Post by Death Incarnate on Feb 27, 2016 9:58:24 GMT -6
”Look upon the Crimson Flayer and weep, children of the dirt. Hold those you love close, sealing their ears with wax and their eyes with blessed cotton lest her sight and song reach them, stoking Fury in even the purest of hearts. Feel the coming of the Lustful Avatar, walkers of the broken road. Bar thine very being from all that is temptation and desire, clinging to what purity may spring still in your breast. To meet hers eyes is to abandon resolve and to hear her voice is to be smitten with unending carnality
The horn of War sounds behind them, the rumbling of broken gods and demons eternal, overtaking the thundering hooves of warhorses and the clanging of her grand hammer. Among her sisters she is the catalyst which brings their influence to the fore, irrevocably turning the worthy to the side of the Riders Four. Her every step bleeds the earth, her screams of wrath splitting the sky.
And in their wake...Death. And naught more needs said, for should any lay a sense upon she of the Pale Steed, it shall be their last.”
- Translation from The Book of the End
February 18th, 2016, 10:47pm
Erie Insurance Arena - Erie, Pennsylvania
Backstage
The creaking, battered locker door swayed gently, its remaining grip upon the hinges tenuous at best. With a silent exhale from the room’s sole occupant, the metal gave a protesting squeak before giving up its position and clattering loudly to the floor. The others had departed some time ago, bade to take their leave by Death herself. It was not long beyond that exodus that War likewise slipped away, leaving Emma Carlisle standing alone in the graveyard of cheap carpet, refurbished steel and silent screams.
Not twenty minutes ago, War had had another outburst, swinging her hammer about madly and bringing this ruin to the present environment. Frustration and dissatisfaction bubbled over, the already-volatile cocktail of negative emotions amongst the Horsewomen coming to a head in a very violent way. Emma wore evidence of Joanna’s wrath to this moment and would for several days after the fact by the sight of it. The three jagged crimson lines running the width of her neck and past her collar still oozed crimson, soaking into the black of her clothing. It would take a sharper set of eyes and ears to note the rest, the fragile nature of Death’s silent breathing and the hints of tension that tightened her features when a particular inhale or exhale was too deep.
It becomes more obvious, painfull so in fact, when Emma crouches to take up the strap of her bag, rising with the canvas over her shoulder. Turning on her heel, she exits the locker room and makes her way towards the parking area at the back of the arena. Not three steps down the hall she comes to a stop and turns to the left. A silent huff blows a few unbound ebony strands away from her face...and then she’s on her way again. There’s a hurry of footsteps behind her, someone struggling to both catch up and keep a respectable, and safe, distance. We hear them gathering their breath to speak, yet not what they might say due to Emma cutting them off.
”Did I not instruct the lot of you to depart some time ago?”
”Am I not known for disobeying your instructions when I feel it is in your best interests for me to do so?”
Eleanor Merriweather manages to match Emma’s step after trotting forward, not that such is truly a challenge. Death moves at a pace less than which she is accustomed, something that causes her no small amount of frustration.
”Miss Sangue is going to be displeased,” the former Doll notes with a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the wrecked changing area. ”Again.”
”Cut her a check and have done with it. I have no desire to listen to her prattle.”
”That is not entirely the point, Mistress, if I may be so blunt.”
She had matched Emma’s pace, but Eleanor still remained a step behind Death. Not the best place to be figuratively or literally. Stopping in her tracks, Emma turns to stare coldly at her Executive Administrator and for a moment we can actually hear her teeth grinding as her jaw sets painfully tight.
”Oh?”
A single word, a solitary syllable, yet saying so much. It displayed plainly Emma’s irritation as well as the residual pain of her knock-down drag-out with Joanna a bit ago. It also illustrated well her consuming disdain for the leader of VoW and utter disregard for her concerns. Eleanor, once upon a time, might have cringed at Emma’s reaction but she was no longer as weak as she had been.
”We’re not a popular group around here, Mistress, in case you were unaware,” Eleanor retorts with more edge than was necessary, another example of her advanced backbone these days. ”Comments like those spouted about the late Cera, utter disregard for company employees and property, flagrantly disregarding regulations...these are the kinds of things that get people shoved out the door.”
Was that a bit of a smile peeking through the curtain of tri-colored hair streaming from Emma’s head. If so, it was neither pleasant nor positive as evidenced by Death’s retort. ”Is that so? And why is that? Because we don’t have the tenure or oversized ego of violent cavemen such as Matthew Robinson? No, that can’t be the only reason,” she retorts musingly, turning to face Eleanor and throwing her head back to send her black, indigo and cobalt hair out of her face. ”Maybe because we’re not some cult of personality with mindless worshippers like the Orphanage? Or hokey goofballs with as much sense as a cinderblock like the Requiem?” Emma stalks forward, coming within a few inches of Eleanor who, to her credit, stands her ground. ”No, I have it: we don’t sell as many t-shirts as Stacy Jones or Zahara Matisse. We don’t make the man-children hoot and holler or the teenybopping tweens squeal and bounce.”
Every passing word, every pained breath forced past her black-painted lips, shoved Emma closer to an imposing, overwhelming rage the likes of which she’d not fallen into for several months. All progress, it would seem, was in danger of being washed away before Eleanor’s widening eyes.
”Tell me again how people don’t like us, Eleanor, and I’ll show you a Horsewoman who doesn’t care one whit for their banal, ineffective opinions.” Emma’s tone is whisper level, probably just as much for the sake of her ribs as it is an example of her burgeoning viciousness of mood. ”Sangue knew the risks before she even drew up the contracts. We follow no one’s lead, adhering the rules of none save ourselves. If she and her cronies can’t accept that, there are plenty of places that would.”
”I have always respected your desire to march to your own beat and the same goes for the rest, but you’re pushing too hard, Mistress.” taking a slow, bracing breath and pausing to gather herself, Doll finally finishes her comment. ”You shouldn’t have goaded Joanna into that fight earlier.”
”I did what was necessary. It will not be spoken of again. Is that clear?”
