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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:31:44 GMT
Promo history - volume 95.
"Meanwhile, in the Past... (reprise)." (November 16th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Gabrielle* (FWA: Fallout 022).
* Gabrielle was a replacement for Mike Parr.  MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME NINETY FIVE]
”Meanwhile, in the past…”
(reprise)
****
The morning reared up at her like an untamed and affronted stallion, and she cowered from it meekly. Sun was entering her cabin through the slits between the wooden boards that made up its walls, projecting thin slithers of light for the dust to dance in. She squinted, groaned, stretched out. Outside the cabin, she could hear the gentle breath of the water on which they sat. She knew it to be the Rhine, upon which they’d snaked through the night, having now - if all had gone to plan, judging by the time of day the sunlight implied - arrived in Köln. She squinted again, groaned again, stretched out again.
Her arrival in Köln was early, she knew, but this was by design. The idea of spending too much longer in Rotterdam itself made her feel dizzy. The fanfare that accompanied her appearances in European wrestling rings was tolerable. In fact, it made a welcome change from the troglodytes who watched her matches back in the States. But Rotterdam? It was the city she grew up in, and one she had left behind for a reason.
Her senses were returning to her, one by one, and now her vision was strong enough to see through the planes of sunlight coming in through the slats to the roof of her cabin. The crack was still there. It waited for her when she woke up, sometimes resembling a smile, at others a frown, her days alternating between comedy and tragedy and this crack deciding which way the needle pointed. Today it seemed larger than it did yesterday. Yesterday it seemed larger than it did the day before yesterday. Upon inspection, she found she could now fit her fingers up to the first knuckle inside of it. The thought of these hungry jaws opening above her as she slept made her uneasy, and so she dressed quickly before leaving her cabin.
The captain was alone on deck, sitting with his feet up on the railing with a cigarette and a cup of coffee. As far as Michelle could tell, there were three other members of the crew besides the captain, but when they were docked they were invariably making the most of the city. She only ever saw them when they were moving, and the majority of that time she spent below deck in her cabin. They mostly moved at night, but every now and then she'd catch a glimpse of them whilst going to the bathroom, or restocking her drinks cabinet. They paid her no mind, as they would any other quarry.
"You're still up?" Michelle asked, whilst removing a cigarette of her own and taking a seat next to the captain. He was friendly enough, and amenable to early morning idle dialogue
"We arrived, I slept, and then I rose," the sailor said, in-between sips of his coffee. "It is quite late in the morning, Frau von Horrowitz. I mean to make the most of our time here in Germany, but first I needed to speak with you."
"I was meaning to speak to you, too," she mumbled. "There's… there's this crack, in my cabin."
"I imagine there are plenty of cracks in your cabin," the captain said. "This ship is old."
"This one… it seems to be getting bigger," she said, and as soon as she had she felt stupid for doing so. "Maybe I'm mistaken."
"Maybe," the captain replied. "Maybe not. The ship lives and breathes itself. Some cracks get larger. Others retract. But she still floats."
Michelle thought about this for a moment and sucked on the end of her cigarette. They were docked about as close to the city as they could manage, but it would still be a decent walk for her today before she made it to the bars there. She thought about remaining in her cabin instead. This idea wasn't without merit, but the crack dissuaded her. The ship might be living and breathing, but she couldn't shake the picture of one sharp inhalation swallowing her entirely.
"You said you wanted to speak to me, as well?" Michelle asked, whilst finishing her smoke and stubbing the end of it on the railing. The captain was using an old coffee can for his ends, and she dropped hers into it.
"You had a visitor this morning," he said. "An hour or so ago. Even early for me. He asked if you were onboard."
"How did he know I was here?" Michelle replied. Instinctively, she thought about the three crewmates below deck, and wondered which one had betrayed her confidence.
"Maybe he knows someone at the docks," he answered, with a shrug. "Or maybe he read about my boat on the internet."
Michelle had sensed the captain's understanding of who she was growing over the voyage so far. Subtle remarks about their route, such as referring to it as a stadium cruise, and vague allusions to her being a fighter during their morning conversations suggested he wasn't as clueless as he once was. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the dirtsheets had worked out her travel plans. They probably had the ship's inventory on hand, also. It shouldn't surprise her. But every time it did.
"Who was he?" Michelle continued.
"Just some boy," the captain began again. He'd long since finished his coffee but was only now getting around to setting down his empty cup. "Well, a young gentleman, I suppose. All young gentlemen look like boys, really. But he said he knew you. Or used to. He knew you back in Berlin, he says. The boy's name was Tomas."
The memory of Tomas was not a particularly difficult one to dredge up. Even now, half a lifetime on, she could conjure up the finer points of his facial features, and as she did he smiled back at her, vivid as ever.
"A blonde boy?" she asked, for confirmation.
"Maybe once," the captain said. Although he'd finished both his coffee and his cigarette, he didn't seem ready to abandon his reclined position on the deck of his ship any time soon. "Bald now. But you can see for yourself if you'd like. I told him you weren't onboard, as instructed. He said he'd be at some place called Vorbild for dinner and drinks at eight. I said I'd pass on the message."
There was a long pause.
"So that's the message," he said. Then: “I’ll get one of the boys to take a look at that crack.”
And then he said no more.
****
Michelle had said many goodbyes, and left many cities. The only place that she remembered leaving twice was Germany. That was Berlin, which was the entire breadth of the moderately large (by European standards) country away from where she was now. But hearing the same language, albeit spoken in a vastly different and quite peculiar accent, with all the dialectal differences that went with that, brought the memories back none-the-less. With most places, she was left with a singular opinion on her time there, usually punctuated by a fitting finale. Japan was a time she associated with her work, and as a result her final interactions there were within the ring. Marseille, and France in general, with her schooling, and the relative revelry that she partook in there, with her exit from the city coated in gin and confetti. Moscow was an insular and self-indulgent time, but one that was cut short, and thus her final days there resembled question marks.
Berlin, though, and by extension the whole of Germany, was unique in that she’d lived there twice and she’d left there twice, and she was never really sure which of these two disparate memories of the place was real. Perhaps both of them were, perhaps neither. As she walked down the streets of Köln and lit a Camel, both of these images of the country that she had in her mind were distant and remote. Perhaps this place was absolutely different to the capital. It seemed it: smaller, less obnoxiously modern, less unique in many ways. Or maybe it was she that was different. She was thirty two, now. She didn’t know it yet, but she was already half-way through her life. She was nineteen when she first lived here, and twenty seven when she came back. The years took their toll. Those lost girls, the Michelles she’d left behind in Berlin back in ‘09 and ‘18, didn’t know how good they had it.
Tomas had been there, the first time she'd said goodbye to this country. He'd been there for much of her early years in the wrestling business: he took her to watch her first show in Marseille, to her first lesson in Paris. He drove her to countless matches in Berlin and in Munich and in Stuttgart and every city in-between. He was on the same cards, often in the same matches. He'd been there for so much during those formative years, as far as wrestling went. It was only fitting that he was there when she left.
The last image she had of Tomas was him standing in front of the Bundestag back in 2009, his trousers around his ankles, his manhood painted gold, red, and black. Margot, an old school-friend from Marseille who was working as a freelance photographer, took a picture of him which Michelle still had somewhere in her parents' attic in Rotterdam. He was arrested and released two days later, but by then Michelle had already left for Japan.
The early morning hours in front of the Bundestag were just the climactic scenes of a week of revelry leading to her exit from the continent. Japan awaited, and all the promise that came with those islands. But she was leaving with safe knowledge that all of them - Tomas and Margot and Karina and the rest - would be there in Berlin, waiting for her should she eventually come back. Her goodbyes were only pauses in what would most likely be life-long dialogues.
Fate brought her back to Berlin a few years later. In the intermittent period, she had - of course - fallen out of contact with Tomas and Margot and Karina and the rest. She'd made and lost more friends in Japan and in America. Very few of them remained to her in 2017. Only Jean-Luc, really. When she came to say goodbye to Berlin for the second time, again to go East, she was confronted by the fact that there was nobody left to say goodbye to. She'd always looked back on Berlin as a great city, where she'd spent one of the happiest times in her life. But, as she prepared to leave it for the second time, it was difficult to believe those things had even happened there. It was just a random array of buildings, with dour people and miserable weather. When she tried to remember the elation of her first departure from the city, it only served to compound the misery of this new, more insular farewell.
She'd come back to Germany between those periods in which she'd lived here, but this was the first time she'd spent a significant portion of time here since she and Jean-Luc had left Frankfurt for Moscow in 2018. It felt mostly the same.
****
It was in the late afternoon that she caught her first glimpse of the markets. They were still being erected, and seemed to sprawl in an inconceivable maze across many of the city's larger squares. She'd been led to believe that this episode of Fallout was something of a grand opening for the 2022 Köln Christmas Markets. She struggled to see the link between the second week of competition in the F1 tournament, and the birth of a boy in a desert in Palestine a couple thousand years ago. It was best not to look for meaning when there was none.
Other than the Netherlands, she'd probably spent more Christmasses in Germany than in any other country. She remembered an evening deep in December that she and Tomas spent in Dusseldorf, which was a very different city from Berlin and even Köln aside from the overarching similarities between all German cities. Dusseldorf was less pretty than most of the others, which was a damning statement in itself. They'd driven seven hundred kilometres over the past two weeks, west from Berlin and across much of the country. This old guy, Jan, who ran their gym had some contacts in the industry out here, and this was the last of five or six bookings in what she could reasonably call her first tour.
She'd been wrestling for two years already, but had no name or reputation as of yet. Barely any skill either, really. Most of her matches had taken place in Marseille and Berlin up to that point, where she could walk from her apartment to the ring. Relying on Tomas for a ride across an unfamiliar country was uncharacteristically trusting of her, and probably spoke a little to the sincerity of feeling she had for him at that tender, young age. Margot came too, to take photographs and offer moral support. She lost more than she won, so maybe the moral support wasn't worth much.
Every show up until Dusseldorf had seen between five and twenty people come to watch them in almost-empty sports gyms or night clubs. They'd been paid little, barely enough to cover Tomas' fuel. But they'd come out in the industrial city at the very end of the journey. Maybe two hundred and fifty people were crammed into an old, disused warehouse. She'd won, too. Perhaps the whole thing wasn't such a waste of time, after all.
She remembered peering through the curtain from Gorilla position as Tomas' match drew to a close. He was facing some old Czech bruiser with a scar across his chest, and had spent much of the match on the coarse end of the brawler's fists. But his conditioning was showing through. He'd turned the tide with a German suplex, and popped the crowd by wrenching his much larger opponent up for a brainbuster. Tomas liked to use the shooting star press, and the audience were on their feet as he executed it in Dusseldorf, an audible gasp emanating as he came dangerously close to the warehouse's low ceiling. It was a thing of beauty. Michelle bit her bottom lip as he crashed down onto the veteran, and only exhaled again once the three was counted.
As vivid as the picture of Tomas' victory was her recollection of the scene within the promoter's office an hour or so later. She couldn't remember his name, but the image of the short, old man with the pockmarked face and clusters of hair around his ears and neck was still clear to her. He sat behind his desk, reading through a pile of documents, as if they were more important than the two wrestlers in front of him.
"Your base pay's all there though, right?" he was saying, evasively.
"It's not the base pay I'm talking about," Tomas answered. He held his light envelope out towards the promoter, half in illustration and half in accusation. "The winner's purse. We were promised an extra hundred if we won. And we both won tonight."
"Congratulations," the promoter said. He seemed bored, both with this conversation and in general. "Look, the gate wasn't what I'd hoped tonight. Wouldn't be able to afford the win bonus. And even if I could, some of my guys have been throwing matches and splitting the purse. Until I get to the bottom of that, I'm withholding all win bonuses for the time being. You understand?"
Tomas didn't say anything for a moment. The promoter turned a page in his document, as if in triumph.
"You should understand that, unless you pay us what you promised, we won't come back here," she said, taking up the argument on their behalf. "We won't wrestle for you again."
The promoter looked up at her, and then he began to laugh.
"I'm sorry, what were your names again?" he asked, in between cackles. "I'll try to make do without you. Have a safe drive back to… Munich, was it?"
"Berlin," Tomas corrected, pointlessly. The promoter didn't say anything else, and the pair left.
In the car, neither of them said anything for quite a long time. Eventually, Margot stopped asking them what was wrong from the back seat and fell asleep. Tomas' eyes had been fixed on the road in front of him for the best part of an hour.
"If you say it, you've got to follow through," he said, finally. He seemed to be speaking mostly to himself. "We can't wrestle for him again."
Tomas was prone to giving people advice, but Michelle couldn't really determine whether this utterance qualified as such. It was, in a cynical twist of fate, certainly the most long-lasting and prevalent lesson she'd draw from anything he'd ever say to her. This was true even though it wasn't meant as a lesson when so much of what he spewed was. The idea of retreading familiar steps was one that she had avoided by rule, with the lonely exception being her return to Berlin. Even then, she was somewhat dragged there, although she put up little struggle, a willing victim to that period of anonymity.
The opportunity never presented itself for her to reject an offer of work from that nameless little promoter in Dusseldorf. Perhaps it still would, if he was alive somewhere. But this idea of always looking forward had applied to everywhere she'd worked since. She had, after all, only come back to North America when the CWA was dead and she'd outlived it. Looking back, she wasn't sure if this was cowardice.
Only now was she beginning to apply this inadvertent lesson to opponents as well as employers. For so long her inability to do so had cost her so much. More than just matches and titles. It was a marvel, really, that Gerald had stuck with her despite everything. She could see he still struggled with it, but she was committed to the team. Committed to their run with the championships. She'd meant everything she'd said in London: this was to be a historic reign, that will be spoken of in the same breath as the recent giants of the division. She owed that much to Gerald, and would drag him to that legacy kicking and screaming if she had to.
She found a clearing within the market stalls where a wrestling ring was being erected, and lit a cigarette whilst sitting in the top row of the surrounding bleachers. She determined not to allow any memory from her past - recent or near-forgotten, in any of the phantom-forms her demons and allies liked to take - get in the way of what she was building with Gerald.
****
She'd spent only a small part at the start of her day considering whether or not she would meet Tomas. The memories they'd built had subsided far, but still they were strong. She was usually wary of figures from her past emerging now that she was, for want of a better term, a household name. But Tomas had been there during the earliest and most humble days, when the first bricks of the foundations of Michelle von Horrowitz were being laid. When they were seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, they had been cut from similar cloth. Destined for similar heights.
At least, that is how the two of them saw it when they'd sat in his loft, freezing cold with the windows open, the room full of smoke and stinking of cheap booze. She had a habit of seeing twinned souls, and an interest in mapping their trajectories. Observing parallels. Bell Connelly was the most obvious example, but not the only one. Snowmantashi and Parr, too. And it was the case with Tomas back then, at the beginning of it all. She found it peculiar that she reexamined Tomas again as a twinned soul now, a decade and a half later, on a cold afternoon and evening in Köln. But that was how fate worked. The luck of the draw.
Now that Tomas sat opposite her at Vorbild, she realised that any parallels between the two were ill-founded or - at their every least - visible only in infancy. Time had separated them as much as any ocean.
"I didn't think I'd see you again," he was saying, as he shovelled more of his main course - a dry looking steak that came with both fries and a salad - into his mouth. "I don't really watch much wrestling nowadays, but I knew you were still going. I saw your name on the posters for the markets. My company is doing some work there."
Michelle didn't say anything. She hadn't ordered anything to eat, either. She only drank, and stared at the bald man Infront of her with passive eyes. It was difficult to believe that this was the same man she'd seen arrested in front of the Bundestag in 2009. She remembered that every molecule of his being had been replaced between then and now, so maybe he wasn't the same person anyway. The thought both reassured and scared her.
"I run a food truck company that's working the markets," he said, answering a question that she didn't ask. He'd already told her about his dull wife and his dull children, and now he was moving onto his dull job. "So maybe I'll get to see you wrestle again. See if you've learned anything since our time together."
He smiled to himself, and Michelle sensed unearned wistfulness. He reached for his wine and took a satisfied sip. Michelle wondered what she was doing there.
It was as Tomas explained to her the intricate workings behind a food truck business - the ordering, the contract negotiations, of course the actual preparation of the food, etc - that Michelle realised she was possibly (probably) the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him. That wasn't meant to be in any way self-aggrandizing. More a denouncement of the banality that surrounded this shell. This passive shell of a man she used to know, who used to be so vibrant and prone to hostility. She wondered if it was the same for the rest of them: for Margot and Karina and the others, whose names escaped her now. She wanted to know, but she didn't want to have to find out.
"I saw you'll be facing Mike Parr," the bald shell was saying, as he placed his cutlery down on his plate and leant back in his chair. His stomach involuntarily protruded over his belt, obnoxious and glaring. Michelle recoiled from it. "I read about you two. Can't imagine it's a match you're looking forward to."
She didn't enjoy speaking about these things with Gerald, let alone a man who was now a perfect stranger. She thought about standing up and leaving, though she didn't. Instead, Michelle just sat in front of the shell, occasionally sipping her drink, but saying next to nothing at all.
The notion that she'd be facing her old rival Mike Parr had of course been playing on her mind as of late. But it didn't light the same fire beneath her as it perhaps once would have. Back in 2020, the hunt for Parr became her everything, building a monopoly on her mind and clouding her judgement. It had cost her and Gerald the tag team championships, perhaps. It had distracted her from the match against Bell Connelly that she'd requested for half a year. It had delayed the real hunt, of Saint Sulley and of the FWA World Championship, whilst Parr's trivial jealousies were addressed. It was, ultimately, a waste of time, but one in which she poured every ounce of her heart, to the detriment of everything she'd built up until that point.
But now? Mike Parr did not seem to her to be the same opponent that he was when she had gone to war with him. A pointless war, yes, but a war none-the-less. Much like the bald man in front of her was a shell of the daring, bold boy she'd entered into adulthood with, the Mike Parr she would face in Köln was the same Prodigy of Desert Storm and NOLA in name only. A shadow of his own past, whose last attempts to grasp at power seem like a whimper in a hurricane. His fourth reign with his favourite trinket was his being in microcosm: a suggestion of a glorious past now long gone, a faded memory.
But just like the memories of those first goodbyes to Berlin amplified and compounded the silent loneliness of the second set, her recollection of those battles with the Prodigy did the same now. She lamented the limp affair that awaited her, knowing what they had put each other through before. But it wasn't the same. They had both changed. The years take their toll.
She should have resisted her own heart when Jean-Luc suggested Berlin in 2017. Memory is a difficult thing. She expected to find the happiness here that she'd once known, waiting for her with little or no effort required in return. She should've realised how naive she was. The memories of Berlin should have remained memories, fading over time, and yet more colourful as a result. She wouldn't make the same mistake with Parr.
Eventually, when her glass was empty, she did leave without much of a goodbye. On the way home she saw an old dog, chasing its own tail.
****
The walk back to the boat from the city seemed longer than the same journey made in reverse that morning. By the time she reached the river she was already plodding, and it was another kilometre or so before she reached the familiar deck of the S.S. Sisyphus. The captain was in situ, sitting on his chair with a bottle of German beer in his hand. He wore his hat low over his eyes, and it was difficult to tell if he was awake. It was late, the moon already high, the sun having given up on the world and deserted it. Michelle shuffled from foot to foot, the boards creaking beneath her shifting weight.
The sound was enough to prompt the slow-moving captain to lift his free hand and raise his cap. His eyes were open and knowing, and he smiled when he saw Michelle.
“Have you moved from here at all today?” Michelle asked. The question seemed to amuse him, but he elected not to answer it.
“Did you meet Tomas?” he said, in his manner of responding to a question with another. She didn’t think for a second that he was interested in the answer. His deflection was obvious.
“Yes,” she answered, plainly. She retrieved her packet of cigarettes and offered one to the captain, who took it gladly.
“Did you learn anything?” he asked.
She thought about the only notable resolution that she’d made whilst drinking with Tomas, and that did not revolve around the blonde boy that Tomas used to be, or the bald, uninspiring man that he was now. It related to Mike Parr, and her unwillingness to once more allow the Prodigy to occupy space within her life. It didn’t seem much, and she trusted that she would’ve come to this conclusion herself without the help of Tomas and his disappointing company at some point over the next week.
She rarely ever learned anything, these days.
“Not really,” she said. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:33:22 GMT
Promo history - volume 96.
"Bowling Shoe Ugly." (November 28th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz, Uncle J.J. JAY!, Thomas West, Quiet, Harry the Sane Wizard, and Maid of Death def. Gabrielle, Kayden Knox, Blair Ravenwood, Celestia Ravenwood, Doug LuPone, and Dan LuPone [Six-On-Six Tag Team Match] (FWA: Meltdown XIII).  THOMAS WEST, HARRY THE SANE WIZARD , MAID OF DEATH, QUIET, UNCLE J.J. JAY!, and MICHELLE von HORROWITZare[CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]in"BOWLING SHOE UGLY."****
Surprisingly, she never met Uncle under clandestine circumstances when they were upon Earth. It was always somewhere out in the open, with lots of footfall and prying eyes, generating word of mouth regarding the peculiar band of people that were seen in some peculiarly public location. Some of this was hiding in plain sight. Uncle was invariably into some nefarious shit, but he wanted to present to the world the notion that he wasn't into any nefarious shit. He felt that by often appearing in coffee shops or theaters or - as was the case tonight - bowling alleys, he was helping along the idea - held by exactly nobody in this or any other galaxy - that he lived a mundane, normal life. Another part of this was his will to observe and interact with humanity at every juncture. Michelle could only understand the observation part of this. She liked being around people but abhorred the concept of speaking to them. Perhaps Uncle saw these endeavors as a constant recruitment drive. Or maybe he was just more curious than she was. The five Nephews assembled had already finished their first game of bowling, and a buxom Earth waitress was busy setting down a tray of drinks. She collected in the empties from around the lane, suggesting that the group had been having a decent enough time of it without her. She eyed up each of the five drinks in turn: a whiskey sour for Thomas, fruity cider for Uncle, a neat double vodka in a tall glass for Quiet, red wine for the Maid, and a Fritz Cola for Harry. Each of them greedily took their glasses and offered up a quick cheers before eagerly drinking their chosen poison. Only then did Uncle notice the addition to the pentagon (now a hexagon). "Ah, Dreamer!" he began, whilst waving at the waitress for her to return. "You missed the first game! Thomas ran away with it, I'm afraid. But Harry gave him a good fight.""It's easy with the bumpers up," Thomas put in, narrowing his eyes in the direction of the young wizard. "Now, now!" Uncle said, admonishingly. "We congratulate each other's accomplishments in the Nephews. Some people are just… more natural bowlers than others. Harry did a great job, bumpers or no bumpers! Ah, here you are. A Heineken, please!"The waitress made a note on her pad and disappeared as Michelle took a seat next to Quiet. Harry was busy adding her name to the list of players ahead of the second game. "Feels weird doing this without Gerald," Michelle offered, whilst glancing around the group. "Blame Russnow for that," Uncle deflected. Dreamer noticed that he almost spit out the authority figure's name. "Besides, Gerald would understand better than anyone why we didn't ask him to come bowling. He's not in the match, so his presence here would be a distraction. We have to focus on ourselves, Nephews! On our portrayal and our development!""So… bowling?" she asked. "It's worked before," Thomas said. "Thomas chose bowling," Uncle went on. "But the venue is irrelevant. We could just as easily have held our moot in a forest as a surface level homage to the Lumberjacks, or at a seance for the Coven, but these are the tricks of teams less comfortable in themselves as we Nephews.""Gerald and I went to a forest last week," Michelle pointed out. "My point exactly," Uncle answered. "You forgot Bad Reputation," Harry pointed out, as he reached for his ball. The bumpers clicked up on the side of the lane. "No, I didn't," Uncle said. "The forest is to the Lumberjacks as a seance is to the Coven as what is to Bad Reputation? A boardroom? That wasn't the case before this whole failed Executive Excellence experiment. There's nothing to tie Kayden Knox and Gabrielle so neatly together, so disparate as they are."Harry sent his ball whizzing down the lane, careering this way and that through a combination of physics and spellwork. It collided with the barriers either side of the lane a total of five times before clattering into the pins, knocking seven of them down in the process.
 Harry smiled to himself, but found that the smile quickly faded away thanks to the peculiar manner in which the eighth pin teetered, tottered, and then remained in place. Seven was a fine enough score, and he wasn't particularly bothered that an additional pin hadn't been added to his count. Instead, this peculiar motion resonated with him because he felt as though he had observed it before. A long time ago, in an all-together different dimension. It was his birthday party. He was turning perhaps eight or nine, and gathered around him were his parents, along with almost a dozen similarly aged children from the local wizarding elementary school. He couldn't remember any of the kids' faces, but - of course, for they were the ones who accompanied him on many of his earlier, perhaps happier years, before he was kidnapped by Uncle - the visages of his mother and father were still firmly etched in his mind. He had flung his ball down the aisle, watched it hit the bumpers a total of five times, before smashing seven of the pins onto their sides. The eighth teetered, tottered, and then remained in place, just like it would on a different Earth a handful of years in the future, in an all-together different dimension. "You needed eight to win," Crispin said. Crispin was a boy who lived a few doors down from Harry and his parents, who possessed dreams - even at this early age - of growing up to be an assassin-mage. "The day belongs to Crispin! Shame about it being your birthday and all."The other boy took a bite from his ice cream bar, and Harry narrowed his eyes. He'd recently been experimenting with some food spells, and almost without thinking he muttered an incantation that turned the vanilla ice cream in Crispin's hand into a concoction of walrus bile, honeydew melon, and fermented eggplant. The boy heaved, before dropping the rest of his victory treat onto the ground.
"Seven's a fine score, Harry!" Uncle declared, as Harry waited for his ball to return through the chute. The Sane Wizard's eyes drifted to Thomas, waiting for him to make some wisecrack and wondering what spell could be applied to his whiskey sour if he did. "And you've still another throw of the dice. That's what I admire most about you, Harry: your perseverance.""Kayden Knox is pretty perseverant, too," Thomas pointed out, as he watched Harry's hackneyed bowling style on his second throw of the frame. "He's spent years at the mercy of every Tom, Dick, and Harry that fancies trying their hand at manipulation. Each of them has tried to knock some sense into his head, but he keeps on coming back."Harry threw his ball again, managing to find the gap between the remaining pins after the obligatory rebounding from bumper to bumper. "He even beat you, remember?" Thomas finished, with a coy smile. "..... …. …….. …..," Quiet added. "Yes, I don't need reminding of that sorry little interlude," Uncle said, whilst waving them off. "It's safe to say that was a low point in my FWA career, Nephews, and it's never good to dwell upon the troughs. But that Kayden is different to this one. He at least had an air of independence about him. Not like he is now, the lapdog for some quickly-expiring relic."It was the Maid's turn to bowl, and she at least managed to throw it down the middle of the aisle. Her more classical style didn't bring with it reward, though, with only five of the pins toppling onto their side. Michelle looked up at the scoreboard, and only then did she realize that just five names were listed, with the masked man's omitted from the game. "Not playing?" she asked. ".'. …. ……..," Quiet said, with his arms folded.
 As he waited patiently for his turn, Thomas glanced across the faces of the team that were assembled around him. It was only a small subset of the many, disparate beings that called themselves Nephews, dispersed across the universe in various hidden pockets of far-flung galaxies. The crew around him now was utterly interchangeable, the podcast host thought, but it was the one that had been assigned to him - ahead of their oncoming confrontation on Meltdown - by a man he happened to think very little of. Neither did Uncle. At least they had that in common. He'd always been a gifted bowler, and had always enjoyed playing the game. Ever since his time at the University of the Singularity. Uncle hadn't been around, then. The COSMIC HORROR was the one paying for his studies, and the one who had got him into the school in the first place, so he was 'there' in a sort of omnipotent creator sort of role, but it was one of the few extended periods of time that he'd spent without him. It stuck out amongst his memories, chiefly for this reason. Even though he was yet to truly be a Nephew, and hadn't spent countless years in the company of Uncle and his ever-revolving crew, a young ish Thomas West still found himself at the mercy of other peoples' whims. It was always the case, even during his CWA days. He couldn't really remember the faces of those he'd studied with… those he'd bowled with. Bringing them to focus now, decades later, in his memory was an impossible task. There were a few exceptions, of course. The foremost amongst them being Professor —--, who had guided him through those years in ways that were indescribable. He could see her now, standing in the high window of the Tower of Benedin, the Sands shifting in their great array around the Point of Singularity. It was a moment that would remain to him, even when all other moments had faded away, swallowed up by the very thing he'd spent his life trying to master. She had her back to him, bedsheets pulled up around her, her olive green skin shimmering in the candlelight. She turned to face him.
Uncle stood in front of Thomas and smiled, recognising that his companion was locked in a deep reminiscence. He passed his hand in front of his face and then gently clicked his fingers, the podcast host promptly snapping out of it with a few rapid blinks and a sip of his whiskey sour. Luckily for him, it still tasted like a whiskey sour. Harry was merciful. "It's your turn," Uncle said, nodding at the pins. As Thomas busied himself in collecting his ball, JAY! took up position in the adjacent lane, blocking the progress of the children's birthday party that occupied it. "Just like we have nothing to fear from Executive Excellence, who have fled the scene in the face of a confrontation with Dreamer, and only a short time after I spent months showing the Chessmaster up as the Draughtsman that he is… the same is true of these Brothers LuPone. Dreamer and GiGi have beaten them both already, and I don't fear anything new from either team here in Nuremberg.""You're being too flippant again, Uncle," Harry protested, as Thomas returned from bowling a strike. "Kayden's always had your number, and let's not forget that he spiked you on your dome again last week in Koln..."Uncle rubbed the back of his head, as if the mention of the assault caused it to throb. "I'd rather we didn't speak about that," Uncle said. "And even if Gerald and Michelle have beaten them before," Thomas posited, whilst Dreamer prepared to take her shot. "You can't expect the Lumberjacks to come back with the exact same thing again. And these three teams together… I don't know, there's too many variables. It's an unknown quantity.""But you love chaos, Thomas!" Uncle said, whilst throwing his arms in the air. A healthy measure of his drink ended up over a nearby bowler. "Sounds like exactly the sort of challenge we need. You've said it yourself: too much time on the sidelines. The gears need to grind.""I don't like the Coven," Harry put in, whilst sipping his cola. "You mean you don't like other people being able to do magic," Thomas said. "That's exactly what I mean," Harry replied, with a shrug. "Nullifies our advantage.""We're up to it," Uncle said, nonchalantly. "We've got Harry, we've got me, and we've got the Maid…"At that moment, all eyes turned to the Maid, who had remained oddly silent throughout the dialogue. Her only movements had been to take her shots, which she did dutifully but absently. Right now, she stared up the lane, carefully regarding Michelle as she missed the one pin that remained in front of her on her second shot.
 In her mind, she was somewhere else entirely. This was normal. She stood on the shores of the Khur'oqq Lake, the tide rampant and volatile and seemingly confrontational towards her specifically. Her katana, planted in the sand, was splattered with warm Tyrog blood that smouldered upon the blade. She would clean it in the sea later on, when the twin blood-moons had ascended in the night's sky. For now, though, her eyes were locked open the small fishing boat being pushed into the sea. The girl that pushed it was young and frail, the powerful currents too much for her tender frame to negotiate alone. The Maid helped her, silent and motionless, from the shore. The black clouds folded in on themselves, a grim visualization of the heavens' anger. She wondered if it was directed at her, and the things that she'd done today. The latest in a long list of atrocities against her name since she'd first come to the system. It felt longer than it had been. A lone bolt of lightning, violent and sudden and hostile, burst forward from the black clouds. It struck the face of the water, not too far from the boat and the shore. A mushroom cloud of water was sent upwards from the point of impact. Thunder rumbled overhead, a harbinger of doom. She stood alone, now that the girl had gone. Or was going. Was in the process of going. Her whole body ached from recent battle, the weight of her blood-stained armor unusually heavy upon her. Finally, the girl had the boat far enough out to unfurl the sails. She looked as though she might become tangled in the ropes, but she had some skill with them. The boat heeded her calls. She held her steady, close enough to be seen but too far to be heard.
"I guess she agrees with me," Uncle affirmed, when it was clear that the Maid had no intention of replying. "She would usually agree with me.""The fact of the matter remains that we're entering the ring with three teams that we've never seen interact before," Thomas reasoned, in-between sips of his drink. "All united in their hatred of us, thanks to what Dreamer had us do in Rotterdam.""We've faced that before," Uncle reasoned. "And we've lost to that before," Thomas replied. "I don't want to lose again. Not this close to Mile High Massacre.""Shouldn't be called Mile High Massacre," Uncle posited, with a derisive snort. "Sea-Level Sadism," Harry suggested. "Kilometer High Khaos," Thomas countered. "Russnow likes misspellings," Harry allowed. "Regardless of what it is or should be called," Thomas went on. "The tag team championships are the only belts we have left. And all of these teams want to take them from us.""They're just the beginning of it," Michelle interjected. She was fully aware that Russnow had neglected to announce the full field for the forthcoming Mile High Massacre match, and that others besides the three teams in this contest were lining up for a shot at her and Gerald. And then, of course, there were those who said the biggest threat to the Connection's tag team championship reign was the Connection themselves. They said it often and they said it loudly, and Michelle couldn't help but hear it. Uncle only now moved out of his position blocking the adjacent lane so that he could take his turn. He picked up the heaviest ball that the alley had, but turned around to face his Nephews before taking his shot. "It pains me to see this sort of shortsightedness from my Nephews," he began, whilst gesticulating with the obscenely heavy bowling ball held between his fingers. His tone was becoming more stern, and Michelle adjusted herself uncomfortably in her seat. Quiet was still next to her, and was unmoving, having heard it all before…
 "It pains me to see this sort of shortsightedness from my Nephews," Uncle said, on the bridge of the Octopi (which was, back then, the only Octopi, and thus didn't require numbering). Quiet's eyes scanned the earnest countenance of Uncle, who was at least sincere in that this small-scale mutiny was causing him pain. Quiet wasn't a part of it, but was aware of the other Nephews' plan to confront Uncle about their grievances that evening. The three of them were all on the bridge, side by side so as to show unity, with Kilkenny the most forthright and obstinate of the bunch. The other two looked at the large Irishman for leadership, hoping that he might say something that would cause Uncle to instantly cave and give in to their demands. "It's 1987, Uncle, or at least it is back on Earth..." Kilkenny said in his thick, Irish accent. He'd been with Uncle for half a decade, now, and had proven useful in a pinch more than once. If there was a barfight in the vicinity, it was handy to have a man like Kilkenny on your side. And it was obviously the case that Uncle was the sort of COSMIC HORROR who frequently found himself in the vicinity of barfights. "There are some things that we as a workforce should expect.""Like decent healthcare," said Vorres the Newt, who had joined the crew during an adventure in the Newt Complex in the Fifth Quadrant beyond the Crease. Vorres knew her way around a cockpit, but the benefits of this were all-too-often negated by her constant whining on the subject of universal healthcare. "And how about you let one of us choose the adventure every now and again," said Brokus, between the heavy, labored breaths he would routinely take whenever he was obliged to talk. His hulking figure shook beneath the weight of his shell. He'd been standing on his hind legs for too long, to the point of exhaustion, which was a testament to how firmly held his grievance was. Uncle looked at each of them in turn, his disappointment growing and growing, until finally this consternation gave way to a broad, almost proud smile. "Well, Nephews, if that is indeed the will of the people, then so be it. I'll have Alphonse begin to look into the proper paperwork back on earth for this healthcare concept you speak of… although, to be honest, it doesn't sound particularly anarchistic. But if it's what you really want, Nephews, then it's what you shall have. Just as soon as we're finished up here on Merellex. The last vortex should be closed tomorrow morning, and then we'll make a beeline for home to face off with all this glorious bureaucracy. A worthy foe!"By this stage, Quiet - in some form or another - had already been with the Nephews for over a decade, and had come to understand the nuance in Uncle's tone and pitch that often belied his true meaning. He was, it didn't need to be said, a master orator, and had an uncanny ability to lead even the most cynical and critically-minded listener down almost any garden path. The next morning, Uncle and Quiet sat alone in the bridge of the Octopi, their trajectory indeed set for Earth but their load around three hundred and fifty kilograms lighter. "... …. .. ….?" the masked man asked, whilst adjusting a set of dials "Yes, the last vortex is closed," JAY! affirmed. "The others are investigating the other side of it. We'll check on them in, I don't know, thirty five years or so. See if they've had a change of mind."Quiet nodded, and thought about the Nephews he'd already known. The ones that had left, the ones that had been discarded, and the ones that - in some tragic circumstances - had ceased to exist altogether. And the many more that had come and gone since, all of whom had given Uncle considerable pain with their shortsightedness.
"But it seems to me," Uncle continued, with his bowling ball still lifted in front of him, as if it was a human skull and he was Hamlet. "That my Nephews are unable to see the proverbial woods through the proverbial forest, if you'll allow me that one cheap pun in the direction of our Lumberjack friends. You fear the chaos that comes with our opponents being three separate entities forced to unite beneath one common banner… a banner of hatred for us poor Nephews, which is the cheapest of all banners. But you look past the fact that we, each of us, are in fact similarly different… in our backgrounds, in our physiology, in our ambition… even in our memories..."As Uncle said this, Michelle found herself catching momentary glimpses of different images: she was at a children's birthday party… in a high tower, staring at sand shifting around space… on the shores of a storm-stricken lake… alone aboard the Octopi, decades in the past. She hadn't a moment to consider these flashes before they disappeared, and Uncle roared on in his monologue. "But whilst our opponents clutch at straws, attempting to sustain themselves on their sizable envy for ours truly, we are drawn together by one commonality: a commonality that we chose, and that chose us. I'm talking, of course, about each other. Thomas West cannot exist without Harry the Same Wizard, who is nobody without Quiet. Even Michelle von Horrowitz, who was once a lonesome, abstracted figure, cannot now be thought about without consideration of Cthulhu's Nephews. We are the one true unit in the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance. We shouldn't fear our opponents because of the chaos that their differences bring… they should fear us, because of the chaos we conspire to create together."With that, Uncle turned and hurled the extraordinarily heavy bowling ball down the alley. It bounced twice with a pair of large thuds before finding its way into the gutter. "I'm sick of bowling," Uncle said, as he turned back to the group. "I think it's about time we went on another adventure.""There's still eight frames left," Harry pointed out. "Okay," Uncle conceded. "But soon." [CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]
… will return in …
"A LONG-AWAITED ADVENTURE!"
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:34:46 GMT
Promo history - volume 97.
"Three Dreams." (December 3rd, 2022).
