Post by Eira on Jul 3, 2015 21:29:53 GMT -5
Summoned to the Order again, Eira waits in the small conference room she’d been instructed to go to. After a comfortable five minutes, just enough to settle in but not too long to become bored, the door opens with a businesslike click. Eira rises to her feet as the man enters, her eyes scanning over the person who was now responsible for directing herself - and through her, Murdoc.
The pallor of his skin went well with the grey eyes regarding her from behind a pair of steel rimmed glasses, but what really caught her attention was his hair. Brushed straight back from his brow and laying smoothly over his shoulders in a mane of deep copper; quite frankly it was nothing short of majestic.
“Operative Aveira, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” A smooth British accent rolls out as he offers his hand for a brusque shake. “My name is Michael Altman, I will be your new case manager. You will report directly to me for any missions or questions.”
British? Well, that explains the pale.
He takes a seat and Eira follows suit, an expectant look on her face as he shuffles a few papers about.
“It seems you were already contacted by the courier, but to recap: Murdoc’s capture and subsequent incarceration was done under misleading information and false pretenses, in addition to fabricated evidence.”
“I always said she was full of crap.”
Altman blinks at her before turning back to his paperwork. “Quite. Now the question remains what we’ll be doing with you now.”
“Veronica had said there was a prophecy...?”
“We have reason to believe her interpretation was incorrect. Or rather, only a potential outcome. A tangent, if you will, that would have required a series of deliberate actions to bring into being.”
Eira’s face drains of color, one hand dropping to her abdomen. “So Sadistic didn’t... he never had to...”
Altman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, more a reaction to her vulnerable moment than anything else.
“No. He didn’t. Which is why I won’t deny you your grudge, nor will I suggest anything less than the vengeance you seek. In an official capacity, however, I must remind you that gratuitous bloodshed on a television broadcast is most unseemly.”
“Unseemly. You really ARE British, aren’t you?”
Altman blinks, nonplussed. “Should I have whinged about the paperwork, instead?”
Eira gives a wry smile, already beginning to like this new Cleric over his predecessor.
“What is it the Order requires of me now? How much of my orders were Veronica, and not my actual purpose?”
“The Order has several missions that you would be useful for, but the problem seems to be your involvement with your current cover.”
Not sure whether or not she liked the sound of that, Eira tilts her head. “Are you telling me that I need to leave PCW?”
“No. There are several persons of interest in Pure Class Wrestling that we need you to remain close to.”
“Yet I still haven’t been told who.”
“We’ll tell you who when you need to know. Things have gotten more than personal enough between yourself and William Dillinger.”
Eira’s eyes flash a silent warning. “I certainly hope you aren’t blaming me.”
“No, but we also cannot risk your cover being further compromised by personal vendettas between you and every other talent in PCW.”
“So why am I here? I was told this was a debriefing, not just a conference to meet our new case manager.”
“We need to advise you about Gem. Or rather, her father.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, you can’t possibly expect me to believe that he was really -”
“Everything you’ve seen in your work here, and you question THIS? Why?” The grey of his eyes take on a steely quality as they bore into hers.
“Because - well, because -”
“Because it’s inconvenient to admit the girl might have something more to her than a lost waif in the woods?”
Eira glares at him, both annoyed and intrigued at Altman’s total lack of concern with the glower on her face.
“BECAUSE -” She stops for a second, thinking. “Well, I suppose that in part, yes. You skills of observation are inconvenient to my peace of mind, Cleric.”
Altman gives her a curt nod. “Then I’m doing my job. Now, back to Gem. According to our records her father was no more purely human than most others we watch. How much of it she inherited, we cannot yet be sure. No matter how you rail against her presence in your cover’s upper echelon, the fact remains that she’s there.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that there is either something to her, or...” He trails off, eyeing her with a speculative, almost appreciative look.
“Or what?”
Altman smiles, a smile that more closely resembled the baring of fangs one predator uses to greet another. “Or it’s time for you to remind her of her place.”
With that, the Cleric Michael Altman adjourns the room, Eira taking the silent dismissal in stride. Her smooth gait takes her out of the conference wing and across the polished marble floor of the Order’s public lobby area. Finding her car right outside the tinted main doors where she’d left it,(membership did have its perks - front row parking not the least of them), Eira slides in and begins the drive home.
At least he doesn’t seem as bad as Veronica. Then again, nothing could be as bad as she was. To think that I never - that WE never -
A rogue tear rolls down her cheek, Eira brushing it away in frustration.
