Post by Death Incarnate on Aug 14, 2016 4:38:04 GMT -6
From the Desk of Dr. Opeare Shields
Date: August 12th, 2016
Subject: Emma Carlisle
Session: Ninth
Begin Playback…
”Log #34629-A, Session Nine. For the past two months I have endeavored to get as deep within the psyche of Emma Carlisle as I possibly can, looking for what she terms ‘black boxes’ containing locked-up memories and feelings. Joanna has assisted where possible as noted in previous logs but her presence has not offered noticeable change in my patient. I hesitate to even call her that. She is convinced that she is not unwell, only that she is in need of… cohesion? She has been treating the sessions with all due seriousness, which is a refreshing change compared to other patients of mine, but we seem to have hit a wall.
Emma is uncertain about letting Victoria ‘back inside’ and Victoria hovers between Stockholm Syndrome-like feelings for Emma and wanting to ‘stuff her in the same hole she locked me in’. Both, however, seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Will that be enough to find the key to bring them together or at least achieve a happy medium, however, is the question lingering in my own mind. Because, at this rate, they are headed for a nasty case of…
No, speculation is unhealthy. Such energy should be put toward finding an answer. Emma Carlisle and Victoria Essex have to become one… or both will cease to exist.”
Over the last few weeks, Emma Carlisle and Joanna Thade had been gradually moving out of the Compound, not because its purpose had been served but because the duo found themselves in need of a place to call their own. At its core, the Compound was a place of business, and said business was on the cusp of being up and running. With the comings and goings set to being in short order, their sensitive nature both requiring a diplomacy Emma did not fully possess and causing great aversion in Joanna, it was better if the Chaossworn took their leave. The Chosen, Emma had plainly stated, were now set to accomplish the purpose they were gathered for years ago. And with Eleanor herself returning to help with the start-up procedures, the Chaotic Coupling could see about personal matters unhindered. Of course, that meant where, when and how became important questions needing immediate, satisfactory answers.
Fortunately, shortly after signing with Girl Power Wrestling close to three years ago, Emma and Eleanor, back when she was simply known as Doll, acquired a condo to eliminate the need for a constant back-and-forth commute from England to the United States. However, it was Eleanor who chiefly used it during the time after, and even then only sparsely. The upkeep and expenditures had been kept up, the lease renewed when necessary, and thus the place became a sort of… flophouse. From time to time one or more of the Chosen would use it. At others, Eleanor would stay there, predominantly during her recent recovery. Only rarely would Emma frequent the place, finding herself more comfortable at the Compound. Now, with Eleanor having relocated back to Coventry, the Chosen having accommodations set up for themselves in and out of the Compound and the aforementioned business coming underway, it would serve very well for Death and War.
Currently, only one of the above was present, clad in a tight white t-shirt and jeans with more rips and holes than actual denim. Oh, make no mistake: plenty was left to the imagination. Emma Carlisle wasn’t one to flaunt her flesh to the ogling masses. But here in the comfort of her own home, something that still felt strange passing her lips, she saw no need to forsake comfort. Why, Death was even humming to herself… although the tone was soft and brooding and not all sparkly sunshine. Standing at a folding table in the laundry room, Death tended to the exceedingly normal task of folding clean clothes fresh out of the dryer. It wouldn’t have been noteworthy if not for the fact that our original observation pertaining to her loneliness were mistaken.
Seated atop the nearby washing machine, pale legs swaying beneath the tattered hem of an old white nightgown sits a girl of about fourteen, perhaps fifteen. Hair of a soft brown hangs stringy and tangled about her shadowed face though bright blue eyes do peek from behind the dirty tendrils. The material of the gown is thin and it, too, is grimy and torn. Her hands clutch the edge of the washer, scraping against the smooth surface without a sound. Heels tap against the white metal yet offer no sound from impact. And the young girl’s attention? It’s locked on Emma, almost harshly so. Yet Death pays her guest no mind, continuing with her mundane duty as though she were alone.
”Look at me,” rasps the voice of the girl, betraying a throat in dire need of liquid nourishment. ”There’s no sense in pretending I don’t exist.”
”And why must I look at you? Do you need confirmation that you exist after so long?”
A faint, acerbic smile twitches into place on Emma’s face… which makes the girl scowl acidly. Heels stop bumping, fingers stop scraping, but the glare she’s offering to Emma would freeze a lava flow.
”I could put an end to everything that you’ve built, you know,” the girl whispers while leaning toward Emma, Death’s hands ceasing to fold the t-shirt she was holding. ”This isn’t the same as it was. Your war with English, your ascension to the top of VoW… I could put it to an end. Even 3S, if I so desired. Your biggest mistake, Emma,” the girl voiced Death’s name like a curse, ”was opening up your brain to that handsome doctor and letting him swirl your thoughts and memories around with a stick like a child helping mommy bake a cake.”
Frozen in place, Emma stares at the gray shirt in her hand, a faint bit of tension pulsing in her arms. The girl watches her expectantly, frowning when Emma resumes folding the shirt after a quiet sigh.
”Your recalcitrance is irritating. You’re no better than Casanova English, trying to outplay me at a game that I have been playing far longer and far more effectively,” Death replies softly, her comment causing the tension within her to pass somehow to the tattered girl. One can literally hear her teeth grinding. ”I chose to allow the doctor to do this. I chose to give you the light again, to offer you opportunity. Not unlike how I chose to warn English and Ryder Blade for all the good it did for all the good it did them,” Emma adds, glancing over her shoulder at us before turning back to the next shirt she’d gathered from the basket. ”You are better than this, child. You are, after all, an important piece of my puzzle.”
The words cause the girl to flinch as if slapped. Emma reaches toward the basket, without looking, and the girl hops down from the washer as if trying to get out of the way, hands clenched tightly at her sides… as if she expected to be struck. Abraded flesh whitens from the pressure even through the discoloring grime. Calmly, Emma reaches down and picks up something from the floor that isn’t quite in view, placing it back on the washer behind where the girl stands.
”I am NOT some piece, you harpy! I’m more than that and you know it!”
”Are you? Who is the queen and who is the horse in this equation? You exist to bear my burden, despite the inaccuracies that you tell to Shields. Because I acknowledge you,” Emma says most pointedly, ”does not change that.”
”Please!”
The girl lunges forward, closing the small distance and wrapping bony fingers around Emma’s upper arm. Again stalled in her efforts, Emma glances sideways… not so much at the girl but past her, toward the washing machine as if to only gaze at the tattered figure out of the corner of one bright blue eye.
”I… I just… I want to…”
”To… what?”
Tears start to cut paths down dirty cheeks as the girl’s fingers fall away from Emma’s arm. She drops to her knees on the floor, weeping behind hands now pressed to her face and eyes.
”...to be!”
”To be.”
Emma repeats those two words, her tone softening just a little. The girl hazards a glance up at Emma, then hears something at the same time Death does. The view swings around to the door leading out of the laundry room, allowing in a battered-looking Joanna Thade. Death lays eyes on her mate and gives her an appreciative once-over before turning back to the laundry, commenting over her shoulder.
”Hard work looks good on you.”
Joanna eyes Emma curiously, then sweeps about the room, looking behind shelves and under tables before returning her full attention to her fiance.
”Hiding a pet from me, Goldie? Or a new friend?”
As Emma raises a curious brow Joanna turns to the washing machine, seeing a doll lying there, one that’s seen better days in terms of its condition. Her head cocks to the side a bit as she stares upon the toy, going from it to Emma and back again a couple times.
”Been raiding my collection, too?”
”I don’t know what you mean by that, Jo-Dear. I came across that gathering up dirty clothes upstairs earlier today. Is it yours?”
”No. It looks like mass-produced junk. Maybe an old toy one of the Chosen left here? Possibly Eleanor?”
”Perhaps. But I wouldn’t call it junk,” Emma replies quietly, picking up the doll and smoothing out its hair a bit with a peculiar expression on her face. Not smiling, but not frowning. ”Maybe it just needs a little… care.”