Alyster Black def. Michelle von Horrowitz (FWA: Meltdown 023). MICHELLE von HORROWITZin[VOLUME NINETY SEVEN]
”THREE DREAMS.”[ one ]
Hanging with them big pigs… all them dogs…
Got me a couple ideas, straight from God…
The unfortunate symphony continued, its maestro, though he held no batons, giddily allowing it to enter its second verse. He was revelling in it, as if he'd forgotten what this sort of adulation felt like and wanted to savour it whilst it lasted. Whether it was due to geographic proximity to his birthplace or her deep unpopularity with the American people, the crowd had picked their horse and was letting him know it. They sang him to the ring, as if he was their hero, and she the monster he'd been sent to slay. She smiled to herself. It would be nice for the monster to win for once.
He climbed into the ring and - from her seated position in the corner, with her head propped up against the second turnbuckle, as was now her custom before a match - her eyes fixed upon the gold adorning his shoulder. It was exactly as she remembered it, although a full year had passed since she'd lost it to Thomas at the end of one of the shortest reigns in FWA history. There was more to do, here. Climbing the mountain twice only to promptly lose her footing on the peak left a bitter taste in her mouth. Twelve months was a long time to wait. But it would be worth it.
The Grand March. Last year, she entered this event alongside Gerald, even though they were due to compete against one another in its main event. In truth, that is where a lot of the problems with Gerald started, even if it had ended well for her. She'd overcome Nova that night to start her ill-fated second reign. Tonight, a year on, she had no idea where Gerald was. That was the case most nights, now.
In that moment, seated in the corner as this handsome champion lifted his handsome belt above his head, Michelle didn't think of any of this. Gerald was far from her mind, as was Nova and Thomas. Even Uncle. She only had eyes for the man in front of her, parading his prize as if the belt was a placeholder for tailfeathers. He turned to face her, a smile on his face and a glint in his eye.
He felt it, too. She knew this to be true.
It had been a long time coming. Almost two years, really. Cat and mouse, and no real way of telling which was which. All leading to this moment, like she knew it would the moment the F1 was announced. Like he thought it would at Back in Business, when he waited in his locker room for the Carnal Contendership, his victory already clear in his mind and ready to be made real. But each turn in the road, each time this encounter was denied them, only served to make this moment more sweet. More perfect. It didn't happen then, but it was happening now. Their ships had repeatedly passed in the night, but the morning had come. She could see clearly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one-fall, with a sixty minute time limit… and is for the FWA World Championship!”
As Kurt Harrington boomed out his opening salvo, whipping the crowd up into further frenzy, she reached up and grasped the top rope with her outstretched hands. She closed her eyes. Felt the cable’s tautness. When she opened them again, the man in black and white was collecting the gold from a champion seemingly unwilling to let it out of his sight. She knew the feeling. He sensed that his grip upon the summit was precarious. He wished to elongate the moment. But moments can’t be grasped in the same manner as a ring rope. She pulled herself onto her feet.
“Introducing first, the challenger… representing Cthulhu’s Nephews…”
She couldn’t hear much of the rest of it. The boos began as soon as the moniker of her chosen clan escaped Harrington’s lips. They didn’t let up until he’d finished, the tail end of Horrowitz just barely audible over their settling clamour. Usually, this would be her cue to hurl some obscenities haphazardly into the air, hoping the wind would carry them to as many of the trogs as possible. Tonight, she simply stared ahead of herself. At the man at the end of this long road, which they’d both walked but separately. Alone with everybody.
“And introducing the champion… representing Executive Excellence…”
And he, the handsome man, stared back at her, and she could sense in him the same riptide of emotion. A sense of pending closure, to be enjoyed with uncertainty at the end of the battle to come.
He didn’t move a muscle, even as the roars grew into a tidal wave. It washed over them, and still they remained unmoved.
Finally, the bell rang. It was beginning. It was here.
She began to circle the ring, matching his motions. It was the opening movements of what she hoped would be a long dance. They had waited for years, after all. There was no need to rush.
The opening lock-up was oncoming, the champion looking for a gap in her stance as he came towards her, when a masked figure, clad all in black, rolled into the ring. He stood up, his frame instantly recognisable but causing a ripple of confusion through the packed arena. He looked at the handsome man, and then at Dreamer. The two dancers had paused their foreplay and were backed away from one another, their momentum stayed by this unwelcome interloper.
After what seemed like an eternity but, in ‘reality’, was only a few seconds, the masked man reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a revolver. He pointed it at the handsome man and, without hesitation, put ten grams of lead through the left size of his skull. The champion was already on the ground before the bullet lodged in his brain, his arm twitching and a pool of blood gathering beneath his head.
The assailant turned on Michelle - who stared up at his large figure with a lack of surprise… a dull, passive acceptance - and fired a second bullet into her stomach.
She fell back into a seated position, her head propped up against the second turnbuckle.
…
…
She awoke to the familiar sight of the inside of her cabin, dull and drab and small, and now with an overhanging odour of stale sweat and spilled whiskey. It was the same musty aroma that she’d come to expect from herself during her time on the boat. She adjusted her position on the narrow bunk, her eyes immediately drawn to the crack - now a fissure, really - on the ceiling of the cabin. She imagined that her whole hand could fit between the gaping, growing jaws hanging above her head. She only imagined this because there was no way she would be checking that theory. The jaws, as she’d come to call the widening chasm that loomed above her bed, seemed particularly hostile that morning. She wasn’t bold enough to run her fingertips along their splintered teeth, as she sometimes would. Instead, she rolled out of bed and pulled on her clothes.
The captain was in the process of docking up, keeping his promise of a dawn arrival in Vienna. She hadn’t enjoyed much of the German voyage. The canal wasn’t really made for a ship like the Sisyphus, and at times she pictured the captain as a modern day Fitzcarraldo, wrestling with his terrain to overcome this mammoth but ultimately silly task he’d assigned himself. She sensed easier passage was to come now that they’d emerged onto the wider Danube, and the casual, comfortable air about the captain this morning suggested he agreed.
"Happy to be in Vienna?" she asked, whilst lighting up her first cigarette of the day. Dawn wasn't far behind them, but her hours had shifted around without pattern as of late. The captain glanced up at her, pausing in his business to flash her a bright grin. The gaps between his teeth only added to its warmth.
"Vienna is a city I knew well," he answered. Although, of course, it wasn't really an answer. "And yourself?"
"First time," Michelle said, whilst sucking at her cigarette and looking over the small dockyard on the eastern edge of the city. She had forty eight hours to acclimatise herself before it would be time to move on again. It was never enough, it was always too much. "Any recommendations?"
"It's been a long time," he answered, his hands returning to the business of fastening the ship to the port. "I doubt many of my old haunts would still be open. And I forget their names. Other than…"
He paused, and Michelle fancied that she detected wistfulness in his tone.
"A place called Café Moritz. I remember it well, though I doubt it remembers me."
"We could go and find out?" Michelle offered. The words fell out of her mouth before she really realised what she's saying, but the idea of spending time off the ship with the old sailor wasn't intolerable. That in itself - to find someone whose company wasn’t to be thought of as a curse - was a rarity. But they had been travelling together for well over a month now, and she'd never seen the man off his own deck. Perhaps that was by design.
"Maybe some other city," the captain offered, elusive as ever. "I'd like my memories of Vienna to stay as they are."
She didn't say anything for a moment, but nodded.
"The crack in your cabin," the captain began. She'd almost forgotten that she'd mentioned it to him, it had been so long since he'd agreed to have one of the crew take a look. It felt strange to hear somebody else speak about it. It had grown into its role as her little secret, a private fear that nestled uneasily amongst all the others. "I had Gert take a look. It's not a significant crack. Nothing for you to worry about."
Easy for Gert to say, she thought to herself.
"Is there another cabin I could use?" she asked.
"Is the aesthetic that bad?" the captain replied, with a playful smile. "There are no more cabins, unless you mean to turf one of us out of ours, which would be a pointless endeavour. They're less extravagant than yours, and have cracks of their own."
"The ship is old," Michelle responded, repeating the captain's words from their dialogue in Köln.
"That's right," he said. His eyes seemed to add, almost as old as me.
She spent the day drinking in whatever bars she could find that were open at the unreasonable hours she expected them to be, and coffee shops when that pursuit was fruitless. In truth, her brooding wasn't befitting of a city like Vienna, which was for beauty and poetry and music. But she forced her surroundings to fit her mood, insisting upon a fog of gloom, even against a backdrop that cried out for sunlight. In a more frivolous mood she may have enjoyed the city, but this was presently an impossible endeavour. The confrontations she'd endured during her uneasy sleep the night prior made sure of that. Just like her Vienna was devoid of music, even her dreams deprived her of the dance that reality had casually and cruelly denied her as well.
It was also an insurmountable task to not allow her mind to follow its natural course: to dwell upon the dance that never was, that perhaps would never be. In truth, that had been the case for much of the European tour. Back in London, she'd relished the idea of not only facing her long-standing white whale - one in what was becoming a whole pod of them - at least once as part of this crumbling tournament, but also earning a chance to right past failures regarding the world championship in the process. Now, only one of those objectives remained to her, and important thought it was, the masked man was not her handsome one.
A half-remembered night more than two years ago, where both had drank themselves into oblivion and their collective memory into submission. A match over nothing in particular, besides a perhaps unearned mutual respect, for another company after her business there with the kaiju had run its course. These were their two interactions of note. It wasn't much, really.
The fact that she was one of the only people alive to know what Alyster Black looked like beneath the mask should've signified a closeness that in reality didn't exist. Her defeat at the man's hands could, under other circumstances, have constituted a crisis for her weak and addled mind. A deficit that could have spawned a vendetta. But it didn't.
She was even almost happy for him, when he triumphed in the battle royale and won the prize that had eluded him so frequently before now. Fifth time’s the charm. Almost, for she knew what any new champion, in the absence of the old one, meant for the dance her heart really longed for.
In truth, she didn't achieve anything useful or of note during her first day in Vienna, save perhaps the discovery of a small coffee shop in the corner of the Old Town. Nestled in-between a bakery and a chocolatier was Café Moritz. It looked old enough to be the one that the captain remembered and briefly mentioned that morning. She ordered a black coffee and a whiskey and sat in the corner, watching the steady stream of Viennese locals and tourists alike going about their Fridays independently but for a communal venture to the café.
A small plaque above the counter explained the store’s name. The building, along with the bakery, the chocolatier, and the small block of flats attached to the three terraced stores, had once been a movie theatre that showed German propaganda films. The cinema was heavily damaged by allied shells in the forties, and a large selection of it was reduced to rubble by the combined efforts of Churchill and Stalin. The legend went that a U.S. marine named Maurice Stoltsberg sat on this pile of stones following the German surrender with a flask of coffee, which he shared out between himself and any local that would talk to him. The Viennese called him Moritz, and soon enough monetized his myth with the creation of this very coffee shop.
The sun retreated early, giving up on the day before it had really found its feet. Michelle did the same, feeling sullen and uninspired.
…
…
[ two ]
"Do you know when you'll be able to wrestle again?" she asked, before sipping her wine and regarding the man in front of her. She had to be careful about doing so too often. She was worried she'd get lost in his handsome features, as she had done on so many nights before, mostly when he didn't even know she was looking.
"I don't know yet," he said, his thick and stubborn New York accent endearing through her rose-tinted glasses. "I see the doctors again this week. We'll have a better picture then."
Michelle stared about herself, at the handsome people in their handsome clothes, eating their expensive, elaborate meals whilst drinking wines she couldn't even pronounce the names of. Perhaps she should've felt out of place, but the man seated across from her, staring back at her with sparkling eyes, was the most exquisite of them all. He belonged here, and - by extension - she belonged, too. At least so long as she was on his arm.
"I'm glad you stuck around," she began, whilst draining another glass and then emptying the remnants of the bottle into it. "But it can't be easy, watching Alyster with your belt."
"He knows it's tarnished," he said, with a shrug. "He knows that he'll have to deal with me, when I'm whole again. But Alyster's not here tonight. And neither are your cronies."
"Yours, either," Michelle said. Danny flashed her another grin. She hadn't eaten, but had made up for it with the wine, which was good and flowed freely. "Although, judging from the place you chose, Jean-Luc is at least here in spirit. I worry that this might've even been his recommendation, which wouldn't sit well."
"Gabrielle's," the handsome man admitted. She felt better about this than the other theory. "You wanna get out of here, Dreamer?"
They emerged into a cold Vienna night, the Danube snaking around them as it meandered eastwards, the city a red carpet rolled out for only them. He lit them both a cigarette and led the way towards the nucleus, but Michelle stopped him at the mouth of the first alley they passed. She pulled him into it, reaching into the front pocket of her long, black coat. She fingered around for her coke, but paused in the wake of his gaze. His eyes, once merely sparkling, were now ablaze, and she sensed a stirring in him which awakened a similar one in her.
The moment, though infinite in itself, was broken by the cocking of a shotgun. Michelle turned to see the masked man emerging from the shadowy recesses of the alleyway, holding the large weapon in both of his hands.
The handsome man was still smoking his cigarette when the first shell found its way into his gut. Michelle didn't know which of the two to face, but neither choice would've made much of a difference. The second shell was unloaded into her shoulder, spinning her around and throwing her down onto the concrete next to the other. He didn't seem so handsome anymore.
…
…
The early morning wind was biting, and she huddled for warmth in her layers on the deck of the ship. The captain didn't want her to smoke below deck, and he'd been liberal enough about her peculiarities for her to follow the meagre restrictions he did place upon her. The dreams had conspired with the jaws on her cabin ceiling to drive her here, away from the false comfort of a dreamless sleep, on the deck of a ship in the biting early morning wind.
The ideas of guilt, complicity, and responsibility were prevalent in her mind as she leant against the front railing of the ship and lit a joint. She hoped it would be enough to rock her gently back to sleep, but her frenetic mind was conspiring to stop that. Accepting that Danny, champion of the world, would not be standing across the ring from her - either as part of the F1 or at the Grand March - wasn't an easy thing. Until now, the primary strategy she'd used to combat this growing disappointment, which would rapidly develop into a sense of being cheated out of a dance she was promised, was to keep her mind and body distracted. As always, that meant intoxicants and wrestling. It was most of the reason she’d entered into a series of pointless tag team matches alongside her tournament commitments. This strategy had worked for a good period of time, but now this bleak, sorry injustice had infiltrated her dreams. The lost dance with Danny Toner attacked her subconsciousness, finding the barriers of her waking hours too stubborn to break through.
She asked herself if she blamed Alyster. Her dreams certainly seemed to suggest that she did, but as she thought about it now - as she was forced to think about it now, by the betrayal of her subconsciousness - in ‘reality’ she concluded that she didn’t. She didn’t know enough about the handsome man’s injury to lay it at Alyster’s feet, and even if the masked one was responsible for it, it would’ve come about between the bells. There was no culpability there, when viewed through a reasonable lens.
Why, then, did she feel such a burning rage when she considered Alyster Black carrying the FWA World Championship to the ring to face her? Danny’s injury was, it seemed, Destiny’s intervention, once more insisting on keeping them apart. Once more, she found herself walking down a lonely trail. Once more, her trail was a different one to Danny’s, although she still felt in her heart that these twinned paths would lead them to the same place. Her rage, she mused, should therefore be directed towards Destiny, though her arms were too short for this fight. Destiny was more than human, but Alyster wasn’t: and, now, he was a manifestation of the anger and sorrow she felt about the promised dance… a promise repeatedly promised, and now trampled beyond recognition.
Not long after she had emerged onto the deck, she heard a series of stomps from the narrow, spiral stairway that led down to the cabins. Soon enough, the captain appeared through the heavy, iron door, wearing long-johns, no shirt, a heavy trench coat, and his hat. She wondered if he ever took the last of these off. She’d never seen him without it. He was only momentarily surprised that he wasn’t alone on the deck, and slowly sauntered over to his guest whilst reaching into his pockets for his smokes and a lighter.
“Up early, Frau von Horrowitz?” he said, as he approached.
“What time is it?” she asked, in return.
“A little after four,” the captain replied. “Or maybe you’re just getting in?”
“No, I was sleeping,” she said. “But now I can’t. You’re up early, too. It’s your night off, no?”
"These night voyages you insist upon," the captain said, whilst lighting a long, thin cigarillo that smelled of vanilla. "They have me up at ungodly hours. Not that I'm complaining. It's quiet at ungodly hours."
Michelle nodded. It had been quiet, until he'd arrived. She was acutely aware of the stench of her joint, but the captain didn't seem to mind. When he wasn't focussed on his cigarillo, he grinned at her in the curious way she'd grown accustomed to.
"And what's chasing you out here?" he enquired. "More cracks?"
"Just that same one," Michelle said. "And the dreams."
She didn't begrudge telling him that much, but stopped short of giving him specifics. They belonged to her.
"Ah, you're a dreamer?" he replied, whilst taking a seat in his chair. Michelle continued to stand, staring out over the docks. "I haven't dreamed in years. Maybe you'll grow out of it, too."
She finished her joint and stubbed it out in the old coffee cup at the captain's feet. It hadn't been emptied since Köln, and was two-thirds full. She didn't like to look inside it for too long.
"I found your café," she said, whilst holding the man's gaze. He had a kind face in the manner that most old people do, but she wondered what it was hiding. It seemed incomplete, though at the mention of the café she sensed desire within it. "In the old town? It's still there."
The old man had an air of nostalgia about him as he made his reply, pausing only to smoke thoughtfully from his cigarillo.
"It's good to know that it's still there," he began. "It's been more than half a century since I was last in Vienna, and the girl I knew… well, I don't know her anymore. Don't know if she's alive, even."
The wind howled. The moon hung above them, as if listening into their dialogue.
"What was her name?" Michelle asked, after a long silence.
"I can't remember," the old man replied. This made her sad.
"We could go tomorrow, if you're free," she suggested.
The captain dropped his cigarette into the old coffee can. He reclined in his chair, as if content to sit here a while despite the cold wind rolling across the river. He thought about the proposal for a while, and then nodded in affirmation. His smile seemed more peculiar than ever.
"Well, good night," she said, finally.
"You'll try to sleep again now?” he asked. She nodded, whilst stuffing her hands into the front pockets of her jacket. "I hope it's a dreamless one."
She remembered the look in the handsome man's eyes, and hoped it wouldn't be.
…
…
[ three ]
The last breath lingered. Caught in her lungs. Her body burned. A moment of ecstasy surrounds them, hanging upon a thread. The air was released from her in one drawn out motion, her hand positioned upon his thick chest for balance, her senses overwhelmed by a fragility that came with this rare vulnerability. Her other hand was in his hair, dampened by perspiration and the sea, his eyes alive again with the fire she'd once known in her waking hours. A fire now denied to her in that other world… that cold world. A fire rekindled here, wherever here was.
With heightened senses she felt everything about her: the retreating evening sun upon her back, the dry, soft sand that clung to her skin and that her feet had burrowed into during the tussle, the gently shifting weight of the man underneath her, the slow throb of him inside of her, returning to his natural state after the expenditure. Her heart lurched, all of her blood drawn to it, denying her proper use of the rest of her body. Her legs felt weakened to the point of uselessness. All she could manage was to roll off him, but focus on any other idea still eluded her.
The red sun was disappearing over the lip of the world out to sea, dusk gathering around them. The beach was still deserted, and shrouded from unwanted onlookers by the high sand dunes behind them. They were alone, truly for the first time, and in this place Michelle quite forgot that there was anything else at all over the dunes or across the sea.
Her breathing slowly regulated itself, but her body still ached. Roared for something more, something that he couldn't yet give her. The dance was incomplete. Words were beyond her. She managed only groans, and an occasional whimper. She rested a hand on her own hip bone, but a ripple of tension ran through her as she did, and she withdrew it as if her skin was boiling water. Only his touch tempered the heat.
He stood, abandoning her and her volatile body, denying her his soothing hands. She watched and then followed as he walked out into the sea. It was cold, but she braced herself and swam out. She began to regain control of her body, gradually but noticeably, as she struggled to keep pace with his powerful strokes.
Eventually, he stopped, and turned to her. They treaded water as the sun set. His eyes were sad.
She followed his sad eyes to the shore, where another man had punctured their sanctuary. This realisation drove the air out of her, just as the strength of the handsome man's untimely climax had. If he was here, he had come from without. That was enough for the dream to collapse in on itself. To collapse upon its Dreamer.
The masked man sat on the shore, in the spot where they had been overcome by each other. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his heavy trench coat, as if groping for something.
Dreamer began to swim to shore. It was time.
The handsome man grasped her arm.
"A little longer," he said.
…
…
Michelle sat with the captain in the courtyard in front of Café Moritz, and since they'd arrived she'd noticed that his peculiar grin had grown into something else entirely. He was still smiling, but his visage seemed a lot fuller than it had that morning. As if the translucent image had finally been given colour, and the nostalgia that occupied it until now was finally retreating from the foreground. He alternated between sipping his beer and sipping his coffee, a cigarillo rested in the groove of the ashtray between them.
"It doesn't matter?" she asked, whilst rotating her own glass in idle fingers. "That it's not her?"
"It matters," the captain said. |
|
|
Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:35:59 GMT
Promo history - volume 98.
"The Death of the Author" (December 18th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Vampyra (FWA: Meltdown XXIV). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME NINETY EIGHT]
”THE DEATH OF THE AUTHOR.”
*****
one.
The crack upon the ceiling of her cabin was no longer a crack at all. It now more closely resembled the opening to a cave, though it still evoked in Dreamer the image of hungry, gaping jaws. Through the conspiring efforts of her fear and the biting winter cold, she had little choice but to be silent, and in this silence she could almost hear a distant breathing from within these beckoning jaws. She pulled her bed clothes around her in a futile attempt to fight off the chill.
Despite her best efforts to remain utterly still, the room was unmistakably spinning, and her body was caught up in the gentle but inevitable movements. She could feel the lurching motions of the river beneath her, incessant and rhythmic and overbearing. Her boat suddenly seemed small and insignificant, and she knew that even the most gentle of Poseidon's barrages would sweep her absolutely to one side.
"Climb down," a voice said. It came from within the jaws, which now seemed to have shifted into a smile. She felt the intention was encouragement, but there existed a sinister undertone to the crack's sudden, unexpected speech. She began to realise that the cabin had rotated such that the jaws now groped and gaped from beneath her. She peered over the edge of her bed, down into the jaws, into the darkness that lay within. There was water down there, too. She heard it swirling and swelling and swilling around, as if she was peering into a great, open basin, and that they were moored atop an ocean when there should only have been a river.
"Climb down," she heard again. This time, the voice felt close. More urgent. "Come home."
She heard thunder from above. The storm that the hostile sky threatened for days was finally here. The captain had promised her that they were safe. They were docked in the city, and he'd survived worse storms out in the open sea. But she didn't feel safe, despite his warnings and protestations. She would've felt more comfortable with her feet on dry land. But that didn't feel like an option right now. There was only the thunder from above and the treacherous, shifting motions of the water from beneath, and the calm voice that came from the belly of the ship, yet somehow also from without it entirely.
Finally, with hesitation and trepidation, she gave into the simple command. She unfurled the bed clothes from around her and climbed down, lowering herself into the crack until she found a foothold within. There were steps there, leading down into a dark passage where she could hear nothing but the thin wheezing of her own drawn out breath.
Eventually, at the end of the passageway, she discovered the handle of a door. She pushed it open and emerged onto the deck of a ship, although not the modest vessel that she had hired to conduct her business along the European tour. Instead, she walked out onto the deck of one of the icebreaker ships that were filled with tourists all year round along the Moscow River. She'd been aboard one before, but now was altogether different in that she was alone on the deck, but for the suited and solitary figure with his back to her, overlooking the bow of the ship.
The boat gently powered through the frozen river, the biting cold and the brutalist architecture conspiring to bring about in her a memory of a time now long behind her… of a series of goodbyes that had turned out to be more final than she'd really expected in the moment. These memories brought to her mind the image of Jean-Luc, even before the man himself - or, more accurately, her memory of the man himself - turned around to greet her.
"You've finally come," he said, with a smile that wasn't exactly welcoming but was a modest approximation thereof. His features were gaunt, but that was in keeping with how she remembered him during this time. The time they'd spent together. "It took you long enough. Didn't think you'd ever climb down."
As he said these two last words, she heard them repeated in the voice that had spoken to her from within the crack. She shuddered at the thought that she was now inside those jaws. At their mercy. The voice was cold and harsh. It was not the same as Jean-Luc's, but it seemed to contain his soft voice within it alongside many others. All of them were known to Michelle. All of them still existed within her to varying extents. That gave her some indication as to where she was.
Climb down, they said. Come home.
"You are one of the last people I expected to find here," she said, whilst joining Jean-Luc at the bow of the ship. She stared over the edge, at the splintering sheet of ice that covered the surface of the water. She pulled her coat more tightly around her, shielding herself from the fierce winter cold.
"Oh?" Jean-Luc said, with a cocked eyebrow. "And why's that?"
"I asked you to stay away from me," Michelle replied. "When you first came back to work for your father. You've taken this request seriously. Even here, in what I can only assume is some sort of manifestation of my subconscious, I'm surprised to see you conversing with me so freely."
"Your subconscious is full of surprises, I guess," he suggested, playfully. "And I'm only here to guide you now, just as you looked to me for guidance in Moscow. I'm leading you back through the past, Michelle. Not to a place. Not even to a time."
"Where are you leading me?" Dreamer asked. Her sincerity made her sound lost, and endeared her to the guide.
"You'll know, when we get there," he said.
She noticed that they were clear of the city. In place of tall, ugly buildings, a wild countryside now rolled out either side of them. The river was wider now, too. The ship still churned through the ice, but it was suddenly thicker, and a gathering blizzard made their progress even slower. Soon enough they'd be halted completely, she knew.
"They're waiting to take you the rest of the way," Jean-Luc said. He nodded towards a set of steps that led to the lifeboats. "Climb down."
*****
two.
Two women waited for her at the base of the steps, sitting in a rowing boat but with no real intention of attempting to negotiate the frozen ocean and oncoming blizzard with the strength of their arms alone.
"We'll go on by foot," declared the older of the two, who Michelle immediately recognised but didn't think quite belonged here. Gabrielle stood up and climbed out of the boat, before leading the way onto the frozen surface of the ocean. The younger, masked woman offered Dreamer a shrug, before following after her. Michelle didn't feel as though she had much of a choice in the matter and dutifully tagged along. She was relieved to find the ice sturdy underfoot, though this didn't make her any less daunted about the frozen ocean that lay between their party and a distant island upon the horizon.
They could barely see this land mass through the blizzard that steadily strengthened as they trudged. The detail of it was lost to the poor conditions, but they could just make out the outline of what appeared to be a moderately large tropical jungle. There was also a mountain, but it was hidden beneath the dense patchwork of forestry that straddled its visible face. The luscious greenery looked out of place within the winter wasteland that the three women made their arduous trek across, and as such Dreamer felt sure that it was where they were heading.
"Whose island is that?" she asked. She had half a mind to assume that it was Rupert's, but she'd never been to the Granary, and could list the conversations she'd had with old R.W. on one hand. That didn't feel right. She felt a more personal connection to the place they were venturing towards than the professional one she had with Watkins.
"It's your island," Gabrielle said. Her tone was terse and cutting, suggesting that she perhaps didn't want to be here. Michelle wasn't offended by this. She didn't really want the Goddess to be here, either. It wasn't as though Montgomery had built up stature in Dreamer's head like so many others had. Her bond with Gabrielle wasn't all-encompassing and all-devouring like the ones she shared with Bell and Parr and the kaiju. The Goddess had been around for the majority of Michelle's time in the big tent, as she liked to call the FWA, and their paths had crossed more than a few times. This was to be expected, considering that their positions within the company were not all that dissimilar. But passing interactions, trivial as they were, didn't explain the Goddess' prominent place within this mental tapestry.
"Is she always like this?" the other girl asked, as she struggled to keep up with Gabrielle. Dreamer, in turn, was finding herself unable to keep pace with the youngest girl. She turned to face the masked woman, whose voice she was now hearing for the first time. Vampyra, Michelle thought. Her name is Vampyra. Although her presence within the dreamscape was even more inexplicable than that of the Goddess.
"I don't know," Michelle answered, honestly. "I don't really know her all that well. I'm not exactly sure what she's doing here, with me. The same is true of you."
The younger woman smiled a knowing smile.
"She represents the past," Vampyra said, as she continued to trudge through the gathering snow. "And I represent the future."
"My past?" Michelle asked, finding the explanation wanting. "My future?"
"The past and future of the life you chose," Vampyra clarified. "Of the art with which you've involved yourself in the shared creation of."
"Oh, so this is specifically about wrestling," Dreamer said. The masked woman nodded in affirmation. "That will be nice. These things are rarely ever about wrestling. It's a source of great consternation to some of the old-timers. Your friend up there, she's one of those who worries my dreams have too little to do with the art which we've involved ourselves in the shared creation of."
"So this is for her benefit?" Vampyra asked, curiously. They were a few paces behind the Goddess, and the younger but slower pair felt sure that she couldn't hear them. "Maybe you should stop worrying about what people like her think. The old-timers. Because you know those that come after you won't be recreating your steps. We'll find out own path, just like you did."
"You think that's why you're here?" Dreamer asked. Each step was difficult and hard-won, the snow climbing well beyond her calves and sometimes over her knees. "To tell me how flippantly and quickly the youth intend to do away with my legacy? That there's no point building something that will be disregarded so readily as soon as my back is turned?"
"I imagine I'm here because I'm your next opponent," she said, with another shrug. "And she is here because she was one of your last. There's probably nothing more to it than that."
They noticed that Gabrielle had come to a stop a few paces ahead of them, and that the once-distant island was now large enough to dominate the horizon. They had made more progress than she'd thought, it seemed. She hadn't noticed the incremental approach when they'd been forcing a path through the deep snow, but now it reared up before them, casting a shadow to almost where they stood. From afar the island has appeared alive and luscious, but now she noticed that the gnarled branches were bereft of leaves. All the greenery had fallen from the trees, and the dead leaves were being blown from the island by the cruel winter wind.
They arrived at the point where Gabrielle had stopped, and found her making a fire in the snow. Dreamer considered it a fool's errand, and was surprised when the woman's deft hands managed to kindle a flame. Shortly afterwards, they sat around the fire, holding their palms out towards it to warm them. Michelle didn't know how long the rest would last, but hoped it would be a little while longer.
"Vampyra tells me you're here to represent the past," Michelle said, eventually. The older woman winced at this summary, but didn't match either of the others' gaze or make a correction. Regardless, the Goddess seemed acutely aware that four eyes were trained upon her. "No offence."
"I'm sure you can feel it, too," Gabrielle mumbled.
"All I can feel is the cold," Dreamer replied. The blizzard was slowing down, she felt sure, but her bones still ached with the frost. The fire did little to prevent numbness spreading through her fingers. "What else am I meant to feel?"
"When I first arrived," the Goddess began, whilst keeping her eyes focussed on the dancing flames she'd brought to life. "I could do no wrong. My star was rising, and my novelty was fresh. Everything that I created was new... new and beautiful. But now?"
The Goddess spat into the snow. The expulsion froze up into a brittle mass as soon as it made contact with the ice.
"Now, that time is gone. To me, the things that I create and place in the world are just as fresh and real and tangible as they were a decade ago… as important as thoughts and commentary as the memories of earlier success… but to everyone else? I'm just a relic. And the same will happen to you, Michelle. It's already happening. I'm sure you can feel it, too."
Michelle said nothing, but the expression on her face must have given her away. Gabrielle let out a short, shrill, triumphant laugh.
"I guess you feel it," the Goddess cackled. "Don't worry, Dreamer. You had a good run. But time sweeps us all aside eventually. The flavour of the month passes its expiry date."
She let out another harsh laugh, and Michelle feared she might be smothered by it. She met Vampyra's eyes instead, and felt that they were kinder than the old woman's. Less jaded and cynical.
"Don't listen to her," the masked woman said. "I don't think she's right at all. Just because the next generation - your generation - disregarded her and her achievements, it doesn't mean the same thing is going to happen to you. I can only talk for myself but… I have nothing but respect for you, Michelle von Horrowitz. Respect for what you've already accomplished, and for what you still have left in you."
"How sweet," the Goddess scoffed. "That's what they all say, Dreamer. That's what you said to me, remember? Interviews in Caramel... what a joke! The truth of it, Michelle, is that the next batch of FWA hopefuls will only want you for one thing. They want to be the one that finishes you. The one that brings about your end. That's all."
None of the women said anything for a time. Vampyra narrowed her eyes in the direction of the cynical one, who was still chuckling to herself.
"Well, am I wrong?" Gabrielle asked. Vampyra didn't reply, and Dreamer came to the realisation that the Goddess probably wasn't wrong.
When the flames were extinguished by the remnants of the blizzard and the lingering cold, the masked woman began to prepare herself to leave. Dreamer followed suit. Something within her told her that she would walk within the shade of the naked branches before she returned to the real world. Gabrielle, however, remained seated, and watched the other women prepare to leave with a perplexed, nonplussed look on her face.
"Where are you going?" she asked, in the general direction of the youngest woman. Vampyra made no response, nor did she return the older guide's gaze. She only continued to make ready for the remainder of the journey. "You know that you can't go with her. The island is for her alone."
"I can take her to the shore," the masked woman said, defiantly. And with that, she turned away from Gabrielle and Michelle, and began to trudge through the snow again in the direction of the dead forest. The bitter, old woman simply stared down into the dying embers of her fire, and said no more.
When they got closer to the island, they found themselves wading not only through the frozen snow but also through a sea of displaced leaves from the barren branches. The snow had stopped completely now, and by the time the two women stood in the shade of the trees they could feel the bright sun at their backs.
"I can't go any further," Vampyra said. "You have to go on alone."
"Why are you helping me?" Dreamer asked. "Are you trying to prove her wrong?"
"I'm helping you because I know that she is right," the masked woman answered. "I'll wait for you. I can't go with you, but I'll be here when you're finished."
*****
three.
One Hundred Million Years Ago a Hero Crossed the Land.
Soon enough, the soundtrack of a whistling blizzard was replaced by the creaking of a forest. Without her guides, Michelle had no choice but to follow her own nose, which was a practice that had landed her in a considerable amount of trouble throughout her torrid life. There was no more snow underfoot, with it now replaced by dead leaves that crunched beneath her weight. She didn't think there was any need for quiet, considering there didn't seem to be another living soul for kilometres. She couldn't even be sure that she qualified as a living soul herself. She didn't know enough about this place to say anything about it for sure.
This particular myth, the myth of solitude, was dispelled rather quickly. After a brief tussle with the undergrowth, Dreamer emerged onto a dirt track and into the path of a swift motorbike. She managed to dive out of its way, aided in part by the quick reactions of its rider, who swerved out of her path at the last moment. The shifting of her weight, though, threw her out of the saddle, and she thumped hard against the dirt track as her bike skidded towards the nearby cliff edge.
"Shit, fuck, bastard, fuck, fuck, no," the biker said, as she tried in vain to collect the massive frame of her bike as it disappeared over the edge. Her voice sounded familiar. She placed her hands on the lip of the cliff and stared down after the vehicle, but her deep sigh suggested that it was beyond her reach.
The biker stood up straight and turned to face Dreamer, and only then did she realise that it was a projection of herself. A replica. The other was dressed for long travel, and had a baby strapped to her chest in a translucent, amber chamber. Scattered around her were a series of packages that had come loose in the near-miss, which the woman promptly began to collect and attach to her elaborate backpack. As she did, a strong memory of an adventure spent in this woman's boots filled Michelle's mind. They didn't quite feel like her memories, but she had lived through them none-the-less.
"You should watch where you're going," the traveller said, as she picked up the last of her packages. She approached Dreamer and sized her up, and something about the look in her eyes suggested she found her lacking.
"Am I going the right way?" Michelle asked. She was acutely aware of her need for a guide: on the ship, across the frozen ocean, and now upon the island. Even though it was hers, allegedly, she still felt as though she were lost, and that her heavy footsteps belonged to another.
"You're going the right way, and it's not far, now," the traveller said. "Do you remember me?"
"I remember you," came Dreamer's reply, as she began to follow the traveller up the dirt track. "You're me, aren't you?"
"Sort of," the traveller said. She was distracted by a dancing shadow in the distance. "There's someone up ahead."
"If you're not me, then who are you?" Michelle asked, demanding answers in the face of the other's elusiveness.
"I'm you, in that I'm your creation, and that you gave me the indomitable, independent spirit that you crave for yourself," the traveller answered, whilst leading the way. "In the moment that I was born, you were acutely aware of the looming solitude. There was no other option but to embrace it, and to pretend as if your lonesomeness was a badge of honour. You wished to believe you could thrive in your isolation, so you created me. An image of this success. The lonely walker, who may chance upon Bell or Nova or Kennedy, but who overcomes each of them through her will to deprive herself of this contact."
"So," Michelle began carefully, after a long, thoughtful pause. "Are you a fantasy?"
"Not entirely," the traveller replied. "Do you hear footsteps?"
They both halted, and the sound of footsteps was unmistakable. They weren't human, though, and after a brief, tense silence an old, grey horse came around a bend in the path at a slow canter. On its back was another replica of Dreamer, the reins firmly held in her hands as she guided the mare towards the walkers. A gold star was pinned proudly to her chest, catching the sunlight as she made her approach. She glanced first at our Michelle, though didn't feel it necessary to utter any speech in her direction, before she turned to the traveller.
"Why are you on foot?" she asked, in a slow, southern drawl. The traveller offered a sidewards nod towards Dreamer before addressing the sheriff.
"Lost my bike," she answered matter-of-factly. The sheriff allowed a knowing smile to creep onto her visage.
"Seems likely," the sheriff said. She pulled gently on the reins to turn the horse around, and continued at a pace the pair on foot could replicate. "So, she's arrived at last."
"She has," Michelle interjected, tiring of being spoken about as if she wasn't there. "Although she finds this journey increasingly wearisome. Amongst my many guides today, you are perhaps the worst. Some indication of where we are going would be appreciated.".
The barbed words only served to amuse the slighted hosts, who exchanged glances to express this privately. The path led onto a high, wide bridge, a river flowing through a low canyon beneath them.
"Such a sense of justice," the sheriff replied, eventually. "That was one of the things you gave me, so I should be able to recognise it. That and your complicated ideas surrounding loyalty. Our porter friend here has never even heard of Gerald, but he is central to my own identity. Perhaps you wish for your own judgement, your reckoning against the scales of justice, to be considered in unison with your tired, troubled relationship with my deputy. Or was he my horse? Even that was muddied over time, and through repetition."
"There are others here who would know Gerald," Michelle reasoned. They were most of the way across the bridge, and only now did Dreamer notice the bundles of dynamite attached to its ballasts. If it was a trap, she hadn't much choice but to walk into it. "You're not alone in that."
