vol ii, chapter 3 : deep waters
Nov 4, 2019 19:34:05 GMT -5
Rick Majors, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Brenna Gordon on Nov 4, 2019 19:34:05 GMT -5
OOC Note: Rick Majors pitched in on the first scene. Thanks, partner! ♥
"Hold still." Even if rage burned all the brighter within her chest, even if she wanted nothing more than to ambush the trio of thieves that had made off with another win they didn't deserve and beat them into bloody pulps... even if there were a thousand questions roaring away in the maelstrom of her thoughts, Brenna Gordon forced it all down and away. Those two words actually sounded vaguely pleasant to the ear, a miracle considering her fury, and doubly so when one considered the man she said them to. After all, at one point, Rick Majors--back when he had been Gabriel, ensnared in the delusional madness of Seromine's influence--had stood in the middle of the ring on national television and declared her taken care of. While he hadn't lied about going after her, the result wasn't what he had said.
Not even close, as a matter of fact.
The antiseptic solution she had dumped onto a cotton ball filled the air with its acrid tang, she who was Born of Myth pressing it to the largest of the wounds that adorned Rick's forehead with some level of care, but not too much. Considering how the trainers were busy elsewhere--with what, exactly, Brenna had no Earthly idea--it had fallen to her to tend to her comrade-in-arm's wounds. And like it or not, that's what Majors was in the war that was already beginning to ramp up... her ally, no matter the tension in the air that a small part of her hoped he would choke on. A careful swipe and she lifted the cotton. "...don't think you need stitches, but it's close. I think there's some glue over there, if you want me to do that."
"Sure. Whatever you think is best." Rick Majors wasn't particularly happy about this either. But not because he had anything personal against Brenna Gordon. He didn't. He never did. When he tried to "eliminate" her as Gabriel, that was his way of proving himself to Seromine. And to Destiny. Destiny who had tricked him. Destiny who convinced him that destroying Gordon would get him back into his "Lord's" good graces. Of course, that wasn't what happened. Instead, he was laid out in the middle of the ring while the two of them laughed at him. Again. Brenna was simply another casualty of their evil ways.
Whether they had planned the deception together or Destiny acted on her own he would never know. Ultimately, it did not matter. What mattered was that right now he was sitting backstage with a woman he had honestly attempted to kill and she was gluing together a cut on his forehead. And he was letting her. That didn't seem right.
"Actually... it's okay," he stammered, trying to get off the table as quickly as he could. "I can do the rest myself," he lied, knowing full well that he couldn't. Sadly, "as quickly as he could" wasn't very quick, due to injuries and age, so Brenna could easily grab his arm and direct him back to a seated position... and direct him she did, firmly at that.
"No you can't, and we both know it. Now hold still." There was no room for argument in Brenna's tone, one hand moving to splay over the center of Rick's chest as the other reached for the aforementioned glue. Even if he held a sizeable advantage in size and strength, she had the upper ground... not to mention the edge of adrenaline, the chemical lingering for longer than it ought for reasons that were beyond her. A great many things were beyond her at that point beyond her ire and the task at hand, a strange blessing if ever there was one--it forced her to focus. Popping off the lid, the little plastic piece clattered to the floor to roll wherever it would before she was slowly and carefully applying the adhesive to the split in his skin, pinching it together with her other hand once she was sure she could move it and not have him try to bolt. The idea of holding his wound closed in an uncomfortable silence was far from appealing, so she cleared her throat.
May as well try to clear the air.
"So... what were your plans that night?" She knew they hadn't been good, but the details... well, those mattered. Good or bad, she needed those scraps of information to figure out how to proceed not just in regards to Gerard Angelo and his little buddies, but overall.
It was obvious to both of them that he didn't want to answer that one. Of course, Rick Majors knew it made perfect sense that she wanted to know. And, to be fair, so did he.
What were his plans? What was he going to do after he attacked her backstage with a pipe, after he dragged her by the hair through the parking lot, after he tied her hands behind her back and threw her in the trunk of that rental car? Truthfully, he didn't know. He just acted. He was desperate. He was possessed. Everything inside his brain was screaming "YOU NEED TO PROVE YOURSELF!" Over and over and over... in that moment he couldn't think of anything else. He needed to get back on Seromine's good side. He needed to show how dedicated he was to the cause. He needed to redeem himself. So he drove. He drove as quickly as he could. He didn't know where he was going and, to be honest, he didn't know why he was going there.
When he stopped, he had no idea where he was. He'd driven there, but his eyes were not focused on the road. They were lost inside his mind and his mind was lost inside itself. All he knew was that he couldn't stop now. He'd gone too far. He had to finish what he started.
