Post by Death Incarnate on Jul 30, 2016 6:02:52 GMT -6
It’s late afternoon on Friday and from elsewhere in the building the steadily-lowering sun is offering a gentle bit of illumination… enough to eliminate the need for artificial light. The wall is a bare white with nothing in the way of color to give it character. In that sense it matches well with the polished hardwood floor beneath the woman’s feet, causing a dull click with every step she takes. It’s quite the pair of legs, too… sheathed in light taupe silk, feet laced into heeled sandals with laces going from ankle to near the knee. Each motion causes the satiny material of her skirt to swish about her muscular stems, the tension from toes to thighs likely translating to the rest of her body. The view pans up to show Emma Carlisle, pacing back and forth before a white door with a brass knob, her gaze sternly set in a forward direction.
Except for the times she glanced in the direction of the closed portal with amused eyes over a set jaw and slightly-clenched teeth.
There’s noise from the other side; running water, clinking and tapping… a few whispered epithets. Emma mutters something to herself, most likely not in English and almost certainly not ladylike. She stops dead center in front of the door, her left hand rising with fingers curled in, but she stops and stares at her own hand before it can collide with painted wood. Fingers straighten and she stares at her appendage, specifically the ring finger on which a polished black ring styled with a skull motif and a pristine, deep blue sapphire. Entranced, she gazes at the adornment with great fondness… until glass shatters behind the door, snapping her back to reality.
“Joanna, for the love of... “
She stops her self-directed muttering and raps soundly on the door.
“Do you expect to make us late, Joanna? I know your aversions to this sort of thing but this is steadily making way into the realm of ridiculous,” she starts with an edge to her voice… but stops when she hears a soft sniffling behind the door.
Concern finds its way into her tone as she turns the knob and pushes inward, entering the bathroom. It’s quite spacious, with a very large tub, a separate shower that looks big enough for four and much else in the way of amenities. It is in the corner of this room, pressed as close as she can get between the wall and the commode. Her dress is in shreds, bottles are in pieces on the floor within puddles of various colors of liquid and the woman herself is shaking like a leaf. Her hands are pressed to the sides of her head while her expression is a twisted grimace, tears leaking from her eyes in a patently shocking display of emotion.
“Jo-Dear?”
Emma certainly isn’t one for emotion herself, but she moves with long strides over to Joanna, crouching down before her, paying no mind to the way her dress is now dipped into the remnants of the bottles across the tile floor. She has no words at this moment, however. Instead, she puts her body to use. She pulls Joanna in despite the blue-haired Warchild’s resistance, holding the woman tight against her chest. After a fashion, Joanna gives up trying to squirm out of her fiancee’s embrace and goes limp, a moment later wrapping her arms tight around Emma’s waist and burying her face into Death’s neck and shoulder.
Emma is taken aback by the sudden clench, not just due to the emotional nature of it but because she could swear later that she felt a rib creak. One of her hands lifts, sifting through Joanna’s wild, unbrushed hair while her black lips press gently to the top of War’s head. After several tense moments, she opens her mouth to speak… but Joanna cuts her off.
“This isn’t me… you’ve cursed me, Goldie… lifted me to a position I can't sustain. I… I’m not a leader!”
At once, understanding springs to life in Emma’s mind.
“You have come far since proving your dominance over us-”
“NO!”
The outburst seems to surprise even Joanna, who draws back enough to stare angrily up at Emma with reddened eyes.
“I am NOT a leader! I am a soldier… a warrior! I belong on the front lines ripping our enemies asunder at a whim, imposing our will through hammer and fist!” Her voice shakes and she stumbles over her words a time or two, but Joanna’s message is not lacking passion in the slightest. “I… I can’t do what you did! But you won’t just take it back… I know you won’t!”
And that brings forth a new level of vexation. Not only does Joanna hide her face against her lover anew, but she starts pounding on Emma’s body with her fists. The blows aren’t intended to hurt, not as they would be against an opponent or enemy… no, it’s emotionally-weakened frustration. Still, Emma is forced to reach up, to take her arms from around War and catch her wrists, trying to hold the struggling, tattered woman at bay.
“You understand, then, what I felt all this time,” Emma whispers. “The pressures that come with leading the charge, they are not gentle.”
“If you can't take it back… second me. Teach me what you know,” the tone of the blue-haired woman is pleading, obvious even as muffled as her voice is against Emma’s chest. “Show me what I need to be and help me understand the long view.”
“No… no, now isn’t the time,” is the reply, which sends another shiver through Joanna. Emma leans back, cupping her fiancee’s chin and making her look up into Death’s eyes of crystalline blue. “I will take the lead again for the time being. Our strength has dwindled of late and what we face soon, the sacred cows of Visionaries of Wrestling,” a certain acerbic taint settles into Emma’s voice as she refers to their Breakthrough opponents, “demands focused wrath and pure vision. Much lies before us, my love. In one evening, months of preparation and training can come to fruition in one fell swoop. Or… we could find ourselves drowning in the same muck we seek to pull this company from, crushed under the same weight as the rest who toil for nothing with nothing.”
Hers is a curious expression, that of Joanna Thade. An uncertainty is etched on her tear-stained features, yet her jaw sets as the words settle into her brain. It is a slight nod, but a noticeable one. Emma rises and pulls her along with, bringing Joanna to her feet. Finally releasing her fiancee’s wrists, Emma puts her hands to War’s cheeks instead, her fingertips and thumbs brushing away the tears, a gesture which threatens to bring more until she leans forward and presses her lips to Joanna’s. Trembling, Joanna again clings to Emma as she had prior, returning the kiss and, seemingly, drawing strength from the simple affection and her closeness to Death.
They part and Emma brings Joanna’s head forward, her lips resting against the Horsewoman of War’s brow.
“Be my vanguard, Joanna, as you will soon be my wife. Ride forward with me… not ahead or behind me but at my side. Move as one with my strikes as we rip apart the Paper King and the Fool of Fools. When the time comes, claim the case as I claim the title. Let us end this revolution on our terms, in our time… as we always wished to.”
“So it is written…”
“... so it shall be.”