”And that, as the kids say, is all you. I require a shower to wash Strife’s influence from my flesh,” turning to leave, Joanna stops at the door and looks back at Emma, Death’s back still to her lover. ”Repartee aside… you are well, right?”
”Your concern is noted and appreciated, War. I am fine. Merely enjoying the change of locale.”
Twitching her lips uncertainly, Joanna leaves the room and heads upstairs. Her footsteps soon fade out of earshot and the view comes back around to Emma… and the girl. Death’s arms are wrapped around the girl’s lanky frame, it now shown more clearly that the teen is nearly Emma’s height. She seems to be pressing at Death in the beginning, trying to shove away… yet the trembling increases and very soon she gives up her struggle and falls into the arms of the taller woman.
”Please don’t hate me…”
”I couldn’t hate you any more than I hate myself,” replies Emma, one hand rubbing the back of the girl’s head. She soon stills… both do, in fact, as Emma’s cheek rests atop the girl’s head. ”Sleep now.”
Cutting away to the other side of the door, Emma soon passes through the swinging door, a square laundry basket filled with neatly-folded clothing in her arms and the doll lying atop them. She passes by our view and then… blackness.
A few hours later, Emma is in transit, driving down a side street away from the beach side of Malibu. The path is a familiar one to the level that, were it not for traffic en route, she would have no need to look upon the road to find her way. In the waning light after sunset the shadows are long and the cityscape, palms and buildings alike, are but shadows against strips of fiery orange and cooler, more imposing blue. A postcard-worthy sight but Death’s attention was not on such. She didn’t seem to be looking at anything, in fact. Emma stared straight ahead, cold and calculating, as our view of her from the backseat clearly shows. The only shot of her eyes given is when she glances to the rear view mirror, the blue almost pronounced enough to appear white, the pupils little more than soul-gathering black holes set in pools of milky sapphire.
It wasn’t a gaze any normal soul would want put their way.
Emma reaches over for a moment, her hand touching something gently in the passenger seat though there’s nothing there to be seen. She murmurs softly, though not so much as to obscure the message.
”Soon,” whispers Death, her voice like that of a mother calming a nightmare-ridden child shivering beneath the bed covers. ”And yes, you may stay outside.”
Suddenly, her eyes are back on the mirror, and we need not see the rest of her face to be aware of the smirk resting there.
”All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, walls of stone and iron around towers scraping the sky’s end. He sits upon a throne gilded in gems and gold, surrounded by knights and soldiers a thousand-fold,” Emma recites quietly as though practicing a favorite rhyme, pink tongue snaking out to wet black lips. ”A capering jester strong of body yet weak of soul, dragged from the muck and thrown into the darkest hole. Dragged from the depths he sees only a shiny prize, oblivious to the hand of karmic fate reaching to pluck out his eyes.”
Then, all at once, her face is a cold mask again. The road straightens and against the nearly-darkened sky a large building looms. Keeping the pace of the ride slow, Emma puts her focus back on the road in terms of her eyes. Her words, however, are clearly for the World Visionary Champion and the other pursuer of the prize.
”I asked trust of my love, of my fellow Horsewoman, and so it was given. And my decree did so come to pass. Casanova English would have the world know that his penchant for ‘not playing well with others’ is what led to Ryder Blade being fed into the jaws of Chaos but, quite simply, the champion had but one goal in mind at Breakthrough 49: saving face. A pity he was denied even that,” she says whilst giving a shake of her head, dark hair bouncing lightly over her shoulders. ’Were I your Orphanage members, English, I would find myself quite wary. But there’s little time for them to be concerned with their leader’s trials and tribulations with them preparing to face a professor and a sorceress on the same night that we three shall clash. Victory is not out of the question for them, nor for you if I am forced to be honest,” Emma continues with no small bit of mirth in her delivery. ”But the question in my mind is… will there even BE an Orphanage after Heatstroke? What will happen when your treasured title is no longer your own, when Matthew Robinson and Winter Pine realize that their leader has feet of clay? Certainly they will realize that they no longer need you, coming to understand that their presence is for your ego and not due to your ‘guidance’.”
Pausing to let those words sink in, Emma pulls around to the side of the building which she’d only recently been approaching. To one of the three steel doors she pulls the car, coming to a brief stop.
”A champion is defined by those against whom they defend and there is quite the list of defeated adversaries laid low in your wake, Casanova. Almost enough that I would be impressed,” a pause begins and ends, lasting long enough for Emma to let out a note of dry chuckling. ”Almost… but not quite. Without hiding behind the facade of respect earned for ending so many careers, let us recall that, for all their glories before falling to you… their effort was lacking during the nights of war. Seifer Black, Valquist, Seth Iser… the list goes on. Without a shred of doubt, English, any of those three men or any of your other challengers for that matter, Ryder Blade included, could have truncated your reign had they the mental focus to do so. Their physical prowess was never in question. It was the fact that they let reputation and self-doubt defeat them before the bell even rang. And the exception to the rule, that being Blade... someone who through a stroke of luck I would have thought impossible in the confines of reality,” a shake of her head displays her shock and disdain accurately, ”pressed you hard enough and impressed the powers-that-be enough to earn a second shot at your gold? That he pushed you closer to the edge than any of them? It speaks veritable volumes. That ignorant little bastard with his tired jokes and dated pop culture references, record-breaking title reign notwithstanding, brought the Messiah to a knee and nearly drove the stake through the heart of your title reign. That, English, is abominable.
He never should have come so close. Ryder Blade should have been the Icarus to your blazing sun, coming a fraction of a moment too close and eating high speed dirt after being driven into the earth by his own punctured pride. But he braved the fire and flames. Better, stronger and smarter opponents never grasped so closely to your prize. Are you seeing the meaning of this yet, English,” Emma says sharply, exiting the black sedan and standing, one foot on the gravel and the other within the car, staring not at the likewise-exited camera but at the distance once more, ”or must I hand walk you further? Again: a champion is defined by those they defend their prize against. Warriors laid low by their own weakness with but a nudge from you are legion among your opponents. The fool clutching at the stars like a madman drove you so close to the abyss that the darkness chilled your flesh pale… is your greatest adversary. The former do not empower a champion nor strengthen his grip on his gold. The latter, however, does. You have had far more of one than the other.”
Briefly, something is seen in the front seat, but there’s a mere second’s worth of view before the door is slammed shut by Emma. By design? To keep the world from seeing? There’s no way to tell.
”But do not think yourself forgotten, Blade. No, it would be impossible to forget someone as loud and obnoxious as yourself… not without extreme head trauma, that is,” snark slips into her inflection just a bit to match her half-amused grimace. ”Do you feel empowered yet? Has your heart swelled two sizes and your ego three on top of that? Are you engaged in some manner of victory dance, punching air and engaging in tired, formless explanations of glorious awesome?”
Such acts are pantomimed by Death which looks… just weird as all hell. This is not a woman meant for prancing and capering even in jest. Stopping mid-hop, her body slackens and she leans back against the car, arms folded across her chest.
”I’m hardly surprised. To your type, hearing only what they want to hear, the ‘any press is good press’ variety, merely hearing me speak your name must invigorate you as much as defeating English would,” she continues, pausing for effect before outright glaring at the camera. ”except… you wouldn’t really know what that’s like, would you? Couldn’t beat him one-on-one, couldn’t win a match with him on your side. How’s that deflated ego doing, Charlie Brown? Getting all coiled up now, ready to fire back that you’ve beaten me one-on-one before, trying to laugh in the face of Death and remind her cold visage that this tag match only squared things, that you wouldn’t have fallen to us had English not left you lying like week-old leftovers and so on? Go ahead. Just allow me a moment for laughter when you’re done. Even the Queen of the Abyss needs her giggles once in awhile.
Your only saving grace, Blade, is that you put more shine on your title than English put on his. Time and opportunity provided you with grander challenges and the means to step up and prove you could be a champion of repute despite being worth less as a sentient being than the skin your ragged soul is wrapped up in,” Emma says, it taking some effort to offer anything close to a compliment to a man she despises. After a breath or two, she finishes her thought. ”But know this: it wasn’t enough at Fate of the Gods II. It wasn’t enough at Breakthrough 49. And it won’t be enough at Heatstroke.”
