Post by Death Incarnate on Jun 9, 2016 23:56:53 GMT -6
Dean Winchester: “I gotta ask... how old are you?”
Death: “As old as God. Maybe older. Neither of us can remember anymore. Life, death... chicken, egg... regardless, at the end, I'll reap him too.”
Dean Winchester: “God? You'll reap God?!”
Death: “Oh, yes. God will die too, Dean.”
- Supernatural, Season Five, Episode 21: “Two Minutes to Midnight”
June 10th, 2016, 4:01pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Training Room Three
Were it not for the single light hanging high above the mat-covered floor of the room, darkness would reign supreme. Instead, a long table rests dead center, topped by two long, narrow leather cases and two metal masks, both sets identical. Barely within earshot, a door of some weight opens and closes, the shifting of the latch not unlike a gunshot within the cold silence of the chamber. The padding on the floor renders the entrant’s footsteps silent as they walk up to the table. Dressed neck to toe in uncharacteristic white is one Emma Carlisle, her darkly-colored hair swept into a tight bun at the back of her head.
Her expression is one of relaxed wrath, if such is not a contradiction in terms. Icy eyes gaze instead of glaring, her posture and motion loose instead of coiled. Her strides cease before the box on the left hand side of the table, pale hands coming to rest atop the smooth surface of the container. Her pale lips move slowly, yet naught is heard save for the soft metallic click of the box’s lid being unlatched. From within she draws a thin-bladed sword with a cup-like hand guard. Drawing the length of the blade along the palm of her gloved hand, Emma eyes the weapon carefully, gauging the weight and balance.
The same door opens and closes again, such noise followed by another set of footsteps. The person in question walks past the table on the side opposing Emma, little more than a shadow, without drawing Death’s attention from the held blade. Tall and slender, the woman walks into the light at the other side of the table, her black hair coiled in a style exactly like Emma’s own. Only after she has stood there the space of several breaths does Emma finally address her.
“Ophelia,” she says softly while lowering the weapon.
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Do you still question my decision as Eve does?”
Death turns her attention to the Israelite just as the dusky beauty is opening her own case to withdraw the épée within. Unlike Emma, Ophelia seems comfortable with the weapon, lashing out shallowly a few times to acquaint herself with it as one would an old friend. There is no response from her until she lowers it.
“You surprise me in the asking alone,” Ophelia replies smoothly. “The topic was put before us all and despite initial misgivings you convinced us of the veracity of your choice. Does that not speak for our support?”
“It bespeaks acceptance,” retorts Emma in an edged tone. “There is accepting… and there is acquiescing.”
“Such things are…” the taller woman pauses, gazing skyward thoughtfully. “How would Pandora put it? ‘Beyond our pay grade’?”
Setting her épée down on the table, Emma closes her empty case with a light slam. Ophelia merely watches, making no further verbal responses. Drawing in a long, deep breath through her nose, Emma pushes the air past her lips. Inhale. Hold. Repeat. Three quieter breaths later she picks up one of the metal masks from the table between the épée cases, staring quietly at it.
“Eve is convinced that I am a fool for offering power to a ‘violent, unpredictable malcontent’ while our organization is at such a ‘delicate, transitional period’. She would not say so to my face, naturally.”
“She fears repercussions should she do so,” Ophelia says, considering quietly before asking, “Is such a fear viable?”
Lips part, yet nothing passes them beyond another breath. Stone-faced, Emma places her mask on, adjusting the metal mesh to a comfortable position.
“Not from me.”
Donning her own mask then, Ophelia retrieves her épée and the two women move from the table toward the center of a ring in the middle of the room’s floor. Bringing her own weapon up before her vertically in a standard pose, Ophelia addresses Emma again.
“And from our new leader?”
Emma’s pose mirrors that of Ophelia until both women bring the weapons to bear, pointed at one another with their opposing arms folded behind their backs. The question is considered, but an answer is not given before Death makes the first lunge toward her opponent, épées clashing. The scene shifts to black and white, static manifesting in the midst of the spar between Death and her Chosen akin to some manner of technical error. That is, until the shapes begin to clarify and congeal. A couch and a chair, a woman and a man, superimposed on the match all around them with neither pair aware of the other. The spar has become a background concern just that quickly.
On the couch, tense to the point of rigidity, is Emma herself. On the chair, Opeare Shields. Which is the present and which is the past is a difficult matter to even theorize upon though patient, for that is what Emma is in this instance, and doctor have the focus if not the floor. Their images flicker from time to time, the connection not easy to maintain, but it is a minor annoyance. Inscrutability has always been the Horsewomen’s stock-in-trade, yet putting a therapy session before the world in this manner, visuals notwithstanding, is far beyond their usual realm.
“Tell me about her.”
Because of her rigid posture, the simple act of turning to look at the psychologist had its own sound: a subtle twist and a slight creak. Her head whipped up and about, icy blue eyes staring in the direction of the doctor. Opeare flinched, his grip on the small notebook tightening, his pen landing on the floor with a soft clatter. The session seemed doomed to an end before it truly began, before the question of how Death Incarnate had even been coerced into such a happening left to the wind.
“You speak of her as if she is a separate soul,” replies Emma quietly.
“You treat her as such,” Opeare says whilst reaching for his pen. “An unwanted visitor, an unwelcome presence. I am merely treating her with the same deference or lack thereof.”
Unpainted lips part in preparation to retort, then close in silence. When several seconds pass without verbal response, Opeare jots down a few lines in his notebook before peering at Emma over his glasses.
“So…”
“What about me, doctor?”
Cut off with a return question, the scratching of pen on paper halts and Opeare fully lifts his head, staring at Emma. “What about you? I don’t understand.”
“You ask about Victoria… what she is, who she is,” Emma retorts, no longer looking at Opeare but over her shoulder. One could mistake the moment for Death watching the intense slashing and thrusting of two white-garbed women ‘behind’ her were they not aware of the moment’s makeup. “To understand that you have to understand me,” she continues, her eyes shifting back to where they might stare at the doctor, “and invert all that you know.”
“Go on.”
“She’s a scared child, possessed of power and influence, wanting for nothing, yet without the drive or backbone to reach out and take what she wants. She’s not only afraid of what she is, but what she could be…”
The scratching of pen on paper is near-constant, going on a few seconds beyond Emma’s pause. It takes the doctor a moment to realize that she’s stopped speaking and is staring at him.
“...is something the matter?”
“Is it absolutely necessary that we do this now, of all times?”
“You’re starting to sound like Joanna,” is Opeare’s reply with a small smirk manifesting briefly. “The shift in power between you lot has wrought changes in her both subtle and glaring. Baring the questions of: if you noticed and why are you more concerned with spectacle when this is at your request?”
“We made a choice that suited the needs of the whole as effectively as possible. And you are avoiding my question.”