From a brief fade to black, the images return at what we can rightly assume is later that same Friday. At a square table situated near the rear of the Gravina Malibu restaurant, four women sit in relative silence compared to the sounds of conversation and clatter from the kitchen and tray-bearing servers roaming about. Emma and Joanna, naturally, are two of them. The third, perhaps unsurprisingly, is their stablemate Katalina Star. It is the fourth member of the foursome that would strike some as odd: Zahara Matisse. Odd not for the fact that she’s there, for her relationship with Katalina is well-known. Odd… for the fact that she’s sitting across from Joanna without passing War the skunk eye.
All four women are leaned slightly over their dinner, so that may be the reason, though when Zahara looks up from time to time to sip her drink or say something quietly to Katalina, her gaze does pass over Joanna. And at no point does she look hostile. Katalina, to her credit, seems utterly peaceful with the strangeness of the situation and one could be forgiven for tagging Emma as oblivious to the situation as a whole. Joanna, however, is grinding her teeth each time her gaze falls to Zahara, not aggressively but more as a struggle to find the words she wanted.
Working her way through the cappellini agli scampi set before her, Emma’s eyes move between Joanna and Zahara several times before her partner speaks up. Shrimp and pasta wrapped around her fork pause midway between it and her plate as she listens.
“...I'm sorry if I in anyway assisted in your visit to the hospital. ‘Twas not my intention, even though I did warn you…”
Glancing up from her own plate, filled with risotto ai funghi, Zahara regards Joanna quietly for a moment, then shaking her head. Dark hair falls in front of her right eye, prompting her to lift a hand and brush it away.
“It didn’t help, but… no harm, no foul.” Smiles came so naturally to the magician. It wasn’t a grand spreading of lips and teeth, but it was at least reassuring in its simplicity. “And yes, you did warn us.”
“Well, it was purely business as you are a performer truly like no other, and while it may have come off as insulting... trust me Zahara, I do take you seriously.”
“A compliment from War?” Smiling thinly herself, a slight enough expression that it could be mistaken for a moving shadow, Emma lets out a dry note of laughter. “Mind your reputation.”
Silent up to this point, Katalina looks between the three and releases a held breath. Reaching for her glass of wine, she takes a protracted sip before replacing the glass on the table quietly after a moment. “I’m just glad the two of you can put it behind you. That was sort of the point of this dinner date, you understand.”
“We are aware. Forgive our late arrival, Katalina,” Emma replies without looking at Joanna, who suddenly finds her plate very interesting. “Joanna and I had to take care of a minor situation.”
The domina waves off the apology with her calculated-yet-endearing smile, gesturing with a motion of her hand. “It isn’t a problem. It gave Zoey and I time to talk, actually.”
To this Zahara nods, though her expression becomes a bit less animated. Her smile has departed again and once more she’s focused on the meal before her. Passing her girlfriend a curious look, Katalina returns her attention to her stablemates. Emma’s focus is on Zahara for a moment, the intense stare that comes from someone sensing something out of the ordinary. Joanna is likewise quiet, leaving Strife and Death to converse while noting the air of change at the table.
“You’re concerned about our lovers clashing at the pay-per-view, aren’t you, Zahara?”
The magician faintly smiles and shakes her head, lifting her gaze toward Emma. “Nothing they haven’t done before, Emma. It’s the nature of the beast. We all have to face those we’re close to sooner or later. Besides,” she continues after taking a sip of her tea, “I don’t think Joanna would treat Katalina like you three treated Casanova English, right?”
The room fills with tension as the unspoken but understood fallout of the last Breakthrough was brought into the conversation. Katalina can’t hide her knowing smile and Joanna can't contain hers at all as she chews the piece of steak she had just put inside her mouth.
“No, I won't. Personally, I'm looking forward to seeing which of us come out on top. Strife seems uneasy on her back, though if it were you, Zahara, well... I don't think a ref would be appropriate.”
Joanna's words while serious to begin with quickly turn to joking as her mind wonders as only hers can. Zahara, while looking amused, says nothing in response and Katalina… still has that smile on her face, coupled with a soft, pink tinge to her cheeks. Emma, meanwhile, has her fingers pressed together before her face, her elbows resting lightly on the edge of the table. At first she’s gazing at Zahara but after Joanna’s comment she’s looking at her two stablemates.
“If either of you win the six-way for the case, we all win,” she says smoothly, quietly. “The same goes for my confrontation with English and Blade. If I win… we all win. Except, in my case, winning is my only option. Which brings us to the upcoming Breakthrough…”
Joanna rolls her eyes as Emma circumvents her playful comment, cutting Death off part-way through her sentence..
“You really want to get into this now? Doom and gloom when we have enough on our plates? Strife and I a huge match to be followed by your main event, all of which are after you and I finally get to step in the ring together again. This needn't be a war council. That's my job. Though…” Joanna's harden eyes soften as her mind shifts and her gaze shifts between her two sisters. “Well… later on that note. Point is, Goldie, this isn't the time for shop talk. We need to celebrate; our future, our love, the move... and thank you Katalina for the advice on location, while I’m on the topic… and just enjoy each other. Not to plot our course through the tainted waters of VoW.”
A barely-perceptible twitch is noticeable at Emma’s brow, but she doesn’t dispute Joanna’s statement. Instead she shrugs in a quiet gesture of acceptance.
“So be it, then.”
Quiet reigns again for a moment before Zahara speaks up. As she does, she reaches over and places her hand on Katalina’s, giving it a gentle squeeze and meeting the domina’s eyes without the typical reverence most show when they stare at Strife. Pure love shone in her golden eyes, no more and no less.
“Speaking of celebrations,” the magician relates as she turns back to Joanna and Emma, “I’d like to formally invite the two of you to a beach cookout we’re having the Saturday after Heatstroke. We’re planning on having quite a crowd there and we’d like you two to be present. And Talon and Sentinel as well if they can make time. We just picked up a grill for the deck and,” Zahara pauses, her eyes sparkling with excitement a bit as she turns to Katalina who betrays a faint amount of nervousness, “this will be an excellent way to break it in.”
“It looks like a weapon of mass destruction, love,” replies Katalina, turning her hand so that hers and Zahara’s palms rest together. “Are you sure you can control such a thing?”
