Post by Brenna Gordon on Jun 6, 2016 17:36:38 GMT -5
Digging the splinters from beneath her fingernails was what made it all hit home.
Up until then, Brenna had been running on autopilot-- the blur of a conversation with Nathan, the decision to take on the search for Kelli Starr despite how she had the finals of the Icemann Invitational Tournament on her plate, the mad dash through hallway after hallway until she happened upon that dark and dank place that somehow smelled more of that sweat-sick aroma that came with a fever. She'd snapped at that one guy that hadn't been around for long to get her something, anything to pry the lid open when her own hands hadn't been enough to get the job done. And when she opened it to find nothing but candy inside... while the sight itself hadn't been anything too horrific, the sound that Nathan had made once he shoved her aside and beheld the absence of his lover, that had dug itself deep into her psyche and echoed in a way that brought something all too uncomfortable to the surface. After all, hadn't that very same agony been apparent in her mother's screams as she was hauled off in a straightjacket? Maybe the memory was what kept her in stasis, hovering somewhere between living and dead as she blankly murmured comforting words to Nathan, offered a half-assed apology to Dontelvius--or so she thought his name was--and made her way back to her locker room. The process of undressing and showering had been almost robotic, her stupor only bending when she noticed the long and slender pieces of wood that were partially embedded in the beds of her nails. Even working out the first three hadn't done much to disturb the detached feeling that allowed her to function.
Number four, though... the pain it sent through her when her grip upon its end slipped and it jammed that smidgen deeper shattered it all like glass.
It all came out of her at once in dry and ugly sobs, her body refusing to release so much as a single droplet of salty water lest she dry up like a husk. The sweet relief at surviving Living A Legacy as the Underground Champion, the bitter disappointment of falling short against Dan Fierce in the finals even though she'd put up one Hell of a fight, the burning heat of her anger at the newest lows that Seromine and his merry band of fuck-ups had sunk to... the chill of fear at what Kelli was suffering through, not to mention just what they might have in mind for her. The numbers game was something that she had to eternally keep in mind, she knew. No amount of talent could overcome being ganged up upon, not unless a firearm of some sort was involved on her end. And since that wasn't an option? She'd need to tread carefully, moreso than ever before. Otherwise, she was as good as gone--
The chill of the midnight air is one of the few things she enjoyed as a child that does not hurt her as an adult.
Even though her professional and personal lives both exist in perpetual turmoil, Brenna knows full well that the place that has become a private sanctuary for herself a few blocks from her apartment is as secure as can be-- something guaranteed with nothing more than a handful of bills and an agreement to autograph something or other for the first fan to ever recognize her. Her request for roof access was granted within minutes, the key turned over along with a stammering attempt to do whatever she wishes with the space that she cannot help but genuinely smile at the memory of. Clearing away the accumulated sand and boxes and other such errata is how she had spent the afternoon, her pale skin well-protected by a thick layer of sunscreen that she religiously re-applied at even the slightest sign of the protection weakening. With the sun now well below the horizon, though, she can finally settle upon the edge of the roof and relax. She's high enough up where she knows no one can see her, she knows... though she cannot quite bring herself to shed the well-worn cut-offs and simple black t-shirt she has on.
She has no idea what's on that brick, after all.
Settling for stepping out of her combat boots, she straddles the half-wall before laying back to stare up at the clear skies overhead-- a few shifts adjusting the way her hair lays so it can function as a half-assed sort of pillow before she's letting out a sigh. Even though she knows that this vantage point is not a permanent escape from her problems, there's something to be said for the way that the clarity of the sky overhead seems to reach in and sweep its way across her mind as well... an ethereal hand swiping away her worries for her newly-found friend right alongside of the confusion she felt at most of what she had born witness to at Living A Legacy. The present from Nathan Saniti is safe and sound for the moment, she knows. The plants have long since grown comfortable, odd as it sounds, atop her dresser--its pot boosted up by copies of each of her mother's self-published volumes of poetry. Just how it learned to sing in such perfect Gaelic is... well, it's something better left not wondered about. About the only source of disturbance it has created, as a matter of fact, is the ugly hissing and cursing--or, at least, she thinks it was cursing--that happened when she tried to put the vase Grimm gave her as a present next to it. Moving it out of sight was enough to make it stop, though such an incident...
