Post by Death Incarnate on Oct 9, 2016 12:06:42 GMT -6
The scene is little different than it was the last time, from the polished, organized desk to the oversized leather couch, from the plush blue rug to the shelves of books and framed certificates and degrees upon the wall. Dr. Opeare Shields’ office at 3S stayed positively neat to a degree bordering on obsessive-compulsion. Yet the man himself was quite relaxed, sitting forward at the aforementioned desk, his hands clasped on an open folder before him. Standing next to his desk? The man most commonly known as Melchior.
And across from them on the sofa is the World Visionary Champion herself. For once the title is not present, or at the very least it isn’t in view. Her loose silk blouse, trousers, leather boots are all in black, her body language betraying an eerie sort of calm. The look of a person who is not so much resigned, but determined to find a way to accept a harsh truth. The psychologist behind the desk looked patently nervous, his entwined fingers and hands twitching on and off. Contrarily, Melchior removes his glasses and takes a tissue from the brass box on Opeare’s desk, idly cleaning the lenses.
As he peers through them, his impassive expression turns thoughtful and over the held-out frames he stares at Emma. In return, Death meets his gaze unwaveringly. Much seems to pass between them before the young man sighs and puts the glasses back on. For the first time since seeing him, he looks pensive… perhaps even a little afraid. When his expression turns to such, Death smiles thinly, reaching up to tuck one of her fallen braids, the blue one, behind her ear with the others. This look makes Melchior frown pointedly, with Opeare shaking his head.
”Should it not be I that wears such a look, Melchior? After all your talk of doom, of life-altering changes and never going back,” Emma says quietly, tauntingly, as she never takes her icy eyes off the bespectacled man, ”should I not be shaking in my boots?”
”You are not taking this seriously,” Opeare replies, sounding tired. ”Have you even considered the consequences?”
”She’s obviously made her choice, doctor,” Melchior says dryly, his attention staying on Emma as certainly as hers never leaves him. ”Whether she’s fully cognizant of the effects it may or may not have remains to be seen. Were it my choice, she would stay here and we would keep chipping away at the black box. But,” he continues with a shrug as Emma’s smile turns into a thin, sharp line, ”if she’d rather risk it all with a shock to the system who are we to say no? It’s her life. Isn’t it, Victoria?”
Not taking the man’s tone in the best of ways, Emma lets out a low snarl.
”Says the conscience-ridden of the Three Wise Men,” Death retorts, causing Melchior’s face to tighten. ”I wouldn’t have to consider it at all if it weren’t for your actions along with those of Gaspar and Balthazar, because you wouldn’t be talking to Emma Carlisle right now. Oh? Hmm,” her eyes widen in an amused fashion as one of Melchior’s hands tightens into a fist, ”did I strike a nerve?”
”You went too far where they were concerned.”
”Blame Gaspar for not watching his own back knowing Balthazar was in self-preservation mode. As for the Nightmare, well… he brought it on himself. I could have done with him what Joanna did with Devi. But instead he received his final reward quickly and cleanly, which was MORE than he deserved!”
The force of her admission shakes the men to silence. The scene fades out visually though as we soon discover we’re merely being taken on a journey while the recorded conversation goes on in the background. Far from the office now we find ourselves upon a plane with Death, dressed in much the same fashion as she had been at the office save for the blouse being blue and more form-fitting and her boots being replaced by three-inch stilettos. One leg crossed over the other, she gazes out the window at the orange sky as a flight attendant comes up to her seat with a cart and a smile, her uniform pressed and neat, a ‘EP’ logo at the breast.
”A drink, Miss Essex? Perhaps some dessert?”
As Emma considers quietly, peering at the confections and beverages arranged neatly before her, the conversation back in the office cuts back in.
”While I may agree with that to an extent, we’re getting off-topic. I think the idea of you going there is patently dangerous, not to mention extremely foolish.”
”Dangerous for who? Is it your body, mind and soul on the line? Are you risking everything that you’ve built? Are hundreds of lives hinging on the edge of a blade that you’re dancing upon?”
Foreboding to be sure. In the foreground, such as it is, Emma finally makes her selection.
”Two blueberry scones and a cup of Earl Grey, please.”
”Yes, ma’am.”
Pouring the hot liquid from the silver kettle, the attendant sees to the order as Emma turns back to the window. She has the appearance of a woman preoccupied, her fingers grasping the arm rest tighter from moment to moment.
”Emma, please reconsider this. If not for the people that care about you then for the fact that you have got your first title defense coming up soon.”
”Dr. Shields is right. This timing is ill-advised. At least give yourself until after Armed & Dangerous. Let the idea settle and give us all a chance to think of other options before just throwing yourself-”
”ENOUGH!”
So seldom does she lift her voice so that the shock of it seems to strike Melchior’s words down like lightning with Shields likewise retreating into silence. The flight attendant passes by Emma in the foreground, the plate of confections and the steaming cup of tea now within reach… though she hardly pays either any mind. She only reacts when a pale-fleshed hand settles on her shoulder, and then only to turn slightly.
The girl with the dirty blond hair, in the tattered white gown, stands behind her seat… barefoot like always. Except she doesn’t look quite so disheveled this time around. The gown is mended and the splotches and streaks of grime and suffering aren’t as apparent on her flesh. The gaunt appearance is slowly fading as well though still apparent. She faintly smiles to Emma, with Death likewise smiling back.
”May I?”
“Please.”
Taking the plate and cup, the girl sits on the floor, leaned up against the front of Emma’s chair. Death pauses for a few moments, lips parting as if to speak, but she instead puts a hand on the girl’s head, stroking her hair slowly. Tensing at the sensation, at least briefly, the girl soon accepts it and actually leans upon Emma’s leg as she nibbles at one of the scones, sipping the cream-and-honey-filled tea quietly. After a few swallows, she whispers.
”Are we really going back?”
Emma nods faintly, staring out the window again. The girl looks up at her, then back to her tea.
”I’m scared...”
”Don’t be. It is for the better. You’ll see.”
The slightest of nods… and thus the scene fades again. It comes up again with a drastic change to the surroundings; Emma sits at an old table, several open books and unrolled newspapers spread out before her as she scans their contents rapidly. Her left hand manipulates the pages whilst her right scribbles here and there on a legal pad under her arm. A cup of tea sits nearby but has long since gone cold. After a few moments, an aged woman brings forth a small stack of books and places them at the corner of the table. Emma looks up long enough to nod at her before going back to her near-frantic searching.
”Do NOT feign concern over my well-being in any shape or fashion! I will not stand for such an insult!”
”Now, wait just a minute! That is not fair and you know it! We have done nothing but try and help you since these sessions began months ago! Your progress has been amazing!”
”To what end? Am I supposed to become some productive member of society once you’ve cured me, doctor? Will happiness magically manifest in my life as though it had been waiting on me the whole time? I think we all know why you don’t want me following through with this…”
The conversation remains intense, though on a different level than that of Death’s search through these apparent archives which, based on volume alone, must span a century or more. As the view swings around we see that most of these books are records; lists of names, dates and addresses. The newspaper clippings are old, but no more so than about a decade, give or take, if the state of the printed paper is anything to go by. The bulk of the headlines talk about some manner of ‘lab accident’ or ‘accidental deaths of two community pillars’... that sort of thing.
