Post by Eira on Mar 13, 2015 21:38:59 GMT -5
Greenville, SC; March 13th, 2015:
Good evening, PCW, did you miss me? Well, I missed you guys. No, really! I totally did. We have a few things to talk about though. That video from Sadistic, for starters. Though at least he came right out there and said it, didn’t he? Might be time to get things out in the open and all. I can certainly appreciate that. As much as I appreciated his nod to Murdoc’s more theatrical days, he needn’t have gone to such trouble on my account. The nation is still in fuel shortage, after all.
It pains me to say this, but Sadistic is partially right. There IS no monolithic good or evil, and this is not the grand arena’s stage laid out to determine the fate of the Universe itself. But we both have a job to do - and we both have friends to help us. Or do we?
Grimm and Showtime... I’ve beaten them both. More than once. But will that mean anything NOW? Is it me, or does Showtime just seem a whole lot MEANER these days? After that crazy stuff going on with Grimm a while back, it’s just... scary. Then there’s Grimm, who is GRIMM. We still don’t know who exactly that is, but we know what he can do.
And quite frankly that shit’s scary.
Then we’ve got my buddies.
Whitey has gone from being the single most dominating International Champion in PCW history to a World Champion I couldn’t wrest my belt back from, to having his momentum dropped like a wet toupee. I don’t even know if he’ll show up, and as much as I LOATHE to admit it, I badly need his help. He’s a volatile little asshole, and with Foley interfering so much, Whitey may not even bother to show his face at Mass Destruction 5 out of sheer pique alone.
Gem. I know she can do it. She’s strong enough, she’s fast enough, she’s damned determined enough. I don’t know what she’s got going on with her boy these days, but she HAS managed to beat Billy Sadistic. Something I’ve never accomplished myself, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel just a bit of a sting from that. Far be it from me to suggest she only succeeded because it was after a massive match but... que sera, sera, no?
Foley... I know it’s never wise to speak out against The Boss, but there’s been some shenanigans going on. Do you realize NONE of us really know anything about this guy? He’s just some faceless talking head that arbitrarily feeds people to the Black Hand these days. The booking has been insane. Essentially handing out wins and losses with mismatched ... well, matches.
I get the idea that having the same main event talent facing the same main event talent in perpetuity can get stale. I get the idea that everyone deserves an opportunity. But there’s a reason main event talent is main event talent, and there’s a reason lower card talent is lower card talent - and it isn’t fascism. It’s TALENT. People are going to get hurt. They’re going to be disappointed. Others will have unjustified feelings of triumph and over-inflated egos, like bullies kicking sand at the little kids on the playground.
I can see what Foley and his associates are trying to do, but as crazy as it sounds, the Black Hand has a point - they’re doing it the wrong way. But the Black Hand’s way isn’t right either. This isn’t how to do it, this doesn’t help anyone but THEMSELVES. This serves only their own objectives, nothing more and nothing less.
I know I haven’t been the best representative of Pure Class Wrestling, or you, the PCW Faithful as I should have been. You don’t have reason to believe me, but I hope you do. I hope you can get behind me on this, and stand with me against the biggest threat PCW has ever seen. We’ve seen Hostile Takeovers, we’ve even been on a Collision Course with disaster that nearly ended us in a Game Over.
We have all been Living a Legacy... and it’s time for Pure Class Wrestling to Return to Glory.
If that takes Deadly Intentions that lead us to an act of Mass Destruction?
So be it.
The Order’s compound rises in the distance, framed against sunrise. Eira parks smoothly, stepping out into the chilly air of the brightening day. A glimmering memory surfaces, Murdoc’s arms around her shoulders as he pointed her attention to early morning sunlight filtering through the leaves, a calm rumbling voice committing the moment to memory “Look up through here. THIS is a North Carolina morning.”
Eira hurries through the Order’s lobby and security chackpoints, so lost in thought she doesn’t bother to glance up until she collides headfirst into an obstacle. Stumbling back, she catches herself easily, looking straight into an angry, dark-browed face.
“Ah, Jackson, just the man I was hoping to run into.”
Jackson glowers at her sourly, rubbing at his chest. “Yeah, well, you did. Whaddaya want? Veronica was looking for you yesterday. She’s left your debriefing in your cell, says it’s time sensitive. You need it before that big ass match you’ve got coming up.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Look, I need a favor - can you find someone for me?”
Eira elaborates while Jackson just offers a sullen stare.
“Can’t say I’ve heard of ‘im.”
“Doubtful, but let’s run with that. If you haven’t, I know you can get a hold of a Scribe who can tell me where to locate him.”
