Post by Dollface on Sept 19, 2016 22:18:45 GMT -5
((posted by mistake in the T198 RP thread before deadline, leaving the pcwrestling.org/thread/10737/milk-chocolate-toffee-almonds? up for now to verify timestamp))
While she would have preferred to be kicking ass in her new Krav Maga class, the day finds "Dollface" Kelli Starr trapped in her CEO office, suffering from a profound case of the Mondays.
"In each lifetime, some Mondays must fall." The phrase echoes in her head, a little smirk curving her mouth, lips painted a muted rose.
With less than a week left until her match against Showtime at Trauma 198, Kelli was looking to get any edge she could at the upcoming match. While the past win/loss record of her matchups with him slanted slightly in her favor, she had spent too long in PCW learning the hard way what happens when you underestimate your opponent.
She shivers, reaching to the side of the desk at the built-in room temperature controls, trying to convince herself it was just early autumn chill creeping in. Alexa Black had earned her place on Kelli's short list of people who scared her by way of - well - being scary as almighty fuck. Not just scary as fuck, but ALMIGHTY fuck, that's a big deal right there. Anyone with not only the ability and willingness, but strong predisposition towards making other humans dead was pretty scary. Especially when they decided they hate you.
While Alexa had more of what could reasonably be called a history with Kelli, Seromine's spot was earned by way of deliberate psychological manipulation and ultimately torture. Kelli Starr STILL refused to believe that closing her in that coffin had been more than just a symbol of intent, but rather a way to make sure when she died, it was in blind animal panic and desperation. That's a special kind of surgically precise crazy that Kelli was even less inclined to fuck with than she was Alexa Black's flavor of brainsick. Full-on NOPE factor.
Her eyes flick to the clock on the wall, impassive Roman numerals dictating the time, her mind snapping back to task in an increasingly frequent obedience.
Her musings are interrupted by a crisp knock on the door, too high up on the heavy wood to be any but her head of security. "Yes?" Sure enough, Mark Harris' head pokes in. "Mr. Eric Fager to see you, ma'am."
A brief eyeroll at the formal protocol required by the proprieties of the top tier business set, she gives a last minute tug to her pants suit before nodding permission. Harris opens the door wide, holding it for the aforementioned Mr. Fager to enter.
Mr. Fager gives Mark Harris a brief up-and-down glance, one well kept brow twitching in an almost imperceptible quirk of appreciation for the large but chiseled man looming over him. For her part, Kelli smiles, stepping forward in high-heeled but conservative black pumps. Only the unexpected flash of brazen red on the underside of the shoe's sole gave it color - and, to the discerning eye, identity.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Staronova. I must say, those Louboutins always HAVE paired well with that skirt."
She chuckles, reaching behind her for a long yet narrow rectangle of black felt and silver ribbon, offering it to the sharply tailored man. Her attorney's dark, fathomless eyes flash with interest as he opens the tastefully wrapped box to find a single cigar nestled in tissue paper of a quietly sophisticated grey.
"Thank you, Ms. Staronova. You certainly didn't have to." He smiles at her, a wry grin at their history more than in appreciation for the gesture. Though he DID appreciate the gesture. As a connoisseur of luxury cigars, Mr. Fager knew the Gurkha Black Dragon was available for an average price of $50-$125 USD - for a single cigar. His eyes raise to her hairline before dropping to examine her brows with casual interest. While he kept himself a firm neutral in the professional setting, a few "gay man" stereotypes bleed through in his focus to minute fashion and beauty details. His own nails were kept tidy with weekly manicures of his artfully boned and long-nailed hand. Kelli self-consciously tucks at the edges of her custom-fitted wig, her glee at having naturally occurring bubblegum pink hair overshadowed by her need to appear as "normal" as possible for this meeting. She was pretty sure he knew at this point, but he hadn't asked and she wasn't about to explain.
"As I'm sure you've surmised, this is not a social call. Both you and I are far too uncomfortably dressed for that." He winces, adjusting a bit in the sleek, ergonomically designed chair a desk across from Kelli's businesslike throne. "My office is still having issues with your court proceedings, and I require your input."