Before the view wheels around, that familiar old doll lies upon the table to Emma’s right. When it settles behind her, the girl is there instead. She takes up the cup of tea and sips, immediately making a face and fighting the reflex to spit it back out. She swallows it after a moment, her expression betraying utter disgust as she coughs and speaks raspily around the distaste.
”How long have you been at this?”
Emma doesn’t immediately answer. In fact, it’s not certain whether or not she heard the question. The pause is enough for the other conversation to pipe up again.
”You, doctor, are afraid that you’ll lose all you’ve gained with Joanna. That if I become as I should be you won’t have that control to keep her pliable for your suggestions and manipulations.”
”That… that is not true!”
”And you, Melchior? You’re afraid of what happens to you when the truth hits. Let me assure you that you can’t run far enough or fast enough to escape me.”
”I have nothing to hide.”
”We’ll see.”
Blinking, Emma looks up as though just realizing the girl is there. Still dressed as she’d been on the plane, her hair is a bit more unruly now as well. Uncharacteristically tired-looking, she draws back her sleeve and checks her watch.
”...too long. Death never sleeps but unconsciousness… she could use some of that.”
”You push too hard. Did you at least find anything?”
Turning the legal pad in the direction of the girl’s gaze, Emma pulls herself out of the chair slowly and stretches her arms up and over her head. As the young lady peruses Death’s neat script the World Visionary Champion steps back into her heels. A few moments later, she looks to the darker woman quizzically.
”Why there?”
Rolling her neck so as to deliver a few pops that result in a relieved sigh, Emma shrugged her shoulders.
”Quiet, secluded, guarded, less questions if happened upon…”
Emma trailed off a bit, her hand coming to rest on the young woman’s shaking shoulder before she resumed her thought.
”You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
”I don’t want to, but I have to.”
Their eyes met and Emma simply nodded in agreement, gathering all her notes and other pertinent information strewn across the table, neatly filling her bag with the lot of them. And the doll at the corner near which she’d been sitting. The woman who had previously delivered more books to her comes up, standing where the girl was… where the girl had been.
”All done then, love? My, but you look a fright. Run along now,” says the older woman, giving Emma a grandmotherly smile. ”I’ll tend to all this for you. Go along and get some rest.”
Deference was one thing, but much of that had some intimidation attached to it due to Emma’s mere presence. This woman, however, brushed it off like it was dust on the wind. Perhaps Death really was tired. With a polite nod, Emma responds smoothly.
”My thanks.”
Making her departure with the sound of shuffling papers and stacked tomes in the background, the scene cuts to black as it had previously, seconds within the darkness given the discussion between Emma, Opeare and Melchior another moment.
”Do what you will about the matter of the black box. Chances are it will have its use. But unless the lot of you mean to physically restrain me to keep this visit from happening, I suggest you remain docile and silent on the matter for the interim. I have a flight to book.”
”I just hope you know what you are doing.”
”She does. That’s the scary part.”
When the blackness recedes it is hard to tell whether it is morning or evening. The sky is overcast enough that, while there IS light from the sun, it isn’t enough to fully push through the barrier beneath it. The low headlamps of a black sedan cut through the haze, approaching the position of the camera and continuing past as gravel crunches beneath the tires. The sweeping view due to the following of the car’s path shows several patches of land gated off from one another. Wrought iron embedded in stone bordering both sides of the stony path, stretching forth and back as far as the haze will allow us to see.
The ride comes to a stop moments later before an area walled off in stone nearly seven feet high, a cross-barred iron gate with a heavy chain and lock centered within it. Engine still thrumming, the back door of the car opens and out steps Emma herself. Perhaps a day or two removed from her near-tireless search, she looks far more refreshed and intense. The stiff, chilly breeze in the area sets her fleece cloak to flapping about, nearly throwing back the hood over her features. As she meanders to the gate, the driver’s side window of the car rolls down and a familiar, bespectacled face is revealed.
”This place… are you certain the directions were correct?”
Concern is laden thick in Eleanor’s voice as she looks to Emma. Death has not turned from the gate, watching it in silence as the wind makes her attire flap even more madly than before. Glancing to the gate before turning back to the woman in black, Eleanor chews on her lower lip a bit.
”Vic, if you need anything…”
”Everything will happen as it should,” replies Emma calmly, looking over her shoulder toward the car. ”Are you planning on waiting?”
”As long as it takes.”
There’s no verbal response from Emma for that. A momentary shake in her shoulders, perhaps, but no words. She moves forward to the gate and runs her gloved fingertips over the heavy lock. The view comes around as she reaches into her black blouse, drawing from within an old iron key on a chain. Inserting it, she turns metal on metal, resulting in a loud, heavy click and the old lock opening. The chain rattles as it is freed of its resting place, allowing Emma to shoulder the old gate open after a little huffing and puffing. Once within, she’s near impossible to see until the view switches, showing her standing beneath a canopy of metal wire to which myriad vines and strands of ivy cling. She takes a moment to look around her when the sound of a gun’s hammer clicking back breaks the near-silence.
”Hands where I can see them, lass. This here is private property. Trespassers aren’t welcome.”
Not being a situation Emma was a stranger to, she put her hands up slowly as the uniformed figure of a man aged near sixty years moved from a position to her right, stepping before the woman. Despite his age, he looked quite fit and actually rather handsome all considered. Smile lines were easy to make out even beneath a trimmed beard and severe expression.
”Hood back, if you please,” he continues, gesturing with the muzzle of the gun he kept trained on her. ”Slowly now. Don’t know how you got in here as only two people alive have a key and I’m one of them…”
His words are all but strangled to a stop as he gets a look at the woman beneath the hood, the gun in his hands trembling. To see Emma’s face to see one of calm, then of confusion turned to slow, dawning recognition… a metamorphosis mirrored by the armed guard.
”...Miss Victoria?”
”Bennington. It has been… a long time.”
”Don’t toy with an old man’s heart, child. You’ve been dead for over ten years,” Bennington continues in a shaken voice, brown eyes shining a bit due to emotion. ”The proof is within walking distance. What… what are you doing here?”
At the words ‘within walking distance’, a tense expression washes over Death’s features. She looks past the uniformed man and sighs soflty.
”So it IS here…”
”Lass, what’s going on? I… I was there when they said you dove off that bridge… when they dragged the river for weeks.”
”Bennington,” she tries to hide it, but her voice is shaky; Emma is as out of sorts as Bennington is. ”I need you to take the key and go out past the gates. Lock them again and wait there for me to return. There’s something I have to see for myself here,” Emma pauses, sensing a rebuttal coming but holding up a leather-covered hand to stay it. ”Eleanor is waiting in the car outside. Join her, if you would. She will tell you everything. I will join you both in a while.”
”She… she is alright, too? That is a relief,” Bennington replies, clinging to that shining bit of news as he accepts the key from Emma. ”It’s good to see you again.”
”If only I were me, eh?”
She manages a faint smile that’s gone in the next breeze. Emma jerks her head in the direction of the gate.
”Go.”
He wants nothing more than to embrace the woman, happy that she’s all right, regardless of what she’s become. The thought makes both of them tense visibly and rather than giving in to the urge, Bennington hurries past. The gate is audibly shut and locked, the heavy noise of the lock being put back in place making Emma tremble involuntarily. She turns her eyes forward, then, staring into the haze ahead of her.
”I’ve come home…”
The scene goes to black.