Gem wants Sadistic so she can prove herself, so she can reach a place that she thinks will make her mean something here. I wish she knew the truth of it. Not that I should care, the ungrateful little viper thinks everyone an enemy anyway. Everyone except Nacho fucking Grande, because THAT’S a shining example of stalwart companionship. Maybe she just really likes tacos.
A rumble in her stomach answers that thought, Eira making a quick call and redirecting her vehicle to a nearby restaurant. Not long after being seated, she looks up from her menu and smiles to see a familiar figure striding towards her.
“Hello, Love.”
He leans down to kiss her, hand resting softly against her cheek. As he slides into the booth, she looks him over with appreciation. Dark jeans fitting close, a steel grey athletic shirt hugging his powerful torso - even his hair for once a comparatively tidy mass of dark waves. Blue eyes amused as he catches her checking him out, he grins and gestures to the surroundings.
“I know relationships need spice sometimes, but does spice REALLY need to be accompanied by mariachi music and hispanic polka?”
She chuckles but sobers quickly, the earlier conversation with Altman still very much on her mind.
“What is it, Amba?”
“Sometimes I wonder, you know? I wonder how much bloodlines really mean. How much of our ancestors we bring with us, nature vs nurture.”
“You’re thinking about Gem again, aren’t you.” It’s not a question.
Hiding behind her salt rimmed glass, she buys herself some time by taking a sip, setting it back down to see her grimace reflected in the lacquered tabletop. “She’s Lantlas’ daughter. That has to mean SOMETHING.”
“It doesn’t.”
“But the fans, they -”
“Eira, listen. As much as Malave wants to push his favorite monster's daughter, as much as he wants her to take Daddy’s old title as new face of PCW, the bottom line is that the fans aren't buying it - and neither are the wrestlers.” He reaches out, his arms easily spanning the length of the table to take her hands. “Think about it. How many friends has she made?”
“Well, there’s Grant who was really Nacho the whole time. He’s a PCW favorite, or was.”
“He was already looking out for her, nothing to do with current events. Who else?”
“I...” Eira pauses with genuine concentration, a pause ending in a bark of laughter. “You know, I can’t think of anyone else. There was even a point when I tried to be friendly to her!”
“Mhm, and how did that go?”
Rolling her eyes, she huffs an irritated sigh. “I realize my mental stability is questionable at best, but that girl is flat out paranoid schizophrenic. Everyone manipulates her, everyone wants to hurt her, everyone wants to use her... she’s such a professional victim I’m surprised she doesn’t carry around her own body chalk.”
“So tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Whatever it is you need to say - but you need to tell HER, not ME.”
Eira slumps back, a grumbling scowl on her face.
“Don’t be like that. Just record something before the show. For now, though, I’m far more interested in chimichangas than PCW. Shall we?”
Setting aside the business of PCW for the moment, Eira picks her menu back up, a swell of exuberant polka music washing over the pair.
Several days later, she arrives at the PCW Arena well before match time, seeking out a tech for a quick promo shoot. Seating herself on the stool, she gives a nod to the tech to begin the recording.
“My words will be brief. Gem, mei mei, I know you won’t believe me. You were born into this life smothered in a caul of lies and half-truths, nowhere to turn and no one to trust. You were weaned on deception and sedition, the only constant a desire to prove yourself and a drive to complete each mission, the one laid out after the next. I'm not here to tell you that you don't belong, I'm not here to tell you that no one wants you or you aren't good enough.”
Eira pauses, staring into the camera.
“I was there, you know.” A wry smile crosses her face. “No, of course you don’t believe me. No one knows your pain, your true self, your whatever else you tell yourself to be that special little untouchable snowflake. We’re everywhere. The broken, the damaged - the damned. The struggle isn’t so much to overcome your past as it is to embrace it. Let it in, let it fill you, accept it as part of your story. Use it to learn about who you were and who you are, use it to grow into the person you are meant to be. No accolades, no awards, and no championships will give you what it is you need to heal and evolve.”
Her expression softens, compassion filling her amber eyes.
“I tell you this because while I understand you, I cannot afford to extend that understanding to our match. I have no mercy to offer. This is not just about the Black Hand, but between the two of us we have plenty of work to do there as well. The Black Hand still runs its veins of poison through PCW unchecked, but that is not my sole concern. I MUST face Sadistic, I MUST make his downfall as public and painful as I can. There is a blood debt he and he alone must pay.”
Eira’s features harden, a warrior’s stare, only the faintest glimmer of regard for her opponent in her eyes.