“Yes, sweetling, and I mean to teach you how to do the same.”
The conversation was white noise to Emma if the look on her face was any indicator. It was a calm expression for the most part, but her eyes were very… steady. Searching and intense, they were locked on Zahara and Katalina quite intently as the couple’s conversation quieted a little. The magician was animated and glowing while Katalina was showing a strange concoction of eagerness and trepidation. Joanna noted Emma’s staring and put a hand on her fiancee’s arm.
“Are you trying to stare a hole through them, Goldie? Or maybe trying to figure out what's behind the magician's third curtain?”
“Mm? No… not that,” Emma replies quietly, sounding just a bit sheepish. “I was… actually admiring them. Do you think we’ll be like that at any point, Jo-Dear?”
She turns her icy eyes on Joanna, a rare moment’s worth of warmth alive in her gaze. Joanna's lips dance before her teeth as her mind works through Emma's question. Shaking her head, Joanna's response isn't as negative as it would be expected.
“Never. I could never be so cheerful and you aren't easy to redden. But everyone is uniquely molded and this... I doubt anyone could ever hold a candle to them. Unless, of course, one of them is into that.”
Emma snickers slightly at the last comment, sliding her hand down Joanna’s arm before pressing her hands together again. “Wax play is the least of what Katalina might utilize. You know this.”
“All too well. It keeps an idea at the front of my mind. Yet I haven't the words to outright ask.”
“Our love is our own, for us to understand and others to wonder about. The same is true with Zahara and Katalina as I see it,” Emma says quietly, watching as the conversation across from her and her fiancee turns into the dark-haired women sharing a kiss and a few soft words before going back to their meal. “That's how love ought to be.”
“So it shall be written, my love.”
Joanna's response comes with a coy flutter of her eyes along with a hungry, crazed grin. The blue-haired visionary leans down to meet her rising hand, carrying Emma's, and planting her blood red lips to Death's icy pale skin. Color rises for a moment to Emma’s cheek as her fingers curl around Joanna’s own hand and draw it close. With black-tinged lips, Emma kisses each of Joanna’s knuckles before lowering the hand. Now the attention is from Katalina and Zahara to Emma and Joanna instead of the other way around. But based on the smiles of Strife and the Magical Maiden, they’re apt to be thinking the same things that Death and War were just discussing themselves.
From this point we move what seems like a world away. Gone is the pleasant lighting of the restaurant and calm conversation with a few names on the short list of people who are above the level of ‘tolerate’ on Emma’s list. The alley is barely lit, the only light coming from a few neon signs out on the street and the reflection of the streetlamps in puddles and off windows. Darkness reigns and it is here where Emma isn’t found so much as she reveals herself. A few steps from the wall upon which she’d leaned, the sea breeze wafting through to rustle the cloak draped around her shoulders while nearly upsetting the hood over her head… and a shadow melts from the shadows.
She stares coldly in the direction of the camera, a gesture obvious even without a clear look at her eyes. The set of her jaw and the way her lips are pressed into a thin, angry line… or at least it looks angry. Her flesh looks almost ghostly… as pale as the half-skull mask we can see the shape of partially beneath the cloth hood. Turning her back to the camera with a sweep of her cloak, she raises a pale hand tipped with black and gestures for it to follow her. Through puddle-laden, cracked asphalt and between graffiti-laden buildings, Death moves like her namesake; calmly, quietly, in no hurry. The odd rumble of a car engine, the honking of horns and the shouts of people on the streets… they fill the otherwise still air but to Emma they may as well not exist, a point more prominent once her chilly voice cuts through.
“‘What happens when the irresistible force meets the immovable object?’ asks the ages-old question, one sometimes termed as ‘the spear and shield paradox’. How many times through the ages has such a question been put forth to the point of brutal, senseless cliche? The saying goes that when such ill-defined objects collide, they surrender. One cannot break through the other without breaking themselves. It has a certain poetry to it, does it not?”
There’s a short pause as she crosses a street, not even bothering to look to one side or the other before doing so. A car comes within inches of her but she pays it no mind. The yelling and hooting of a few gangbangers on the other sidewalk stops as they stare at the cloaked woman.
No sooner does she step into the alley on the other side, however, than does all noise and chaos resume in her wake.
“Which are you, Ryder Blade and Casanova English? Is the former Xcel Champion the irresistible force? It would fit with his abnormally high opinion of himself, thinking a title reign and trite catchphrases are all it takes to get by in life… most of the latter being nonsense he can’t even devise on his own. Is the reigning World Visionary Champion the immovable object? There seems to be some logic to such an idea seeing how long he’s held that title, though let us not fail to remember that most of his recent opponents have barely mustered the effort to remember they had a match, much less try with any drive to defeat him. His protracted reign reflects the laziness of his opponents and has wrongly empowered him. Regardless, these two will soon meet between the ropes and be forced to choose one way or the other. However, to this one, the choice is obvious:
Regardless of who is who, their only hope is the very surrender which they are destined for. Look upon the new addition to this equation, the blade that slices through the haft of the spear, that severs the straps of the shield… this one.”
Beneath the cloak, for but a moment, a touch of light catches the skull at the tip of Emma’s cane and causes it to glimmer briefly. By design or by happy accident for the sake of emphasis none could say.
“Consider these words, English: Nothing to lose. Immerse yourself in that concept, letting it soak into every orifice, into the wound this one ripped into you like a crown of thorns. What do you think you can take away from Death? Will your cronies damage this one’s allies and associates? Will this one have to suffer more personal pain for daring to reveal the mortality of a false Messiah? This one asks again, English:
What do you think you can take away from Death?
Strife and War know the price that must be paid and they shall not shy away. You cannot hurt this one through them. The Chosen are likewise devoted to the cause, and they are many. You cannot hurt this one through them. And what could you possibly unleash that would give this one pause? Physical pain? Emotional torment? Mental warping? This one dares you, English. Because it will amount to nothing other than this one laughing in your face and watching you cower back at the realization of your own ineptitude. There is no awe owed you, charlatan... no deference or respect. Only pain.”
So it goes as she wanders through the back streets and derelict areas, though they are far and few between, in the less-visited parts of Malibu. As with before, action and indeed time itself, takes pause in her presence.
