chapter three | broken pieces

[Brenna Gordon]

Grimm is used with Nathan's permission. Thanks a lot! ♥

Past the roar of the crowd and the unsteady thunder of her pulse in her ears, his words managed to penetrate it all like a harpoon through stormy waves.

"S'not your time yet." Despite the exertion, Phinehas Dillinger's voice was a low and steady thing... certain as the Earth surely felt beneath his feet when he stood upon the dirt roads that he had come forth from. Where those crossroads he and his kin ruled over began or ended was beyond her grasp just the same as escaping his grip seemed to be, but that didn't stop her from trying to imagine where they were as he slowly choked the breath out of her. The tips of wild grass and grain swaying in the wind, rippling like waves that caused her no fear since she knew where the bottom was and that the stalks couldn't invade her lungs and rip the air right out of them--but a subtle tightening of his arm around her neck was all it took to remind her that farm children that weren't careful drowned in corn and wheat silos all the same, lungs crushed both outside and in the deeper they sank. Was the safety of her chosen sanctuary well away from the waves that had laid claim to so much able to do her in all the same? A very real panic settled into her bones, made itself at home there as she tried to struggle her way loose, desperately clawing over and somehow upward to where she could take a blessedly free breath...

But then the Hangtown Horror dragged her back under, into the center of the open water of the ring where a rope break couldn't save her.

"No shame in it." How damned calm Grimm sounded, how utterly and absolutely unbothered--but maybe there was an undercurrent of something else there? A rush of interest carried along with his exhale, brought into being for reasons she couldn't make heads nor tails of. He had seen so many come and go, she knew, and he'd sent many an inexperienced wrestler's career to an early grave. Was it the fight she was giving him? Was it the way her eyes were so very dark and so very, very large like a seal's when she was in the heat of battle? Hell, could he somehow smell the distant salt of the ocean's air that seemed to permeate her very being? No answers came forth for her, no easy and neat explanations as she fumbled for an edge, something she could grab onto... and all she could snag was another short sentence clawing its way into her mind, her soul. "Let go, Brenna."

"W-What--" That single syllable left her on the edges of a ragged gasp, desperation driving her into sudden motion. The tsunami of her attempt to regain momentum hit the Hangtown Horror's mountain only to break with that slam against the canvas, that jarring sensation snapping everything back into stark and unforgiving focus. She knew there was no escape, knew it with a certainty that quashed all attempts to deny it... but she still fought, still struggled to free herself even as the struggle robbed her of more and more of the oxygen in her lungs. A veritable rainbow swirled and danced before her eyes before they all faded into dull blues, then vibrant greens when his voice once again rose forth.

"Stubborn, aren't you?" A huff of a laugh, though it held no malice. If anything, there was something warm about it that she couldn't quite define or liken to anything she'd ever heard before. Dimly, she was aware of the referee's voice asking her if she gave up, if she was going to submit--but it sounded so far away, so very far away when Grimm himself was so close. Odd, how she never considered how intimate such a simple hold could be before this. "Go on, Brenna. You'll get another shot at me. Let go."

A final struggling breath sapped what was left of her strength, her body moving on autopilot to signal that she surrendered this battle so she could have a shot at winning a war next time around. She let go... and when she took that first free breath?

She swore it somehow tasted of pollen and sun-drenched afternoons.

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CHAPTER THREE
b r o k e n ~ p i e c e s

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By now, the studio apartment that Brenna calls home almost looks like someone lives there.

Thrift store surfing and the occasional plunge into a flea market has yielded a surprisingly vast array of things she can afford to bring home, lost objects for her to find and to bring forth from the deep to be treasured, restored or perhaps reclaimed after some slight modification. Old nails hold sailcloth against the ceiling, the trailing edge along one side cut to allow the lone window she has to show with aged rope serving as the ties to hold the canvas away. She knows the rug that covers her floor isn't an actual Oriental one, but the deep blues and golds are pleasing enough to her sensibilities that it doesn't matter. The memory of how hard she had to scrub to get that, ah, questionable stain out of the one corner makes her arm ache for a moment, but it's easy enough to dismiss. Her fingertips are still stained black from bringing the dresser up against one wall back from the dead, the rust carefully sanded away from the metal handles to leave them smooth and perhaps subtly tinged the orange of a sunset reflecting off of a certain natural mirror that maybe some part of her still mourns--

open close open close why are my fingers going numb

...and a shake of her head banishes that thought before it can drag her under. Succumbing once is bad enough, she knows. Doing it again is all but inviting her in, and that's not something that Brenna can risk.