Kelli slumps back in her chair, all the business heaving out of her with a sigh driven by months of stressful legal wrangling. "I did the court dates. I answered their questions. I did the appeal court dates. I answered THOSE questions, too. Damages were paid to the families, a full investigation cleaned up staff, researchers, investors, cafeteria workers - AND I closed down Nova Pharmaceuticals to put everything up for sale. What more do they want?"
He sets the cigar back down in its nest of crumpled, decorative paper, noting the subtle hints of glitter in the gray. "They don't want anything else, at this point, but as your attorney it's my job to make sure all transactions take place."
"As far as I know, all transactions DID take place. What's the problem NOW?" Her 'professional' demeanor slips as real frustration edges her voice with the unexpected sharpness of rock candy.
He shrugs, as always unconcerned at any emotional outburst not for or because of him. "We're still having trouble with the factory, is the problem."
"It's state of the art, we'd just updated all the computer systems, fixed the hydraulics in the .05 tablet setter, and even went so far as to completely renovate both public and employee restrooms. I even made sure we fixed that little trickle problem with the third floor staff lounge water cooler! What trouble is there NOW?"
"The issue is, no one wants to buy it." His voice smooths itself through the air with the deep richness of a tobacco leaf, as though his penchant for fine cigars had imbued him with a mellifluous voice.
Blithely ignoring the fact that she herself had more superhuman abilities than your average superhero, she tries to scramble for ideas. Her firsthand knowledge of realty could be reduced to the general understanding that they could be bought and sold. "So do I need like -" she pauses, groping around for some kind of realtor-sounding thing. "- a fichus in the foyer or something?"
"Do you know what a fichus is?" He stares at her with an expectant but amused expression.
Her face goes from 'hopeful bluff' to 'busted' in the blink of an eye. "A plant of some kind. That's about it."
"Unfortunately that won't do it. It seems there aren't many buyers who both want and can afford a sprawling compound of pharmaceutical research, development, testing and production."
"So... what the fuck do I do with it, then?"
He grins. "I have an offer you can't refuse, baby."
She raises her eyebrows, clearly disbelieving and more than a little sulky. "Yeah? What."
Taking no notice of her tone, Mr. Fager slips a flawlessly clean and uncreased document out of his (tasteful, monogrammed) attaché case. Slipping it across the desk, he watches for her reaction, smiling as her frustration and discontent clears away in a wave of incredulity and excitement.
"REALLY!? You mean, we can actually DO THIS!?"
"We actually can. Everything is already in place - facilities for research, development, testing, perfectly maintained machinery of mass production... the only thing that stops us is whether or not you wish to sign off on it."
Kelli, literally bouncing in her chair, manages to restrain herself from flailing in glee - but just barely. "Need me to sign off on it? Gimme a pen. Let's DO this."
Mr. Fager slides a pen across the desk - with a short stack of papers.
Her heartfelt groan was met with a short burst of laughter. "I know, I know. This really IS the right choice for your wealth planning."
"So everything's pretty much ready to go after this, right?" Looking up from the fifth initialing (of so very, very many), she waits for his answer. A pleased smile spreads across his face as he nods reassuringly.
"Trust me."
While she would have preferred to be kicking ass in her new Krav Maga class, the day finds "Dollface" Kelli Starr trapped in her CEO office, suffering from a profound case of the Mondays.
"In each lifetime, some Mondays must fall." The phrase echoes in her head, a little smirk curving her mouth, lips painted a muted rose.
"Can't remember many Mondays, but I almost never had a problem with them either. Still, I ought to be training."
With less than a week left until her match against Showtime at Trauma 198, Kelli was looking to get any edge she could at the upcoming match. While the past win/loss record of her matchups with him slanted slightly in her favor, she had spent too long in PCW learning the hard way what happens when you underestimate your opponent.
"He looks like a pretty boy, but pretty boy's got the moves. Not even talkin' about his moves on a dance floor, though I'm assuming he dances. It'd be a shame to have shoes that shiny never get to see a dance floor. I suppose it wouldn't be too far a stretch to refer to combat as a dance, though I dunno how well I can call wrestling 'combat'. Then again, with Alexa Black... and Seromine..."
