Post by Eira on Aug 7, 2015 19:28:46 GMT -5
Morning dawned, and with it rose the silvery effigy of “not ever a morning person”: PCW’s very own Eira. Sliding out of bed so as not to disturb Murdoc, she pulls on a simple black shirt and black yoga pants, meandering towards the kitchen in search of something to spark her brain. The grumbling discontent in the back of her mind following her loss to Gem had only increased over the weeks, taking a grip on the back of her skull like an alien headcrab made of pure antipathy. Reaching the sunny room, she pads across the cold floor, catching sight of the calendar on the fridge.
Friday.
Heralded by most of the working world as the last day of the week. For those in the most recognized job sphere, the last day of dealing with self important upper middle management types and the general pressures of living in a cubicle. For retail workers, the last day of customers muddling about like mindless automatons (the ones not screeching in your face for some overblown slight, that is), and the last day of dealing with your coworkers’ general inability to do their jobs and stay out of your way. Unless you’re scheduled for Saturday, that is.
Shaking her head, Eira moves to the fridge, opening one of the stainless steel doors and casting a critical eye over the contents. It’s one thing to see a Friday when you’re a salaried worker or particularly lucky wage slave with a more or less standard 9 to 5. But when you’re always “on call”... that, my friends, is something else entirely.
I haven’t had a day off in years. There’s never really a day off, even on a day off. A vacation is just doing the same shit in a different environment. The same exercise in a different spot with invariably the same outcome - exactly like tonight is going to be. Go into the ring like a good pony and run your paces for a cube of sugar. Fuck. Why am I still even doing this?
Her hand hovers over an energy drink, desperately wanting that extra kick this morning, but instead she grabs a bottled smoothie. The label promised that the B, C, and E vitamins within would give her a burst of energy, the liquid itself named “Blue Machine”. Sparing the briefest of thoughts to the mechanical monster of PCW’s history, she toasts the fleeting memory as it passes through her mind. Sinking into a seat at their large kitchen table, she takes a long pull from the bottle, considering tonight’s prospects.
Showtime. Again. Not just “Showtime Again”, but this time for the North American title. Just a few weeks ago I was up against Gem for a shot at the World, and with that gone I’m dropped two of the brackets they insist don’t exist. At least I didn’t get shunted all the way down into the Underground - although at least then I’d have a near guaranteed win.
She drops her forehead onto her folded arms closing her eyes and wallowing in quasi-hopeful discontent. The North American was just as good as any other PCW title, though despite protestations from the brass, the hierarchy of the belts was listed on the official site. Don’t want people to see one as more important or prestigious than another? Don’t describe them that way.
“The North American isn’t a bad title to hold, you know.”
Eira looks up as the familiar voice rumbles forth from the doorway, popping her bubble of melancholy solace. She watches as he settles across from her, two big hands pushing his unruly hair back from his face. Taking another sip, she leans back comfortably in her chair, amber eyes meeting weathered blue.
“It’s not that I feel the title is beneath me.”
Murdoc quirks a skeptical brow. “Oh?”
“Honest. Like you told me years ago, the Champion makes the title, not the other way around. I’m not going to sneer at a belt just because it’s not the World Championship.”
The lines of her face fall into something between anger and disgust at the mention of the coveted title she’d just lost another shot at.
“You still want it back, don’t you.”
Leveling her gaze at him, she can’t help the edge in her voice.
“Of course I do. Just as much as you wanted it.” Before you left me there. The unspoken words seem to hover in the air between them, Eira taking another drink to cover the pause while only a faint hardening of Murdoc’s gaze gives any hint that he’d felt the lapse.
“Well, maybe someday, right? That’s what they kept telling me.”
“That is what they kept telling you, isn’t it.” Eira stares across at the man, a man who spent a decade of his life at Pure Class Wrestling only to walk away without that final prize. A man who saw others catapulted past him, a man asked by the brass to take a fall to let a promising young talent advance. A man who spent most of his career creating superstars rather than being the top of the pyramid himself.
Possibly the only man who would really understand how she felt right now.
Her eyes snap back up to his face to find him regarding her with an expectant look, as though privy to her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she launches into it, everything coming out in a jumbled rush.
“It’s Gem. I think I’m starting to hate her as much as she wanted to believe I do. It’s not even all her fault, as she’ll eagerly tell anyone who will listen. The booker put her where they put her, and she won or lost on her own merit, right? Well, so have I, and she only just recently managed to beat me.”
Murdoc remains silent, watching his Love as she continues her tirade.
“I’ve been fighting the Black Hand same as everyone else. I fought against Whitey Ford. I fought against NCM the Hobo King and his horde of slavering degenerates. I fought against Marshall’s Law. Yet somehow, the PCW Faithful have forgotten all that. They cheer for that walking persecution complex like she’s the second coming of Jesus fucking Christ, and they treat anything I say like it’s nothing more than catty bitch jealousy. Fans cite her forcing Sadistic to tap out for the first time in his professional career - an impromptu match after a full match? Might as well have called the whole thing a fake. The fans bought it though, they bought it and fisted it down their eager gullets. Suspend their reality and let the wide eyed ingenue carry their hopes bravely on her narrow shoulders. She’s managed to become a fan favorite while not actually doing anything that I haven’t already done, and in most cases done better.”