“Isn’t the doctor the one who should be asking the questions in the first place?”
Just like that, the calm expression on Emma’s face darkens and hardens in equal measure. Her motions betray frustration as she bolts up from the sofa, the swiftness of her rising causing the images to flicker against the fencing match going on in the background.
“Is this a game to you, doctor?”
“Not at all-”
“It feels otherwise to me,” she retorts coldly, stilling the doctor from rising himself with a steely glare. “How long have you attempted to find a solution to Joanna? Months? Years? How much longer will it take before you solve her puzzle? Because at this point, your sessions are almost a running joke.”
For the first time that she can recall, Emma watches a look of irritation appear on Opeare’s face. Her lips twitch at the sight, but she cuts off his retort with a snarl.
“What needs to go through that thick skull of yours can be summed up in three words: I’m. Not. Joanna. I’m not looking for the proper place to pull a stunt or do some damage at another’s expense. This isn’t some grand lark to amuse myself or another,” she takes a breath before continuing, but does so swiftly enough that Opeare doesn’t get a word in edgewise. “I’m here to… fix myself, put the pieces together, find what was lost… call it what you will. If you’re not going to assist in that process, this can stop here and now.”
Nodding, more to himself than to Emma, Opeare considers his words carefully before answering Emma's pointed questions. “Ms. Carlisle, or Emma if it suits you: I not only understand you are not Joanna, but have made it a point to treat you like the intelligent woman you are. While it may seem like an insult, or game, I have to establish a baseline. As for Joanna's progress, have you failed to notice her shift of focus from past to future? There has been progress, though not as much as I would like, but it is Joanna and she will shift as she sees fit, as you well know.”
“Yet to start this now, on the eve of our attempt to become Twin City Champions. I question your timing.”
“The match is almost a fortnight away.”
“The point,” Emma responds quickly, fighting to keep an even tone, “is that what happens here will change me in ways that I am neither prepared for nor aware of. This opportunity presented to Joanna and myself cannot be squandered. Surely you’re aware of the gravity of it from your observations of us.”
“I am.”
Staring at the doctor, Emma regards him not with the cold anger displayed before or even the calm disinterest the doctor has become so used to from Death. No, she is gazing upon him as if seeing him for the first time. Those other perspectives were old hat to Opeare, but this new air about Emma, however brief, seems to again unsettle him. There is silence again until she deems it necessary to break it.
“Very well,” she says quietly, rising from the sofa. “You wished to have a… baseline, was it? Yet you know more than enough of myself and my motivations. No, what you seek is a taste of the other side. Of the lost little girl huddled in the corner screaming at every shadow and crying herself dry.”
“...you speak of Victoria?”
Emma’s lips turn up ever so slightly, offering a thin smile beneath dead eyes. Taking two steps toward Opeare, leaving only a couple feet of open air between them, she stares down at him.
“I do. But know this, doctor,” Emma continues, leaning in and whispering softly to the English psychologist. “You won’t be able to unsee or unhear this.”
Before Opeare can respond in any fashion, Emma’s body tenses slightly before she sinks to her knees on the carpet. Hands drop to her sides, her body nearly limp with her head lowered and her unbound hair hanging before her face. The motion is jerky to the point of resembling a convulsion and Dr. Shields bursts from his chair with nearly enough force to upset it. Yet Emma is as still as her nickname, save for the odd spasm which passes from one limb to the other.
He reaches out hesitantly, his hand coming within an inch of her face before she sits bolt-upright, back straightened, arms clawing for a grip in the carpet. Dark strands falling away from her wide-eyed expression, the kneeling woman stares aghast at Opeare for a few moments before unleashing a shriek that not only puts a banshee to shame… but that obliterates the overlaid image of the session from its place atop the fencing match in the background. Screams and chaos are replaced by muted, rapid steps and the clink of épées clashing with one another and the cloth-armored bodies of Emma and Ophelia.
As the situation had it, this battle had reached its end. Ophelia and Emma step back into the same posture they’d held before the first clash of blades before lowering their weapons, the latter turning to walk to the table and replace hers in its case. The Chosen member, however, remains where she is while removing her hood and mask to stare at the Horsewomen’s former leader.
“You continue to improve, Mistress-”
“There is no need for such formality anymore, Ophelia.”
The taller woman bows respectfully, her black hair further darkened by perspiration. “Old habits.”
Closing the case and clicking the latches into place, Emma stares silently at the leather-covered container until Ophelia comes to the table herself.
“So what do you believe the doctor’s answer will be? We’ve seen little of him since the session…”
Carefully neutral of expression, Emma stares straight ahead as the black-and-white avatars of herself and Opeare waver back into existence. They reappear just in time to show Emma rising from her knees to her feet while Opeare stands further from where he was previously, seemingly pressed against a wall or other firm surface. The monochrome Emma, shivering slightly, stares intently at him before speaking, her tone softer than is usual for her.
“You were warned. A fortnight will pass before we speak professionally again, Dr. Shields. When that time comes, I expect an answer from you. One word: yes… or no.”
As Death turns and walks away from the doctor, who continues to stare straight ahead and stand stock still, the images fade a second time, the last time, as Emma turns slightly to address Ophelia.
“Regardless of his response, the mission will continue. Whole or shattered, I will see this through. It could not be any other way, for those who have walked the path with me since the start, and who continue to follow alongside me behind our dear War, deserve no less.”
Perhaps it is the slight smile that Emma puts on for a moment after removing her mask, though most likely the gravity and tone of her words play a large part. Either way, Ophelia’s own impassive wall cracks just a little bit, giving way to an example of her own devotion.
“We… do so with pride, Mistress.”
“As do I. Tomorrow, then.”
Watching Ophelia as she bows slightly and walks out of sight, Emma continues to stare in that direction long after the door has opened and closed. A whispering voice wafts through the darkness, meek and childish, the sound of it making Emma tense considerably.
“He will run… they’ll all run… it’s better to be alone...”
Death’s stare drops to the weapon case in front of her, her hands gripping tight to the sides of it.
“Now who sounds like who?”
Laughing, suddenly and sharply, Emma throws her head back and shouts her unholy mirth to the darkness as that soft voice erupts in a shriek behind it. The cacophony dwindles to nothing as the scene fades, leaving more questions than answers in its wake.
June 11th, 2016, 7:39pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Outer Grounds
The former warehouse is little more than a dark shape in the distance, pockmarked with squares of light that give it more of a semblance of form. Perched in a branch halfway up a large oak on the Compound’s outer grounds, Emma stares at the building while lightly bracing herself with a hand on either side of her body. Black-clad legs swing gently as the icy-eyed member of the Horsewomen gazes at her home, a glimpse of leather and silk beneath the flowing skirt holding snug only at Death’s waist, above which she wears a black satin blouse beneath a cropped and studded leather jacket. And strapped across her back… the Nail of Eris. Viewing the woman from the grassy earth below, Luca steadies the camera and speaks from behind it to Death…
“Ready when you are, Miss Carlisle.”
