Post by Eira on Jan 4, 2016 22:51:12 GMT -5
There's been plenty of us. The ones who were A Big Deal at one point or another, now treading water in an effort to survive. Murdoc leaves to do Murdoc Things, Stormm fades into the ether, Sadistic slinks away into the shadows after his lil brother whipped his ass, and here I am... barely. Where do we go from here?
Rising from her seat she paces across the kitchen, setting the kettle on the burner with a thunk. The frenetic clicks of the lighting mechanism gives way to the satisfying whoosh of gas-fueled flame.
If we're Michael "Mr. Showtime" Wryght, apparently we run for President of the United States.
"Hello, beautiful."
She turns to smile at Murdoc as he approaches, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek against his chest. One of his powerful arms wraps itself around her waist, the other hand going to brush hair back from her face.
"I'm making myself some tea, would you like anything?"
"Mm, tea sounds fine if you don't mind. Want some company?"
Eira wriggles out of his arms, heading for the cupboard to grab another mug. "Sure. I'm not doing much though." With arm and upper body lost in the tea cabinet, (a sort of endless herbal Narnia, if you will), she gestures to the kitchen table, her laptop open to Michael Wryght's presidential campaign page.
"Showtime again, hm?"
"You knew I was up against him again, why the tone of surprise?"
He shrugs. "Not so much surprise at your opponent as it is at your commitment to destroying him."
Chuckling, Eira shakes her head. "I don't want to destroy him, I want to discredit him. Publicly."
"I would be inclined to argue the point, I saw how hard you took it to him at your last match. The question I have, is WHY? Because he's a member of the Black Hand or because he's running for President?"
"Does it matter?"
Murdoc makes a face, taking the mug in one huge hand, not seeming to feel the burning heat from the ceramic.
"It does a bit. It really depends on your motives. WHY do you want to publicly discredit him?"
Staring down at her tea, she considers the question for a few moments before speaking. "Because I don't think he's good for PCW. I don't think he'd be good for the US. I just don't think he's a good leader."
"He's taken over PCW, hasn't he?"
Eira scoffs. "Only because no one else has stepped up and management has been in limbo for WEEKS."
"But he's been doing it."
"Doing what? Pushing paper and throwing money around? Hot damn, that's some serious leadership skills right there. He can't even keep a stable in a pro-wrestling organization relevant - but he's a presidential candidate?"
"Better him than Tr -"
"Don't even say his name."
Murdoc hides his laugh behind a sip of tea, watching her scroll through the webpage. "When you're done with that, would you want to go get something to eat? Xochimilco, maybe?"
To his surprise she frowns and shakes her head, hand going to her stomach. "Not tonight, hon. My stomach's been odd lately, I don't know if I can do Mexican tonight."
Murdoc's eyes narrow. Eira turning down any opportunity to test her digestive system against a chimichanga platter was all but unheard of. "Upset stomach? Virus, do you think?"
Catching the note of concern in his voice, she grins. "For all I know it's just holdover toxicity from Nathan's hatpins. I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Eira..."
"Hm?" Eyes wide, she stares at him over the rim of her mug.
"How have you been feeling otherwise?"
"Oh, you know. Just garden variety winter restlessness. No fevers though."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Murdoc... look. I know what you're getting at, but let's face facts: we've barely had time to do ANYTHING lately. You're good, but not even you can impregnate a woman without having sex." Catching the look on his face she bursts out laughing. "That was not a challenge, I should add."
"We already - the Black Hand has already - Amba, I..."
Eira holds up a hand, forestalling further comment. "Look. That was all Sadistic. I'm not any more fond of the Black Hand than you are, but Grimm made it clear that was all Billy-Boyo's idea." A ghost of a frown drifts across her lips.
"What? Still the wrong timing to find out, huh? I won't ask you to cancel the match, I just want you to be careful."
She shakes her head from her thoughts, smiling across the table at him. "How about this. I'll pop in to the Order's infirmary tomorrow morning, and a quick blood test will tell us the one way or the other, alright? Plenty of time before the match to sort this out."