Nearby, the steel garage door Emma is parked before starts to open. She turns toward it as the scene cuts to black.
Shortly after her brief address to her Heatstroke opponents and her entrance into the Compound, Emma is seen walking side by side with Ellimere, the first and most prominent of her Chosen. Typically the quietest of the original five, Ellimere is also the most intelligent and oftentimes the source of strength the rest draw from. Their ranks have swelled since the early days when she and her friends were barely out of high school, little more than fans of Emma’s wrestling and her message… so devoted to the cause that they took on new names handed down by the Nihilist herself. The former Emily Morgan, dressed in a tailored black business suit, carries a sophisticated tablet before her as she and Emma pass through familiar halls, past doors locked and otherwise. Their conversation is quiet yet meaningful as we watch them from behind.
”...I would say within a week we’ll be taking contracts,” the brunette said as she swept her fingertips expertly across the touchscreen. ”Interested parties have already taken up the gauntlet, so to speak. Within six months the investments made at the beginning will be back in our coffers.”
”You mentioned retaining the services of Jacob Mulholland.”
The faintest bit of edge existed in Emma’s tone there. Another might have tensed at the sound but to Ellimere it was business as usual.
”His knowledge will allow us to evade costly and time-consuming pitfalls when business comes too close to home,”- Ellimere continues, hazarding a glance at Emma out of the corner of her eye. ”If there are reservations, Miss Carlisle…”
”No,” Emma replies instantly with tight conviction. ”He is… pleasant enough. On the same level as Dr. Shields and Sentinel if I am to be utterly honest.”
Not one to be surprised by much considering her new profession and her personal nature, Ellimere still registers some awe in her former Mistress at the woman’s words. But unlike most, Ellimere knew the reasons why. She knew Emma might not be walking with her if not for Detective Mulholland… nor would Eleanor still be with them. The shock passes and she turns her eyes back to the tablet.
”He has yet to be formally approached but I sense no challenges in that sector.”
”I suggest honesty. What you must tell him, tell him the truth of. What you cannot speak of, do not allude to it in any way. He is both sharp and meticulous.”
”Noted, Miss Carlisle. Did you have any further ques-”
Their conversation is brought to an abrupt stop by the sound of another further down the hall. Both Emma and Ellimere gaze down the path as the door to the conference room opens and out steps Eleanor Merriweather, dressed about as casually as one is ever like to see her in a blouse and jeans. She, however, isn’t the focus of Emma for more than a moment. Ellimere, tension racing up and down her spine, looks between Emma and the other person to exit the room. Not having realized Death was present in the Compound, a wide-eyed Eleanor likewise starts doing the back-and-forth as her guest, an unassuming and bookish young man wearing glasses follows her into the hall.
”...not expecting a warm welcome, not after what…”
His eyes alight upon Emma and he immediately takes a step back in surprise.
”Speak of the devil… this was obviously bad timing on my part, love.”
”Oh… ah, Em… I didn’t expect to see you here this evening,” Eleanor stammers a bit, trying to regain her composure as Emma stares the proverbial holes through the glasses-wearing man. ”Before… before you get angry, let me explain...”
The words are barely out before Emma is moving forward, making a beeline for the man. To his credit he doesn’t retreat from her… but that might be because he’s frozen in place by uncertainty. Reaching him in short order, before a proper reaction can come from Eleanor, before Ellimere can put a finger to her Bluetooth earpiece and…
”Ophelia, we have a situation…!”
...Death has already reached him and her right hand is wheeled back, palm open and fingers twitching. They curl slowly, creating a trembling fist, but it drops to her side after a moment. When he reaches toward her, she knocks his arm away and glowers at him despite his having several inches and a good sixty pounds on her.
”I should HATE you!”
Neither taken aback nor angry, the man simply stands where he is, the only response offered a small nod. This acceptance fires up Emma even more, her hands clutching the sides of her head painfully tight. Eleanor steps away from the man’s side, freezing when Death lays eyes on her.
”YOU brought him here!”
”I did, yes,” responds Eleanor, retracting in a likewise fashion to the man that she now stands beside. ”And I will tell you the reason why. Melchior… he…”
”No, Eleanor,” responds the man referred to as Melchior, ”…let me.”
At his first approaching step, Emma steps back with a growl, afraid and angry in the same breath. All hesitation leaves the man’s motion and he comes nearly body-to-body with Emma. In one frozen moment, he leans forward to whisper something in her ear. A convulsion like bolt of tension commences, lasting a moment and rendering Emma stock still. Melchior leans back and she stares at him… wide eyed yet impassive. Bringing a pale hand up to brush her hair behind her ear, she looks first at him, then Eleanor, then Ellimere. Down the hallway, tall, black-haired Ophelia responds to the previous summons but does not approach despite being in readiness.
”No further questions,” comes the murmur from Emma’s barely-moving lips, her focus settling on Ellimere for the moment. Her voice isn’t quite her own, the motions of her body a tad jerky, like those of someone getting used to how to moving themselves actually works. ”Keep me informed. Meanwhile, I have a king and a jester to finish off.”
In one smooth motion, Melchior holds out an arm to keep Eleanor from approaching any closer to Emma while setting a hand on Ellimere’s shoulder to likewise halt her reflex to do the same. Before his touch settles, Emma has already turned and started walking away.
”Let her be. And take me to this Dr. Shields.”
”Ah… yes. Right this way.”
The three, with Ophelia soon joining them, continue down the hall in the opposite direction. By the time the view turns to try and spot Emma again, she’s already gone.
~*~
The room is about what you’d expect for a pair like Emma and Joanna, darkly beautiful yet not the sort of locale you’d feel comfortable in without knowing them well. The iron-framed bed with deep blue and purple drapes to match the coverings, the ornately-carved furniture in the form of dressers, chest and vanity, the polished mirror showing the reflection of Emma herself sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed… staring. Candles line the frame of the mirror, most of the room’s dim glow coming from there, causing every shadow in the room to waver and dance at every exhale from the woman herself.
The black skirt spreads around her, darker than the shadows themselves, causing the stuffed penguin in her hands to stand out starkly against it and her pale, blue-tipped fingers. How far removed from the confrontation at the Compound this might be isn’t explicitly stated nor would it be easy to guess. But the same cold calm and dispassionate air Death left that place with hangs about her to the point of oppression. It’s only after she finally makes a motion, in this case exhaling a long held breath, that she even appears awake. Her blue eyes snap open and immediately lock on the camera.
And kudos to whoever is brave enough to be holding that thing right now in this woman’s presence.
”Are you done yet, children? Has the rolling of eyes, the gnashing of teeth, the era of hateful, superior back-chatting against my cold truths... ended? You’ll forgive for not caring a whit about your feelings or self-esteem. Or you won’t,” she adds with a shrug, bringing a hand up to sweep her loose hair out of her face. ”Arrogant or not, and I think we know which is which, you lot knew what you were getting into when my name was placed upon the same ledger as your own and writ in blood. I will not be faulted for how I bring an end to these games. You had your chance. I’ve addressed you once before but there is… more to be said.”
Emma’s fingers rub and clench at the stuffed creature in her hands, something which she’s been nigh-inseparable from for so long that memories from before such a period are lost to her. Now, though, the fluff-filled entity has been given new meaning.
"These hands wore blood while you had your hands between your legs in front of the late-late movie, English,” she continues, a grimace contorting her lips. ”This one had notches on her blade when you were still tossing and turning in the night crying for your mother. Who do you think you're playing with, boy? Some painted-up, hair-dyed Gothic reject? More's the fool you. Careers, futures, lives... all buried in shallow trenches in potters' fields at my hand. Yourself and Ryder… neither are the first, nor will either be the last. You're both just... next… more shallow graves, bumps in the ground signifying the loss of further souls before their time. No more, no less.”