“This one knows, though. It knows what you are expecting. Like so many in the past, a victory over the greatest champion of all is an accomplishment to boast about for certain. Yet… this one doesn’t see it that way,” Emma’s tone turns quiet for a moment and she ceases her motion, stopping before the mouth of a shadowed pathway. “There are two schools of thought, English, with the most prominent being that, without your trinket on the line, you treated our encounter as a throwaway. You look down on this one, the same as the rest. Even those this one has defeated hold it in contempt. And why shouldn’t they? By their standards and your own, what has this one accomplished? That said, why would you bother to put forth any noticeable effort? But such a theory is foolish in the maximum, simply because this one felt the snap in your movements, the force in your grip. You sought to wreck this one, to make an example.
Sought to. But did not.”
It becomes difficult to keep track of her when she enters the alley, as the sweeping motion of the camera attests. All there truly is to go on is the sound of her voice, haunting and chilling.
“And the second school? Such as that was that this one knew from the get that you would not come forth at your optimum and so… this one decided to play the game from its own end. That, English, is the key: you and this one played the same game. But this one? This one played it BETTER. Unless your Precious hangs in the balance, you’ve no care. Would you call it, perhaps, taking your opponent’s measure? Silly boy… you should know better than to gamble with Death.
Saving your strength for when, to you, it matters... using lack of caring to demoralize the competition, to make them feel as if they do not matter... do you think this one a fool? Beating you was like stepping on a roach; this one did it because it was reflexive, not because it would mean anything. The win means less to this one than the loss does to you. But were your gold on the line? Well... that would be a different Messiah... and a darker Death."
The view and, indeed, the ambiance opens up considerably once Emma passes through the other end of the alley. The streets are suddenly brighter, more alive. Throngs of humanity, oblivious to little other than their weekly revelry, complete with alcohol and likely several forms of narcotics if the bonfires are any indication. It’s a wonder they can get away with such in this day and age.
Emma moves not through them, but past them. In fact, she seems to take considerable pain to interact with them as little as possible, as if the lights and sounds cause her physical discomfort. But she never forgets the fact that she’s delivering a message.
”And you’ll simply have to forgive this one for not caring to waste much breath against your partner this time around, English. We’ve clashed before and it was at that very moment that this company’s utter depravity and devotion to false idols was first thrust into this one’s awareness so blatantly,” she says as she pauses, open beach before her and filthy scum carousing in the background, glancing over her shoulder at that lot disapprovingly. ”Without favorites on high toying with fate as though they were deities, you would not have slipped past this one with a victory, Ryder Blade. Know that.” Her very tone all but dares rebuttal. ”And know as well that the same effect was had when you squeaked out a triumph over Joanna as well. Corruption, Blade. You are a font for it. It feeds your success and your need for attention. But it will not serve you here. However the company wishes this contest to turn out, well… they will not have their way. Not again. The mighty, you will learn to your chagrin, do not kneel, boy.
And this one is fully aware of the charges leveled. To the company itself, this one dares them to refute it. You are simply not strong enough, Blade, to defeat this one. Nor were the coveted and treasured Neon Girls but, as in your own case, the company got what it wanted.” The bitterness lingers there but Emma is not one to dwell on it. ”Their precious merchandise sales, the ratings for television and the lucrative rewards to be made off the Heatstroke main event… this one sees their motivation clearly. But their rules don’t matter to this one. In one fell swoop, it could break both you and English, sending their pretty plans into a bloody spiral and robbing them of full coffers. And what could they do to stop this one? Suspension? Disqualification? Breach of contract? Again: this one dares them. Bolster your coward who cannot handle adversity, VoW. Boost your vaunted champion who cannot succeed against a lower, ineffectual talent such as this one. Go on. You know you want to.”
Dry, cackling laughter emits from Death. She thrusts her hood back, pulling off her mask as she turns to stare at the camera. They are not the eyes of an evil woman bent on dark deeds but those of a child staring at an object capable of eliciting awe.
Then the mask goes back on and the change is instantaneous.
”This one’s point is quite simple,” she continues, as if we didn’t just see a child gazing back at us from beneath Death’s head. ”and that is that the Chaossworn shall do what we always do: sow chaos and suffering, bringing the dark truths to living light. Your champions are flawed, your contenders weak. English and Blade will suffer, win or lose, and only we shall stand when the battle is done.”
“For the war is only in its opening volley, and until the smoke clears neither side can make the necessary adjustments. That is, unless they are willing to gamble with collateral damage. We are, English must certainly is, and Ryder... do you even know the meaning of the words?”
Falling into step alongside her, Emma is joined by her partner in the upcoming clash, Joanna Thade. She glances sideways at her partner and fiancee, nodding in agreement as they continue past the last of the party-goers toward an unpopulated, unspoiled portion of the beachfront.
”We are one. We are a force unlike any other, learning from the few mistakes we make and vowing to never see them repeated. But in the case of you two, well,” Emma pauses, briefly, as a dangerous smile turns up her lips. ”it would be hard to fail, wouldn’t it? More so when all we wish is to make you suffer.”
“You see, boys, this match is truly meaningless to me. As much as Goldie and I will use it to rectify our past, I gain nothing regardless of the outcome. So let’s play shall we? Two lovers, whom have traveled the world and swapped companies together, against two men that can’t stand the sight of each other and will be fighting over toxic gold the next time they see each other. Let us see if pride truly goes before the fall...”
“...or if you’re every bit the limp cowards the world will soon see you as. Oh, and for those watching from on high?”
They’d been walking further onto the beach, not quite past the line of foliage that separated one side from the other, but close. Near this boundary Emma took hold of Joanna and pressed her against the wide trunk of one of the various palms rising high over the sand. A thick band of blue wrapped around her left hand, Emma drew her lover’s head back and kissed her hungrily for a few moments. They both lose themselves in the passion as Joanna’s hands wander to Emma’s ample behind earning a small primal sounds from them both. Emma pulls back, bringing Joanna’s lower lip with her before drawing away with a soft pop and turning her stare on the camera.
“How’s THAT for synergy?”
