Post by Eira on Jul 1, 2014 23:17:56 GMT -5
“We will be attending the funeral.”
Glancing up from what could only be described as research in the loosest possible fashion, Eira meets his question with a blank stare, turning her speakers down to hear him better.
“I’m sorry, say that again?”
“We will be attending the funeral.”
She blinks once, casting a quick look over the computer monitor then to the notepad at her elbow, neither object offering any sort of clarification.
“The funeral.”
Returning her amber eyes to Murdoc, she raises her brows in clear question. “Are you on about Jackson again? I get it, he’s an asshole; I’m not even arguing the point anymore. It’s a bit premature to be planning his funeral though, don’t you think? ” Dawning realization washes over her, eyes widening in panic as she lurches from her chair. “Unless - oh god, what did you DO?”
Murdoc drops a big hand on her shoulder, gently lowering her back into her seat, the barest hint of a chuckle rumbling through his frame.
“Re-LAX, will you? The funeral for the staff... or hadn’t you heard?”
“Oh. That.” Her eyes drop for the barest of seconds before bringing her gaze back up to Murdoc’s face. “I didn’t realize the entire roster was expected to go.”
“We owe it to them to be there, Eira. It’s a matter of respect, of doing what is right by their memory.”
“To join people I don’t even like in standing around in their Sunday best, waxing nostalgic over the dearly departed that they barely acknowledged while still alive? I’d rather not. If I wanted melodramatic pageantry I’d watch ‘Game of Thrones’.”
The reference flies over Murdoc’s head with inches to spare, the large man showcasing anew his remarkable immunity to pop culture. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I believe I take your meaning. Nevertheless, I will be attending the funeral. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”
Eira crosses her arms over her chest, staring up at him thoughtfully. “You had to be all gallant about it, didn’t you.”
“Chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just selective.” Murdoc gives a curt bow, a wry smile on his face. “I understand your consternation, Love, but this is the right thing to do.” Turning his attention towards the glowing computer screen, he nudges his chin forward in gesture. “What’s that you’re working on?”
With a mischievous grin, Eira clicks back to the main page of the website and scoots to the side as Murdoc leans in. “One-Hundred-and-One Mixed Drinks Your Bartender Doesn’t Want You to Know About?” Dropping his face into his hand, he groans quietly. “Really, Eira?”
With a merry laugh she wriggles out of the chair and rises, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing her cheek fondly against his chest. “I swear it’s not what it looks like!”
“I hope you realize that is the least reassuring thing you could have said.”
“Okay, so, it’s ALMOST what it looks like. I was thinking of getting completely geschtonkenflapped and cutting a promo to Whiskey-Dick Ford.”
Glossing right over the mention of Ford‘s name in the same sentence with a reference to genitalia, Murdoc instead chooses to latch onto the absurdly long word. “Geschtonkenflapped?”
Nodding sagely, Eira stares up at him with an earnest expression. “It’s German. It means ‘the point just past shit-hammered drunk’.”
“Ah, I see.”
Eira steps back, clearly scanning the height and breadth of the hulking man. “Part of alcohol tolerance is based on physical mass... can you even GET drunk?”
“I think I got close. Once. Back in the day and all that. Since then, I think I’ve had more impressive alterations in body chemistry from bad Chinese food than alcohol.”
“So you’re telling me that short of you hammering down shots of gasoline, it’s basically a lost cause?”
“More or less. But back to your plans... you’re not really going to do this, are you?”
“No.” Murdoc masks a smile at the sulk in her voice, maintaining a look of stoic focus. “Much fun as it might be it’s just... predictable. Facing Whitey Ford and want to record a message about it? Why, hell - that’s easy! Get shitfaced and record yourself talking trash. ‘Hurr durr I’m a drunk jackass just like Whitey Ford!’” Murdoc manages to keep his face impassive while Eira’s expression shifts from disdain to goofy redneck pantomime. “Anyone could do that. In fact, I think a few probably have. Or gotten wasted to ‘tap into their inner Whitey’ and somehow thought that counted for match preparation.”
“So what’s your plan instead?”
“Oh, I have a few things in mind.” Drawing him closer, she nibbles up the thick column of his neck before kissing him deeply with renewed appreciation for the sensual strength of his lips. “As much as I’d like to spend the afternoon with you, the Order contacted me this morning. I have to go in.”