Not considering how she barely survived last time.

Sighing to herself, the dark-haired fighter turns her attention to her latest acquisition--the process a Herculean effort. She only truly manages it thanks to the shallow, absolutely vapid horror she feels at seeing the hideous print upon the loveseat that is shoved up against one wall. It's a silly thing, she'll admit, but any port in a storm will do... even if it's a garish brown and orange velour paisley that even most stereotypical bachelors would avoid like the plague. The temptation to just throw a piece of leftover sail cloth over it and call it good is a strong one, but ultimately? It's not remotely practical, not really. And since affording an actual reupholstering is beyond reach right now, the best she's going to be able to do is to run to JoAnn's and see if she can pull the remnant trick on some pretty fabric. Or maybe there's some Halloween stuff on clearance, spider's webs and damasks of skulls or something else she can make look good with some artful bleach application. A shrug and she's tossing the cushions aside, wanting to get a peek at what artifacts from the unfortunate soul that owned this unfortunate piece of furniture before she found it on the curb outside of a cookie-cutter house in the suburbs. She finds a five dollar bill--which she is quick to pocket--a couple old receipts, a shard of Dorito that might just be older than she is... and something that she doesn't see at first because of how she's blocking the light. As soon as she moves, though?

Glitter of various colors gleam up at her, a rainbow of purples and blues... and pinks.

Those seal-like eyes seem to become galaxies for a moment as she leans down close enough for the sparkles to reflect upon her irises and pupils both--the illogical concern of somehow getting the glitter in her eyes keeping her from blinking at first as she simply stares down at them. Are they from a little girl's craft kit, a prank gone awry... some kind of celebratory residue left and forgotten, spared from the vacuum? Her head tilts faintly to one side, a faintly bemused smile gracing her lips. The memory of grade school crafts, construction paper butterflies and seashells all but drowning in garish sparkles that very rarely actually matched is one that's soft enough on the surface for her to humor it, though such has its hooks in her before she can realize the true danger. After all, her mother treated every last one of them as a precious artifact, proof positive that her daughter inherited her greatness.

"Such a talent, my darling. Why didn't you embrace it?"

"No." That one word leaves her on a trembled prayer of a breath, an unspoken plea to avoid that same breakdown anew. She can feel her stomach twisting itself into a knot, the gears of her mind beginning to clatter as her breaths come faster and faster. Cold creeps its way upward along her spine, infesting her nervous system and burrowing deep... but then a single piece of green glitter catches her eye, and her next breath brings with it the almost-cloying smell of hay freshly cut and the sound of crickets trying to sing a mate their way.

Even the humble dust on a dirt road glimmers in the right light.

It isn't when it rains, of course-- though the sun and the moon both reflect right and proper off of the puddles and the mud itself, that's more a shine rather than a proper sparkle. If you want that kinda' shine, go find a creek or a river, or maybe a pond somewhere that's not too mudded up. A bright sunset, red at night so as to be a distant sailor's delight, is the best shot at seeing it. All it takes is a hard scuff of the boot, or maybe the twin rooster tails of someone hauling ass without a care for the dangerous curves up ahead, to get the dust airborne and floating... and what's road dust but ground-up rocks, anyway? It's not just diamonds that shine. Everything does under the right light, especially when there's a devil in the pale moonlight just waiting for a partner to dance with. Go ahead and join him. What's the harm?

May as well enjoy the good time while it lasts.

"What--" Another blink and it's gone, taking a lot of the strength in her legs with it. Sinking down to the floor by that exposed frame, for a moment the sable-haired female can only breathe deep, try to find her bearings anew. When she finally forces herself to look back at the glitter, the sun has shifted position enough to rob it of its shine. A huff leaves her as she turns her back to it, allowing herself to slide down to where her shoulders can be supported by that fabric-covered wood as her gaze lifts to the ceiling... as if she can somehow see past it, and to a sky that's surely begun to change colors by now. "Thanks," the murmur leaves her lips as if he can hear her somehow. Then again... who knows? Maybe the Hangtown Horror can. Many a crossroads exist between places, after all.