“Synergy? I call that a warm up, but the main course will be crimson, and prepared by management as a true example of ‘be careful what you wish for’. You two may be the tops in solo competition among the rest in this collapsing company… well, at least one of you may be... but together you’re untested, inexperienced, and out of your league in terms of unity, trust, and cooperation.”
”Enjoy the nightmares, boys. In a few precious days, they come true.”
Both turn as one, walking from the tree and down the sand as the scene comes to a close.
Except for the times she glanced in the direction of the closed portal with amused eyes over a set jaw and slightly-clenched teeth.
There’s noise from the other side; running water, clinking and tapping… a few whispered epithets. Emma mutters something to herself, most likely not in English and almost certainly not ladylike. She stops dead center in front of the door, her left hand rising with fingers curled in, but she stops and stares at her own hand before it can collide with painted wood. Fingers straighten and she stares at her appendage, specifically the ring finger on which a polished black ring styled with a skull motif and a pristine, deep blue sapphire. Entranced, she gazes at the adornment with great fondness… until glass shatters behind the door, snapping her back to reality.
“Joanna, for the love of... “
She stops her self-directed muttering and raps soundly on the door.
“Do you expect to make us late, Joanna? I know your aversions to this sort of thing but this is steadily making way into the realm of ridiculous,” she starts with an edge to her voice… but stops when she hears a soft sniffling behind the door.
Concern finds its way into her tone as she turns the knob and pushes inward, entering the bathroom. It’s quite spacious, with a very large tub, a separate shower that looks big enough for four and much else in the way of amenities. It is in the corner of this room, pressed as close as she can get between the wall and the commode. Her dress is in shreds, bottles are in pieces on the floor within puddles of various colors of liquid and the woman herself is shaking like a leaf. Her hands are pressed to the sides of her head while her expression is a twisted grimace, tears leaking from her eyes in a patently shocking display of emotion.
“Jo-Dear?”
Emma certainly isn’t one for emotion herself, but she moves with long strides over to Joanna, crouching down before her, paying no mind to the way her dress is now dipped into the remnants of the bottles across the tile floor. She has no words at this moment, however. Instead, she puts her body to use. She pulls Joanna in despite the blue-haired Warchild’s resistance, holding the woman tight against her chest. After a fashion, Joanna gives up trying to squirm out of her fiancee’s embrace and goes limp, a moment later wrapping her arms tight around Emma’s waist and burying her face into Death’s neck and shoulder.
Emma is taken aback by the sudden clench, not just due to the emotional nature of it but because she could swear later that she felt a rib creak. One of her hands lifts, sifting through Joanna’s wild, unbrushed hair while her black lips press gently to the top of War’s head. After several tense moments, she opens her mouth to speak… but Joanna cuts her off.
“This isn’t me… you’ve cursed me, Goldie… lifted me to a position I can't sustain. I… I’m not a leader!”
At once, understanding springs to life in Emma’s mind.
“You have come far since proving your dominance over us-”
“NO!”
The outburst seems to surprise even Joanna, who draws back enough to stare angrily up at Emma with reddened eyes.
“I am NOT a leader! I am a soldier… a warrior! I belong on the front lines ripping our enemies asunder at a whim, imposing our will through hammer and fist!” Her voice shakes and she stumbles over her words a time or two, but Joanna’s message is not lacking passion in the slightest. “I… I can’t do what you did! But you won’t just take it back… I know you won’t!”
And that brings forth a new level of vexation. Not only does Joanna hide her face against her lover anew, but she starts pounding on Emma’s body with her fists. The blows aren’t intended to hurt, not as they would be against an opponent or enemy… no, it’s emotionally-weakened frustration. Still, Emma is forced to reach up, to take her arms from around War and catch her wrists, trying to hold the struggling, tattered woman at bay.
“You understand, then, what I felt all this time,” Emma whispers. “The pressures that come with leading the charge, they are not gentle.”
“If you can't take it back… second me. Teach me what you know,” the tone of the blue-haired woman is pleading, obvious even as muffled as her voice is against Emma’s chest. “Show me what I need to be and help me understand the long view.”
“No… no, now isn’t the time,” is the reply, which sends another shiver through Joanna. Emma leans back, cupping her fiancee’s chin and making her look up into Death’s eyes of crystalline blue. “I will take the lead again for the time being. Our strength has dwindled of late and what we face soon, the sacred cows of Visionaries of Wrestling,” a certain acerbic taint settles into Emma’s voice as she refers to their Breakthrough opponents, “demands focused wrath and pure vision. Much lies before us, my love. In one evening, months of preparation and training can come to fruition in one fell swoop. Or… we could find ourselves drowning in the same muck we seek to pull this company from, crushed under the same weight as the rest who toil for nothing with nothing.”
Hers is a curious expression, that of Joanna Thade. An uncertainty is etched on her tear-stained features, yet her jaw sets as the words settle into her brain. It is a slight nod, but a noticeable one. Emma rises and pulls her along with, bringing Joanna to her feet. Finally releasing her fiancee’s wrists, Emma puts her hands to War’s cheeks instead, her fingertips and thumbs brushing away the tears, a gesture which threatens to bring more until she leans forward and presses her lips to Joanna’s. Trembling, Joanna again clings to Emma as she had prior, returning the kiss and, seemingly, drawing strength from the simple affection and her closeness to Death.
They part and Emma brings Joanna’s head forward, her lips resting against the Horsewoman of War’s brow.
“Be my vanguard, Joanna, as you will soon be my wife. Ride forward with me… not ahead or behind me but at my side. Move as one with my strikes as we rip apart the Paper King and the Fool of Fools. When the time comes, claim the case as I claim the title. Let us end this revolution on our terms, in our time… as we always wished to.”
“So it is written…”
“... so it shall be.”
From a brief fade to black, the images return at what we can rightly assume is later that same Friday. At a square table situated near the rear of the Gravina Malibu restaurant, four women sit in relative silence compared to the sounds of conversation and clatter from the kitchen and tray-bearing servers roaming about. Emma and Joanna, naturally, are two of them. The third, perhaps unsurprisingly, is their stablemate Katalina Star. It is the fourth member of the foursome that would strike some as odd: Zahara Matisse. Odd not for the fact that she’s there, for her relationship with Katalina is well-known. Odd… for the fact that she’s sitting across from Joanna without passing War the skunk eye.