“Fuck you. Why should I help you?”
“Because with a few words I can have you interrogated?” Jackson crosses his arms, staring defiantly back at her. Eira leans in closer, running a delicate finger down his chest, a soft purr in her voice. “How about with a few seconds I can crush your sternum?”
Jackson’s eye twitches, the rumors of her ... enthusiastic research and interrogation tactics coming foremost to mind.
“One of your only two good points - you realize I don’t require Murdoc to handle business.”
“I’ve been part of the cleanup crew for more than one of yer missions. Wait - two? What’s the other good point?”
“One of your only two good points, you at least tell me what you mean. You might mean ‘go fuck yourself’, but at least you say it.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Thanks, Jackson.” Eira nods, giving him a jaunty wave as she heads to her personal cell. A needlessly military term for her “room” in the Order’s halls, but it is what it is. The mission debriefing Jackson mentioned lays in wait on her bunk, Eira crossing the short space and opening the package. For all the Order’s pomp and circumstance, their mission sheets were efficient to the point of being spartan.
Mission Type: Guardian
Threat: The Black Hand
Objective: Neutralize
Eira’s eyes freeze on the last line, “Target”, the fire of pure hatred warring with the sadistic ice of lethal intent. Her lips curve into a cruel smile, a single name slipping from her lips in a throaty whisper.
"William Dillinger"
About an hour later, a candidate delivers a small slip of paper to her, an address scribbled down on it in Jackson’s heavy, blocky writing.
St Jude's Shelter - Schenectady - New York
“Schenectady? Is that even a place? Well... here goes everything.”
As the afternoon sun begins it’s descent towards the horizon in earnest, Eira turns off at the sign for Schenectady, New York. Singing along quietly to the radio, she follows the GPS directions until she reached her destination, pulling in to the establishment’s drive. The scraping steps of her boots lead her across the parking lot, opening the front door to be greeted with a waft of concentrated human living and industrial grade air freshener.
Eyes watering, she gets directions from the incurious desk jockey (ensconced behind scratched and gouged bullet-proof glass for a more homey feel), moving along to reach her objective.
She found him inside the shelter’s cafeteria, wondering whether he was there for a fee meal (because, integrity) or there to raise hell. Didn’t matter much. Calling his name across the mess hall, she can’t help the smirk as his eyes widen.
“What - how did - the - EIRA?”
“Hello, Clarice.” She smiles up at him, the warmth of the expression failing to thaw the ice in her gaze.
He stares back at her warily, unwilling to return her smile. “Why are you here? I don’t want you here.”
“I wasn’t looking to be here, but I need your help.” Eira braces herself for his reaction.
True to form, the large man bursts into a cascade of guffaws, the sad sacks of humanity hunched over the tables fidgeting uncomfortably.
“Why -” Chuckle, wheeze. “Why would I help YOU?”
Eira crosses her arms, scowling at him. “You wouldn’t do it to help me, but I know you want this. You can’t tell me there isn’t a part of you that wants to retain that former glory after your fall into ignominy.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘glory’ is what I’m after. This looks like a chance for chaos and flattening some faces.”
“The Black Hand. I need your ... bulk.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that from a woman.”
Eira’s breath hisses between her teeth, her scowl turning to an outright glare. “I know you’ve been keeping up with PCW. You know what’s happening. I need your HELP. These aren’t good odds I’m facing.”
“You’ve got that little girl, Gem, and you’ve got Whitey Ford. What do you need MY help for?”
“Because she lacks confidence so much she now requires a man following her around, and Ford is... proving more unreliable than I’d expected.”
"Well you know me, I'm nothing but reliable. I'm truly a trustworthy fellow."
“So you’ll do it?”
“Let’s say I’ll... consider it.”
Taking that as the closest thing she’ll get to a commitment, Eira forges on.
“Excellent. One more thing - if we’re going to do this, you need to promise me just one thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine, I PROMISE I’ll leave your little protégé alone.”
“No. She doesn’t need my protection, she has her buddy for that. Wish I knew why he was so damn interested in being her guard dog. Puppy love, maybe?”
A low, rough chuckle. “You’re pretty bitter about that. What’d she do, make googly eyes at Murdoc?”
“She barely looks ANYONE in the eye. I just don’t like seeing her depend on someone else to pave her way. She doesn’t need it, SHOULDN’T need it.” Eira shakes her head, dismissing the matter. “No, there’s something ELSE I want your word on.”
Leaning against the wall, he gives her a long, speculative stare. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Eira smiles, her lips curving into a promise of destruction; a wave of icy rage emanating from her palpably enough to make even the man across from her take pause.