...but Emma’s only response is a faint nod. That’s still more than enough to prompt Luca to settle in for the duration. Death reaches a leather-gloved hand up to push a few thin braids behind her ear, one in cobalt blue, the other in indigo. The breeze tosses the remainder of her unbound strands about a bit but gives her no bother. She clears her throat softly and addresses the camera without looking at it.
“And so the circle completes itself. Once upon a time the bright lights threw themselves into the darkness, barely comprehending, never truly understanding. The opportunity for shiny trinkets blinding the simple girl-children to the, shall we say, fine print of the contract I personally inked in their own blood. How quickly we forget to read every line, sound out every word, when our inborn covetous natures take full hold of our senses,” Emma says in a musing sort of tone before pausing as her face twists into a smirk of sorts. “Or, Neon Babes, did you merely think that Chaos would forget about you?”
Drawing her right leg up and against her body, Emma wraps her leather-adorned arms around it and rests her cheek against her knee. Though the skirt is drawn up with this effort, the angle of the camera ensures that modesty is maintained. A cold stare is directed toward the camera and the champions no doubt watching after the fact.
“Chaos neither forgives nor forgets, and its matron saints are no less meticulous in their knowledge and attention. There are those, perhaps including yourselves, who would continue to spin our last encounter from months prior in order to save your lot some embarrassment. Such as they would intone that we, War and myself, allowed our penchant for violence and destruction to get the better of us as evidenced by pretty little Gina kissing cold steel at my hands,” a shadow of a smile manifests at the memory and fades just as swiftly. “Others would explicitly state that we were throwing such an opportunity in the face of Sky Sangue for some nebulous reason. There’s no end to the tales they will tell to mitigate the tarnishing of the Twin City Championships that those two teenyboppers have engaged in since their victory over the Requiem at Double Jeopardy...”
Letting go of her leg, she lets it dangle again, swaying in time with the other while she makes an expression of distaste as though about to spit something foul past her lips.
“...are you expecting a change of tone, children? Perhaps you’d like to remind the world that when next you faced two of the Horsewomen you managed a victory,” sarcasm drips from every syllable as Emma puts on a withering grimace. “Bravo for you, since that’s the only meaningful act you’ve accomplished since winning those titles which you’ve yet to defend. A reign past the four-month mark and not once have you shown an iota of the gumption and pride necessary to prove that you’re worthy to wear those leather-mounted medallions. Talon and Strife are rightfully disgusted at the part they inadvertently played in that decline.” Death’s face continues to wrench in disgust, glaring downward at the camera. “We Horsewomen recognize championships with a certain clarity that most lack, recognizing both sides of their worth, yet even at our most blasé we understand that they mean nothing if they are not held up as the prizes they are at their core. We, who are not champions, understand them better than you pathetic ingrates to whom they are little other than fashion accessories!”
Reaching for and grasping a higher branch, Emma draws herself into a standing position in her former seat. Keeping that solitary grip, she thrusts her hand toward the camera, palm up and fingers curled into black-gloved talons… figuratively speaking.
“The circle completes itself, and we who all but pressed that gold into your filthy hands come to take it away,” Emma declares, clenching that outstretched hand into a full fist. “You were tested, children, and have been found deeply wanting. Tested… as the Horsewomen have been tested. Yet another facet in which the chasm between our camps is vast.”
Dropping from her perch, Emma catches the branch immediately beneath her with both hands, swinging a moment before dropping to a wider perch in a crouch. Near-impeccably balanced, she returns her attention to the camera and gives a toss of her head to bring some of the tri-colored strands from before her eyes.
“None in this company could have survived what the Horsewomen have thrived within. Who among any of you,” she makes a wide, sweeping gesture with one leathered arm and hand, “could find the strength to throw yourselves at the mercies of your fellows, begging their wrath in payment for your own sin? Fewer are those that could stand tall against such a bloody tide and rise from the mire with a fist thrust to the heavens above in triumph. A victory so potent and grand that it earned them the seat at the head of the table,” Emma continues, only for a moment letting a smile creep out beneath the curtain of silk before half her face. “That is but one-half of your adversaries at Fate of the Gods, no doubt to your personal chagrin.
That selfless act by War did not break us but instead galvanized our family, our blood and bones the mortar and brick, and our devotion the foundation on which our mission still strides. The Orphanage would have shattered under such pressure, their own egos crushing them. Not one among their lot would admit to the wrong, much less raise up the one among them who might acquire victory over their fellows. And Saint City? Pretenders at best, parasites at worst. Any aversion to their quest would end in painful expulsion as has been shown with Kelsey Spencer and Heath Williams recently.” Emma pauses a moment, her un-grasping hand lifting to take hold of the handle of her blade. “Is any of this getting through to you two? What would break two groups who claim dominance and purity of meaning, what would shatter them crust and core alike, only makes us stronger.”
Dropping momentarily to a seated position, Emma rolls backward with her legs hooked about the thick branch. The momentum takes her into a flip and she lands in the soft, swaying grass positioned in a crouch with her right hand still clasping the Nail of Eris at the bottom of the hilt.
“What little merit you possess is buried beneath the weight of your shortcomings. But we are not without our moments of weakness, either. Even Death can recognize where it has been bested. I personally have taken losses that were difficult to stomach. Joanna, I am certain, could relate similarly. Yet here we stand, never brought to heel nor ground to a halt. Here we stand,” she rises fluidly to her feet, only now releasing her grip on the blade’s handle, spreading her arms wide as the breeze becomes a powerful, tossing gust. “Poised, having ridden the swelling waves of Chaos, tossed about by the ebb and flow of powers sometimes beyond even our own comprehension. We stand against you… but what ARE you?” As though on cue, the wind calms as her arms drop to her sides. “Are you protected franchises of a company that after two years still struggles to find an identity that doesn’t exist? Are you forgotten champions languishing in a place where so few are even aware of your existence, titles be damned? When, children, was the last time you even remembered who and what you were?
Yet, perhaps the fault is not your own. Perhaps I was mistaken and this company does, in fact, have a proper identity. It’s a cheap, pathetic, daytime soap opera,” she snarls out the words, that look of pure disgust returning to her pale features. “The saccharine tales of love, lust and betrayal… friends becoming enemies, enemies finding friends… cowards, monsters and malcontents, oh my! And people have the gall to openly wonder why we do what we do, questioning our ultimate goal whilst painting it as something foul and undesirable.”
She rages quietly though her words carry considerable weight. Her right hand flashes upward and she grasps the handle of the sword again, drawing an inch or two of steel from the lacquered scabbard.
