Post by Eira on Oct 2, 2015 21:59:32 GMT -5
Nathan Saniti. With no matches to decide it, Nathan Saniti was just handed the number one contender's spot for the World Championship against Sadistic. A deranged master manipulator in a top hat who's being chased prodigiously-sized tits first by one of PCW's most attractive women and he can't figure out whether to fight her or fuck her... and he gets the shot.
Eira sighs, lowering her forehead onto the kitchen table, the cold marble surface soothing the now constant ache in her head. While she refused to breathe a word of complaint to Murdoc, let alone her doctor, Eira's match with NCM had jarred something in her brainpan one times too many. The pain in her skull had become constant, ranging from a distracting burning sensation all the way to blinding, intolerable agony. Rather than call out of Deadly Intentions, Eira had bribed a PCW medic to clear her for the upcoming match. A match that was NOT for the Pure Class Wrestling World Championship title.
Why do I even care? I lost my shot. I've lost that shot enough since I held the belt that even I think it's time for me to stop going round and round that particular mulberry bush. Or maybe that's why I care - I don't like failing. When your goal is to part out Sadistic's vital organs in alphabetical order and he's still wandering around alive, it's a reasonable response to be considerably put out. Wandering around alive or - well, whatever the fuck he is.
Eira's inquiries into the Order had turned up nothing, apparently the Black Hand either didn't know what Sadistic was - or maybe they just weren't telling. While she wasn't a doctor, Eira knew enough of human anatomy to know that Sadistic should have DIED on that broken cross. Instead, he managed to not only pull himself free of the jagged stone, but also managed to nearly kill her. The pressurized pain in her head builds to a sharp spike, her breath leaving her in a tightly controlled exhale.
I need to get this checked out. After Deadly Intentions, anyway, but not yet - I need to keep the North American. I might WANT the International, but I really NEED to keep the North American. Or fuck it, Kaard can have it. Anyone but Showtime, anyone at all. The Black Hand can't get their hands on another belt, they're already too strong and I'm - I'm not enough.
The tears seeping out from under her closed lids surprise her, Eira sitting up and brushing them away with a rough, frustrated touch. The days, weeks, months, an entire YEAR of struggling to protect PCW from the Black Hand - struggling and in many cases failing - finally showing its inevitable wear and tear on the strong woman's psyche.
There, I said it. I'm not enough. I can't beat the Black Hand on my own, and the only person I can trust is gone. Gone from PCW, anyway, which is where I really need him these days. It's too much, and I can feel the weight of it. The expectations of the fans, the rest of the roster - or maybe I badly overestimate how much they do or don't give a fuck about me in particular. Hell, I should be glad I'm not Gem. The fans acted as though they thought the sun shone out of her - yeah. Maybe it'll be a relief...
The thought trails off as her mind ranges back to her recent debriefing with Altman, her shoulders slumping in response to the memory. Not entirely unsympathetic to her injuries, her Order given director had once again stressed how important it was for Eira to work in bringing down the Black Hand. A Black Hand that seemed to be more and more like the mythical hydra every time she paused to look. Kelli Starr had finally extricated herself from the group only to have Justin "Stormm" Michaels step up to take her place. Not that either inclusion had made the slightest bit of sense to Eira herself, but that's why she was in the Order and not the Black Hand. Altman had been clear on one very important point - Eira had indeed managed to get Sadistic to bleed in just the right spot, the sacred geometry in the cathedral's floor absorbing the fluid and doing who knew what with it. Eira didn't know, and Altman wasn't telling, but maybe it would help somehow.
I really can't see the benefit of having Nathan as World Champion instead of Sadistic, except it'll take a notch out of the Black Hand's power. Which reminds me, I need to talk to Altman about that whole "Showtime running for President" thing, because our little PCW battles are a joke compared to something on that scale. I need to talk to him about NCM, too... Sean...
Eyes closing, she considers her recent interactions with Non Compos Mentis. While she still didn't trust him any further than she could throw him, that was still more than she trusted anyone else at PCW. Being one of the least sociable members of the fed had its drawbacks, and while Eira was a damn sight more jovial than the likes of Alexa Black or Phineas Grimm, she was hardly a fan favorite. Signing autographs, kissing babies - hell, Eira would be willing to do it at this point if it meant feeling slightly less like it was her against the world. Emo? Maybe. Justified? You bet.