”Y-Yes, Mistress. But what about…”
Emma quickly holds up a hand, not as if to strike her Executive Administrator but to gesture for silence before the unspoken question reaches the air. Her hand trembles, clenches into a fist and finally lowers. It opens just before landing upon Eleanor’s shoulder, and Death’s grip squeezes tightly enough that Eleanor audibly gasps, swallowing back most of the noise as Emma lifts her head enough to stare into the redhead’s eyes.
”The nightmares are back. Have been for the last couple of weeks.” Eleanor’s eyes widen considerably and Emma merely nods before continuing. ”I will...endeavor...to not put us under undue stress when it comes to this place. But I promise nothing.”
Hesitating at first, Eleanor reaches up to clasp the hand upon her shoulder and, to her surprise, Emma does not jerk away. The redhead nods and falls into step with Death Incarnate again as they continue on their way out of the arena.
February 19th, 2016, 12:02am
Wingate Hotel - Erie, Pennsylvania
Not far removed from the incident earlier in the night, we’re shown Eleanor Merriweather once again as she walks slowly down the hotel hallway, her milky expression etched with considerable concern. Upon reaching the door to room 517, she turns with a hand raised...then lowers it and mutters under her breath before pacing back up the maroon-and-gold carpet. How many times had she hesitated? How many more would it take before she got up the gumption to rap on this 517th chamber door?
Never more, for as she walks past it again for the umpteenth time the door opens and out steps Opeare Shields. He very nearly bumps into Eleanor but both stop themselves. The psychologist is about to apologize for the near-infraction but after a single look into the redhead’s eyes he changes his mind.
”Miss Merriweather? What is wrong?”
”Nothing…I was just looking for the ice machine.”
”It is at the end of the hall. That way,” Opeare replies, gesturing in the appropriate direction. Eleanor starts to head that way, having an out, but finds Opeare following alongside her. ”While you fetch what you need, would you mind filling me in what is bothering you?”
Her pink lips part to tell him in no uncertain terms that everything is hunky-dory, but then her mouth snaps shut. She knows better than to feed him any of those sorts of lines. The man is a professional after all.
”Part of it is the altercation earlier this evening, something which I’m sure is no surprise to you,” she begins, her reply bringing a grave nod from Dr. Shields. ”The rest is something Emma told me as we were leaving the arena. Do you remember a short time back when I was given that jump drive data about Miss Carlisle’s past?”
Opeare nods, giving Eleanor as much of his attention as possible. ”After deliberating very seriously about it you decided to give it to her and let her reconnect, hoping she would find some kind of peace and balance with herself. Am I to take it,” he pauses as they come to a stop at the vending machines and the ice dispenser, feeding bills to the former for a bottle of juice. ”that something has happened?”
”She told me that the nightmares are back.”
Eleanor stares at the ice machine as if it were some manner of alien construct while Opeare, sipping of his beverage, watches her quietly.
”It sounded as if she meant to blame the group’s recent altercations on that particular situation. It feels as if she’s about to start regressing, losing all the progress she’s made,” her speaking pace picks up until her words come in rapid fire, quickly becoming flustered. ”and if that happens, she’ll be a danger to everyone! All our carefully-crafted plans will be wasted! And I don’t even want to know how that would affect Joanna...”
She’s stilled, silenced, by the hand on her arm, but at first it makes her jump. Opeare gives her a moment to calm down before he responds.
”Has she told you the nature of the nightmares?”
”They start the night Victoria ended and the morning Emma began.”
Finishing the rest of the bottle, Opeare finds himself staring at the ice machine as well. It’s difficult to tell if he’s thinking or waiting for Eleanor to elaborate. Both become silent for several moments until he cuts through, speaking as gently as possible.
”If she loses what was, she will regress considerably. I do not need to tell you that the Emma of old could not survive in the here and now.” Dr. Shields speaks gravely, the chill within the meaning of his words has Eleanor hugging herself suddenly, hands rubbing up and down her arms as if to ward off a bitter wind. ”I can’t let that happen. Too much is at stake...not just for her, but all of us. What do you suggest, Opeare?”
”I highly doubt she will speak to me about it, and there is probably little I could do anyway. Her mind is like a black box to which even she does not have a key,” he admits, sounding utterly displeased with this shortcoming in his ability where a possible patient is concerned. ”This may take drastic measures, Eleanor. I cannot openly suggest such things, but…”
The redhead nods slowly, arms falling limp to her sides, her head lowering as though the weight of the world were pressing down suddenly, imposingly. Shaking it back and forth, she finally brings her gaze to the doctor and offers a weak smile.
”I was afraid you’d say that. But, still...thank you. I think I know what I have to do.”
Leaning up, Eleanor places a peck on Opeare’s cheek before turning and heading back down the hallway. Confused in the slightest, the doctor looks after her curiously before turning back to the machine with a snort.
”For everyone’s sake, El, I certainly hope you do.”
Returning whence he came, Opeare re-enters his room and closes the door behind him, an elevator letting out a loud ding at the far end of the corridor as we fade to black.
February 26th, 2016, 4:31am
The Compound - Malibu, California
2F - Mistress Suite, Bedroom
A dim glow emits from somewhere within the room, though it is the reflection and not the source that we’re shown. The four-poster, king-sized bed at the center of the rear wall is filled by two forms which barely take up half the surface. Blankets and sheets cover them both, one draped comfortably atop the other. The blue hair splayed artfully over the black quilt quite obviously belongs to War herself, her arm wrapped at waist-level around the likewise-covered form of Emma Carlisle, who rests upon her back. It is strange to see the pair so peaceful after the troubling events of late. Strange and a bit disconcerting. Where their opponents might have thought an advantage was given due to the violence between the two, it was little but false hope...an atheist’s prayer as Emma might say.
Death herself, her hand rests upon Joanna’s bare back, fingers gently stirring within the cerulean hair falling loose over War’s slender, scarred figure. She sleeps, and yet is very aware of her partner’s presence. We won’t put too much thought into what brought them to this point, however. If it isn’t obvious, it’s better left to imagination. It would have been nice, perhaps, to leave them to their slumber, yet an insistent buzzing and flickering lights going off in time with the intrusive, ‘silent’ noise causes Emma’s eyes to open. Fatigue and irritation mingle in her stare, focused on the bed’s canopy above before averting to the nightstand. Her free arm she moves to pick up the phone, brushing a thumb against the screen. Her nose scrunches up as she sniffs quietly and taps the screen a few more times, putting it to her ear. A voice answers after only one ring, familiar yet not quite.