In her time, it was about an hour later. Time enough that evening had encroached a bit and, with it, more of that requisite England fog. Not a great deal of that, mind, but enough that Death had lit an oil lantern for a bit of illumination. It hung, with a slight sway, of the tip of a stone spear in the hands of a time-worn statue. Wind caught it from time to time, causing the shadows cast by the fiery glow to toss and dance. As to the woman herself, she was the epitome of a shadow, perched atop an old grave, the ground before it littered with dead flowers.
She epitomized the name bestowed on her, her head lowered to the point that the hood masked most of her face despite the wind’s best efforts. Sensing that the time had come, that the electronic eye was watching, listening, she spoke simply and quietly. Despite the rustling that came with the gusts, the length of Emma’s cloak obscured the front of the grave quite a bit.
“For one brief, shining moment… Death was proven right.”
Emma glances over her shoulder, a small half-smile directed at the camera from the portion of her face that was actually visible. The darkness of her attire and the gloomy environment seemed to add to her natural pallor.
“You almost changed my mind at Breakthrough 52, Stacy. Both Joanna and myself were left reeling under your onslaught and it looked as though we would taste defeat most sour,” she pauses, her head lowering and shaking. “And then you broke the spell. Before I explain that, let me reiterate something: I do have respect for you… as far as your potential as a warrior goes. But your efforts of late? Those are another matter.”
Leans a little against the stone cross topping the relatively-new gravestone.
“When you had matters in hand you chose to step aside and let the demon play. No, you were not pinned yourself but the defeat is on your record when it did not have to be. Another example of potential wasted and another reason why your dreams will again be deferred at Armed & Dangerous,” another brief shake of her head before Emma pulls her hood back, the chill gusts catching her dark hair and tossing it artfully about. “Because for all the heart that you possess, and no one outside of perhaps two or three others in VoW has as much as you do, you have nothing in terms of killer instinct. Heart will pull you through rough patches in your life and career, but it will not lay waste to the source of your suffering. Guts will let you shrug off pain and fear in equal measure, but such a source of strength as that is finite,” she speaks more firmly, tucking some hair behind her ear so that she can look clearly at the camera. “And all the catchphrases in the world, while selling a modest amount of merchandise, are words and nothing more unless you live and breathe them every moment, in or out of the ring. You, Stacy, are full of heart, loaded with guts and live by a mantra or two that up until now have served you wonderfully. What was it? ‘No fear, no negativity’?”
She holds up a hand, gloved in leather, with the index extended skyward.
“Up until now.”
Faintly smirking, Emma lowers her arm and wraps it around the cross and leans a little… into the wind, closing her eyes as the chill passes through her skin and into her bones. Death savors the cold air and the storm on the horizon within layers of boiling gray clouds. Fog is starting to gather more thickly, low to the ground, to the point that the lush green grass is becoming obscured.
“They will not be enough to brush off the icy touch of Death, Glampire, and for your own sake I suggest that you accept that fact. In less than a fortnight’s time there is precious little you can muster to completely change your methods and outlook. What it would take to bring you to a point of equality with me would take months… perhaps longer. You are too entrenched in your ways and have wasted too much time. Perhaps what I do to you in Washington D.C. will serve as a proper catalyst, but that is still too late to put this,” Emma says coldly, still staring hard into the camera as she draws back the shoulder of her cloak to reveal the World Visionary Championship over her shoulder, “around your waist. And I get it. Much was made of you toppling Casanova English at Breakthrough 50, enough to slot you against me at Armed & Dangerous. But you broke a shell of a man, Stacy. A man who had gone through several weeks of war with me, who was left in a puddle of blood and saliva, unable to lift his own head as I stood over him with bloodstained gold clutched to my breast at the end of Heatstroke.
And before you raise your hackles at that statement, I will concede that beating English in any form is a tall task. But look within,” she continues, her tone softening to a degree, “look to your battles with Winter Pine and several others over your long tenure in VoW and ask yourself: if he were at his best or even his established status quo… could you still have won? A Winter Pine at less than her best, obviously worn by months of battles mental and physical with you, still stood tall over you more than once in your war. And that war-hardened Huntress came at me with even greater fervor in her lust to prove her leadership potential of a broken family... and nearly had the life squeezed from her. It is one example out of many, Stacy, so I ask once more: could you still have beaten English without my wrecking him before you took your swing?”
While giving Stacy a few figurative moments to consider that question, Emma drew the title from beneath her cloak and put it over her shoulder atop the garment. She stares at it with a certain degree of longing and a potent level of fierce affection. Her blue eyes flick from the gold to the camera, her stare bitingly cold.
“English was every bit the fighter and survivor that you laud yourself as. For almost a year this championship was a part of him and no one, regardless of skill, experience or motivation, could pry it from his fingers. Not even Ryder Blade, that fallible, insufferable moron who was anointed as the one to shut down the Messiah could get the job done. And hate him or not, Ryder had the championship pedigree and record to make the office salivate, hence his aforementioned placement,” Death still speaks of such things with undisguised disgust, though now such words are tinged with amusement as well. “His rise, fall and secondary ascension was shoved down all our throats in the same fashion as the Messiah’s dominance. Yet how much did that avail them when they had to stare Death in the eye and answer for their transgressions? Against Winter you won the war but lost the battle. Against two of VoW's most prolific, and now absent, stars... I won both. Effectively. And in the case of English at his own game.”
A touch of a smile, made intimidating by the glaring blue above it.
“You’re no different, Stacy. The VoW Nation has seen you rise and fall over and over again. They love you when you’re riding high as you are now, and when you’re face-down in the mud they’re there to pick you up. It would be a beautiful story worthy of any motivational tale if it weren’t for one small problem,” a gust of wind blows her hair back into her face, and when it’s pushed aside the smile is a memory. “Your enemies still breathe. Those that tortured and tormented you still stroll about with impunity as though they’d never transgressed against you. Recall minutes ago my noting your lack of killer instinct, for this is but another facet of that weakness, that shortcoming. For how many months did Winter Pine make your life a living hell? How many times did Ryder Blade run you into the dirt with his frat-boy insults? How many pieces was your heart broken into when Katie Moicelle’s trust in you was so easily broken? Perhaps the same number of days it took for her to take solace in the arms of another? Even your precious Jennifer turned on you for a time. And despite that, you two fawn over one another like lovesick puppies every time you’re on Twitter,” Emma says with a tone of disbelief. “Is it getting through that pretty skull yet, Stacy? Or are you still allergic to the truth? Let me show you what the truth looks like, once and for all, so there’s no question of where I’m coming from and what you’re walking blindly into.”
Adjusting her position slightly, Emma comes to a stand atop the gravestone. As she does so, her cloak ceases to mask the front of the marker, revealing the name and date etched on the front clearly:
Crouched atop the tombstone like a gargoyle if one might be so harsh in their similes, Emma stares at the camera as the title gleams in the weakening light of early evening, assisted by the lantern’s glow. Again, she gives a few moments for those watching, specifically Stacy, to soak up the revelation before speaking again. Though now it’s more like whispering.
“Would it be cute if I asked you how you plan to defeat what’s already dead, or would that just be cliche?”
Glancing down toward the grave herself, Emma then turns her attention to the camera again.