"Maybe not," the sheriff said, with a shrug. They were approaching what seemed to be the peak of the hill they'd been climbing. Michelle sensed a nameless dread. A foreboding closure. "But your projection of him through your projection of me is not a kind one. A doting secondary, who serves only to further the ends of our deeply flawed protagonist. This is how you see him, no?"
Michelle said nothing, and the sheriff smiled triumphantly. If there was more to say, it remained unsaid, as they broached the brow of the hill and emerged onto a stone plateau that overlooked the island and the surrounding ocean. The snows had stopped, and the sun was doing its best to cut through the remaining ice. Michelle could’ve spent a reasonable amount of time revelling in the beauty of her surroundings, but activity in the foreground monopolised her attention. More replications of her being waited for her at the hill’s summit, and their eyes fixed upon her as the sheriff and the traveller joined the group. She was left alone, the subject of their attention but far from a part of their strange fellowship.
“Better late than never,” the perfumer said. She was dressed in the garments of an eighteenth century French merchant, but the mediocrities of her clothing were made up for by the exquisite subtleties of her scent. “To keep us waiting here atop this hill, surrounded by a blizzard… it is typically artless.”
“And what are you?” our Michelle asked, stepping forward to meet the perfumer, warding off her own passivity along with the challenge of these shadows. “Who are you to me, but a figment of my own mind? What gripe do you bring to your creator?”
“My gripes are my own,” the perfumer said, with an admiring smile. “But your shortcomings are all of our business. I don’t doubt that you remember me. It was with me that you captured the elusive scent… the essence of Sans Soleil, remember? You birthed me out of a ruthless ambition, and blessed me with talents of inspired artistic creation. Though I am, as you say, only a figment of the author. An author who falls well short of matching these lofty ambitions in her waking life.”
“An author who wastes her hours,” another said, from the group. She wore the hot pink tracksuit associated with the Nephews, with a katana at her side and a shotgun slung over her back. “Who dreams of curiosity, and of adventure, and of bravery… but lives the tepid existence of a hermit, afraid of the world and those within it. An author paralysed by her own self-doubt, and left limp by the idea of her failure."
“An author who cannot accept that the end is coming,” an old woman said. She had the pallid air of the undead about her, and her countenance was the closest thing to kindness to be found upon the summit. “Even when it is right in front of them. Even when it is all they write about.”
Michelle’s eyes drifted to the last of the replicas, who was dressed for guerrilla warfare and watched proceedings with an aloof air. She had refrained from speaking up until now, but as each of the other pairs of eyes glanced towards her it became clear that it was her time to do so.
“We represent the myths you have created around yourself. The myths you’ve created about yourself. The lonely traveller. The servant, indebted to their partner. The martyr. The revolutionary. These are all images of you that just don’t exist, except for when they are brought to life as dancing puppets… the exaggerated inventions of a troubled subconsciousness.”
Michelle had no reply. The leader placed her hand on the handle of her sword.
“In me, you placed the myth of loyalty. The myth of self-sacrifice. Something central in most of what you’ve produced. It is no accident that almost all of us died, when you were finished with us. When we’d made the point that was the whole reason for our existence. But it is an accident that we are all born of your lies. Your lies about yourself, and who you are beneath it all.”
The leader withdrew her sword. Michelle didn’t move.
“Because in reality? You are weak. You are nothing. You are not the self-sacrificing hero… you are not the lonely wanderer… nor the intrepid adventurer. You are simply lost. Scared. Alone.”
With a decisive lunge, the leader drove the blade of her sword through Michelle’s shoulder. Dreamer collapsed to a knee. The others were on her in an instant, swarming like scavengers around wounded prey. She felt their hatred. They only existed because of her exaggerated opinions of herself, and they hated her for it.
They tore and they bit and they kicked, until she closed her eyes and waited for it to stop.
For it all to end.
*****
four.
A short time later, Michelle sat upon a beach with the masked woman, the sea gently and steadily encroaching towards their position. She had been unconscious for some time, she felt, and was now struggling to regulate her breathing. The cold was gone and so was the ice. There'd be no walking back, and it was too far to swim.
She remembered fragments of being carried down the same dirt path that she'd climbed earlier in the day. Mostly she remembered the circling darkness, and the shards of sunlight fighting in futility to break through the oppressive roof of gnarled branches. She was slung over someone's shoulder, and after a while she realised that the masked woman had made good on her promise to come for her.
She didn't know why the replicas had halted their assault. Perhaps they already felt they'd done enough. Made their point. Maybe there was still work for her to do.
Now, she sat upon the beach, staring out at an ocean that she knew she would soon have to cross.
"You were right," Michelle said, when the air had finally returned to her lungs and she felt able to speak again. "When you said that you were here because you're my next opponent. But… that's more significant than I once thought it was. This match is more significant."
Vampyra didn't reply, but her facial expression suggested understanding. Dreamer had the sense that she'd considered all this before. That her words were not new to either of the conversation's participants.
"This tournament is important even if the wheels have been falling off since the momentum began. No Danny… no Mike… not even the Roman. But even though the sum of its parts has decreased, the idea of bowing out in the first stage? Of standing aside for people like you... I'm not ready for that. It's not my time to step aside yet.
"Maybe soon, the time for you and those that come with you to replace me will be here. Perhaps I will taste the bitterness that Gabrielle speaks of. Her cynicism hardens her words, but that doesn't completely mask the truth in what she says. Already, whilst I should be enjoying the peak of my career, I feel the rumblings that she spoke about. I feel the pressure swelling beneath me. I feel the ground becoming unsteady. I can hear the footsteps of my would-be replacements."
She sighed, and reached for her cigarettes. She lit one, more out of habit than any real need.
"How do we get back?" Michelle asked, eventually.
"We wait," said the other.
"For how long?" Dreamer said. Vampyra shrugged.
"As long as it takes." |
|
|
Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:37:11 GMT
Promo history - volume 99.
"Seven Stand-Ins" (December 16th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. The Lumberjacks (Dan and Doug Lupone), The Coven (Blair and Celestia Ravenwood), Bad Reputation (Kayden Knox and Gabrielle), and The Undisputed Alliance (Jackson Fenix and Nate Savage) [FWA World Tag Team Championships](FWA: Fallout 024). As Kholozh the Larger sent the Cowl's lithe form hurtling across the coliseum with a swift, unexpected uppercut, the tens of thousands of greysuits assembled within the arena leapt to their feet. They had come from every corner of the continent, and even a delegation from Werzhalt across the sea, to bring their contribution to the annual harvest. Eze J-L looked around at the solemn faces in the onyeisi obodo's box, contrasting them with the gleeful countenances of the revelers in the rest of the coliseum. The Werzhalt Governor looked just about ready to explode, such was the sourness of his visage. They all knew, just as J-L did, that the harvest was light. There was barely enough food for the greysuits, let alone the umu nwanne.
Looking around the coliseum, Eze J-L began to realise that many of the greysuits assembled there wouldn't even remember a time before the umu nwanne came and demanded their tax. Fifteen turns of the sun had come since that fateful day, when their worker race had ceased to be alone and - shortly afterwards - ceased to be comfortable too. The umu nwanne's leader, who spoke to them through a terrible mask adorned with seemingly living tentacles that bristled and groped like tendrils, had told them that they'd 'grown fat whilst others in their very system starved on the streets'. J-L had to take the interloper's word for it. No greysuit had ever left the surface of Echiche Efu before the umu nwanne came. They were blissfully unaware that other, alien species even existed, let alone struggled to feed themselves. The masked visitor assured them that this ignorance did not absolve them of their culpability, or their newfound responsibilities.
The interloper didn't even call their beautiful, blue planet Echiche Efu. He named it, in a sterile manner, as F462ю, and referred to the greysuits as its indigenous sentients. Everything about him had rubbed J-L, who wasn't the Eze but was the son of the Eze back then, up the wrong way. But what could the greysuits do? Their lives were for farming and mining, not fighting. Even if they'd had a mind to resist, their fiercest warriors - those who were now putting on a show of hand-to-hand combat in this very coliseum - couldn't hope to resist the umu nwanne. Their leader had shown his might. The barren land where the city of Vluzhk used to sit served as a stark reminder of that.
And so, each year, upon the anniversary of their first coming, the umu nwanne returned. The date and the group’s leader remained constant, but nothing else did: the strange, flying ship that bore him to their city, the host of supporting characters he surrounded himself with, and the demanded quota of food and minerals all differed wildly from year to year. But they'd managed it. Every year the greysuits paid the taxman's toll, and still had just about enough to keep themselves full through the winter.
Maybe not this year, though, Eze J-L mused, whilst stroking one of his chins. Only then, as a glimmer of moonlight reflected off Kholozh the Larger's helmet and caught his eye, did he realise that his solitary musings had not been as solitary as he'd thought. His assistant, Russ, was glaring at him ponderously.
"We shouldn't be this worried," Russ said, when he noticed his master's attention shift towards him. "We are in charge here. Not the umu nwanne.”
J-L said nothing, but his mind conjured up the image of the black, charred land on the edge of the sea, five hundred kilometres to the east. Down in the pit, Kholozh the Larger was welcoming his next opponent. His fourth of the run. If only more of them were like Kholozh, maybe they could resist. But there were none like Kholozh except for Kholozh.
“There’s help to be found,” Russ continued, when it became clear that the Eze wasn’t going to respond. “Out there…”
Russ pointed into the night’s sky, and as he did J-L became aware of a distant whirring sound, which had been masked until now by the clamour of the coliseum. The Eze squinted in the general direction of the unexpected interruption. Usually, the umu nwanne worked like clockwork, arriving each year on the same day and at the same time. Tomorrow, not today, But there was no mistaking the ultra-bright pink headlights that heralded their annual visitor’s arrival in the sky.
[MEANWHILE…]
“I thought both Octopis were destroyed,” Dreamer said, whilst scanning the bridge for the first time on the voyage. Usually, the bridge was the place where people would ask you to do things, and as such was one to be avoided. Remarkably, almost every detail of this ship seemed identical to Michelle’s memory of the old ones.
“They were,” Uncle replied, from the command station. “I can travel through space, through time, even through dimensions, Handgrabber… it’s not such a difficult task to have a new ship built. The Maid and the Avatar are out side-adventuring in the OctoBop, so I thought I’d take the new Octopi Mk. III for a spin.”
“And where exactly are we going on a spin to?” Gerald enquired, hesitantly. He was sprawled out on the pink couch under the colossal front window of the ship, reading about the Crease-Belt’s transient meteor-farming communities in one of Uncle’s magazines.
“To do our good deed for the day, Gerald!” Uncle declared, bombastically and with extravagantly unnecessary gesticulations with both his arms and the tentacles on his mask.
Thomas entered a sequence at his station to lower them into orbit. The small, blue planet that had been growing in the front window for the last few hours came into view again, spanning the horizon now as they entered a holding pattern just above its atmosphere.
*****
GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
with
THOMAS WEST, QUIET, HARRY THE SANE WIZARD, and UNCLE J.J. JAY!
are
[CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]
in
"SEVEN STAND-INS."
*****
Only when Uncle had fully disembarked from his ship and surveyed the horrified faces of the sentients around him did he realise that he’d flattened one of them beneath the Octopi as they’d landed. He couldn’t see his face because of the gleaming helmet he wore, but given that they were in the middle of what seemed to be a primitive coliseum, COSMIC HORROR assumed that he was some sort of gladiator. One less to oppose him, should they decide to. He decided against even mentioning the being, and instead began to peruse the faces of those around him in pursuit of J-L.
That task wasn’t easy. There appeared to be quite a few greysuits in the vicinity. Several thousand, even. Fortunately, Uncle was saved the trouble by the Eze’s approach. The dignitary was let onto the coliseum floor through one of the combatant’s traps, and came scurrying towards Uncle with a sense of great urgency. His assistant, whose name COSMIC HORROR couldn’t remember, marched beside him.
JAY!’s eyes drifted towards his own team, who had all emerged from the ship and taken up positions around him. Most prominent among them were the newest of his recruits: Dreamer and the Daredevil, who contrasted each other even now, with their identical experiences and perception of the possibilities of what Uncle could show them. Gerald craned his neck in every direction, his curiosity overwhelming him and causing him to see nothing in his attempts to see everything. Michelle, meanwhile, seemed passive, almost bored, as if she found this world was as wanting as the one they'd come from. Equally noticeable was how they weren't looking at one another, and hadn't since they'd boarded the ship. This would have to change. That was the whole point of the adventure.
Any further musings on the Connection's fragile relationship, and Uncle's impending interventions into it, were curtailed by J-L's finished approach. The greysuits' leader - appointed by some process that Uncle didn't really understand - peered at the squashed body of the gladiator beneath the Octopi's hull. JAY! cleared his throat nervously, drawing the other's attention back to him.
"J-L, my old friend!" Uncle said, whilst patting the Eze on the shoulder.
"J-L?" repeated Michelle, sarcastically. "Seriously?"
"It's started already," remarked West.
"I hope we're not interrupting anything," Uncle continued, ignoring his Nephews. "Although it looks like we definitely are interrupting something. What is this? Some sort of games? I hope these aren't in my honour. I've been a deity to a primitive sentient species or two in my time and it's not all it's cracked up to be. There's no Jaghut blood in these veins. Do I need to move the ship? Is it okay there?"
J-L blinked, slowly.
"You're a day early," he said, finally.
"What's a day between old friends like us, eh?" Uncle asked, throwing an arm around J-L and leading him back towards his viewing box. "We can stick around for a day if we need to. Maybe join in with the festivities, even! How about it? Your best gladiator versus my best gladiator?"
"I'm afraid our best gladiator is under your ship," the Eze's second-in-command pointed out, whilst following behind JAY! and J-L with a displeased look about him.
“Okay, well I’ll put up my second best gladiator, then,” JAY! allowed, without offering the assistant so much as a glance. “COSMIC HORROR is nothing if not fair.”
“I suppose I can warm up,” Harry put in, heeding the call.
“We haven’t time for duels,” Gerald reasoned.
“I’m glad someone is showing a little urgency,” Uncle said. “There’s a lot of redistribution to be done, after all. Maybe it’s best we just check on the harvest, J-L?”
“No, I meant, we haven’t time for duels because we need to get back for our matches,” Gerald reasoned, again. “This was meant to be a team bonding exercise.”
“The adventure is the team bonding exercise, Gerald,” Michelle interjected, with a roll of her eyes. The Daredevil bit his tongue.
“Now, Nephews, let’s not bicker,” Uncle said, in a placatory tone. “We must remember that we’re guests here, and our wishes are secondary to that of our host’s. If my esteemed friend J-L wishes for us to stay the night whilst they finish preparing the harvest, then so be it.”
All eyes turned to the Eze, who sighed deeply.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, before leading the way out of the coliseum and through the city in the direction of the Granary. Michelle lit a cigarette for the walk, which Gerald thought was pretty inconsiderate given that this wasn’t their planet to pollute. But he said nothing, instead electing to sidle along in silence next to Quiet whilst Dreamer went on ahead with Uncle and the greysuit dignitaries. Before long they emerged into the warehouse, and were surrounded by huge containers filled to the brim with food and minerals. To Gerald’s untrained eye, it looked like quite a lot of food and minerals.
“This doesn’t look like very much food and minerals at all,” Uncle declared, whilst developing a nonplussed facial expression upon perusal of the stockpiled resources. “What have you been doing all year, J-L? The technology I’ve given you should’ve advanced your farming and mining techniques by a couple of centuries, and yet you’ve barely produced more than you did last year. What’s the story?”
The Eze shuffled his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. His second-in-command looked at his master disdainfully. One to watch, Uncle thought.
“Storms,” J-L started, with a stutter. “A drought in the Summer, too. The harvest has been… difficult this year. This is barely enough to feed ourselves.”
“I can see that,” Uncle said, ruefully. “Well, I’ve already said once: I’m nothing if not fair. And I am early, as you said. So I'll give you that extra day to search your stores for any minerals you might be keeping in reserve. I won't take the food. I wouldn't want to leave hardworking people like yourselves short, even if there are others elsewhere in your system that are relying on you. But the quota of coal and crystals must be met, J-L. We wouldn't want a repeat of what happened in… what did you call that village?"
"Vluzhk," J-L answered with a gulp, whilst he recalled the splendor of that sprawling metropolis. A village.
"That's the one!" Uncle said, as if recalling the place he'd destroyed with fond nostalgia. "Well, that'll be it then, gentlemen. We'll be in the ship, up above, keeping a watchful eye. Let's go, Nephews."
With that, JAY! gave J-L one more hearty pat on the back and then took his leave. He was swiftly followed by each of his Nephews, who took their own turn patting the Eze on the back with an encouraging smile. J-L was unsure if the looks were encouraging or intimidating. All except Gerald, who only smiled awkwardly before shuffling along at the back of the pack.
*****
“Look, you need to go right and I go left,” Gerald suggested as their plan of attack.
“Yeah, but when I do that, I get overwhelmed on the right side and I run out of ammo easily, so that’s a flawed plan,” Michelle retorted, as she leaned forward towards the screen, crossing her legs in the process.
“I don’t know. What do you suggest then?” Gerald asked with a frustrated tone.
The Connection were in battle against an alien life form in a video game called Alien Civilization III, where they had to overcome hordes of aliens with the weapons they had scavenged for during their journey. Michelle went with her trusty shotgun while Gerald settled for dual pistols.
“How about you let me know when you’re almost out of ammo, then I’ll go to your side and help you out because I have an ability that allows me to reload quickly,” Gerald said, looking at Michelle.
“I don't know how to do any of that,” Michelle said, garnering a chuckle from Gerald as the level restarted.
Before they could begin again, Quiet stood in front of the screen and motioned towards the bigger screen to the Connection’s right. They looked to the right and dropped their controllers, their interest gained by the sight of the rest of the Nephews focusing on the bigger screen.
“That’s… new,” Thomas said, standing from his seat.
On the monitor, they see a small aircraft making its way to the Equinox Filling Station, their point of origin: Planet F462ю.
“Well, it was only a matter of time,” Thomas said with a disappointed tone as he sighed. "What with Uncle arriving each year, you'd expect them to develop a space program sooner or later."
Uncle entered the scene, rubbing his chin. He looked at Thomas, Michelle, and Gerald then back at the monitor. He massaged his temple, not anticipating this wrench in his plans.
“Thomas, Michelle, Gerald. Pack your bags Nephews, you’re going on a stealth mission,” Uncle said, putting two thumbs up in the air as the trio groaned.
“Can’t it be Thomas, Harry, and Quiet? Gerald and I are busy squashing video game aliens,” Michelle asked in an annoyed tone. It barely masked her contempt. Her partner correctly guessed its source, for he felt it, too. Playing a video game, poorly, was one thing, but the idea of prolonged and enforced contact with his estranged partner was difficult.
“This isn’t a video game, tulip. This is real life. It’ll be much more fun, I promise,” Uncle said in response, laughing his evil guy laugh, before catching himself, because he is in fact not an evil person. Perception is important. He let out a few coughs and was back to business. “So yes, you three must prepare for your stealth mission. It is essential for us to know what they're plotting.”
His request was met with groans again, but Thomas, Michelle, and Gerald marched to their quarters to prepare for the mission. Quiet looked at Uncle, as if suggesting that this perhaps wasn’t the wisest course of action.
“It must be done, my friend,” Uncle said, shaking his fist in the air adamantly. "It must."
*****
Thomas glanced to his left without turning his head to observe Michelle, who had angled her body so that it was facing as far away from him (though not because of him) as was possible, and was invested in a copy of The Outsider she'd taken from Uncle's bookshelf. She was nearing the end, which was unsurprising given the three hours it had taken to fly from the Octopi to here. Then, he glanced to the right, where Gerald was staring blankly out of his window with his arms folded. Neither of them had spoken for the duration of the voyage towards the Equinox, leaving Thomas to plug the conversational gap with the occasional monologue or update on their progress.
As a small blip appeared on the interface in front of him and signaled their approach towards the filling station, he decided to try one more time.
"I might not have any experience of Mile High Massacre," he began. "But I am the King of the Deathmatch, still. At least until March. This is most certainly in my wheelhouse, so I'm happy for you two to pick my brain, if you want to. I know you've both been in a cage in the FWA before… Jailhouse Blues, of course. And at Steel City for Gerald… though I must admit I can't quite remember who that was against…"
Thomas' words were only half-drifting into her mind as she tried to read the same sentence in her book repeatedly. The written text wasn't processed in favour of the spoken. She didn't agree that his qualifications as the King of the Deathmatch justified his sage advice on all things hardcore. She'd survived Steel Roulette and triumphed in Jailhouse Blues, alongside Gerald. She was quite comfortable inside a cage.
"... but Jailhouse Blues was a long time ago, now. Almost a year. A lot has changed, but I guess I don't really need to tell you two that. Uncle is worried that it's maybe not the same Connection now as it was back then. A team needs a lot to survive inside a cage together. Just think about the teams in last year's Mile High Massacre… all gone, now. Same as your opponents from Jailhouse Blues…"
She didn't disagree. Jailhouse Blues was probably the last time that she and Gerald were truly on the same page. The problems had started directly after that, when she'd deferred their tag team championship shot so both of them could focus on Nova Diamond and the world title. It was the right decision. She felt sure of that, almost a year on. Gerald wanted her full focus on the tag reign, and that is what she was giving him. It seemed, though, that he didn't really understand what it was she was trying to do. It was not enough to simply win the titles… to simply keep them. She wanted to dominate... to build something worthy of a place within her growing legacy. She regretted Gerald's complacency. The limited scope of his meagre ambitions.
"... and it's not the same as it was back then. This match-up isn't against a rag-tag bunch of thrown together tandems. They're real teams, now. Pairs who came together for a reason other than the whims of Jon Russnow. Pairs who have reasons to fight for each other. Pairs who actually want to fight each other…"
Gerald, meanwhile, continued to stare out of the window on his side of the Dreadnoct. He was watching the Equinox Filling Station grow in the distance, the details of its revolving arms - which seemed to grasp and grope in space as it rotated through the darkness - coming into clearer focus. The Daredevil felt it was typical that he should end up here, heaven knows how many kilometres away from Earth, on the eve of two of the biggest matches in his FWA career. God forbid they should be training or strategizing of trying to work through their differences. Instead, they were here, gallivanting with Uncle and solving issues that couldn't be further away from the truly important ones.
But that was Michelle's way. He'd tried to change that, but perhaps that was beyond him after all. And embracing it was proving more difficult than he'd hoped.
"... and so you're going to have to be a real team, too. Like you used to be. Like you can be again. Because I'm not sure that this teenage breakup shtick is going to cut it, you know?"
The only indication that the two were even listening to the podcast host was the heavy, synchronised sighing that Gerald and Michelle subsequently engaged in.
"Well, at least you're expressing exasperation together," West said, as he plunged forward a lever that began their landing sequence. "It's a start. Now come on, we're there."
It didn't take West long to locate the greysuit on the filling station. He seemed to have friends there, which didn't come as a surprise to the other two considering Thomas had lots of friends in lots of places. Someone matching the breathtakingly detailed anatomical description he gave had been seen entering Mulligan's, which was a bar on Arm 6B where mercenaries, bandits, and general riff-raff were known to converge and collude.
"Remember to keep a low profile," Thomas said, as they entered the tavern and found a quiet seat in the corner, relatively close to their mark. "No bickering. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all… although that shouldn't be too difficult for our resident moody teenagers."
Michelle considered a riposte, but thought better of it. Thomas ordered two beers and a fruit juice from a three-eyed, no-armed waitress, and the promise of something to drink was enough to make Michelle compliant. She instead settled her gaze on the greysuit a couple of tables away, who was busy introducing himself to a pair of warlords in battle-garb. They were close enough to overhear, especially with the audio amplification earpieces that Uncle has equipped them with before they left the Octopi.
"And that's why I've come," the greysuit, who was recognisable as Eze J-L's second-in-command, even if none of the Nephews present knew his name. "The Eze sent me, his assistant, to ask for help. We are a strong and proud people… but we are not fighters. That's why we need you and your band. We can pay you, too. With the amount the umu nwanne take as tax, we can afford to pay you quite a lot and still be better off than we are now. Are you interested?"
The greysuit sipped at what seemed to be a tall glass of water and observed the two people across from him. One was a woman, dressed in steel and armed with a double-handed battle-axe and a chiral rifle. She had entered the second half of her life but still radiated beauty. The other was a sullen looking boy who stared at the ground whilst sharpening a long hunting knife. He didn't really seem as though he was listening, but the woman made up for it with an easy smile, paying the greysuit diplomat her undivided attention.
"We're interested," she said, finally. "But tell me, Russ, how it was you came to hear of me?"
"Everyone has heard of the DARK_GODDESS," the greysuit, Russ, replied. "This is my third time on the Equinox Filling Station, and each visit has regarded this mission. Your name has come up a lot."
"And what exactly has everyone heard?" she asked. Michelle noticed that she was still smiling.
"That you used to be a philanthropist, and that your name was one recalled with fondness and love," the greysuit answered. "But, for reasons unknown, you turned your back on your legacy, and made yourself a new one. You added DARK to your moniker, replacing the LIGHT that was there once. And that there are none that match her on the battlefield."
"I'm sure they say more than that," the GODDESS replied. Michelle thought her coy, but was more interested in the sullen boy at her side. She was unsure as to whether he was an expert in guarding his mind from her, or if there was nothing in there at all.
"If I may ask you a question," Russ went on, feeling bold. "I know of your band as the Seven, and I was hoping to meet more of your number before entering this contract. But the only friend you've brought doesn't seem to talk match. Can you tell me about your company?"
"We are called the Seven because there are seven of us," she began, after leaning forward and lowering her voice. “There’s the Crow Sisters, who you’d hear enough about if you asked the right people around here. Assassin mages from Khyrug-4. Still young, too, so who knows how powerful they’ll be in time. Their mastery of sleeping spells is unparalleled, and the whole battlefield stinks of vanilla after they’ve had their run of it…"
Michelle glanced across at Gerald, who was listening intently to the conversation whilst doing his utmost to remain convincingly aloof. He wasn't particularly convincing, she thought. One glance in his direction might give the game away. Fortunately, though, the mercenaries were as intent on securing the contract as the emissary was in selling it.
"Then there’s the hounds. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce their full names, which get longer every year. And the hounds have seen quite a few. I call them Jack and Nathanael, if I need to call them off. You should just hope you never see them. And there's Pone the Siamese Ogre. One set of legs, but two torsos sprouting from the same set of hips. That means two heads and two brains, but each one's a quarter the size it should be. Put four axes in his hands and watch him chop, though. He's the juggernaut of the operation, to be employed in jobs that require less tact and more brute force."
Between Michelle and Gerald, Thomas sat with a crossword book open and a notepad concealed within, upon which he scrawled diligent notes on what was being said. Sometimes, he would annotate the quotes with his own words, indicating to Dreamer that these warriors weren't as alien to the podcast host as they were to her and Gerald.
"And finally there's myself and Knocks, here," she went on, with a slight nod towards her companion. "As you've already noticed, he doesn't say much. He's been through a rough time as of late, what with his partners constantly dying on him. That's what brought him to me. It's also what makes him so violent… but you'll see that for yourself, soon enough."
A short silence followed. An eager, almost greedy smile spread across the greysuit's face.
"You all sound perfect," he said, finally, whilst licking his lips.
"I don't suppose you two have any thoughts between you," Thomas said, as they returned to the Dreadnoct. Something about his tone suggested that he doubted they did. Michelle shrugged her shoulders apathetically. Gerald stuffed his hands into his pockets. Thomas rolled his eyes. "You know, the whole point of us being here is to get you two on the same page. The rest of us don't have all that much going on right now, so we're sort of throwing our lot in behind you. A little reciprocation wouldn't go amiss."
They arrived at the ship, which Thomas promptly opened up before climbing inside.
"After you," Michelle offered, allowing her tag team partner to go first.
*****
“A little reciprocation wouldn't go amiss,” Uncle said to the Connection, shortly after Thomas had concluded his re-telling of the events upon the Equinox to the rest of the crew aboard the Octopi. “One of our three biggest hurdles in this adventure has now been cleared: we know who our enemies are. Always important."
"What are the other two?" Gerald asked, innocently.
"Well, the largest is getting you two on the same page," Uncle went on without pause. "Not that we can't survive the adventure without that. But seeing as that's sort of the whole point of the entire excursion, I'd consider this mission a failure if we don't address that. And the other is working out what parody we're in. Everything always gets a lot easier once we know what tropes we are contending with."
"Isn't that obvious?" Michelle asked. "We're in Seven Samurai..."
". …… .. …," Quiet concurred.
"Don't you mean Samurai 7?" Gerald corrected. "The anime?"
"No, not the anime. The Kurosawa."
"What's Anzu got to do with any of this?" Harry asked. "And besides, I thought we were doing A Bug's Life."
"Never Disney, Harry," Thomas said, whilst pulling his face. "And this is obviously a Magnificent Seven pastiche. Not the old one. The Denzel."
"It can't be Seven Samurai," Uncle interrupted the squabbling. "There's only six of us."
"We're not the samurai, Uncle," Dreamer explained. "We're the bandits."
"You mean the grasshoppers," said Harry.
"I think you're all sort of right, Nephews," Uncle said, from the command station of the bridge, after a moment of careful consideration. "Even if Seven Against Thebes shits all over those modern adaptations. Akira Kurosawa was a rip-off artist."
"Nothing wrong with being a rip-off artist," Harry interjected again.
“I only didn’t consider that we were doing Seven Samurai because it didn’t occur to me that we’d be anything other than the saviours in that dynamic,” Uncle began again. “But if that’s how this Russ wants to bandy my name about, like a workplace gossip at an interstellar water-cooler, then I’m happy to test out his chosen samurai. You’ll get your assignments in a few hours, Nephews. But first, a compulsory meeting in the theater room. Time to dust off my old one-man performance of Seven Against Thebes, to provide you all with some much-needed added context.”
*****
Michelle awoke after a few hours of uneasy sleep. She was in the bottom bunk in a bed that was now just about as familiar to her as any other bed she'd ever known, aboard the Octopi and in the quarters she routinely shared with Gerald. The Daredevil was already awake, and sitting in the corner reading through their assignment for the morning's engagement.
"Doesn't look like we're doing much," Michelle said, giving Gerald a slight jolt upon realising that she was now awake. They'd been over the instructions before sleep, after Uncle's rather rousing and almost moving theatrical performance. "Stay aboard the Octopi and take part in the closing negotiations. You think they've all already left?"
"Probably," Gerald answered. He knew that Thomas, Quiet, and Harry each had assignments that would give them no chance for sleep last night at all. They were almost definitely already on the surface, and Gerald wondered what they'd find there when they finally went. "But Uncle told us to be ready. I know that's an alien concept to you, sometimes."
"I'm ready," Michelle said, whilst climbing out of bed. She had slept in her clothes, and only had to pull on her shoes to make good on the statement. "What is it you think I'm not ready for? I sense a double meaning. Your subtext isn't that sub."
"You know what I'm talking about," Gerald said, and as he did his eyes involuntarily strayed onto the tag team championship belts in the corner of the room. Harry had made a stand upon which they could be displayed. They'd played along for the young wizard's spirits, mostly.
"I've been prepared for a tag team title reign for quite some time, Gerald," Michelle shot back. "We both have."
"Prepared to throw it away, before it's gotten started," the Daredevil returned.
"More half-heartedness," Michelle said, with a roll of her eyes.
“Half-heartedness?”
“It’s not enough for us to just be the tag team champions,” Michelle explained, frustration and exasperation plain in her tone. “We won the belts from Reagan Cole and Aka Yurei, Gerald. One of them disappeared again since and the other is a running punchline. Not too long ago, a Ground Zero novelty team held those same belts, and did more for the championships than the next two holders combined. The legacy of those belts is weak, Gerald. We aren’t going to fix that just by holding onto them.”
She took a step towards Gerald, attempting to level her voice and appear less confrontational.
“We have to dominate this division, Gerald. Like no team has been able to do for years. Nothing less than that will do.”
With that, Michelle picked up the chiral katana that Uncle had equipped her with the previous night. Gerald sighed, and then reached for his phosphorium revolvers and followed his partner towards the bridge.
*****
Gerald's suspicions that Harry, Thomas, and Quiet would have had little sleep were well-founded, for the three Nephews were dispatched early upon their own nefarious errands. The four separate partners amongst the seven (with this arithmetic anomaly explained by the lonesome Siamese) were quartered in different sections of the city, as was their way, forcing the Nephews to work separately whilst sewing their mischief.
The Sane Wizard was dispatched to the co-captain's quarters in the heard of the capital, where he placed the silent, sullen boy under a deep sleeping spell. It was a reconstruction of the spell the Crow Sisters were renowned for, though the young wizard couldn't quite get the odour right. He had to perform a separate aromatic conjuring to douse the room in the overbearing scent of vanilla.
The podcast host, after a rendezvous with Harry to collect the hunting knife lifted from Knocks' quarters, travelled to the Hruvll Plains. It was there that he came across a pair of resting war-hounds, who he promptly went about tranquilizing and gelding. It was something that Knocks had often threatened to do in his darker moods, dating back to before this alliance when they had shared another. And, of course, West was sure to leave the hunting knife, distinctive as it was, in a place where it would be found once his potions wore off.
The masked man, meanwhile, was sent first to the dungeons, where he unchained the Siamese Goliath to let him loose on the city. He also managed to get his hands on some of the lumberjack's fabled axes, which he promptly used to break into the mages' quarters in the city's old district. There, he either stole or destroyed whatever of the witches' equipment and supplies he could find, before blockading them in their room with Pone the Ogre's colossal axe.
All-the-while, the Nephews carried out the task of planting on their would-be opponents' persons certain incriminating artefacts that would imply their double agency. The odd trinket belonging to the Nephews, bearing their insignia, suggestive of a deal made within a deal. They were subtle, and Uncle doubted it would take much at all to cause the intended discontent. Mercenaries were, by their nature, mistrusting and untrustworthy. He only wished to poke at insecurities that were already there.
These small interventions were enough to give the planet an altogether different complexion when Uncle, Michelle, and Gerald arrived upon its surface again in the late morning. Bickering had matured into squabbling, which was now evolving into all-out warfare. The mages were involved in a skirmish with the Siamese ogre on the pale mountainsides that surrounded the city, the colourful blasts from which were visible from even here. The battle must have originated in the city, given that large portions of it were still on fire. The colossal war-hounds had grown timid and lazy, and now grazed idly around the city itself. Rather than unleashed upon their enemies, one of the hounds was routing the dispersed greysuits for an easy lunch, whilst the other lay dead with a wound from DARK_GODDESS's double handed battle-axe.
"This is why you must always talk, Nephews," Uncle said, as he surveyed the chaotic scene. His eyes locked onto an approaching party. He recognised the four figures as the Eze, his assistant, and the two mercenaries present at the Equinox. "Silence can lead to misunderstandings, and then to mistrust."
The negotiating party arrived, and when they came close enough it became apparent that the sullen, silent boy was still asleep. He was carried unconscious on the back of a horse. Deep-seeded aromas of vanilla still lingered upon his person.
"Nice of you to join us," Uncle said to the Eze, who - along with his assistant - had a scowl on his face. "Although I must admit, the company that you've invited is a little less savoury than that of the Nephews whom you've grown comfortable with. I really wish you'd have consulted with me first. It's a dangerous universe out there, my little greysuits…"
"Save it, Uncle," the GODDESS interrupted. It seemed that JAY! had more to say, but the mercenary had other ideas. "I don't know how you did it, but you've infiltrated by outfit. This has your mucky prints all over it. If I'd known COSMIC HORROR was involved in all of this I'd have never taken this contract in the first place."
"This isn't about you," Michelle said to the GODDESS. Gerald and Uncle both glanced at Dreamer, somewhat surprised at her sudden speech. "It's never really been about you. All of you are interchangeable. Just obstacles, really. This is more about us and them..."
She paused to point at the greysuits amongst them. The Eze and his assistant looked at one another, uncomfortable at being the sudden focal point of the discussion.
"... about them thinking that they can control the Nephews… thinking that they have a say or a role in what we do, other than that of a bystander. And about coming to an understanding that you don't. The Nephews are a force of nature, and not one you can control."
"This is about domination," Gerald offered. He didn't sound certain, but Michelle appreciated the sentiment.
"Well, it seems we are back where we began," Uncle said, whilst looking around at the two groups of diplomats with a smile on his face. "And so, Eze, my old friend, I'll offer you the same deal now as I did when I first arrived. Only I'll raise the stakes. I have my two fiercest warriors right here, as do you. How about that duel? If you win, no more tax. The greysuits will be free to go about their business, farming and mining and whatever else it is you people do, without the interference of us Nephews. And if we win, we continue to collect from you so that you can do your bit for the sustainability of the wider system. Only, your quota of phosphorium and chiral crystals will have to go up. A little something to sweeten the deal for COSMIC HORROR."
"I don't know if you've noticed," the Eze said in reply. "But one of our warriors is fast asleep."
"Then you better hope he wakes up," Uncle answered.
"I'll do it myself," the GODDESS offered, whilst removing her battle-axe from her back.
As Uncle stepped backwards, Michelle took her katana out of its long sheath at her side. She felt the dull hum of chirality running through its blade as she held it up near her own face, adopting a defensive stance.
The GODDESS was in front of her. This was the final battle that she was expecting. The one that her heart promised her.
And she felt Gerald at her side. How much of him was really there, she couldn't say for sure. More than just his body, she thought. But less than all of him.
Finally, it began. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:38:50 GMT
Promo history - volume 100.
"Torero" (January 8th, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Tommy Bedlam (FWA: Fallout 025). "In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy."
- ‘The Sun Also Rises’, Ernest Hemingway.
January 1st, 2013.
Mexico City, Mexico.