Well, it's what ultimately led her here, isn't it?
Brenna reaches into her pocket and withdraws the simple wooden vase from her pocket before she holds it up in front of her eyes. There's something vaguely sinister about it in the cold light of the moon, she has to admit... but can't one also say the same about how her skin seemingly gleams in the same, or how her eyes seem to become even darker and larger without anything to warm their depths? A soft grunt of effort leaves her as she sits up, her free hand absently moving to run through the darkness of her hair lest there be anything tangled in it as her gaze flickers to and fro. Something this small's bound to be blown away unless she's careful, but yet all the same, the idea that the vase would remain planted wherever she put it even if a hurricane rolled through seems to be more plausible than it ought to be. Shaking her head, she pads over to one of the few pieces of two-by-four that she had left on the roof. Originally, she was going to turn them into planters of some sort or maybe build something to sit on with them... but she instead finds herself forming a crude frame out of three of the pieces, with the cement serving as the floor. Once she has placed the vase beneath the shelter she's created, she peels her t-shirt off over her head--tearing off the sleeves and using the faded dark fabric as a kind of surrounding for the base of that gift. Sitting back on her heels, a faint huff of a laugh leaves her at the sight of the sorry little impromptu altar she's created... but at the caress of that blessedly cool and dry breeze?
She can't help but think that it's only the beginning of what Phinehas Dillinger deserves, not when he's the one that's responsible for giving her even the briefest of reprieves from a distant specter that's still too close for comfort.
Hello again, PCW.
I was going to try something witty and try to sound all posh and royal and stuff, but this whole being Queen of the Underground thing? It just seems to be a weird way of saying that I'm a champion. I mean, I'm sure that she would have herself a conniption fit about me not trumpeting about superior bloodlines that may or may not exist... but I don't really care. I can't afford to divert my attention to what she is thinking and feeling, considering how I've got a lot to worry about. My refusal to abandon Kelli Starr and my choice to try to help Nathan Saniti find her after those Into The Woods cultists stole her away? That probably means that I've got a massive bulls-eye in the middle of my back now, especially since the head honcho decided to step forward and give himself a name to use. I'd say that I hate to break it to you, Seromine, but I'm not going to give you the Unspeakable Evil treatment. I'm not going to sit here and go, 'If I don't use his name, then maybe he won't hurt me!' because let's be real with ourselves here--anyone that needs to hide behind a mask and a bunch of lackeys isn't a grand and unbeatable evil. Or, to put as sharp a point on this as I humanly can...
You're a special kind of craven, aren't you?
No, no. Scratch that. You don't deserve the fancy child-of-a-poet speak.
You're a fucking coward, Seromine... and nothing shy of you knocking it off with the smoke and mirrors, the masks and the helpers, the kidnappings and the mind games and the thousands you're spending at whatever shitty Halloween store you patronize is going to change that. But you're not going to dispose of any of it, are you? Of course not. That would reveal what we all already know about you--that you're just as human and squishy as the rest of us. Though considering the look in Nathan's eyes... once he gets his hands on you, I have the distinct feeling that he's going to see just how high of a percentage of your body he can render into a gelatin-esque state. Did you know that not only can bones be broken, but so can cartilage if it's hit with enough blunt force trauma from, say, an enraged man's fists? Just something for you to think about, assuming you can pull your head out of your own ass long enough to take a clear breath.
But enough about that Mickey Mouse bullshit.