”Mulholland.”
”You are aware of the time, Detective, yes?”
The man on the other end has the good sense to sound both apologetic and soothing.
”Yes, Miss…”
He pauses for a moment before responding further, adding slightly to Emma’s irritation. Joanna stirs slightly against her, mumbling in her sleep but otherwise not moving..
”I’m sorry, is there a name you prefer? Professional or personal?”
”...perhaps formalities should be put aside so you can tell me why you’ve woken me before the sun itself?”
”It concerns Gregory Gaines and Benson Thatcher.”
The names bring a sharp tension to Emma, resulting in a shift of her body that by appearance is subtle but in strength is enough to make Joanna’s eyes blink open beneath the curtain of blue. She turns slightly to look up at Emma, calmed for the moment by the waking thanks to Death’s cool hand stroking her hair more potently. It’s hard to tell if Emma’s angry, scared or something else. When she replies for Jacob to continue, she sounds more like a child than a woman.
”...go on…”
There’s no quelling Joanna’s curiosity at this point, but still thick with sleep she stays quiet for the time being. The detective takes his time in answering.
”Mr. Gaines is dead. Mr. Thatcher, shortly after, escaped custody. Whereabouts unknown.”
Her silence is telling, as is the shiver passing through her, one that Joanna can no longer ignore.
”...Princess?”
Her sleep-thickened voice is soft, a little worrisome. Emma meets her eyes ever so briefly before staring forward again.
”And…?”
”There’s an APB out on him. If you’re curious, we moved Michael Milton to a more secure location upon learning the news.”
”Y-Yes...o-okay...thank you…”
It sounded as if a reply was yet to come but Emma cut off the call. Hovering between shrieking fear and fury yet unwilling to bring War into that, at least for the moment. Still the questioning stare was focused on Emma and having no recourse, Death answered it.
”Old Sir is dead...Nightmare is gone.”
The Emma of old was speaking, the barely-functional woman-child who often had to have her keeper at the time do her speaking for her, who couldn’t even refer to herself as ‘I’. It was a side Joanna had never seen, at least not fully. Emma sat up in bed, Joanna moving to wrap both arms around Emma’s form, thankfully holding the blanket up enough to cover what needed covering. But Death would not be consoled. Still, she was gentle with her partner.
”I need to handle business now, love. Lost time will be made up for when I return. Wait for me?”
Joanna grinded her teeth before she nodded and reluctantly released her lover before slipping back down under the covers and watching as Emma rose, the shadows doing well to mask her form as she stepped out of sight. Via an intercom, she spoke from the shadows.
”Pandora, meet me in the armory in an hour. Bring the camera.”
”Yes’ ma’am!”
The scene cuts out.
February 26th, 2016, 6:07am
The Compound - Malibu, California
2B - Armory
The shade of a moment between which the camera’s microphone kicks on whilst the visual recording software is still working its way up, a sustained yet wavering sound seeps through the speakers. Behind it there’s a soft breathing...gentle yet heavy in its depth. That bare second later the view kicks on, though it takes time before it can adjust to the dim light of the room. The bulk of the details are shadows upon shadows, the vague outline of racks and shelves lining the walls, the hulking shapes of machinery and other, less-obvious forms. Had the lights been on to their brightest we’d know plenty more. As it is, Death Incarnate prefers to keep the glow on the down-low, focus on her, on the current center of her being.
The grind, we discover, comes from a whestone sharpening wheel, powered via a small pedal upon which Emma’s booted right foot rests. Once in a while sparks fly as she puts the edge of a black-handled, skull-tipped blade to the rapidly-spinning disk, but more obvious is the gleam of steel and the thin, razor-sharp edge of the weapon. The doubled-edged sword, a perfectly centered blood groove down the center, typically resides within the black cane Emma keeps with her at all times. Death has a troubled expression on her face, one not typical for her, one most likely born of the early morning phone call from earlier. Or that’s the impression we get from what we can see of it. Her black hoodie covers most of her features from head to waist, the rest masked by ripped black jeans with fine mesh beneath and the aforementioned boots, the only detail on any of it being the bones embroidered into the sweatshirt.
Feeling the camera’s activation somehow, Death’s head lifts, one eye visible staring back at it before she averts her attention back to the wheel, the grinding stopping for a few moments as she holds the blade gently in both hands before her, like an offering.
”A pity you’re nowhere near right now, Heath. No Sangue peering down from above at our every move, seeking to muzzle and restrain my wrath. No foolish spectators to mar the air with their wailing, screaming warnings to you and epithets to I. No one…”
She lashes out with the blade, a quick sidewise swing, ending with a snapping flick of the blade as if to shake hot crimson from it.
”...to get in the way of the truth.”
As gently as one would hold a child she rests the blade in her lap and leans forward, elbows upon thighs, clenched hands rested upon by her chin. She stares at the wheel as it steadily slows to a stop.
”I’m in no mood for fancy euphemisms and poetic reasoning pertaining to how I’m going to defeat you, Heath. Time enough for colorful words and pageantry at another time. All that I see before me right now is death, darkness, destruction...not in the form of one Hardcore Heath but as it tangibly spills from mine own hands. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ as the saying goes, right? Well,” Emma pauses, the single visible eye closing. ”I’m more pre-emptive than that. I will do unto you before you can do unto me. I’ve not forgotten our little war of words over social media once upon a time. Boring, you called me, threatening in the same breath to shut me up. How little you thought of the Inevitable months ago. Somehow, I doubt your opinion has changed, creature of habit that you are,” her smile is thin, nearly undetectable. ”Once a fool, always a fool. I’m relatively sure your estranged offspring would agree.”
Because of course Emma would go there. The editing equipment, as a comedian once said, is off. No gloves, no concerns for feelings, no sense in being any other than what one already is. Was it a smile at all that we saw? Perhaps a grimace or just a clenching of the jaw. Either way, it’s gone now. Death’s gaze lowers to the sword in her lap longingly.