Good evening, PCW, did you miss me? Well, I missed you guys. No, really! I totally did. We have a few things to talk about though. That video from Sadistic, for starters. Though at least he came right out there and said it, didn’t he? Might be time to get things out in the open and all. I can certainly appreciate that. As much as I appreciated his nod to Murdoc’s more theatrical days, he needn’t have gone to such trouble on my account. The nation is still in fuel shortage, after all.
It pains me to say this, but Sadistic is partially right. There IS no monolithic good or evil, and this is not the grand arena’s stage laid out to determine the fate of the Universe itself. But we both have a job to do - and we both have friends to help us. Or do we?
Grimm and Showtime... I’ve beaten them both. More than once. But will that mean anything NOW? Is it me, or does Showtime just seem a whole lot MEANER these days? After that crazy stuff going on with Grimm a while back, it’s just... scary. Then there’s Grimm, who is GRIMM. We still don’t know who exactly that is, but we know what he can do.
And quite frankly that shit’s scary.
Then we’ve got my buddies.
Whitey has gone from being the single most dominating International Champion in PCW history to a World Champion I couldn’t wrest my belt back from, to having his momentum dropped like a wet toupee. I don’t even know if he’ll show up, and as much as I LOATHE to admit it, I badly need his help. He’s a volatile little asshole, and with Foley interfering so much, Whitey may not even bother to show his face at Mass Destruction 5 out of sheer pique alone.
Gem. I know she can do it. She’s strong enough, she’s fast enough, she’s damned determined enough. I don’t know what she’s got going on with her boy these days, but she HAS managed to beat Billy Sadistic. Something I’ve never accomplished myself, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel just a bit of a sting from that. Far be it from me to suggest she only succeeded because it was after a massive match but... que sera, sera, no?
Foley... I know it’s never wise to speak out against The Boss, but there’s been some shenanigans going on. Do you realize NONE of us really know anything about this guy? He’s just some faceless talking head that arbitrarily feeds people to the Black Hand these days. The booking has been insane. Essentially handing out wins and losses with mismatched ... well, matches.
I get the idea that having the same main event talent facing the same main event talent in perpetuity can get stale. I get the idea that everyone deserves an opportunity. But there’s a reason main event talent is main event talent, and there’s a reason lower card talent is lower card talent - and it isn’t fascism. It’s TALENT. People are going to get hurt. They’re going to be disappointed. Others will have unjustified feelings of triumph and over-inflated egos, like bullies kicking sand at the little kids on the playground.
I can see what Foley and his associates are trying to do, but as crazy as it sounds, the Black Hand has a point - they’re doing it the wrong way. But the Black Hand’s way isn’t right either. This isn’t how to do it, this doesn’t help anyone but THEMSELVES. This serves only their own objectives, nothing more and nothing less.
I know I haven’t been the best representative of Pure Class Wrestling, or you, the PCW Faithful as I should have been. You don’t have reason to believe me, but I hope you do. I hope you can get behind me on this, and stand with me against the biggest threat PCW has ever seen. We’ve seen Hostile Takeovers, we’ve even been on a Collision Course with disaster that nearly ended us in a Game Over.
We have all been Living a Legacy... and it’s time for Pure Class Wrestling to Return to Glory.
If that takes Deadly Intentions that lead us to an act of Mass Destruction?
So be it.
The Order’s compound rises in the distance, framed against sunrise. Eira parks smoothly, stepping out into the chilly air of the brightening day. A glimmering memory surfaces, Murdoc’s arms around her shoulders as he pointed her attention to early morning sunlight filtering through the leaves, a calm rumbling voice committing the moment to memory “Look up through here. THIS is a North Carolina morning.”
Eira hurries through the Order’s lobby and security chackpoints, so lost in thought she doesn’t bother to glance up until she collides headfirst into an obstacle. Stumbling back, she catches herself easily, looking straight into an angry, dark-browed face.
“Ah, Jackson, just the man I was hoping to run into.”
Jackson glowers at her sourly, rubbing at his chest. “Yeah, well, you did. Whaddaya want? Veronica was looking for you yesterday. She’s left your debriefing in your cell, says it’s time sensitive. You need it before that big ass match you’ve got coming up.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Look, I need a favor - can you find someone for me?”
Eira elaborates while Jackson just offers a sullen stare.
“Can’t say I’ve heard of ‘im.”
“Doubtful, but let’s run with that. If you haven’t, I know you can get a hold of a Scribe who can tell me where to locate him.”
“Fuck you. Why should I help you?”