On her twenty third birthday, as she hesitantly placed her right boot on the penultimate rung of a teetering ladder, Michelle couldn’t help but think about the steady stream of new experiences that had imposed themselves upon her throughout the preceding twenty three years of existence. Love and death. Isolation and suffocating, overwhelming contact. Violence and tedium. Life flitted between the unexpected and the banal, throwing her around in an uncomfortable saddle upon its back. A passive and often pathetic plaything for its unpredictable, sudden whims. Little still surprised her, even at this young, tender age. But none of that really prepared her for her first ladder match. Blood trickled from a fresh cut above her left eye, blinding her as it pooled around the socket. Her body was a patchwork of fresh and tender bruises. The aches made each step of the climb - which seemed to take an eternity, the ladder essentially a mountain with her body in this dilapidated state - a torturous ordeal, her body's fragilities betraying her mind’s resolve. She wondered how many breaks and fractures the adrenaline concealed. But she was here: at the top of the ladder, her fingertips brushing against the cold, smooth plating of the golden belt. Amidst the whirlwind of boos that surrounded her, she caught herself smiling. Not for long. Never for long. The ladder began to teeter more vigorously and more ominously than ever before, prompting Michelle to release the belt and grip the top of it with both hands. Not that this helped. The instability was stemming from the base of the ladder, where a familiar, smiling face greeted her frantic, helpless gaze. Anzu huffed and puffed, and eventually the ladder began to fall. During the ensuing plummet, Michelle's ankle caught the top rope and the velocity of the rest of her dramatically increased. Her face was the first of many parts of her that crashed through a pair of tables set up on the outside. Her eyes remained open for only a second or two, and all that she could see was the wooden debris that she was buried beneath. Then, all was black, but the sounds of the cheering crowd still filled her ears.  "One can afford to be ostentatious every once in a while," Anzu declared, as she placed her drink - a bottle of Mexican lager with a lime shoved ungracefully through the neck - down on the table. She nestled the bottle between a dozen or so discarded, empty tequila glasses and, more noticeably (or ostentatiously, as Anzu had put it), her PAW Continental Championship. Dreamer had suggested that the act of displaying it upon their table, hidden away though it was in the corner of the bar, was a provocative one. Anzu concluded this surmation was born out of envy. Barely a pair of hours had passed since the champion had toppled the ladder the challenger was climbing. "You'd agree, if you had a championship to parade."“I have a championship,” Michelle contested, with a sideways glance at the rucksack beneath their table. Anzu was well aware of this, but she scoffed nonetheless. “That thing from Europe?” she said, whilst draining her drink and signalling to the camarera that a fresh one was needed. Michelle was struggling to keep up. Her head still throbbed, and her two lower ribs on the left side - or what was left of them - nagged at her regardless of the position she assumed. Anzu reached for Dreamer’s rucksack and lifted it from the ground, implying its insignificant weight. “Is it even metal?”“It’s metal,” Michelle assured her, with a small smile beginning to impose upon her lips. Anzu’s devious and playful nature was overcoming the tapestry of needling bruises that tortured her body. “Just not precious metal.”“Well, you’ll get there one day, I’m sure,” Anzu went on, as a fresh beer and another pair of tequilas were placed next to her belt. The champion flashed a thumbs up and a broad smile at the responsible waitress before pushing one of the shots towards Michelle. Dreamer instinctively glugged hers and placed the empty next to the others, Anzu a little slower in accomplishing the same but enthusiastic none-the-less. “It’s staying there that’s the problem.”“Don’t worry, I’m leaving before you’ll be made to defend it again,” Michelle responded, whilst returning her divided, unfocused attention to her beer. With idle hands she removed the citrus fruit from its neck and threw it into a nearby ashtray, which reminded her to light a cigarette. “I’m not talking about myself,” Anzu said, suggestively. Dreamer cocked an eyebrow, which acted as a silent request for elaboration. “How many championships have you held now? European ones, not proper ones.”“Four,” Michelle answered. “This is my fourth.”“And how long did the previous three last?” Anzu asked. She sat back in her seat and took another deep pull from her bottle, suggesting triumph. Dreamer narrowed her eyes in response. “Not as long as I’d have hoped,” she said, finally. “And why exactly is that?” Anzu continued, assuming the role of an unqualified and ill-informed therapist. But before her counterpart could answer, the champion continued, with an air of authority on account of the championship belt that lay between them. "Because the moment you get your hands on a little strap of leather, you end up challenging half the roster in a vain, futile attempt to prove yourself. You call it ambitious. I’d prefer overzealous. But what you haven't realised yet, Michelle, is that the championship is the proof."Michelle disagreed. A long reign did not mean an historic one. Overzealous, perhaps, but to Dreamer the pursuit of her ideals was an important thing. It made the failures worthwhile. She didn't say anything in response, but eventually tore her gaze away from the other woman, beginning to idly scan the bar instead. She needed to loosen up. Her next match wasn't for weeks, and a long, tedious voyage across the water still loomed between now and then. Michelle didn’t want to think about any of it. Yet, with the other woman's idle chatter and the multitude of war wounds that hummed through her body, she found it difficult to consider much else. "Can we talk about something other than wrestling?" Michelle asked, whilst observing a large, burly American who’d surrounded himself with an entourage of enthusiastic locals. They seemed to be hanging on his every word, which were spoken loud enough for the whole bar to hear. “Am I reminding you of your loss?” Anzu said. Michelle stubbed her cigarette end into the ashtray, her distaste clear on her countenance. “You should look on the bright side. You’re lucky they didn’t let you defend your common metal championship here. You’d have probably put it on the line at La Marquesada. Half of Guanajuato, chasing after you and your title.”“Don’t remind me,” Dreamer replied, her mind drawn back to the frantic scenes in the city of Salvatierra, where a half-dozen enraged bulls had been worked up enough to chase the citizenry through the streets. Still, even that gruesome ordeal was preferable to the wicked bullfights that Anzu insisted on attending across the entire tour. “No bullfighting, no wrestling,” commented Anzu, with a rueful shake of her head. “Would you rather we sit here in silence? We’re meant to be celebrating, Michelle! I’m still a champion, and it is your birthday.”“I need to stop telling people when my birthday is,” Michelle replied. “Balderdash!” Anzu declared, whilst nodding at a tall, thin man who was drinking alone at the bar. “You see this guy?”“You know him?” Michelle asked, as she scanned his lithe frame and handsomely drastic features. His angular, pronounced cheekbones sat high upon his face, and a dark pencil moustache framed his thin, pursed lips. His black hair was tied into a tight ponytail that ran down between his hulking shoulder blades. He was reading a book, and would occasionally break his focus to mutter a few, quiet words to the barman, who obeyed him silently. “I know of him,” Anzu answered. “And so would you, if you’d come with me to the bulls last night. I imagine everyone in this place knows who he is, but don’t dare approach him. Strange power.”“So he’s a matador?” Dreamer concluded. “It’s easy to tell, yes?” the other answered. “You can see from his frame. Agility and a sudden, quiet power. You should’ve watched him last night, Dreamer. You could only see his eyes through a slit between his black and green bandido’s mask and his wide-brimmed hat, though the steel in them was visible from the very back of the arena. Cold and calculated, moving around the floor as if he was engaged in a dance with the beast.”“Dances don’t usually end with the unsheathing of a blade,” Dreamer said, obtusely. “Not usually,” Anzu answered, with a shrug. “It depends where you are dancing, and who you’re dancing with. You are unimpressed by the matador?”Michelle took one last look at the tall, thin man as he finished his drink and bade the bartender to fill up his glass. He reached into his pocket to collect a case of long cigarillos before walking out of the bar with one perched between his lips. He left his possessions - his hat, a heavy, black coat, and a long, curved estoc hidden in a sheath, hanging from the side of his chair - behind unattended, confident that his reputation would ensure they were left untouched. “He is impressive enough,” Dreamer allowed, after the man had left and she could re-apply her focus to her drink and the conversation. “Though the blood on his hands doesn’t excite me.”“It repulses you?” Anzu asked, suppressing a roll of her eyes. “No,” she answered. “Not that, either. I pity him as I pity the bull.""I doubt he wants your pity," Anzu replied, with a knowing smile that suggested she'd identified the other's superiority complex and was amused by it. "How about the other one? The American. He was in the show, too. Though it doesn't look like they came here together."The older woman now nodded towards the brash, loud foreigner from north of the border, who was still engaged in regaling his entourage with bawdy tales from a life well-lived. Michelle came to the same conclusion as Anzu: the American couldn't have been further from the matador in both his looks and his demeanour. Whilst the bullfighter was quiet and reserved, with only hints of his skill and his strength apparent to a trained and curious eye, the other puffed out his barrel-like chest in place of the shaking of tail feathers. He constantly pulled his sleeves back up over his thick, tattooed arms, wearing his power more obviously by a clear and tactless design. "I didn't know there were American bullfighters," Michelle said, eventually. "No, he doesn’t fight the bulls," said Anzu. "He rides them. Well, the same one… but lots of times. He was quite good, if you’re into that sort of thing. He rode from the pen and into the ring over and over again, attempting to master a bull that had escaped the sword. But his fights were, by their nature, deliberately temporary. Everybody wanted the cowboy to put up a fight, but nobody expected him to actually win. Eventually, when the bull tired of having him on his back he would buck hard enough to throw him into the sand.""Doesn't sound as impressive.""Well, I guess you have to see it," Anzu responded. The cowboy was rolling around a thick cigar between his fingers, and - although he was busy sharing some sordid anecdote with a young local girl on his arm - Michelle fancied she noticed him eyeing her or Anzu or both of them from across the room. "It lacks the elegance of the matador, but he has no sword on his belt. And brute strength is an adequate substitute for silent elegance. He tames the bulls, if only for a time, with nothing but his bare hands. That is remarkable in itself."The matador had returned to his seat at the bar and was beginning to sip on the tall glass of tequila that waited for him. The cowboy removed himself from his group and made for the bathroom, reaching into his pockets and sniffing expectantly on the way. "So, which one?" Michelle asked. "Well, preferably both," Anzu answered. "One each. I don't want to share. But you can choose your favourite.""I'll choose later," Michelle said. *****
[... LAST NIGHT - (I) ]
“He okay?” Bob asked, as he watched the bullfighter being carried through the holding area. Two of the other toreadors that he’d gone out there with - to perform some strange dance with an angry bull that made little sense to the cowboy - had a grip around each of his wrists, and as they dragged him towards the medical tent he left a red, bloody trail in the sand.
“Perdió un cuerno, vaquero,” one of the other fighters said, his voice full of scorn. Typically, Bob didn’t understand a word of it, but comprehended enough from the other’s expression and tone. “Ellos tendrán que traer un nuevo toro.”
The bullfighter spat on the floor, right between the cowboy’s boots, and then followed the others. A nearby stableboy, who up until then had been engaged in calming a horse in heavy, steel armour, allowed himself a thin, high-pitched laugh.
“What did he say?” Bob asked. “¿En Inglés?
”He says the bull broke its horn,” the stableboy said, after stifling his chuckles. “They’ll bring a new one.”
“I meant is the boy okay?” Bob clarified. “El torero.”
“He’ll be fine,” the stableboy said, with an apathetic shrug. “Es normal. Are you ready?”
“Always, partner,” the cowboy replied. The stableboy continued to prepare the armoured horse. His amusement at the frantic and bloody scene they’d just witnessed continued, too. Bob left him to his business and went to the bullpen, where a half-dozen strong, young men were wrestling with thick ropes. These bonds were attached to the inner cage of the pen, the men conspiring to keep a restless bull in a position the cowboy could mount. Nobody seemed particularly comfortable with the situation, least of all the animal.
Bob looked at the beast for the first time since he’d arrived in Mexico City, but he got the sense that he’d seen the old bull before. Ridden him, probably. Here, his act was seen as little more than a sideshow. Something to keep the crowd enthused whilst they prepared the next fight, and each one of those (save the last) but mere preludes for the eventual main event. They were here for the matador and his red cape. Everything that came before his entrance was just padding.
Sometimes, you’d get a good crowd, or a good run would win a bad one over to your side. Mostly, though, you could expect lots of repetition and a fair bit of pain, too. Occasionally, the promoter would have you ride different bulls, or even change costume and go out under a new name, to present the idea of variation. Not here, though. The man who’d put together the new year’s eve fights was fully aware of and open about the cowboy’s secondary role in the day’s proceedings. He was to go out between each of the fights, on the same bull and in the same clothes, destined to be bucked from the beast’s back and land face-first in the sand.
He climbed onto the bull, the animal’s powerful muscles already beginning to shift beneath him. He felt it was expressing its discontent. He patted the bull's head dismissively and collected the reins. The bullpen gate opened and, a pair of cattle prods urging it from behind, the animal charged forward into the ring. Bob closed his eyes and accepted his passivity.
*****
[... ANOCHE - (II) ]
This is what they had all come for. He was what they had all come for. Forty thousand people, crammed into La Monumental, and now - after a long day-turned-evening in hot, humid, and generally quite uncomfortable conditions - the long-awaited conclusion of the show was finally upon them.
Alejandro Negredo was the main event, and he walked out into the centre of the ring as if he was fully aware of this fact. His back was straight, extending his tall, slender frame to its greatest length, his silhouette made more angular still by his pronounced shoulder blades. He stood in the shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat, and beneath it the bandido's mask - black as night but for a delicate green silk embroidery - reduced him to a pair of cold, hard eyes. His red muleta remained furled at his side.
The bull was already tired. It had been a long day for the audience, but a longer one still for the animal that stood before him. Negredo had watched the poor beast's formulaic toil unfold from outside the ring, through the gaps in the slats put there to keep the audience safe. The toreadors, whose job was to fight the bull only and to leave the killing blow for the evening's climax, had gone out in groups to engage in preliminary scuffles. First, a dozen bullfighters in white suits walked towards a bull in a line, hoping that it would charge them in this domino arrangement until there was enough muscle behind the pack to bring it down without weapons. That was the idea, anyway. They tried three times, and on the third they came close, but the toreador at the head of the pack lost his footing and was trampled beneath the bull's frantic hooves.
In the ensuing frenzy, the panicked animal charged head-first into the steel wall around the ring and broke one of its horns. The bull was incomplete, and no longer worthy of a glorious end on Negredo's blade. They would change it before the next fight for a new and unfamiliar animal. One he hadn’t made it his business to get to know in the days leading up to the fight. The new bull seemed ill-tempered and aggressive, and almost knocked a mounted toreador from his horse in a particularly savage interlude. The armoured steed stood firm, though, and the bullfighter plunged a long spear into a fleshy spot below the bull’s right shoulder. The beast was staggering from there, allowing a toreador to approach it with two short swords and no muleta. When the beast began to charge, the fighter skilfully evaded by leaping to his left and thrust his blades into its back. The bull wheeled around in pain and darted away from the fighter, who would go on to repeat the dance three times. He was mostly successful and, when he was finished, a total of five blades protruded from the bull’s back for macabre decoration before the grand finale.
In-between the fights, light entertainment would be given by the rodeo clown. It was one that they’d shipped in from north of the border before, and each time - after the young, aggressive beast that was destined to die was chased back into his pen to make room for the novelty - the American would ride an old and timid bull into the middle of the ring and try to stay on top of it for as long as he could. Negredo had little interest in the sideshow, and used these brief moments to get to know the replacement beast that he’d stand across the ring from later in the night.
That moment had now come. The stadium’s floodlights were fighting off the darkness that loomed outside the arena, and Negredo stared into the eyes of the beast without the metal railings of the bullpen between them for the first time. They were close. Only a few metres apart. There was no need for a long chase. His reputation superseded the requirement for such theatrics. He allowed only three passes of the bull beneath his muleta, the red colour of which signified his fatal task. On the first pass, the bull’s left horn brushed his abdomen as he evaded the charge, ripping open his shirt before it passed beneath the cape. On the second, his estoc now in position, he swiftly drew the blade beneath the animal’s neck, the sand beneath it stained by a gushing red spray. The third lunge was slower, owing to this sudden loss of blood, and Negredo found the sweet spot between its shoulder blades with poise and ease.
The crowd cheered, the death suitably graphic and swift. It’s what they had come to see. He had played his role magnificently, as had the bull, which now lay dying amidst the audience’s adulation.
*****
She left the cubicle with a smile on her face and the cowboy’s wallet stuffed into her back pocket. She’d heard a lot about Mexican coke and was happy for the newish experience, the aches and pains of her evening’s work becoming duller and more distant thanks to the home remedy. Upon returning to the bar, she found her booth empty, Anzu and their new companions having left and, it seemed, taken her rucksack and her smokes with them. But she had the cowboy’s wallet, so concluded that they couldn’t have gone far.
She found them outside. They were mostly huddled in the same group, except for the matador, who remained aloof and abstracted whilst smoking a vanilla-scented cigarillo. Some of the locals that had attached themselves to the cowboy had drifted off, but a pair of young women were still clinging on to his star despite his diminishing focus. The cowboy himself was hanging on to Anzu’s conversational thread, the veteran treating him to a story of her own, which seemed to centre on the championship belt that she now wore on her shoulder.
“The rodeo clowns love stories,” said the matador, who’d reluctantly introduced himself as Alejandro Negredo when Anzu had descended on him and punctured his quiet sanctuary. His facial expression was only a few marks short of scornful, and in-between drags from his vanilla cigarillo he glanced over at the cowboy with reproachful disdain. It was clear that, despite them earning their living with the same animals and - at least for this tour - in the very same show, there was no love lost between the pair. “Especially this one.”
“You don’t like stories?” Michelle asked, as Anzu reached the end of her narrative. It was an old one that Dreamer had heard before, surrounding a twelve-person cage match in Yokohama back in 2007. She’d been out for far too many drinks than she should’ve the night before, and ended up emptying the contents of her stomach on the ringmat towards the final moments of the contest. Highly non-traditional, of course, but the act had inadvertently caused half the field to climb out of the cage in disgust, clearing the way for Anzu to get the win.
In actuality, she’d lost that match, but this detail had been lost amongst half a hundred retellings.
“Not ones with so many words,” the matador replied, as the American engaged in a series of increasingly lowed guffaws in recognition of the unexpected turn in Anzu’s story. The local girls that were gathered around him joined in with the amusement, though it was unclear how much of Anzu’s rambled speech they’d followed.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” the cowboy - whose name was predictably Bob and who predictably came from Texas - said, as he puffed on his thick cigar. “Reminds me of a night in Aguascalientes. I don’t remember the year, but I remember the bulls. Seven of the fuckers, and I rode all of them. These Mexican promoters get their money’s worth.”
Until now, the cowboy had conversed primarily with Anzu and his followers, and a little with Dreamer when she’d enquired after his cocaine. Although the matador had reluctantly joined the group following Michelle’s polite request, it was obvious that he didn’t quite relish the thought of an evening with the American. As his sullen, despondent, and often antagonistic nature became clearer to her, her interest in him grew accordingly. Now, though, with the cowboy’s assertion that he’d rode seven bulls in a single night - a statement the American clearly thought worthy of the group’s respect - the matador allowed himself a sudden, derisive snort. The meaning of this would’ve been left unclarified without the subsequent prompt. It was initially left to each person’s imagination whether the matador thought this accomplishment meagre and unnoteworthy, or if he doubted it happened altogether.
“Problem, torero?” the cowboy asked, whilst blowing a thick column of smoke into the matador’s face. The Mexican continued to smile and his grin suggested mockery.
“To ride seven bulls is to eat the sand seven times,” Alejandro replied, casually and in a thick accent. He’d finished his cigarillo but was still clouded by a thick smog from the cowboy’s cigar. “Brave men don’t ride the bulls. They fight them.”
The cowboy didn't reply for a moment, but slowly narrowed his eyes in the direction of the matador as he considered the insult. His hands were now stuffed into the front pockets of his thick jacket, his cigar flapping around in the side of his mouth between tightly pursed lips. Eventually, the silence a little too silent to be comfortable for the others in the party, the cowboy turned away from the matador and towards Anzu. The tension broke when his facial expression and body language relaxed.
“You see what an outsider has to put up with here?” he said, before flicking the chewed end of his cigar into a nearby drain. “Riding five, six, seven bulls a night, and then to face the matador’s elitism. And there is none worse for it than the great Alejandro Negredo. I don’t know why I come back.”
“Finish your drink,” Anzu instructed the cowboy, who acquiesced meekly and drained the half-litre of thick, cloudy beer that still remained in his pitcher.
“Eres un animal,” one of the local girls said, with the cold fire of passion in her hazel eyes. The other one bit her lip.
“Where are we going?” the cowboy asked. “Another bar?”
“Where would the guest like to go?” the matador queried, whilst diverting his own attention away from the American, where it had still been directed even after the cowboy’s dismissal. He turned to face Dreamer, who was busy lighting a cigarette and wondering why they’d come outside to smoke when there were ashtrays on the table inside. She thought about the open-ended question during the first, long drag, and framed it within the context of the impromptu company that had settled on her, rather than the other way around.
“I want to see a bull,” she said, finally.
*****
The party arrived at the ranch and, after the matador had paid off a couple of stablehands who were employed to patrol the premises at night, they made their way towards a series of buildings that dotted the landscape in the distance. They were a long way from the stadium, which at first surprised Michelle, but she soon noted that the pig doesn’t live inside the abattoir. The bull wouldn’t see the sword until it was too late.
“¿Lo montarás?” one of the locals asked, whilst kicking at the sand through which the group trudged.
“I don’t speak Spanish, chica,” the American answered. He’d stopped the cab that had brought them here in order to buy a bottle of whiskey, which he pulled from deeply before offering it to each of his guests. “I told you already.”
“She wants to know if you’ll ride it,” Anzu translated, as she took the bottle from the cowboy and helped herself to a lengthy swig.
“In this light?” the cowboy said, whilst pulling a face that implied - to Dreamer, at least - that he didn’t intend to ride it. “A bull I’ve never seen before? Tonight’s my night off. Gotta pick your battles, chica.”
“You sound scared, vaquero,” the matador mused, antagonistically, from a few paces ahead.
“Sensible,” the cowboy said. “Not scared.”
“There’s little difference,” came the matador’s reply.
“You’ve got your sword,” responded the American. “Perhaps you should fight it. Or maybe you aren’t so confident without a small army to weaken her up before you take the stage.”
“Her?” the matador said, with another derisive laugh. “Bulls are male, vaquero. You can tell by the cuevos. Do you know what they look like?”
The American didn’t immediately respond. Michelle fumbled around for her packet of cigarettes whilst she listened to the six sets of footsteps marching through the sand.
“Torero.”
The single word, spoken in a thick, unbecoming accent and at the end of a tense period of silence, prompted the matador to stop and turn around. When he did, the cowboy, who’d bent down to collect a fistful of it from the ground, blinded him with a projectile of sand. The matador clawed at his eyes and pulled down his bandido’s mask to allow himself to breathe, but before he could contemplate what had just happened the American tackled him to the ground and knocked his wide-brimmed hat from his head.
Dreamer joined the others - Anzu and the two local girls - in watching the scuffle for a brief moment whilst passing the whiskey between them. The cowboy rained down a trio of blows - two lefts and a right - before the matador could throw up a hasty guard. The larger man attempted to prise the other’s arms apart, but when he did the tall, thin Mexican threw a headbutt up at him to turn the tables. She sucked at her cigarette as the matador rolled the cowboy onto his back and mounted him in turn, but decided that she’d seen enough and turned away.
She stuffed her hands into the front pocket of her hoody as she walked alone between two rows of stables, horses whinnying either side of her from behind a screen of darkness. The only light illuminating the scene was the end of her cigarette, which glowed amber with each of her long inhalations. The night was warm, but a cold shiver ran through her regardless.
The bullpen waited at the end of the path through the stables, and from within she could hear the restless moans of a helpless, caged animal. She paused for a moment at the gate, peering through the gaps in the bars and into the pen. The darkness was pervasive, and - if it wasn’t for the low groans of the invisible beast, along with the stirring in her kindred heart - she would have assumed it empty. She climbed over the gate and entered the pen.
Inside, the bull emerged from the shadow. Padded at the ground with its cloven hooves. Lowered its head and brandished its horns.
Slowly walked towards her.
She stared into the animal’s expressive, green eyes. They were sharper even than his horns.
The bull grunted at her. She grunted back.
Eventually, after observing the interloper in his pen for what felt to Michelle - in her role as that interloper - like a very long time, the bull lay down, and placed his head upon the ground. His eyes remained open and directed at Dreamer.
She sat down, cross-legged, a metre away from the bull. The animal was calm. She smoked her cigarette in silence, the unspoken bond soothing her own heart and warming her through. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:39:44 GMT
Promo history - volume 101.
"You've Got A Friend In Me" (January 22nd, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Bryan Baxter (FWA: FIght Night - The Final Four). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME ONE HUNDRED & ONE]
"Of course, the answer isn't always up there in the stars," the boy said, in his best Bax Lightspeed voice, as he held the astronaut figurine aloft by one of its wings. "Sometimes, the answers are down here on Earth, amongst you regular folk. Really, I couldn't have solved this mystery without the help of my best friend."
The boy reached for his Sheriff Best doll, who proceeded to tip his cowboy hat under his gentle command. With a pull of the cord on his back, the doll's mechanical voice declared I'm your new best friend, before he shared a hug with the spaceman that was greeted by general and loud applause amongst the other assembled toys. Bax raised Best's hand, as if in victory, as the boy continued to emulate the sound of rapturous cheering.
“Doub!”
His mother’s voice drifted up the stairs and deflated the scene that his imagination had carefully constructed. She’d used his nickname, of course. His real name was Doug, but his younger brother struggled with his g sounds and replaced them with b’s. The mistake was repeated often enough for the rest of the family to adopt the moniker, and Doug - unhappy with his actual name in the first place - had quickly embraced and adopted it.
“Dinnertime! Come downstairs.”
Doub stared down at his toys and let out a contented sigh. He was happy that his stories were completed with a reasonable degree of closure before the daily dinnertime deadline. He set the spaceman and the cowboy down - the four letters of his adopted name written onto both of their bootsoles in black marker pen - and left the room. He was beginning to realise how ravenous he was. Storytelling was hungry work.
After the door clicked shut behind him, the cowboy sat up. He dusted himself off and loosened up his tired joints, before pushing up to his feet and glaring at the astronaut.
“Well, I guess we ought to continue from where we left off,” the sheriff said, as he folded his arms in an accusatory gesture.
“After all we just went through?” Bax Lightspeed replied, whilst climbing to his own vertical base. The rest of the toys were beginning to go about their own business, except for a handful who joined the Sheriff to form a panel, creating a horseshoe around the spaceman. “We just saved a whole town! That’s got to count for something?”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes, and a few moments later they were back in position atop the wardrobe. This is where they’d been when Doub had interrupted proceedings for an impromptu play-session, pausing the trial as it was entering its final stages. Sheriff Best wasn’t alone amongst the judges. Wolfy - a white-coated and appropriately named toy who’d spent several months missing whilst wedged behind the bed - had already given her testimony, accusing Lightspeed of delaying the sheriff in his dogged attempts to find the lost wolf. The Speak&Spell, meanwhile, spoke eloquently - if a little ostentatiously, and with a propensity to lurch down unexpected tangents - about his broken screen, which now permanently displayed the last three letters of the alphabet. Bax had already owned up about this business with the letters, as Sheriff Best put it, and he hoped this honesty would work in his favour. And then there was Jax the Dinosaur, who was just now recounting the tale of his budding friendship with the sheriff, and the spaceman’s jealous worries that he might come between their own deeply uneven relationship.
“I was just looking out for you, Sheriff,” Bax protested, when the dinosaur was done with his testimony. “Sure, Jax seems harmless enough. Too stupid to do any real damage, maybe. But what about his friend, here?! Sergeant Savage is bad news!”
He pointed towards the bailiff, a block green army man, portly and scowling as his character was flippantly and derisively surmised by the defendant.
“It’s not Sergeant Savage who is on trial,” the Sheriff said. “I think I’ve heard enough, Bax. Any final words, before we reach a judgement?”
“I guess that I would just like to say…” Bax began, before trailing off. He’d never really been one for big speeches, even when the moment called for one. He let out the deep sigh of a heavy heart, and then gave it his best shot. “I would like to say that I want to change. That I am trying to change. I don’t want to be the man I used to be.”
The sheriff had pity and sadness in his eyes. He turned away from the defendant in order to confer with the other accusers. Their interactions were hurried whispers, and Bax shuffled uncomfortably out of earshot. Sergeant Savage stared at him with his angry, little eyes, as green as the rest of him. But Bax could look only at the sheriff, shame welling up in his stomach.
“I would like you to change too, Bax,” the sheriff began, after turning back towards the astronaut. “But you’ve had enough time now. Enough chances. And you keep making the wrong choices. I want to believe that you can change, Bax. I really do. But… I’m afraid you won’t be able to make these steps here with us. You’re banished, Bax, from Doub’s bedroom. Effective immediately.”
“No!” Bax began, with fear in his voice. “That’s… that’s too much! You can’t be serious?!”
“I’m afraid I am, Bax,” Sheriff Best continued, as he turned away from Lightspeed with his hands behind his back. He stared out of the window as a white van - with Smith’s Nails & Nail Guns written on the side of it - pulled into the next door neighbour’s driveway. “I know that it’s dangerous out there. But with you here, it’s dangerous for every other toy in Doub’s bedroom. And… I can’t have that on my conscience. Especially with Doub's birthday party almost upon us. You’ve got to leave.”
“I…” stuttered Bax. He gulped and steeled his nerves. “I won’t leave.”
“BOYS!” called the Sergeant. He had a smile on his face, as if he’d been waiting for this moment of resistance. A few seconds later, his squadron appeared over the lip of the wardrobe, in attack formation. Another team was busy opening the window, which he soon realised would be his enforced exit point into a wild and hostile world.
Bax woke up after a period of unconsciousness. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but if he'd had to guess he would have said quite a while considering the intense, throbbing pain in the back of his head. He must have been knocked out when he was thrown through the open window, given that this was the last thing he remembered.
He rolled onto his back and squinted, his eyes getting used to the dinginess of this new atmosphere. A brief glance around at the general mess and specific items of clothing revealed to him exactly where he was. In enemy territory. This was the bedroom of Sid Smith, Doub's next door neighbour and alleged torturer of toys. He'd heard about the dolls that lived here. He’d been told the horror stories. Toys ripped apart and then spliced back together. Once loved figurines discarded and written off at the drop of a hat. It was said that a lot of the toys that lived here weren't even Sid's to begin with. They were left here for him to play with by a friend named Ojid, who disappeared without a trace soon afterwards. Legend had it that one day he'd return to kill the rest of them off, though this was just the talk in Doub's bedroom. Bax was cynical by nature, and had his doubts about these murmurs. Though now he was here…
Any lingering fears about these rumours were soon put aside, for something more real and close dragged Lightspeed's mind from them. A mechanical buzz was emanating from beneath a large pile of clothing, and Bax found himself in two minds as to whether to approach or to flee.
Inactivity soon took that choice away from him, as from beneath the discarded clothes emerged the strangest toy that Bax had ever seen in his life. He was frozen in place as eight mechanical tentacles traversed the stained carpet, moving more like a spider than the octopus that its pink, bulbous head suggested. The tentacles had shed their skin, or more likely had it peeled off by its owner, revealing the metallic, spindly tendrils underneath.
Lightspeed's gaze was trapped on the octopus, and it took him longer than it should have to notice the rest of the toys that were beginning to encircle him. The one that first took his eye climbed out of the bottom drawer of an adjacent chest, and took the form of a tattered pink astronaut plushy. From behind him came two more, who fanned out either side to join the circle: a figurine of a young wizard that was missing its right leg and its left arm, along with a faceless and featureless black leather doll that crawled on all fours in menacing silence. He wheeled around, and staggering towards him was a bastardisation of a toy. It looked like it had been made by fastening two broken figures - a shark and an alligator - together with glue and the occasional nail. Even from the safety of Doub's bedroom, he'd heard of the sick experiments that Sid liked to conduct, usually in the wake of Ojid's wanton and cruel destruction.
As he continued his three-sixty, Bax saw many more of the deformities approaching. A maid doll that had been dressed in cyber-punk style and equipped with a scythe. A traffic conductor action figure that was missing its head, a road sign installed in its place. A huge, hulking mass of muscles wearing a black shirt with two white M’s scribed onto it in white, its head swivelled backwards on its neck and its knuckles dragging along the floor. A quartet of clones walked behind it, each more contorted and dilapidated than the last. More and more of them emerged from the dark recesses of the room, but Bax’s panoramic was interrupted by a sudden, light tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see two more of the abominations up close.
“You’re finally awake,” said the nearest, a small, green tortoise that glittered with emeralds. The figurine, Bax would later find out, had been detached from a dreamcatcher. To her side was a cowboy doll: ostensibly one that performed the same function as Sheriff Best, but an older model. Less cute and friendly than the new one, and therefore less marketable to children. “What did you dream about?”
“Where am I?” Bax asked, tripping over even this, the most simple of utterances.
“You know where you are,” the tortoise answered. “You’re in Sid’s bedroom. And we’re Sid’s toys. A lot of people call us the Nephews.”
“But why am I here?” Bax continued. He attempted to back away from the cowboy and the tortoise, but walked right into the encroaching octopus. The surrounding circle had grown smaller, and it became clear to the astronaut that there was no chance of escape. “With you?”
“No reason,” the tortoise continued. “There’s no reason for any of this. You’re here with us by chance, and because they discarded you.”
This simple statement of fact was delivered calmly, but it still stirred bitter memories for Bax. He felt an anger flash inside his stomach, though suppressed it through recognition of his current predicament. There were more than a dozen abominations surrounding him now, and although they seemingly weren’t about to set upon him and rip him limb from limb just yet, Bax still felt it in his best interest to remain as calm as he could.
But, more than anything else, this declaration only served to remind Bax Lightspeed of the shameful trial that he'd been made to endure at the hands of the people he was trying to befriend. His fists clenched. The tortoise smiled, supposing that the wrathful gesture was directed at the toys that had banished the spaceman. This wasn't really the case. In truth, Bax's anger was usually aimed indiscriminately, and directed at whoever was unlucky enough to be nearest at the time.
"But what am I going to do now?" Bax asked. He glanced out of the window of Sid's bedroom, which was on the ground floor and looked out across the Smiths' driveway. His father's work van was parked in its spot. Beyond that, Bax could see Doub's bedroom window, and half-imagined he observed his former owner conducting an ill-fated search for the lost toy. For him.
"Well, I expect you're here for a reason," the tortoise began. As Bax turned to face her, he noted that she was smiling kindly at him. "And that reason is to help us."
"And how am I to do that?" Bax asked. He'd never felt more useless than he did right now, and didn't think he'd prove particularly helpful to anyone.
"No, not yet," the octopus said to the tortoise, whilst placing one of his tentacles upon her shoulder to draw her attention from the newcomer. His visage expressed a need for caution. "He only just got here."
"I agree with Uncle," the outdated sheriff said. "He's not ready."
"... ….. . …..," interjected the leather-clad abomination, though his voice was muffled to the point where Bax couldn't understand.
"He's ready," the tortoise insisted. "I feel certain he's been sent here to help us. He fits perfectly."
None of the other Nephews said anything more, and when the tortoise felt herself clear of questioning she turned to face the astronaut once again.
"The toys next door banished you, and abandoned your friendship when you needed them most," she began, whilst maintaining fierce, almost intimidating eye contact with Lightspeed. "We know a lot more about that than you might think. A lot of us here haven't always been Sid's playthings. We once knew the light, frivolous playtime that has thus far been your entire existence. But now, we are here, in this dark place. Away from that light. And the toys that you left behind pity us, yet do nothing to help."
Her smile seemed more devious now, and Bax shuffled uncomfortably at the sight of it.
"Your old master's birthday party is nearly here," she continued. "Just a few, short days away. And we mean to give those toys a present of our own."
Lightspeed looked at the faces of those around him (although he quickly realised that not all of them had faces). Those that did employed a hopeful countenance, as if they looked forward to this vague event with giddy anticipation.
”You mean to hurt Sheriff Best and the rest of them?" Bax asked. The Nephews didn't reply, but the astronaut felt the silence confirmed his suspicions. "But… why? Do you want something that they have? Are you jealous? Do you have something to prove?"
The tortoise shrugged, and Lightspeed got the impression that it was all of these things.
"Because it's fun, and because we can," she said, eventually. Bax didn't feel like this explanation was entirely satisfactory. But then she added, perhaps more tellingly: "we are the shunned, Bax Lightspeed, and that is reason enough."
Bax didn't agree to go along with the Nephews' plan right away. Although he was hurt and angered by Sheriff Best's decision, he still felt affinity towards and love for his accusers, and felt there was a vague chance of reconciliation. Despite his hesitance, he was allowed to stay with Sid's toys in Sid's bedroom in what proved to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. For Bax, it ensured he could stay close to Doub and his toys, so that he could look out for his opportunity to make amends and rejoin them. For the tortoise and the rest of the Nephews, it enabled them to continue to convince Bax that their plan was in his interests.
At the beginning, Doub relentlessly searched his bedroom for the lost toy, and Bax would incessantly watch this unfold through the window at Sid's. The astronaut felt that if he willed it hard enough, perhaps the boy would be able to follow the breadcrumbs to his new home. This might, he reasoned, lead to the discovery of the toys' entire secret world, but this was a small price to pay, Bax thought, for his eventual and inevitable reuniting with his forlorn owner. Soon enough, though, the boy stopped looking so frequently, and then altogether. Bax was left to sullenly give up this hope, and engage with the captors that went under the kind guise of friends.
During this time with the Nephews, he learned that a fair few of them had more in common with him than he once thought. The pink astronaut plushy, for instance, revealed a lot of his own personal backstory after inviting Bax onto what he called a podcast. Lightspeed wasn't entirely sure what this meant, and in actuality it differed little from a standard conversation but for the presence of recording equipment. The astronaut confessed (rather candidly, Bax thought) that he once belonged to a happy home, but that the other toys resented his fast ascent and sudden high standing in their owner's eyes. He went from loved to reviled in little more than an instant, on the back of nothing more than success. Soon after, he found himself out in the wilderness, until he discovered a new home amongst the Nephews.
Others, too, hadn't originally come here under their own volition. The deformed and limbless doll of a young wizard, for example, had once belonged to a family who lived on a parallel street, but was stolen by Ojid and given to Sid for use in a supporting role in one of their sordid, outlandish sagas. At first, he'd dreamed of returning to his former owners, but became enamoured with his captors over time, even when the original role he was brought in to play had long since expired.
Bax found this example of Stockholm syndrome difficult to fathom when he first joined the group, but as the days transpired he did find some semblance of understanding. Although the Nephews were strange and at times frightening, there was a togetherness about them that was endearing. It was something Lightspeed thought he had with Sheriff Best and the rest of Doub's toys, but this belief had since been shattered. And, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that this new set of toys that surrounded him had no other place to go. Where were they to find this feeling of unity, and the sense of belonging that came with it, if not with each other?
Even when Sid played with the toys, and did so with a roughness and vigour that Bax wasn't used to, the astronaut found strange and exciting feelings awakening inside his plastic stomach. He found that he didn't mind the scrapes and scratches that came as part and parcel of this forceful playtime. What's more, he enjoyed the more villainous roles that he was employed in, and felt them a more natural fit for his uneven personality.
Most of all, though, he enjoyed his long and thoughtful conversations with the tortoise that the others called Dreamer. She would spend most of the day asleep. When she awoke, she sometimes gathered the Nephews around her and told them what she dreamed about. Bax thought this an act of pretentiousness initially, and found the tortoise self-important in general, but soon he began to realise the dreams' significance. More often, though, she would spend her waking moments in thoughtful silence, alone and aloof from the group. And, when it was late, and most of the others had turned to slumber, she would send for Bax.
"But how do you deal with the doubt?" Bax asked, during one of their late, hushed talks. "I feel the desire to be good all the time, even if I know it isn't my nature. I'm made for boos, but I search for cheers."