I guess I should talk a little about my opponent before he decides to have himself a tantrum at not being mentioned. I mean, maybe I'm wrong about your ego level there, Chris Parsons... but any man that calls himself the Nightmare without a single shred of ironic self-awareness only to barely even register as a presence of any sort in most of his matches? That doesn't really instill any sort of hope in me as to your ego being anything but way too big for its proverbial britches. Because yes, yes we know you've been a big name here and a former champion there--a familiar refrain by now, considering who I was dealing with for my first few shows with the company--but none of that matters here if you can't get the job done. And what does it say about you that it took a massive multi-man clusterfuck of a match to pick up that coveted 'W'? That maybe, just maybe, those other places you dominated in and won't stop running your mouth about weren't as good as you want everyone to think. I mean, if they were... wouldn't you be mowing through anyone and everyone like they were made of tissue paper? Wouldn't your tired old schtick have already beat people about the head in a more literal fashion by now? And before you start with that same old 'Hurr, she's talkin' about my penis!' nonsense, keep in mind that I'd rather saw off my own left breast with a rusty metal spoon than think about you in a sexual context. Honestly, severing a part of my own body from itself would be more pleasant than having to share a bed with you... and I'm only partially saying that because of how I'm sure you'd be more disappointing than Razor Blade's entire existence. The rest of it comes from how I'm fairly sure that your ignorance is so potent, it could be considered a sexually-transmitted disease.
(And don't kid yourself, Chrissy-Boy--anyone that calls a woman 'sugartits' without expecting to wind up in a hospital bed has got to be mentally challenged.)
I almost didn't want to dignify your little promo video with a direct response, as a matter of fact, since that'd be more attention that you could warp and twist into something, anything that isn't disgust at how I can't use a HAZMAT suit to wrestle you... but then you would've thought that I was intimidated, when such is far from the truth. Not only that, but I've got this damnable thing called a conscience--or at least part of one--and even though you're probably a lost cause, I still have to try to set you right. For one, losing to Dan Fierce by the skin of my teeth after wrestling two grueling matches in the same night? Not anything to be remotely ashamed of. The man's got more talent in one of his specks of glitter than you do in your entire body, I'm pretty sure. Did not winning the tournament disrupt my plans? To a point, but I'm not broken because of it. I mean, I lost to Grimm here a few shows back... and instead of wallowing in despair the way that I imagine you will when I retain the Underground Championship, I picked myself up and damn near won the Icemann Invitational. But I'm not supposed to find value in those almosts, right? I'm not supposed to learn from my mistakes and improve. No, I'm supposed to sit here and cry and whimper and whine and be so desperate to prove myself that you can smell it from a mile away. I'm supposed to forget all about how I didn't come here for an easy road to the top and--
And that's what this is about, isn't it?
You signed the dotted line here and expected to coast right on through everyone and anyone, just like you did in those other places. You thought that you were setting yourself up for Easy Street, that you'd be the apple of everybody's eye the way that you allegedly were in all those other places you were at. You thought that your scantily-clad escorts to the ring and your showboating entrance and every last cliché little thing that leaves your lips was going to endear you to the masses and give you a straight shot to the top of the mountain. And even though this is only your third match in the company? You're already floundering and trying to justify yourself, trying to make it seem like that one match you've been victorious in wasn't a fluke because the idea that you're in over your head... why, that'd make your ego self-destruct, now wouldn't it? The fact that you're treading water over deeps you're not strong enough to survive is looming large over your delusions of grandeur, and you'd do anything to keep it afloat. You really shouldn't have decided to be a condescending asshole to me, boy, because I'll drown your sorry ass without so much as a second thought. And trust me, Chris. When Trauma 194 is over? I will still be Underground Champion...
And you will simply be yet another egotistical fool that was dragged under by the Undertow.