“People care more about the drama between Stacy Jones and Katie Moicelle than they do who shall be World Visionary Champion after Fate of the Gods II. Instead of focusing on the weight of their sins and the bloody wars that are erupting as a consequence, in this case Williams and Bickerton along with Spencer and Saint, gutless wretches complain via Twitter about what they consider scandalous photographs. This cesspool’s be-all, end-all event, one which they put such grand effort into building from the moment the camera’s shut off at the previous event the year prior… it reads like a badly-scripted Days of Our Lives marathon.”
Her tone having taken on a somewhat-defeated note, Emma reaches back with her left hand, pushing up the scabbard so that the blade within can be fully drawn. The blade gleams in the low light, sunset having nearly ended.
“So ask again why the Horsewomen of Chaos seek to bring this place down to a pile of ashes. Question our desire to see it rise again better, stronger, grander,” she quiets long enough to tug at the fingers of the glove on her left hand until she can draw her flesh from within the leather, the adornment shoved into her jacket pocket. “And in the same breath, children, ask yourselves why you’re the next casualties on the list. It isn’t because Sangue recognized that it was time, at long last, for you two to earn your keep. It isn’t because you’ve had it coming since our first encounter months ago. It is because you’re part of the problem,” she winces, albeit slightly, as she brings the blade held in her right hand across the palm of her left hand. The cut is shallow and carefully applied, yet the blood wells, dripping between clenched fingers onto the soft ground at her feet until she cups said hand to let the substance pool. “You’re the lowest common denominator, without the courage to attempt rising past your station and barely enough strength to smile for the masses who still know you exist and acknowledge their half-hearted cheers. You might as well be punching a time clock. Neither of you are fit to survive. What we do to your lot come Fate of the Gods isn’t to be malicious, but a mercy… for the titles as well as yourselves.”
Giving the blade a flick to shake loose the few drops of crimson clinging to the honed steel, Emma twirls the sword once before sliding it back into its case with a soft click. Her motion is practiced and exact, the same as the cut from which blood now pools silently in her palm. She removes her right glove in the same fashion as she did her left and dips her index finger into the substance within her ‘grasp’. And, one at a time, she marks her features with the blood… using it as, seemingly, war paint.
“There will be blood, as my dear War loves to remind us all,” Emma says around another faint smile, stilling her facial features as much as possible to not disrupt her art. “Yours with a certainty, ours if fate is kind. It will stain the canvas and drip upon the gold and leather that will soon bear our names. Titles… that will once again have meaning when possessed instead of being oft-missing pieces of your I-Want-To-Be-A-Wrestler playsets. Will all, then, be right in the world of VoW? Not even close,” she sniffs, half in amusement. “But it shall be another step in the right direction. Pick a corner to crawl off to now, little girls, or a grave to die in if that’s your thing. Stock it well with lotion-scented tissue or a mahogany and silk casket as the case may be. That way, when you are deposed from thrones you should never have sat upon in the first place, you’ll at least be prepared for what should have always been.”
Still crouched, Emma sweeps her hand through the dewy grass, wiping away the remnants of the red staining her palm. The wound, by now, has ceased bleeding. The red lines drawn upon Death’s face, resembling a skull naturally, actually succeed in making her more foreboding.
“We are they to whom even gods must answer when the time comes... the Fate of the Gods, if you will. Chaos comes for you, children. Welcome to the end of Order.”
Turning from the camera, which moves to follow her motions, Emma walks back toward the Compound in the distance as the feed comes to a close.
June 3rd, 2016, 5:06pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Office of Opeare Shields
“You were warned. A fortnight will pass before we speak professionally again, Dr. Shields. When that time comes, I expect an answer from you. One word: yes… or no.”
No longer an image upon another moment in time, we are seeing Emma within the office of Dr. Opeare Shields, the disarray the usually neat-and-tidy space is in shown fully. Overturned furniture, books strewn about the floor instead of stacked upon shelves… but little that has been damaged beyond repair. The looks of it makes one think of having walked into a place where some creature was attempting a rapid, haphazard escape. Opeare, almost huddled in the corner of the room, can barely bring himself to look upon Emma, yet forces a nod. Without another word, Death turns on her heel and exits the office.
Two paces past the door, to the right, and she finds herself standing before the leader of the Horsewomen, War, who leans upon the wall with her arms folded and a finger tapping against her bicep. Emma pauses a step past Joanna’s line of sight, staring straight ahead as the blue-haired Bloody Queen gazes at her lover expectantly. When Emma does not speak, Joanna breaks the silence herself.
“Seems we both cut our sessions short. How's the head space, Goldie?”
Hands dug into the front pocket of her hoodie, Emma’s tongue darts out to lick her lips before she responds.
“Dr. Shields got the taste of sweet nectar that he so desired. Now I wait to see if he can survive the hangover.”
Joanna's crooked smile plays at the edge of her lips as Emma's words carry through the hall. Nodding her approval Joanna steps forward to place her palm against Emma's cheek as Death turns to face her.
“He always manages. But how are you, my love? Ready to dispatch a long overdue beating?”
“I require… pain… blood and suffering. Someone,” Emma continues, her head tilting toward the open hand of War, against her touch, “two someones, in fact, are going to be sacrificed for my nourishment. Death will take her toll and the price is gold,” the words are delivered with ferocity in stark contrast to Emma’s gentle pressing of her lips to the inside of Joanna’s hand. “None shall survive us.”
Joanna shakes her head as Emma's words make it impossible to hide her smile. “Does anyone ever truly survive us? They may physically walk out, but are they enough of the same person to claim survival? But I'm tired of business at the moment. I want an answer.” Much like Emma, Joanna's words contain a ferocity that contradicts her movements as a small blush darkens her cheeks.
“Yes, you’ve waited long enough.”
Emma draws a hand from her pocket, bearing what appears to be a ripe pomegranate. She strokes her thumb across the surface of it gently before her eyes lift to look into those of her Bloody Queen, locking gazes as she holds out the fruit to Joanna. War accepts the fruit as her faces portrays both confusion and joy at the offering.
“Not the question I meant, but if this is what I think it is... then I'll take it over any other answer I've ever sought.”
The pomegranate opens easily in Joanna’s hands, yet what is revealed within is far from natural. With emeralds that match her eyes, and skulls that are as dark as midnight, Joanna pulls out a ring befitting of the relationship between War and Death.
“The answer… is yes.”
“And they dare question our unity.”
Joanna's words are barely above a whisper. Unable to contain her feelings, Joanna's face betrays her as she slides the ring into place on her left hand. Emma glances over her shoulder at her now-fiancee and smiles thinly beneath eyes that, for the first time, show a trace of proper warmth. Over the otherwise-silent scene, her voice speaks a simple statement after which the image fades to final black.