”As Sangue tries to bring her flock to heel, she expects us, the Horsewomen of Chaos, to likewise fall in line. And this is what she sends to Death herself?” Gesturing forward with a tired flick of her hand, Emma scoffs. ”A former champion felled by a pair of Sleepover Club-level plebeians, who once painted himself up like an alleyway clown, making habit of getting laid into with beatings from a son who should have gotten the same a decade ago? The only saving grace to be allowed you at Breakthrough 41, Heath,” she pauses long enough to bring a hand up and push back her hood, ”is that your tumor-ridden Requiem partner won’t be there in person to see me embarrass you.”
She allows that to sink in for a moment or two, then snarls audibly.
”Yes, Heath, I am sinking to that level. No boundaries, no concern for feelings. I’m going to poke fun at Tyron for having something growing in what passes for his brain and you for once looking like a dimestore Barnum & Bailey reject. I’m going to laugh at Missy for being subservient to you louts and not having the mental acuity to make a proper sandwich,” she snarks, not leaving much time for us to realize that Death actually made a joke. ”And what would you say in response, anyway? Would you launch a few witty comebacks and veiled threats, perhaps? Oh, but you’ve already said your piece, haven’t you? I think that’s what it was supposed to be, at least.”
Lifting the blade with care, Emma strokes the length of it with a critical eye. Brushing the pad of her thumb along the edge...a little too closely in fact, for it slices easily into her flesh, drawing a dark red line that inexorably drips into and down the groove at the blade’s center. Death does not wince at the slight sting, instead bringing the parted flesh up for closer inspection, heedless of the drip-drip-drip coming from it.
”Hmm. I wonder if yours flows as easily, or whether it would be sweeter to listen to you gasp for the last few breaths left to you. Sever the head and the body dies, along with all the voices inside it, but there’s a more personal sensation that comes with physically forcing the life from someone. The Nail of Eris would make it swift and clean. But my hands tingle at the thought of squeezing every last pulse out of your carcass. You deserve no less, Heath. Perhaps, if I hurry this along Thursday night, you can have a seat on the Oblivion Express to Nowhere right next to dear, departed Cera.”
’Dear and departed’ she may have said, but the tone tells the world that Emma doesn’t give two shits about the woman’s passing. Gathering a plain black cloth from her back pocket, Death cleans the blood from her blade, not bothering with her superficial wound.
”As I said before: no boundaries. Do you think I’d shed one tear if you were to meet with accident in the middle of that ring during our fight? Would anyone?
Emma stares at the camera coldly. Even at her vicious best (worst?) she’d never gone to such heartless lengths in her verbal tirades. But whether through her altercation with Joanna, the call that roused her from her lover’s arms or something else entirely...Death is on a whispering rampage.
”Stalked by the lackey of a dead woman, caned like a dog by the erstwhile offspring he ignored and barely able to keep his thoughts coherent. This is what they place before Death herself,” Emma spits incredulously, ”while Talon and Katalina dine on fresh meat and Joanna gets another round-and-around with the trolling hipster librarian? I should be insulted, Heath. You couldn’t even handle the teenybopping idiots War and I sent your way with a face full of steel and a few less teeth,” she rages softly, another smirk sneaking through, ”and as they traipse around gold they only hold because of our good graces, I’m tasked with sending their leavings to a bed next to his partner. Maybe Sangue fancies me her clean-up crew.”
The very thought disgusts her but masking it as humor allows her to get the words out without retching. Starting up the wheel again, Emma carefully angles the edge of the Nail of Eris against the rough surface, further honing the edge. Her care is such that the noise isn’t overpowering this time, allowing her to converse noticeably over top of it.
”Underestimate me. Mock me. Do everything in your power to try and be intimidating, Heath. I want you to,” she whispers, somehow still audibly. ”It will make it all the sweeter when you Kiss the Abyss so violently that you earn a head wound capable of making even your cancerous partner wince.” The tip of her tongue sneaks out, wetting the black lips it sneaks back between. ”We fed you defeat without raising a finger, War and I. The neon idiots were sent by us to prove your frailty and now, whether you or they realize it or not. But now...what's left? Poor Tyron goes home with a boo-boo on his brain, Missy still aids and abets your idiocy and you can’t even decide which voice to listen to.”
Lifitng the blade from the wheel, Emma presses the flat of it against her brow, the friction-warmed steel of the sides mixed with the cool hollow in the center. She shivers a little, but not from cold.
"Are you understanding yet? Death does not possess sympathy. She does not lighten the load that is the truth for the sake of shoulders that cannot bear the weight. And even then, would it matter? Suppose you do manage to hand me a temporary defeat? What then? You still would not be a champion. Tyron would still be wondering whether he'd ever compete again. Missy would still be Missy. And the Horsewomen...would continue our mission unabated and unhindered," she muses, turning and staring down the edge of the blade, verifying both sharpness and straightness. ”For that matter, every opponent before us at Breakthrough 41 could eke out a one-two-three and the ride would neither slow nor stall. That is not prophecy but truth. It is how we act with what most consider mindless, arrogant impunity because it is, after all, so much easier to hang a simple tag like that on that which we do not understand. But this...is not about that. No, Heath, for now, it is just about you and I.”
Rising, Emma flicks the blade again, shaking off a few errant drops of her own blood before sliding the Nail of Eris into its sheath with a swish and click.
”I refuse to bother correcting you the same way I had to correct Constance Chapin when she tried to make light of me, my methods and my choice of nomenclature. Were I you, I’d scare up the bookish malcontent before Joanna flays her and ask how many stitches it took to close her up after I proved her wrong.”
Slipping the cane sword into the loop at her belt, Emma returns her eyes to Pandora’s camera, both hands lifting to brush her hair back over her ears. She looks tired, angry...but neither finds its way into her address.
”Make no mistake about it: win or lose, Chaos marches on. Believe it or not, Heath,” Emma slowly approaches the camera. ”you may become one of the few to rise from the ashes. I do not like you. I think you’re scum, in fact. But Chaos wants what it wants and if that unerring, inscrutable force desires that you be part of the army of change, that is how it will be. Such will not, however, preempt the suffering you’ve got coming.”
She stops perfectly, right when her shoulders and face fill the focus of the lens.