Murdoc nods, relief plain on his face. "Thank you. After that, please and by all means - kick Mikey's ass."
Rising from her seat she paces across the kitchen, setting the kettle on the burner with a thunk. The frenetic clicks of the lighting mechanism gives way to the satisfying whoosh of gas-fueled flame.
If we're Michael "Mr. Showtime" Wryght, apparently we run for President of the United States.
"Hello, beautiful."
She turns to smile at Murdoc as he approaches, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek against his chest. One of his powerful arms wraps itself around her waist, the other hand going to brush hair back from her face.
"I'm making myself some tea, would you like anything?"
"Mm, tea sounds fine if you don't mind. Want some company?"
Eira wriggles out of his arms, heading for the cupboard to grab another mug. "Sure. I'm not doing much though." With arm and upper body lost in the tea cabinet, (a sort of endless herbal Narnia, if you will), she gestures to the kitchen table, her laptop open to Michael Wryght's presidential campaign page.
"Showtime again, hm?"
"You knew I was up against him again, why the tone of surprise?"
He shrugs. "Not so much surprise at your opponent as it is at your commitment to destroying him."
Chuckling, Eira shakes her head. "I don't want to destroy him, I want to discredit him. Publicly."
"I would be inclined to argue the point, I saw how hard you took it to him at your last match. The question I have, is WHY? Because he's a member of the Black Hand or because he's running for President?"
"Does it matter?"
Murdoc makes a face, taking the mug in one huge hand, not seeming to feel the burning heat from the ceramic.
"It does a bit. It really depends on your motives. WHY do you want to publicly discredit him?"
Staring down at her tea, she considers the question for a few moments before speaking. "Because I don't think he's good for PCW. I don't think he'd be good for the US. I just don't think he's a good leader."
"He's taken over PCW, hasn't he?"
Eira scoffs. "Only because no one else has stepped up and management has been in limbo for WEEKS."
"But he's been doing it."
"Doing what? Pushing paper and throwing money around? Hot damn, that's some serious leadership skills right there. He can't even keep a stable in a pro-wrestling organization relevant - but he's a presidential candidate?"
"Better him than Tr -"
"Don't even say his name."
Murdoc hides his laugh behind a sip of tea, watching her scroll through the webpage. "When you're done with that, would you want to go get something to eat? Xochimilco, maybe?"
To his surprise she frowns and shakes her head, hand going to her stomach. "Not tonight, hon. My stomach's been odd lately, I don't know if I can do Mexican tonight."
Murdoc's eyes narrow. Eira turning down any opportunity to test her digestive system against a chimichanga platter was all but unheard of. "Upset stomach? Virus, do you think?"
Catching the note of concern in his voice, she grins. "For all I know it's just holdover toxicity from Nathan's hatpins. I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Eira..."
"Hm?" Eyes wide, she stares at him over the rim of her mug.
"How have you been feeling otherwise?"
"Oh, you know. Just garden variety winter restlessness. No fevers though."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Murdoc... look. I know what you're getting at, but let's face facts: we've barely had time to do ANYTHING lately. You're good, but not even you can impregnate a woman without having sex." Catching the look on his face she bursts out laughing. "That was not a challenge, I should add."
"We already - the Black Hand has already - Amba, I..."
Eira holds up a hand, forestalling further comment. "Look. That was all Sadistic. I'm not any more fond of the Black Hand than you are, but Grimm made it clear that was all Billy-Boyo's idea." A ghost of a frown drifts across her lips.
"What? Still the wrong timing to find out, huh? I won't ask you to cancel the match, I just want you to be careful."
She shakes her head from her thoughts, smiling across the table at him. "How about this. I'll pop in to the Order's infirmary tomorrow morning, and a quick blood test will tell us the one way or the other, alright? Plenty of time before the match to sort this out."
Murdoc nods, relief plain on his face. "Thank you. After that, please and by all means - kick Mikey's ass."