“Gaia would be proud.”
Death: “As old as God. Maybe older. Neither of us can remember anymore. Life, death... chicken, egg... regardless, at the end, I'll reap him too.”
Dean Winchester: “God? You'll reap God?!”
Death: “Oh, yes. God will die too, Dean.”
- Supernatural, Season Five, Episode 21: “Two Minutes to Midnight”
June 10th, 2016, 4:01pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Training Room Three
Were it not for the single light hanging high above the mat-covered floor of the room, darkness would reign supreme. Instead, a long table rests dead center, topped by two long, narrow leather cases and two metal masks, both sets identical. Barely within earshot, a door of some weight opens and closes, the shifting of the latch not unlike a gunshot within the cold silence of the chamber. The padding on the floor renders the entrant’s footsteps silent as they walk up to the table. Dressed neck to toe in uncharacteristic white is one Emma Carlisle, her darkly-colored hair swept into a tight bun at the back of her head.
Her expression is one of relaxed wrath, if such is not a contradiction in terms. Icy eyes gaze instead of glaring, her posture and motion loose instead of coiled. Her strides cease before the box on the left hand side of the table, pale hands coming to rest atop the smooth surface of the container. Her pale lips move slowly, yet naught is heard save for the soft metallic click of the box’s lid being unlatched. From within she draws a thin-bladed sword with a cup-like hand guard. Drawing the length of the blade along the palm of her gloved hand, Emma eyes the weapon carefully, gauging the weight and balance.
The same door opens and closes again, such noise followed by another set of footsteps. The person in question walks past the table on the side opposing Emma, little more than a shadow, without drawing Death’s attention from the held blade. Tall and slender, the woman walks into the light at the other side of the table, her black hair coiled in a style exactly like Emma’s own. Only after she has stood there the space of several breaths does Emma finally address her.
“Ophelia,” she says softly while lowering the weapon.
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Do you still question my decision as Eve does?”
Death turns her attention to the Israelite just as the dusky beauty is opening her own case to withdraw the épée within. Unlike Emma, Ophelia seems comfortable with the weapon, lashing out shallowly a few times to acquaint herself with it as one would an old friend. There is no response from her until she lowers it.
“You surprise me in the asking alone,” Ophelia replies smoothly. “The topic was put before us all and despite initial misgivings you convinced us of the veracity of your choice. Does that not speak for our support?”
“It bespeaks acceptance,” retorts Emma in an edged tone. “There is accepting… and there is acquiescing.”
“Such things are…” the taller woman pauses, gazing skyward thoughtfully. “How would Pandora put it? ‘Beyond our pay grade’?”
Setting her épée down on the table, Emma closes her empty case with a light slam. Ophelia merely watches, making no further verbal responses. Drawing in a long, deep breath through her nose, Emma pushes the air past her lips. Inhale. Hold. Repeat. Three quieter breaths later she picks up one of the metal masks from the table between the épée cases, staring quietly at it.
“Eve is convinced that I am a fool for offering power to a ‘violent, unpredictable malcontent’ while our organization is at such a ‘delicate, transitional period’. She would not say so to my face, naturally.”
“She fears repercussions should she do so,” Ophelia says, considering quietly before asking, “Is such a fear viable?”
Lips part, yet nothing passes them beyond another breath. Stone-faced, Emma places her mask on, adjusting the metal mesh to a comfortable position.
“Not from me.”
Donning her own mask then, Ophelia retrieves her épée and the two women move from the table toward the center of a ring in the middle of the room’s floor. Bringing her own weapon up before her vertically in a standard pose, Ophelia addresses Emma again.
“And from our new leader?”
Emma’s pose mirrors that of Ophelia until both women bring the weapons to bear, pointed at one another with their opposing arms folded behind their backs. The question is considered, but an answer is not given before Death makes the first lunge toward her opponent, épées clashing. The scene shifts to black and white, static manifesting in the midst of the spar between Death and her Chosen akin to some manner of technical error. That is, until the shapes begin to clarify and congeal. A couch and a chair, a woman and a man, superimposed on the match all around them with neither pair aware of the other. The spar has become a background concern just that quickly.
On the couch, tense to the point of rigidity, is Emma herself. On the chair, Opeare Shields. Which is the present and which is the past is a difficult matter to even theorize upon though patient, for that is what Emma is in this instance, and doctor have the focus if not the floor. Their images flicker from time to time, the connection not easy to maintain, but it is a minor annoyance. Inscrutability has always been the Horsewomen’s stock-in-trade, yet putting a therapy session before the world in this manner, visuals notwithstanding, is far beyond their usual realm.
“Tell me about her.”
Because of her rigid posture, the simple act of turning to look at the psychologist had its own sound: a subtle twist and a slight creak. Her head whipped up and about, icy blue eyes staring in the direction of the doctor. Opeare flinched, his grip on the small notebook tightening, his pen landing on the floor with a soft clatter. The session seemed doomed to an end before it truly began, before the question of how Death Incarnate had even been coerced into such a happening left to the wind.
“You speak of her as if she is a separate soul,” replies Emma quietly.
“You treat her as such,” Opeare says whilst reaching for his pen. “An unwanted visitor, an unwelcome presence. I am merely treating her with the same deference or lack thereof.”
Unpainted lips part in preparation to retort, then close in silence. When several seconds pass without verbal response, Opeare jots down a few lines in his notebook before peering at Emma over his glasses.
“So…”
“What about me, doctor?”
Cut off with a return question, the scratching of pen on paper halts and Opeare fully lifts his head, staring at Emma. “What about you? I don’t understand.”
“You ask about Victoria… what she is, who she is,” Emma retorts, no longer looking at Opeare but over her shoulder. One could mistake the moment for Death watching the intense slashing and thrusting of two white-garbed women ‘behind’ her were they not aware of the moment’s makeup. “To understand that you have to understand me,” she continues, her eyes shifting back to where they might stare at the doctor, “and invert all that you know.”
“Go on.”
“She’s a scared child, possessed of power and influence, wanting for nothing, yet without the drive or backbone to reach out and take what she wants. She’s not only afraid of what she is, but what she could be…”
The scratching of pen on paper is near-constant, going on a few seconds beyond Emma’s pause. It takes the doctor a moment to realize that she’s stopped speaking and is staring at him.
“...is something the matter?”
“Is it absolutely necessary that we do this now, of all times?”
“You’re starting to sound like Joanna,” is Opeare’s reply with a small smirk manifesting briefly. “The shift in power between you lot has wrought changes in her both subtle and glaring. Baring the questions of: if you noticed and why are you more concerned with spectacle when this is at your request?”
“We made a choice that suited the needs of the whole as effectively as possible. And you are avoiding my question.”
“Isn’t the doctor the one who should be asking the questions in the first place?”