"If you're searching for cheers," Dreamer began, in her thoughtful manner. "Then you are not seeking the right path for the right reasons."
"I feel the truth in that," Lightspeed responded. Often, when they spoke, he felt she possessed an understanding well beyond even her advanced years. He regarded her with a reverence that bordered on wonder. "But at least I would still be on the right path. There is no right reason to walk the wrong path."
"Are they your words, or Sheriff Best's?" Dreamer answered. "The right path doesn't remain the right path forever. Time marches on, and corrodes everything and everyone in its way. The elements wash away the stone, and within a blink of an eye your just path leads only to the ocean."
"Then which way should I walk?" Bax asked, in earnest.
"Right path, wrong path," the tortoise explained, with a gentle shrug of her shoulders that momentarily raised her hard, old shell. "These things do not exist. They are constructs. Eventually, we must all walk the only path: the one that leads to survival."
"Not salvation?" Lightspeed said, after a brief silence. Dreamer felt she saw his last hopes extinguished as he asked his naive question.
"It does not exist," she answered. "Only survival."
After that, neither of them spoke again, and eventually they fell asleep. Dreamer's was peaceful and long. Bax's was restless and short. The next day, he agreed to help the Nephews in any way he could.
In the middle of a cold, dark night, the window of an upstairs bedroom - two blocks away from the setting of this story’s events to present - slid open. Through it, a sequined, green tortoise poked its long head, checking that everything was as she expected it to be. The rest of her followed, the toy’s plodding, deliberate movements accentuated as she exhibited a need for caution and therefore silence. When her whole body was through the tiny gap, she unfastened the length of string that she’d used to scale the side of the house before reattaching it to the inside window handle. She climbed up the glass with her front legs, dragging the window closed with a gentle click, before abseiling down the inside of the wall.
She lamented how slow everything was. Dreamer had always wished for faster action than her slow body, and the even slower world around it, would allow. That was never more true than right now, as she neared the end of her masterplan. Her finest accomplishment. She and the rest of the Nephews would steal everything, and - now that Bax had been won around to their line of thinking and was willing to help them - there was nothing that could stop them. She only lamented how slow everything was.
As she touched down upon the laminate flooring of the child’s bedroom, she gave her string a yank to loosen its fastening and then rolled it up so that she could carry it across the room. As she went, she could hear the soft, gentle snoring of the sleeping child. She knew that her name was Keisha, and that she was seven years old, and that she went to the same elementary school as Doub. She knew what colour the bed sheets were before she’d even left Sid’s house. Her preparation was thorough. Keisha’s bedtime was eight in the evening and they were well beyond midnight, now. All that remained was the interminably slow traversal of the laminate flooring on route to the tall, expertly wrapped box in the other corner of the room.
The wrapping paper followed a rainbow theme on both the box and the lid, and she was pleased to find no pesky ribbons. They were difficult to reapply from inside the present. She began to uncoil her string as she reached the box, proceeding to climb up the side of it, even more careful now through risk of toppling the box or, even worse, waking the child in this most crucial of moments.
Delicate and dextrous, she pushed the lid off the top of the box and made an opening in the corner of it. She dropped her rope in first, and then jumped in after it. There was no chance of delicacy in her entrance. She ran a risk of awakening the present - whatever it was - and having to deal with the ensuing resistance. Fortunately, though, the brand new doll’s slumber was deep. Dreamer observed the small figurine: a vampire wearing a purple and black mask. Fine detailing. Good workmanship. A nice addition to the toy box, she concluded, before beginning to tie a noose in the end of her rope.
As quietly as she could, she climbed back up the side of the box, holding the other end of her string tightly as she did. When she slid down the other side, the rope became taut, the noose tightened, and the figurine was pulled up from the floor and finally woken. Dreamer heard the struggle, but couldn’t see it from the other side of the box, and kept her gaze intent on the sleeping child throughout the short, gruesome ordeal. When the struggling stopped, she retrieved the broken toy and carried it back outside to bury it. This was no easy task for a slow-moving quadruped, but Dreamer felt she owed the vampire a proper burial, at least.
Afterwards, she climbed back through the window and into the box, pulling the lid closed on top of it. Then, she waited. The party was tomorrow.
“Look at that one!” Jax the Dinosaur said, as he and a dozen other toys pressed their noses against Doub’s bedroom window. He pointed towards a large sack that was being carried by both of a young boy’s parents as the family walked up the driveway. “It’s huge! That can’t just be one toy?!”
“Such expert wrapping,” Wolfy added, whilst nodding towards a beautifully presented box and lid covered in rainbow paper. “Humans exhibit such neatness at such an early age.”
“It’s their parents,” Sergeant Savage reasoned. “The parents wrap the presents, the children open the presents. That’s the way it works.”
“Such bizarre customs,” Wolfy mused, whilst twirling the end of her whiskers with a paw.
“You don’t need to pull a muscle trying to look out of that window,” Sheriff Best said, as he arrived atop the dresser and pulled each of his comrades away from the glass. “Doub’s mother won’t let him open any of them until after the party. It’s the same every year. They’ll get stored up here, and we’ll get to take a proper look at all of the new additions without running the risk of falling down the back of a wardrobe.”
“Don’t remind me,” the Wolf shuddered as her mind was drawn back to her long months wedged behind the bed, the Sheriff uselessly looking for her in all the wrong places.
“That’s the last of them,” the sheriff said, decisively. During their reconnaissance, Sergeant Savage had infiltrated the kitchen to leaf through the invitation list. Everyone they were expecting had already arrived. “To your positions. They’ll be bringing them up any minute now.”
Best was, as usual, quite right. The boxes were all lined up against the wall next to the bed, and from on top of the sheets the sheriff watched Doub reach longingly for one of them. His mother took him by the outstretched hand and led him back downstairs to his guests, placating him with promises of forthcoming cake. When the door clicked closed, Sheriff Best sat up straight and turned his head towards the boxes. Over a dozen in all. More than he’d expected… but the more, the merrier, he reasoned. What could possibly go wrong.
He buffed up his five-pointed badge as he led the way towards the boxes. He fixed a welcoming smile upon his face, coming to a stop only a few paces away from the presents. He cleared his throat, the rest of the toys arriving behind him, a sense of communal curiosity overcoming the group.
“Greetings, new friends!” the sheriff declared, with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out. “My name is Sheriff Best, and I’m here to welcome you all to Doub’s bedroom!”
A few moments of silence, during which the sheriff’s smile faltered.
And then, four identically wrapped presents burst open, and from these violently forged openings came a quartet of near-identical hulking action figures. They were clones but for the varying deformities that were not immediately apparent to the suddenly fearful toys in Doub’s bedroom. The clones drove in formation into a large number of little green soldiers under Sergeant Savage’s command, the army men overwhelmed by the unforeseen attack. As the rest of the toys recoiled from this ambush, yet more boxes were torn open, a violent skirmish suddenly breaking out as more and more abominations erupted onto their until-then calm shores. The sheriff was knocked off his feet by a mechanical octopus that almost seemed to drop from the sky and roll into a mass of green army men, and then had to throw himself out of the path of a blast from a wizard’s staff that tore right through the unsuspecting Speak&Spell.
As Sheriff Best pushed himself up onto his feet, his confusion only grew at the sight of Bax Lightspeed walking towards him with a focussed but conflicted grimace etched upon his face. Before the cowboy could do anything to defend himself, Bax’s hand wrapped around his throat, and Best was lifted half a metre from the floor. He looked to his left, where a pink astronaut plushy was opening up what seemed like temporal vortexes, through which large numbers of green army men promptly disappeared. On his right, another cowboy - an older model known as Sheriff Gerald that Best felt sure they’d stopped making years ago - was single-handedly dealing with both Jax the Dinosaur and Sergeant Savage. There was destruction all around him.
He locked eyes with Bax. The man he used to call his friend, until he’d had to turn his back on him. Behind the astronaut, an unfamiliar tortoise made its slow, plodding approach, coming to a stop at Lightspeed’s shoulder. As the sheriff observed his old friend, he noticed the scratches and scars that now covered his frame. He understood that this was not the same Bax Lightspeed that he’d banished from Doub’s bedroom.
“It’s time to finish him, Bax,” the tortoise said. She sensed what the sheriff sensed: that Lightspeed could’ve popped his head off his shoulders seconds ago, but was being held back by something that neither he nor the tortoise controlled. Something that was coming from inside of him. “Before he has the chance to weasel himself out of it.”
“You… you… you…” the sheriff started, though his voice was gargled and hard to understand. He felt Bax’s grip loosen. Only slightly. Just enough to allow him to speak. “You don’t have to do this.”
“He didn’t leave you any other choice,” the tortoise added. The angel and devil on Bax’s shoulders were made real: one at his mercy, and the other insisting he show none. “This is all that he has left you with.”
“You’re not this man, Bax,” the sheriff argued. Lightspeed was unsure if the words were felt, or if they were last gasp efforts of a dying man.
“Can I come back?” he asked, his grip loosening slightly again. The sheriff looked around himself at the carnage. Jax, Speak&Spell, and the Sergeant lay dead. Wolfy was being overwhelmed by a half-dozen assailants, the octopus sinking his vile tendrils through his soft, white fur. Best looked Bax in the eye and shook his head.
“You can’t come back from this,” he said. And then, Lightspeed’s grip tightened and tightened and tightened, until the sheriff’s head popped from his shoulders.
Upon returning to Sid's bedroom, the Nephews and Bax found that they were exhausted following the day's exploits, and quite quickly drifted to sleep. Lightspeed's slumber was particularly restless and tortured, and a number of times he found himself reliving the moment when Sheriff Best's eyes had filled with fear. Fear for his own life, and fear for what his old friend had turned into. Bax felt ridden by guilt, repulsed by his own power, and frightened by the strange ecstasy that had overcome him in this moment of unthinking, vengeful belligerence.
Mostly, though, he felt that he was being pulled in a direction by forces outside of himself. Both towards the light and into the darkness: none of these choices seemed like ones that he himself had made. His agency had been taken away from him, and he found it a struggle to remember a time when his actions had been his own.
This feeling of being pulled in an unchosen direction by external forces became more literal upon his awakening. It appeared that he had been dragged from his resting place and denied his uneasy slumber. He was now strapped into a chair by tight bonds around his limbs and his torso. A bright light was shining in his eyes, and it was difficult to make out the figure of the tortoise standing in front of him. Only two green eyes were immediately visible, though soon enough his eyes adjusted and Dreamer's sinister frame became apparent. The rest of the Nephews assembled ominously behind her.
"What's going on?" Bax stuttered, though the question was limply asked and remained unanswered. Dreamer smiled at him, as kindly as ever.
"You played your role admirably," Dreamer said. "It's almost a shame that this final part of the plan is necessary."
"It isn't," Lightspeed replied, with desperation in her voice. "I'm one of you now. This is just the beginning. Whatever you have in mind… you don't have to do it."
"I'm afraid that we do, Bax," Dreamer answered, with a slight hint of mockery beginning to enter her voice. "We are grateful for what you've done, and the steps that you've made. But… you're stuck in-between. Too racked by guilt and shaken by shame to really make it here with us… but too self-interested and self-serving to be accepted by them. This isn't your place. Nor do you belong back there. There comes a point where you have to accept a hard but simple truth: that there is no place for you, Bax Lightspeed."
"But I can learn," Bax pleaded. "I'm learning already."
"It's too late, Bax," she said. "Just throw yourself in."
The tortoise stepped up to Bax’s chair and raised up on her hind legs. She lifted her front set of limbs towards the astronaut, and his attempts to back away on his chair were thwarted by a pair of unseen Nephews at his back. As Lightspeed stared down at Dreamer’s encroaching claws, he noticed the green scales beginning to recede. Instead, the pale white skin of a human hand was groping towards him, its touch icy and hostile against his plastic chest.
The hand applied more pressure, and he watched his chest begin to cave in and splinter around the point of impact. Within moments, the hand’s cold digits were groping around inside of him. He struggled and screamed, but his struggles and screams were futile. He was flailing in a harsh, winter wind. A quiet storm brought about by the woman whose touch now tore right through him.
And, when he lifted his eyes to behold his killer, he saw that it was a woman. Beautiful but cold, treacherous as the ocean’s wrath, more powerful than Mother Nature herself. Her eyes were old and hard and knowing, and they broke him before he could prepare himself for this onslaught upon his senses.
She tore her hand from his chest and he fell to his knees: no longer constricted, no longer a doll, no longer a plaything to be controlled. His only master stood before him. He could see her wrestling boots. He was bleeding on them, and on the ring mat beneath. Blood dripped onto the back of his head, too, and when he looked up he realised that it was coming from his still-beating heart, which Dreamer held aloft for him to see. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:40:38 GMT
Promo history - volume 102.
”5x06” (January 29th, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Uncle J.J. JAY! (CDW: Valentine’s Day Massacre).
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME ONE HUNDRED & TWO]
“5x06.”
Standard Universal Time: 486.862.317D-306.004--042.006.XGK.
Earth Time: 14th February, 2056. 14:30 GMT.
Cthulhu’s Nephews Moon Base. Mare Tranquillitatis.
“I am, if anything, only surprised there aren’t more of you here,” Michelle said, as she stood upon a stage raised only a few centimetres above the rest of the floor, her hands resting on either side of the wooden pulpit. Her eyes scanned over the faces (or, in some cases, whatever they had in place of a face) of the half-dozen strange, unfamiliar beings assembled in the incinerator hall. She'd been to the Moon Base before, and seen it emptier than this even, but still the small smattering of sentients gathered here made her sad. Not the packed audience she’d expected. She didn’t expect to see Gerald. She hadn’t for over a decade now, after all, and from what she’d been told she gathered Grayson’s space-travelling days were behind him. But she thought she’d see someone she recognised. Perhaps the last year had been as difficult for Uncle, and specifically his relationship with the rest of the Nephews, as it had been for her. She didn’t know for sure. She hadn’t kept in touch, predictably. “Uncle mentioned some of the funerals that he’d spoken at in the past. Just in passing. He generally spoke in a series of ever-escalating tangents, and despite their convoluted and often unbelievable nature they had a habit of sticking in the mind. No matter how hard one tries to get rid of them. I remember the story he told me about a memorial following the passing of General Belvedere. Belvedere and Uncle had fought together on the battlefields of the Klondike Adjacents during the White-Sand dissent, and JAY! was invited to speak at the service. Sort of like I have been today, although allegedly in more grandiose settings. The K-468 Coliseum was filled to the rafters, and - if Uncle is to be believed, which I’m perfectly aware that he quite often was not - there wasn’t a dry eye in the stadium following his eloquent and emotionally evocative eulogy. A feat made even more impressive when considering General Belvedere, his extended family, and the civilisation that showed out to collectively commemorate him were almost exclusively Pyrholls, a species that doesn’t possess tear ducts. It is fortunate that we haven’t packed out a stadium for this cremation. I’m afraid that my monologuing skills are quite substantially inferior to that of the man that we are here today to burn. But I will try, if only because he’s asked me to.” She glanced over towards the open casket. She’d spent a few minutes positioned over it when she first arrived. Unable to take her eyes away from the perfectly preserved form of the being she once knew more thoroughly than any other in the universe. Preserved, both in the sense that death had barely changed him, and in that the last thirty-five years of his life hadn’t either. He looked exactly as he did when she’d met him. “I remember our first adventure together as if it was yesterday. More vividly than the hundred or so that followed. It happened to occur during my first period of time clutching onto the world championship, which may or may not have been a coincidence. It began, as so many of the early sojourns with the COSMIC HORROR did, with a kidnapping. This one was distinct from the others because the kidnapping was my own, and because I remember little of it outside of the revelation that I’d been kidnapped. With the large number of Nephews that I would soon learn were in a constant orbit around him, I sometimes need to remind myself that there were only five of us on the trip. Nothing compared to the legions of strange followers that he’d accumulate over the proceeding - and preceding - years. A more intimate feel. Perhaps deliberately so, so that I wouldn’t be overwhelmed by both the uniquity and the sheer number of his comrades, scattered as they are in disparate pockets of the universe. But I guess I don't need to tell you that. I assume that you all knew him, and to know Uncle is to share in all of this knowledge. It was his nature to overshare." She paused to look around her audience. One of them, a tall and stocky Yondheim whose large, angular nose dominated the otherwise sunken features on his face, was engaging in a long, drawn out, and thoroughly bored yawn. Next to him, a Quorrel had taken a bag of glob-snacks from her front pouch and began to noisily consume them. None of them seemed overly interested in her musings. Story of a lifetime. "I can only hope to interest you with my personal recollections of Uncle. I don't know how similar they will be to your own memories. I imagine that Uncle meant different things to each of us. At the end of that first adventure, when Uncle handed me the first gift I'd received in years in a simple ' Cthulhu's Nephews: Meltdown Branch' t-shirt, I already felt a greater sense of belonging than I had in my many long years in the suburbs of Rotterdam… or in the halls of a French boarding school… or in any of the wrestling locker rooms I'd shared in the decades that followed. In one short trip across the universe, Uncle had already taught me more than even the kaiju, with his pails of water and arduous, menial toil. "During that first journey, we visited a planet that was in the clutches of their doom, which would become something of a regular motif in the decades to follow. It quickly became clear that Uncle could have saved this planet, the name and standardised number of which escapes me right now, if it had been in his interest to do so. Even I, a true alien in the proper sense, managed to win this fledgling civilisation at least a momentary reprieve. Uncle would quote intergalactic code to justify his neglect and inactivity, whilst flouting these same and other rules when this or any other adventure would warrant it. Another contradiction in a life full of them… the greatest of which was apparent even in this earliest of interactions. The limits that he placed on himself, juxtaposed against the infinite, limitless nature that he projected to the universe. Or that I inferred. But at the end of this adventure, he taught me the first in a series of lessons that have undoubtedly sculpted me, for better or for worse. That just because you can change something, it doesn’t necessarily mean you should. “This first adventure was not quite my first interaction with JAY!. I became aware of him whilst he was courting Gerald, shortly before we were separated by the cruel machinations of the FWA big tent. It became clear, even from afar, that Uncle wasn't the sort to have qualms about stealing someone's tag team partner from underneath their nose. Tag team partners were, like a planet's resources and notable ideas, meant to be shared. Although it's fair to say I wasn't comfortable with this to begin with. I viewed Gerald almost as I would come to view my world championship: as a prize to be treasured alone. I feared that Uncle, along with his Nephews, were just like everyone else, poised to steal the important things away from my reluctant, desperate grasp. "What was I getting at? Oh, yes… our first interaction. It took place over the phone, and would have been around New Year's at the end of 2020. Right before I went to Tsushima for my dance with Rondo. I was using a phone booth somewhere along the east coast, which is something I resent doing even when the correct person answered the phone. This time, as I lent lethargically against the innards of the phone booth and waited impatiently for Gerald to answer, I was perplexed to hear a vaguely familiar voice. One that I'd heard on television and now through the phone but never in person, and never out of choice. " 'You have reached the cellular telephone of Gerald Grayson, Nephew,' the voice said. I remember thinking that it was a pre-recorded answer phone message, not yet placing who this unfamiliar voice belonged to. And so I waited, and so did he. 'Hello? Is there anyone there?'" 'You're not Gerald,' I answered, or something equally as banal, obvious, and stupid. It was when he allowed himself a loud guffaw that I recognised who the voice belonged to. Panicked, I went on and ask frantic questions like 'where is Gerald?’ and 'what have you done to him?'" 'Gerald is fine, Dreamer!' he replied, although I didn't immediately believe him. I didn't consider him trustworthy, and trust didn't come easy to me. Still doesn't. 'We are at Chessington World of Adventures. He's on a ride with Quiet, and I'm looking after the bags with Thomas and Harry. The Maid is somewhere, too, with the Avatar. Tea cups, I think?' I repeated the name of their alleged location, and Uncle re-explained that they were at a theme park. 'But not the one on your Earth, of course,' he went on. 'I wouldn't be caught dead in that England, handgrabber. We're in a parallel dimension where the royal family didn't enslave half the planet. Gods, I can't wait until Lizzie dies. The one in your dimension, I mean. The one here is just a benign old woman. Though us Nephews must always remain vigilant!'"A lengthy silence overcame me. All I could think to ask was how this phone booth managed to successfully patch me through to another dimension, but I didn't. I simply remained quiet and still, leant against the inside of the phone booth, a dumb look on my face, until he got tired of waiting for me to say something. 'Well, if that's all, I'll be off. Harry wants some candy floss. Until we meet properly, Dreamer…'"Even after this strange and short interaction, I was bemused and intrigued by him… unsure if he was legitimate in what he claimed he was and could do, or if he was just like every other man, over-estimating himself and his reach. Gerald would sometimes tell me about the journeys he took with Uncle, including the one to the theme park. He said it culminated when they decided to free the animals from the zoo and make a quick getaway, and I'd learn later myself that a significant proportion of journeys with Uncle climaxed in a quick getaway."Between this first interaction and that first adventure, there was our first meeting, when we did indeed meet properly and traverse a lot of the gulf of mistrust that lingered between us. It was after this contest that I was finally willing to throw myself in. It was in the ring, and transpired thanks primarily to the whims of the puppeteers that controlled an unseemly amount of my life back then. Valentine's Day Massacre, 2021. This name was used to promote shows under a dozen different banners over the following three decades: Fight Night was the first, and then Fallout, CDW, Meltdown, Crossfire, Genki Pro, Adrenaline Rush, nGw, NWA Japan, LOW, AMA, Pro-Wrestling Chimpanzee… even that slap-fighting thing Michael Garcia tried to host in Atlantis. It would mean something to me quite soon. By the second instalment, in fact, it had grown in stature into the only important annual event circled on my calendar. But that first February 14th show was little more for me than a thrown together match on an abhorrent holiday. The only saving grace was that I won, of course. Thus setting the tone for many of our early battles, which manifested viciousness even under the guise of friendly fire. " In-between that first interaction and first meeting, which also happened to be our first 'first blood' and our first match, my initial thoughts on Uncle were the same uninspired ones that everyone else seemed to arrive at: cult leader, megalomaniac, egomaniac, general-maniac. But shared experience brings you closer together, and there's nothing quite like bleeding together to reinforce this kinship. For it quickly went beyond simple comradery for us: I began to see Uncle J.J. JAY! - this figure as full of life and fervour as I was hollow and empty of it - as another kindred spirit. In my younger years and more pretentious or perhaps facile moments, I would say that the kaiju was the mountain, and Bell was the sea. This pale metaphor was both illuminated and punctured by Uncle, who I came to imagine as the rising and setting sun, shining upon the hill and the water in turn. Neither could exist without this star, eternal or as near as can be, and it would go on in its own strange life cycle when the mountain was dust and the sea had dried up. "In 2036, we took part in our fifteenth annual Valentine's Day meeting, again at a CDW show, this time taking place on the dark side of the moon. It was part of their annual tournament, BOTDSOFTM, where we met in the first round to once again fight together and bleed together, to renew our unspoken blood pact. I don't remember what the score was by this point. I'd won some and Uncle had won some. We just stopped counting by that stage. I bring it up primarily because it took place here, on this lunar satellite, and seeing Uncle's lifeless form reminds me of the intensity and passion and frivolity he brought to that meeting, as he did every year during our annual Valentine's date. It finished when Uncle had a half-dozen Nephews wheel out a contraption he and Thomas had built. A push of a button activated the nanomachines Uncle covertly installed in my body, which immediately cut me open in half a hundred different places. I'd never felt pain quite like it, at least of a physical variety. Uncle won the match but they banned his invention from the following year onwards, and we both continued to innovate. Over the three decades that we fought on February 14th, we faced off on six of the planets in this solar system, in three different quadrants, on the face of an asteroid and in the bowels of a star, in spaceships and on satellites. We introduced new weapons that are now used in intergalactic warfare the universe over, like Pro-Wrestling Oppenheimers, spreading our dark wings over any world that would have us. We rejoiced as technology caught up with our imagination. And through it all - as each year we agreed again to make each other bleed in new and imaginative ways, conspiring in the lab to create unique machinations of barbarism - I saw within COSMIC HORROR an obsessive streak that matched my own. For you cannot spill that much blood with one another, and share in these most violent of memories, without sharing a great many other things also. "At times, I viewed Uncle as a projection of myself, only on a universal scale. Since I was a child, wasting my time in the suburbs of Rotterdam or the corners of Marseille where I ebbed away my formative years, I have always struggled and hungered for something more. What exactly this more was - what form it took, and the steps which I should take to reach it - was a difficult concept for my young mind. It remained mostly abstract, taking physical form for only fleeting moments, and always shifting between disparate ideas that contradicted one another. But, even then, I lamented the finite possibilities that presented themselves to me. JAY! provided an opportunity for me to fill this hole that I'd carried around for as long as I can remember, whilst also suggesting in silence that he was unwhole, too. The chasm within his own soul - no, not a soul, within his body itself - was deeper, wider, angrier, and I only knew a whisper of it. But this only consolidated my meagre understanding of him as a replication of my own suffering, my own inadequacies, on a galactic scale. He offered me an opportunity to access the infinite, and to expand the meagre horizons that had always smothered me, if not to escape them entirely.” She paused to take a deep, laboured breath. She tried not to wonder whether she was rambling because she knew that she was. She didn’t want to look around at the handful of faces in the incinerator hall, either. How few of them there were made her sad. "A human life comes and goes in a blink of the cosmic eye, whilst a COSMIC HORROR can seem almost timeless to a human one. Certainly placeless. But, in various ways, all lives are. To think - and to explore and to love and to know - is to be without a home: to live according to the call of one's inner voice, and its incessant need for the new, its longing for transience and the transcendental. But nothing, really, is infinite. Planets are the prey of meteors or black holes or COSMIC HORRORs or others like them. Whole species of sentient beings go extinct every day, every minute, every second, and take with them their ideas of civilization, their history and their culture and the nuances of their language. Their understanding of love. Stars falter and die, and take with them to the grave the memory that you formed, sitting under the stars with the one you chose, and a billion other memories just like it. The universe itself will one day collapse: the victim of a slow and painful heat death, or the sudden compromise of our false vacuum. Never with a bang, always a whimper. Everything ends: even COSMIC HORROR…” One more glance towards JAY!’s corpse. Everything seemed exactly as she remembered it, except for the cold and lifeless eyes. They lacked the spark to suggest they had ever contained life, especially one so full as Uncle's had been. "Before we ever met, we were both destined to face this same, grizzly demise. Uncle was only different to me in that he had already accepted his fate, and although even he did not know the exact details of it he was at least comfortable with the idea of its coming. For me, it preoccupied so much of my thought, and so much of what I produced, that for the longest time I was unable to accept this lack of infinity and make use of the finite. Uncle succeeded in widening the parameters of my existence, which is all I'd hoped for when first engaging with him. "When I heard that Uncle had finally died, the victim of a violent meteor blizzard when travelling through the Crease, my mind was inevitably drawn onto my own relationship with mortality. There is nothing else worth thinking about, tulips… and the only worthwhile activities are the ones that drag your focus away from that grizzly fact of life. That we are all expelled from the womb as if shot from a canon, and that those intermittent years - a blink of the cosmic eye, as I've said - are not a gift but a curse, when they are delivered to us alongside the knowledge of their pointlessness. Uncle, for me, was an escape from the limitations of the finite, which can only be considered as a potential escape from death itself. When I now look upon this body, this ghost in the shell, I realise the stupidity and the futility that underpins that line of thinking. Akin to scouring the universe for the fountain of youth or the holy grail. All escape is temporary. "Uncle and I took a trip to the Derevyna-Hφ to mark the fortieth anniversary of my birth. The idea of commemorating my death sentence in such a way had never occurred to me as a worthwhile thing to do. But Uncle insisted we were to spend a month together in the Derebynayan wild to mark the occasion. One night, we sat next to our campsite, overlooking a deep canyon and a stream below, white-rock walls surrounding us on all sides and a dense, blooming forest scattered across the landscape. Ada Lea played quietly from the speaker system mountain on his bicycle's front handlebars. Derevyna's twin moons, both blood orange and huge, had begun their ascent. During the day, Uncle found clusters of the bright pink mushrooms that were native to these northern hills, and would cultivate within one a state of acute mindlessness, as he put it. In this state, the stars overhead became a network of solar cables, pulsating with an energy that I felt I was a part of. That night, after a lengthy period of silence during which I was nowhere and everywhere within the very same moment, Uncle turned to me and uttered the only sentence he said all night. 'You can't escape your certain fate, Dreamer, but it's your duty to try and evade it for as long as you can.'"The next day, as we cycled up towards the mountain village that would signify the end of our journey, we began to see large prints along the dirt track that wound northwards and upwards. In misplaced nostalgia, I'd removed the chiral propulsion stabilisers that came on my bike, and as Uncle gently and breezily chewed through the kilometres I struggled in an arduous battle pitting me against my pedals. We were a way away from anything, and I was beginning to doubt that there was anything at all at the end of this hard and seemingly unnecessary journey. But Uncle was determined, and his resistance in the face of inevitability was infectious. It was mid-morning when the large, grey-white bear walked out into our path. I applied my breaks, and shouted the name of the animal, or earth's approximation of it. It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all that my blank mind could grasp. Uncle stopped a few paces ahead of me. " 'It's not going to come to you, Nephew,' he said, before climbing off his bike and walking up to the animal. The bear stood up onto its hind legs, twice as tall as JAY!, whose frame was suddenly slender and slight and fragile in the animal's shadow. But both were silent. After a few moments, during which I clutched my handlebars as tightly as I held my breath, the beast lay down in front of him. He stroked the fur on his back with both hands and scratched his neck, his arms around the bear in a warm and comfortable embrace. "It was after this trip that I began to accept things. My limitations, and the capacity I had to expand them. The cards that were dealt me and the hand that feeds. And, above all, the end that awaits. Inevitable and grim. But there is an emancipation that comes with acceptance of this ill fate. The darkness that comes for all, that only two weeks ago came for Uncle J.J..JAY!, is only the final adventure. This last journey will reduce us all to side characters. We are only passengers. Even one so unique and seemingly timeless, placeless, masterless as he had his agency denied to him in the end. "I guess what I'm trying to say is…" Her pause here was natural, as she groped around within herself - both in her mind and in her heart - for the thrust of her argument. As she did, the watch around her wrist began to gently vibrate. It was the first time the watch had been activated in over a year. It was given to her to counteract her desire to remain phoneless, so that she could be contacted if the need was ever great. Contacted by the man who lay dead a few metres away from her. She lifted the wristwatch towards her old eyes and strained them to read the narrow lines of text that scrolled across the interface: handgrabber -- not actually dead. faked for reasons
related to insurance, so don’t kill yourself on the
speech. needed nephew presence at the funeral for
believability. corpse is a fake, too, pretty expensive so
don’t touch it. might need it again one day. nephews
fine also. except harry, he really died. see you soon,
uncle x. Gripping the pulpit again and looking out over her meagre audience, Dreamer noted that each of them were moved by the beauty and mystery of her words. Tears rolled down the faces of those capable of producing such an overt display of emotion. They waited with baited breath, communally creeping to the edge of their chairs, awaiting the thematic conclusion of her monologue. She sighed, and left the stage. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:41:45 GMT
Promo history - volume 103.
”Work and Play” (February 12th, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Nate Savage and Jackson Fenix (FWA: Back In Town). Gerald sat back in the uncomfortable seat in the airport terminal, doing his best to approximate some semblance of homeliness and cosiness. It was no use. The environment was too stale, and he couldn't shake the thought that every single airport terminal in the world was essentially identical. In tone if not precisely in specifics. He loved to travel but he didn't care for airports. It was the lack of uniqueness that he disliked - or maybe mistrusted - the most. The world was a vibrant, vivid place, and he always felt as though these portals to new and exciting parts of it should reflect that.
Still, it could be a lot worse…
Dreamer stumbled towards him, ghost-like in every sense imaginable. She was somehow paler than usual, if that was even possible. She had spent the last forty minutes in the bathroom, and Gerald didn't dare ask what she'd been doing. He just watched her approach, failing or refusing to register him, except for to choose the seat at his side to occupy.
"You good?" he asked her. She said nothing. Gerald didn't have to be an expert in body language to surmise that she was pretty far from good.
For as long as he'd known her, he'd always considered Michelle to be a strong person. Certainly flawed in many ways, and plagued by fears and doubts, but strong in the face of them regardless. Seeing first hand the inexplicable internal struggle that was Michelle von Horrowitz travelling by aeroplane, though, had at least momentarily rocked that steadfast image. Right now, his partner was fragile. Weak. Human.
"Where are we?" she asked, whilst looking around for signs that would answer her own question. She found none.
"Atlanta," he answered. "Only one more short hop."
"We should drive," Michelle said, quickly and decisively. "It's not that far to Raleigh."
"We already have our tickets," Gerald replied. He was doing his best to sound soothing but, Michelle thought, was coming up well short. "I'll make it up to you when we get there. We can get the bus to Denver."
"I want to go for drinks," Michelle declared. Gerald sighed. Drinks with Dreamer rarely ended well for either of them, and usually not for their team spirit either.
"I've booked out a gym," Gerald said. "We're going to spar. Prepare for our match."
"Then afterwards," Michelle insisted. She turned to face Gerald, and he observed a quiet but hot fire in the depths of her green eyes. "Gerald, we are going for drinks. That's the price."
Defeated, Gerald nodded.
"It's a date," he said, glumly.
*****
GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
are
[CTHULHU’S NEPHEWS]
in
”WORK AND PLAY”
“You sure this gym is good?” Michelle said as they came to a halt outside the place, looking at Gerald with a concerned expression. “You sure it’s even open?”
“Michelle, I personally trained here during my early days - and look at me now,” Gerald said, standing with hands on hips as if he were a superhero. Michelle looked at Gerald from head to toe, not impressed by what she saw. She shook her head and reached for the handle.
“Let’s get this over with,” she groaned, opening the squeaky, rusted metal door.
From the outside, the building looked old and abandoned with rust covering most of its corners. On the inside, it was the same except for the floors, which were made of hardwood. The equipment looked like it was about to fall apart, but Michelle did have a sort of fondness for this kind of spit and sawdust place. The gym was busy, with most of the machines already occupied. No one looked their way, which was a breath of fresh air compared to the kind of treatment they usually received.
On the far right corner of the gym was a wrestling ring that seemed to sparkle, as if it was prepared for Gerald in advance. Which, knowing the owner (as Gerald did), it probably was.
“Well, this is better than I expected,” Michelle said casually. Gerald side-eyed her, not knowing if she was being serious or sarcastic.
“Gerald!” A voice called out to them as they were nearing the wrestling ring. The scruffy, middle-aged, silver-haired man embraced Gerald, clearly happy to see him. He looked at Michelle and extended his hand, which Michelle reluctantly shook.
“This is Will Bardot. Former all-state wrestler of the year all four years in college. He has held many titles in the indy scene too,” Gerald said, with a smile. “Oh, and he was my wrestling coach when I first got started.”
“So this is the guy who taught you to wrestle, huh?” Michelle said snarkily. “Not bad, Will.”
Bardot and Grayson shared a laugh before Will motioned for them to get into the ring. Some commotion could be heard as a small crowd of gym users gathered around them, all eyes looking towards the sparring pair. Will’s trainers, three in number, stood outside the ring, calling for everyone in the gym to go back to what they were doing.
“Thanks for this, Will. I really appreciate it,” Gerald said, putting his knee pads on.
“No problem. You should visit more often. We miss you around these parts. You can even bring Michelle along anytime,” Will said, patting Gerald on the back.
“Yeah, sorry about that. It’s just that the FWA schedule is pretty gruelling. You know how it goes,” Gerald paused, “But I do wish I could be in here more often. Always good to come back to my roots.”
“I totally get it, Gerald. Now that you’re here, don’t think I’ll take it easy on you guys,” Will chuckled.
“Are you two going to keep talking or are we going to train?” Michelle questioned.
With that, Gerald stood across from Michelle with Will acting as the referee. Without wasting any time, Michelle went for the lock up, which Gerald immediately countered with a go-behind. Michelle acted quickly and countered with a go-behind of her own, tripping Gerald in the process. With Gerald on the mat, Michelle placed him in a front facelock. Gerald rolled around but Michelle rolled with him, rendering him unable to get out of the hold. Instead, Gerald used his strength to stand. With Michelle on his back, he found the closest corner and slammed Michelle onto it before snapmaring her to the middle of the ring.
“Now this is fun. We haven’t sparred in so long,” Gerald said with a chuckle, offering his hand to Michelle. Will was all smiles, happy to see his former student having the advantage early.
She slapped his hand away, again tripping Gerald so that he'd fall on his back, to which Gerald responded with a kip up. He waved his finger at her, angering Michelle with his overconfidence. They locked up again and Michelle scored a go-behind. This time, she planted Gerald onto the mat, applying another facelock. She floated over, wrenching on Gerald’s neck, slapping his forehead before letting go of the hold.
“See, this is why you haven’t been successful in singles matches,” she said, pausing for effect. “You get the advantage early but don’t execute in the end.”
Gerald glared at her. Will’s demeanour changed too, knowing those words probably stung more than they should have. More than their flippant delivery suggested they would.
Gerald went for an aggressive lockup, catching Michelle in a side headlock. She tried to use the ropes to throw Gerald off her but he held on. She tried it again, but Gerald's headlock became even tighter. She needled at his ribs with forearm strikes, eventually forcing some separation and throwing him off her. However, as Gerald rebounded off the ropes, he landed a shoulder tackle that sent her slender frame to the mat.
“You want to talk about our matches?" Gerald said argumentatively, looking down at her. He stopped short of outright questioning her focus, but his point was clear anyway. He'd mentioned it a couple of times during their journey back to the States, as well as half a hundred occasions before and during the European tour.
“This again?” she rolled onto her stomach as she saw Gerald bounce off the ropes. She scrambled to her feet, ready to deliver a lariat upon reaplroach, but he skilfully ducked beneath it. Michelle bounced off the ropes that Gerald just hit, trying to confuse the Daredevil, but Gerald glanced behind and leaped over Michelle, and then caught her in a belly-to-belly stance. He threw her overhead and popped straight back up… only for Michelle to land on her feet! The two tag partners faced each other, breathing heavily as Will stood in between them.
“Yes, this again. You talk about wanting to have a historic reign, yet you’re overlooking the Undisputed Alliance,” Gerald said, with a somewhat annoyed tone.
“You’re worried about those guys? Come on, Gerald,” she scoffed. “You agreed we should be looking forwards from now on, not backwards.”
“This is exactly why I’m telling you this, Michelle! We’re at a place where we can’t afford to go backwards,” Gerald paused. “You don’t think your words are making it worse for us? Everyone is already gunning for us and the titles. Then you go running your mouth about wanting to have a historic reign. Why don’t we let our actions speak for us?”