Glaring at Murdoc through tears of frustration, she spits the last phrase with venom dripping from every word. “It was never that fucking easy for me, even when I kept winning match after match, and I resent her getting to where she is so much faster on skill that is just barely comparable to mine.”
“Amba...”
Jaw tight, she glares across the table. Murdoc’s eyes traveled her face, her angular features almost gaunt - the uncharacteristic, obsessive bitterness of the past weeks having taken their toll on her psyche and body.
“Amba, this is poison. You can’t keep this in you.”
“I can’t let it out, either. Not without getting my hands on Lantlas Anduril’s crotch-fruit and turning the canvas into modern art with arterial spray.”
Murdoc's mouth twitches, but he doesn't dare laugh. “Crotch-fruit. Nice. Anyway... you need to stop this. It’s wrecking you from the inside out, and Gem isn’t your focus.”
“She’s not my FOCUS but she’s in my FUCKING WAY!” Eira’s fists slam down onto the table, her face reddening with nothing short of pure rage.
Crossing his arms over his massive chest, he stares at her with a calm gaze and a wry smile. “You’re too smart to actually believe that. As resourceful as you are, as unorthodox as you are, and you can’t find a way to get a hold of Sadistic without going through proper PCW channels?”
He reaches across the table, fingers gently tracing her jawline. “Amba. Dignity.”
Feeling her shoulders relax the slightest bit under his touch, she struggles to refocus her mind. “What am I even doing there anymore, Murdoc?”
He shrugs, a rare fondness in his eyes. “You’re fighting the good fight, Love. You’re doing what you do best - and that’s the thing. YOU do it best. Don’t try to be the bright eyed girl they all want to love. Don’t try to be the badass monster. Don’t try to be the unassailable veteran. Be EIRA.”
She stares at him for a long moment before rubbing both hands tiredly over her face, Eira’s shoulders slumping forward.
“Showtime. Man, I just. It’s nearly always the same, I pretty much always win - but now..." She pauses, a short, humorless laugh lifting from her. “Now, I have to hurt him.”
Murdoc blinks in confusion. “Hurt him? In the match, or...?”
“No. Hurt him because he’s the Black Hand just as much as Grimm or Sadistic are.” She smiles, the warmth of the expression failing to reach the razor edged promise in her eyes. “If he wants to align himself with the likes of that organization, he can. If he thinks he can stand by the wayside while his partners ravage the ranks of PCW, spreading seeds of discontent; culpable for nothing but thinking to harvest the rewards, then...”
Murdoc’s calculating glance takes in the conviction writ on her features. “...then?”
“PCW’s Mr. Showtime is about to reap what the Black Hand has sown.”
Friday.
Heralded by most of the working world as the last day of the week. For those in the most recognized job sphere, the last day of dealing with self important upper middle management types and the general pressures of living in a cubicle. For retail workers, the last day of customers muddling about like mindless automatons (the ones not screeching in your face for some overblown slight, that is), and the last day of dealing with your coworkers’ general inability to do their jobs and stay out of your way. Unless you’re scheduled for Saturday, that is.
Shaking her head, Eira moves to the fridge, opening one of the stainless steel doors and casting a critical eye over the contents. It’s one thing to see a Friday when you’re a salaried worker or particularly lucky wage slave with a more or less standard 9 to 5. But when you’re always “on call”... that, my friends, is something else entirely.
I haven’t had a day off in years. There’s never really a day off, even on a day off. A vacation is just doing the same shit in a different environment. The same exercise in a different spot with invariably the same outcome - exactly like tonight is going to be. Go into the ring like a good pony and run your paces for a cube of sugar. Fuck. Why am I still even doing this?
Her hand hovers over an energy drink, desperately wanting that extra kick this morning, but instead she grabs a bottled smoothie. The label promised that the B, C, and E vitamins within would give her a burst of energy, the liquid itself named “Blue Machine”. Sparing the briefest of thoughts to the mechanical monster of PCW’s history, she toasts the fleeting memory as it passes through her mind. Sinking into a seat at their large kitchen table, she takes a long pull from the bottle, considering tonight’s prospects.
Showtime. Again. Not just “Showtime Again”, but this time for the North American title. Just a few weeks ago I was up against Gem for a shot at the World, and with that gone I’m dropped two of the brackets they insist don’t exist. At least I didn’t get shunted all the way down into the Underground - although at least then I’d have a near guaranteed win.
She drops her forehead onto her folded arms closing her eyes and wallowing in quasi-hopeful discontent. The North American was just as good as any other PCW title, though despite protestations from the brass, the hierarchy of the belts was listed on the official site. Don’t want people to see one as more important or prestigious than another? Don’t describe them that way.
“The North American isn’t a bad title to hold, you know.”
Eira looks up as the familiar voice rumbles forth from the doorway, popping her bubble of melancholy solace. She watches as he settles across from her, two big hands pushing his unruly hair back from his face. Taking another sip, she leans back comfortably in her chair, amber eyes meeting weathered blue.