The grimace becomes closer to a smile as Emma pulls Melchior in closely, hugging it tight against her chest. The candlelight reflects in her eyes as the shot tightens, her gaze averting toward the camera directly.
”That belt, English… the title, the crown jewel… is the only thing that makes you relevant in this company. If it weren’t strapped around your waist, you’d have already gone the way of Dathyn; vanished without a trace. Your insecurities and inferiority complex would rival even that of Tyron Bickerton. The World Visionary Championship is a lifeline for you, pure and simple. And every victory, every defense that you survive is another hand along the rope, reeling yourself through the fog towards rescue,” she says as her shoulders shake a bit in restrained laughter. ”You fight for the day when you define the title… and not the other way around. In that, Ryder Blade has surpassed you, doing far more to bring shine to his former prize than you have for your soon-to-be-former prize. My, how that must stick in your craw.
There will be no deliverance, however,” dark amusement gives way to colder, calmer delivery. ”You’re hanging on by a thread attached to a bloody hook driven deep into the maw of the beast, dragging yourself toward destruction. But you can’t see through the mist, can’t hear over the rumbling of the waves. You’re too comfortable, boy… too arrogant,” Emma quiets briefly, unfolding one bare leg from beneath her skirt, setting her toes to the plush carpet below the bed. ”You can’t see the truth of your situation, and indeed the world, for what it is. How long will you continue to hide behind failing logic, trying to explain away my words and actions the same way Blade wards off seriousness with poor jokes and nonsensical babble? The last person to dare believe they’d figured this one out ended up in a pool of their own blood, their heart in pieces.
Again, English: you’re playing a game that I created. The addition of Ryder to the game in some effort to placate his shattered self-worth means little in the grand scheme. I hold all the pieces, and I control the board. The power you have is what I’ve granted you so that you still possess enough gumption to enter my ring at Heatstroke while the jester is destined for the same end as he got at 49: the identity of collateral damage,” she says, quietly, while setting Melchior aside and rising to her feet. The hem of the skirt drags on the floor as she approaches the mirror. ”He labors under the illusion he has a chance at being World Visionary Champion with the same ferocity that you wish to will yourself to remain champion.”
Reaching the low dresser over which the mirror rests, bottles and other miscellaneous items scattered about it haphazardly, Emma places her palms flat upon the cool surface, staring into her own eyes.
”You consider yourself intelligent, English, so answer this:” through the mirror she stares at the camera. ”Back at Breakthrough 48, do you truly believe for one moment that Ryder showing up was really enough to stop me?”
One dark brow elevates, her expression more one of challenge, of daring the champion to question her.
”If you do,” she says with a faint smirk, ”then your naivete is even more all-encompassing than I thought.”
The lifting of a hand, the snapping of her fingers, shatters the brief peace past those sharp words. The candles flicker more readily as she lowers her fingertips to rest on the dresser again.
”One turn, one swing... and Joanna could have taken his head off his shoulders. Katalina could have clawed his face to shreds and left him screaming while I put a foot of iron through each of your limbs. And what then? No,” Emma continues with a shake of her head, ”you don’t have an answer to such a question because, again, world of illusion, land of make-believe. Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up and his Lost Boys, Matthew and Winter… or should I say Veronica? No matter,” she waves off the brief pondering nonchalantly. ”The point, Peter, is that you were given that moment, afforded that opportunity to face your mortality and see the truth. When the weight of that spike jabbed into your palm, while you watched with wide-eyes as I raised that hammer? That was to be your catalyst. It was to be the thread that sewed your shadow back to your feet, giving you control again of your life, your destiny,” Emma says, trailing off for a moment. After a shake of her head and a shrug, she continues with her face lowered, hair hanging before it. ”But your chance is gone. I allowed Ryder to be your hero and stepped back, an action which allowed you to shame him further when you left him to mine and Joanna’s wrath not a fortnight after. He did not save you, English: he doomed you,” she retrieves a strand of thread already put through the eye of a needle, staring at it. ”I will never be so close as to be stymied by either of you ever again. The shadow bearing your shape, your darkness and fear roaming free, has taken the shape of Death herself, and I will chase you for eternity to have that title.
But like the child you are, refusing to accept responsibility, refusing to grow up, lashing out at the world in a permanent temper tantrum… you ignore this the same as you ignored the night in question. As long as you could cradle your precious and limp back to the locker room on the shoulders of Pine and Robinson, everything would be all right,” Emma says before pausing a moment, then turning to face the camera directly. ”And make no mistake, English: you WILL be carried from that ring at the end.”
Turning back and reaching for one of the black votive candles about the mirror’s trim, Death takes it into her hands, toying with the flame a bit. She grasps at it, passes her fingers through it and generally makes it dance to her whim.
”But it isn’t all right. It will never be all right. Death has spoken and her words chill your flesh. Her touch scars your soul.”
Tipping the candle a bit, she dribbles a few dark droplets onto her bare arm, wincing slightly as it collides with her skin but making no outcry. She watches as it cools and hardens, then peels it away and sets it aside. The flesh gradually goes from a warm pink to normal again, leaving only a faint outline.
”You are marked, English, and will remain so until this one has what it seeks: the World Visionary Championship. As easily as I pull the darkness from my own flesh, so shall I relieve you of your reason for being. If only it were so easy to escape the weight of my words and the ferocity of my cunning and desire, but,” another dollop or two of hot wax, another moment of painful bliss before it's taken away with a smile, ”life… just isn’t fair. Death is, however, I assure you. And I will balance the scales by forcing you from the light and taking the reins of destiny for my own. VoW’s destiny.”
Putting the candle back in place, Emma crosses her pale, scarred arms beneath her chest.
”Neither of you plebeians will sleep without seeing this face nor will you breathe without the chilly scent of eternity tingling your senses. You had your chance once upon a time, Ryder, and close as you came to finally meaning something more to this company than comic relief and a streak of luck… you were found wanting. Time has not empowered you and experience has not wizened you. If either were the case, well… English might have stuck it out with you. But he knows, child: he knows that you’re the weak link. So why waste his energy and effort to bring victory to you against myself? No,” Emma says with another faint smile, this one bearing the twist of a predator about it, ”he thought it better to instill proper doubt and a painful reminder of your shortcomings into your being, hammering home the point harder than he ever did at Fate of the Gods. And for that, and only that, Death commends the champion.”
And so she does, though the applause is patently sarcastic, delivered soft and slow.
”You are beneath him, a stray beneath the fangs and claws of a one-time alpha. Nature’s unending, ill-defined humor at watching the creatures born of it fighting for every scrap and inch of territory offers me no shortage of amusement where you’re concerned. Yes,” she says with a grand gesture laden with sarcasm, ”this one takes unimaginable pleasure from your pain and suffering. More so now when I have the opportunity to shatter your dreams personally, Ryder, and pull back the mask of confidence and power that you hide behind, English,” cold, analytical tone and posture comes back to Death as she turns from the mirror again, facing the camera dead-on. ”This one will be anywhere and everywhere until the trinket is plucked from your scratching, clawing fingertips, Casanova… until Blade grovels and whimpers like the whipped bitch of a runt that he is. From both of you I will take that symbol of glory and power and make it my own. Around all of your ears will go this company, falling like shards of heaven, the remains taken into my hands and made into a source of pride and strength, of true glory."
Spreading her arms wide, she soaks in the moment, taking in a deep inhale of the heat-thickened air, of the scent of dripping wax and the taste of forthcoming glory. Arms spread wide, she tilts her head back for a moment, releasing the air from her lungs and lowering down to glare into the camera.
”No one escapes from Death. When it is your time, there is no distance far enough nor speed fast enough. Too long I have watched and waited, taking a backseat to frivolous relationship squabbles, shallow power-plays and shifting allegiances. Now… NOW... I will have what I seek! The lowborn shall rise and topple the establishment from their tattered towers, sending them screaming into the muck they created! The Horsewomen shall be the vanguard…
...and Death shall lead the charge into our glorious future!”
Such is her intensity that sweat had beaded on her pale flesh, her chest heaving for every breath. Yet not a moment is wasted faltering. She stares, cold and determined, into the camera until the darkness is complete.