So, that night, he picked the steel pipe off of the floor of the passenger's side and he stepped out of the car, clutching it in his right hand. He remembers it like it was yesterday. The moonlight barely provided enough light for him to see, but he walked around the car anyway. There was no time to think. He didn't want to think. He wanted to act. He needed to act. Just act. Don't plan it. Just act. Don't think about it. Just act. Don't screw it up. He opened the trunk. She kicked him right in the chest.
He staggered backwards, still holding the pipe. For a moment, their eyes met. He hesitated. She ran.
What were his plans that night?
"Honestly, I don't know" he finally responded. He wanted to look down, or away, but he couldn't. She was still holding his wound closed. This time he was captive, though her intentions right now were far different than his were that night. Hopefully. He kept speaking.
"I... I needed to prove myself to him. I needed to show how far I was willing to go," he said quietly. This was awful. He really wished he could walk away right now. He would give anything to disappear at this moment. But he couldn't.
"She convinced me it was the only way," he stammered. "Destiny. She told me that I'd disappointed him, that I was failing him, and that he was losing faith in me. She said I needed to show him I was worthy, that I was useful. It was my last chance."
Silence reigned, thick and stifling, as those too-large eyes subtly narrowed... and if he thought the sharpened edges of her gaze were meant to cut him to pieces, then that was his perception doing the damage. In truth, she who was Born of Myth was stepping backward into the brackish waters of memory, right foot--the same that had kicked him square in the chest, as it turned out--first. Ordinarily, she would've seen him coming a mile off. After all, who had vexxed Seromine most, seen through him from the first? Of course he'd be desperate to take her out, but he'd never risk the damage happening to himself or to the harpy he called a wife. That meant making a sacrificial lamb out of one of PCW's veterans, yet another action that proved Seromine's cowardice. Yes, she should've seen it coming... but Brenna's mind hadn't been on that now-defunct cult, or on PCW at all.
Rather, it had been on the voicemail she had just heard.
Instinct alone had saved her from that first swing, the kick forcing distance--and before he could recover to pursue her? Their eyes met, and something happened there that she couldn't put a name to... not on his end, at least. For her, she thought she saw a crack in that zealous belief, the beginnings of shackles crumbling to dust before she realized that if she was a dead woman, then she would never get to settle old debts. Her retreat had been prudent, to say the least.
"...what do you think it says about you that you chose not to go through with it?" That question was murmured as, for a moment, the intensity of her attention was averted away from his own pained gaze. She knew that look better than he could ever know--that of the abashed mind once it was free of the various sins that misled and mistreated worship forced it to commit and rationalize. How many times had she seen it in her own reflection when she was a child, desperate for the praise of her own Goddess of All Things?
There were more fish in the sea than those fervent prayers, and even more regrets beyond that.
Her lips tugged into a rueful smile as she met Rick's gaze anew. "I mean, I already know... but do you? Have you figured it out yet?"
There was another long pause. It wasn't deliberate. It wasn't designed to create suspense. It wasn't there because Rick Majors was trying to come up with an answer. He just didn't know. In this moment, he wasn't hesitating because he hoped to phrase his words in a way that would impress her or convince her to like him or feel sorry for him or anything. He didn't answer because he had no answer. So finally he admitted as such.
"Do I look like someone who has anything figured out?" That sounded mean. He knew it as soon as he said it. But that's not how he meant it. "I'm not trying to be short with you. I'm not trying to cause you to feel for me or anything..." He paused again, scanning his mind for the right words.
"Why didn't I do it? I had the pipe right there. You surprised me, but not that much. You were more disoriented than I was. Your hands were tied. I could have struck you right then and there. But I didn't... I didn't..." he tried to look down again. This time she let him.
"I don't think it was mercy," he said quietly. "I don't know you at all... back then I knew even less. I don't want to sound cruel, but you meant nothing to Gabriel... to me. All that mattered was regaining Seromine's support."
There was silence between them again. This time Rick Majors broke it.
"You seemed like you didn't think I would do it," he said, looking right into her eyes now. "I saw it when I looked at you. There wasn't fear in your eyes. You didn't look like someone who thought they were about to die. Why not? We both know what could have happened, what I could have done, but the look in your eyes... You didn't think I was going to go through with it, did you? Why not?"
Her smile softened, losing its rueful edge. "Because I knew you wouldn't do it--you couldn't. Not because you were weak... but because you were stronger than he was. Besides, in case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of immune to those kinds of mind games."