”Beat me if you can, Heath, but know that in the end you’ll bow to me just like the rest. Either of your own free will or with your face forced into the bloody mud under the rubble of what once was.”
Slipping past the camera, a door opens and closes in the background, prompting Pandora to shut the device off with her typically-perfect timing.
The horn of War sounds behind them, the rumbling of broken gods and demons eternal, overtaking the thundering hooves of warhorses and the clanging of her grand hammer. Among her sisters she is the catalyst which brings their influence to the fore, irrevocably turning the worthy to the side of the Riders Four. Her every step bleeds the earth, her screams of wrath splitting the sky.
And in their wake...Death. And naught more needs said, for should any lay a sense upon she of the Pale Steed, it shall be their last.”
- Translation from The Book of the End
February 18th, 2016, 10:47pm
Erie Insurance Arena - Erie, Pennsylvania
Backstage
The creaking, battered locker door swayed gently, its remaining grip upon the hinges tenuous at best. With a silent exhale from the room’s sole occupant, the metal gave a protesting squeak before giving up its position and clattering loudly to the floor. The others had departed some time ago, bade to take their leave by Death herself. It was not long beyond that exodus that War likewise slipped away, leaving Emma Carlisle standing alone in the graveyard of cheap carpet, refurbished steel and silent screams.
Not twenty minutes ago, War had had another outburst, swinging her hammer about madly and bringing this ruin to the present environment. Frustration and dissatisfaction bubbled over, the already-volatile cocktail of negative emotions amongst the Horsewomen coming to a head in a very violent way. Emma wore evidence of Joanna’s wrath to this moment and would for several days after the fact by the sight of it. The three jagged crimson lines running the width of her neck and past her collar still oozed crimson, soaking into the black of her clothing. It would take a sharper set of eyes and ears to note the rest, the fragile nature of Death’s silent breathing and the hints of tension that tightened her features when a particular inhale or exhale was too deep.
It becomes more obvious, painfull so in fact, when Emma crouches to take up the strap of her bag, rising with the canvas over her shoulder. Turning on her heel, she exits the locker room and makes her way towards the parking area at the back of the arena. Not three steps down the hall she comes to a stop and turns to the left. A silent huff blows a few unbound ebony strands away from her face...and then she’s on her way again. There’s a hurry of footsteps behind her, someone struggling to both catch up and keep a respectable, and safe, distance. We hear them gathering their breath to speak, yet not what they might say due to Emma cutting them off.
”Did I not instruct the lot of you to depart some time ago?”
”Am I not known for disobeying your instructions when I feel it is in your best interests for me to do so?”
Eleanor Merriweather manages to match Emma’s step after trotting forward, not that such is truly a challenge. Death moves at a pace less than which she is accustomed, something that causes her no small amount of frustration.
”Miss Sangue is going to be displeased,” the former Doll notes with a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the wrecked changing area. ”Again.”
”Cut her a check and have done with it. I have no desire to listen to her prattle.”
”That is not entirely the point, Mistress, if I may be so blunt.”
She had matched Emma’s pace, but Eleanor still remained a step behind Death. Not the best place to be figuratively or literally. Stopping in her tracks, Emma turns to stare coldly at her Executive Administrator and for a moment we can actually hear her teeth grinding as her jaw sets painfully tight.
”Oh?”
A single word, a solitary syllable, yet saying so much. It displayed plainly Emma’s irritation as well as the residual pain of her knock-down drag-out with Joanna a bit ago. It also illustrated well her consuming disdain for the leader of VoW and utter disregard for her concerns. Eleanor, once upon a time, might have cringed at Emma’s reaction but she was no longer as weak as she had been.
”We’re not a popular group around here, Mistress, in case you were unaware,” Eleanor retorts with more edge than was necessary, another example of her advanced backbone these days. ”Comments like those spouted about the late Cera, utter disregard for company employees and property, flagrantly disregarding regulations...these are the kinds of things that get people shoved out the door.”
Was that a bit of a smile peeking through the curtain of tri-colored hair streaming from Emma’s head. If so, it was neither pleasant nor positive as evidenced by Death’s retort. ”Is that so? And why is that? Because we don’t have the tenure or oversized ego of violent cavemen such as Matthew Robinson? No, that can’t be the only reason,” she retorts musingly, turning to face Eleanor and throwing her head back to send her black, indigo and cobalt hair out of her face. ”Maybe because we’re not some cult of personality with mindless worshippers like the Orphanage? Or hokey goofballs with as much sense as a cinderblock like the Requiem?” Emma stalks forward, coming within a few inches of Eleanor who, to her credit, stands her ground. ”No, I have it: we don’t sell as many t-shirts as Stacy Jones or Zahara Matisse. We don’t make the man-children hoot and holler or the teenybopping tweens squeal and bounce.”
Every passing word, every pained breath forced past her black-painted lips, shoved Emma closer to an imposing, overwhelming rage the likes of which she’d not fallen into for several months. All progress, it would seem, was in danger of being washed away before Eleanor’s widening eyes.
”Tell me again how people don’t like us, Eleanor, and I’ll show you a Horsewoman who doesn’t care one whit for their banal, ineffective opinions.” Emma’s tone is whisper level, probably just as much for the sake of her ribs as it is an example of her burgeoning viciousness of mood. ”Sangue knew the risks before she even drew up the contracts. We follow no one’s lead, adhering the rules of none save ourselves. If she and her cronies can’t accept that, there are plenty of places that would.”
”I have always respected your desire to march to your own beat and the same goes for the rest, but you’re pushing too hard, Mistress.” taking a slow, bracing breath and pausing to gather herself, Doll finally finishes her comment. ”You shouldn’t have goaded Joanna into that fight earlier.”
”I did what was necessary. It will not be spoken of again. Is that clear?”
”Y-Yes, Mistress. But what about…”
Emma quickly holds up a hand, not as if to strike her Executive Administrator but to gesture for silence before the unspoken question reaches the air. Her hand trembles, clenches into a fist and finally lowers. It opens just before landing upon Eleanor’s shoulder, and Death’s grip squeezes tightly enough that Eleanor audibly gasps, swallowing back most of the noise as Emma lifts her head enough to stare into the redhead’s eyes.
