chapter one | moments between sleep
Jan 30, 2017 7:16:03 GMT -5
Nathan Saniti and The Anarchist like this
Post by Brenna Gordon on Jan 30, 2017 7:16:03 GMT -5
Whoever told Olivia Xavier's landlord that fluorescent tube lights would be great for bathroom lighting deserves to be shot.
Every last little imperfection is amplified in the harsh lighting, from the subtle pocks that acne leaves behind on all that suffer through it in puberty to the myriad of scars that cover her pale skin. It's clear as can be that she had an active childhood, the sort that made putting her in a frilly get-up a recipe for ruined dresses and skinned knees-- and that's not going into the newer ones, the ones from training to wrestle professionally and , ahm, other things. It's that last one she finds herself fretting over. She can't help but be nervous about putting herself out there for pubic consumption as she regards her reflection in the glass in front of her, green eyes paler than normal in the fluorescence. That desaturation extends to her red hair as well, sucking all of the vitality out of her to leave the battered and bruised young woman behind. She looks... hollow in this light still wet from her shower, she can't help but think.
Fake.
Plastic.
Damaged.
God, I hate how accurate Chuck Palahniuk can be sometimes.
Scoffing to herself at having such an absolute hipster moment, calloused hands gather up that desaturated, unnatural-colored hair to gather it in a messy bun atop her head, practice about the only thing that made every curl go where it's supposed to. She reaches for the bottle of Dermablend that's sitting on the edge of the counter, removing the lid before she all but covers her palms in the stuff. Her face, her neck, the back of her neck, her cleavage, her arms from fingertips to her shoulders just in case... by the time she's done, she looks shellacked, airbrushed by God's own personal copy of PhotoShop. A storm cloud of pale powder later and it's all set, leaving her looking as untouched as an action figure mint in its packaging. It's a lie, of course--but then again, isn't that true of the world at large? Olivia exhales hard in an attempt to chase the cynicism out of her lungs, but it's just as embedded there as the remnants of the powder. In this moment, she's nothing but a product. Just a singular end result of an assembly line that starts up fresh every morning to present her to the world. It won't be until she's dressed and out in the world that the feeling will fade from her conscious thought, though it doesn't ever leave entirely. How can it?
She's living a lie, after all.
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"Hey there, PCW." The greeting is offered up with a wisp of a smile in a voice that's touchably soft like velvet, and just as pleasant to the ear. It's not a practiced sort of appeal, surprisingly enough-- it seems that the redhead that has perched herself atop the top turnbuckle of an abandoned ring is just one of those women that lucked into sounding like Heaven. Lady Luck's been kind when it comes to a more physical appeal too, considering the pleasing way her features are put together and those piercing eyes that toe the line between being blue, green, and gold depending on the light. Being able to look that beautiful, that striking even in something as simple as a pair of jeans and an old Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt... it must be a dream. Or maybe it's a nightmare, wrapped in societal misogyny and double standards that she's stuck with.
(After all, no one asked if the eponymous character in Malena wanted all those men to crowd around her as they tried to light her cigarette. They all just assumed.)
A hand raises to shove a few errant curls of unnatural red out of the way of her gaze, mostly succeeding--though there's a faint huff to usher off that last stray strand. She doesn't hesitate long before she continues to speak, her tone cordial enough for government pay.
"I'm sure you pieced it together from PCW.com's roster page and the card they posted for Trauma 206, but just in case? I'm Olivia Fox. Yes, that is my real last name. No, I don't know Michael J. And before you ask-- I don't dye my hair red because of the animal and yes, you can call me Liv if you want. Getting that all out of the way... I suppose I could have done one of those debut hype videos, dredge up shots from the precious few actual matches I've had and let some tech monkeys do their thing with it. I could've used my position as a new signing to get backstage and corner an interviewer, spout off at them about how I'm putting the whole company on notice and how this champion or that champion should watch their backs. The fact that I didn't is obvious, but there's one question that I think warrants asking. Why did I skip the show before I debuted in the ring?" A pale hand rises, lightly wagging at the camera as if she is playfully shaming anyone that made that assumption. "I didn't, actually, but I can't blame anyone for knowing that. I was at the last episode of Trauma. I was in the crowd, somewhere in the nosebleed seats since those were all that was available at the last minute. Or maybe the little fellow at the ticket counter was holding out on me? Either way, I sat in the crowd thanks to a ticket I paid for... and I watched the show. I paid close attention to every last minute of it. You know what I didn't see, though? My opponent."
For a moment, one has to wonder how sharp the displeasure that begins to show itself in her gaze is going to get... but then she's shrugging it off, saving that emotional intensity for another day. Namely? When she gets into the ring and makes her debut.
"I knew High Tide wasn't booked, of course. It's not hard to imagine why--I mean, there's been condensed cards for awhile now, though I can't say that I know the cause of it. What I do know, though, is that I was sort of surprised at how he was absent from the show altogether. For me, not showing up in front of the cameras was a calculated decision, made by someone that didn't have anything resembling a presence on the show choosing to learn more about the lay of the land instead of thumping my chest and stroking my ego. You, though? You've spent a few months trying to find solid ground to lay anchor in... but you haven't had any luck. What kind of seafarer would be relying on the current instead of hoisting sail and making your mark on things? Hell, what kind of sea dog seemingly gives up? Because that's how it looks from here, though I hope I'm wrong. I genuinely do, and I'm not saying that to be nice. Maybe I'm romanticizing things, but you seem like the pirate version of that one Smokey Robinson song. You know, the one about the tears of a clown when there's no one around. But you're not meant for making salt water, now are you? You're supposed to be sailing it, exploring it... conquering it. So what's the hang up?"
Another shrug, this one unburdened by annoyance.
"That's not for me to figure out. I'm not a shrink, after all. What I do know, though, is that I hope you get all that bilgewater out of your system and that you get your compass pointing True North again. I want my first match here to mean something, y'know? And I'd rather be challenged, win or lose, than just steamroll over you like you weren't even there. So come on, High Tide. Rise to the occasion, would you?"
...and on that note which is probably unintended innuendo, the scene fades to black.
