vol ii, chapter 4: fuck you with an anchor
Mar 24, 2020 19:30:17 GMT -5
The Anarchist and Kyle Shane like this
Post by Brenna Gordon on Mar 24, 2020 19:30:17 GMT -5
The night after Phinneas Dillinger sucked the sea water out of her lungs and buried the cremains of her mother, Brenna slept better than she had in weeks... perhaps even months.
Not that she bedded down in Hangtown for the night, of course. No offer had been made and even if Granny had swallowed her distaste in favor of hospitality, she who was Born of Myth would've declined. Purging herself of Moira's ghost might have made it a little easier to breathe, but the barest sliver of tolerance by the town that didn't show up on any modern map was by no means acceptance, and she knew better than to push her luck. Once Grimm was satisfied that she was in the condition to leave town, he had let the tides of her soul carry her back out of his reach. Such was the nature of their bond, such as it was; the coast connected their souls, yes, but that was all the closer to one another they could truly be. Not that Brenna could wholly convince her desires of such, but pursuing those would be like trying to bed the sun itself and she Goddamn well knew it.
Best not to let herself burn like Icarus by flying too close.
The first cheap hotel she came across was where she glutted herself on slumber, getting a full nine hours straight without so much as an inkling of a chill or an unnatural voice resonating within her mind. Her sleep had been dreamless as a matter of fact, a luxury the likes of which she thought she'd never experience again... and waking up feeling fully rested rivaled the satisfaction of orgasm to her weary soul. Brenna's mood was absolutely exuberant as she emerged from the hotel, a genuine smile on her lips as she found herself feeling free from the past. All that she needed to worry about was the future, a future that looked bright. Finally she could focus upon her career properly and, with the Icemann Invitational Tournament just around the corner, the timing couldn't be better to be freed of the shackles of the mysteries that now seemed so unimportant, so trivial in comparison to the here and now. The future--and victory she was certain she would find herself grasping alongside of Grimm once Trauma #267 --was all that mattered.
And it was wonderful.
Hello again, PCW.
I know you were expecting me to address my opponents at the last show... or, at least, those of you who hadn't paid attention in the past were expecting such. When I said that David Hunter and Gerard Angelo were not worth my words, I meant it--and the fact that they lost yet again when they had no means of cheating says all the more that needs to be said about them. Now that the locker room at large is aware of what they are and how they operate, failure will be their calling card, doubly so if I am involved. And with the Icemann Invitational right around the corner, you bet your ass I'm gonna do everything in my power to ensure they get thrown out like the trash they are at the earliest opportunity, though knowing how spectacularly Pandaemonium has been fucking up everything they touch since they came together?
They'll probably eject themselves since losing seems to be the only thing they're capable of doing anymore.
But enough about little boys pretending to be something they're not--well, actually, come to think of it? That's something they have in common with my opponent at Trauma because no matter what High Tide likes to think? He's no pirate. The seas do not acknowledge his presence as a comrade, much less its conqueror--Hell, I'd bet my left boot that he has no idea how to actually hoist a sail, much less harness the wind to propel him. No,all the more you are is a pretender, some yuppie fuckstick that decided to lay claim to what he thought looked cool without a thought or care in the world. You never thought the day would come where a daughter of the ocean would come to claim its revenge upon you for besmirching its name with your bullshit, did you? Well, here I am--and I know how you look at women like they're steaks in a butcher's case, so what I am about to invite you to do is going to sound strange, at first... but go ahead.
Drool over me, the same as you have other women in the past.
Salivate all you want, as a matter of fact. Picture me in your head as scantily clad--or not clad as all!--as you like. Imagine all the things I would never, ever remotely even consider lowering myself to do to you. Convince yourself of it with the same fervency that has you clinging to the illusion of being an actual pirate. Drool until it floods your mouth and spills on the floor before you in a puddle... so that I can slam your face into it and hold it there until you drown because you don't deserve the honor of a burial at sea. You don't deserve to savor a single moment of the ocean's embrace, you son of a bitch. You deserve to die facedown in the filth you spew forth, unable to ever pollute the seven seas you've never been on. And unfortunately for you?
I'm more than willing to oblige you.
Another night... another peaceful rest.
It was strange how much Brenna now looked forward to going to bed now. What had once been an arduous endeavor had become a source of solace, a place to recover and recharge as it had always been meant to be. There was no frigid presence at her back to draw away her heat and life's force, no rasped-out whispers of ownership to lay claim to her thoughts--no erosion of her sanity thanks to rest evading her until exhaustion completely took over. As she stripped down and settled in amidst the covers of the bed in her studio apartment, she couldn't help but to smile to herself. When she was barely rested, she was a force to be reckoned with. Now that she was going to be at a hundred percent? No one would be able to match her, and that was a thought that carried her into slumber in its wondrous embrace.
Meanwhile, in the bottom of her duffel bag, the journal she had gone through Hell and high water to get began to grow damp around the edges, the moisture slowly spreading amidst its pages without extending beyond them.