Up until then, Brenna had been running on autopilot-- the blur of a conversation with Nathan, the decision to take on the search for Kelli Starr despite how she had the finals of the Icemann Invitational Tournament on her plate, the mad dash through hallway after hallway until she happened upon that dark and dank place that somehow smelled more of that sweat-sick aroma that came with a fever. She'd snapped at that one guy that hadn't been around for long to get her something, anything to pry the lid open when her own hands hadn't been enough to get the job done. And when she opened it to find nothing but candy inside... while the sight itself hadn't been anything too horrific, the sound that Nathan had made once he shoved her aside and beheld the absence of his lover, that had dug itself deep into her psyche and echoed in a way that brought something all too uncomfortable to the surface. After all, hadn't that very same agony been apparent in her mother's screams as she was hauled off in a straightjacket? Maybe the memory was what kept her in stasis, hovering somewhere between living and dead as she blankly murmured comforting words to Nathan, offered a half-assed apology to Dontelvius--or so she thought his name was--and made her way back to her locker room. The process of undressing and showering had been almost robotic, her stupor only bending when she noticed the long and slender pieces of wood that were partially embedded in the beds of her nails. Even working out the first three hadn't done much to disturb the detached feeling that allowed her to function.
Number four, though... the pain it sent through her when her grip upon its end slipped and it jammed that smidgen deeper shattered it all like glass.
It all came out of her at once in dry and ugly sobs, her body refusing to release so much as a single droplet of salty water lest she dry up like a husk. The sweet relief at surviving Living A Legacy as the Underground Champion, the bitter disappointment of falling short against Dan Fierce in the finals even though she'd put up one Hell of a fight, the burning heat of her anger at the newest lows that Seromine and his merry band of fuck-ups had sunk to... the chill of fear at what Kelli was suffering through, not to mention just what they might have in mind for her. The numbers game was something that she had to eternally keep in mind, she knew. No amount of talent could overcome being ganged up upon, not unless a firearm of some sort was involved on her end. And since that wasn't an option? She'd need to tread carefully, moreso than ever before. Otherwise, she was as good as gone--
That isn't true, mo cheann beag. They pose no threat to you, not with the magic running through your veins. Through our veins.
"Bullshit," came the weak whisper of her reply... but even as the profane word left her lips and the sensation of her mother's presence in her mind retreated like the tide, a small part of her mind had to wonder if maybe there wasn't so truth in it. But how could a simple mortal woman, a mewling and trembling ball of exhaustion that was probably hallucinating thanks to the long night she had endured be born of the same stuff as the mythological creatures that populated the memories of her childhood bedtime stories with more frequency than anything else? The blood that coated the end of that splinter, already darkening as it began to dry in the open air, seemed to only reinforce the notion that Brenna Gordon, Born of Myth...
Why, she was just as human as anybody else.
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CHAPTER FOUR
1 9 7 9
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CHAPTER FOUR
1 9 7 9
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The chill of the midnight air is one of the few things she enjoyed as a child that does not hurt her as an adult.
Even though her professional and personal lives both exist in perpetual turmoil, Brenna knows full well that the place that has become a private sanctuary for herself a few blocks from her apartment is as secure as can be-- something guaranteed with nothing more than a handful of bills and an agreement to autograph something or other for the first fan to ever recognize her. Her request for roof access was granted within minutes, the key turned over along with a stammering attempt to do whatever she wishes with the space that she cannot help but genuinely smile at the memory of. Clearing away the accumulated sand and boxes and other such errata is how she had spent the afternoon, her pale skin well-protected by a thick layer of sunscreen that she religiously re-applied at even the slightest sign of the protection weakening. With the sun now well below the horizon, though, she can finally settle upon the edge of the roof and relax. She's high enough up where she knows no one can see her, she knows... though she cannot quite bring herself to shed the well-worn cut-offs and simple black t-shirt she has on.
She has no idea what's on that brick, after all.