She shivers, reaching to the side of the desk at the built-in room temperature controls, trying to convince herself it was just early autumn chill creeping in. Alexa Black had earned her place on Kelli's short list of people who scared her by way of - well - being scary as almighty fuck. Not just scary as fuck, but ALMIGHTY fuck, that's a big deal right there. Anyone with not only the ability and willingness, but strong predisposition towards making other humans dead was pretty scary. Especially when they decided they hate you.
"Which isn't even my FAULT all the way. Okay, yeah, I 'distracted' Nathan from that awesome (un)Stable idea which was clearly an exercise in how fast things can go horribly wrong when sociopaths and malcontents have their own 'no sane people allowed' club. Maybe I made fun of her a couple times shortly before beating her ass in a wrestling match. I MIGHT have started shit with her on twitter, deliberately baiting her with polysyllabic words she couldn't understand but knew enough to get mad at. Seriously though, is THAT reason enough to KILL someone?"
While Alexa had more of what could reasonably be called a history with Kelli, Seromine's spot was earned by way of deliberate psychological manipulation and ultimately torture. Kelli Starr STILL refused to believe that closing her in that coffin had been more than just a symbol of intent, but rather a way to make sure when she died, it was in blind animal panic and desperation. That's a special kind of surgically precise crazy that Kelli was even less inclined to fuck with than she was Alexa Black's flavor of brainsick. Full-on NOPE factor.
"So. Showtime is really unlikely to try to kill me, and is doing his damndest to try and be a 'good guy' by the looks of it. Not so much making a show for the fans, but really actually NOT being a complete and utter tool. He even got in MURDOC'S way to save that fan and his kid - and what the fuck is even UP with Murdoc these days? So not the point, but like... shouldn't he be happy or something right now? Or as close to happy as he gets? Eira is gonna hatch their spawnling in the next few weeks, so unless he's tryin' to get outta diaper duty by way of being incarcerated, I cannot EVEN figure out what his deal is."
Her eyes flick to the clock on the wall, impassive Roman numerals dictating the time, her mind snapping back to task in an increasingly frequent obedience.
"Not gonna kill me, but might kick my ass. I'm still not allowed to use my abilities in PCW on purpose, so it's gonna be the usual scrap. Can't say I mind, he's a handsome little piece of grapple candy, but I still have a LOT to do. Internal monologue aside, I still need to shower and change out of this conservative getup, then INTO clothes that aren't completely boring. Showtime... well, I'm running out of things to think about him. I think it's kinda cool how he's evolving into NOT a dick, but at the same time I'm afraid to trust it. He IS a politician, after all."
A brief eyeroll at the formal protocol required by the proprieties of the top tier business set, she gives a last minute tug to her pants suit before nodding permission. Harris opens the door wide, holding it for the aforementioned Mr. Fager to enter.
Mr. Fager gives Mark Harris a brief up-and-down glance, one well kept brow twitching in an almost imperceptible quirk of appreciation for the large but chiseled man looming over him. For her part, Kelli smiles, stepping forward in high-heeled but conservative black pumps. Only the unexpected flash of brazen red on the underside of the shoe's sole gave it color - and, to the discerning eye, identity.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Staronova. I must say, those Louboutins always HAVE paired well with that skirt."
She chuckles, reaching behind her for a long yet narrow rectangle of black felt and silver ribbon, offering it to the sharply tailored man. Her attorney's dark, fathomless eyes flash with interest as he opens the tastefully wrapped box to find a single cigar nestled in tissue paper of a quietly sophisticated grey.
"Thank you, Ms. Staronova. You certainly didn't have to." He smiles at her, a wry grin at their history more than in appreciation for the gesture. Though he DID appreciate the gesture. As a connoisseur of luxury cigars, Mr. Fager knew the Gurkha Black Dragon was available for an average price of $50-$125 USD - for a single cigar. His eyes raise to her hairline before dropping to examine her brows with casual interest. While he kept himself a firm neutral in the professional setting, a few "gay man" stereotypes bleed through in his focus to minute fashion and beauty details. His own nails were kept tidy with weekly manicures of his artfully boned and long-nailed hand. Kelli self-consciously tucks at the edges of her custom-fitted wig, her glee at having naturally occurring bubblegum pink hair overshadowed by her need to appear as "normal" as possible for this meeting. She was pretty sure he knew at this point, but he hadn't asked and she wasn't about to explain.