Michelle looked down, shaking her head.
“It would be quite embarrassing if we lost to Nate and Jackson when we’re so heavily favoured, especially so early on in our reign."
Gerald glared at his partner. She worried him a lot. Not because of how she was, but because of her tendency to collect distractions and vendettas. Two years ago, they were on the run of their lives in the Elite Tag Team Classic. They were randomly put together and no one thought it would work out - and for good reason. But they made it to the finals against Golden Rock. He knew that, during this time, Michelle was trying to do her bit for the team and tournament, but also that strange forces were calling her. Forces that he didn't understand then and still didn't, really, even now. He knew, though, that her name was Bell.
He did at least see the side of this dramatically budding relationship that they presented to the world, and that Michelle externalised. Things were going Dreamer's way until Bell finally pushed back. When Bell pushed back, Michelle had to push back even harder. Things went back and forth between the two of them, all-the-while dragging her from him. By the end, their tag team was an afterthought. They lost to Golden Rock in the finals, failing to capture the tag team titles. The same thing happened in Tag Warz. Almost a carbon copy. He lamented history's repetition.
Fast forward to the F1 Climaxxx. Something about the two of them and tournaments, he couldn't help but think. This time they were separated, on their own respective journeys to get to the final. However, their tag team duties never disappeared or even slowed down. The Connection was stronger than ever - or so Gerald thought. Michelle had World Championship aspirations still, and maybe rightfully so. Going into the tournament, he knew that common thought had her as one of the favourites to win it all. While their bond as tag team partners was solid, this brought the Daredevil back to the scenario from two years ago. Michelle again pulling double duty. Again risking what they'd worked so hard to build. Something he couldn’t let go of. Maybe it was selfish of the boy to think this way, but if Michelle was in his shoes, he reasoned that she’d feel exactly the same.
“I think it’s a good time for a break,” Will said. Gerald and Michelle nodded in agreement. At least they could concur on something.
Will exited the ring as Gerald and Michelle hovered around the ropes. It was quiet between the tag champions, the pair letting the air clear before something they’d regret saying was said.
“So… what’s his deal?” Michelle said, finally.
Gerald followed her gaze to the punching bag area where a guy worked away at the bag as if the world had wronged him in some way. Maybe in a great number of ways.
“I remember him from the last time we were here,” she said observantly.
“You do?” Gerald paused. “That’s Corey.”
Michelle didn't reply, but continued to watch his heavy breathing as he meandered through his slow, laborious workout.
“Yeah, he’s here day in and day out I’m told. You can see he works hard. He puts in the time, but something’s just not working. Maybe he needs to change his routine to improve,” Gerald said casually, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Surely he realises that him coming here everyday and doing the same thing, seeing no results, is a waste of time?”
“I mean, it depends on what he’s working on. At least he’s putting in the work. He just needs some guidance, I guess. Maybe something at home isn’t working,” Gerald shrugged.
Will returned to the ring, handing both Michelle and Gerald some bottles of water. They each took a drink and seemed a little calmer for it.
“Ready to go again?” Will questioned both of them. They each nodded, throwing their water bottles to the side.
Michelle and Gerald took up opposite corners with Will in the middle. He motioned them to begin as the tag team partners circled each other, trying to find an advantage. Before long, Gerald managed to get behind Michelle and looked for a German. She tried to break from the hold, punching on Gerald’s hands and delivering back elbow strikes. She ran forward, bouncing them both off the ropes so that they tumbled down together. This time, Michelle had the advantage, stomping on Gerald’s left shoulder before he could find a vertical base.
She allowed him to get to his feet, glaring at her in return. Gerald went for the lockup immediately, scoring with a side headlock. Michelle used the ropes to push him off. On the rebound, Michelle caught Gerald in a sleeper! Gerald tried to get a hold of the ropes to break out of it, but wasn't able to, his actions getting more desperate in the face of oncoming slumber. Instead, he eventually dropped down to a knee, the perspiration allowing him to slip out of the hold, and the Daredevil tripped up Michelle in the process. Gerald floated over towards her legs and placed her in a figure four leg lock! Will checked on Michelle, but she waved him off. He had it in a tight grip, wrenching on her legs.
“Tap, Michelle,” he uttered.
“No chance,” she declared in response, to which he wrenched on her legs even more.
However, with the momentum in doing that, Michelle somehow found a way to flip herself over, reversing the lock and applying the pressure to Gerald's limbs instead. She climbed to her feet and collected her partner’s left leg. She put his knee on the back of her head and began wrenching on it, garnering a yelp of pain from Gerald.
“Tap,” she said, knowing she was in control.
Gerald glared at her, causing Michelle to wrench on his knee even more.
“You should probably tap, Gerald,” Will offered his advice.
“Don’t make me start stomping, Gerald,” she said, wrenching on his leg even more. “You know I’ll do it."
Gerald tapped. Will immediately gripped Michelle on the shoulder, letting her know he was done. That it was done. Gerald just lay there, Michelle joining him in a seated position.
“Good session, partner,” she said sarcastically.
“Fuck you,” Gerald uttered. She laughed, and then helped him to his feet.
*****
"Why did I agree to this?" Gerald asked, as a fresh Coors Light - his fourth of the night, which was uncharacteristic in and of itself - was placed down onto the table in front of him. He leant back on his chair and rubbed his stomach as if to sooth it.
"This is the tax you agreed to pay for making me catch a flight," Michelle replied, whilst narrowing her eyes. The memory of the Trans-Atlantic journey, connecting through Paris and then Atlanta, was still as fresh as Gerald's drink. She'd never truly forgive him for that ordeal. "Three flights, to be specific. The least you can give me is your company for an evening."
Gerald looked at his beer and wondered how he was going to finish another pint of it. Michelle smiled at his trepidation in a fit of schadenfreude.
"Unless by this you specifically mean what you're drinking," she continued, with a playful shrug. "I can't say why you agreed to light beer. That's for you to answer. I thought that's what you always drank?"
"Light beer is fine," Gerald said. Michelle thought she could hear his stomach rumble during his pause. “It’s just the quantity of it. I agreed to get the bus from here to Denver. Is that not tax enough?”
“I don’t care if you get the bus to Denver or not,” Michelle answered, with a scoff. “Fly if you like. It’s on your conscience.”
"Hangovers and title defences,” Gerald moped, ponderously. “That's all you ever get me, Dreamer."
“You’re leaving out the championships,” Dreamer said. She picked up her drink, a neat Jameson’s, and swirled it around in the glass. “The wins… the glory…”
“I had enough of that before you came along,” Gerald argued. He sipped hesitantly at the head of his beer, displeasure creeping onto his countenance in reflection of its bitter taste. “I’ll have enough of it after you, too.”
“There is no after me, Gerald,” Michelle answered. Her grin was now all-encompassing, eyes glinting devilishly as she watched Grayson’s determined but resilient attempts to drink his beer. "I'm everywhere, and this is for keeps."
"Encouraging to hear you speak with such certainty," Gerald replied. "It's been a while."
"We agreed not to talk about that," Dreamer snapped. "Not the past, please: the future. Maybe not the Undisputed Alliance, though. I've all but exhausted my conversational fodder on our friends Nate and Jackson already. Fortunately, though, this historic reign doesn’t end with them.”
“We shouldn’t look past our next opponents,” Gerald declared, but his heart wasn’t in the utterance. Half of the words were slurred, and the last two were interrupted by the Daredevil’s staunch efforts to keep his latest sip down.
“Oh but we should, tulip,” Dreamer replied. She signalled to the barman - whose station behind the counter was separated from the duo’s booth by the entrance to a staircase leading to the bathroom - for another drink. “What do you think it is that drives me through the mundanity? It’s the thought of what lies ahead, of course…”
“And what does lie ahead?” Gerald asked. He remained absent and aloof. More concerned with settling the storm that was brewing in the pit of his stomach. He no longer even attempted to drink his beer, which sat abandoned on the table between them.
“Difficult to say,” Michelle mused. She collected her pack of Camels from her pocket and began to idly rotate it in one of her hands. “I just hope it isn’t the Coven or the Lumberjacks again. I’m getting tired of the retreads. There are fresher challenges, if you're willing to look hard enough. Jeffry Mason's little project, for one thing."
"They've never had a match together here," Gerald said, with a derisive shrug. "At least not on the same team. And they're falling apart at the seams before they've even started. Their priorities don't seem to be in the tag division."
Michelle half-saw a wince cross over Gerald's face as he questioned the priorities of these hypothetical future opponents. The Daredevil noticed the change in his own countenance, too, though he hoped - perhaps supposing that Michelle's levels of focus and perception had deteriorated as much as his own - that she hadn't caught it. The ideas of misplaced priorities and confused focus had been common in his thoughts recently, though levelled against his own partner instead of those that might stand against them. He bit his tongue and fell quiet. That topic would be difficult enough to broach in the midst of sobriety.
"This new princess, then," Michelle continued, electing not to comment or dwell upon the cloud that momentarily descended between them. "And the Classics student."
"Are you just naming teams that haven't had matches yet?" Gerald answered, whilst waving her away dismissively. "At least Mason and what's-his-face have even debuted."
"She was in the battle royale," Dreamer pointed out.
"Months ago," replied Gerald. "If you're thinking that far in the future, then it’s Black and Peacock we have to worry about.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Michelle said, flippantly. She noticed the Daredevil had closed his eyes and clenched the hand that rested on the table into a fist. He was a picture of focus. His only objective in life at this moment was to get through the conversation. He’d given up on getting through the beer. “Peacock has a way of grating on tag team partners. He’s had a fair few of them already, and they usually end up resenting him. Or not trusting him. Or not liking him. I’d be surprised if this strange and sudden relationship lasts long enough for them to get anywhere near us.”
Gerald said nothing. For a moment, Michelle thought that maybe he’d fallen asleep, but for his gently furrowing brow, which expressed further discontent at his current predicament.
“An uninspiring and inexperienced field,” Dreamer surmised. The barman finally arrived with a new drink for her, which she sipped through a long straw whilst surveying her partner’s misery. “Which I guess is how we got here, with Fenix and Savage as our most worthy would-be challengers.”
“Can only beat what’s in front of you,” Grayson said. Michelle sensed the irony: Gerald’s fourth pint was still barely touched in front of him, and there was no way he was beating it. As he uttered the platitude, his cheeks involuntarily bulged out and his eyes shot open as if he’d been suddenly awoken from a bad dream. He mumbled a poorly assembled and mostly inaudible sentence which amounted to him excusing himself, before quickly exiting through the door to the bathroom.
As she waited for her partner to return, and this wait stretched on for minute after minute, Dreamer began to scan the bar for the first time since their arrival. It didn’t take long for her to notice the pair of unwelcome eyes that were trained on her. Their owner was reluctant to avert his gaze for even a second, just in case he should miss the moment in which she returned it. The manner of this long, hard stare was one that she’d grown unfortunately accustomed to over the years since she was a girl. Hostile in a more subtle way, though it was true she’d grown used to the more overtly hostile kinds of glares also. Instead, the youngish and attractivish man seated on the other side of the room looked at her with the brand of lechery she knew most men to be prone to and all men capable of. She narrowed her eyes, the edges of her lips curling into an ill-tempered and cautionary sneer. Her new friend mistook her cold, non-verbal response as an invitation, or perhaps a challenge, because he picked up his drink and made his way over.
“I’m sure you don’t mind if I join you,” he said, as he took the seat opposite from her, which Gerald had only recently vacated. She could’ve almost admired his confidence, if his demeanour wasn’t so utterly repugnant. “Will your friend be back?”
“At any moment,” she answered, her eyes still narrowed. The other remained oblivious to her obvious hostility. This inability to read a simple situation brought an inference of intellectual inferiority. Moments like these made her feel more self-assured about her superiority complex.
“Then I’ll be quick,” he said, aloofly, leaning back in his chair. His misplaced confidence and over-familiarity, almost to the point where his unearned ease suggested he felt this was his place and not hers, made her feel uncomfortable. This only fortified her quiet anger. The man across from her tried to continue, but she cut him off.
“No, you don’t have enough time here to be quick,” she began, curtly. She almost wanted him to try it. Gerald was close to the end of his evening, and this interlude might serve to jumpstart her own. “Not welcome. You need to leave.”
“I just wanted to buy you a drink,” the man said. He was deflated, and now looked at her through the eyes of a scorned or neglected pet. “You don’t like guys or something?”
“I like guys just fine,” she replied. Gerald emerged as the interloper removed himself from his seat. He collected his coat and promptly left, all-the-while muttering the ramblings of a broken ego.
”Who was that?” Gerald asked. He seemed pale, but a lot fresher.
“Nobody,” Michelle said. |
|
|
Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:43:04 GMT
Promo history - volume 104.
”Roguelike” (February 12th, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Cyrus Truth (FWA: Back In Town). "Well, what is it?" Michelle enquired, after following Uncle into the room and beholding the large mechanism situated in the centre of it. The contraption consisted of a large, white bucket seat, a pair of yellow marigold gloves, a green bicycle helmet, and a series of tightly coiled wires running between them.
"This is what you asked for," Uncle answered, proudly. He was standing next to a control panel and interface in the corner of the room, beneath the window, and had an almost giddy demeanour about him as he pushed an elaborate sequence of buttons. For once, he showed no real signs of wishing to elaborate by his own free will.
"I've asked for many, many things in my life," Michelle replied, whilst taking a few hesitant steps towards the machine. "But I'm quite confident this isn't one of them."
"You were in a phone booth in Raleigh," Uncle began. He momentarily turned away from his interface to gesticulate in Michelle's direction. "I was fighting off a squadron of sundl warriors on Xherr''on-IX's third moon. I remember it vividly, Nephew! I asked you what you were going to do before Back in Town. You said to me, and I quote, 'I'd quite like to learn more about this World of Shadow'. This machine will allow you to do that."
Michelle thought back to the conversation. She remembered saying the line that Uncle threw back at her now, or something close to it. She'd spent a good portion of her 2022 doing her utmost to find out more about the man behind the Cyrus Truth legend, and sought out many of the semi-familiar faces with links to the Exile. Some of these links were more tedious than others, but even those that had spent actual time with him failed to provide the insight she sought. Even Shannon and Rondo. That world, the world that she knew and that she was a part of, failed to illuminate Truth's darker corners. For that, she'd need to enter the Shadows.
"So it's a simulation?" Michelle asked.
"In essence, yes," Uncle began. He returned to his control panel and continued to push buttons, seemingly at random. The machine began to stir. "But it's not as rudimentary as that thing Princeton has. Even Earth A.I. has come on a long way since then, imagine how far intergalactic programmers have progressed. It’s a marvel, really. Just ignore anyone that has six fingers. We’ll crack that one day."
"One of your inventions?" Michelle queried, whilst inspecting the contraption’s low and heavily-cushioned seat.
"Yes," Uncle said, quickly, but then he hesitated. “Well, Thomas built and programmed it. But we Nephews are a unit. A family. We share in each other’s successes.”
Michelle nodded her head, all-the-while moving towards the machine and, finally, taking a seat in it.
“It’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Michelle admitted. She found that the chair was on a swivel and rotated it towards Uncle. “I’d have thought you’d have an in in the World of Shadow. Would’ve preferred to have done this for real.”
“Oh, please,” Uncle scoffed. “We’d never get permission from Cyrus to do this for real.”
"I'm surprised you feel you'd need to get permission from Cyrus," Dreamer said. A playful smirk crept onto her lips. Uncle laughed off her suggestion.
"If I really needed to infiltrate his dark little world, I could and would do it," Uncle explained. "But… even if Cyrus couldn't really harm me, he certainly has enough resources and connections down here on Earth to make things more difficult for me than they currently are. And, as you may have noticed, a healthy percentage of my business seems to take place on this little blue and green planet. But anyway, I'm ready! Are you ready?"
"You're coming with me?" Michelle asked, as Uncle began to connect the wires to their ports on the helmet and gloves. He handed each object to Dreamer in turn, who warily put them in place.
"No, only one seat in this train," Uncle answered. He pulled the straps of the seatbelt and clasped them in position. "Might be a bumpy ride, Dreamer. Safety first!"
"How long will it take?" Michelle went on in her constant questioning. She made a resolution to stop asking so many questions. She feared it made her look ill-informed. Just one more. "What will I find there?"
"I'm not exactly sure," JAY! mused, thoughtfully. "Thomas programmed it, remember. I wanted to be surprised so I've remained spoiler-free. But I'll be watching, right here."
He tapped the screen in front of him, and then began to enter the final sequence of inputs.
"Just as long as you can promise me –"
…
…
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME ONE HUNDRED & FOUR]
…
…
"-- that it's safe," she said.
But, somewhere in the middle of that nervous and rather basic sentence, a gentle click like a shuffling kaleidoscope sounded, and the scene surrounding her shifted accordingly. She was still in a room, but was now sitting in an old, creaking rocking chair instead of the simulation machine. There were still wires, but now they were uncoiled and straight and metaphorical, leading up to the rafters and a team of unseen puppeteers. And she was still with a man, but now the figure of Cyrus Truth loomed before her instead of the familiar and strangely comforting Uncle. His back turned to her, his hands clasped tightly behind him, staring out of the window at the cold Louisiana morning unfolding before him. He turned to face her with a consternated countenance, full of a lack of patience and overt ill-will.
"What's safe?" he asked. He collected his coat from the hook on the back of the door and walked past the radio. It was playing an old, sad song.
"You ready to go?"
"Where are we going?" she asked. Resolutions are always broken quickly. Cyrus quietly seethed, his impatience growing to levels that other mortals could barely comprehend, let alone bear.
"I explained all of this to you last night," Truth said, as he pushed his arms through his long, grey trench coat.
"Last night," Michelle murmured, mostly to herself. She remembered where she was, and glanced around the room for clues that might help uncover the narrative. The first thing her eyes fell upon was an unkempt bed. Her eyes widened, surprising and only partially unappetising possibilities revealing themselves to her. “We didn’t…”
“Control yourself,” Truth instructed, sternly. “Were you that drunk? Am I going to have to re-convince you every morning?”
“Maybe just this one,” Michelle said.
“The Tentacle of Shadow is of great interest to me, and a large number of others in the World of Shadow,” Cyrus began, entering exposition mode. He walked back to the window and stared out of it again, as one might do when reiterating information to an impertinent or un-diligent subordinate. “At times appearing as if wrought in white-stone, and at others a midnight onyx, but its most interesting feature goes beyond the aesthetic. It hums with a vibrant chirality that couldn’t be matched by all the engines and gadgets aboard your Uncle’s ship combined. So much so that it draws all from that field towards it. Your own hunt for this artefact, bumbling and clumsy and amateur as it may be, has intersected with my own on several occasions. Even slowed it down, at times. Last night, I proposed that we unite our separate pursuits, at least until the Tentacle is in our hands. You agreed, though you seem to have no recollection of it.”
“Now that you explain it in such detail, it sort of rings a bell,” Michelle said, flippantly. She rose to her feet and collected her rucksack. Her eyes drifted onto the door. “Shall we?”
Truth nodded and led the way into the street. They were a short ride out from the suburbs of New Orleans, but fortunately his driver waited patiently for them in a black Rolls. He pulled up alongside them, both Dreamer and Truth climbing into the backseat, Michelle on the passenger side. She didn’t recognise the streets, and only knew where she was because of the road signs, which told her that she was travelling towards the city. She couldn’t answer for the realism of the simulation, and half-hoped they’d get closer to the city’s nucleus that she’d once lived in so that she could test that.
“We’re going to NOLA?” she asked, puncturing a silence that had lingered between them since they entered the car.
“I think that’s the wisest course of action,” Cyrus said, slowly and thoughtfully. Everything he said, he said slowly and thoughtfully. Even when he was overcome with violent rage, which was frequently, he still spoke with an unmatched clarity. “I know a fence there who specialises in artefacts of this kind. I've set up a meeting already. I'll do the talking, naturally. You just have to keep your eyes out for anything untoward."
Michelle nodded, somewhat absently, and continued to stare past Truth as their car came to a halt at a set of traffic lights. The Exile looked only ahead, through the front window and for any signs of their oncoming destination. Perhaps that was his problem. He didn't see the man in the grey suit approaching his rear driver's side window. The one that Truth was sitting next to. The suited man was already only a couple of paces away when Dreamer watched him reach into the inside pocket of his jacket, his eyes trained on her new companion.
Slowly, she pointed at this interloper.
"Something untoward," she said. Truth's eyes turned to face the grey suited man, who had retrieved a large handgun from his pocket.
The Exile didn't react in time for the first bullet, which crashed through his window with a deafening smash and then lodged just below his shoulder. Michelle was transfixed by the man's pale, almost ivory skin, which had a dull goldenglow about it. His gun was pointed at Cyrus again, this time directly at his temple. Truth was quick enough for the second bullet. He grasped their attacker's wrist with his good arm and thrust it up into the top of the car, the bullet blasting through the roof and leaving a hole in it. The impact and the recoil caused the gun to fall out of his hand and into the Exile's footwell. Instinctively, Cyrus grabbed the man's tie and yanked his head through the smashed window.
"Drive!" came Cyrus' urgent and intense instruction. As Truth wrestled the attacker into the car, both of their blood now pooling next to the discard weapon, the driver followed the command. He put his foot down, speeding through the red light and into the middle of the busy intersection.
The white van's horn was more high-pitched than she'd expected for a vehicle of its size, but it was loud enough to draw her attention. Cyrus, though, was too wrapped up in his own struggle to see the van as it rammed into his side of the car.
They span twice before coming to a halt, a half-dozen or so other vehicles screeching and swerving to avoid them. The van lost control following the impact, too, speeding up before reaching a sudden stop against a streetlight. A shrill ringing sound bombarded Michelle's right ear, and a dull pain throbbed in her neck. But, generally, she was okay.
"Maybe we should get guns, too," she mused, as she turned to face Truth. He made no response. Both he and the attacker had been crushed upon impact, whilst the driver had lost consciousness and was now relentlessly sounding his car horn with his forehead.
As she looked upon the two bodies next to her, it was difficult to say where one of them stopped and the other started. She didn't know whose blood was whose. Their bodies, now useless, were intertwined and unified like tangled roots. Her breathing laboured, she reached into the footwell to retrieve the handgun. And then she heard, from all around her, a sudden, soft click, which came with the sense that she was being swallowed whole.
…
…
"You ready to go?"
An old, sad song was playing on the radio. The Exile stood with his back to her and his hands clasped together behind him, staring out of the window and into the Louisiana morning. She was sitting in an old rocking chair that creaked as she gently reclined it, an unkempt bed the room’s other main feature.
“We just did this,” Michelle said.
“You don’t have to remind me how often we’ve been thrust together, Dreamer,” Cyrus answered, as he collected his long, grey trench-coat from the hook on the door. “But if you’re aware of the stakes, let’s get on with it.”
Outside the building, Cyrus made towards the black Rolls parked up nearby. Michelle reached for his wrist to stay his hand.
“We should walk,” she instructed.
“To New Orleans?” Truth asked, impatiently.
“Just for a little while,” Dreamer said, as she led the way up the sidewalk. She was watchful of her surroundings, her eyes flitting between street corners and blindspots. Cyrus wasn't best pleased with the directive (and, more generally, didn't seem the type to enjoy taking instructions) but dutifully followed behind Michelle. After witnessing Michelle's own scanning of the surroundings and quiet trepidation, Truth soon joined her in keeping a watchful eye on what was ahead and behind, though with less clarity as to what he was looking for.
The roads became busier as they slowly meandered closer to the city, and after around twenty minutes they arrived at the busy intersection that remained vivid in Michelle's mind. The white van had long since passed, given their slow progress to this familiar point. Dreamer stared across the intersection, leaning against a road sign in front of a long, low bush. Cyrus hung back a few paces, providing a rear guard, his body hidden from the intersection by the front of a parked truck. Walking across the road towards her was a man in a grey suit with an otherworldly goldenglow. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"There," Michelle said. Truth peered around the side of the truck to see their attacker produce a handgun and expel a bullet in his direction. The Exile retreated behind the vehicle as the projectile ricocheted off its front bumper. Michelle, roused from her inactivity by the high-pitched and shrill clang of the ricochet, leapt over the bush and lay still behind it.
She turned her head to see the attacker walk around the truck, pointing his gun at the spot he assumed Cyrus would be occupying. Truth wasn't there. A moment later, the Exile leapt from the roof of the truck, landing on the assassin and rolling to the ground with him. The gun skidded away and into the road. Cyrus heaved his assailant over with a judo throw, and then held him in a grounded position with a hammerlock.
In a nearby alley, Truth broke one of the assailant's arms and one of his legs whilst Michelle stood guard. He repeatedly asked the man who he was, who he worked for, what he wanted. Each time, the attacker would remain silent, or sometimes mumble some pained obscenities. Then, Cyrus began to work on the fingers, starting with the left hand's pinky and moving towards the right.
"We are Legion," the attacker finally groaned, amidst his muffled, agonised cries. Truth had already reached his right thumb. "We are Everything. Everywhere. Everyone. The thing that you seek is already in our possession. I was sent here to put an end to your pursuit."
"Where is the Tentacle?" Cyrus asked. The assassin spat in his face, so Truth took the thumb. The man let out a screech, which the Exile smothered with his gloved hand. He began to talk again when Cyrus reached for his index finger.
"New Orleans," he muttered. "There's a facility. I don't know where, exactly. Not everybody knows. It's an insurance against this exact situation."
Dreamer watched on as Truth looked into the man's soul. He seemed to believe him. He nodded his head, and then knocked the assassin out with the butt of his pistol. He turned away and walked past Michelle.
“You’re not going to kill him?” she asked. “That’s what he would’ve done to you. What he was trying to do to you.”
“I’m not going to kill him,” Truth said. “You can, if you want. He’s already given all six fingers on one hand and a thumb on the other. I think that’s enough. I’ll wait in the car and call in a silent escort. Make your choice.”
He disappeared out of the alley, and Dreamer went back to look at the unconscious frame of the attacker. Legion. He was out cold and losing blood quickly, and Michelle mused that he might not make it even without further intervention. The duality of Cyrus Truth’s morality troubled her. His methods did not prohibit the savage display she’d just witnessed, but his code would not permit him to pull the trigger and finish the job. She lit a cigarette, and then became aware of a dull buzz emanating from her rucksack.
From the bottom of the bag she retrieved a phone. It continued to ring and vibrate in her hand, the screen illuminated with the octopi written above the incoming number in a narrow, white font.
“Uncle?”
“Dreamer!” came the warm greeting from the other end of the line. “Good to hear your voice, Nephew! I see things are going well with Cyrus. Didn’t doubt it for a minute. He’s a true Nephew, deep down. I think you two will make quite the dynamic duo.”
“Where are you?” Michelle asked. “Are you back in Denver? Can you see me in the chair?”
“Oh, no, Dreamer,” Uncle replied. “I’m not the real Uncle, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m part of the simulation, too. Just a series of zeroes and ones. But I’m programmed differently to the rest of it. I’m conscious of the facts of my reality, or lack thereof, for one thing. All of us Nephews are. We exist outside of your little… shall we call them re-sets? Or maybe re-spawns? Perhaps re-births? Which would you prefer?”
“Re-sets,” she answered. “That seems closest to it. But there’s only been one of them.”
“So far,” Uncle said. “There will probably be more if you don’t keep your eye on Cyrus. He’ll need greater protection than his silent escort can provide, with Legion on his tail. Can you see him right now?”
“Yes,” Michelle lied. She glanced around the alleyway. It was just her and the unconscious assassin.
“You’re lying,” Uncle replied. “Keep your eye on him, Dreamer, or you’ll be back in your rocking chair. We’ll be here along the way for tactical support, should you need it. You have my number.”
“Wait,” Michelle said, suddenly. “Why do I have a phone?”
“This is a simulation, Dreamer,” Uncle explained. “You know that.”
“Yes, but isn’t realism important in a simulation?” she asked.
“Sort of,” JAY! mused. “But we’re Nephews. Story progression trumps all, Dreamer! Speaking of which: stay close to Cyrus, and get to New Orleans.”
Half an hour later, the two arrived at a gloomy, quiet bar on the very edge of the city. The bar was named Patrick’s but there was nobody called Patrick there. An old, dour barmaid served Michelle a beer from a pump clad with dust. Cyrus didn’t order anything. He only pointed at a door that led to a backroom. The woman behind the bar nodded, and the Exile silently led the way out of the bar’s public room and into an even smaller, even gloomier, and even quieter private one. A long couch blocked half of the room’s only window, which was small and ineffectual anyway. Two high-backed leather chairs were positioned across from it, and on the coffee table between them was a smattering of discarded empty glasses and an overflowing ashtray.
The thin, tall, and wiry man sitting on the couch continued to smoke as they approached. Michelle finally felt free to light one of her own. She sipped at her beer in-between drags as they took a seat each opposite the narrow man. She found herself hoping that they’d stay here a while.
The man seated in front of them now, who for the moment was electing to remain silent, was Perceval Y. Knight. Perceval was a fence who specialised in peculiar artefacts from the World of Shadow, as well as some cosmic items from further afield. This was made known to Dreamer on the short ride to the bar, but now that they were here the two men sat in a tense, uneasy silence. Michelle got the impression that Truth thought very little of the fence. A necessary evil, maybe. One to be exploited but not trusted. Michelle enjoyed her cigarette, finding that the nicotine helped to cut through the atmosphere.
“Surly Cyrus sullies himself in a place like this,” Perceval finally said. His voice was as thin as the rest of him. “Your need must be dire. What can I do for you, Exile?”
“Only what you owe,” Truth replied, curtly. “We’re closing in on the Tentacle of Shadow. We think it’s in New Orleans, with an organisation that calls themselves Legion. We had a run-in on the road with one that was following us here. All I need from you is information, though you owe a lot more.”
Perceval Y. Knight’s narrow, pursed lips had curled up into a sinister smile. It seemed as though he rather enjoyed seeing the Great Cyrus Truth asking him for a favour, and decided to relish it a moment longer. He took a sip of his drink and lit another cigarette.
“I know of this Legion,” Knight answered. “Everything. Everywhere. Everyone. That’s their mantra. Their facility is the old Cooper’s warehouse down on the port. But I’ve heard nothing linking them to the Shadow Tentacle or any other Tentacle, for that matter.”
“Worth checking out,” Truth said. “We’ll finish our drink in the public bar, if that’s all you have for me?”
“That’s all I have,” Perceval replied. His lips were still formed into a tight sneer, and the way he pondered over the word I...
Behind Truth and Dreamer, the doors to the backroom were flung open. A trio of grey-suited assassins bathed the room in goldenglow. Cyrus rose to his feet but far too slowly. Each of his assailants had already emptied half their magazine into him, and he fell back onto his chair, lifeless and still, but for the final air escaping his lungs.
The three gunmen turned to face her, their weapons still raised. She was saved by a sudden, soft click that swallowed her whole.
…
…
"You ready to go?"
An old, sad song played on the radio. Cyrus turned away from the window to collect his jacket from a hook on the back of the door. Michelle continued to recline on the creaking rocking chair.
"Not yet," Michelle said. "You're not the only one who's come here with information."
"You seemed pretty clueless last night," Cyrus answered, with a self-important sneer of his own. "When I told you about the Tentacle."
"'No substance behind the mystery'," Michelle quoted, or rather paraphrased. "Those were your words, or something to that effect. Only a step above the misogyny you frequently like to hurl in my direction. Your perception of me is clouded by your anger. Anger at your own failures. Do you want to hear what I know, or not?"
"Speak," Cyrus instructed. The directive made her shudder.
"Your man Perceval is bad," Michelle began, with confidence. "He's working for an organisation called Legion, based out of New Orleans. They want the Tentacle too, and claim they already have it. I… questioned... one of them, and he alluded to a facility down on the port. The old Cooper's warehouse. We should head there."
Michelle stood up and collected her rucksack. Cyrus was standing between her and the door. He gave her a cold, hard look. One that seemed to drill into her, until he approached an understanding of the Truth of her words.
"Anything else?" he asked, as he opened the door.
"Call for a silent escort, and any help you can get at the port itself," she said. "Their assassins are following us, but mostly you. The ones I've seen already are men in grey suits. I'll have my people keep watch over us, too."
"Have you and your Uncle been spying on me?" he blustered, as he followed her onto the street. Michelle climbed into the passenger side seat of his Rolls.
"It's a good job I have been," Michelle pointed out. Truth joined her in the backseat and, after issuing an instruction to the driver, they began in the direction of the port.
In the car, Dreamer felt the annoyingly familiar buzzing of the phone in the bottom of her rucksack. She sat back and opened a new message after several failed attempts at entering the correct command. This wasn’t a skill she wished to acquire.
|| UNCLE || How many re-sets now?
|| DREAMER || Two.
|| UNCLE || Not bad if you’re already on the way to the warehouse. Harry completed the simulation in five. Bypassing Perceval was smart, though he’ll be disappointed to be left out of the story.
|| DREAMER || You can ‘complete’ the simulation?
|| UNCLE || Not ‘can’, more ‘have to’... got to finish the narrative! Everything has to have an arc, Nephew.
|| DREAMER || I think we’ll need more than just the two of us at the warehouse. Can you help?
|| UNCLE || Only from up here. We’ll provide aerial support, but no ‘boots on the ground’, Dreamer!
|| DREAMER || Helpful.
|| UNCLE || We’ll try to be x
Cyrus, meanwhile, was stirring up support of his own, and when they arrived at the port there were four dark, shrouded figures waiting for them in the Shadows. Three of them were local: an assassin mage holding a long, gently smouldering spear, a hulking figure with massive fists who possessed no weapon but giant’s blood, and an exiled bounty hunter from Nicaragua who packed chiral blasters at his hips. All three of them wore red. The fourth was more familiar: Konchu Hao was leant against the wire mesh fencing that surrounded the facility, his arms folded and a knowing smirk on his face. As Cyrus approached the makeshift party, Hao picked up a satchel of supplies and slung it over his shoulder.
“You all know why you're here," Cyrus said. He spoke with urgency and brevity. "This is a facility of Legion, where they claim to be housing the Tentacle of Shadow. They might be lying, of course, but we're assembled here to find out."
"Legion is a name I know," the assassin mage said. "Its whispers haunt this city."
"Everything, Everywhere, Everyone," extolled the giant, affirming his own knowledge.
"More than just a mantra," the assassin mage mused. "It's who they say they are. What they say they are. With the Shadow Tentacle in their hands… if they could harness the power that comes with it…"
"And where, exactly, will the Tentacle be kept after we retrieve it, if it even is here?" Konchu asked, as he followed the group towards a corner of the outer fence.
"Out of their hands is enough for now," Cyrus said. Konchu made no reply, but retrieved from his bag a small pot of red powder, which he proceeded to scatter upon the wire mesh. The metal quickly melted away, a large hole in the shape of a high arch forming and through which the party entered.
Inside the facility, the first two doors along an empty and derelict corridor led into small labs. Each of the party took turns inspecting the various machines assembled there, but the specifics of the devices meant little to Michelle. What was obvious even to her, though, was that the laboratories were in disuse. None of the machines showed any signs of life. Not even the security cameras that loomed overhead and were covered in a thick coating of dust.
"Doesn't seem like the sort of place to keep the Shadow Tentacle," Cyrus said.
"It's the perfect place if you think nobody knows about it," Dreamer mused.
The party continued down the corridor and, through the third door, entered a large canteen hall in a similar condition to the neglected labs. The tables and chairs were stacked away on the edges of the room, giving it the impression of an assembly hall with the serving counter as its altar.
As the rest of the group continued to peruse the room, Cyrus paused in the middle of it. He remained completely stationary, but for his eyes, which scanned the series of doors that circled the room, unobstructed by the carefully stacked tables and chairs. Michelle halted when she noticed the Exile’s trepidation. Konchu seemed to sense something, too. Dreamer glanced towards one of the dozen-ish doors around the room which lay ajar. A shadow passed over it.
“Quiet,” Cyrus said. “They’re here.”
The party remained in the centre of the room, cauldroned by the oncoming ambush. The bounty hunter handed one of his chiral blasters to Michelle, who pointed it towards the half-open door. As she did, seven or eight others burst open, and through them emerged lines of gunmen in grey suits, their own weapons raised and showering the group with bullets. The goldenglow was almost blinding. Konchu threw up a hasty protective spell around them, and the party lurched into action.
The assassin mage’s spear was swift and sudden, whilst the bounty hunter’s blaster was used sparingly and with pinpoint accuracy amongst more evasive manoeuvres. The giant, meanwhile, barrelled into the largest gathering of grey suits and began to throw anyone he could get his hands on into the nearest wall. All three of them fought bravely, and without their efforts the amount of assailants descending upon them in the ambush may have been unassailable. But all three perished in the ensuing battle, overcome by the sheer number of assassins that suddenly surrounded them.
Konchu, however, fought brilliantly and elegantly. Amidst barrages of explosive offensives, the Mad Wizard would intermittently transfigure into a raven to claw at the eyes of their assailants, and then a woodpecker to gnaw through a wooden support beam and bring the roof crashing down onto a half-dozen grey suits. The hole it left allowed aerial support from a circling DreadnOct, which circled the scene from above and cut through any visible grey suits with its mounted blaster. Finally, the Wizard took the shape of a giant crow to feast on the flesh of the fallen, his prey sometimes living and sometimes dead, before returning to his common form to join the fray in Truth’s aid.
The Exile employed close quarters combat, coupled with the Wizard’s protective spells that covered him more than anyone, to debilitate his would-be assailants. He was the only one of the six infiltrators - three now dead - to have any such moral qualms. Dreamer used her chiral blaster much less prudently than the bounty hunter, and had to take his from his lifeless body after a second wave of assassins arrived. This one lasted her until the last of them fell, the victim of a savage judo throw from Cyrus that flung him over the canteen counter and onto the top of his head.
Truth stared down at his fallen opponent. His breathing was heavy. His hands were clenched at his side.
Behind him, Konchu Hao stood, the assassin mage’s spear in his hands. Then, too suddenly for Michelle to decide whether she wanted to do anything about it, the Mad Wizard plunged the spear into the Exile’s back.
“Kehahahahahhahahah!” came the Wizard’s exclamation, as Truth fell to his knees and then onto his back. The cackle was full of life and joy, as both - or what little understanding he had of both - drained away from his defeated foe. “Old fool. Trying to harness the Shadow Tentacle’s power for yourself, at your age?! I’ve been closer to getting my hands on the Tentacle than you have in years, Exile. Time to stand aside.”
“Going to have to kill me,” Truth said, but the words were hardwon. He was coughing up blood, and Michelle sensed his end was near. Her blaster was empty. She watched the scene unfold from across the disused canteen, a wall of dead bodies surrounding them.