So another battle with NCM and he KNOWS I'm hurt. Not only does he know, but I'm not sure how much he cares since he was ready and willing to do those kinds of moves. Fuck's sake, even a submission move would have put me out, but he decides to knock my skull around some more. Asshole. To be fair that handshake thing at the beginning of the match was a dick move, but anyone could see I wasn't getting out of there the winner without some kind of shenanigans on my part. Not that it helped, but it was the best shot I had. I need to meet with him again and discuss what I've found out about that spellslinger that worked on him. I'll be damned if I know why I'm bothering, except I'm not exactly winning popularity contests around here and I need all the help I can get. Speaking of popularity contests, the biggest one in the entire United States is firing up for 2016 and the Black Hand wants in on it.
While Showtime's campaign announcement had surprised pretty much everyone, Eira herself had been more horrified than anything. Aside from the fact that his only qualifications for being the POTUS was a demonstrated ability to be a bold-faced liar, (okay, fine, actor), setting one of the more pivotal members of the Western Hemisphere's Black Hand contingent was nothing short of abjectly terrifying. To be facing him and knowing damn well he wanted the North American Championship back held an extra sort of pressure to it than it otherwise might. For him to regain a symbol of patriotic prowess on a live pay-per-view would be seen as validating in the extreme for the kind of mentally vacuous meat head that would be inclined to consider throwing their vote away on Michael Wryght.
Not that his in-ring prowess has ruined my day any time in recent (or even distant) memory, but to be perfectly realistic I'm hardly operating at top form these days. For all I know I'll step through the ropes and black out the second the bell rings. I can't let him get the belt. I'll even get in his way to let Kaard get the belt, just so long as it doesn't go back to Michael "Mr. Showtime" Wryght. I can't say I've got some kind of deep seated resentment or simmering feud with the guy, but he's proving more and more problematic working in tandem with the Black Hand. I should probably just be grateful that good ole Stormmy boy and The Grimm are otherwise engaged tonight. Not that they stand on ceremony and refuse to enter a match they aren't scheduled for, but I'm going to grab whatever sliver of hope I can find right now. Kaard is some of that hope. Not that he's an easy mark, but that he ISN'T - and that just might save us.
Justin Kaard's return to PCW had taken Eira by surprise, but not nearly as surprised as she'd been to see him... she still wasn't sure. Was he helping her out, or had he actually been aiming for NCM? Eira could have sworn he'd been on her side, in so much as two people who'd never really spoken had sides to have for or against each other, but who knows. Kids these days, and all that. Often billed as the "Adrenaline King", Kaard had been one of the only talents on Pure Class Wrestling's roster that could match her move for move in agility, speed, aerial attacks and daredevil maneuvers. A former World Champion, a formidable opponent... and maybe a staunch ally? Squinting her eyes shut, she huffs a sigh, the mights and maybes driving her to distraction. Never knowing whether someone had her back or was afraid of her, whether they wanted to help her or see her six feet under... and Justin Kaard as a new return to PCW, a new return whose motives were as yet unsure.
I'm just... lost. I have no friends here, the closest thing I have to allies are erstwhile enemies... might be time to take a page out of Murdoc's book and leave in a ball of flame.
Eira lets out an indelicate snort of disgust, sitting back and raking her fingers through her tangled mane, wincing as a few locks of silvery white hair catch on the staples in her skull. Rising to her feet, she makes her way out the kitchen's side door to the garage, her car responding to the press of a key fob button with an obedient chirp. Sliding into the driver's seat, she sticks the key in the ignition and turns, the engine flaring to life with the rumbling purr of an American muscle car.
Then again, it might also be time to get the fuck over myself and put my head down to shoulder through all this bullshit. I want to be done, my body wants me to be done, but even if I go my work here isn't finished. I STILL have to track Sadistic, I STILL have to figure out what the fuck the Order wants with NCM, and I STILL have to make sure Showtime doesn't somehow manage to grab the United States presidency.
No pressure, right?
Revving the engine of her gunmetal Mustang she flips on the lights and pulls out into the deepening dusk, a last minute workout at the gym to keep her as close to fighting fit as possible. She grins to herself in the eerie blue dashboard light, more a predatory baring of teeth than a smile.
Deadly Intentions, huh? Alright, boys. Bring it on.