“Because with a few words I can have you interrogated?” Jackson crosses his arms, staring defiantly back at her. Eira leans in closer, running a delicate finger down his chest, a soft purr in her voice. “How about with a few seconds I can crush your sternum?”
Jackson’s eye twitches, the rumors of her ... enthusiastic research and interrogation tactics coming foremost to mind.
“One of your only two good points - you realize I don’t require Murdoc to handle business.”
“I’ve been part of the cleanup crew for more than one of yer missions. Wait - two? What’s the other good point?”
“One of your only two good points, you at least tell me what you mean. You might mean ‘go fuck yourself’, but at least you say it.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Thanks, Jackson.” Eira nods, giving him a jaunty wave as she heads to her personal cell. A needlessly military term for her “room” in the Order’s halls, but it is what it is. The mission debriefing Jackson mentioned lays in wait on her bunk, Eira crossing the short space and opening the package. For all the Order’s pomp and circumstance, their mission sheets were efficient to the point of being spartan.
Mission Type: Guardian
Threat: The Black Hand
Objective: Neutralize
Eira’s eyes freeze on the last line, “Target”, the fire of pure hatred warring with the sadistic ice of lethal intent. Her lips curve into a cruel smile, a single name slipping from her lips in a throaty whisper.
"William Dillinger"
About an hour later, a candidate delivers a small slip of paper to her, an address scribbled down on it in Jackson’s heavy, blocky writing.
St Jude's Shelter - Schenectady - New York
“Schenectady? Is that even a place? Well... here goes everything.”
As the afternoon sun begins it’s descent towards the horizon in earnest, Eira turns off at the sign for Schenectady, New York. Singing along quietly to the radio, she follows the GPS directions until she reached her destination, pulling in to the establishment’s drive. The scraping steps of her boots lead her across the parking lot, opening the front door to be greeted with a waft of concentrated human living and industrial grade air freshener.
Eyes watering, she gets directions from the incurious desk jockey (ensconced behind scratched and gouged bullet-proof glass for a more homey feel), moving along to reach her objective.
She found him inside the shelter’s cafeteria, wondering whether he was there for a fee meal (because, integrity) or there to raise hell. Didn’t matter much. Calling his name across the mess hall, she can’t help the smirk as his eyes widen.
“What - how did - the - EIRA?”
“Hello, Clarice.” She smiles up at him, the warmth of the expression failing to thaw the ice in her gaze.
He stares back at her warily, unwilling to return her smile. “Why are you here? I don’t want you here.”
“I wasn’t looking to be here, but I need your help.” Eira braces herself for his reaction.
True to form, the large man bursts into a cascade of guffaws, the sad sacks of humanity hunched over the tables fidgeting uncomfortably.
“Why -” Chuckle, wheeze. “Why would I help YOU?”
Eira crosses her arms, scowling at him. “You wouldn’t do it to help me, but I know you want this. You can’t tell me there isn’t a part of you that wants to retain that former glory after your fall into ignominy.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘glory’ is what I’m after. This looks like a chance for chaos and flattening some faces.”
“The Black Hand. I need your ... bulk.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that from a woman.”
Eira’s breath hisses between her teeth, her scowl turning to an outright glare. “I know you’ve been keeping up with PCW. You know what’s happening. I need your HELP. These aren’t good odds I’m facing.”
“You’ve got that little girl, Gem, and you’ve got Whitey Ford. What do you need MY help for?”
“Because she lacks confidence so much she now requires a man following her around, and Ford is... proving more unreliable than I’d expected.”
"Well you know me, I'm nothing but reliable. I'm truly a trustworthy fellow."
“So you’ll do it?”
“Let’s say I’ll... consider it.”
Taking that as the closest thing she’ll get to a commitment, Eira forges on.
“Excellent. One more thing - if we’re going to do this, you need to promise me just one thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine, I PROMISE I’ll leave your little protégé alone.”
“No. She doesn’t need my protection, she has her buddy for that. Wish I knew why he was so damn interested in being her guard dog. Puppy love, maybe?”
A low, rough chuckle. “You’re pretty bitter about that. What’d she do, make googly eyes at Murdoc?”
“She barely looks ANYONE in the eye. I just don’t like seeing her depend on someone else to pave her way. She doesn’t need it, SHOULDN’T need it.” Eira shakes her head, dismissing the matter. “No, there’s something ELSE I want your word on.”
Leaning against the wall, he gives her a long, speculative stare. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Eira smiles, her lips curving into a promise of destruction; a wave of icy rage emanating from her palpably enough to make even the man across from her take pause.
“Billy Sadistic is MINE.”