“When someone attacks you, they must be put down. They must be battered and brutalized until the fight is taken from them, until there is no further desire to raise a hand or weapon against you ever again. You don’t hide behind excuses, you don’t forgive… you make them regret confronting you and ensure that they think twice before doing it again in the future. Your inability to do this is proof than when it comes time for our battle over this,” she shifts the title on her shoulder, “you will come up short. I will have no problem breaking you and soaking you in your own crimson essence if it comes to that, Stacy. I will go utterly Bathory on your pale hide. But your guts clench at the very thought of doing the same to me, no matter how much you covet this championship.”
Hopping down to the grass, Emma leans back against her own grave, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"But perhaps I'm being cold, or colder than usual at any rate. You are, after all, fighting for a noble cause, Stacy; the honor of your dead sire," Emma continues, it being hard to tell how much, if any, sarcasm is in her tone as she walks over to another pair of graves: Nigel Brendan Essex and Muriel Annemarie Essex, the dates of their passing only several days behind that of Victoria. She stares at them silently for a few moments. "A useless sentiment if I've ever heard one. Do you expect his wayward spirit to offer you strength? Will his cold, spectral hand keep the referee's hand from slapping a mat for the third time or perhaps push the rope you're clawing for closer to your hand as I bend your spine in ways not intended in nature?"
Disgust competes with something else in Emma’s tone and posture, something she has no name for.
"You know who I fight for, Stacy? Who I will fight to the end to defend this title for? ME. Not my Chosen, not Eleanor, not the Horsewomen... ME. My beating you isn't going to let them raise this belt high, nor will it put more zeroes in their paycheck or make sleep come more easily for them at night. Pin your faith on a years-rotted corpse if you choose but my focus will be clear and direct. I've never needed another soul to qualify my success or my existence." Almost growling now, thrusting the title forward. "I know nothing of happiness, Stacy, and less of satisfaction or contentment... because neither has a place in bloody, violent combat. There is nothing for me but the fight and the revolution riding in my wake. Do those that walk alongside me mean anything to me? Absolutely. But their fists aren't going to pound you into the mat. Their feet aren't going to stomp the breath from you," she smirks, putting that title back over her shoulder and jerking a gloved thumb in her own direction. "Mine are. Do you see yet?"
The expression on her pale face says that she clearly does not feel that Stacy does. At all. Turning sharply, she draws two roses from within her cloak, lying one at the base of each grave save her own.
”No… no, you don’t. Which means you aren’t far removed from the rest who have or eventually will come for this championship. The ignorance is disgusting,” she allows the disgust back into her tone… though it never really left. ”People ignore or downplay Death until they’re staring it in the eye. Then they’re looking for excuses and begging for forgiveness. They pine for past opportunities to be offered again, for lost years to be restored to them… oh, how they beg. But I don’t play that game. You had your chance and by all indications you have wasted it. This sentimental crap makes me sick.”
For a moment she seems to be contemplating the act of grinding the freshly-laid flowers into the grass and dirt with her boot or, with a glance, smashing the lantern on the ground and burning the whole place to the ground. But neither act commences. Instead, Emma calmly walks back to her grave and stares at it, her expression changing slightly.
”For just over a year I have been tearing this place apart a piece at a time with the Horsewomen at my side. In gestures sometimes subtle, sometimes sweeping, we have made our marks in blood, creating scars that will never heal. We have reveled in glory and wallowed in defeat, but the common thread in every single show, in every match, is that we left our mark,” Emma says as she takes a knee before the grave, fingertip tracing along the engravings. ”In that, at least, we have something in common, Stacy: you, as well, have left a mark on this place and the people that flock to it. I would not deny you that, nor the support that is heaped upon you every fortnight. That is earned. That you can take pride in.”
She takes the doll from her pocket and stares at it quietly. Lifting her head, she has the expression of a person listening to a far-off sound that only they can hear. Whatever has momentarily captured her senses brings a faint smile to her lips, a genuine one. She puts the doll in front of the grave in the grass, her attention locked on it as she speaks to the camera again.
”But that is where the similarities end. You are no mystery to me or to anyone else, and that is the main reason why Armed & Dangerous will begin and end with my wearing this championship. Winter Pine saw to that when she flayed the flesh from you, figuratively speaking, and bared the true Stacy Jones to the world,” her tone is that of a murmur, the vestiges of negativity gone for the moment. ”The right amount of pressure in the right spot can cripple a person as easily as it can bring down an empire. One sharply-spoken word, a gesture in the direction of a loved one, an answer of yes instead of no… and everything is laid waste. What Winter did to you took months, not because she couldn’t have accomplished faster but because, quite simply, the Huntress likes to play with her food. That isn’t my way.”
She continues, closing her eyes and sucking in a deep breath, letting go after a few seconds.
”This ends at Armed & Dangerous between you and I. We will do battle and you will damage me, of that I have no question. More than perhaps any opponent before has, even including Gaia Galanos and Joanna herself. But you will NOT take this title from me, Stacy,” Emma states as she rises to her feet. ”You grew up too late, Glampire. The strength and gusto you’re just now finding in yourself, which was there from the very beginning, should have been on display long before now. Those who harp on about how getting through the roughest of times shows our inner fortitude and drive… they’re either trying to sell another book full of esteem-patching tripe or full of crap,” another shake of her head is given as she tucks her multicolored braids behind her ear against the wind. ”Strength is shown when you face your problems head on before their claws even dig into you and rip them apart. Then you leave what remains as an example for the others looming in the shadows. English and Ryder were problems. They stood in the way of the Horsewomen’s dominance, in the path of my being the first woman to hold this championship and being the one to shut down the False King to kickstart the revolution,” determined ferocity is cropping up in her tone again, not angry but certainly potent. ”Winter was a problem as far as being an avenger for her deposed leader, as was James for a brief moment or two. Now? It is you. The same woman who couldn’t pick herself up on her own after they did their damage.
My question: who will pick you up after next Sunday in Washington, D.C.? There’s more reasons than the obvious as to why the history books will remember me as the first female World Visionary Champion and why English, no matter how he spins and postures, will never escape the fact that I ended his title reign and tenure in VoW for the foreseeable future. They go beyond my skill as a wrestler. And you’re going to learn them from personal experience.”
Emma continues with a bit of a smirk, finally walking away from the graves, toward the path that led her here.
”I’ve taken one dream from you already, Stacy, by being the first woman to hold this belt. Sunday night in D.C., I’m taking another in your chance to hold it like a newborn in your own arms. I’m sure dear, dead dad, your golden-haired paramour and perhaps even a few friends in California will be right there to salve your wounds and dry your tears, though,” she says acidly, the distaste seeping back in. ”Make sure you thank them… you know, for doing for you what you can’t do for yourself: taking your rear end off your shoulders and coercing you into womaning up,” as she continues there’s no doubt about it: she’s agitated. ”I’m going to hurt you severely, because it’s the only way you’ll learn. Push your luck and you’ll end up lying next to your father sooner than you might like. Fight or die, Stacy. At Breakthrough you chose the latter but let your partner take the punishment doled out by the Horsewomen. Now? You’re the only one left. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and pray to your Goddess for the chance to survive me… because surviving, after all, is what you do best.
But don’t be surprised if I’m not listening.”
Coming to the gate, Emma pounds twice on the cold iron. Moments later, Bennington opens the lock and pushes apart the heavy passage, Eleanor at his side. Emma steps past the threshold and takes in a deep breath, walking past them both and entering the back seat of the car. Exchanging curious glances, Bennington and Eleanor, after re-locking the gate, also enter the car and proceed to drive away.