As she released her hold upon his forehead, the wound's edges remained joined together. Leaning in a little bit closer, those dark eyes skimmed over the results of her handiwork before she nodded to herself. It'd do. It might leave behind yet another nasty scar upon the veteran's battle-hardened frame, but it'd do. Sighing to herself, her gaze met his as she decided that there was a truth of her own that needed to be shared. A deep inhale.
"...and it's all because of my mother that I am. I've been there, Rick. Hell, I was raised there." His eyes subtly widened when she finished her thought. "That's how I knew--from firsthand experience."
Hello again, PCW.
If I'm being honest with you, this isn't going to be that long of a post for one simple reason; Holden Ross and David Hunter aren't worth the words.
That isn't to say they're not important in PCW, because they both are--they're both champions, to point out the obvious--but there's really not much more that I have to say that wouldn't be me repeating myself since they're both so predictable, it hurts more than either one of them can hit no matter what they've got in their hands. You've got David being purposefully obtuse as if it'll somehow hide how, once again, he couldn't keep me down without help on one hand, and on the other is Holden parroting off the same edgelord bullshit as always. They're collectively the most mediocre white men to ever mediocre, which is (sadly) more of an accomplishment than it deserves to be considering how the screeching of that whole sub-group of the male gender is at an all-time high for the modern age.
(Thanks for that Drumpf. No, really--you did us all a favor in emboldening the neckbearded virgins of the world into coming out into the open to annoy the rest of us.)
Anyway, since it took weapons for you fuckwits to win last time--and for you guys to outright cheat in order to make sure your little bitch-boy of a friend Gerard won the Deadly Rumble--I can't help but wonder just how either of you expect to be victorious here beyond the blatantly obvious lack of self-awareness. Or maybe it's a lack of intelligence?
No, it's definitely both.
Rick and I have come to an... understanding, of sorts. And while good ol' Stormm-Face isn't booked to be at our side, the World Champion's actions last show proved that he's not the coward I once accused him of being. I'd lay money that he'll be there if he needs to be which, considering how far up Gerard's sell-out poser ass you both are--I know he's gonna stick his nose in this match somehow because the shared illusion you all rely on is already beginning to crumble. You two losing here would look bad, especially since that'd be the first step to either me reclaiming the Underground Throne or seizing the North American Championship for myself. Hell, who knows? Maybe I'll make history and be the first person to do both at the same time. Piss me off enough and I just might make it happen.
And considering how much you both irritate me merely by breathing... I'd tread carefully, if I were you.
Real.
Fucking.
Carefully.
"Hold still." Even if rage burned all the brighter within her chest, even if she wanted nothing more than to ambush the trio of thieves that had made off with another win they didn't deserve and beat them into bloody pulps... even if there were a thousand questions roaring away in the maelstrom of her thoughts, Brenna Gordon forced it all down and away. Those two words actually sounded vaguely pleasant to the ear, a miracle considering her fury, and doubly so when one considered the man she said them to. After all, at one point, Rick Majors--back when he had been Gabriel, ensnared in the delusional madness of Seromine's influence--had stood in the middle of the ring on national television and declared her taken care of. While he hadn't lied about going after her, the result wasn't what he had said.
Not even close, as a matter of fact.
The antiseptic solution she had dumped onto a cotton ball filled the air with its acrid tang, she who was Born of Myth pressing it to the largest of the wounds that adorned Rick's forehead with some level of care, but not too much. Considering how the trainers were busy elsewhere--with what, exactly, Brenna had no Earthly idea--it had fallen to her to tend to her comrade-in-arm's wounds. And like it or not, that's what Majors was in the war that was already beginning to ramp up... her ally, no matter the tension in the air that a small part of her hoped he would choke on. A careful swipe and she lifted the cotton. "...don't think you need stitches, but it's close. I think there's some glue over there, if you want me to do that."
"Sure. Whatever you think is best." Rick Majors wasn't particularly happy about this either. But not because he had anything personal against Brenna Gordon. He didn't. He never did. When he tried to "eliminate" her as Gabriel, that was his way of proving himself to Seromine. And to Destiny. Destiny who had tricked him. Destiny who convinced him that destroying Gordon would get him back into his "Lord's" good graces. Of course, that wasn't what happened. Instead, he was laid out in the middle of the ring while the two of them laughed at him. Again. Brenna was simply another casualty of their evil ways.
Whether they had planned the deception together or Destiny acted on her own he would never know. Ultimately, it did not matter. What mattered was that right now he was sitting backstage with a woman he had honestly attempted to kill and she was gluing together a cut on his forehead. And he was letting her. That didn't seem right.