Settling for stepping out of her combat boots, she straddles the half-wall before laying back to stare up at the clear skies overhead-- a few shifts adjusting the way her hair lays so it can function as a half-assed sort of pillow before she's letting out a sigh. Even though she knows that this vantage point is not a permanent escape from her problems, there's something to be said for the way that the clarity of the sky overhead seems to reach in and sweep its way across her mind as well... an ethereal hand swiping away her worries for her newly-found friend right alongside of the confusion she felt at most of what she had born witness to at Living A Legacy. The present from Nathan Saniti is safe and sound for the moment, she knows. The plants have long since grown comfortable, odd as it sounds, atop her dresser--its pot boosted up by copies of each of her mother's self-published volumes of poetry. Just how it learned to sing in such perfect Gaelic is... well, it's something better left not wondered about. About the only source of disturbance it has created, as a matter of fact, is the ugly hissing and cursing--or, at least, she thinks it was cursing--that happened when she tried to put the vase Grimm gave her as a present next to it. Moving it out of sight was enough to make it stop, though such an incident...
Well, it's what ultimately led her here, isn't it?
Brenna reaches into her pocket and withdraws the simple wooden vase from her pocket before she holds it up in front of her eyes. There's something vaguely sinister about it in the cold light of the moon, she has to admit... but can't one also say the same about how her skin seemingly gleams in the same, or how her eyes seem to become even darker and larger without anything to warm their depths? A soft grunt of effort leaves her as she sits up, her free hand absently moving to run through the darkness of her hair lest there be anything tangled in it as her gaze flickers to and fro. Something this small's bound to be blown away unless she's careful, but yet all the same, the idea that the vase would remain planted wherever she put it even if a hurricane rolled through seems to be more plausible than it ought to be. Shaking her head, she pads over to one of the few pieces of two-by-four that she had left on the roof. Originally, she was going to turn them into planters of some sort or maybe build something to sit on with them... but she instead finds herself forming a crude frame out of three of the pieces, with the cement serving as the floor. Once she has placed the vase beneath the shelter she's created, she peels her t-shirt off over her head--tearing off the sleeves and using the faded dark fabric as a kind of surrounding for the base of that gift. Sitting back on her heels, a faint huff of a laugh leaves her at the sight of the sorry little impromptu altar she's created... but at the caress of that blessedly cool and dry breeze?
She can't help but think that it's only the beginning of what Phinehas Dillinger deserves, not when he's the one that's responsible for giving her even the briefest of reprieves from a distant specter that's still too close for comfort.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
[Except posted from bornofmyth.blogspot.com
Dated: June 6th, 2016]
Dated: June 6th, 2016]
Hello again, PCW.
I was going to try something witty and try to sound all posh and royal and stuff, but this whole being Queen of the Underground thing? It just seems to be a weird way of saying that I'm a champion. I mean, I'm sure that she would have herself a conniption fit about me not trumpeting about superior bloodlines that may or may not exist... but I don't really care. I can't afford to divert my attention to what she is thinking and feeling, considering how I've got a lot to worry about. My refusal to abandon Kelli Starr and my choice to try to help Nathan Saniti find her after those Into The Woods cultists stole her away? That probably means that I've got a massive bulls-eye in the middle of my back now, especially since the head honcho decided to step forward and give himself a name to use. I'd say that I hate to break it to you, Seromine, but I'm not going to give you the Unspeakable Evil treatment. I'm not going to sit here and go, 'If I don't use his name, then maybe he won't hurt me!' because let's be real with ourselves here--anyone that needs to hide behind a mask and a bunch of lackeys isn't a grand and unbeatable evil. Or, to put as sharp a point on this as I humanly can...
You're a special kind of craven, aren't you?
No, no. Scratch that. You don't deserve the fancy child-of-a-poet speak.
You're a fucking coward, Seromine... and nothing shy of you knocking it off with the smoke and mirrors, the masks and the helpers, the kidnappings and the mind games and the thousands you're spending at whatever shitty Halloween store you patronize is going to change that. But you're not going to dispose of any of it, are you? Of course not. That would reveal what we all already know about you--that you're just as human and squishy as the rest of us. Though considering the look in Nathan's eyes... once he gets his hands on you, I have the distinct feeling that he's going to see just how high of a percentage of your body he can render into a gelatin-esque state. Did you know that not only can bones be broken, but so can cartilage if it's hit with enough blunt force trauma from, say, an enraged man's fists? Just something for you to think about, assuming you can pull your head out of your own ass long enough to take a clear breath.