Fade to black.
Date: August 12th, 2016
Subject: Emma Carlisle
Session: Ninth
Begin Playback…
”Log #34629-A, Session Nine. For the past two months I have endeavored to get as deep within the psyche of Emma Carlisle as I possibly can, looking for what she terms ‘black boxes’ containing locked-up memories and feelings. Joanna has assisted where possible as noted in previous logs but her presence has not offered noticeable change in my patient. I hesitate to even call her that. She is convinced that she is not unwell, only that she is in need of… cohesion? She has been treating the sessions with all due seriousness, which is a refreshing change compared to other patients of mine, but we seem to have hit a wall.
Emma is uncertain about letting Victoria ‘back inside’ and Victoria hovers between Stockholm Syndrome-like feelings for Emma and wanting to ‘stuff her in the same hole she locked me in’. Both, however, seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Will that be enough to find the key to bring them together or at least achieve a happy medium, however, is the question lingering in my own mind. Because, at this rate, they are headed for a nasty case of…
No, speculation is unhealthy. Such energy should be put toward finding an answer. Emma Carlisle and Victoria Essex have to become one… or both will cease to exist.”
~*~
Over the last few weeks, Emma Carlisle and Joanna Thade had been gradually moving out of the Compound, not because its purpose had been served but because the duo found themselves in need of a place to call their own. At its core, the Compound was a place of business, and said business was on the cusp of being up and running. With the comings and goings set to being in short order, their sensitive nature both requiring a diplomacy Emma did not fully possess and causing great aversion in Joanna, it was better if the Chaossworn took their leave. The Chosen, Emma had plainly stated, were now set to accomplish the purpose they were gathered for years ago. And with Eleanor herself returning to help with the start-up procedures, the Chaotic Coupling could see about personal matters unhindered. Of course, that meant where, when and how became important questions needing immediate, satisfactory answers.
Fortunately, shortly after signing with Girl Power Wrestling close to three years ago, Emma and Eleanor, back when she was simply known as Doll, acquired a condo to eliminate the need for a constant back-and-forth commute from England to the United States. However, it was Eleanor who chiefly used it during the time after, and even then only sparsely. The upkeep and expenditures had been kept up, the lease renewed when necessary, and thus the place became a sort of… flophouse. From time to time one or more of the Chosen would use it. At others, Eleanor would stay there, predominantly during her recent recovery. Only rarely would Emma frequent the place, finding herself more comfortable at the Compound. Now, with Eleanor having relocated back to Coventry, the Chosen having accommodations set up for themselves in and out of the Compound and the aforementioned business coming underway, it would serve very well for Death and War.
Currently, only one of the above was present, clad in a tight white t-shirt and jeans with more rips and holes than actual denim. Oh, make no mistake: plenty was left to the imagination. Emma Carlisle wasn’t one to flaunt her flesh to the ogling masses. But here in the comfort of her own home, something that still felt strange passing her lips, she saw no need to forsake comfort. Why, Death was even humming to herself… although the tone was soft and brooding and not all sparkly sunshine. Standing at a folding table in the laundry room, Death tended to the exceedingly normal task of folding clean clothes fresh out of the dryer. It wouldn’t have been noteworthy if not for the fact that our original observation pertaining to her loneliness were mistaken.
Seated atop the nearby washing machine, pale legs swaying beneath the tattered hem of an old white nightgown sits a girl of about fourteen, perhaps fifteen. Hair of a soft brown hangs stringy and tangled about her shadowed face though bright blue eyes do peek from behind the dirty tendrils. The material of the gown is thin and it, too, is grimy and torn. Her hands clutch the edge of the washer, scraping against the smooth surface without a sound. Heels tap against the white metal yet offer no sound from impact. And the young girl’s attention? It’s locked on Emma, almost harshly so. Yet Death pays her guest no mind, continuing with her mundane duty as though she were alone.
”Look at me,” rasps the voice of the girl, betraying a throat in dire need of liquid nourishment. ”There’s no sense in pretending I don’t exist.”
”And why must I look at you? Do you need confirmation that you exist after so long?”
A faint, acerbic smile twitches into place on Emma’s face… which makes the girl scowl acidly. Heels stop bumping, fingers stop scraping, but the glare she’s offering to Emma would freeze a lava flow.
”I could put an end to everything that you’ve built, you know,” the girl whispers while leaning toward Emma, Death’s hands ceasing to fold the t-shirt she was holding. ”This isn’t the same as it was. Your war with English, your ascension to the top of VoW… I could put it to an end. Even 3S, if I so desired. Your biggest mistake, Emma,” the girl voiced Death’s name like a curse, ”was opening up your brain to that handsome doctor and letting him swirl your thoughts and memories around with a stick like a child helping mommy bake a cake.”
Frozen in place, Emma stares at the gray shirt in her hand, a faint bit of tension pulsing in her arms. The girl watches her expectantly, frowning when Emma resumes folding the shirt after a quiet sigh.
”Your recalcitrance is irritating. You’re no better than Casanova English, trying to outplay me at a game that I have been playing far longer and far more effectively,” Death replies softly, her comment causing the tension within her to pass somehow to the tattered girl. One can literally hear her teeth grinding. ”I chose to allow the doctor to do this. I chose to give you the light again, to offer you opportunity. Not unlike how I chose to warn English and Ryder Blade for all the good it did for all the good it did them,” Emma adds, glancing over her shoulder at us before turning back to the next shirt she’d gathered from the basket. ”You are better than this, child. You are, after all, an important piece of my puzzle.”
The words cause the girl to flinch as if slapped. Emma reaches toward the basket, without looking, and the girl hops down from the washer as if trying to get out of the way, hands clenched tightly at her sides… as if she expected to be struck. Abraded flesh whitens from the pressure even through the discoloring grime. Calmly, Emma reaches down and picks up something from the floor that isn’t quite in view, placing it back on the washer behind where the girl stands.
”I am NOT some piece, you harpy! I’m more than that and you know it!”
”Are you? Who is the queen and who is the horse in this equation? You exist to bear my burden, despite the inaccuracies that you tell to Shields. Because I acknowledge you,” Emma says most pointedly, ”does not change that.”
”Please!”
The girl lunges forward, closing the small distance and wrapping bony fingers around Emma’s upper arm. Again stalled in her efforts, Emma glances sideways… not so much at the girl but past her, toward the washing machine as if to only gaze at the tattered figure out of the corner of one bright blue eye.
”I… I just… I want to…”
”To… what?”
Tears start to cut paths down dirty cheeks as the girl’s fingers fall away from Emma’s arm. She drops to her knees on the floor, weeping behind hands now pressed to her face and eyes.
”...to be!”
”To be.”
Emma repeats those two words, her tone softening just a little. The girl hazards a glance up at Emma, then hears something at the same time Death does. The view swings around to the door leading out of the laundry room, allowing in a battered-looking Joanna Thade. Death lays eyes on her mate and gives her an appreciative once-over before turning back to the laundry, commenting over her shoulder.
”Hard work looks good on you.”
Joanna eyes Emma curiously, then sweeps about the room, looking behind shelves and under tables before returning her full attention to her fiance.
”Hiding a pet from me, Goldie? Or a new friend?”
As Emma raises a curious brow Joanna turns to the washing machine, seeing a doll lying there, one that’s seen better days in terms of its condition. Her head cocks to the side a bit as she stares upon the toy, going from it to Emma and back again a couple times.
”Been raiding my collection, too?”
”I don’t know what you mean by that, Jo-Dear. I came across that gathering up dirty clothes upstairs earlier today. Is it yours?”
”No. It looks like mass-produced junk. Maybe an old toy one of the Chosen left here? Possibly Eleanor?”
”Perhaps. But I wouldn’t call it junk,” Emma replies quietly, picking up the doll and smoothing out its hair a bit with a peculiar expression on her face. Not smiling, but not frowning. ”Maybe it just needs a little… care.”
”And that, as the kids say, is all you. I require a shower to wash Strife’s influence from my flesh,” turning to leave, Joanna stops at the door and looks back at Emma, Death’s back still to her lover. ”Repartee aside… you are well, right?”