Fade to black.
And across from them on the sofa is the World Visionary Champion herself. For once the title is not present, or at the very least it isn’t in view. Her loose silk blouse, trousers, leather boots are all in black, her body language betraying an eerie sort of calm. The look of a person who is not so much resigned, but determined to find a way to accept a harsh truth. The psychologist behind the desk looked patently nervous, his entwined fingers and hands twitching on and off. Contrarily, Melchior removes his glasses and takes a tissue from the brass box on Opeare’s desk, idly cleaning the lenses.
As he peers through them, his impassive expression turns thoughtful and over the held-out frames he stares at Emma. In return, Death meets his gaze unwaveringly. Much seems to pass between them before the young man sighs and puts the glasses back on. For the first time since seeing him, he looks pensive… perhaps even a little afraid. When his expression turns to such, Death smiles thinly, reaching up to tuck one of her fallen braids, the blue one, behind her ear with the others. This look makes Melchior frown pointedly, with Opeare shaking his head.
”Should it not be I that wears such a look, Melchior? After all your talk of doom, of life-altering changes and never going back,” Emma says quietly, tauntingly, as she never takes her icy eyes off the bespectacled man, ”should I not be shaking in my boots?”
”You are not taking this seriously,” Opeare replies, sounding tired. ”Have you even considered the consequences?”
”She’s obviously made her choice, doctor,” Melchior says dryly, his attention staying on Emma as certainly as hers never leaves him. ”Whether she’s fully cognizant of the effects it may or may not have remains to be seen. Were it my choice, she would stay here and we would keep chipping away at the black box. But,” he continues with a shrug as Emma’s smile turns into a thin, sharp line, ”if she’d rather risk it all with a shock to the system who are we to say no? It’s her life. Isn’t it, Victoria?”
Not taking the man’s tone in the best of ways, Emma lets out a low snarl.
”Says the conscience-ridden of the Three Wise Men,” Death retorts, causing Melchior’s face to tighten. ”I wouldn’t have to consider it at all if it weren’t for your actions along with those of Gaspar and Balthazar, because you wouldn’t be talking to Emma Carlisle right now. Oh? Hmm,” her eyes widen in an amused fashion as one of Melchior’s hands tightens into a fist, ”did I strike a nerve?”
”You went too far where they were concerned.”
”Blame Gaspar for not watching his own back knowing Balthazar was in self-preservation mode. As for the Nightmare, well… he brought it on himself. I could have done with him what Joanna did with Devi. But instead he received his final reward quickly and cleanly, which was MORE than he deserved!”
The force of her admission shakes the men to silence. The scene fades out visually though as we soon discover we’re merely being taken on a journey while the recorded conversation goes on in the background. Far from the office now we find ourselves upon a plane with Death, dressed in much the same fashion as she had been at the office save for the blouse being blue and more form-fitting and her boots being replaced by three-inch stilettos. One leg crossed over the other, she gazes out the window at the orange sky as a flight attendant comes up to her seat with a cart and a smile, her uniform pressed and neat, a ‘EP’ logo at the breast.
”A drink, Miss Essex? Perhaps some dessert?”
As Emma considers quietly, peering at the confections and beverages arranged neatly before her, the conversation back in the office cuts back in.
”While I may agree with that to an extent, we’re getting off-topic. I think the idea of you going there is patently dangerous, not to mention extremely foolish.”
”Dangerous for who? Is it your body, mind and soul on the line? Are you risking everything that you’ve built? Are hundreds of lives hinging on the edge of a blade that you’re dancing upon?”
Foreboding to be sure. In the foreground, such as it is, Emma finally makes her selection.
”Two blueberry scones and a cup of Earl Grey, please.”
”Yes, ma’am.”
Pouring the hot liquid from the silver kettle, the attendant sees to the order as Emma turns back to the window. She has the appearance of a woman preoccupied, her fingers grasping the arm rest tighter from moment to moment.
”Emma, please reconsider this. If not for the people that care about you then for the fact that you have got your first title defense coming up soon.”
”Dr. Shields is right. This timing is ill-advised. At least give yourself until after Armed & Dangerous. Let the idea settle and give us all a chance to think of other options before just throwing yourself-”
”ENOUGH!”
So seldom does she lift her voice so that the shock of it seems to strike Melchior’s words down like lightning with Shields likewise retreating into silence. The flight attendant passes by Emma in the foreground, the plate of confections and the steaming cup of tea now within reach… though she hardly pays either any mind. She only reacts when a pale-fleshed hand settles on her shoulder, and then only to turn slightly.
The girl with the dirty blond hair, in the tattered white gown, stands behind her seat… barefoot like always. Except she doesn’t look quite so disheveled this time around. The gown is mended and the splotches and streaks of grime and suffering aren’t as apparent on her flesh. The gaunt appearance is slowly fading as well though still apparent. She faintly smiles to Emma, with Death likewise smiling back.
”May I?”
“Please.”
Taking the plate and cup, the girl sits on the floor, leaned up against the front of Emma’s chair. Death pauses for a few moments, lips parting as if to speak, but she instead puts a hand on the girl’s head, stroking her hair slowly. Tensing at the sensation, at least briefly, the girl soon accepts it and actually leans upon Emma’s leg as she nibbles at one of the scones, sipping the cream-and-honey-filled tea quietly. After a few swallows, she whispers.
”Are we really going back?”
Emma nods faintly, staring out the window again. The girl looks up at her, then back to her tea.
”I’m scared...”
”Don’t be. It is for the better. You’ll see.”
The slightest of nods… and thus the scene fades again. It comes up again with a drastic change to the surroundings; Emma sits at an old table, several open books and unrolled newspapers spread out before her as she scans their contents rapidly. Her left hand manipulates the pages whilst her right scribbles here and there on a legal pad under her arm. A cup of tea sits nearby but has long since gone cold. After a few moments, an aged woman brings forth a small stack of books and places them at the corner of the table. Emma looks up long enough to nod at her before going back to her near-frantic searching.
”Do NOT feign concern over my well-being in any shape or fashion! I will not stand for such an insult!”
”Now, wait just a minute! That is not fair and you know it! We have done nothing but try and help you since these sessions began months ago! Your progress has been amazing!”
”To what end? Am I supposed to become some productive member of society once you’ve cured me, doctor? Will happiness magically manifest in my life as though it had been waiting on me the whole time? I think we all know why you don’t want me following through with this…”
The conversation remains intense, though on a different level than that of Death’s search through these apparent archives which, based on volume alone, must span a century or more. As the view swings around we see that most of these books are records; lists of names, dates and addresses. The newspaper clippings are old, but no more so than about a decade, give or take, if the state of the printed paper is anything to go by. The bulk of the headlines talk about some manner of ‘lab accident’ or ‘accidental deaths of two community pillars’... that sort of thing.
Before the view wheels around, that familiar old doll lies upon the table to Emma’s right. When it settles behind her, the girl is there instead. She takes up the cup of tea and sips, immediately making a face and fighting the reflex to spit it back out. She swallows it after a moment, her expression betraying utter disgust as she coughs and speaks raspily around the distaste.
”How long have you been at this?”
Emma doesn’t immediately answer. In fact, it’s not certain whether or not she heard the question. The pause is enough for the other conversation to pipe up again.