”The nightmares are back. Have been for the last couple of weeks.” Eleanor’s eyes widen considerably and Emma merely nods before continuing. ”I will...endeavor...to not put us under undue stress when it comes to this place. But I promise nothing.”
Hesitating at first, Eleanor reaches up to clasp the hand upon her shoulder and, to her surprise, Emma does not jerk away. The redhead nods and falls into step with Death Incarnate again as they continue on their way out of the arena.
~*~
February 19th, 2016, 12:02am
Wingate Hotel - Erie, Pennsylvania
Not far removed from the incident earlier in the night, we’re shown Eleanor Merriweather once again as she walks slowly down the hotel hallway, her milky expression etched with considerable concern. Upon reaching the door to room 517, she turns with a hand raised...then lowers it and mutters under her breath before pacing back up the maroon-and-gold carpet. How many times had she hesitated? How many more would it take before she got up the gumption to rap on this 517th chamber door?
Never more, for as she walks past it again for the umpteenth time the door opens and out steps Opeare Shields. He very nearly bumps into Eleanor but both stop themselves. The psychologist is about to apologize for the near-infraction but after a single look into the redhead’s eyes he changes his mind.
”Miss Merriweather? What is wrong?”
”Nothing…I was just looking for the ice machine.”
”It is at the end of the hall. That way,” Opeare replies, gesturing in the appropriate direction. Eleanor starts to head that way, having an out, but finds Opeare following alongside her. ”While you fetch what you need, would you mind filling me in what is bothering you?”
Her pink lips part to tell him in no uncertain terms that everything is hunky-dory, but then her mouth snaps shut. She knows better than to feed him any of those sorts of lines. The man is a professional after all.
”Part of it is the altercation earlier this evening, something which I’m sure is no surprise to you,” she begins, her reply bringing a grave nod from Dr. Shields. ”The rest is something Emma told me as we were leaving the arena. Do you remember a short time back when I was given that jump drive data about Miss Carlisle’s past?”
Opeare nods, giving Eleanor as much of his attention as possible. ”After deliberating very seriously about it you decided to give it to her and let her reconnect, hoping she would find some kind of peace and balance with herself. Am I to take it,” he pauses as they come to a stop at the vending machines and the ice dispenser, feeding bills to the former for a bottle of juice. ”that something has happened?”
”She told me that the nightmares are back.”
Eleanor stares at the ice machine as if it were some manner of alien construct while Opeare, sipping of his beverage, watches her quietly.
”It sounded as if she meant to blame the group’s recent altercations on that particular situation. It feels as if she’s about to start regressing, losing all the progress she’s made,” her speaking pace picks up until her words come in rapid fire, quickly becoming flustered. ”and if that happens, she’ll be a danger to everyone! All our carefully-crafted plans will be wasted! And I don’t even want to know how that would affect Joanna...”
She’s stilled, silenced, by the hand on her arm, but at first it makes her jump. Opeare gives her a moment to calm down before he responds.
”Has she told you the nature of the nightmares?”
”They start the night Victoria ended and the morning Emma began.”
Finishing the rest of the bottle, Opeare finds himself staring at the ice machine as well. It’s difficult to tell if he’s thinking or waiting for Eleanor to elaborate. Both become silent for several moments until he cuts through, speaking as gently as possible.
”If she loses what was, she will regress considerably. I do not need to tell you that the Emma of old could not survive in the here and now.” Dr. Shields speaks gravely, the chill within the meaning of his words has Eleanor hugging herself suddenly, hands rubbing up and down her arms as if to ward off a bitter wind. ”I can’t let that happen. Too much is at stake...not just for her, but all of us. What do you suggest, Opeare?”
”I highly doubt she will speak to me about it, and there is probably little I could do anyway. Her mind is like a black box to which even she does not have a key,” he admits, sounding utterly displeased with this shortcoming in his ability where a possible patient is concerned. ”This may take drastic measures, Eleanor. I cannot openly suggest such things, but…”
The redhead nods slowly, arms falling limp to her sides, her head lowering as though the weight of the world were pressing down suddenly, imposingly. Shaking it back and forth, she finally brings her gaze to the doctor and offers a weak smile.
”I was afraid you’d say that. But, still...thank you. I think I know what I have to do.”
Leaning up, Eleanor places a peck on Opeare’s cheek before turning and heading back down the hallway. Confused in the slightest, the doctor looks after her curiously before turning back to the machine with a snort.
”For everyone’s sake, El, I certainly hope you do.”
Returning whence he came, Opeare re-enters his room and closes the door behind him, an elevator letting out a loud ding at the far end of the corridor as we fade to black.
~*~
February 26th, 2016, 4:31am
The Compound - Malibu, California
2F - Mistress Suite, Bedroom
A dim glow emits from somewhere within the room, though it is the reflection and not the source that we’re shown. The four-poster, king-sized bed at the center of the rear wall is filled by two forms which barely take up half the surface. Blankets and sheets cover them both, one draped comfortably atop the other. The blue hair splayed artfully over the black quilt quite obviously belongs to War herself, her arm wrapped at waist-level around the likewise-covered form of Emma Carlisle, who rests upon her back. It is strange to see the pair so peaceful after the troubling events of late. Strange and a bit disconcerting. Where their opponents might have thought an advantage was given due to the violence between the two, it was little but false hope...an atheist’s prayer as Emma might say.
Death herself, her hand rests upon Joanna’s bare back, fingers gently stirring within the cerulean hair falling loose over War’s slender, scarred figure. She sleeps, and yet is very aware of her partner’s presence. We won’t put too much thought into what brought them to this point, however. If it isn’t obvious, it’s better left to imagination. It would have been nice, perhaps, to leave them to their slumber, yet an insistent buzzing and flickering lights going off in time with the intrusive, ‘silent’ noise causes Emma’s eyes to open. Fatigue and irritation mingle in her stare, focused on the bed’s canopy above before averting to the nightstand. Her free arm she moves to pick up the phone, brushing a thumb against the screen. Her nose scrunches up as she sniffs quietly and taps the screen a few more times, putting it to her ear. A voice answers after only one ring, familiar yet not quite.
”Mulholland.”
”You are aware of the time, Detective, yes?”