”Your concern is noted and appreciated, War. I am fine. Merely enjoying the change of locale.”
Twitching her lips uncertainly, Joanna leaves the room and heads upstairs. Her footsteps soon fade out of earshot and the view comes back around to Emma… and the girl. Death’s arms are wrapped around the girl’s lanky frame, it now shown more clearly that the teen is nearly Emma’s height. She seems to be pressing at Death in the beginning, trying to shove away… yet the trembling increases and very soon she gives up her struggle and falls into the arms of the taller woman.
”Please don’t hate me…”
”I couldn’t hate you any more than I hate myself,” replies Emma, one hand rubbing the back of the girl’s head. She soon stills… both do, in fact, as Emma’s cheek rests atop the girl’s head. ”Sleep now.”
Cutting away to the other side of the door, Emma soon passes through the swinging door, a square laundry basket filled with neatly-folded clothing in her arms and the doll lying atop them. She passes by our view and then… blackness.
~*~
A few hours later, Emma is in transit, driving down a side street away from the beach side of Malibu. The path is a familiar one to the level that, were it not for traffic en route, she would have no need to look upon the road to find her way. In the waning light after sunset the shadows are long and the cityscape, palms and buildings alike, are but shadows against strips of fiery orange and cooler, more imposing blue. A postcard-worthy sight but Death’s attention was not on such. She didn’t seem to be looking at anything, in fact. Emma stared straight ahead, cold and calculating, as our view of her from the backseat clearly shows. The only shot of her eyes given is when she glances to the rear view mirror, the blue almost pronounced enough to appear white, the pupils little more than soul-gathering black holes set in pools of milky sapphire.
It wasn’t a gaze any normal soul would want put their way.
Emma reaches over for a moment, her hand touching something gently in the passenger seat though there’s nothing there to be seen. She murmurs softly, though not so much as to obscure the message.
”Soon,” whispers Death, her voice like that of a mother calming a nightmare-ridden child shivering beneath the bed covers. ”And yes, you may stay outside.”
Suddenly, her eyes are back on the mirror, and we need not see the rest of her face to be aware of the smirk resting there.
”All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, walls of stone and iron around towers scraping the sky’s end. He sits upon a throne gilded in gems and gold, surrounded by knights and soldiers a thousand-fold,” Emma recites quietly as though practicing a favorite rhyme, pink tongue snaking out to wet black lips. ”A capering jester strong of body yet weak of soul, dragged from the muck and thrown into the darkest hole. Dragged from the depths he sees only a shiny prize, oblivious to the hand of karmic fate reaching to pluck out his eyes.”
Then, all at once, her face is a cold mask again. The road straightens and against the nearly-darkened sky a large building looms. Keeping the pace of the ride slow, Emma puts her focus back on the road in terms of her eyes. Her words, however, are clearly for the World Visionary Champion and the other pursuer of the prize.
”I asked trust of my love, of my fellow Horsewoman, and so it was given. And my decree did so come to pass. Casanova English would have the world know that his penchant for ‘not playing well with others’ is what led to Ryder Blade being fed into the jaws of Chaos but, quite simply, the champion had but one goal in mind at Breakthrough 49: saving face. A pity he was denied even that,” she says whilst giving a shake of her head, dark hair bouncing lightly over her shoulders. ’Were I your Orphanage members, English, I would find myself quite wary. But there’s little time for them to be concerned with their leader’s trials and tribulations with them preparing to face a professor and a sorceress on the same night that we three shall clash. Victory is not out of the question for them, nor for you if I am forced to be honest,” Emma continues with no small bit of mirth in her delivery. ”But the question in my mind is… will there even BE an Orphanage after Heatstroke? What will happen when your treasured title is no longer your own, when Matthew Robinson and Winter Pine realize that their leader has feet of clay? Certainly they will realize that they no longer need you, coming to understand that their presence is for your ego and not due to your ‘guidance’.”
Pausing to let those words sink in, Emma pulls around to the side of the building which she’d only recently been approaching. To one of the three steel doors she pulls the car, coming to a brief stop.
”A champion is defined by those against whom they defend and there is quite the list of defeated adversaries laid low in your wake, Casanova. Almost enough that I would be impressed,” a pause begins and ends, lasting long enough for Emma to let out a note of dry chuckling. ”Almost… but not quite. Without hiding behind the facade of respect earned for ending so many careers, let us recall that, for all their glories before falling to you… their effort was lacking during the nights of war. Seifer Black, Valquist, Seth Iser… the list goes on. Without a shred of doubt, English, any of those three men or any of your other challengers for that matter, Ryder Blade included, could have truncated your reign had they the mental focus to do so. Their physical prowess was never in question. It was the fact that they let reputation and self-doubt defeat them before the bell even rang. And the exception to the rule, that being Blade... someone who through a stroke of luck I would have thought impossible in the confines of reality,” a shake of her head displays her shock and disdain accurately, ”pressed you hard enough and impressed the powers-that-be enough to earn a second shot at your gold? That he pushed you closer to the edge than any of them? It speaks veritable volumes. That ignorant little bastard with his tired jokes and dated pop culture references, record-breaking title reign notwithstanding, brought the Messiah to a knee and nearly drove the stake through the heart of your title reign. That, English, is abominable.
He never should have come so close. Ryder Blade should have been the Icarus to your blazing sun, coming a fraction of a moment too close and eating high speed dirt after being driven into the earth by his own punctured pride. But he braved the fire and flames. Better, stronger and smarter opponents never grasped so closely to your prize. Are you seeing the meaning of this yet, English,” Emma says sharply, exiting the black sedan and standing, one foot on the gravel and the other within the car, staring not at the likewise-exited camera but at the distance once more, ”or must I hand walk you further? Again: a champion is defined by those they defend their prize against. Warriors laid low by their own weakness with but a nudge from you are legion among your opponents. The fool clutching at the stars like a madman drove you so close to the abyss that the darkness chilled your flesh pale… is your greatest adversary. The former do not empower a champion nor strengthen his grip on his gold. The latter, however, does. You have had far more of one than the other.”
Briefly, something is seen in the front seat, but there’s a mere second’s worth of view before the door is slammed shut by Emma. By design? To keep the world from seeing? There’s no way to tell.
”But do not think yourself forgotten, Blade. No, it would be impossible to forget someone as loud and obnoxious as yourself… not without extreme head trauma, that is,” snark slips into her inflection just a bit to match her half-amused grimace. ”Do you feel empowered yet? Has your heart swelled two sizes and your ego three on top of that? Are you engaged in some manner of victory dance, punching air and engaging in tired, formless explanations of glorious awesome?”
Such acts are pantomimed by Death which looks… just weird as all hell. This is not a woman meant for prancing and capering even in jest. Stopping mid-hop, her body slackens and she leans back against the car, arms folded across her chest.
”I’m hardly surprised. To your type, hearing only what they want to hear, the ‘any press is good press’ variety, merely hearing me speak your name must invigorate you as much as defeating English would,” she continues, pausing for effect before outright glaring at the camera. ”except… you wouldn’t really know what that’s like, would you? Couldn’t beat him one-on-one, couldn’t win a match with him on your side. How’s that deflated ego doing, Charlie Brown? Getting all coiled up now, ready to fire back that you’ve beaten me one-on-one before, trying to laugh in the face of Death and remind her cold visage that this tag match only squared things, that you wouldn’t have fallen to us had English not left you lying like week-old leftovers and so on? Go ahead. Just allow me a moment for laughter when you’re done. Even the Queen of the Abyss needs her giggles once in awhile.
Your only saving grace, Blade, is that you put more shine on your title than English put on his. Time and opportunity provided you with grander challenges and the means to step up and prove you could be a champion of repute despite being worth less as a sentient being than the skin your ragged soul is wrapped up in,” Emma says, it taking some effort to offer anything close to a compliment to a man she despises. After a breath or two, she finishes her thought. ”But know this: it wasn’t enough at Fate of the Gods II. It wasn’t enough at Breakthrough 49. And it won’t be enough at Heatstroke.”