“It’s not that I feel the title is beneath me.”
Murdoc quirks a skeptical brow. “Oh?”
“Honest. Like you told me years ago, the Champion makes the title, not the other way around. I’m not going to sneer at a belt just because it’s not the World Championship.”
The lines of her face fall into something between anger and disgust at the mention of the coveted title she’d just lost another shot at.
“You still want it back, don’t you.”
Leveling her gaze at him, she can’t help the edge in her voice.
“Of course I do. Just as much as you wanted it.” Before you left me there. The unspoken words seem to hover in the air between them, Eira taking another drink to cover the pause while only a faint hardening of Murdoc’s gaze gives any hint that he’d felt the lapse.
“Well, maybe someday, right? That’s what they kept telling me.”
“That is what they kept telling you, isn’t it.” Eira stares across at the man, a man who spent a decade of his life at Pure Class Wrestling only to walk away without that final prize. A man who saw others catapulted past him, a man asked by the brass to take a fall to let a promising young talent advance. A man who spent most of his career creating superstars rather than being the top of the pyramid himself.
Possibly the only man who would really understand how she felt right now.
Her eyes snap back up to his face to find him regarding her with an expectant look, as though privy to her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she launches into it, everything coming out in a jumbled rush.
“It’s Gem. I think I’m starting to hate her as much as she wanted to believe I do. It’s not even all her fault, as she’ll eagerly tell anyone who will listen. The booker put her where they put her, and she won or lost on her own merit, right? Well, so have I, and she only just recently managed to beat me.”
Murdoc remains silent, watching his Love as she continues her tirade.
“I’ve been fighting the Black Hand same as everyone else. I fought against Whitey Ford. I fought against NCM the Hobo King and his horde of slavering degenerates. I fought against Marshall’s Law. Yet somehow, the PCW Faithful have forgotten all that. They cheer for that walking persecution complex like she’s the second coming of Jesus fucking Christ, and they treat anything I say like it’s nothing more than catty bitch jealousy. Fans cite her forcing Sadistic to tap out for the first time in his professional career - an impromptu match after a full match? Might as well have called the whole thing a fake. The fans bought it though, they bought it and fisted it down their eager gullets. Suspend their reality and let the wide eyed ingenue carry their hopes bravely on her narrow shoulders. She’s managed to become a fan favorite while not actually doing anything that I haven’t already done, and in most cases done better.”
Glaring at Murdoc through tears of frustration, she spits the last phrase with venom dripping from every word. “It was never that fucking easy for me, even when I kept winning match after match, and I resent her getting to where she is so much faster on skill that is just barely comparable to mine.”
“Amba...”
Jaw tight, she glares across the table. Murdoc’s eyes traveled her face, her angular features almost gaunt - the uncharacteristic, obsessive bitterness of the past weeks having taken their toll on her psyche and body.
“Amba, this is poison. You can’t keep this in you.”
“I can’t let it out, either. Not without getting my hands on Lantlas Anduril’s crotch-fruit and turning the canvas into modern art with arterial spray.”
Murdoc's mouth twitches, but he doesn't dare laugh. “Crotch-fruit. Nice. Anyway... you need to stop this. It’s wrecking you from the inside out, and Gem isn’t your focus.”
“She’s not my FOCUS but she’s in my FUCKING WAY!” Eira’s fists slam down onto the table, her face reddening with nothing short of pure rage.
Crossing his arms over his massive chest, he stares at her with a calm gaze and a wry smile. “You’re too smart to actually believe that. As resourceful as you are, as unorthodox as you are, and you can’t find a way to get a hold of Sadistic without going through proper PCW channels?”
He reaches across the table, fingers gently tracing her jawline. “Amba. Dignity.”
Feeling her shoulders relax the slightest bit under his touch, she struggles to refocus her mind. “What am I even doing there anymore, Murdoc?”
He shrugs, a rare fondness in his eyes. “You’re fighting the good fight, Love. You’re doing what you do best - and that’s the thing. YOU do it best. Don’t try to be the bright eyed girl they all want to love. Don’t try to be the badass monster. Don’t try to be the unassailable veteran. Be EIRA.”
She stares at him for a long moment before rubbing both hands tiredly over her face, Eira’s shoulders slumping forward.
“Showtime. Man, I just. It’s nearly always the same, I pretty much always win - but now..." She pauses, a short, humorless laugh lifting from her. “Now, I have to hurt him.”
Murdoc blinks in confusion. “Hurt him? In the match, or...?”
“No. Hurt him because he’s the Black Hand just as much as Grimm or Sadistic are.” She smiles, the warmth of the expression failing to reach the razor edged promise in her eyes. “If he wants to align himself with the likes of that organization, he can. If he thinks he can stand by the wayside while his partners ravage the ranks of PCW, spreading seeds of discontent; culpable for nothing but thinking to harvest the rewards, then...”
Murdoc’s calculating glance takes in the conviction writ on her features. “...then?”
“PCW’s Mr. Showtime is about to reap what the Black Hand has sown.”