Just like that, the calm expression on Emma’s face darkens and hardens in equal measure. Her motions betray frustration as she bolts up from the sofa, the swiftness of her rising causing the images to flicker against the fencing match going on in the background.
“Is this a game to you, doctor?”
“Not at all-”
“It feels otherwise to me,” she retorts coldly, stilling the doctor from rising himself with a steely glare. “How long have you attempted to find a solution to Joanna? Months? Years? How much longer will it take before you solve her puzzle? Because at this point, your sessions are almost a running joke.”
For the first time that she can recall, Emma watches a look of irritation appear on Opeare’s face. Her lips twitch at the sight, but she cuts off his retort with a snarl.
“What needs to go through that thick skull of yours can be summed up in three words: I’m. Not. Joanna. I’m not looking for the proper place to pull a stunt or do some damage at another’s expense. This isn’t some grand lark to amuse myself or another,” she takes a breath before continuing, but does so swiftly enough that Opeare doesn’t get a word in edgewise. “I’m here to… fix myself, put the pieces together, find what was lost… call it what you will. If you’re not going to assist in that process, this can stop here and now.”
Nodding, more to himself than to Emma, Opeare considers his words carefully before answering Emma's pointed questions. “Ms. Carlisle, or Emma if it suits you: I not only understand you are not Joanna, but have made it a point to treat you like the intelligent woman you are. While it may seem like an insult, or game, I have to establish a baseline. As for Joanna's progress, have you failed to notice her shift of focus from past to future? There has been progress, though not as much as I would like, but it is Joanna and she will shift as she sees fit, as you well know.”
“Yet to start this now, on the eve of our attempt to become Twin City Champions. I question your timing.”
“The match is almost a fortnight away.”
“The point,” Emma responds quickly, fighting to keep an even tone, “is that what happens here will change me in ways that I am neither prepared for nor aware of. This opportunity presented to Joanna and myself cannot be squandered. Surely you’re aware of the gravity of it from your observations of us.”
“I am.”
Staring at the doctor, Emma regards him not with the cold anger displayed before or even the calm disinterest the doctor has become so used to from Death. No, she is gazing upon him as if seeing him for the first time. Those other perspectives were old hat to Opeare, but this new air about Emma, however brief, seems to again unsettle him. There is silence again until she deems it necessary to break it.
“Very well,” she says quietly, rising from the sofa. “You wished to have a… baseline, was it? Yet you know more than enough of myself and my motivations. No, what you seek is a taste of the other side. Of the lost little girl huddled in the corner screaming at every shadow and crying herself dry.”
“...you speak of Victoria?”
Emma’s lips turn up ever so slightly, offering a thin smile beneath dead eyes. Taking two steps toward Opeare, leaving only a couple feet of open air between them, she stares down at him.
“I do. But know this, doctor,” Emma continues, leaning in and whispering softly to the English psychologist. “You won’t be able to unsee or unhear this.”
Before Opeare can respond in any fashion, Emma’s body tenses slightly before she sinks to her knees on the carpet. Hands drop to her sides, her body nearly limp with her head lowered and her unbound hair hanging before her face. The motion is jerky to the point of resembling a convulsion and Dr. Shields bursts from his chair with nearly enough force to upset it. Yet Emma is as still as her nickname, save for the odd spasm which passes from one limb to the other.
He reaches out hesitantly, his hand coming within an inch of her face before she sits bolt-upright, back straightened, arms clawing for a grip in the carpet. Dark strands falling away from her wide-eyed expression, the kneeling woman stares aghast at Opeare for a few moments before unleashing a shriek that not only puts a banshee to shame… but that obliterates the overlaid image of the session from its place atop the fencing match in the background. Screams and chaos are replaced by muted, rapid steps and the clink of épées clashing with one another and the cloth-armored bodies of Emma and Ophelia.
As the situation had it, this battle had reached its end. Ophelia and Emma step back into the same posture they’d held before the first clash of blades before lowering their weapons, the latter turning to walk to the table and replace hers in its case. The Chosen member, however, remains where she is while removing her hood and mask to stare at the Horsewomen’s former leader.
“You continue to improve, Mistress-”
“There is no need for such formality anymore, Ophelia.”
The taller woman bows respectfully, her black hair further darkened by perspiration. “Old habits.”
Closing the case and clicking the latches into place, Emma stares silently at the leather-covered container until Ophelia comes to the table herself.
“So what do you believe the doctor’s answer will be? We’ve seen little of him since the session…”
Carefully neutral of expression, Emma stares straight ahead as the black-and-white avatars of herself and Opeare waver back into existence. They reappear just in time to show Emma rising from her knees to her feet while Opeare stands further from where he was previously, seemingly pressed against a wall or other firm surface. The monochrome Emma, shivering slightly, stares intently at him before speaking, her tone softer than is usual for her.
“You were warned. A fortnight will pass before we speak professionally again, Dr. Shields. When that time comes, I expect an answer from you. One word: yes… or no.”
As Death turns and walks away from the doctor, who continues to stare straight ahead and stand stock still, the images fade a second time, the last time, as Emma turns slightly to address Ophelia.
“Regardless of his response, the mission will continue. Whole or shattered, I will see this through. It could not be any other way, for those who have walked the path with me since the start, and who continue to follow alongside me behind our dear War, deserve no less.”
Perhaps it is the slight smile that Emma puts on for a moment after removing her mask, though most likely the gravity and tone of her words play a large part. Either way, Ophelia’s own impassive wall cracks just a little bit, giving way to an example of her own devotion.
“We… do so with pride, Mistress.”
“As do I. Tomorrow, then.”
Watching Ophelia as she bows slightly and walks out of sight, Emma continues to stare in that direction long after the door has opened and closed. A whispering voice wafts through the darkness, meek and childish, the sound of it making Emma tense considerably.
“He will run… they’ll all run… it’s better to be alone...”
Death’s stare drops to the weapon case in front of her, her hands gripping tight to the sides of it.
“Now who sounds like who?”
Laughing, suddenly and sharply, Emma throws her head back and shouts her unholy mirth to the darkness as that soft voice erupts in a shriek behind it. The cacophony dwindles to nothing as the scene fades, leaving more questions than answers in its wake.
~*~
June 11th, 2016, 7:39pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Outer Grounds
The former warehouse is little more than a dark shape in the distance, pockmarked with squares of light that give it more of a semblance of form. Perched in a branch halfway up a large oak on the Compound’s outer grounds, Emma stares at the building while lightly bracing herself with a hand on either side of her body. Black-clad legs swing gently as the icy-eyed member of the Horsewomen gazes at her home, a glimpse of leather and silk beneath the flowing skirt holding snug only at Death’s waist, above which she wears a black satin blouse beneath a cropped and studded leather jacket. And strapped across her back… the Nail of Eris. Viewing the woman from the grassy earth below, Luca steadies the camera and speaks from behind it to Death…
“Ready when you are, Miss Carlisle.”