Nearby, the steel garage door Emma is parked before starts to open. She turns toward it as the scene cuts to black.
~*~
Shortly after her brief address to her Heatstroke opponents and her entrance into the Compound, Emma is seen walking side by side with Ellimere, the first and most prominent of her Chosen. Typically the quietest of the original five, Ellimere is also the most intelligent and oftentimes the source of strength the rest draw from. Their ranks have swelled since the early days when she and her friends were barely out of high school, little more than fans of Emma’s wrestling and her message… so devoted to the cause that they took on new names handed down by the Nihilist herself. The former Emily Morgan, dressed in a tailored black business suit, carries a sophisticated tablet before her as she and Emma pass through familiar halls, past doors locked and otherwise. Their conversation is quiet yet meaningful as we watch them from behind.
”...I would say within a week we’ll be taking contracts,” the brunette said as she swept her fingertips expertly across the touchscreen. ”Interested parties have already taken up the gauntlet, so to speak. Within six months the investments made at the beginning will be back in our coffers.”
”You mentioned retaining the services of Jacob Mulholland.”
The faintest bit of edge existed in Emma’s tone there. Another might have tensed at the sound but to Ellimere it was business as usual.
”His knowledge will allow us to evade costly and time-consuming pitfalls when business comes too close to home,”- Ellimere continues, hazarding a glance at Emma out of the corner of her eye. ”If there are reservations, Miss Carlisle…”
”No,” Emma replies instantly with tight conviction. ”He is… pleasant enough. On the same level as Dr. Shields and Sentinel if I am to be utterly honest.”
Not one to be surprised by much considering her new profession and her personal nature, Ellimere still registers some awe in her former Mistress at the woman’s words. But unlike most, Ellimere knew the reasons why. She knew Emma might not be walking with her if not for Detective Mulholland… nor would Eleanor still be with them. The shock passes and she turns her eyes back to the tablet.
”He has yet to be formally approached but I sense no challenges in that sector.”
”I suggest honesty. What you must tell him, tell him the truth of. What you cannot speak of, do not allude to it in any way. He is both sharp and meticulous.”
”Noted, Miss Carlisle. Did you have any further ques-”
Their conversation is brought to an abrupt stop by the sound of another further down the hall. Both Emma and Ellimere gaze down the path as the door to the conference room opens and out steps Eleanor Merriweather, dressed about as casually as one is ever like to see her in a blouse and jeans. She, however, isn’t the focus of Emma for more than a moment. Ellimere, tension racing up and down her spine, looks between Emma and the other person to exit the room. Not having realized Death was present in the Compound, a wide-eyed Eleanor likewise starts doing the back-and-forth as her guest, an unassuming and bookish young man wearing glasses follows her into the hall.
”...not expecting a warm welcome, not after what…”
His eyes alight upon Emma and he immediately takes a step back in surprise.
”Speak of the devil… this was obviously bad timing on my part, love.”
”Oh… ah, Em… I didn’t expect to see you here this evening,” Eleanor stammers a bit, trying to regain her composure as Emma stares the proverbial holes through the glasses-wearing man. ”Before… before you get angry, let me explain...”
The words are barely out before Emma is moving forward, making a beeline for the man. To his credit he doesn’t retreat from her… but that might be because he’s frozen in place by uncertainty. Reaching him in short order, before a proper reaction can come from Eleanor, before Ellimere can put a finger to her Bluetooth earpiece and…
”Ophelia, we have a situation…!”
...Death has already reached him and her right hand is wheeled back, palm open and fingers twitching. They curl slowly, creating a trembling fist, but it drops to her side after a moment. When he reaches toward her, she knocks his arm away and glowers at him despite his having several inches and a good sixty pounds on her.
”I should HATE you!”
Neither taken aback nor angry, the man simply stands where he is, the only response offered a small nod. This acceptance fires up Emma even more, her hands clutching the sides of her head painfully tight. Eleanor steps away from the man’s side, freezing when Death lays eyes on her.
”YOU brought him here!”
”I did, yes,” responds Eleanor, retracting in a likewise fashion to the man that she now stands beside. ”And I will tell you the reason why. Melchior… he…”
”No, Eleanor,” responds the man referred to as Melchior, ”…let me.”
At his first approaching step, Emma steps back with a growl, afraid and angry in the same breath. All hesitation leaves the man’s motion and he comes nearly body-to-body with Emma. In one frozen moment, he leans forward to whisper something in her ear. A convulsion like bolt of tension commences, lasting a moment and rendering Emma stock still. Melchior leans back and she stares at him… wide eyed yet impassive. Bringing a pale hand up to brush her hair behind her ear, she looks first at him, then Eleanor, then Ellimere. Down the hallway, tall, black-haired Ophelia responds to the previous summons but does not approach despite being in readiness.
”No further questions,” comes the murmur from Emma’s barely-moving lips, her focus settling on Ellimere for the moment. Her voice isn’t quite her own, the motions of her body a tad jerky, like those of someone getting used to how to moving themselves actually works. ”Keep me informed. Meanwhile, I have a king and a jester to finish off.”
In one smooth motion, Melchior holds out an arm to keep Eleanor from approaching any closer to Emma while setting a hand on Ellimere’s shoulder to likewise halt her reflex to do the same. Before his touch settles, Emma has already turned and started walking away.
”Let her be. And take me to this Dr. Shields.”
”Ah… yes. Right this way.”
The three, with Ophelia soon joining them, continue down the hall in the opposite direction. By the time the view turns to try and spot Emma again, she’s already gone.
~*~
The room is about what you’d expect for a pair like Emma and Joanna, darkly beautiful yet not the sort of locale you’d feel comfortable in without knowing them well. The iron-framed bed with deep blue and purple drapes to match the coverings, the ornately-carved furniture in the form of dressers, chest and vanity, the polished mirror showing the reflection of Emma herself sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed… staring. Candles line the frame of the mirror, most of the room’s dim glow coming from there, causing every shadow in the room to waver and dance at every exhale from the woman herself.
The black skirt spreads around her, darker than the shadows themselves, causing the stuffed penguin in her hands to stand out starkly against it and her pale, blue-tipped fingers. How far removed from the confrontation at the Compound this might be isn’t explicitly stated nor would it be easy to guess. But the same cold calm and dispassionate air Death left that place with hangs about her to the point of oppression. It’s only after she finally makes a motion, in this case exhaling a long held breath, that she even appears awake. Her blue eyes snap open and immediately lock on the camera.
And kudos to whoever is brave enough to be holding that thing right now in this woman’s presence.
”Are you done yet, children? Has the rolling of eyes, the gnashing of teeth, the era of hateful, superior back-chatting against my cold truths... ended? You’ll forgive for not caring a whit about your feelings or self-esteem. Or you won’t,” she adds with a shrug, bringing a hand up to sweep her loose hair out of her face. ”Arrogant or not, and I think we know which is which, you lot knew what you were getting into when my name was placed upon the same ledger as your own and writ in blood. I will not be faulted for how I bring an end to these games. You had your chance. I’ve addressed you once before but there is… more to be said.”
Emma’s fingers rub and clench at the stuffed creature in her hands, something which she’s been nigh-inseparable from for so long that memories from before such a period are lost to her. Now, though, the fluff-filled entity has been given new meaning.
"These hands wore blood while you had your hands between your legs in front of the late-late movie, English,” she continues, a grimace contorting her lips. ”This one had notches on her blade when you were still tossing and turning in the night crying for your mother. Who do you think you're playing with, boy? Some painted-up, hair-dyed Gothic reject? More's the fool you. Careers, futures, lives... all buried in shallow trenches in potters' fields at my hand. Yourself and Ryder… neither are the first, nor will either be the last. You're both just... next… more shallow graves, bumps in the ground signifying the loss of further souls before their time. No more, no less.”
The grimace becomes closer to a smile as Emma pulls Melchior in closely, hugging it tight against her chest. The candlelight reflects in her eyes as the shot tightens, her gaze averting toward the camera directly.