All four women are leaned slightly over their dinner, so that may be the reason, though when Zahara looks up from time to time to sip her drink or say something quietly to Katalina, her gaze does pass over Joanna. And at no point does she look hostile. Katalina, to her credit, seems utterly peaceful with the strangeness of the situation and one could be forgiven for tagging Emma as oblivious to the situation as a whole. Joanna, however, is grinding her teeth each time her gaze falls to Zahara, not aggressively but more as a struggle to find the words she wanted.
Working her way through the cappellini agli scampi set before her, Emma’s eyes move between Joanna and Zahara several times before her partner speaks up. Shrimp and pasta wrapped around her fork pause midway between it and her plate as she listens.
“...I'm sorry if I in anyway assisted in your visit to the hospital. ‘Twas not my intention, even though I did warn you…”
Glancing up from her own plate, filled with risotto ai funghi, Zahara regards Joanna quietly for a moment, then shaking her head. Dark hair falls in front of her right eye, prompting her to lift a hand and brush it away.
“It didn’t help, but… no harm, no foul.” Smiles came so naturally to the magician. It wasn’t a grand spreading of lips and teeth, but it was at least reassuring in its simplicity. “And yes, you did warn us.”
“Well, it was purely business as you are a performer truly like no other, and while it may have come off as insulting... trust me Zahara, I do take you seriously.”
“A compliment from War?” Smiling thinly herself, a slight enough expression that it could be mistaken for a moving shadow, Emma lets out a dry note of laughter. “Mind your reputation.”
Silent up to this point, Katalina looks between the three and releases a held breath. Reaching for her glass of wine, she takes a protracted sip before replacing the glass on the table quietly after a moment. “I’m just glad the two of you can put it behind you. That was sort of the point of this dinner date, you understand.”
“We are aware. Forgive our late arrival, Katalina,” Emma replies without looking at Joanna, who suddenly finds her plate very interesting. “Joanna and I had to take care of a minor situation.”
The domina waves off the apology with her calculated-yet-endearing smile, gesturing with a motion of her hand. “It isn’t a problem. It gave Zoey and I time to talk, actually.”
To this Zahara nods, though her expression becomes a bit less animated. Her smile has departed again and once more she’s focused on the meal before her. Passing her girlfriend a curious look, Katalina returns her attention to her stablemates. Emma’s focus is on Zahara for a moment, the intense stare that comes from someone sensing something out of the ordinary. Joanna is likewise quiet, leaving Strife and Death to converse while noting the air of change at the table.
“You’re concerned about our lovers clashing at the pay-per-view, aren’t you, Zahara?”
The magician faintly smiles and shakes her head, lifting her gaze toward Emma. “Nothing they haven’t done before, Emma. It’s the nature of the beast. We all have to face those we’re close to sooner or later. Besides,” she continues after taking a sip of her tea, “I don’t think Joanna would treat Katalina like you three treated Casanova English, right?”
The room fills with tension as the unspoken but understood fallout of the last Breakthrough was brought into the conversation. Katalina can’t hide her knowing smile and Joanna can't contain hers at all as she chews the piece of steak she had just put inside her mouth.
“No, I won't. Personally, I'm looking forward to seeing which of us come out on top. Strife seems uneasy on her back, though if it were you, Zahara, well... I don't think a ref would be appropriate.”
Joanna's words while serious to begin with quickly turn to joking as her mind wonders as only hers can. Zahara, while looking amused, says nothing in response and Katalina… still has that smile on her face, coupled with a soft, pink tinge to her cheeks. Emma, meanwhile, has her fingers pressed together before her face, her elbows resting lightly on the edge of the table. At first she’s gazing at Zahara but after Joanna’s comment she’s looking at her two stablemates.
“If either of you win the six-way for the case, we all win,” she says smoothly, quietly. “The same goes for my confrontation with English and Blade. If I win… we all win. Except, in my case, winning is my only option. Which brings us to the upcoming Breakthrough…”
Joanna rolls her eyes as Emma circumvents her playful comment, cutting Death off part-way through her sentence..
“You really want to get into this now? Doom and gloom when we have enough on our plates? Strife and I a huge match to be followed by your main event, all of which are after you and I finally get to step in the ring together again. This needn't be a war council. That's my job. Though…” Joanna's harden eyes soften as her mind shifts and her gaze shifts between her two sisters. “Well… later on that note. Point is, Goldie, this isn't the time for shop talk. We need to celebrate; our future, our love, the move... and thank you Katalina for the advice on location, while I’m on the topic… and just enjoy each other. Not to plot our course through the tainted waters of VoW.”
A barely-perceptible twitch is noticeable at Emma’s brow, but she doesn’t dispute Joanna’s statement. Instead she shrugs in a quiet gesture of acceptance.
“So be it, then.”
Quiet reigns again for a moment before Zahara speaks up. As she does, she reaches over and places her hand on Katalina’s, giving it a gentle squeeze and meeting the domina’s eyes without the typical reverence most show when they stare at Strife. Pure love shone in her golden eyes, no more and no less.
“Speaking of celebrations,” the magician relates as she turns back to Joanna and Emma, “I’d like to formally invite the two of you to a beach cookout we’re having the Saturday after Heatstroke. We’re planning on having quite a crowd there and we’d like you two to be present. And Talon and Sentinel as well if they can make time. We just picked up a grill for the deck and,” Zahara pauses, her eyes sparkling with excitement a bit as she turns to Katalina who betrays a faint amount of nervousness, “this will be an excellent way to break it in.”
“It looks like a weapon of mass destruction, love,” replies Katalina, turning her hand so that hers and Zahara’s palms rest together. “Are you sure you can control such a thing?”
“Yes, sweetling, and I mean to teach you how to do the same.”
The conversation was white noise to Emma if the look on her face was any indicator. It was a calm expression for the most part, but her eyes were very… steady. Searching and intense, they were locked on Zahara and Katalina quite intently as the couple’s conversation quieted a little. The magician was animated and glowing while Katalina was showing a strange concoction of eagerness and trepidation. Joanna noted Emma’s staring and put a hand on her fiancee’s arm.