”You, doctor, are afraid that you’ll lose all you’ve gained with Joanna. That if I become as I should be you won’t have that control to keep her pliable for your suggestions and manipulations.”
”That… that is not true!”
”And you, Melchior? You’re afraid of what happens to you when the truth hits. Let me assure you that you can’t run far enough or fast enough to escape me.”
”I have nothing to hide.”
”We’ll see.”
Blinking, Emma looks up as though just realizing the girl is there. Still dressed as she’d been on the plane, her hair is a bit more unruly now as well. Uncharacteristically tired-looking, she draws back her sleeve and checks her watch.
”...too long. Death never sleeps but unconsciousness… she could use some of that.”
”You push too hard. Did you at least find anything?”
Turning the legal pad in the direction of the girl’s gaze, Emma pulls herself out of the chair slowly and stretches her arms up and over her head. As the young lady peruses Death’s neat script the World Visionary Champion steps back into her heels. A few moments later, she looks to the darker woman quizzically.
”Why there?”
Rolling her neck so as to deliver a few pops that result in a relieved sigh, Emma shrugged her shoulders.
”Quiet, secluded, guarded, less questions if happened upon…”
Emma trailed off a bit, her hand coming to rest on the young woman’s shaking shoulder before she resumed her thought.
”You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
”I don’t want to, but I have to.”
Their eyes met and Emma simply nodded in agreement, gathering all her notes and other pertinent information strewn across the table, neatly filling her bag with the lot of them. And the doll at the corner near which she’d been sitting. The woman who had previously delivered more books to her comes up, standing where the girl was… where the girl had been.
”All done then, love? My, but you look a fright. Run along now,” says the older woman, giving Emma a grandmotherly smile. ”I’ll tend to all this for you. Go along and get some rest.”
Deference was one thing, but much of that had some intimidation attached to it due to Emma’s mere presence. This woman, however, brushed it off like it was dust on the wind. Perhaps Death really was tired. With a polite nod, Emma responds smoothly.
”My thanks.”
Making her departure with the sound of shuffling papers and stacked tomes in the background, the scene cuts to black as it had previously, seconds within the darkness given the discussion between Emma, Opeare and Melchior another moment.
”Do what you will about the matter of the black box. Chances are it will have its use. But unless the lot of you mean to physically restrain me to keep this visit from happening, I suggest you remain docile and silent on the matter for the interim. I have a flight to book.”
”I just hope you know what you are doing.”
”She does. That’s the scary part.”
When the blackness recedes it is hard to tell whether it is morning or evening. The sky is overcast enough that, while there IS light from the sun, it isn’t enough to fully push through the barrier beneath it. The low headlamps of a black sedan cut through the haze, approaching the position of the camera and continuing past as gravel crunches beneath the tires. The sweeping view due to the following of the car’s path shows several patches of land gated off from one another. Wrought iron embedded in stone bordering both sides of the stony path, stretching forth and back as far as the haze will allow us to see.
The ride comes to a stop moments later before an area walled off in stone nearly seven feet high, a cross-barred iron gate with a heavy chain and lock centered within it. Engine still thrumming, the back door of the car opens and out steps Emma herself. Perhaps a day or two removed from her near-tireless search, she looks far more refreshed and intense. The stiff, chilly breeze in the area sets her fleece cloak to flapping about, nearly throwing back the hood over her features. As she meanders to the gate, the driver’s side window of the car rolls down and a familiar, bespectacled face is revealed.
”This place… are you certain the directions were correct?”
Concern is laden thick in Eleanor’s voice as she looks to Emma. Death has not turned from the gate, watching it in silence as the wind makes her attire flap even more madly than before. Glancing to the gate before turning back to the woman in black, Eleanor chews on her lower lip a bit.
”Vic, if you need anything…”
”Everything will happen as it should,” replies Emma calmly, looking over her shoulder toward the car. ”Are you planning on waiting?”
”As long as it takes.”
There’s no verbal response from Emma for that. A momentary shake in her shoulders, perhaps, but no words. She moves forward to the gate and runs her gloved fingertips over the heavy lock. The view comes around as she reaches into her black blouse, drawing from within an old iron key on a chain. Inserting it, she turns metal on metal, resulting in a loud, heavy click and the old lock opening. The chain rattles as it is freed of its resting place, allowing Emma to shoulder the old gate open after a little huffing and puffing. Once within, she’s near impossible to see until the view switches, showing her standing beneath a canopy of metal wire to which myriad vines and strands of ivy cling. She takes a moment to look around her when the sound of a gun’s hammer clicking back breaks the near-silence.
”Hands where I can see them, lass. This here is private property. Trespassers aren’t welcome.”
Not being a situation Emma was a stranger to, she put her hands up slowly as the uniformed figure of a man aged near sixty years moved from a position to her right, stepping before the woman. Despite his age, he looked quite fit and actually rather handsome all considered. Smile lines were easy to make out even beneath a trimmed beard and severe expression.
”Hood back, if you please,” he continues, gesturing with the muzzle of the gun he kept trained on her. ”Slowly now. Don’t know how you got in here as only two people alive have a key and I’m one of them…”
His words are all but strangled to a stop as he gets a look at the woman beneath the hood, the gun in his hands trembling. To see Emma’s face to see one of calm, then of confusion turned to slow, dawning recognition… a metamorphosis mirrored by the armed guard.
”...Miss Victoria?”
”Bennington. It has been… a long time.”
”Don’t toy with an old man’s heart, child. You’ve been dead for over ten years,” Bennington continues in a shaken voice, brown eyes shining a bit due to emotion. ”The proof is within walking distance. What… what are you doing here?”
At the words ‘within walking distance’, a tense expression washes over Death’s features. She looks past the uniformed man and sighs soflty.
”So it IS here…”
”Lass, what’s going on? I… I was there when they said you dove off that bridge… when they dragged the river for weeks.”
”Bennington,” she tries to hide it, but her voice is shaky; Emma is as out of sorts as Bennington is. ”I need you to take the key and go out past the gates. Lock them again and wait there for me to return. There’s something I have to see for myself here,” Emma pauses, sensing a rebuttal coming but holding up a leather-covered hand to stay it. ”Eleanor is waiting in the car outside. Join her, if you would. She will tell you everything. I will join you both in a while.”
”She… she is alright, too? That is a relief,” Bennington replies, clinging to that shining bit of news as he accepts the key from Emma. ”It’s good to see you again.”
”If only I were me, eh?”
She manages a faint smile that’s gone in the next breeze. Emma jerks her head in the direction of the gate.
”Go.”
He wants nothing more than to embrace the woman, happy that she’s all right, regardless of what she’s become. The thought makes both of them tense visibly and rather than giving in to the urge, Bennington hurries past. The gate is audibly shut and locked, the heavy noise of the lock being put back in place making Emma tremble involuntarily. She turns her eyes forward, then, staring into the haze ahead of her.
”I’ve come home…”
The scene goes to black.
~*~
In her time, it was about an hour later. Time enough that evening had encroached a bit and, with it, more of that requisite England fog. Not a great deal of that, mind, but enough that Death had lit an oil lantern for a bit of illumination. It hung, with a slight sway, of the tip of a stone spear in the hands of a time-worn statue. Wind caught it from time to time, causing the shadows cast by the fiery glow to toss and dance. As to the woman herself, she was the epitome of a shadow, perched atop an old grave, the ground before it littered with dead flowers.