"Only person I know of on the planet who has naturally pink hair - and I mean ALL hair - and I gotta hide it? No fair."
"As I'm sure you've surmised, this is not a social call. Both you and I are far too uncomfortably dressed for that." He winces, adjusting a bit in the sleek, ergonomically designed chair a desk across from Kelli's businesslike throne. "My office is still having issues with your court proceedings, and I require your input."
Kelli slumps back in her chair, all the business heaving out of her with a sigh driven by months of stressful legal wrangling. "I did the court dates. I answered their questions. I did the appeal court dates. I answered THOSE questions, too. Damages were paid to the families, a full investigation cleaned up staff, researchers, investors, cafeteria workers - AND I closed down Nova Pharmaceuticals to put everything up for sale. What more do they want?"
He sets the cigar back down in its nest of crumpled, decorative paper, noting the subtle hints of glitter in the gray. "They don't want anything else, at this point, but as your attorney it's my job to make sure all transactions take place."
"As far as I know, all transactions DID take place. What's the problem NOW?" Her 'professional' demeanor slips as real frustration edges her voice with the unexpected sharpness of rock candy.
He shrugs, as always unconcerned at any emotional outburst not for or because of him. "We're still having trouble with the factory, is the problem."
"It's state of the art, we'd just updated all the computer systems, fixed the hydraulics in the .05 tablet setter, and even went so far as to completely renovate both public and employee restrooms. I even made sure we fixed that little trickle problem with the third floor staff lounge water cooler! What trouble is there NOW?"
"The issue is, no one wants to buy it." His voice smooths itself through the air with the deep richness of a tobacco leaf, as though his penchant for fine cigars had imbued him with a mellifluous voice.
"Sort of like how superheroes get bitten or fall into something or are injected with something so why not smoking? Except then everyone who smokes weed would..."
Blithely ignoring the fact that she herself had more superhuman abilities than your average superhero, she tries to scramble for ideas. Her firsthand knowledge of realty could be reduced to the general understanding that they could be bought and sold. "So do I need like -" she pauses, groping around for some kind of realtor-sounding thing. "- a fichus in the foyer or something?"
"Do you know what a fichus is?" He stares at her with an expectant but amused expression.
Her face goes from 'hopeful bluff' to 'busted' in the blink of an eye. "A plant of some kind. That's about it."
"Unfortunately that won't do it. It seems there aren't many buyers who both want and can afford a sprawling compound of pharmaceutical research, development, testing and production."
"So... what the fuck do I do with it, then?"
He grins. "I have an offer you can't refuse, baby."
She raises her eyebrows, clearly disbelieving and more than a little sulky. "Yeah? What."
Taking no notice of her tone, Mr. Fager slips a flawlessly clean and uncreased document out of his (tasteful, monogrammed) attaché case. Slipping it across the desk, he watches for her reaction, smiling as her frustration and discontent clears away in a wave of incredulity and excitement.
"REALLY!? You mean, we can actually DO THIS!?"
"We actually can. Everything is already in place - facilities for research, development, testing, perfectly maintained machinery of mass production... the only thing that stops us is whether or not you wish to sign off on it."
Kelli, literally bouncing in her chair, manages to restrain herself from flailing in glee - but just barely. "Need me to sign off on it? Gimme a pen. Let's DO this."
Mr. Fager slides a pen across the desk - with a short stack of papers.
Her heartfelt groan was met with a short burst of laughter. "I know, I know. This really IS the right choice for your wealth planning."
"So everything's pretty much ready to go after this, right?" Looking up from the fifth initialing (of so very, very many), she waits for his answer. A pleased smile spreads across his face as he nods reassuringly.
"Trust me."