“Go handle business, Amba.” Murdoc reaches out as she turns to go, snaring her wrist just before she slips away. Giving her hand a light squeeze he catches her attention for his parting words: "Just don’t bring anyone home this time.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
An uneventful drive through midafternoon traffic later finds Eira striding towards the Order’s entrance, the glass doors slide open with a near-silent hush at her approach. Breathing a sigh of relief at the blast of cooler air, she makes her way across the marble flooring to the bank of offices just off the foyer.
Abandon all hope, you who enter here. Just let me make it through the next couple hours so I can get back home to Murdoc, I’ve got some serious workouts planned for him and I. We’ve got to be in top condition, after all - he’s heading into the final rounds of the Icemann invitational and I...
...I’m going to get MY World Championship belt back.
With a soft sigh, she checks the number plate by the side of the door and pushes it open, halting in her tracks as she recognizes the person seated at the other side of the small conference table.
“Ye shall not make with me gods of silver, neither shall ye make unto you gods of gold.”
God DAMN it.
“Exodus 20:23.” Turning to leave with a sigh, Eira’s hand freezes on the doorknob as Veronica speaks again.
“Very good, Aveira.”
“Stop. Using. That. Name.” Turning in place, Eira levels a sharp glare at the woman, the warm amber of her eyes seeming to darken. Just a trick of the light in the dim room. Right?
“Why should I? Hebrew in origin, ‘A sin against God and man’. It suits you admirably, my dear. Besides - it’s the name registered in the Order’s database, and in fact also the listed name in the Codex of Prophecies.”
“There’s no proof that decrepit scroll you dug out of I-don’t-even-know-where refers to me. OR to Murdoc, so don’t bother launching into that tired rhetoric again.”
Veronica smirks at Eira’s open annoyance, gesturing towards the only other seat in the room, opposite her own place at the table. “You were brought here to speak to me. Please, will you sit?”
Eira’s arms cross over her chest, staring straight at Veronica. “I’d prefer to stand. Under whose authority was I brought here?”
Veronica shrugs as if to say ‘suit yourself‘, leaning back comfortably in her own chair. “Why, mine, of course. Installing Jackson as your ’partner’ was at my discretion, as well.”
Disbelief writ clear across her features, Eira shakes her head in denial. “You hardly outrank me, even with your newest ‘promotion’.” The last word dripping with scorn, Eira feels the knot of unease in her middle grow as Veronica’s smirk widens into a smile.
“That’s what you’re here for, Aveira. Both Murdoc and yourself have been channeled into the Codex research department, and as such you fall under my jurisdiction. “
The knot of unease exploding in a burn of angry tension, Eira feels her cheeks warm as she takes a step towards the table, arms falling to the ready at her sides.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Such language! Here I thought you were a proper lady, full of class and elegance; willingly mating yourself to that animal of a man and wrasslin’ with the good ole boys in public spectacle.”
Eira’s fiery rage surges before abruptly giving way to a sheet of icy calm, refusing to rise to Veronica’s verbal barbs. No sense spilling blood all over the carpet, such an inconsiderate mess to leave for the help. “Of course, Cleric, please forgive my impudence. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have previous engagements that must be attended to."
Veronica opens her mouth to protest, but Eira is quicker on the draw. “As I’m sure the Cleric is well aware, section 4 of the Order mandate dictates that an Operative may take immediate leave of any situation unless otherwise ordered by the Justicar. Being as you are not a Justicar, this concludes our meeting.”
With a curt tip of the head she turns on her heel and leaves the room, walking calmly from the building with nary a soul daring to approach in her icy wake. Pushing the doors open without breaking stride, she only slows as the heat from standing in full summer sun hits her full blast. Cheeks a deep red and hands trembling, she slips into her car and slams the door shut, her thoughts rocketing through her mind.
What the fuck. No, really, what the FUCK. First there’s Whitey Ford whose ass I just really need to kick. Then we have Jackson, who can’t seem to get the fuck out of his own way, let alone OURS. Now there’s Veronica who is suddenly my immediate supervisor? How did I even GET here?!
Doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. Murdoc will be fine.
We’ll do the same thing we always do - put our heads down and shoulder through the bullshit to reach our objective. I don’t have TIME for this right now. In a matter of hours I’ll be facing Whitey Ford at the Pay-per-View to get my belt back from him. That is all that matters to me right now. I’ve been living too long doing the bidding of others, calibrating for every nuance of every situation.
Fuck that bullshit, I’m done.
I’m going to live MY legacy, and it starts with getting the Pure Class Wrestling World Championship back.