...but Emma’s only response is a faint nod. That’s still more than enough to prompt Luca to settle in for the duration. Death reaches a leather-gloved hand up to push a few thin braids behind her ear, one in cobalt blue, the other in indigo. The breeze tosses the remainder of her unbound strands about a bit but gives her no bother. She clears her throat softly and addresses the camera without looking at it.
“And so the circle completes itself. Once upon a time the bright lights threw themselves into the darkness, barely comprehending, never truly understanding. The opportunity for shiny trinkets blinding the simple girl-children to the, shall we say, fine print of the contract I personally inked in their own blood. How quickly we forget to read every line, sound out every word, when our inborn covetous natures take full hold of our senses,” Emma says in a musing sort of tone before pausing as her face twists into a smirk of sorts. “Or, Neon Babes, did you merely think that Chaos would forget about you?”
Drawing her right leg up and against her body, Emma wraps her leather-adorned arms around it and rests her cheek against her knee. Though the skirt is drawn up with this effort, the angle of the camera ensures that modesty is maintained. A cold stare is directed toward the camera and the champions no doubt watching after the fact.
“Chaos neither forgives nor forgets, and its matron saints are no less meticulous in their knowledge and attention. There are those, perhaps including yourselves, who would continue to spin our last encounter from months prior in order to save your lot some embarrassment. Such as they would intone that we, War and myself, allowed our penchant for violence and destruction to get the better of us as evidenced by pretty little Gina kissing cold steel at my hands,” a shadow of a smile manifests at the memory and fades just as swiftly. “Others would explicitly state that we were throwing such an opportunity in the face of Sky Sangue for some nebulous reason. There’s no end to the tales they will tell to mitigate the tarnishing of the Twin City Championships that those two teenyboppers have engaged in since their victory over the Requiem at Double Jeopardy...”
Letting go of her leg, she lets it dangle again, swaying in time with the other while she makes an expression of distaste as though about to spit something foul past her lips.
“...are you expecting a change of tone, children? Perhaps you’d like to remind the world that when next you faced two of the Horsewomen you managed a victory,” sarcasm drips from every syllable as Emma puts on a withering grimace. “Bravo for you, since that’s the only meaningful act you’ve accomplished since winning those titles which you’ve yet to defend. A reign past the four-month mark and not once have you shown an iota of the gumption and pride necessary to prove that you’re worthy to wear those leather-mounted medallions. Talon and Strife are rightfully disgusted at the part they inadvertently played in that decline.” Death’s face continues to wrench in disgust, glaring downward at the camera. “We Horsewomen recognize championships with a certain clarity that most lack, recognizing both sides of their worth, yet even at our most blasé we understand that they mean nothing if they are not held up as the prizes they are at their core. We, who are not champions, understand them better than you pathetic ingrates to whom they are little other than fashion accessories!”
Reaching for and grasping a higher branch, Emma draws herself into a standing position in her former seat. Keeping that solitary grip, she thrusts her hand toward the camera, palm up and fingers curled into black-gloved talons… figuratively speaking.
“The circle completes itself, and we who all but pressed that gold into your filthy hands come to take it away,” Emma declares, clenching that outstretched hand into a full fist. “You were tested, children, and have been found deeply wanting. Tested… as the Horsewomen have been tested. Yet another facet in which the chasm between our camps is vast.”
Dropping from her perch, Emma catches the branch immediately beneath her with both hands, swinging a moment before dropping to a wider perch in a crouch. Near-impeccably balanced, she returns her attention to the camera and gives a toss of her head to bring some of the tri-colored strands from before her eyes.
“None in this company could have survived what the Horsewomen have thrived within. Who among any of you,” she makes a wide, sweeping gesture with one leathered arm and hand, “could find the strength to throw yourselves at the mercies of your fellows, begging their wrath in payment for your own sin? Fewer are those that could stand tall against such a bloody tide and rise from the mire with a fist thrust to the heavens above in triumph. A victory so potent and grand that it earned them the seat at the head of the table,” Emma continues, only for a moment letting a smile creep out beneath the curtain of silk before half her face. “That is but one-half of your adversaries at Fate of the Gods, no doubt to your personal chagrin.
That selfless act by War did not break us but instead galvanized our family, our blood and bones the mortar and brick, and our devotion the foundation on which our mission still strides. The Orphanage would have shattered under such pressure, their own egos crushing them. Not one among their lot would admit to the wrong, much less raise up the one among them who might acquire victory over their fellows. And Saint City? Pretenders at best, parasites at worst. Any aversion to their quest would end in painful expulsion as has been shown with Kelsey Spencer and Heath Williams recently.” Emma pauses a moment, her un-grasping hand lifting to take hold of the handle of her blade. “Is any of this getting through to you two? What would break two groups who claim dominance and purity of meaning, what would shatter them crust and core alike, only makes us stronger.”
Dropping momentarily to a seated position, Emma rolls backward with her legs hooked about the thick branch. The momentum takes her into a flip and she lands in the soft, swaying grass positioned in a crouch with her right hand still clasping the Nail of Eris at the bottom of the hilt.
“What little merit you possess is buried beneath the weight of your shortcomings. But we are not without our moments of weakness, either. Even Death can recognize where it has been bested. I personally have taken losses that were difficult to stomach. Joanna, I am certain, could relate similarly. Yet here we stand, never brought to heel nor ground to a halt. Here we stand,” she rises fluidly to her feet, only now releasing her grip on the blade’s handle, spreading her arms wide as the breeze becomes a powerful, tossing gust. “Poised, having ridden the swelling waves of Chaos, tossed about by the ebb and flow of powers sometimes beyond even our own comprehension. We stand against you… but what ARE you?” As though on cue, the wind calms as her arms drop to her sides. “Are you protected franchises of a company that after two years still struggles to find an identity that doesn’t exist? Are you forgotten champions languishing in a place where so few are even aware of your existence, titles be damned? When, children, was the last time you even remembered who and what you were?
Yet, perhaps the fault is not your own. Perhaps I was mistaken and this company does, in fact, have a proper identity. It’s a cheap, pathetic, daytime soap opera,” she snarls out the words, that look of pure disgust returning to her pale features. “The saccharine tales of love, lust and betrayal… friends becoming enemies, enemies finding friends… cowards, monsters and malcontents, oh my! And people have the gall to openly wonder why we do what we do, questioning our ultimate goal whilst painting it as something foul and undesirable.”
She rages quietly though her words carry considerable weight. Her right hand flashes upward and she grasps the handle of the sword again, drawing an inch or two of steel from the lacquered scabbard.
