon the past, as though his victory over the mere shell of my Warchild, wrapped in the cocoon of false hope and prostration, means anything in the here and now,” Emma says softly, still gazing at her Warchild unerringly. ”You barely survived War at much less than her full potential. By my side, with a freedom none other can offer her, her power is a magnificent disaster of bloody delight. You will be crushed. Even the so-called dangerous nature of your partner is of no consequence. Yes, Owen, I’ve heard the tales…”
Joanna scoffs at Emma’s mention of PJ’s partner. With a tone that cries out for competition and bloodshed, the Warchild expresses her opinion of Owen’s history.
“You mean the bedtime stories? If you want to see danger and damage, our locker room is open. If you want to see a restrained massacre you’ll enjoy our match at Double Jeopardy.”
As the words drip from her lips, Joanna rises to her feet with Hephty in hand, positioned as a scepter of power. She stands barely shorter than her partner, but even more menacing. While Death is calm, collected and patient, War is impassioned, hungry and restless. Their bodies echo their namesakes and only Death’s cool words keep War from brandishing her hammer.
”Alone we are powerful, even whilst masks and cloaks restrain our true power and influence the masses to our liking. Together...such devastating force spreads not just as a cohesive unit, but singly. This Joanna, alone, many weeks ago would have turned you into paste, Jones,” Emma states with conviction, giving her partner a knowing look. ”At her rightful place by my side, still fighting on her own? We would be speaking of the late Patrick Jones. And you, Owen? You’re a virgin in terms of facing power such as ours. You’ll beg for another chance to tangle with the magic lass after we flay you open like bovines for the slaughter.”
Joanna licks her lips as Emma alludes to a fantasy Joanna had expressed plenty of times. But now with such fat cows presented War could almost taste the blood, so much she had to speak up.
“‘Tis a feast for all the world to see, boys. For no man would look at the coming storm and try to brave. Wisdom would have them running for this hills, yet here you stand, foolish children holding onto each other for a nice jerk-off. Well, put your cocks away, boys, if you want to keep them, and pray the ref does his job. Consider yourselves lucky Sangue didn’t approve our request for a much more fun version of our match. But alas, I’ll leave Death to her devices, I’ve what I came for”
Lifting Hephty over her shoulder, the Warchild achieves an unnatural angle as she bends her head and back towards Death for a brief kiss on Emma’s exposed neck. Lingering to take a deep breath, Joanna gasps weakly as Emma places her cold grip on her neck and cheek. The two share a moment before simultaneously nodding and Joanna skips off into the woods and out of Pandora’s view. Luca follows after her swiftly and we’re left staring Death in the face...figuratively and literally.
”As if there were any more to say…”
She remarks with a measure of fondness, looking after her Warchild. But as it is so many times, it takes but a breath or a breeze to take away a smile and replace it with a scowl. Or, in Emma’s case, to wipe the visual slate that is her face clean. Her expression, now, is little other than a cold mask.
”...but isn’t there always? You lot...like to talk. The greater the pressure put upon you, the more erratic the delivery and frequency,” Emma continues, not dashing off into the darkness like Joanna but staying in the midst of her destructive tendencies, ”until you end up saying nothing, resembling babbling toddlers with less sense than the real thing. The true failing? You don’t produce. Your actions ring emptier than your words.”
A soft snap is heard and Emma takes the sheathed blade from her side. She brings up the skull-adorned handle up, gazing into it’s ‘eyes’. One would swear that she was conversing with it from the way her lips moved, yet no sound came from the sword...or her.
”Before setting foot within a VoW ring, we bred a miasmatic fear that enveloped this place. From the very first, we stained our hands with blood and put before this company, including you, Owen and Patrick, a choice,” Death Incarnate’s tone necessitates Pandora edging closer with her camera. ”And to this very moment, you have all forced us to make your choice for you. How many must fall before you realize your folly? Before setting foot in your rings, the bodies seen and unseen stacked to the ceiling. Before we have finished, they will scrape the clouds. We have neither opponents nor enemies...only victims.”
Bringing the weapon closer, Emma places the lightest of kisses upon the silver skull, her eyes closing. Whispering still, her exhales caress the handle of her blade in, quite honestly, an enticing fashion.
”Wins and losses have their proper place, something we recognize but the rest of you do not. Beating the socialite swine was unnecessary yet desirable, so we made it fun by embarrassing them both; first by chasing away Rebecca Taint like a scolded beast and then putting her delusional partner down like one,” a faint smile shows amusement at that particular interlude. ”The neons...we decimated them and fed the remains to the Requiem on the proverbial silver platter for reasons I’ve not a care to rehash. On which level of the spectrum do you two fall, Patrick and Owen?”
Taking a knee before the battered tree, Emma touches the tip of her sheathed weapon to the forest floor, her hands still clasping it tight as her head bows.
”Just another example. Defeating you earns attention for the uprising. Destroying offers more mortar and stone for the monument we will build upon VoW’s scalded remains. Defeat by you…”
Licking her lips, Emma bites the tip of her tongue as she draws the blade loose about an inch, pressing the pad of her thumb against the razor-sharp edge. Blood immediately begins to flow from the cut, and a squeeze of her fingers into her palm increases that flow. Turning her hand, she sets the blade down and lets the dark red liquid pool in her other palm.
”...hastens the latter. Pinning one of us, making one of us tap out...you would be fools to think that so simple an outcome would equate to victory. As the neons tromp like lemmings to their promised opportunity at glory, do they truly LOOK like winners with their swollen wounds and discolored flesh?”
Seemingly satisfied with the small pool of crimson in her hand, Emma draws fingertips worth of it from her flesh, rubbing it against the bashed-open portion of the tree, where it will show most prominently.
”It will be the same for you two. Falling to our tandem onslaught, truly, is your only chance to escape without permanent scarring. But are you even intelligent enough to sacrifice your precious win/loss records for the sake of your careers and lives? Owen is too reckless for such consideration. You, Patrick? Maybe,” she says before pausing, eyeing her ‘art’ with a critical eye before continuing both in speech and...er…’painting’. ”But I have already seen how it will be: you will hurl yourselves at us with reckless abandon, counting in part on the size difference to offer you an advantage. With certainty, your reputations are for naught, as is whatever passes for talent within your fleshy shells. Finite, limited examples of discordant focus and physicality...versus the heralds of change, bearing the mantles of destiny-altering warriors whom angels and demons alike have come to fear. Patrick Jones and Owen Gonsalves...versus the Chaossworn.”
Pushing up to her feet, Emma licks the excess blood from her thumb, then closes the hand which had borne her living paint, staining nearly the entire surface that is her palm and fingers. Pressing that hand against the undamaged portion of the battered wooden effigy, she crouches again, momentarily, to pick up her blade. The look on her face? One of utter satisfaction.
”Strife shall rend your emotions asunder as Fury sears your very soul and War crushes the shells containing both before the lot will cast your remains before Death. That is the future for you, Patrick and Owen, as well as all of VoW. The Horsewomen ride as one for the first, leading to the last...at Double Jeopardy.”
She turns on her heel, striding away from the tree. Ever curious, Pandora ambles over to the tree, to where she can get a clear view of what Emma had been drawing with her own life’s blood. What she takes in, for but a moment, is this:
”Pandora!”
The camera is quickly whipped around, with Emma already staring right at it. She gestures with a motion of her head, again turning and walking visibly toward the Compound even as clouds gather above. The scene then fades to final darkness.