Who's to say their roads aren't connected?

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[Except posted from bornofmyth.blogspot.com
Dated: May 4th, 2016]

Hello again, PCW.

I'll get on the whole 'coming up with a new greeting' thing eventually, I promise. Right now, though, I've got far more important things to deal with. As far as first losses go, Grimm's not a bad one to have... but all the same? It put a damper on my momentum for sure. I could go on and on and on about how I was valiant in defeat, how I made him work his ass right off to get the win over me--but the fact remains that I lost. Luck's role in things was minor at best, to boot--but the rest of the components of my first time falling short in PCW are a lot harder to split the responsibility between. Experience and skill are sort of entwined, if you think about it, and stamina and wit are even more intangible than that. What I learned, though, is something that I can quantify... and I can do it simply, at that. Okay, so I learned two things, but the first one--that maybe arrogance isn't such a good approach to things after all--isn't really catchy, and it's also one of those 'Duh, Brenna.' kind of things, y'know? Anyway... what I learned is this.

Getting back up after a fall like that one is all that matters.

I know that failing sometimes is part of going for the challenge, of busting my ass and finding that sweet spot where everything is alright even if every last muscle in my body is screaming bloody murder at me. It sucks that my record's not perfect anymore, but my career's got to go on. Overdramatic words coming from a rookie, I know--part of me is rolling my eyes at typing it, I assure you--but it's the truth, and it's one that I'm gonna need to hold tight into when it comes to my next match in the Icemann Invitational Tournament. After all, my opponent this round beat the guy that just bested me... though I'd like to think that Kelli Starr's not someone that'd fall victim to that kind of logic. She seems almost--delightfully free of most logic, as a matter of fact. I envy that ability to pull away, to just let go and find somewhere in my mind that's sparkles and colors and fish to be followed and green mouse flavored ice cream. I have to wonder if Dollface is Delirium and Kelli herself used to be Delight, but... mm. Such isn't really something a girl should be asking about. There's a myriad of reasons why someone that's so very sweet is able to bring out that kind of violence on demand, and I don't think such is something she'd want to discuss. Not that I blame her.

I mean, I know how that part feels at least.

Anyway, her personal life isn't really anything that has bearing on this match. I know that what happened with Nathan at last Trauma's probably weighing heavy on her mind, but there isn't a single soul with her kind of accolades that hasn't had to push that all back on the back burner at least once in the name of doing their best in the ring. She's no exception to that, though I will say this much. If those masked jerks show up with their Mickey Mouse bullshit to mess with you during or right after our match--and that phrasing is oddly apt, isn't it?--then I'm going to do my best to try to help you out. No one would be able to make a saint out of me, I'm pretty sure, but you know what I've said about challenges, right? How they're what I like and how I find my peace? Yeah, taking the easy way out of anything doesn't count as a challenge to me in any way that's vaguely useful.I have no interest whatsoever in a cheap win off of a distraction, or in letting a bunch of cowards that refuse to show their faces go all numbers game on someone that just fought their heart out, proverbially speaking... and maybe it's slightly arrogant of me to think it, but that's the kind of effort you're going to need to put in if you want to advance past me in the tournament. You've had your opportunities, your big wins and your moments in the spotlight--and I'm sure that you've got tons more coming your way.

That doesn't mean that I'm gonna let you have this one at my expense, not without one Hell of a fight.

To say that I'm desperate to prove myself, to see if getting higher and higher in the regard of the roster and the fans and PCW as a whole keeps that quiet calm around longer is kind of an understatement--though I don't expect you to understand, not completely. You don't have all the pieces you'd need to truly get it. I keep the less fortunate of the cards that I've been dealt to myself for a reason, thank you very much, and they're going to stay that way for as long as i can keep her at bay. Whether that'll be until the end of time or next week or something like that remains to be seen. Until then? I'm going to keep my focus on the ring and what happens in it... and while it's indeed an honor and a privilege to be going up against the surprise of last year's tournament?

I'm gonna do all I can to make that moniker belong to me and make it to the next round.