“I might just,” Konchu returned, with another thin giggle. “But first, I guess I should thank you. You’ve brought me close to the Tentacle again. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment…”
With the spear still in his left hand, Hao reached into his satchel with the other and collected a notepad. Masterplan to kill Cyrus Truth was scrawled onto the front of it in Konchu’s hand. He showed the Exile the cover, and then struck him across the face with it. It seemed heavy.
“You’d have thought you’d have seen this coming,” the Wizard said, as he lowered the spear towards the Exile’s chest. “All of your friends turn against you, eventually.”
“We’re not friends,” Cyrus managed. It was about all he could.
“Quite,” Konchu replied. His smile was gone. “But I will replace you, eventually.”
The Mad Wizard thrust the spear into the Exile a second time, on this occasion forcing a violent jerk out of him. When he pulled the head back out again Cyrus stopped moving. Michelle sighed, and waited impatiently for a sudden, soft click to swallow her whole.
…
…
“You ready to go?”
An old, sad song played on the radio. Michelle rocked herself back and forth on her creaking chair. She worried that she might be in here forever. That she might lose her mind here. She wondered if that was better or worse than losing her mind out there.
Dutifully, she filled Cyrus in on the intel she’d accrued through nothing more than repetition of the scenario, and the Exile assembled the same team of makeshift mercenaries to once more meet them at the facility by the port. This time, however, Michelle’s first action upon leaving the car at the rendezvous point was to take one of the chiral blasters from the bounty hunter’s hips and put a hole in the traitor Konchu Hao.
Only a couple of seconds later, the mage’s spear was against Michelle’s neck, and the bounty hunter’s second blaster was pointed at her vital organs.
“What is this, Cyrus?” the mage asked. “You brought us here to ambush us?”
“Explain yourselves,” the bounty hunter said. Michelle sensed that she only still lived because she had arrived here with Cyrus. Dreamer turned to face her companion, whose enraged countenance suggested he expected a swift explanation as well.
“In his bag,” Dreamer said. She daren’t move with the mage’s spear so close to her throat. “There’s a book.”
The giant picked up the Wizard’s satchel and fished out his notepad. He handed it to Cyrus, who first scanned over the scrawled title on the front cover, which brought about only a slight softening of his scowl. Inside, he flicked through the Wizard’s meticulous and malicious designs, eventually closing the book and passing it to the others. Michelle placed the pots containing the Wizard’s powders into her own bag, and used one to melt through the outer fencing on the corner of the complex’s perimeter.
Inside the canteen hall, the party of now five fought as valiantly as ever, but without Konchu and his protective spells and avian theatrics they found the numbers difficult to overcome. The mage, the giant, and the bounty hunter did their part, but eventually perished as the second wave of grey suits descended. Dreamer and the Exile fought off the last of them back to back, but as she emptied her blaster into a pair of oncoming assailants, the other remaining trio cut through Truth’s defences and riddled him with bullets. Truth, enraged by his defeat, picked up a nearby discarded weapon and emptied it into his killers. He fell to his knees, blood gushing from the fresh wounds in his stomach.
Michelle watched as the life drained away from Cyrus and felt her frustrations overcoming her.
“Seriously?!” she let out. “These guys?! We killed all of them last time!”
“‘Last time?” Truth repeated. He glanced at her with a puzzled expression, before falling forward onto his stomach.
Wait for the click.
…
…
“You ready to go?”
An old, sad song played on the radio. Michelle stood up from her rocking chair and suppressed the urge to throw the nearest living thing - which happened to be Cyrus Truth, or rather a version of him that didn’t really exist at all - through the small window that looked out over the Louisiana morning. Instead, she caught Cyrus up, travelled to the warehouse, contacted Uncle for air support, and once again instructed Truth to assemble whatever team he could for another raid of the warehouse.
This time, upon arrival at the port, she kept Konchu alive for the battle in the canteen hall. She correctly concluded that Hao would require the skillset of the Exile’s team to overcome Legion’s numbers, and would therefore wait until after the skirmish for his ambush. The mage, the giant, and the bounty hunter died their valiant deaths. And then, after the final grey suit fell, Dreamer emptied the last of her chiral blaster’s contents into the Mad Wizard as he reached for the fallen mage’s spear.
“Then we go on,” Cyrus said, after Michelle had shown him the conveniently damning evidence in the Wizard’s satchel.
“On to where?” Michelle asked.
“It’s close,” the other answered. “Can’t you feel it? Breathe. Slowly.”
Michelle tried to remain still. She followed his instructions. Closed her eyes. Forgot where she was. She could feel it. A strong, close hum of chirality. As she breathed in, she felt the strength of it roaring through her.
“Upstairs,” she said, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically certain. Truth nodded his head in agreement.
At the top of a narrow set of steps was one single, low-ceilinged room. It was another disused laboratory, but this one didn’t feel quite so stagnant as the others. It was here. She knew that: she could feel the thing’s power, and sensed the field running through the Exile, too. He was agitated. Perhaps even excited. And his focus was honed in on a figure at the far end of the lab, his back turned to the pair of newcomers.
“I imagine it took you a long time to reach this point,” the figure said. His voice was familiar. Known.
“You have no idea,” Dreamer quipped.
“It took me a lot longer,” he continued. “But such distinctions are unnecessary. Everything, Everywhere, Everyone, after all. There is no line between you and I. We are Legion.”
“We’re not here for the sermon, Devin,” Truth said. The figure, dressed in a grey suit and holding a long, ivory cane, turned around to face them. He had a vacant, distant look on his face, which was dominated by his unsettling and insincere smile. “We’re here for the Tentacle.”
“You know how it is,” the Legion’s head replied, “You’re going to have to take it from me.”
“As you wish,” the Exile answered. “But it will be just you and I. I don’t need help, and I mean for you to fall by my hand.”
To strengthen your claim to the Tentacle, Dreamer thought, suspiciously. But still, when Truth glanced at her, she nodded her affirmation. And she felt as though she owed it to the Exile to let him confront this demon - a guardian at the end of a very long and very winding road - alone.
As the pair circled around the lab, Michelle watched on and gripped the shaft of the mage’s spear. The Legion’s head walked right past her with his back turned, caught up in the posturing before his oncoming battle with Cyrus. It would be simple, she thought, to drive the head of the spear between his shoulder blades, but she stayed true to her word. Truth rushed towards the grey suit, attempting to pick his leg and force him off his feet. The other skilfully evaded to his left, and struck Truth hard across the back with his ivory cane. Then, from out of his inside jacket pocket, the Legion’s head produced a chiral blaster, which he proceeded to use to create a crater in the Exile’s chest.
Truth fell down to his knees and, with his opponent looming above him, inspected the cavernous wound.
“So, this is how it ends,” Cyrus said.
“Knew it.”
Click.
…
…
“You ready to go?”
An old, sad song played on the radio. Michelle sat on her rocking chair, the creaks louder and more obnoxious than ever. She shook her head, and let out a tired and unsatisfied sigh.
Two hours later, Cyrus and the Legion's head circled the second floor laboratory again, but this time Michelle suffered no hesitations. The Exile's honour and self-righteousness that had rubbed off on her was only temporary, it seemed. She gripped the shaft of the fallen mage's spear and planted it between the grey suit's shoulder blades. The head bit deep, and he let out a low, guttural scream that seemed to go on forever as he fell to his knees.
"You were meant to leave him to me," Cyrus said, as he loomed above the ringleader. He was still breathing, but the spear had gone all the way through his torso, and his code was gathering in a puddle of blood and zeroes and ones.
"You can finish him, if you'd like to," Michelle said, with a shrug. The Exile grasped the shaft of the spear and pulled it out of their foe, who wheezed only once before collapsing flat on his face.
"It's here," Cyrus said. She followed him to a large chest in the corner of the room. The Exile fiddled with the padlock, eventually managing to claw it open. Inside was the Shadow Tentacle: the deepest black of midnight onyx. Dreamer reached out and picked it up by its base. She felt the roar of the artefact's chirality coursing through her. Under her touch, the item seemed blacker than ever, and throbbed with a weightiness that she found unbearable.
When Truth grasped the other end of the object, it appeared as if carved out of white stone, and felt suddenly lighter and more fragile. It was two entirely separate things to each of those holding it, a physical manifestation of the gulf between them, though both knew it inexplicably tied them together.
She looked into Cyrus' eyes. They were tired.
The silence was punctured by the buzz of her phone. She left the Exile with the artefact, which he placed back into its crate and carefully locked away again. She answered the call and was patched through to the hovering Octopi with the push of a button. She arranged the extraction for the roof, which the two accessed by an emergency ladder on the side of the building. Thomas and the Maid were already waiting for them in Octo-Pods. West was sure to collect the Tentacle's crate from Cyrus before climbing into his vessel with Dreamer.
On the short journey back to the Octopi, Michelle closed her eyes and thought of nothing. Thomas allowed her to rest. She'd been sharing the involuntary company of Cyrus Truth for what felt like days, and hoped a final, conclusive re-set awaited her, one that would remove her from his Shadow. She'd walked in it too often, both in here and out there, and she yearned for the sunlight.
"A successful adventure, all in," Uncle said, as he began to enter a sequence upon his interface that would release them from their holding pattern above New Orleans. Michelle, still exhausted, reclined on one of the pink couches beneath the ship's window. Cyrus looked out of place as he lingered next to the bridge's doors.
"A successful adventure," Michelle repeated. She felt sleep coming for her. She hoped for its release, but had this dream snatched away from her by the peculiar sight of Harry and Quiet entering the bridge.
Obviously, such a sight wouldn't usually be deemed peculiar. Harry and Quiet's natural place is, after all, aboard the Octopi, at the side of their beloved Uncle and the rest of the Nephews. This instance of their arrival, however, was strange because of the attire in which the young wizard and masked man were dressed. Gone were the familiar pink tracksuits of the Nephews. Instead, Harry and Quiet were dressed in identical (except for their size) grey suits, though both wore a pink tie. This differentiated them from the members of Legion Michelle had met already, as befitting their status as principal Nephews.
Dreamer didn't have time to piece things together before the two newcomers in the scene removed blasters from their inside jacket pockets. She was defenceless as they lowered them upon her and emptied their chambers into her gut and her chest. She was thrown to the ground, and moments later Uncle was crouched over her.
"You're Legion," she said. It was a statement, not a question.
"Of course!" Uncle said, with a broad smile. "Everything, Everywhere, Everyone... Devin Golden for a time, maybe, but this has been the way of the Nephews both before and after Golden stumbled on this gimmick.”
"Why me, and not him?" Michelle asked. She nodded towards Truth as her guts spilled out of her stomach. "I'm a Nephew."
"He's a Nephew too," Uncle replied, with a wink. "O.G."
"You're teaching me a lesson," Michelle mused. Thought was difficult whilst hanging on by a thread. "A lesson about trust."
"A lesson Truth never learned," Uncle said.
"I'm dying, I think," Michelle replied, whilst inspecting the wound. "I guess it doesn't matter, though. This is just a simulation."
"Afraid not, Dreamer," Uncle said. "When you die in the simulation, you die for real."
Michelle said nothing for a moment. She only narrowed her eyes.
"I don't believe you," she said, finally.
"Am I that transparent?" Uncle queried, with a playful grin. Michelle felt the emptiness gathering in her stomach and reaching for her heart.
"I guess I'll see you back out there," Michelle said.
"No you won't," Uncle reminded her. "That's not me."
Another click. And then, unexpectedly, a second one. The kaleidoscope shifted again.
…
…
The bright lights of the room were jarring at first, and Michelle's eyes struggled to adjust. All that she could comprehend was the heavy, repetitive whirring noise made by the machine on which she was seated. Her hands were sweating inside the yellow marigold gloves, and she took these off before doing the same with the helmet. Uncle took the items from her and set them down in their places.
"So?" he asked her, with a beaming smile on his face. His tentacles bristled happily. "What did you think?"
"Cyrus kept dying because he has nobody to watch his back," Michelle surmised, when the power of speech returned to her. "Just like he keeps losing out here. He is alone, and misguided by his sense of honour and of respect. He claims to walk in the Shadows, but he is guided only by the light. The knives are drawn when his back is turned, and nobody is there to warn him."
"Very good!" Uncle exclaimed, whilst clasping his hands together excitedly. "But you, Dreamer, are a Nephew! This is your advantage. No matter how many times you're compelled to dance with old Cyrus, you'll always have us in your corner."
Uncle prepared himself to leave. Michelle, meanwhile, was left contemplating the COSMIC HORROR's pledge of fraternity. She didn't rise from her seat, instead indulging in ponderous contemplation of his last words.
"Come on, I've some errands to run before our Valentine's Day date," Uncle said.
"If the Nephews are forever," Michelle began, still in situ upon the machine's seat. "Then why would you program a simulation to ultimately reinforce that I can't trust anyone?"
"I told you already that Thomas programmed the simulation,” Uncle replied, with a shrug. "And, in a cosmic sense, he is quite right. Ultimately, we are all left alone. I'll congratulate him on this fine metaphor the next time I see him."
Somewhat reluctant to leave the comfort of the machine and venture out into the world outside of this room, Michelle finally pushed herself up onto her feet. Uncle held the door open for her.
"I want flowers," she said, as she passed him. "For Valentine's Day. Something unique." |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:44:11 GMT
Promo history - volume 105.
”Petite Veronique” (February 25th, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Nate Savage and Jackson Fenix (FWA: Fallout 026). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ are
[CTHULHU’S NEPHEWS]
in
”PETITE VERONIQUE.”
*****
He could feel the hill beginning to level out finally, his heartbeat elevated and his breathing a little laboured. His boots were caked in mud and, beneath the mud, the wet, white sand that bordered the small island. It was comfortably hot. A gentle breeze grew more noticeable as their altitude increased. ‘Their’ on account of there being two of them nearing the modest summit of the modest hill. He glanced back down the slope at his tag team partner, who was holding a cigarette but spluttering in the midst of a coughing fit rather than smoking it. She was muttering to herself when she wasn’t absorbed by wheezes, and although he was out of earshot he sensed the negative trend of her monologue.
About ten metres below him, Michelle paused besides a large, smooth, nearly spherical boulder. She kicked at it to get a sense of its integrity and then, contended, sat on top of it. She sucked at the end of her cigarette and was soon doubled over by another onslaught of hacking coughs. Gerald turned away from the scene and continued the climb.
It was his idea to take a break and went on vacation for a few days. It was her insistence that took them to a place as remote as Petite Veronique. A small island around twenty kilometres east of St. Lucia, Petite Veronique had ties to the government of St. Vincent to the south, and the French overseas territory of Martinique in the north. The island was settled four generations prior by a small number of meteorologists from the former, and when their research proved useful for the latter, farmers and fishermen were stationed there to support them. The population had remained steady at between eighty and one hundred for the proceeding eighty years, with most of the stork’s new arrivals dutifully following in the footsteps of their parents and entering one of the three primary professions upon the island: farmer, fisher, or meteorologist. Surprisingly self-sufficient but for the parcels of supplies brought to the northern beaches of the island every Tuesday morning, Petite Veronique’s people were in touch with the world around them but remained happily and willingly aloof from it. It was a common saying upon the island that France, St. Vincent, and the rest of the world had forgotten they existed, and it was only right they do the same in return.
Petite Veronique was difficult to access and therefore supply, and as a result the other surrounding nations - specifically St. Lucia to its south-west and, more distantly, Dominica in the north - paid it little mind and allowed St. Vincent and the French to get on with things. Unlike many of the other Grenadine Islands, temptations to turn Petite Veronique into a resort had been resisted. To this day, the island remains one of the most difficult to access in the Caribbean. That is, of course, unless you’re owed a favour or several by the St. Vincent government, like a certain COSMIC HORROR that you, my reader, and the Connection, my protagonists, list as a mutual acquaintance.
It was on Petite Veronique, as we’ve established, that Michelle sat and struggled through the end of her cigarette. Whilst Gerald had come prepared in shorts and a loose-fitting sports vest (basketball, if she had to guess), Dreamer wore much the same garb as she did everywhere else, except her black hoodie had been removed and tied around her waist. She didn’t own walking boots and her Vans were ruined. On the way to the island in the boat that Uncle arranged (the Yoct still being out of commission), one of the mates had warned her of a storm brewing to the north. He talked about strong and peculiar winds, and black clouds upon the horizon. It was hard to imagine anything but the smothering sun right now. She hoped for a rain to provide some respite.
Gerald, meanwhile, reached the top of the hill. He stared about himself at the ocean that surrounded him. Two islands - Martinique and St. Lucia, he knew from a brief study of the maps aboard their boat - straddled the horizon to the north. To the south, the outline of the small village was scattered across the slopes, and beyond this the endless blue. Only in the distant north-east was there a suggestion of gathering black clouds, and it was easy enough for the Daredevil to convince himself that the sailors were right. The storm would pass by the island and wither as it traversed the open sea.
He stood on the summit and breathed in the ocean air, which rolled in on the back of the gentle breeze. Back on the mainland, when his life was concerned with the hustle and bustle of the big city, his mind was a chaotic place. It was the FWA, or the big tent as Michelle called it, that dominated the usually stormy seas inside his head. Chief amongst those preoccupations were two matches with the Undisputed Alliance: one in the past and one in the future. One that had been forced upon them, and one that Dreamer had brought about herself. And, by extension, upon him. It was the first time that Gerald had thought about any of that since they’d arrived on Petite Veronique, and he did his best to rid his mind of such plagues. As the ocean air filled his lungs, that task wasn’t particularly difficult. He felt emboldened. Perhaps it was even time for a singles run. If Michelle was splitting her time between the tag and singles divisions, why shouldn’t he, too? He felt dizzy with a sudden and unexplained overconfidence.
As a hopeful and contented smile spread over the Daredevil’s face, Michelle finally arrived next to him. She shoved her hands into her pockets and stared over the face of the ocean. Gerald observed her scowl and surmised that she wasn’t encountering the same clarity that he was.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, as she lit another cigarette. Another one, he thought, before admonishing himself for his judgement. “Aren’t you glad to be away from it all?”
“Walking is hard and boring,” Michelle said, simply.
*****
Michelle and Gerald sat in the corner of the village pub, which was smaller, more crowded, and less quiet than Dreamer hoped. Still, she’d managed to get her hands on a beer and a whiskey (as well as a water for Gerald), so she supposed she shouldn’t complain too much.
“So,” the Daredevil began, and there was something in his tone that suggested he was about to shift the conversational topic onto the FWA. This was a common habit for Gerald, and Michelle strapped herself in for it. “We’re doing the same thing again.”
“How specifically are you talking?” Michelle asked. She was unsure if he was broaching the topic of Nate Savage, Jackson Fenix, and their upcoming repeat defence against the Undisputed Alliance, or if his point was a more expansive one. A tournament had just ended, the Grand March was fast approaching, and Michelle and Gerald were balancing priorities between the FWA World Championship and the FWA World Tag Team Championships. Devin Golden had even just lost the former as a result of a Golden Opportunity cash-in. They’d been here before. Only minor details were altered.
“I’m talking about the match,” Gerald replied. He shuffled uncomfortably on his low seat, a clear tell that he was approaching the smaller topic in hopes of finding an entrance point for the larger one. “Back in Town was closer than anyone would’ve guessed, and closer than I’d have liked. I think you lit a fire under them with your barbs on Fight Night. Especially Nate.”
Michelle sipped her drink and lit a cigarette. The best thing about drinking on remote islands was being allowed to smoke inside. Gerald was looking searchingly at her. There was no question in his speech, but still it seemed that he expected a response. He told her that this was generally how conversations worked, but she found herself longing for peaceful silence instead.
Fortunately for Dreamer, Gerald’s focus was broken by a low, rumbling laugh emanating from the table next to them. The two stools around this table were occupied by a man and a woman who were dressed identically (and primarily in wool) and even looked a little alike. Both were plump and comfortable, both nursed a tankard of ale whilst they listened to a dispute between two of the other patrons in the bar. The Connection didn’t know it, but these full-bodied individuals were Mr. Suggs and Ms. Suggs, who both worked on the north slopes farm and despised each other. Even now, as they watched the evening’s entertainment and Mr. Suggs weighed into the debate with his low, rumbling laugh, their allegiance was divided between the two protagonists.
“Laugh all you like, Suggs,” one of the arguing men continued. His face - young and handsome, probably, in a more relaxed state - was hurt by the mockery, but he defiantly pointed a resolute finger at the farmer and then the other man. “But my machines don’t lie. It’s coming.”
“Your machines are faulty, then,” the other man, who was standing at the bar, replied. He shook his head at his counterpart dismissively. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And what would you know about it, Claude?” the first shot back. “The bureaucrat more trusted than the meteorologist… I tell you about a storm and you’re all more interested in this pencil pusher’s jokes.”
Although most of the pub’s patrons were indeed amused by the meteorologist’s fluster, Michelle surmised that his assertion that all of them were on Claude’s side was an overestimate. Ms. Suggs, for example, shared guarded, encouraging glances with the man her husband laughed at, and Michelle thought she saw the woman behind the bar doing the same. The weatherman was popular with the fairer half of the village, it seemed.
“I know, Jacques, because I’ve spoken to both Martinique and St. Vincent today, and neither of them are worried about your storm,” Claude replied. “It’s going to pass about thirty kilometres to the east. Stop trying to drum up hysteria. You lean too heavily on the doomsday predictions.”
“I sent my latest findings to Martinique this evening,” Jacques answered. He was agitated in his gesticulations, but Michelle was surprised to find him smiling. “I expect the evacuation order will be coming any minute.”
“Lead the way,” Claude said, dismissively. He turned away from Jacques to face the bar. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Shaking his head and muttering something along the lines of I’ll show you, you’ll see, Jacques the meteorologist drained his drink and shuffled out of the tavern. Claude ordered another beer. Mr. and Ms. Suggs continued not speaking to one another. The other patrons resumed their private, quiet conversations.
“The sailors on the boat were saying the same thing,” Gerald mused, as he sipped his water. “Maybe we should leave. Get in touch with Uncle and arrange a pick-up.”
“We’re probably safest here,” Michelle answered, with a shrug.
*****
Uncle had arranged for Michelle and Gerald to stay in a large and luxurious villa on the beachfront, and the pair sat upon the white sands as the moon climbed high into the black canvas before them. The air was still, and it was difficult to believe there was talk of storms approaching. The gentle encroaching of the waves was the evening’s only soundtrack. She had brought a bottle of Jameson’s with her from the mainland, and the Daredevil allowed himself a rare and indulgent pull whilst Dreamer smoked a joint. He’d all but given up on broaching the topic of the Undisputed Alliance, let alone the implications of the Grand March. At least for tonight. Michelle was content that the peaceful silence she’d yearned for had finally descended.
Perhaps thirty metres away from them up the beach, just as Michelle was stubbing the end of her joint out into the sand, the hunched figure of the meteorologist appeared from between a pair of sand dunes. He was staring at the interface on a handheld device, a long antennae reaching out from it into the night. He wore headphones, and after staring at his screen for close to a full minute, he sat down on the sand to retrieve his notebook and scrawl down some readings. Michelle could only just make out his figure but felt sure that he was smiling.
Eventually, the meteorologist turned to face the pair of them. It seemed apparent that he was unaware, until now, of their presence. He removed his headphones and offered them a wave, which Gerald instinctively reciprocated. The meteorologist stood up and approached.
“Lovely clear night,” the meteorologist, whom the pair already knew as Jacques from the confrontation at the public house, began. “Good for observation. I’m Jacques, Veronique’s premier meteorologist. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Gerald,” the Daredevil said, whilst offering out a hand. The eccentric meteorologist gave Gerald a toothy grin in response but left the hand unshook. Gerald took it back and wrapped it around the whiskey bottle again, which he returned to Michelle. “You really think there will be a storm?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it,” Jacques answered. “The only debate is about how close to the island it’ll strike. And I happen to know that Storm Nathanael will be a direct hit.”
“You think they’ll evacuate the island?” Gerald asked. She could sense the anxiety in his question.
“Sooner or later,” Jacques mused. “Hopefully sooner, I guess. Though it makes no difference to me.”
“You intend to stay?” Gerald asked, with a cocked eyebrow.
“Of course!” Jacques answered. His grin grew brighter still. “It’s been a long time, friends! Someone has to stay and greet it.”
With that, the meteorologist turned back to face the sea. It was obvious that he was giddy. Dreamer surmised that this benign little man wanted the storm to come here. To monitor it was his occupation but, at some stage or another, it had become more of an obsession, and now he thrived in it. The entire purpose of his being was tied up in the oncoming storm.
Michelle noticed that he was barefoot. He walked into the sea, his long antennae once more groping out towards the moon. He pulled his headphones back into place and went on in his work.
*****
“You didn’t have to go so hard on Nate,” Gerald said, as he wrenched at his hammer lock. “At the end of the match, or before it…”
“Agree to disagree,” Michelle responded, as she reached between her legs to pick one of the Daredevil’s. He fell onto his back and she immediately turned him over in a single-leg Boston crab. “Savage’s bark is worse than his bite. We’ve beaten them once, we can beat them again.”
Michelle’s last pair of sentences were delivered whilst sitting high on Gerald’s back, wrenching at her hold and contorting her partner’s body at an uncomfortable angle. The Daredevil instinctively began to crawl, but there were no ropes to afford him a break. They were sparring on the summit of the hill on Petite Veronique, and Grayson realised he’d have to escape through other means. He’d hoped the walk to the top of the hill, which had been arduous for her a day before, would afford him the advantage in the session, but Dreamer seemed to always find a way. This time, it had been a pocket full of sand she’d carried with her from the beach, which she’d flung into the Daredevil’s eyes as they’d begun to spar.
In desperation, Gerald wriggled through Michelle’s legs and delivered a trio of hard forearms to his partner’s forehead, the third of which gained him some separation. He kipped up to his feet as Dreamer came at him once more, but this time he countered with a deep arm drag before placing Dreamer in an arm bar.
“I think you should pay more attention to Storm Nathanael,” Gerald said, applying more pressure on her arm.
“Oh, please,” Michelle answered, her voice pained and strained. “I imagine that’s the reason Uncle sent us here. Jacques the meteorologist and Storm Nathanel. Don’t buy into it, Gerald.”
“Be that as it may,” Gerald replied, whilst resisting Michelle’s attempts to squirm out of the hold. “The real Nate Savage showed us at Back in Town that we shouldn’t underestimate him, and you’re doing the same with his namesake here. You’re walking right into it…”
Suddenly, Dreamer rolled through, alleviating the pressure on her arm and applying a grounded headlock. Grayson began to fight up to his feet, Michelle moving to his side to keep her weight on him.
“Historic reign, Gerald,” she reminded him, as she felt his arms wrap around her waist. He hoisted her up with an attempted back suplex, but she over-rotated and landed on her feet… and then threw herself into the back of his knee with a chop block! Grayson fell to the ground, and immediately Michelle was on him with an ankle lock.
Dreamer dropped down into a grapevine, the young man in her grasp defiant even in his desperate predicament.
“We’ve got a match in less than a week, Gerald,” Michelle reminded him. She was only tweaking his ankle at the moment, and applied more and more pressure as a warning to him. “You can’t fight the Undisputed Alliance with a broken ankle…”
Finally, Grayson tapped out, and Michelle let him go. She helped him to his feet, the Daredevil walking a little gingerly on his ankle as they walked back to their packs.
“Nate and Jackson, I can understand,” Gerald said, as he stared out over the ocean to the north-east of the summit. Black clouds were gathering in the distance. “But this storm isn’t one we need to face. We should go home.”
“Not yet,” Michelle answered. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
She began the hike back down the hill towards the village, leaving Gerald to watch the gathering, distant storm with a glum and defeated countenance.
*****
Michelle waited at the base of the hill, sitting on a low wall and smoking a cigarette, for the eventual return of her tag team partner. She'd last seen him deeply invested in his thoughts, still upon the summit when she was already half-way down and thinking of the evening's first beer. He'd come down eventually, she reasoned. How long could one spend in isolation with nothing but Nate Savage and Jackson Fenix to occupy their thoughts?
Before Gerald's appearance from the top of the hill, though, came Jacques' appearance from the bottom of it. She spotted him before he spied her. It was difficult not to. He cut an inconspicuous figure, his hands full of equipment (meteorological equipment, she assumed), and a heavy rucksack packed with ostensibly more of the same on his back. Eventually, when he noticed the young woman in black, sitting on a low wall and smoking a cigarette, he smiled broadly as one would when encountering an old friend. He bundled up towards her, fiddling with a dial on one of his many devices.
"More observation?" Michelle asked, as Jacques stopped in front of her. “More readings?”
"Always more readings," the meteorologist said. The machine he'd been toying with finally stirred into life, an encouraged grin blossoming on his face. He pulled the antennae out from the end of the device. "Nathanael won't wait for me to be ready."
"You seem almost excited," Michelle posited. Jacques didn't even try to hide his giddiness. He was too invested in his tinkering.
"It's been a long while since a real rain has come," Jacques said, whilst meeting her gaze. She looked at the young-ish, handsome-ish man with curiosity. He returned a knowing glare, confident in himself and assured in his beliefs. "We get the occasional rain here on Petite Veronique, but generally it's been arid times as of late. And a dry period for the island is a dry period for its meteorologist. But this one…"
He leant in closer towards her and lowered his voice, as if letting her in on a secret.
"It's going to be quite something."
Michelle followed his eyes to the black clouds upon the horizon. There seemed to be more of them now. The mass was imposing, distant though it was. Angry and growing angrier.
"I've seen worse, I'm sure," Michelle said, absently. Her mind was momentarily drawn to Santa Camila, the fishing boat she'd manned there, and the storm that had almost swallowed her whole.
As she watched the black clouds gathering, Gerald finally reappeared at the bottom of the hill. He took a seat next to Michelle on the wall, his body language still expressive of his unease. He stuffed his hands into his pockets whilst Michelle finished her cigarette, barely registering the eccentric meteorologist standing in front of them.
"You shouldn't underestimate it," Jacques said, finally.
"That's what I've been telling her all along," Gerald added.
The meteorologist bowed his head respectfully and then began trapesing up the hill. Michelle led the way towards the public house.
*****
They were drinking on the benches outside of the pub, Gerald deciding he'd join Michelle on the beer for once. He figured the display of comradery might win her over to his cause. Perhaps throwing himself in would finally convince her that it was time to go home. Whilst they were here, though, the Daredevil thought he might as well broach the topic that had been most prevalent in his chaotic thoughts. Their arrival on the island had brought a temporary respite from these nagging doubts, but they seemed to be returning on the back of the gathering black clouds.
"It's the Grand March again," Gerald said, rather suddenly, as Michelle sipped at the head of her beer. Most of the patrons were inside, for some reason. The evening was mild and crisp. She was surprised to be alone, except for Gerald. "You remember last year?"
"Of course I remember last year," Dreamer replied, without meeting the Daredevil's searching gaze. "Why do you ask?"
"You can't not have noticed the similarities," Gerald began, carefully but resolutely. "It's a triple threat, you're challenging for the world championships. It could have been Golden, but it's not, and the Golden Opportunity briefcase is to blame for that. And…"
He took a deep breath. Steeled himself.
"... and the tag team championships are on the back burner," he said, his voice steady. That was enough to get her attention. She turned to face him with a cocked eyebrow. "Last year, it was stepping aside for Stu and the Roman so that we could focus on dethroning Nova. This year, it's delaying our defence until the Carnal Contendership so that you can pour your efforts into dethroning Chris Peacock."
"It's not really the same thing," Michelle interjected, defensively.
"It's comparable," Gerald insisted. "We have a rematch with Nate and Savage coming up… and then another defence against God knows who at the Carnal Contendership. Dangerous challenges await us. Unknown quantities. And… how can I be sure where your head is, given what happened last year? Even if this storm passes us by, or if we manage to weather it, the forecast doesn't stay clear for long."
He paused to sigh. Michelle shuffled uncomfortably, uneasy under the weight of his gaze.
"I need you here. With me."
Michelle lit her cigarette. Carried on drinking her beer. Remained silent. Gerald shook his head and expelled a slight huff.
"Why do you always insist on going out without an umbrella?" he asked.
The question, uttered in earnest, brought a wry smile onto Michelle's face. She didn't, however, have time to answer, as their sanctuary was momentarily punctured by Claude exiting the public house and Jacques entering it. The two passed on the path leading up to the building, with both men offering a cursory and seemingly adversarial nod to the other before continuing on their way whilst grumbling beneath their breath. Before entering the tavern, Jacques stopped in front of the Connection and greeted them with a warm, knowing smile.
"Another clear evening to the south," Jacques pondered. "But the north is in turmoil. It approaches. Close now. Are you going to the beach tonight?"
Michelle shrugged and sucked her cigarette.
"Hadn't planned on it," Gerald offered, absently. He wasn't best pleased at the interruption. He was finally talking to Michelle about things he thought were important. Things he'd kept to himself for weeks if not months. Not only did the meteorologist drag them away from that, but he also brought with him tidings of the doom. The coming storm was all he seemed to speak about.
"I suggest you do," he said, with an air of mystery and a playful wink. "Don't want to miss the fireworks."
Jacques disappeared into the pub. Gerald sipped at his drink, his impatience clear. Michelle did her best to ignore them both.
"We should contact Uncle," he said, finally. "Arrange a pick up."
"In the morning," she conceded.
*****
Gerald had already gone to bed, buoyed by the promise that tomorrow they'd begin the process of being rescued. There was still time for him to be woken yet. She feared it would come to that. The sky was hostile and ferocious. Black clouds rumbled in from the north. She watched them approach from the beach, a hard and cold wind blowing through her. She couldn't see the moon for the black blanket that smothered the island.
Out to sea, lightning struck the surface and illuminated the scene. It was a harsh, unforgiving one: full of brooding dread. A hard rain flooded out of the black clouds, soaking her through and drowning the beach in a prophetic misery.
In the distance, a lone boat was being rowed out into the ocean. Towards the storm. A hunched figure manned its oars, his back to the gathering wrath as he forced them through the waves.
In the distance, a colossal black tornado dominated the horizon. More lightning battered the sea's surface. The low rumbling of thunder rolled over her in waves. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:44:51 GMT
Promo history - volume 106.
”матрёшка” (March 11th, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Shawn Summers (FWA: Meltdown XXVII). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
VOLUME ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
[1 : FATHER]
Sunday 11th January, 1987. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. USA.
Michelle sat on the end of her bed and stared at the matryoshka in a central position upon her dressing table. The doll wore plainish clothes: a white blouse with green, floral detailing down its arms and a brown dress with embroidered gold intricacies around its hemline. Her face was pale and her dark brown hair was gathered together in a ponytail. She clutched a bouquet of yellow and orange tulips in her hands. Michelle found herself staring into the doll’s passive eyes, as if momentarily held within a sort of trance. The matryoshka only returned a dour, absent gaze of her own. Michelle was dressed in much the same colour scheme: a white shirt with a green cardigan over the top and brown corduroy trousers that flared around her boots. She was only missing the flowers. The comparison wasn’t lost on her. Perhaps that was why the doll gave her such pause. Finally, overcoming the matryoshka’s spell with a sense of triumph, she collected her rucksack and headed for the door.
She lit a cigarette whilst waiting on the sidewalk for the cab she’d ordered, the biting north-east cold rolling in from the Atlantic. She pulled her coat more tightly around her to brace herself. There was only a long list of things she’d rather be doing on a windy Sunday afternoon, the dull aches of a nagging hangover still lingering. But visiting her father had become a once-weekly habit (or obligation, maybe) that she’d neglected for the last six days. She sucked on the end of her cigarette and felt the bite of anxiety. The apprehension went unexplained. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, and one that generally descended over her as she prepared to visit her father, but she made little effort to pinpoint its source. It was easier to wait for the old man to die. It wouldn’t be long now, surely, and then she could stop visiting - and by extension worrying - altogether.
The taxi rolled through the streets of Oakland and towards the centre of the city. Michelle stared out of its window and watched the buildings get taller, absently listening to the radio as her indecisive driver flicked through the channels. She caught glimpses of Prince’s Kiss followed by a news report on Gorbachov and glasnost and perestroika, and then a disk jockey talking about the latest Rock N Roll Hall of Fame class. This allegedly included Roy Orbison, who the DJ managed to pipe out a few chords of before the driver again switched the channel. He finally settled on a football game, just before the opening kick-off, which Michelle soon deciphered to be between Cleveland and Denver. She kicked herself, quickly surmising that her father would be indulging his own inexplicable interest in this interminably uninteresting sport as well. Michelle sighed, and continued to watch the buildings grow.
“You don’t mind if I listen, do you?” the driver asked. “Big game.”
Michelle shrugged, but said nothing. The driver went on in her stead.
“Just as long as Cleveland don’t win,” he continued, offering her a smile through his rear-view mirror. “They ain’t been to the superbowl yet, and I’m happy to keep it that way.”
Michelle returned his smile, but shuffled uncomfortably. She hoped it would be clear that she didn’t want to prolong the conversation. Either it wasn’t or the driver felt his own desires of greater import than hers.
“You from Pittsburgh yourself?” he asked. His window was slightly open and the odour of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the cab. She thought about asking him if she could smoke in his car, but didn’t want to embolden him towards further friendliness.
“Born and bred,” she offered.
This was enough to give the driver a false sense of comradery. He spent the remainder of the journey into the city illustrating his woe at the Steelers’ poor efforts this season, which had been something often communicated to her by her father as well. He was left cheering for the failures of a rival in place of his own team’s success. She said very little else, and soon stopped offering him polite, cursory nods altogether. By the time they reached North Shore they’d settled back into preferable silence, punctuated only by the driver’s disdain for a Browns touchdown as they crossed the river. She paid him four dollars and knocked on her father’s familiar, burnt orange door.
“It’s open,” came a call through the open window. She could hear the game’s commentary, too. A deep breath to fend off a distantly brewing panic attack. Then she entered. Her father was lounging on the couch, a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other. For quite some time he looked like a waxwork, but he came alive when a Broncos defender intercepted a Cleveland pass early in the second quarter and returned it to the nine yard line. Michelle felt forgotten about in the entrance way, her father punching the air and hollering with pleasure as the Denver offence took the field. He eventually settled back into his chair and picked up his cigarette from the ashtray. “You going to stand there all afternoon or come and take a seat?”
She meekly acquiesced. They watched the game together. He didn’t say much. The game was tied up at ten-apiece as they went into half-time. The teams were as evenly matched as father and daughter, though at least they’d put points on the board.
“Keeping okay?” he offered, finally, as he opened up another bottle of Pabst. There were three empties at the side of his chair. His one saving grace as a father was that he kept a four-pack of Heineken in the fridge for her visits, even though he’d never touch the stuff himself. Michelle was on her second, drinking to plug the silence. “Feels like it’s been a while.”
“I’ve been keeping fine,” Michelle replied. “It’s been a little longer than a week. I was here the Friday before last.”