“My final words for you are this: Think carefully about what you need, because if you really need that belt to prove yourself, why...” she shrugs “...why then there’s nothing in you worth proving at all.”
The pallor of his skin went well with the grey eyes regarding her from behind a pair of steel rimmed glasses, but what really caught her attention was his hair. Brushed straight back from his brow and laying smoothly over his shoulders in a mane of deep copper; quite frankly it was nothing short of majestic.
“Operative Aveira, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” A smooth British accent rolls out as he offers his hand for a brusque shake. “My name is Michael Altman, I will be your new case manager. You will report directly to me for any missions or questions.”
British? Well, that explains the pale.
He takes a seat and Eira follows suit, an expectant look on her face as he shuffles a few papers about.
“It seems you were already contacted by the courier, but to recap: Murdoc’s capture and subsequent incarceration was done under misleading information and false pretenses, in addition to fabricated evidence.”
“I always said she was full of crap.”
Altman blinks at her before turning back to his paperwork. “Quite. Now the question remains what we’ll be doing with you now.”
“Veronica had said there was a prophecy...?”
“We have reason to believe her interpretation was incorrect. Or rather, only a potential outcome. A tangent, if you will, that would have required a series of deliberate actions to bring into being.”
Eira’s face drains of color, one hand dropping to her abdomen. “So Sadistic didn’t... he never had to...”
Altman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, more a reaction to her vulnerable moment than anything else.
“No. He didn’t. Which is why I won’t deny you your grudge, nor will I suggest anything less than the vengeance you seek. In an official capacity, however, I must remind you that gratuitous bloodshed on a television broadcast is most unseemly.”
“Unseemly. You really ARE British, aren’t you?”
Altman blinks, nonplussed. “Should I have whinged about the paperwork, instead?”
Eira gives a wry smile, already beginning to like this new Cleric over his predecessor.
“What is it the Order requires of me now? How much of my orders were Veronica, and not my actual purpose?”
“The Order has several missions that you would be useful for, but the problem seems to be your involvement with your current cover.”
Not sure whether or not she liked the sound of that, Eira tilts her head. “Are you telling me that I need to leave PCW?”
“No. There are several persons of interest in Pure Class Wrestling that we need you to remain close to.”
“Yet I still haven’t been told who.”
“We’ll tell you who when you need to know. Things have gotten more than personal enough between yourself and William Dillinger.”
Eira’s eyes flash a silent warning. “I certainly hope you aren’t blaming me.”
“No, but we also cannot risk your cover being further compromised by personal vendettas between you and every other talent in PCW.”
“So why am I here? I was told this was a debriefing, not just a conference to meet our new case manager.”
“We need to advise you about Gem. Or rather, her father.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, you can’t possibly expect me to believe that he was really -”
“Everything you’ve seen in your work here, and you question THIS? Why?” The grey of his eyes take on a steely quality as they bore into hers.
“Because - well, because -”
“Because it’s inconvenient to admit the girl might have something more to her than a lost waif in the woods?”
Eira glares at him, both annoyed and intrigued at Altman’s total lack of concern with the glower on her face.
“BECAUSE -” She stops for a second, thinking. “Well, I suppose that in part, yes. You skills of observation are inconvenient to my peace of mind, Cleric.”
Altman gives her a curt nod. “Then I’m doing my job. Now, back to Gem. According to our records her father was no more purely human than most others we watch. How much of it she inherited, we cannot yet be sure. No matter how you rail against her presence in your cover’s upper echelon, the fact remains that she’s there.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that there is either something to her, or...” He trails off, eyeing her with a speculative, almost appreciative look.
“Or what?”
Altman smiles, a smile that more closely resembled the baring of fangs one predator uses to greet another. “Or it’s time for you to remind her of her place.”
With that, the Cleric Michael Altman adjourns the room, Eira taking the silent dismissal in stride. Her smooth gait takes her out of the conference wing and across the polished marble floor of the Order’s public lobby area. Finding her car right outside the tinted main doors where she’d left it,(membership did have its perks - front row parking not the least of them), Eira slides in and begins the drive home.
At least he doesn’t seem as bad as Veronica. Then again, nothing could be as bad as she was. To think that I never - that WE never -
A rogue tear rolls down her cheek, Eira brushing it away in frustration.
Gem wants Sadistic so she can prove herself, so she can reach a place that she thinks will make her mean something here. I wish she knew the truth of it. Not that I should care, the ungrateful little viper thinks everyone an enemy anyway. Everyone except Nacho fucking Grande, because THAT’S a shining example of stalwart companionship. Maybe she just really likes tacos.