“Are you trying to stare a hole through them, Goldie? Or maybe trying to figure out what's behind the magician's third curtain?”
“Mm? No… not that,” Emma replies quietly, sounding just a bit sheepish. “I was… actually admiring them. Do you think we’ll be like that at any point, Jo-Dear?”
She turns her icy eyes on Joanna, a rare moment’s worth of warmth alive in her gaze. Joanna's lips dance before her teeth as her mind works through Emma's question. Shaking her head, Joanna's response isn't as negative as it would be expected.
“Never. I could never be so cheerful and you aren't easy to redden. But everyone is uniquely molded and this... I doubt anyone could ever hold a candle to them. Unless, of course, one of them is into that.”
Emma snickers slightly at the last comment, sliding her hand down Joanna’s arm before pressing her hands together again. “Wax play is the least of what Katalina might utilize. You know this.”
“All too well. It keeps an idea at the front of my mind. Yet I haven't the words to outright ask.”
“Our love is our own, for us to understand and others to wonder about. The same is true with Zahara and Katalina as I see it,” Emma says quietly, watching as the conversation across from her and her fiancee turns into the dark-haired women sharing a kiss and a few soft words before going back to their meal. “That's how love ought to be.”
“So it shall be written, my love.”
Joanna's response comes with a coy flutter of her eyes along with a hungry, crazed grin. The blue-haired visionary leans down to meet her rising hand, carrying Emma's, and planting her blood red lips to Death's icy pale skin. Color rises for a moment to Emma’s cheek as her fingers curl around Joanna’s own hand and draw it close. With black-tinged lips, Emma kisses each of Joanna’s knuckles before lowering the hand. Now the attention is from Katalina and Zahara to Emma and Joanna instead of the other way around. But based on the smiles of Strife and the Magical Maiden, they’re apt to be thinking the same things that Death and War were just discussing themselves.
From this point we move what seems like a world away. Gone is the pleasant lighting of the restaurant and calm conversation with a few names on the short list of people who are above the level of ‘tolerate’ on Emma’s list. The alley is barely lit, the only light coming from a few neon signs out on the street and the reflection of the streetlamps in puddles and off windows. Darkness reigns and it is here where Emma isn’t found so much as she reveals herself. A few steps from the wall upon which she’d leaned, the sea breeze wafting through to rustle the cloak draped around her shoulders while nearly upsetting the hood over her head… and a shadow melts from the shadows.
She stares coldly in the direction of the camera, a gesture obvious even without a clear look at her eyes. The set of her jaw and the way her lips are pressed into a thin, angry line… or at least it looks angry. Her flesh looks almost ghostly… as pale as the half-skull mask we can see the shape of partially beneath the cloth hood. Turning her back to the camera with a sweep of her cloak, she raises a pale hand tipped with black and gestures for it to follow her. Through puddle-laden, cracked asphalt and between graffiti-laden buildings, Death moves like her namesake; calmly, quietly, in no hurry. The odd rumble of a car engine, the honking of horns and the shouts of people on the streets… they fill the otherwise still air but to Emma they may as well not exist, a point more prominent once her chilly voice cuts through.
“‘What happens when the irresistible force meets the immovable object?’ asks the ages-old question, one sometimes termed as ‘the spear and shield paradox’. How many times through the ages has such a question been put forth to the point of brutal, senseless cliche? The saying goes that when such ill-defined objects collide, they surrender. One cannot break through the other without breaking themselves. It has a certain poetry to it, does it not?”
There’s a short pause as she crosses a street, not even bothering to look to one side or the other before doing so. A car comes within inches of her but she pays it no mind. The yelling and hooting of a few gangbangers on the other sidewalk stops as they stare at the cloaked woman.
No sooner does she step into the alley on the other side, however, than does all noise and chaos resume in her wake.
“Which are you, Ryder Blade and Casanova English? Is the former Xcel Champion the irresistible force? It would fit with his abnormally high opinion of himself, thinking a title reign and trite catchphrases are all it takes to get by in life… most of the latter being nonsense he can’t even devise on his own. Is the reigning World Visionary Champion the immovable object? There seems to be some logic to such an idea seeing how long he’s held that title, though let us not fail to remember that most of his recent opponents have barely mustered the effort to remember they had a match, much less try with any drive to defeat him. His protracted reign reflects the laziness of his opponents and has wrongly empowered him. Regardless, these two will soon meet between the ropes and be forced to choose one way or the other. However, to this one, the choice is obvious:
Regardless of who is who, their only hope is the very surrender which they are destined for. Look upon the new addition to this equation, the blade that slices through the haft of the spear, that severs the straps of the shield… this one.”
Beneath the cloak, for but a moment, a touch of light catches the skull at the tip of Emma’s cane and causes it to glimmer briefly. By design or by happy accident for the sake of emphasis none could say.
“Consider these words, English: Nothing to lose. Immerse yourself in that concept, letting it soak into every orifice, into the wound this one ripped into you like a crown of thorns. What do you think you can take away from Death? Will your cronies damage this one’s allies and associates? Will this one have to suffer more personal pain for daring to reveal the mortality of a false Messiah? This one asks again, English:
What do you think you can take away from Death?
Strife and War know the price that must be paid and they shall not shy away. You cannot hurt this one through them. The Chosen are likewise devoted to the cause, and they are many. You cannot hurt this one through them. And what could you possibly unleash that would give this one pause? Physical pain? Emotional torment? Mental warping? This one dares you, English. Because it will amount to nothing other than this one laughing in your face and watching you cower back at the realization of your own ineptitude. There is no awe owed you, charlatan... no deference or respect. Only pain.”
So it goes as she wanders through the back streets and derelict areas, though they are far and few between, in the less-visited parts of Malibu. As with before, action and indeed time itself, takes pause in her presence.