"Actually... it's okay," he stammered, trying to get off the table as quickly as he could. "I can do the rest myself," he lied, knowing full well that he couldn't. Sadly, "as quickly as he could" wasn't very quick, due to injuries and age, so Brenna could easily grab his arm and direct him back to a seated position... and direct him she did, firmly at that.
"No you can't, and we both know it. Now hold still." There was no room for argument in Brenna's tone, one hand moving to splay over the center of Rick's chest as the other reached for the aforementioned glue. Even if he held a sizeable advantage in size and strength, she had the upper ground... not to mention the edge of adrenaline, the chemical lingering for longer than it ought for reasons that were beyond her. A great many things were beyond her at that point beyond her ire and the task at hand, a strange blessing if ever there was one--it forced her to focus. Popping off the lid, the little plastic piece clattered to the floor to roll wherever it would before she was slowly and carefully applying the adhesive to the split in his skin, pinching it together with her other hand once she was sure she could move it and not have him try to bolt. The idea of holding his wound closed in an uncomfortable silence was far from appealing, so she cleared her throat.
May as well try to clear the air.
"So... what were your plans that night?" She knew they hadn't been good, but the details... well, those mattered. Good or bad, she needed those scraps of information to figure out how to proceed not just in regards to Gerard Angelo and his little buddies, but overall.
It was obvious to both of them that he didn't want to answer that one. Of course, Rick Majors knew it made perfect sense that she wanted to know. And, to be fair, so did he.
What were his plans? What was he going to do after he attacked her backstage with a pipe, after he dragged her by the hair through the parking lot, after he tied her hands behind her back and threw her in the trunk of that rental car? Truthfully, he didn't know. He just acted. He was desperate. He was possessed. Everything inside his brain was screaming "YOU NEED TO PROVE YOURSELF!" Over and over and over... in that moment he couldn't think of anything else. He needed to get back on Seromine's good side. He needed to show how dedicated he was to the cause. He needed to redeem himself. So he drove. He drove as quickly as he could. He didn't know where he was going and, to be honest, he didn't know why he was going there.
When he stopped, he had no idea where he was. He'd driven there, but his eyes were not focused on the road. They were lost inside his mind and his mind was lost inside itself. All he knew was that he couldn't stop now. He'd gone too far. He had to finish what he started.
So, that night, he picked the steel pipe off of the floor of the passenger's side and he stepped out of the car, clutching it in his right hand. He remembers it like it was yesterday. The moonlight barely provided enough light for him to see, but he walked around the car anyway. There was no time to think. He didn't want to think. He wanted to act. He needed to act. Just act. Don't plan it. Just act. Don't think about it. Just act. Don't screw it up. He opened the trunk. She kicked him right in the chest.
He staggered backwards, still holding the pipe. For a moment, their eyes met. He hesitated. She ran.
What were his plans that night?
"Honestly, I don't know" he finally responded. He wanted to look down, or away, but he couldn't. She was still holding his wound closed. This time he was captive, though her intentions right now were far different than his were that night. Hopefully. He kept speaking.
"I... I needed to prove myself to him. I needed to show how far I was willing to go," he said quietly. This was awful. He really wished he could walk away right now. He would give anything to disappear at this moment. But he couldn't.
"She convinced me it was the only way," he stammered. "Destiny. She told me that I'd disappointed him, that I was failing him, and that he was losing faith in me. She said I needed to show him I was worthy, that I was useful. It was my last chance."
Silence reigned, thick and stifling, as those too-large eyes subtly narrowed... and if he thought the sharpened edges of her gaze were meant to cut him to pieces, then that was his perception doing the damage. In truth, she who was Born of Myth was stepping backward into the brackish waters of memory, right foot--the same that had kicked him square in the chest, as it turned out--first. Ordinarily, she would've seen him coming a mile off. After all, who had vexxed Seromine most, seen through him from the first? Of course he'd be desperate to take her out, but he'd never risk the damage happening to himself or to the harpy he called a wife. That meant making a sacrificial lamb out of one of PCW's veterans, yet another action that proved Seromine's cowardice. Yes, she should've seen it coming... but Brenna's mind hadn't been on that now-defunct cult, or on PCW at all.
Rather, it had been on the voicemail she had just heard.
Instinct alone had saved her from that first swing, the kick forcing distance--and before he could recover to pursue her? Their eyes met, and something happened there that she couldn't put a name to... not on his end, at least. For her, she thought she saw a crack in that zealous belief, the beginnings of shackles crumbling to dust before she realized that if she was a dead woman, then she would never get to settle old debts. Her retreat had been prudent, to say the least.