She epitomized the name bestowed on her, her head lowered to the point that the hood masked most of her face despite the wind’s best efforts. Sensing that the time had come, that the electronic eye was watching, listening, she spoke simply and quietly. Despite the rustling that came with the gusts, the length of Emma’s cloak obscured the front of the grave quite a bit.
“For one brief, shining moment… Death was proven right.”
Emma glances over her shoulder, a small half-smile directed at the camera from the portion of her face that was actually visible. The darkness of her attire and the gloomy environment seemed to add to her natural pallor.
“You almost changed my mind at Breakthrough 52, Stacy. Both Joanna and myself were left reeling under your onslaught and it looked as though we would taste defeat most sour,” she pauses, her head lowering and shaking. “And then you broke the spell. Before I explain that, let me reiterate something: I do have respect for you… as far as your potential as a warrior goes. But your efforts of late? Those are another matter.”
Leans a little against the stone cross topping the relatively-new gravestone.
“When you had matters in hand you chose to step aside and let the demon play. No, you were not pinned yourself but the defeat is on your record when it did not have to be. Another example of potential wasted and another reason why your dreams will again be deferred at Armed & Dangerous,” another brief shake of her head before Emma pulls her hood back, the chill gusts catching her dark hair and tossing it artfully about. “Because for all the heart that you possess, and no one outside of perhaps two or three others in VoW has as much as you do, you have nothing in terms of killer instinct. Heart will pull you through rough patches in your life and career, but it will not lay waste to the source of your suffering. Guts will let you shrug off pain and fear in equal measure, but such a source of strength as that is finite,” she speaks more firmly, tucking some hair behind her ear so that she can look clearly at the camera. “And all the catchphrases in the world, while selling a modest amount of merchandise, are words and nothing more unless you live and breathe them every moment, in or out of the ring. You, Stacy, are full of heart, loaded with guts and live by a mantra or two that up until now have served you wonderfully. What was it? ‘No fear, no negativity’?”
She holds up a hand, gloved in leather, with the index extended skyward.
“Up until now.”
Faintly smirking, Emma lowers her arm and wraps it around the cross and leans a little… into the wind, closing her eyes as the chill passes through her skin and into her bones. Death savors the cold air and the storm on the horizon within layers of boiling gray clouds. Fog is starting to gather more thickly, low to the ground, to the point that the lush green grass is becoming obscured.
“They will not be enough to brush off the icy touch of Death, Glampire, and for your own sake I suggest that you accept that fact. In less than a fortnight’s time there is precious little you can muster to completely change your methods and outlook. What it would take to bring you to a point of equality with me would take months… perhaps longer. You are too entrenched in your ways and have wasted too much time. Perhaps what I do to you in Washington D.C. will serve as a proper catalyst, but that is still too late to put this,” Emma says coldly, still staring hard into the camera as she draws back the shoulder of her cloak to reveal the World Visionary Championship over her shoulder, “around your waist. And I get it. Much was made of you toppling Casanova English at Breakthrough 50, enough to slot you against me at Armed & Dangerous. But you broke a shell of a man, Stacy. A man who had gone through several weeks of war with me, who was left in a puddle of blood and saliva, unable to lift his own head as I stood over him with bloodstained gold clutched to my breast at the end of Heatstroke.
And before you raise your hackles at that statement, I will concede that beating English in any form is a tall task. But look within,” she continues, her tone softening to a degree, “look to your battles with Winter Pine and several others over your long tenure in VoW and ask yourself: if he were at his best or even his established status quo… could you still have won? A Winter Pine at less than her best, obviously worn by months of battles mental and physical with you, still stood tall over you more than once in your war. And that war-hardened Huntress came at me with even greater fervor in her lust to prove her leadership potential of a broken family... and nearly had the life squeezed from her. It is one example out of many, Stacy, so I ask once more: could you still have beaten English without my wrecking him before you took your swing?”
While giving Stacy a few figurative moments to consider that question, Emma drew the title from beneath her cloak and put it over her shoulder atop the garment. She stares at it with a certain degree of longing and a potent level of fierce affection. Her blue eyes flick from the gold to the camera, her stare bitingly cold.
“English was every bit the fighter and survivor that you laud yourself as. For almost a year this championship was a part of him and no one, regardless of skill, experience or motivation, could pry it from his fingers. Not even Ryder Blade, that fallible, insufferable moron who was anointed as the one to shut down the Messiah could get the job done. And hate him or not, Ryder had the championship pedigree and record to make the office salivate, hence his aforementioned placement,” Death still speaks of such things with undisguised disgust, though now such words are tinged with amusement as well. “His rise, fall and secondary ascension was shoved down all our throats in the same fashion as the Messiah’s dominance. Yet how much did that avail them when they had to stare Death in the eye and answer for their transgressions? Against Winter you won the war but lost the battle. Against two of VoW's most prolific, and now absent, stars... I won both. Effectively. And in the case of English at his own game.”
A touch of a smile, made intimidating by the glaring blue above it.
“You’re no different, Stacy. The VoW Nation has seen you rise and fall over and over again. They love you when you’re riding high as you are now, and when you’re face-down in the mud they’re there to pick you up. It would be a beautiful story worthy of any motivational tale if it weren’t for one small problem,” a gust of wind blows her hair back into her face, and when it’s pushed aside the smile is a memory. “Your enemies still breathe. Those that tortured and tormented you still stroll about with impunity as though they’d never transgressed against you. Recall minutes ago my noting your lack of killer instinct, for this is but another facet of that weakness, that shortcoming. For how many months did Winter Pine make your life a living hell? How many times did Ryder Blade run you into the dirt with his frat-boy insults? How many pieces was your heart broken into when Katie Moicelle’s trust in you was so easily broken? Perhaps the same number of days it took for her to take solace in the arms of another? Even your precious Jennifer turned on you for a time. And despite that, you two fawn over one another like lovesick puppies every time you’re on Twitter,” Emma says with a tone of disbelief. “Is it getting through that pretty skull yet, Stacy? Or are you still allergic to the truth? Let me show you what the truth looks like, once and for all, so there’s no question of where I’m coming from and what you’re walking blindly into.”
Adjusting her position slightly, Emma comes to a stand atop the gravestone. As she does so, her cloak ceases to mask the front of the marker, revealing the name and date etched on the front clearly:
In Loving Memory
Victoria Lynette Essex
April 13, 1991 - November 9, 2005
“An angel Heaven-bound before her time…”
Victoria Lynette Essex
April 13, 1991 - November 9, 2005
“An angel Heaven-bound before her time…”
Crouched atop the tombstone like a gargoyle if one might be so harsh in their similes, Emma stares at the camera as the title gleams in the weakening light of early evening, assisted by the lantern’s glow. Again, she gives a few moments for those watching, specifically Stacy, to soak up the revelation before speaking again. Though now it’s more like whispering.
“Would it be cute if I asked you how you plan to defeat what’s already dead, or would that just be cliche?”
Glancing down toward the grave herself, Emma then turns her attention to the camera again.