“This one knows, though. It knows what you are expecting. Like so many in the past, a victory over the greatest champion of all is an accomplishment to boast about for certain. Yet… this one doesn’t see it that way,” Emma’s tone turns quiet for a moment and she ceases her motion, stopping before the mouth of a shadowed pathway. “There are two schools of thought, English, with the most prominent being that, without your trinket on the line, you treated our encounter as a throwaway. You look down on this one, the same as the rest. Even those this one has defeated hold it in contempt. And why shouldn’t they? By their standards and your own, what has this one accomplished? That said, why would you bother to put forth any noticeable effort? But such a theory is foolish in the maximum, simply because this one felt the snap in your movements, the force in your grip. You sought to wreck this one, to make an example.
Sought to. But did not.”
It becomes difficult to keep track of her when she enters the alley, as the sweeping motion of the camera attests. All there truly is to go on is the sound of her voice, haunting and chilling.
“And the second school? Such as that was that this one knew from the get that you would not come forth at your optimum and so… this one decided to play the game from its own end. That, English, is the key: you and this one played the same game. But this one? This one played it BETTER. Unless your Precious hangs in the balance, you’ve no care. Would you call it, perhaps, taking your opponent’s measure? Silly boy… you should know better than to gamble with Death.
Saving your strength for when, to you, it matters... using lack of caring to demoralize the competition, to make them feel as if they do not matter... do you think this one a fool? Beating you was like stepping on a roach; this one did it because it was reflexive, not because it would mean anything. The win means less to this one than the loss does to you. But were your gold on the line? Well... that would be a different Messiah... and a darker Death."
The view and, indeed, the ambiance opens up considerably once Emma passes through the other end of the alley. The streets are suddenly brighter, more alive. Throngs of humanity, oblivious to little other than their weekly revelry, complete with alcohol and likely several forms of narcotics if the bonfires are any indication. It’s a wonder they can get away with such in this day and age.
Emma moves not through them, but past them. In fact, she seems to take considerable pain to interact with them as little as possible, as if the lights and sounds cause her physical discomfort. But she never forgets the fact that she’s delivering a message.
”And you’ll simply have to forgive this one for not caring to waste much breath against your partner this time around, English. We’ve clashed before and it was at that very moment that this company’s utter depravity and devotion to false idols was first thrust into this one’s awareness so blatantly,” she says as she pauses, open beach before her and filthy scum carousing in the background, glancing over her shoulder at that lot disapprovingly. ”Without favorites on high toying with fate as though they were deities, you would not have slipped past this one with a victory, Ryder Blade. Know that.” Her very tone all but dares rebuttal. ”And know as well that the same effect was had when you squeaked out a triumph over Joanna as well. Corruption, Blade. You are a font for it. It feeds your success and your need for attention. But it will not serve you here. However the company wishes this contest to turn out, well… they will not have their way. Not again. The mighty, you will learn to your chagrin, do not kneel, boy.
And this one is fully aware of the charges leveled. To the company itself, this one dares them to refute it. You are simply not strong enough, Blade, to defeat this one. Nor were the coveted and treasured Neon Girls but, as in your own case, the company got what it wanted.” The bitterness lingers there but Emma is not one to dwell on it. ”Their precious merchandise sales, the ratings for television and the lucrative rewards to be made off the Heatstroke main event… this one sees their motivation clearly. But their rules don’t matter to this one. In one fell swoop, it could break both you and English, sending their pretty plans into a bloody spiral and robbing them of full coffers. And what could they do to stop this one? Suspension? Disqualification? Breach of contract? Again: this one dares them. Bolster your coward who cannot handle adversity, VoW. Boost your vaunted champion who cannot succeed against a lower, ineffectual talent such as this one. Go on. You know you want to.”
Dry, cackling laughter emits from Death. She thrusts her hood back, pulling off her mask as she turns to stare at the camera. They are not the eyes of an evil woman bent on dark deeds but those of a child staring at an object capable of eliciting awe.
Then the mask goes back on and the change is instantaneous.
”This one’s point is quite simple,” she continues, as if we didn’t just see a child gazing back at us from beneath Death’s head. ”and that is that the Chaossworn shall do what we always do: sow chaos and suffering, bringing the dark truths to living light. Your champions are flawed, your contenders weak. English and Blade will suffer, win or lose, and only we shall stand when the battle is done.”
“For the war is only in its opening volley, and until the smoke clears neither side can make the necessary adjustments. That is, unless they are willing to gamble with collateral damage. We are, English must certainly is, and Ryder... do you even know the meaning of the words?”
Falling into step alongside her, Emma is joined by her partner in the upcoming clash, Joanna Thade. She glances sideways at her partner and fiancee, nodding in agreement as they continue past the last of the party-goers toward an unpopulated, unspoiled portion of the beachfront.
”We are one. We are a force unlike any other, learning from the few mistakes we make and vowing to never see them repeated. But in the case of you two, well,” Emma pauses, briefly, as a dangerous smile turns up her lips. ”it would be hard to fail, wouldn’t it? More so when all we wish is to make you suffer.”
“You see, boys, this match is truly meaningless to me. As much as Goldie and I will use it to rectify our past, I gain nothing regardless of the outcome. So let’s play shall we? Two lovers, whom have traveled the world and swapped companies together, against two men that can’t stand the sight of each other and will be fighting over toxic gold the next time they see each other. Let us see if pride truly goes before the fall...”
“...or if you’re every bit the limp cowards the world will soon see you as. Oh, and for those watching from on high?”
They’d been walking further onto the beach, not quite past the line of foliage that separated one side from the other, but close. Near this boundary Emma took hold of Joanna and pressed her against the wide trunk of one of the various palms rising high over the sand. A thick band of blue wrapped around her left hand, Emma drew her lover’s head back and kissed her hungrily for a few moments. They both lose themselves in the passion as Joanna’s hands wander to Emma’s ample behind earning a small primal sounds from them both. Emma pulls back, bringing Joanna’s lower lip with her before drawing away with a soft pop and turning her stare on the camera.
“How’s THAT for synergy?”
“Synergy? I call that a warm up, but the main course will be crimson, and prepared by management as a true example of ‘be careful what you wish for’. You two may be the tops in solo competition among the rest in this collapsing company… well, at least one of you may be... but together you’re untested, inexperienced, and out of your league in terms of unity, trust, and cooperation.”
”Enjoy the nightmares, boys. In a few precious days, they come true.”
Both turn as one, walking from the tree and down the sand as the scene comes to a close.