The man on the other end has the good sense to sound both apologetic and soothing.
”Yes, Miss…”
He pauses for a moment before responding further, adding slightly to Emma’s irritation. Joanna stirs slightly against her, mumbling in her sleep but otherwise not moving..
”I’m sorry, is there a name you prefer? Professional or personal?”
”...perhaps formalities should be put aside so you can tell me why you’ve woken me before the sun itself?”
”It concerns Gregory Gaines and Benson Thatcher.”
The names bring a sharp tension to Emma, resulting in a shift of her body that by appearance is subtle but in strength is enough to make Joanna’s eyes blink open beneath the curtain of blue. She turns slightly to look up at Emma, calmed for the moment by the waking thanks to Death’s cool hand stroking her hair more potently. It’s hard to tell if Emma’s angry, scared or something else. When she replies for Jacob to continue, she sounds more like a child than a woman.
”...go on…”
There’s no quelling Joanna’s curiosity at this point, but still thick with sleep she stays quiet for the time being. The detective takes his time in answering.
”Mr. Gaines is dead. Mr. Thatcher, shortly after, escaped custody. Whereabouts unknown.”
Her silence is telling, as is the shiver passing through her, one that Joanna can no longer ignore.
”...Princess?”
Her sleep-thickened voice is soft, a little worrisome. Emma meets her eyes ever so briefly before staring forward again.
”And…?”
”There’s an APB out on him. If you’re curious, we moved Michael Milton to a more secure location upon learning the news.”
”Y-Yes...o-okay...thank you…”
It sounded as if a reply was yet to come but Emma cut off the call. Hovering between shrieking fear and fury yet unwilling to bring War into that, at least for the moment. Still the questioning stare was focused on Emma and having no recourse, Death answered it.
”Old Sir is dead...Nightmare is gone.”
The Emma of old was speaking, the barely-functional woman-child who often had to have her keeper at the time do her speaking for her, who couldn’t even refer to herself as ‘I’. It was a side Joanna had never seen, at least not fully. Emma sat up in bed, Joanna moving to wrap both arms around Emma’s form, thankfully holding the blanket up enough to cover what needed covering. But Death would not be consoled. Still, she was gentle with her partner.
”I need to handle business now, love. Lost time will be made up for when I return. Wait for me?”
Joanna grinded her teeth before she nodded and reluctantly released her lover before slipping back down under the covers and watching as Emma rose, the shadows doing well to mask her form as she stepped out of sight. Via an intercom, she spoke from the shadows.
”Pandora, meet me in the armory in an hour. Bring the camera.”
”Yes’ ma’am!”
The scene cuts out.
~*~
February 26th, 2016, 6:07am
The Compound - Malibu, California
2B - Armory
The shade of a moment between which the camera’s microphone kicks on whilst the visual recording software is still working its way up, a sustained yet wavering sound seeps through the speakers. Behind it there’s a soft breathing...gentle yet heavy in its depth. That bare second later the view kicks on, though it takes time before it can adjust to the dim light of the room. The bulk of the details are shadows upon shadows, the vague outline of racks and shelves lining the walls, the hulking shapes of machinery and other, less-obvious forms. Had the lights been on to their brightest we’d know plenty more. As it is, Death Incarnate prefers to keep the glow on the down-low, focus on her, on the current center of her being.
The grind, we discover, comes from a whestone sharpening wheel, powered via a small pedal upon which Emma’s booted right foot rests. Once in a while sparks fly as she puts the edge of a black-handled, skull-tipped blade to the rapidly-spinning disk, but more obvious is the gleam of steel and the thin, razor-sharp edge of the weapon. The doubled-edged sword, a perfectly centered blood groove down the center, typically resides within the black cane Emma keeps with her at all times. Death has a troubled expression on her face, one not typical for her, one most likely born of the early morning phone call from earlier. Or that’s the impression we get from what we can see of it. Her black hoodie covers most of her features from head to waist, the rest masked by ripped black jeans with fine mesh beneath and the aforementioned boots, the only detail on any of it being the bones embroidered into the sweatshirt.
Feeling the camera’s activation somehow, Death’s head lifts, one eye visible staring back at it before she averts her attention back to the wheel, the grinding stopping for a few moments as she holds the blade gently in both hands before her, like an offering.
”A pity you’re nowhere near right now, Heath. No Sangue peering down from above at our every move, seeking to muzzle and restrain my wrath. No foolish spectators to mar the air with their wailing, screaming warnings to you and epithets to I. No one…”
She lashes out with the blade, a quick sidewise swing, ending with a snapping flick of the blade as if to shake hot crimson from it.
”...to get in the way of the truth.”
As gently as one would hold a child she rests the blade in her lap and leans forward, elbows upon thighs, clenched hands rested upon by her chin. She stares at the wheel as it steadily slows to a stop.
”I’m in no mood for fancy euphemisms and poetic reasoning pertaining to how I’m going to defeat you, Heath. Time enough for colorful words and pageantry at another time. All that I see before me right now is death, darkness, destruction...not in the form of one Hardcore Heath but as it tangibly spills from mine own hands. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ as the saying goes, right? Well,” Emma pauses, the single visible eye closing. ”I’m more pre-emptive than that. I will do unto you before you can do unto me. I’ve not forgotten our little war of words over social media once upon a time. Boring, you called me, threatening in the same breath to shut me up. How little you thought of the Inevitable months ago. Somehow, I doubt your opinion has changed, creature of habit that you are,” her smile is thin, nearly undetectable. ”Once a fool, always a fool. I’m relatively sure your estranged offspring would agree.”
Because of course Emma would go there. The editing equipment, as a comedian once said, is off. No gloves, no concerns for feelings, no sense in being any other than what one already is. Was it a smile at all that we saw? Perhaps a grimace or just a clenching of the jaw. Either way, it’s gone now. Death’s gaze lowers to the sword in her lap longingly.
”As Sangue tries to bring her flock to heel, she expects us, the Horsewomen of Chaos, to likewise fall in line. And this is what she sends to Death herself?” Gesturing forward with a tired flick of her hand, Emma scoffs. ”A former champion felled by a pair of Sleepover Club-level plebeians, who once painted himself up like an alleyway clown, making habit of getting laid into with beatings from a son who should have gotten the same a decade ago? The only saving grace to be allowed you at Breakthrough 41, Heath,” she pauses long enough to bring a hand up and push back her hood, ”is that your tumor-ridden Requiem partner won’t be there in person to see me embarrass you.”