"...what do you think it says about you that you chose not to go through with it?" That question was murmured as, for a moment, the intensity of her attention was averted away from his own pained gaze. She knew that look better than he could ever know--that of the abashed mind once it was free of the various sins that misled and mistreated worship forced it to commit and rationalize. How many times had she seen it in her own reflection when she was a child, desperate for the praise of her own Goddess of All Things?
There were more fish in the sea than those fervent prayers, and even more regrets beyond that.
Her lips tugged into a rueful smile as she met Rick's gaze anew. "I mean, I already know... but do you? Have you figured it out yet?"
There was another long pause. It wasn't deliberate. It wasn't designed to create suspense. It wasn't there because Rick Majors was trying to come up with an answer. He just didn't know. In this moment, he wasn't hesitating because he hoped to phrase his words in a way that would impress her or convince her to like him or feel sorry for him or anything. He didn't answer because he had no answer. So finally he admitted as such.
"Do I look like someone who has anything figured out?" That sounded mean. He knew it as soon as he said it. But that's not how he meant it. "I'm not trying to be short with you. I'm not trying to cause you to feel for me or anything..." He paused again, scanning his mind for the right words.
"Why didn't I do it? I had the pipe right there. You surprised me, but not that much. You were more disoriented than I was. Your hands were tied. I could have struck you right then and there. But I didn't... I didn't..." he tried to look down again. This time she let him.
"I don't think it was mercy," he said quietly. "I don't know you at all... back then I knew even less. I don't want to sound cruel, but you meant nothing to Gabriel... to me. All that mattered was regaining Seromine's support."
There was silence between them again. This time Rick Majors broke it.
"You seemed like you didn't think I would do it," he said, looking right into her eyes now. "I saw it when I looked at you. There wasn't fear in your eyes. You didn't look like someone who thought they were about to die. Why not? We both know what could have happened, what I could have done, but the look in your eyes... You didn't think I was going to go through with it, did you? Why not?"
Her smile softened, losing its rueful edge. "Because I knew you wouldn't do it--you couldn't. Not because you were weak... but because you were stronger than he was. Besides, in case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of immune to those kinds of mind games."
As she released her hold upon his forehead, the wound's edges remained joined together. Leaning in a little bit closer, those dark eyes skimmed over the results of her handiwork before she nodded to herself. It'd do. It might leave behind yet another nasty scar upon the veteran's battle-hardened frame, but it'd do. Sighing to herself, her gaze met his as she decided that there was a truth of her own that needed to be shared. A deep inhale.
"...and it's all because of my mother that I am. I've been there, Rick. Hell, I was raised there." His eyes subtly widened when she finished her thought. "That's how I knew--from firsthand experience."
Hello again, PCW.
If I'm being honest with you, this isn't going to be that long of a post for one simple reason; Holden Ross and David Hunter aren't worth the words.
That isn't to say they're not important in PCW, because they both are--they're both champions, to point out the obvious--but there's really not much more that I have to say that wouldn't be me repeating myself since they're both so predictable, it hurts more than either one of them can hit no matter what they've got in their hands. You've got David being purposefully obtuse as if it'll somehow hide how, once again, he couldn't keep me down without help on one hand, and on the other is Holden parroting off the same edgelord bullshit as always. They're collectively the most mediocre white men to ever mediocre, which is (sadly) more of an accomplishment than it deserves to be considering how the screeching of that whole sub-group of the male gender is at an all-time high for the modern age.
(Thanks for that Drumpf. No, really--you did us all a favor in emboldening the neckbearded virgins of the world into coming out into the open to annoy the rest of us.)
Anyway, since it took weapons for you fuckwits to win last time--and for you guys to outright cheat in order to make sure your little bitch-boy of a friend Gerard won the Deadly Rumble--I can't help but wonder just how either of you expect to be victorious here beyond the blatantly obvious lack of self-awareness. Or maybe it's a lack of intelligence?
No, it's definitely both.
Rick and I have come to an... understanding, of sorts. And while good ol' Stormm-Face isn't booked to be at our side, the World Champion's actions last show proved that he's not the coward I once accused him of being. I'd lay money that he'll be there if he needs to be which, considering how far up Gerard's sell-out poser ass you both are--I know he's gonna stick his nose in this match somehow because the shared illusion you all rely on is already beginning to crumble. You two losing here would look bad, especially since that'd be the first step to either me reclaiming the Underground Throne or seizing the North American Championship for myself. Hell, who knows? Maybe I'll make history and be the first person to do both at the same time. Piss me off enough and I just might make it happen.
And considering how much you both irritate me merely by breathing... I'd tread carefully, if I were you.
Real.
Fucking.
Carefully.