”That belt, English… the title, the crown jewel… is the only thing that makes you relevant in this company. If it weren’t strapped around your waist, you’d have already gone the way of Dathyn; vanished without a trace. Your insecurities and inferiority complex would rival even that of Tyron Bickerton. The World Visionary Championship is a lifeline for you, pure and simple. And every victory, every defense that you survive is another hand along the rope, reeling yourself through the fog towards rescue,” she says as her shoulders shake a bit in restrained laughter. ”You fight for the day when you define the title… and not the other way around. In that, Ryder Blade has surpassed you, doing far more to bring shine to his former prize than you have for your soon-to-be-former prize. My, how that must stick in your craw.
There will be no deliverance, however,” dark amusement gives way to colder, calmer delivery. ”You’re hanging on by a thread attached to a bloody hook driven deep into the maw of the beast, dragging yourself toward destruction. But you can’t see through the mist, can’t hear over the rumbling of the waves. You’re too comfortable, boy… too arrogant,” Emma quiets briefly, unfolding one bare leg from beneath her skirt, setting her toes to the plush carpet below the bed. ”You can’t see the truth of your situation, and indeed the world, for what it is. How long will you continue to hide behind failing logic, trying to explain away my words and actions the same way Blade wards off seriousness with poor jokes and nonsensical babble? The last person to dare believe they’d figured this one out ended up in a pool of their own blood, their heart in pieces.
Again, English: you’re playing a game that I created. The addition of Ryder to the game in some effort to placate his shattered self-worth means little in the grand scheme. I hold all the pieces, and I control the board. The power you have is what I’ve granted you so that you still possess enough gumption to enter my ring at Heatstroke while the jester is destined for the same end as he got at 49: the identity of collateral damage,” she says, quietly, while setting Melchior aside and rising to her feet. The hem of the skirt drags on the floor as she approaches the mirror. ”He labors under the illusion he has a chance at being World Visionary Champion with the same ferocity that you wish to will yourself to remain champion.”
Reaching the low dresser over which the mirror rests, bottles and other miscellaneous items scattered about it haphazardly, Emma places her palms flat upon the cool surface, staring into her own eyes.
”You consider yourself intelligent, English, so answer this:” through the mirror she stares at the camera. ”Back at Breakthrough 48, do you truly believe for one moment that Ryder showing up was really enough to stop me?”
One dark brow elevates, her expression more one of challenge, of daring the champion to question her.
”If you do,” she says with a faint smirk, ”then your naivete is even more all-encompassing than I thought.”
The lifting of a hand, the snapping of her fingers, shatters the brief peace past those sharp words. The candles flicker more readily as she lowers her fingertips to rest on the dresser again.
”One turn, one swing... and Joanna could have taken his head off his shoulders. Katalina could have clawed his face to shreds and left him screaming while I put a foot of iron through each of your limbs. And what then? No,” Emma continues with a shake of her head, ”you don’t have an answer to such a question because, again, world of illusion, land of make-believe. Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up and his Lost Boys, Matthew and Winter… or should I say Veronica? No matter,” she waves off the brief pondering nonchalantly. ”The point, Peter, is that you were given that moment, afforded that opportunity to face your mortality and see the truth. When the weight of that spike jabbed into your palm, while you watched with wide-eyes as I raised that hammer? That was to be your catalyst. It was to be the thread that sewed your shadow back to your feet, giving you control again of your life, your destiny,” Emma says, trailing off for a moment. After a shake of her head and a shrug, she continues with her face lowered, hair hanging before it. ”But your chance is gone. I allowed Ryder to be your hero and stepped back, an action which allowed you to shame him further when you left him to mine and Joanna’s wrath not a fortnight after. He did not save you, English: he doomed you,” she retrieves a strand of thread already put through the eye of a needle, staring at it. ”I will never be so close as to be stymied by either of you ever again. The shadow bearing your shape, your darkness and fear roaming free, has taken the shape of Death herself, and I will chase you for eternity to have that title.
But like the child you are, refusing to accept responsibility, refusing to grow up, lashing out at the world in a permanent temper tantrum… you ignore this the same as you ignored the night in question. As long as you could cradle your precious and limp back to the locker room on the shoulders of Pine and Robinson, everything would be all right,” Emma says before pausing a moment, then turning to face the camera directly. ”And make no mistake, English: you WILL be carried from that ring at the end.”
Turning back and reaching for one of the black votive candles about the mirror’s trim, Death takes it into her hands, toying with the flame a bit. She grasps at it, passes her fingers through it and generally makes it dance to her whim.
”But it isn’t all right. It will never be all right. Death has spoken and her words chill your flesh. Her touch scars your soul.”
Tipping the candle a bit, she dribbles a few dark droplets onto her bare arm, wincing slightly as it collides with her skin but making no outcry. She watches as it cools and hardens, then peels it away and sets it aside. The flesh gradually goes from a warm pink to normal again, leaving only a faint outline.
”You are marked, English, and will remain so until this one has what it seeks: the World Visionary Championship. As easily as I pull the darkness from my own flesh, so shall I relieve you of your reason for being. If only it were so easy to escape the weight of my words and the ferocity of my cunning and desire, but,” another dollop or two of hot wax, another moment of painful bliss before it's taken away with a smile, ”life… just isn’t fair. Death is, however, I assure you. And I will balance the scales by forcing you from the light and taking the reins of destiny for my own. VoW’s destiny.”
Putting the candle back in place, Emma crosses her pale, scarred arms beneath her chest.
”Neither of you plebeians will sleep without seeing this face nor will you breathe without the chilly scent of eternity tingling your senses. You had your chance once upon a time, Ryder, and close as you came to finally meaning something more to this company than comic relief and a streak of luck… you were found wanting. Time has not empowered you and experience has not wizened you. If either were the case, well… English might have stuck it out with you. But he knows, child: he knows that you’re the weak link. So why waste his energy and effort to bring victory to you against myself? No,” Emma says with another faint smile, this one bearing the twist of a predator about it, ”he thought it better to instill proper doubt and a painful reminder of your shortcomings into your being, hammering home the point harder than he ever did at Fate of the Gods. And for that, and only that, Death commends the champion.”
And so she does, though the applause is patently sarcastic, delivered soft and slow.
”You are beneath him, a stray beneath the fangs and claws of a one-time alpha. Nature’s unending, ill-defined humor at watching the creatures born of it fighting for every scrap and inch of territory offers me no shortage of amusement where you’re concerned. Yes,” she says with a grand gesture laden with sarcasm, ”this one takes unimaginable pleasure from your pain and suffering. More so now when I have the opportunity to shatter your dreams personally, Ryder, and pull back the mask of confidence and power that you hide behind, English,” cold, analytical tone and posture comes back to Death as she turns from the mirror again, facing the camera dead-on. ”This one will be anywhere and everywhere until the trinket is plucked from your scratching, clawing fingertips, Casanova… until Blade grovels and whimpers like the whipped bitch of a runt that he is. From both of you I will take that symbol of glory and power and make it my own. Around all of your ears will go this company, falling like shards of heaven, the remains taken into my hands and made into a source of pride and strength, of true glory."
Spreading her arms wide, she soaks in the moment, taking in a deep inhale of the heat-thickened air, of the scent of dripping wax and the taste of forthcoming glory. Arms spread wide, she tilts her head back for a moment, releasing the air from her lungs and lowering down to glare into the camera.
”No one escapes from Death. When it is your time, there is no distance far enough nor speed fast enough. Too long I have watched and waited, taking a backseat to frivolous relationship squabbles, shallow power-plays and shifting allegiances. Now… NOW... I will have what I seek! The lowborn shall rise and topple the establishment from their tattered towers, sending them screaming into the muck they created! The Horsewomen shall be the vanguard…
...and Death shall lead the charge into our glorious future!”
Such is her intensity that sweat had beaded on her pale flesh, her chest heaving for every breath. Yet not a moment is wasted faltering. She stares, cold and determined, into the camera until the darkness is complete.
Fade to black.