“People care more about the drama between Stacy Jones and Katie Moicelle than they do who shall be World Visionary Champion after Fate of the Gods II. Instead of focusing on the weight of their sins and the bloody wars that are erupting as a consequence, in this case Williams and Bickerton along with Spencer and Saint, gutless wretches complain via Twitter about what they consider scandalous photographs. This cesspool’s be-all, end-all event, one which they put such grand effort into building from the moment the camera’s shut off at the previous event the year prior… it reads like a badly-scripted Days of Our Lives marathon.”
Her tone having taken on a somewhat-defeated note, Emma reaches back with her left hand, pushing up the scabbard so that the blade within can be fully drawn. The blade gleams in the low light, sunset having nearly ended.
“So ask again why the Horsewomen of Chaos seek to bring this place down to a pile of ashes. Question our desire to see it rise again better, stronger, grander,” she quiets long enough to tug at the fingers of the glove on her left hand until she can draw her flesh from within the leather, the adornment shoved into her jacket pocket. “And in the same breath, children, ask yourselves why you’re the next casualties on the list. It isn’t because Sangue recognized that it was time, at long last, for you two to earn your keep. It isn’t because you’ve had it coming since our first encounter months ago. It is because you’re part of the problem,” she winces, albeit slightly, as she brings the blade held in her right hand across the palm of her left hand. The cut is shallow and carefully applied, yet the blood wells, dripping between clenched fingers onto the soft ground at her feet until she cups said hand to let the substance pool. “You’re the lowest common denominator, without the courage to attempt rising past your station and barely enough strength to smile for the masses who still know you exist and acknowledge their half-hearted cheers. You might as well be punching a time clock. Neither of you are fit to survive. What we do to your lot come Fate of the Gods isn’t to be malicious, but a mercy… for the titles as well as yourselves.”
Giving the blade a flick to shake loose the few drops of crimson clinging to the honed steel, Emma twirls the sword once before sliding it back into its case with a soft click. Her motion is practiced and exact, the same as the cut from which blood now pools silently in her palm. She removes her right glove in the same fashion as she did her left and dips her index finger into the substance within her ‘grasp’. And, one at a time, she marks her features with the blood… using it as, seemingly, war paint.
“There will be blood, as my dear War loves to remind us all,” Emma says around another faint smile, stilling her facial features as much as possible to not disrupt her art. “Yours with a certainty, ours if fate is kind. It will stain the canvas and drip upon the gold and leather that will soon bear our names. Titles… that will once again have meaning when possessed instead of being oft-missing pieces of your I-Want-To-Be-A-Wrestler playsets. Will all, then, be right in the world of VoW? Not even close,” she sniffs, half in amusement. “But it shall be another step in the right direction. Pick a corner to crawl off to now, little girls, or a grave to die in if that’s your thing. Stock it well with lotion-scented tissue or a mahogany and silk casket as the case may be. That way, when you are deposed from thrones you should never have sat upon in the first place, you’ll at least be prepared for what should have always been.”
Still crouched, Emma sweeps her hand through the dewy grass, wiping away the remnants of the red staining her palm. The wound, by now, has ceased bleeding. The red lines drawn upon Death’s face, resembling a skull naturally, actually succeed in making her more foreboding.
“We are they to whom even gods must answer when the time comes... the Fate of the Gods, if you will. Chaos comes for you, children. Welcome to the end of Order.”
Turning from the camera, which moves to follow her motions, Emma walks back toward the Compound in the distance as the feed comes to a close.
~*~
June 3rd, 2016, 5:06pm
The Compound - Malibu, California
Office of Opeare Shields
“You were warned. A fortnight will pass before we speak professionally again, Dr. Shields. When that time comes, I expect an answer from you. One word: yes… or no.”
No longer an image upon another moment in time, we are seeing Emma within the office of Dr. Opeare Shields, the disarray the usually neat-and-tidy space is in shown fully. Overturned furniture, books strewn about the floor instead of stacked upon shelves… but little that has been damaged beyond repair. The looks of it makes one think of having walked into a place where some creature was attempting a rapid, haphazard escape. Opeare, almost huddled in the corner of the room, can barely bring himself to look upon Emma, yet forces a nod. Without another word, Death turns on her heel and exits the office.
Two paces past the door, to the right, and she finds herself standing before the leader of the Horsewomen, War, who leans upon the wall with her arms folded and a finger tapping against her bicep. Emma pauses a step past Joanna’s line of sight, staring straight ahead as the blue-haired Bloody Queen gazes at her lover expectantly. When Emma does not speak, Joanna breaks the silence herself.
“Seems we both cut our sessions short. How's the head space, Goldie?”
Hands dug into the front pocket of her hoodie, Emma’s tongue darts out to lick her lips before she responds.
“Dr. Shields got the taste of sweet nectar that he so desired. Now I wait to see if he can survive the hangover.”
Joanna's crooked smile plays at the edge of her lips as Emma's words carry through the hall. Nodding her approval Joanna steps forward to place her palm against Emma's cheek as Death turns to face her.
“He always manages. But how are you, my love? Ready to dispatch a long overdue beating?”
“I require… pain… blood and suffering. Someone,” Emma continues, her head tilting toward the open hand of War, against her touch, “two someones, in fact, are going to be sacrificed for my nourishment. Death will take her toll and the price is gold,” the words are delivered with ferocity in stark contrast to Emma’s gentle pressing of her lips to the inside of Joanna’s hand. “None shall survive us.”
Joanna shakes her head as Emma's words make it impossible to hide her smile. “Does anyone ever truly survive us? They may physically walk out, but are they enough of the same person to claim survival? But I'm tired of business at the moment. I want an answer.” Much like Emma, Joanna's words contain a ferocity that contradicts her movements as a small blush darkens her cheeks.
“Yes, you’ve waited long enough.”
Emma draws a hand from her pocket, bearing what appears to be a ripe pomegranate. She strokes her thumb across the surface of it gently before her eyes lift to look into those of her Bloody Queen, locking gazes as she holds out the fruit to Joanna. War accepts the fruit as her faces portrays both confusion and joy at the offering.
“Not the question I meant, but if this is what I think it is... then I'll take it over any other answer I've ever sought.”
The pomegranate opens easily in Joanna’s hands, yet what is revealed within is far from natural. With emeralds that match her eyes, and skulls that are as dark as midnight, Joanna pulls out a ring befitting of the relationship between War and Death.
“The answer… is yes.”
“And they dare question our unity.”
Joanna's words are barely above a whisper. Unable to contain her feelings, Joanna's face betrays her as she slides the ring into place on her left hand. Emma glances over her shoulder at her now-fiancee and smiles thinly beneath eyes that, for the first time, show a trace of proper warmth. Over the otherwise-silent scene, her voice speaks a simple statement after which the image fades to final black.
“Gaia would be proud.”