But enough about that Mickey Mouse bullshit.
I guess I should talk a little about my opponent before he decides to have himself a tantrum at not being mentioned. I mean, maybe I'm wrong about your ego level there, Chris Parsons... but any man that calls himself the Nightmare without a single shred of ironic self-awareness only to barely even register as a presence of any sort in most of his matches? That doesn't really instill any sort of hope in me as to your ego being anything but way too big for its proverbial britches. Because yes, yes we know you've been a big name here and a former champion there--a familiar refrain by now, considering who I was dealing with for my first few shows with the company--but none of that matters here if you can't get the job done. And what does it say about you that it took a massive multi-man clusterfuck of a match to pick up that coveted 'W'? That maybe, just maybe, those other places you dominated in and won't stop running your mouth about weren't as good as you want everyone to think. I mean, if they were... wouldn't you be mowing through anyone and everyone like they were made of tissue paper? Wouldn't your tired old schtick have already beat people about the head in a more literal fashion by now? And before you start with that same old 'Hurr, she's talkin' about my penis!' nonsense, keep in mind that I'd rather saw off my own left breast with a rusty metal spoon than think about you in a sexual context. Honestly, severing a part of my own body from itself would be more pleasant than having to share a bed with you... and I'm only partially saying that because of how I'm sure you'd be more disappointing than Razor Blade's entire existence. The rest of it comes from how I'm fairly sure that your ignorance is so potent, it could be considered a sexually-transmitted disease.
(And don't kid yourself, Chrissy-Boy--anyone that calls a woman 'sugartits' without expecting to wind up in a hospital bed has got to be mentally challenged.)
I almost didn't want to dignify your little promo video with a direct response, as a matter of fact, since that'd be more attention that you could warp and twist into something, anything that isn't disgust at how I can't use a HAZMAT suit to wrestle you... but then you would've thought that I was intimidated, when such is far from the truth. Not only that, but I've got this damnable thing called a conscience--or at least part of one--and even though you're probably a lost cause, I still have to try to set you right. For one, losing to Dan Fierce by the skin of my teeth after wrestling two grueling matches in the same night? Not anything to be remotely ashamed of. The man's got more talent in one of his specks of glitter than you do in your entire body, I'm pretty sure. Did not winning the tournament disrupt my plans? To a point, but I'm not broken because of it. I mean, I lost to Grimm here a few shows back... and instead of wallowing in despair the way that I imagine you will when I retain the Underground Championship, I picked myself up and damn near won the Icemann Invitational. But I'm not supposed to find value in those almosts, right? I'm not supposed to learn from my mistakes and improve. No, I'm supposed to sit here and cry and whimper and whine and be so desperate to prove myself that you can smell it from a mile away. I'm supposed to forget all about how I didn't come here for an easy road to the top and--
And that's what this is about, isn't it?
You signed the dotted line here and expected to coast right on through everyone and anyone, just like you did in those other places. You thought that you were setting yourself up for Easy Street, that you'd be the apple of everybody's eye the way that you allegedly were in all those other places you were at. You thought that your scantily-clad escorts to the ring and your showboating entrance and every last cliché little thing that leaves your lips was going to endear you to the masses and give you a straight shot to the top of the mountain. And even though this is only your third match in the company? You're already floundering and trying to justify yourself, trying to make it seem like that one match you've been victorious in wasn't a fluke because the idea that you're in over your head... why, that'd make your ego self-destruct, now wouldn't it? The fact that you're treading water over deeps you're not strong enough to survive is looming large over your delusions of grandeur, and you'd do anything to keep it afloat. You really shouldn't have decided to be a condescending asshole to me, boy, because I'll drown your sorry ass without so much as a second thought. And trust me, Chris. When Trauma 194 is over? I will still be Underground Champion...
And you will simply be yet another egotistical fool that was dragged under by the Undertow.