A rumble in her stomach answers that thought, Eira making a quick call and redirecting her vehicle to a nearby restaurant. Not long after being seated, she looks up from her menu and smiles to see a familiar figure striding towards her.
“Hello, Love.”
He leans down to kiss her, hand resting softly against her cheek. As he slides into the booth, she looks him over with appreciation. Dark jeans fitting close, a steel grey athletic shirt hugging his powerful torso - even his hair for once a comparatively tidy mass of dark waves. Blue eyes amused as he catches her checking him out, he grins and gestures to the surroundings.
“I know relationships need spice sometimes, but does spice REALLY need to be accompanied by mariachi music and hispanic polka?”
She chuckles but sobers quickly, the earlier conversation with Altman still very much on her mind.
“What is it, Amba?”
“Sometimes I wonder, you know? I wonder how much bloodlines really mean. How much of our ancestors we bring with us, nature vs nurture.”
“You’re thinking about Gem again, aren’t you.” It’s not a question.
Hiding behind her salt rimmed glass, she buys herself some time by taking a sip, setting it back down to see her grimace reflected in the lacquered tabletop. “She’s Lantlas’ daughter. That has to mean SOMETHING.”
“It doesn’t.”
“But the fans, they -”
“Eira, listen. As much as Malave wants to push his favorite monster's daughter, as much as he wants her to take Daddy’s old title as new face of PCW, the bottom line is that the fans aren't buying it - and neither are the wrestlers.” He reaches out, his arms easily spanning the length of the table to take her hands. “Think about it. How many friends has she made?”
“Well, there’s Grant who was really Nacho the whole time. He’s a PCW favorite, or was.”
“He was already looking out for her, nothing to do with current events. Who else?”
“I...” Eira pauses with genuine concentration, a pause ending in a bark of laughter. “You know, I can’t think of anyone else. There was even a point when I tried to be friendly to her!”
“Mhm, and how did that go?”
Rolling her eyes, she huffs an irritated sigh. “I realize my mental stability is questionable at best, but that girl is flat out paranoid schizophrenic. Everyone manipulates her, everyone wants to hurt her, everyone wants to use her... she’s such a professional victim I’m surprised she doesn’t carry around her own body chalk.”
“So tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Whatever it is you need to say - but you need to tell HER, not ME.”
Eira slumps back, a grumbling scowl on her face.
“Don’t be like that. Just record something before the show. For now, though, I’m far more interested in chimichangas than PCW. Shall we?”
Setting aside the business of PCW for the moment, Eira picks her menu back up, a swell of exuberant polka music washing over the pair.
*~*~*~*
Several days later, she arrives at the PCW Arena well before match time, seeking out a tech for a quick promo shoot. Seating herself on the stool, she gives a nod to the tech to begin the recording.
“My words will be brief. Gem, mei mei, I know you won’t believe me. You were born into this life smothered in a caul of lies and half-truths, nowhere to turn and no one to trust. You were weaned on deception and sedition, the only constant a desire to prove yourself and a drive to complete each mission, the one laid out after the next. I'm not here to tell you that you don't belong, I'm not here to tell you that no one wants you or you aren't good enough.”
Eira pauses, staring into the camera.
“I was there, you know.” A wry smile crosses her face. “No, of course you don’t believe me. No one knows your pain, your true self, your whatever else you tell yourself to be that special little untouchable snowflake. We’re everywhere. The broken, the damaged - the damned. The struggle isn’t so much to overcome your past as it is to embrace it. Let it in, let it fill you, accept it as part of your story. Use it to learn about who you were and who you are, use it to grow into the person you are meant to be. No accolades, no awards, and no championships will give you what it is you need to heal and evolve.”
Her expression softens, compassion filling her amber eyes.
“I tell you this because while I understand you, I cannot afford to extend that understanding to our match. I have no mercy to offer. This is not just about the Black Hand, but between the two of us we have plenty of work to do there as well. The Black Hand still runs its veins of poison through PCW unchecked, but that is not my sole concern. I MUST face Sadistic, I MUST make his downfall as public and painful as I can. There is a blood debt he and he alone must pay.”
Eira’s features harden, a warrior’s stare, only the faintest glimmer of regard for her opponent in her eyes.
“My final words for you are this: Think carefully about what you need, because if you really need that belt to prove yourself, why...” she shrugs “...why then there’s nothing in you worth proving at all.”