She allows that to sink in for a moment or two, then snarls audibly.
”Yes, Heath, I am sinking to that level. No boundaries, no concern for feelings. I’m going to poke fun at Tyron for having something growing in what passes for his brain and you for once looking like a dimestore Barnum & Bailey reject. I’m going to laugh at Missy for being subservient to you louts and not having the mental acuity to make a proper sandwich,” she snarks, not leaving much time for us to realize that Death actually made a joke. ”And what would you say in response, anyway? Would you launch a few witty comebacks and veiled threats, perhaps? Oh, but you’ve already said your piece, haven’t you? I think that’s what it was supposed to be, at least.”
Lifting the blade with care, Emma strokes the length of it with a critical eye. Brushing the pad of her thumb along the edge...a little too closely in fact, for it slices easily into her flesh, drawing a dark red line that inexorably drips into and down the groove at the blade’s center. Death does not wince at the slight sting, instead bringing the parted flesh up for closer inspection, heedless of the drip-drip-drip coming from it.
”Hmm. I wonder if yours flows as easily, or whether it would be sweeter to listen to you gasp for the last few breaths left to you. Sever the head and the body dies, along with all the voices inside it, but there’s a more personal sensation that comes with physically forcing the life from someone. The Nail of Eris would make it swift and clean. But my hands tingle at the thought of squeezing every last pulse out of your carcass. You deserve no less, Heath. Perhaps, if I hurry this along Thursday night, you can have a seat on the Oblivion Express to Nowhere right next to dear, departed Cera.”
’Dear and departed’ she may have said, but the tone tells the world that Emma doesn’t give two shits about the woman’s passing. Gathering a plain black cloth from her back pocket, Death cleans the blood from her blade, not bothering with her superficial wound.
”As I said before: no boundaries. Do you think I’d shed one tear if you were to meet with accident in the middle of that ring during our fight? Would anyone?
Emma stares at the camera coldly. Even at her vicious best (worst?) she’d never gone to such heartless lengths in her verbal tirades. But whether through her altercation with Joanna, the call that roused her from her lover’s arms or something else entirely...Death is on a whispering rampage.
”Stalked by the lackey of a dead woman, caned like a dog by the erstwhile offspring he ignored and barely able to keep his thoughts coherent. This is what they place before Death herself,” Emma spits incredulously, ”while Talon and Katalina dine on fresh meat and Joanna gets another round-and-around with the trolling hipster librarian? I should be insulted, Heath. You couldn’t even handle the teenybopping idiots War and I sent your way with a face full of steel and a few less teeth,” she rages softly, another smirk sneaking through, ”and as they traipse around gold they only hold because of our good graces, I’m tasked with sending their leavings to a bed next to his partner. Maybe Sangue fancies me her clean-up crew.”
The very thought disgusts her but masking it as humor allows her to get the words out without retching. Starting up the wheel again, Emma carefully angles the edge of the Nail of Eris against the rough surface, further honing the edge. Her care is such that the noise isn’t overpowering this time, allowing her to converse noticeably over top of it.
”Underestimate me. Mock me. Do everything in your power to try and be intimidating, Heath. I want you to,” she whispers, somehow still audibly. ”It will make it all the sweeter when you Kiss the Abyss so violently that you earn a head wound capable of making even your cancerous partner wince.” The tip of her tongue sneaks out, wetting the black lips it sneaks back between. ”We fed you defeat without raising a finger, War and I. The neon idiots were sent by us to prove your frailty and now, whether you or they realize it or not. But now...what's left? Poor Tyron goes home with a boo-boo on his brain, Missy still aids and abets your idiocy and you can’t even decide which voice to listen to.”
Lifitng the blade from the wheel, Emma presses the flat of it against her brow, the friction-warmed steel of the sides mixed with the cool hollow in the center. She shivers a little, but not from cold.
"Are you understanding yet? Death does not possess sympathy. She does not lighten the load that is the truth for the sake of shoulders that cannot bear the weight. And even then, would it matter? Suppose you do manage to hand me a temporary defeat? What then? You still would not be a champion. Tyron would still be wondering whether he'd ever compete again. Missy would still be Missy. And the Horsewomen...would continue our mission unabated and unhindered," she muses, turning and staring down the edge of the blade, verifying both sharpness and straightness. ”For that matter, every opponent before us at Breakthrough 41 could eke out a one-two-three and the ride would neither slow nor stall. That is not prophecy but truth. It is how we act with what most consider mindless, arrogant impunity because it is, after all, so much easier to hang a simple tag like that on that which we do not understand. But this...is not about that. No, Heath, for now, it is just about you and I.”
Rising, Emma flicks the blade again, shaking off a few errant drops of her own blood before sliding the Nail of Eris into its sheath with a swish and click.
”I refuse to bother correcting you the same way I had to correct Constance Chapin when she tried to make light of me, my methods and my choice of nomenclature. Were I you, I’d scare up the bookish malcontent before Joanna flays her and ask how many stitches it took to close her up after I proved her wrong.”
Slipping the cane sword into the loop at her belt, Emma returns her eyes to Pandora’s camera, both hands lifting to brush her hair back over her ears. She looks tired, angry...but neither finds its way into her address.
”Make no mistake about it: win or lose, Chaos marches on. Believe it or not, Heath,” Emma slowly approaches the camera. ”you may become one of the few to rise from the ashes. I do not like you. I think you’re scum, in fact. But Chaos wants what it wants and if that unerring, inscrutable force desires that you be part of the army of change, that is how it will be. Such will not, however, preempt the suffering you’ve got coming.”
She stops perfectly, right when her shoulders and face fill the focus of the lens.
”Beat me if you can, Heath, but know that in the end you’ll bow to me just like the rest. Either of your own free will or with your face forced into the bloody mud under the rubble of what once was.”
Slipping past the camera, a door opens and closes in the background, prompting Pandora to shut the device off with her typically-perfect timing.