“When someone attacks you, they must be put down. They must be battered and brutalized until the fight is taken from them, until there is no further desire to raise a hand or weapon against you ever again. You don’t hide behind excuses, you don’t forgive… you make them regret confronting you and ensure that they think twice before doing it again in the future. Your inability to do this is proof than when it comes time for our battle over this,” she shifts the title on her shoulder, “you will come up short. I will have no problem breaking you and soaking you in your own crimson essence if it comes to that, Stacy. I will go utterly Bathory on your pale hide. But your guts clench at the very thought of doing the same to me, no matter how much you covet this championship.”
Hopping down to the grass, Emma leans back against her own grave, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"But perhaps I'm being cold, or colder than usual at any rate. You are, after all, fighting for a noble cause, Stacy; the honor of your dead sire," Emma continues, it being hard to tell how much, if any, sarcasm is in her tone as she walks over to another pair of graves: Nigel Brendan Essex and Muriel Annemarie Essex, the dates of their passing only several days behind that of Victoria. She stares at them silently for a few moments. "A useless sentiment if I've ever heard one. Do you expect his wayward spirit to offer you strength? Will his cold, spectral hand keep the referee's hand from slapping a mat for the third time or perhaps push the rope you're clawing for closer to your hand as I bend your spine in ways not intended in nature?"
Disgust competes with something else in Emma’s tone and posture, something she has no name for.
"You know who I fight for, Stacy? Who I will fight to the end to defend this title for? ME. Not my Chosen, not Eleanor, not the Horsewomen... ME. My beating you isn't going to let them raise this belt high, nor will it put more zeroes in their paycheck or make sleep come more easily for them at night. Pin your faith on a years-rotted corpse if you choose but my focus will be clear and direct. I've never needed another soul to qualify my success or my existence." Almost growling now, thrusting the title forward. "I know nothing of happiness, Stacy, and less of satisfaction or contentment... because neither has a place in bloody, violent combat. There is nothing for me but the fight and the revolution riding in my wake. Do those that walk alongside me mean anything to me? Absolutely. But their fists aren't going to pound you into the mat. Their feet aren't going to stomp the breath from you," she smirks, putting that title back over her shoulder and jerking a gloved thumb in her own direction. "Mine are. Do you see yet?"
The expression on her pale face says that she clearly does not feel that Stacy does. At all. Turning sharply, she draws two roses from within her cloak, lying one at the base of each grave save her own.
”No… no, you don’t. Which means you aren’t far removed from the rest who have or eventually will come for this championship. The ignorance is disgusting,” she allows the disgust back into her tone… though it never really left. ”People ignore or downplay Death until they’re staring it in the eye. Then they’re looking for excuses and begging for forgiveness. They pine for past opportunities to be offered again, for lost years to be restored to them… oh, how they beg. But I don’t play that game. You had your chance and by all indications you have wasted it. This sentimental crap makes me sick.”
For a moment she seems to be contemplating the act of grinding the freshly-laid flowers into the grass and dirt with her boot or, with a glance, smashing the lantern on the ground and burning the whole place to the ground. But neither act commences. Instead, Emma calmly walks back to her grave and stares at it, her expression changing slightly.
”For just over a year I have been tearing this place apart a piece at a time with the Horsewomen at my side. In gestures sometimes subtle, sometimes sweeping, we have made our marks in blood, creating scars that will never heal. We have reveled in glory and wallowed in defeat, but the common thread in every single show, in every match, is that we left our mark,” Emma says as she takes a knee before the grave, fingertip tracing along the engravings. ”In that, at least, we have something in common, Stacy: you, as well, have left a mark on this place and the people that flock to it. I would not deny you that, nor the support that is heaped upon you every fortnight. That is earned. That you can take pride in.”
She takes the doll from her pocket and stares at it quietly. Lifting her head, she has the expression of a person listening to a far-off sound that only they can hear. Whatever has momentarily captured her senses brings a faint smile to her lips, a genuine one. She puts the doll in front of the grave in the grass, her attention locked on it as she speaks to the camera again.
”But that is where the similarities end. You are no mystery to me or to anyone else, and that is the main reason why Armed & Dangerous will begin and end with my wearing this championship. Winter Pine saw to that when she flayed the flesh from you, figuratively speaking, and bared the true Stacy Jones to the world,” her tone is that of a murmur, the vestiges of negativity gone for the moment. ”The right amount of pressure in the right spot can cripple a person as easily as it can bring down an empire. One sharply-spoken word, a gesture in the direction of a loved one, an answer of yes instead of no… and everything is laid waste. What Winter did to you took months, not because she couldn’t have accomplished faster but because, quite simply, the Huntress likes to play with her food. That isn’t my way.”
She continues, closing her eyes and sucking in a deep breath, letting go after a few seconds.
”This ends at Armed & Dangerous between you and I. We will do battle and you will damage me, of that I have no question. More than perhaps any opponent before has, even including Gaia Galanos and Joanna herself. But you will NOT take this title from me, Stacy,” Emma states as she rises to her feet. ”You grew up too late, Glampire. The strength and gusto you’re just now finding in yourself, which was there from the very beginning, should have been on display long before now. Those who harp on about how getting through the roughest of times shows our inner fortitude and drive… they’re either trying to sell another book full of esteem-patching tripe or full of crap,” another shake of her head is given as she tucks her multicolored braids behind her ear against the wind. ”Strength is shown when you face your problems head on before their claws even dig into you and rip them apart. Then you leave what remains as an example for the others looming in the shadows. English and Ryder were problems. They stood in the way of the Horsewomen’s dominance, in the path of my being the first woman to hold this championship and being the one to shut down the False King to kickstart the revolution,” determined ferocity is cropping up in her tone again, not angry but certainly potent. ”Winter was a problem as far as being an avenger for her deposed leader, as was James for a brief moment or two. Now? It is you. The same woman who couldn’t pick herself up on her own after they did their damage.
My question: who will pick you up after next Sunday in Washington, D.C.? There’s more reasons than the obvious as to why the history books will remember me as the first female World Visionary Champion and why English, no matter how he spins and postures, will never escape the fact that I ended his title reign and tenure in VoW for the foreseeable future. They go beyond my skill as a wrestler. And you’re going to learn them from personal experience.”
Emma continues with a bit of a smirk, finally walking away from the graves, toward the path that led her here.
”I’ve taken one dream from you already, Stacy, by being the first woman to hold this belt. Sunday night in D.C., I’m taking another in your chance to hold it like a newborn in your own arms. I’m sure dear, dead dad, your golden-haired paramour and perhaps even a few friends in California will be right there to salve your wounds and dry your tears, though,” she says acidly, the distaste seeping back in. ”Make sure you thank them… you know, for doing for you what you can’t do for yourself: taking your rear end off your shoulders and coercing you into womaning up,” as she continues there’s no doubt about it: she’s agitated. ”I’m going to hurt you severely, because it’s the only way you’ll learn. Push your luck and you’ll end up lying next to your father sooner than you might like. Fight or die, Stacy. At Breakthrough you chose the latter but let your partner take the punishment doled out by the Horsewomen. Now? You’re the only one left. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and pray to your Goddess for the chance to survive me… because surviving, after all, is what you do best.
But don’t be surprised if I’m not listening.”
Coming to the gate, Emma pounds twice on the cold iron. Moments later, Bennington opens the lock and pushes apart the heavy passage, Eleanor at his side. Emma steps past the threshold and takes in a deep breath, walking past them both and entering the back seat of the car. Exchanging curious glances, Bennington and Eleanor, after re-locking the gate, also enter the car and proceed to drive away.
Fade to black.