Her father absently nodded his head, his focus returning to the television screen and an advertisement for a blender. Michelle sipped her drink and shuffled in her seat. A moment later, her father’s wife - not her mother, who lived somewhere near Philadelphia and whom she saw only once or twice a year, but rather his second wife - entered the room with a tired air about her. Despite never leaving their small, terraced house, the woman seemed to eternally have succumbed to the same sense of fatigue whenever Michelle was visiting.
“You didn’t tell me we were expecting company, Shawn,” she asked, her voice as tired as her general demeanour and laced with remnants of a slowly disappearing Asian accent. Nobody had been more surprised than Michelle that his father had married a foreigner, as he often dismissively called people born outside of his beloved country, especially one descended from those he fought against in the Pacific Theatre. Her people seemed to hold a particularly prominent position within his sphere of intolerance.
“I didn’t know myself,” he said, roughly and impatiently. Michelle thought about correcting him, but a reminder of their conversation late last night would’ve been pointless. It was her own fault for calling him so late. There was little chance of him remembering come morning.
“Are you staying for dinner?” the woman asked. She took a seat opposite from her husband and looked around at the unkept state of their living room. This caused a deep sigh, as if she was embarrassed at her insufficiencies as a host. Michelle didn’t mind. Her apartment was no different.
“That was the plan,” Michelle answered. “But only if there’s enough.”
“I’ll get another steak out of the freezer.”
At dinner, Michelle - a vegetarian, of course - ate around the steak and concentrated on the vegetables and rice. Her father was more interested in the television screen than anything else, and only gave them a semblance of his full attention when the two teams went in at the end of third quarter.
“Still teaching grade-school?” her father enquired, clearly disinterested, as he sliced into his own steak. The meat seemed tough but he was used to it.
“Not quite,” she responded. “I’m a professor at the university. Have been since I graduated. Women’s studies.”
This brought about a chuckle from her father. He shook his head, as if he was gently surprised by what society was becoming. Michelle watched him laugh and focused in on the grey and white hairs amongst the blond around his ears. He was getting old, but she unfortunately couldn’t put his poor memory regarding her occupation down to dementia or the ageing process in general. He didn’t know what it was she did for a living even when he was a young man.
Dinner descended into a quiet, resentful chaos in a way that it often did when her father had been drinking. She remembered it well from when she was a child, with a different woman playing the role of his unfortunate wife. The switch in cast members hadn’t really changed him. His mood wasn’t helped by the football. Cleveland crept ahead in what he dubbed a sneak attack, and his prejudices soon had him rounding upon his wife and reminiscing about the great fight of his youth.
As he slowly progressed through his steak, he continually repeated two of his favourite phrases: every man should have at least two wives, and keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Neither of these platitudes did much to please his wife, who grew increasingly hostile in return. Eventually, when she had finally had enough of her brow-beating, she placed her empty plate into the sink and disappeared upstairs. Michelle was left wondering why he was like this, and why she was here.
“You want another beer?” he asked, as he finished his steak. She shook her head.
“I should go, too,” she said.
“I’ll see you next week, then.”
When she had returned home, Michelle once more sat on the end of her bed and glanced at her matryoshka. She had already undressed, and no longer shared by coincidence the doll’s colour scheme. Yet still there was a connection to it that went beyond the clothes she wore. She approached the matryoshka and removed the upper half of the outer doll. A body became a shell. She removed the smaller nesting doll from within and placed it in-between the two halves of the outer layer.
[2 : CO-WORKER]
Wednesday 20th December, 1995. London, England. UK.
She stared at the matryoshka, positioned on her desk next to her computer monitor, and tried to drown out her colleague's conversation by focusing on the doll’s details. It was a gift from a Russian ex-girlfriend, given to her on the day she'd started this new job. Neither the matryoshka nor the job were new anymore. The figurine was wearing business attire: a dark grey pantsuit with a thin white pinstripe. Her red hair was tied up into a tight bun on the top of its head. She also shared the dour doll's pale complexion and her unenthused and unamused expression. She lacked the yellow and orange bouquet of tulips, though. This seemed only a small distinction.
"Even if I didn't want to do it, I'm not sure I'd have been able to fight her off," her colleague continued, in a fresh new torrent of brash obnoxiousness. She was brought back into the room by his booming voice and his overly confident intonations. "She was all over me all night, from the moment I walked into that place. Which, I think it goes without saying, I usually wouldn't have been caught dead in. I only went in because it was Jeffrey's birthday. He's an old friend, and you can't account for terrible taste."
Michelle's eyes drifted away from her monitor and onto the partitioning screen between her cubicle and the one next to it. She could only see the top of her co-worker's head and his slicked back blond hair, but she knew what the face that was attached to it looked like. She'd been here long enough to have a firm visualisation of his smug and smarmy visage. Only now, her memory added a single horn protruding from the right side of his forehead. His name was Shawn and she hated him.
"Dude, tell me about it," he went on, incessantly, with the receiver lifted to his ear. He was on the phone to one of the travelling sales representatives. She knew this because these phone calls were routine, each more grating than the last. "I'm already booked into the clinic this weekend… NHS?! No, private! What the fuck do you take me for?"
Michelle tried to focus on the last of her morning tasks. The Windows '95 screensaver had taken over her monitor thanks to the distraction, and she rattled the mouse around to return to her report. She'd been researching the UK launch of similar products to the company’s - a revolutionary new blender - and was now amalgamating her findings. It was due later on in the week and the men she worked for were waiting on her toil so that they could develop their marketing strategy. She stared at the cursor at the end of her most recently typed sentence. It blinked at her in a manner that she found accusatory. She decided it was time for a coffee.
Her blond-haired colleague entered when the pot was boiling. He placed his empty cup next to hers and lent against the counter, grinning at her in a manner that made her feel familiarly uneasy. He narrowed his eyes and Michelle got the sense that he was attempting to drum up recognition from the recesses of his memory.
"Are you new here?" he asked her, eventually. She blinked at him. The bubbling coffee seemed to roar as it approached the boil to the point where she worried it might burst her eardrums. She'd worked here six years, and the last two of them were spent in the cubicle directly next to his, separated only by their thin partitioning wall.
"Not quite," she said. The storm broke and the pot boiled. She turned to pour herself a cup. She felt his eyes lasered upon her as she did, as if he wished to draw her figure from memory later on.
"Any plans for the holidays?" he asked, with an affectation of aloofness. Her plans for the week off the company afforded all of its employees for the festive period was to spend it walking in the hills in the Peaks, near the village she grew up in. It seemed so far away from here, and she found herself longing for its distant embrace.
"No real plans," she lied, as she turned to face him again. His eyes quickly raised to meet hers. He was still grinning in a manner that made her feel dirty.
"A few of us are for the Octopi after work tonight," he said, whilst reaching past her for the coffee pot. She knew the club he referred to. It was a favoured spot for many of her nameless colleagues in more abstracted resources of their office. "Angel from Marketing, Christabelle from Accounts, and some of the sales team. You're welcome to join us, if you're free. Come and get to know everyone."
He stirred a pair of sugar cubes into his black coffee, but never once were his eyes removed from his counterpart. From his would-be prey. For Michelle's part, the offer brought about a sudden and overwhelming queasiness that she struggled to master.
"I'm busy," she answered, simply, whilst choking back the bile. "Thanks for the offer."
"Next time," he returned, with a wink that broke the queasiness and left Michelle smothered in humiliation. The simple, condescending gesture was enough to bring about an acute sense of shame in her that she couldn't quite explain.
He left the kitchen and returned to his desk. Michelle waited with her coffee in her shaking hands, fending off a panic attempt that threatened to overcome her. Deep breaths. Count to ten.
At her desk, she again internally recited the characteristics of the doll next to her monitor, as if that might anchor her down to this time and place. After reaching the climax of this chronicling, she absently removed the outermost doll. A smaller one, differently dressed but equally as dour, stared back at her.
[3 : PETIT AMI]
Sunday 18th January, 2015. St. Petersburg, Leningrad Oblast. Russia.
Before she left the hotel room, Michelle realised - by a coincidence - that she'd dressed herself in identical fashion to the matryoshka she'd bought that afternoon. The doll sat upon the windowsill opposite the bed, staring at her with a dour expression and the same black and purple ensemble that she herself wore. Granted, the matryoshka's attire was more in keeping with outdated Russian traditions than the French woman’s, but the colour scheme was at least the same. Michelle even wore the same bored and mildly impatient expression as the doll, though she lacked the yellow and orange tulips that were in her grasp. Maybe Shawn would buy her some. She smiled to herself at the unlikeliness. The last gift he’d got her was a blender. What he lacked in romanticism he made up for in functionality.
She smoked a cheap Russian camel and slowly walked the short distance between their hotel and the restaurant. Shawn had spent the afternoon watching one of his American sports, which meant he would've been drinking and wouldn't be particularly talkative. This was fine. She'd been drinking, too, and wasn't all that talkative regardless of her levels of sobriety.
Her preconceived notions were validated at dinner. After a brief recapping of the game, the rules of which Michelle didn't really care to understand, he fell into a sullen state and addressed his meal. He ate a blue steak and winter vegetables. Michelle didn't eat. She drank wine and then later on in the ‘meal’ vodka. The food and drink was only briefly punctuated by snippets of conversation, mostly centred around Shawn's forthcoming return to Los Angeles. He seemed to be looking forward to this. Michelle would be joining him in the summer but that gave him six months of freedom to do as he pleased.
Not that he didn't enjoy freedom now. Most of the holiday had been spent apart. She was content with this arrangement. She spent her time in St. Petersburg alternating between smoking cigarettes in cafes or bars and visiting art galleries or museums. She didn't know what Shawn did. Wasn't too concerned about knowing.
As he finished his dinner and wiped the animal's blood from his lips, Michelle sipped at her vodka and subtlety detested him. She found herself relieved when he made his intention clear to spend the evening alone and without her.
After a night wandering the city's old streets, Michelle found herself in a secluded and quiet district to the north-east of the nucleus. Following a lead from an old university friend she'd managed to track down a dealer, and was beginning to plot her way back across the city when she spotted a familiar glimpse of blond hair across the street.
She lit a cigarette and hung back in a dark corner. She watched the young-ish and handsome-ish man approach a tall apartment block. He smoked a cigarette of his own and waited impatiently by the building's doors. They eventually opened, and a tall woman who wasn't dressed for the biting winter cold emerged. They exchanged a brief and inaudible interaction and disappeared inside. Michelle was left under no allusions as to what she was, even if she didn't know who she was. She watched with a dull, passive expression and finished her cigarette.
Two hours later, Michelle left a club with a dancer who'd introduced herself as Leto. She'd soon come to find out that this meant ‘summer’ but she doubted this was the girl's real name. Russian girls didn't have names like that. Michelle had first seen her dancing inside a cage. They'd bonded from across the room and different sides of the bars over their shared bored abstraction from the general chaotic debauchery unfolding between them.
For most of the night, Michelle stood next to the bar, near a station where balloons were filled with nitrous for a few hundred rubles. She didn't go in for the gimmick. She stuck to vodka and cocaine like a good girl.
Fortunately the dancer had more of both in her apartment, which was spacious and modern with huge glass windows that overlooked the river. There was a large balcony to smoke on and lots of clean surfaces. Michelle asked her if she made a lot of rubles dancing. The dancer shrugged and said enough but that the apartment was her brother's. He did something important in Moscow and rarely came here. Michelle asked if he knew what she did for a living and the girl offered her a playful wink in response. There were no cages but the girl danced for her anyway, and was just as good at it without the bars encapsulating her.
They finished the coke and the vodka. The sun came up and a gentle morning breeze rolled in through the open balcony window. Its touch was cold and sudden against Michelle's pale and naked skin. The girl had no weed and didn't know where to get any. After a cigarette next to the open balcony door, Michelle pulled on her clothes and said goodbye to Summer.
Back in the hotel room, she watched Shawn sleep and smoked out of the window. The city was waking up beneath her. Sunrise was approaching. He seemed content and blissful. Ignorant. As repulsive as ever.
Her matryoshka stared up at her from the windowsill with its dull, passive eyes. They were still dressed in the same colour scheme, but now - with the night behind her still weighing heavily upon her mind and upon her shoulders - this seemed like less of a coincidence. She threw her cigarette out of the fourth floor window and watched it land in the snowdrift below. Then she addressed the doll. She peeled open the outermost layer and retrieved a slightly smaller matryoshka with an equally absent countenance from the shell.
[4 : BOSS]
Tuesday 24th December, 1963. New York City, New York. USA.
She’d bought her outfit with one of her first pay packets from her new city job. It wasn’t until after she’d worn it into the office for the first time that she realised the colour scheme of the sleeveless blouse and knee-length pencil skirt - cream and dark green respectively, to match her pale skin and her bright eyes - matched that of the Russian doll sitting on her desk in the office. More than once, one of her colleagues had pointed out that she also frequently wore the same dour expression as the matryoshka. You just need a bouquet of tulips, they’d remark, each considering themselves wittier than the last. She did her best to remember to wear a smile. A false smile was better than none at all, Mr. Summers always said.
The matryoshka had caused quite the stir when she’d first brought it into the office and positioned it on her desk. There was talk amongst the other secretaries of her being a spy and the nesting doll a listening device. What the Soviets would want with information from a Madison Avenue advertising firm was anyone’s guess. She’d explained to Mr. Summers that it was a gift from her father, who was given it by a Russian soldier he’d met in Berlin in 1945. It reminded her of him: the closest thing she had to a man she could think of fondly. Remember fondly, now that he was dead. She needed that around here.
She dragged her eyes away from the doll and onto her typewriter, where her half-finished document stared at her accusingly. It was a transcript of Mr. Summers’ notes from his meeting that morning, which he’d asked her to type up before retreating into his office after his long and seemingly boozy lunch. She hadn’t seen him since, but it wasn’t abnormal for him to spend whole afternoons locked away. It wasn’t her place to question. She placed her fingertips on the typewriter’s keys and prepared to begin again, but before she could begin the phone on the corner of her desk announced its presence and disrupted her focus.
“Mr. Summers’ office,” she said, after picking up the receiver. “This is Michelle speaking,”
“Is Shawn there, darling?” came the reply. She recognised the voice as that of Mr. Ocean, one of his clients. “And don’t give me any excuses, sweetheart.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Summers is out of the office at the moment,” she answered. Mr. Ocean couldn’t see her smile, obviously, but she’d been told it was important to project one down the phone regardless. “I can take down a message for him if you’d like, Mr. Ocean?”
“Recognise my voice, sweetheart?” he asked. She could detect a playfulness in his tone. “How long you been waiting for me to call?”
“It’s my job to know Mr. Summers’ clients,” she explained. The false smile on her face became more sincere, matching his playfulness. “Especially one as important as you, Mr. Ocean.”
“Good girl,” the client returned. It was loud where he was. Probably a bar. A lot of Mr. Summers’ clients seemed to spend a lot of their afternoons in bars. “Shawn is lucky to have such a competent secretary.”
“Is that the message?” Michelle asked.
“That’s the message,” he said. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Ocean,” she replied, before hanging up.
Michelle’s eyes scanned the office to check that nobody had caught her flirting. She didn’t want the same reputation that some of the other girls enjoyed. Most of the secretaries were busy at work, except for Gabrielle, who was busy laughing at one of Mr. Fenix’s vulgar jokes. Michelle couldn’t say what he was doing so far from accounting, but lots of men spent company time at Gabby’s desk. Glad for the respite from curious eyes, which was a frequent concern for a young woman in an office like this, she turned back to her typewriter. She managed only a couple of words before the door behind her opened and Mr. Summers emerged from his office.
“I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon,” he announced, as he pushed his arms through the sleeves of his black blazer. He straightened the jacket’s lapels and then did the same to his slicked back blond hair. “Client meeting. And then I’m having dinner with Rupert. Did you book Le Boucher?”
“For two, at six,” she confirmed. Her follow up question was asked perhaps a little too hopefully. “Will you be back for the Christmas party?”
“Maybe,” he mused, whilst adjusting his cufflinks. “Is that the notes from the Undisputed Appliance meeting? Don’t worry about that today. I won’t get to it until after the holidays.”
“I’d rather get it out of the way before the break, Mr. Summers,” she said, with her fingers hovering over the keys. “I don’t want to be thinking about it on Christmas day.”
“Very diligent, Michelle,” he responded, with a sickly sweet smile. He collected his long trenchcoat and hat from a nearby stand and sauntered towards the exit as if he owned the place. Which, if you were talking about the television department, she supposed he did.
An hour or so later, Michelle took her fifteen minutes in the secretary’s breakroom. It was as busy as it usually was at three thirty in the afternoon, and she settled herself into a corner with her coffee and tried to switch off. It was difficult with the amount of noise the other secretaries were making. Usually, she’d take her break with a cigarette outside the office building, but the building crew that had set up across the road made that an unpleasant setting, too. The chattering secretaries were the lesser of two evils.
“I got him a pair of cufflinks,” Bell said, as she sipped her own coffee excitedly. Michelle often thought that the young girl didn’t really need caffeine to reach a heightened state, but she went on drinking it anyway. “Maybe not as expensive or as lavish as some of the others in his collection, but I think they’ll hold a special place in his heart regardless. It’s not all about the most expensive gold and the shiniest silver. Sometimes it’s the thought and the associations, y’know? I don’t even know what Gabrielle got him. She can keep her secrets. I guess I’m just more of an open person.”
Bell was one of Mr. Kennedy’s two secretaries, the other being Gabrielle, who - as we’ve established - was busy flirting with Mr. Fenix from accounting. It was a well-known secret that Bell was in love with the man whose calls she answered, and a slightly less well-known (but still well-known) secret that Mr. Kennedy made frequent use of both of his secretaries. Bell, like the others in the breakroom when Michelle had entered and made her coffee, was discussing the Christmas gifts they’d carefully bought and carefully wrapped for their bosses.
“Mr. Truth isn’t an easy man to buy for,” Shannon put in, her southern drawl accentuated by the extravagant dress that she wore. Her style seemed very much in keeping with the part of the country that she called home. “Y’all know how serious he can be. I settled on a signed Calvin Coolidge autobiography. Not as extravagant as golden cufflinks, but I think Mr. Truth’ll like it.”
“I was supposed to buy a gift?!” said Lizzie, who sat in the corner and was - as always - a bundle of anxiety and nerves. She was bright enough to know that coffee wasn’t for her. She was agitated even by her ice water. “Will Mr. Golden be expecting a gift?! I didn’t know we were supposed to buy a gift!”
Michelle stubbed out her cigarette, half-relieved that her fifteen minutes was over and she could escape the gaggle assembled in the breakroom. She returned to her desk and typed up Mr. Summers’ notes, waiting for the day to end and the Christmas party to arrive.
When it came, it really came. This rendition was Michelle’s first taste of the debauchery that came with a company Christmas party. Most of the secretaries had changed, and she wondered if she should’ve done the same. She felt out of place in the same regular clothes that she’d been wearing all day. The other girls buzzed around the younger and more eligible employees in elaborate and colourful cocktail dresses. Regardless of her tepid attire, the party was soon in full swing and swept her along with it. The only person there who managed to put up some sort of resistance against the debauchery was Mr. Truth, who remained very serious and very solemn throughout. Michelle surmised that, from the lofty position he’d built for himself, the stringent conservative looked down upon them all with distaste. Something had to be behind the scowl that permanently plagued his face.
At the other end of the scale was Mr. Peacock from accounts. A very different department from accounting, it should be pointed out. Whilst accounting surveyed tables and charts and counted dollars and cents, accounts were busy spending the money they saved at the behest of the firm’s clients. Mr. Peacock, like most in that department, was an extrovert with a propensity for putting himself over, and was unsurprisingly doing that very thing at the Christmas party. He was deep into his drinks quickly and getting deeper still, his tongue free and wild and letting anyone who’d listen know about the recent big clients he’d managed to land. He was impressive if you didn’t know what you were looking at, which most of the girls and some of the men didn’t.
Michelle nursed a glass of white wine in the corner, fending off a handful of conversations she wasn’t really interested in as the night progressed. It was shortly after Mr. Peacock gave a short and unasked for speech, mostly enumerating his latest contributions to the firm, that Mr. Summers returned. One of the partners, Mr. Watkins, was with him, and there seemed slightly more decorum around the room as they strode across it. They hovered over her desk, which she had abandoned in the name of the festivities, and exchanged some hushed words. Mr. Summers removed his coat and hat but the old man kept his on. He didn’t intend to stay long. He shook the blond man’s hand before walking back across the room, only registering a select number of his employees as he made his way to the exit.
“Do you need me for anything, Mr. Summers?” she asked, after returning to her post.
“Just one thing, Michelle,” he said, with a look on his face that resembled a grimace. “Tell Mr. Walker and Mr. Randall that I need to speak to them both. And when they’ve left my office, send in the new girl. That’s all. Try to enjoy the party.”
Michelle did as she was told, and curiously watched the office’s closed door and closed blinds from across the room. Shortly afterwards, the security guard from downstairs arrived and loitered at the edge of the party. Mr. Walker and Mr. Randall both worked in the television department in production, whilst the new girl had just started in casting following a transfer from a company in Japan. There was some resentment regarding her appointment amongst the older generation at the company. Some said they’d promised never to do business with those people. It didn’t matter, to them, that the new girl was more literally a new girl when the bomb fell on Hiroshima.
Mr. Walker and Mr. Randall left the office angrily, and then - under the watchful eye of the interloping security guard - the party shortly afterwards in much the same state. The girl from casting was more tearful as she made her exit. All three spent about ten minutes each in Mr. Summers’ office, which Michelle watched intently despite being able to see nothing from within. She felt she could guess what was happening regardless of her blindness. Her eyes were open.
Her work was done, and so was the security guard’s. He disappeared downstairs as the party reached full swing. Regardless of the novelty, she felt compelled to knock on Mr. Summers’ door once he’d opened the blinds. She felt it was a sign that he was at least willing to entertain the idea of visitors.
“Come in, Michelle,” he said, from inside. She could barely hear him over the general din in the office. The record player had been brought out of Mr. Kennedy’s office and drowned out most of the scene’s specifics. She took a deep breath, as she always did when standing upon his threshold, before entering.
Mr. Summers sat behind his desk, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that were the dominating feature of his office. The sun had given up on the city. The Empire State Building was illuminated by its own artificial lighting and the pale white reflection of a sombre, distant moon. The satellite’s mood was matched by the executive, who twirled his glass around in his hand. It was empty of whiskey but three ice cubes clinked around its sides as he rotated it.
“I don’t think I’ll be joining you all for the party,” he said, absently. She noticed that the bottle of whiskey next to his empty glass was still nearly full. Two more half-drunk measures, ice half-melted, sat discarded on his desk. “It’s been a long day. Not quite in the mood.”
“Me neither, really,” Michelle answered. “I think I’ll go home soon. Do you need me to do anything, before I do?”
“Call Mrs. Summers,” he instructed, his focus still monopolised by the rising moon. She approached his desk and filled his empty glass. “Tell her I’ve left the city for a client meeting. Book me into the Hilton in Albany. If there is one. Somewhere as nice if there isn’t.”
“Of course, Mr. Summers,” Michelle said. “Is everything okay with Mr. Walker and Mr. Randall? And the new girl, too?”
The executive let out a sigh. He finally turned to face his secretary. There was a steeliness about his gaze. He seemed confident and resolute.
“I’m afraid the department will be three people short, going into the new year,” he told her, his voice level and firm, as if he was steering a ship with it. She emptied his overflowing ashtray and set it down next to his lighter and cigarettes. “The company, and by extension the department, are destined for a fresh start in this coming year.”
Michelle nodded her head. If he was to be ruthless and resolute, she would have to be, too. She reached for the half-finished glasses belonging, she assumed, to Mr. Walker and Mr. Randall, preparing to empty them. She felt and then saw his hand atop of hers, a gentle tingle spreading up her arm, rippling out from the contact. His knees felt weak. Her head felt heavy. She sensed her judgement clouding.
She stared into Mr. Summers’ cobalt blue eyes, which shone and glimmered and sparkled, even in the dull and distant light of the pale moon. She couldn’t determine what was behind the lingering and smouldering look, even though it seemed to stretch on for an eternity. She hadn’t the power to break it. His sudden and absolute hold over her was too strong. It was up to him to halt the train before it pulled into the station.
Eventually, fortunately but torturously, he did. He stood up, collected his glass, and walked to the window. He placed his hands in his pockets and said nothing else.
Her knees still weak, Michelle sat down at her desk and watched the party around her. None of it could hold her interest. She was still under the spell of his cobalt blue eyes, which even now seemed upon her, drilling into her soul.
She reached for her doll, hoping that the familiar feeling of the weight of it in her hands would steer her mind away from the hole it was falling into. She wanted to feel close to her father. She wanted to feel far from here.
The matryoshka opened in her hands. She hadn’t meant to open it. The top half fell through her fingers. She caught the smaller doll with her other hand as the shell rolled away from her.
[5 : STRANGER]
Thursday 16th March, 2023. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. USA.
Michelle sat behind the curtain at Gorilla Position, her rucksack between her legs as she waited impatiently for her cue. Her hands were lowered into it, her fingers gripping the small matryoshka doll that Jean-Luc had bought her when they’d lived in Moscow. It was wearing all black, as she always was. It was why he’d thought it a fun present. Obviously she agreed, or it wouldn’t be in her rucksack, next to her cigarettes and her book and her championship belt and her coke. Probably four of the five most important things she owned, alongside the bag that carried then. And the matryoshka amongst them all, perhaps the most permanent of them all. The sound of a guitar being strummed and the shocked confusion of those in their seats early enough to witness it poured through the curtain. She pulled her belt out of her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
Roy Orbison sang about the sandman as she walked down the entrance ramp, the three-quarters full arena serenading her in a chorus of boos. The show hadn’t started yet. The by-now obligatory pyrotechnic display and commentator card run-down hadn’t yet taken place, and as a result many members of the audience were still queuing in the concession stands or filing towards their seats. The impromptu outbreak of In Dreams and accompanying appearance of Michelle von Horrowitz brought them all rushing into the arena, though, if only to hurl abuse at her.
She smiled to herself as she climbed into the ring and collected a microphone. Europe had been an experience, of course. It always was. But, try as she might, she couldn’t really get even the most unfamiliar of audiences there to really hate her like the Americans did. It was easy to get these people riled. Their sense of morality, though inherently warped, was clear cut and predictable. She had missed this. She felt alive again.
They didn’t abate when she lifted the microphone to her lips. Even though the show wasn’t due to start for another ten minutes, the crowd - who launched into a timely chant of boring, only with the vowels elongated - let her know that they would rather be staring at an empty ring as they waited for the fireworks. Including those that had rushed into the arena from the concession stands to see her. Such was the fickle nature of the trogs, laying bare the contradictions between what they thought and what they did.
“You know, Pittsburgh,” she began, whilst adjusting her championship belt and projecting her voice over the rampant Pennsylvanian crowd. “When I first came to this country with my sister back in 2008, I took a roadtrip with some money I inherited across as much of the good ol’ U.S. of A. as I could. Got as far east as Denver. I spent twenty four hours here to break up the journey between Philadelphia and Columbus. Probably the reason most people come here. Not that I had a bad time. I walked around all day, from downtown to Oakland and back again. I saw your museum and your art gallery, and I saw your underbelly, too. You’d be surprised at what becomes clear to you when you walk around after midnight with your eyes wide open. But Pittsburgh, unlike a lot of cities, at least wears what it is plainly for all to see. It doesn’t try to hide what it’s built upon, and what still runs it today.”
It wasn’t clear if the crowd was even listening. They elected only to hurl orchestrated obscenities in poor Dreamer’s direction. She didn’t flinch in the face of it.
“Which brings me rather neatly on, tulips, to Shawn Summers. A man who is a bastard, who calls himself a bastard, and has made a career out of being a bastard. A man who is almost, honestly, one that I could see myself conspiring alongside. But there are barriers, incontrovertible ones, to such a hypothetical alliance, which would be as unholy as it would be unlikely. You see, Shawn Summers is a man that I am familiar with only from afar, and I mean that in more ways than one…”
A brief pause. Time ticked on towards the show. The fans, fully aware that her minutes were almost up, expressed their impatience. They rowdily informed Michelle that they wanted wrestling, which elicited a wry chuckle from the woman in the ring. Who do you think it is, she thought, that gives you wrestling?
“Perhaps more obviously, I mean it in the sense that Der Basterd and I’s paths have mostly run parallel and often in opposite directions. We have only shared the ring once, a long time ago in a battle royale that I won and he underperformed in. Other than that, Shawn has kept a safe and disrespectful distance from me, for Summers is of the school of thought that men and women should not dance together between the ropes. A philosophy as archaic as it is meaningless. We both wear gold on our shoulders, and I’ve fought against men for longer than I’ve fought alongside them.
“You remember Dan Maskell? The English trog who called me little French boy, right up until I beat him on this very show when it was still in its infancy? He said much the same thing. We could ask him if he still thinks that now, but he decided he couldn’t hack it a long time ago, his inconsequential manhood seemingly not enough on its own to save him. Shawn deserves some credit as the last misogynist standing, but one always gets the sense with this surprisingly fragile manly man that his own downfall isn’t too distant upon the horizon.”
Outside of the ring, the commentators filed into position behind their desk. Anzu offered Michelle a double thumbs up and a warm, encouraging grin, whilst Sterling only greeted her gaze with an impatient sneer.
"I say, tulips, that I am familiar with Shawn Summers from afar, and that I mean it in more ways than one. I mean this in macro: in the sense that I was familiar with Der Basterd - and men like him - since I was old enough to understand enough of the male mind to know its simplicity. As most women are. Fathers, co-workers, boyfriends, bosses, strangers… it's not a list that can be exhaustive or concise. But our resident Basterd, who takes such pride in skirting around the cutting edge of misogyny, is only a whisper of a billion men whose shadow he perennially inhabits. Like the rest of us, he is terrified of the sun, but his fear has overcome him. He touts his stale replications as uniquities, notable only in their traditional and forgettable perverseness.”
Around the ring, the camera crew signalled to one another hurriedly. Four minutes, they appeared to be saying. One of them even seemed to sign that she should get out of the ring. He pushed his untidy, blond hair out of his eyes and encouraged her with his hands to wrap things up. She afforded herself a deliberate and lengthy pause before finally continuing her thread.
“It is interesting how history has a nature of repeating itself. Only recently, I was thrown back into an adversarial relationship with Cyrus Truth, a man I thought I’d left firmly in my past. My own tag team partner is fond of pointing out similarities between this year’s Grand March and the last one. I won’t bore you with them again here. But I am reminded now, once more, of our beloved and departed Heretic. When the puppeteers decided to place me in the ring with that forgotten pig, it was worthwhile putting to one side my conquest of the world championship picture to settle a score with a rotten little man and his rotten little ideas. Some will argue that it isn’t worth it. I beg to differ. You’d be surprised how quietly even the loudest of mouthbreathers suddenly inhale when their lights have been turned out.”
She turned to face the curtain that separated her from the back. It was clear that, at least tonight, at least now, her words were meant for just one man. It wasn’t the man who held the gold, or the one consumed by perceived wrongs. It wasn’t the pantomime act who spoke of friendship, whilst trying to take the one thing that kept her closest and oldest friend at her side. Her words were only for him: a textbook, predictable bigot, with a bad haircut and a ridiculous neck tattoo.
“We remain but perfect strangers, Shawn, but for words cast one way or the other from a distance, and our mutual acquaintance with the ageing prodigy. It’s not much, really, is it? But it’s enough for me. Throw yourself in, Shawn. You don’t stand a chance.” |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:46:22 GMT
Promo history - volume 107.
”Parallel Lines” (March 23rd, 2023).
Chris Peacock def. Michelle von Horrowitz, Cyrus Truth (FWA: The Grand March). In a high-backed and heavily cushioned chair of deep red leather - which is the focal point of a cosy, comfortable snug - sits Uncle J.J. JAY!, who appears rather characteristically satisfied with himself. He has a crystal snifter of brandy in his left hand whilst in his right is his vape, balancing upright against the arm of his elaborate librarian’s throne. Resting upon his delicately folded legs is a large and thick tome, opened up with its secrets laid bare. COSMIC HORROR’s eyes scan over its text whilst his tentacles bristle with joy. The joy of reading, that is. A joy that I’m sure you, my dear reader, know very well, or you wouldn’t be reading this now. Unless you’re being forced to read so that you can offer judgement, which would be a cruel and unusual punishment indeed. JAY! swirls the thick, ruby liquid around in his balloon glass, takes a sip, and then delicately turns the page of his book. A log fire roars next to him and whistles a gentle tune that underpins the scene. Behind him are mounted a series of hotchpotch shelves, covering the entirety of one wall of his study and overflowing with books. These innumerable volumes are bound in strange materials, their spines inscribed with indecipherable glyphs and markings. It’s the kind of room that one could get lost in for a whole night, or maybe several, as Uncle had indeed done on more than one occasion. It’s perfectly possible that this is exactly what J.J. JAY! would’ve done now, had he not - at this very moment - realised that he wasn’t quite alone. “Good evening, Nephew,” he begins, as he closes his book and sets it down upon the round table next to his chair. “I didn’t see you come in. I was just reading a tale from another universe. Thrilling stuff! Captivating!”He sucks thoughtfully on the end of his vape before setting that, along with his brandy snifter, down atop the leather-bound tome. He is dressed in a bright pink Mao suit and adjusts his lapels, continuing to speak to the lens as if he is in comfortable dialogue with an old friend. “If you thought our FWA was an interesting place, Nephew, then your mind would be opened by the peeling back of this curtain. The big tent, as our mutual friend Dreamer likes to call it, appears throughout this infinite ring of parallel universes like a stubbornly recurring motif. Did you know, for instance, that in the sizable subset of realities in which humans neglected to evolve arm-like appendages - appendages considered by many to be essential for the art of wrestling - the FWA is still, in the majority, alive and well? Different, of course, but still existent. Competition favours the biters there. More vampiric wrestlers like Vampyra, Steve the Techno Vampire, and Trixie Bordeaux do very well for themselves.
“But even these armless universes share a great deal in common with us here: not least of all that their incarnations of the FWA motif and professional wrestling as a whole involve very real battles of athleticism, skill, intelligence, and other such abstract and positive qualities. When two wrestlers enter that squared circle, regardless of the sometimes self-indulgent pomp and circumstance that surrounds the occasion, the contest of combative skill that follows is, at least, legitimate. Arms or no arms. But there are, Nephew, other universes that exist where, would you believe it, wrestling is fake. Like ‘Breaking Bad’ or the moon landings. Unbelievable, I know, but you must remember that we are dealing with an infinite number of parallel universes here, and the mathematics of infinity throw up some rather unbelievable peculiarities.”Here, COSMIC HORROR pauses to tap one of his short, stubby, and well-manicured fingers against the leather cover of his book. “This tale, my friends, comes from one such parallel reality, which is otherwise identical to our own universe but for this quite important detail. So sit back and relax - but also read carefully, Nephew, to ensure all i’s and t’s have been dotted and crossed respectively so that a proper grammatical judgement can be reached - as I take you to an Earth where the fates of our heroes, our villains, and indeed our Nephews alike are constantly in the hands of a few secretive and self-interested men. Completely different to the Earth that you and I exist on, obviously.”After carefully repositioning his vape pen and his brandy, he placed the book upon his lap again and opened it up. Rather than returning to his position halfway through the tome, though, he turned to the very first page. “Part one…” MICHELLE von HORROWITZinVOLUME ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN  She’d already had one cigarette since getting off the bus and intended to head straight to her locker room. Her lungs could do with a rest before the match. The sight of Anzu, however, cutting a lonely figure - leaning against the wall next to the loading bay near the talent entrance - was enough to break down that resolve. The commentator had a cigarette of her own perched between her pursed lips, both of her hands currently occupied with a cup of coffee and tonight’s copy for match introductions. Part of Anzu’s charm was her haphazard and lackadaisical approach to the colour commentary gig, but even she was diligent enough to give the producers’ notes a once-over on pay-per-view sunday. “What are you going to say when they count the three?” Michelle asked, whilst taking up position next to Anzu and lighting her Camel. Up close, the fresh patchwork of cuts and bruises - no doubt the result of her exploits in the tournament that took place over the last two days - became more apparent on her face and arms. Michelle leant over to look at the memo she was reading. “What do our producers think the audience should learn about the resolve of our champion in this moment?”She playfully reached for the other woman’s notes, which Anzu promptly removed from her prying grasp. “There’s a few suggestions,” Anzu admitted, as she rolled up her wad of notes and stuffed them into her pocket. “I’ll leave the sound bites to Rod, though. I prefer to speak from the heart.”“How will you do that?” Michelle asked, with a wistful sigh and a cocked eyebrow. “Your heart will be broken at the sorry sight of your old friend jobbing.”“At least Cyrus is getting pinned first,” the other replied, with a shrug that was intended to be encouraging but came across closer to apathetic. Anzu had smoked her cigarette down to the filter and threw it into a nearby drain. Before she could leave Michelle and disappear into the building, though, the doors of the talent entrance swung open and two men abruptly emerged. Both women could tell that one of them was Mike Parr, even though ‘the Prodigy’ had his back turned, from the way that he was incessantly grumbling. This inference was natural because Mike Parr was invariably incessantly grumbling. “You know how long I’ve been here, Sean?” the Prodigy asked, somewhat rhetorically, of the road agent that had followed him out of the building. “Because I can’t even remember exactly how long it is! Nine years? Ten? And those bastards have got me going on second?! Against Jackson fucking Fenix?!”“It’s just a bridging match,” the agent replied. Anzu, being a fervent lover of backstage drama, settled in to enjoy the show. She lit another cigarette and leaned back against the wall. Michelle offered her a wave (silently so as to not blow her cover) before shuffling towards the entrance. “You’ve only just come back, and we’ve got to build audience trust again. It’s a means to an end, Mike.”“And what is that end? The North American Championship, again,” the Prodigy replied, dismissively. “Whilst the Dutch bitch gets another main event. Man, I shouldn’t take this shit. I should get on the phone to Meltzer. Shake this place up a bit.”Michelle winced at the crude and undignified nickname that had been assigned to her, which was only ever uttered when those using it thought her back was turned. She was also aware who it was that first coined it. Perhaps it was these origins that stirred indignation within her. She opened the door clumsily and noisily, attracting the attention of the two men who until now thought they were alone. “Michelle,” he said, with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t forgotten his stiff pipework during her first meaningful feud in the company. He hadn’t forgotten her subsequently leapfrogging him on the card. She offered him only a curt nod in response. “So it’s not actually at the ISS?” the unmistakable voice of Jeffry Mason asked from the end of the corridor. His question was accompanied by a slurp from an open can. Mason was one of the deathmatch guys that she assumed were brought in for the tournament, and the deathmatch guys drank a lot. It was one of their few redeeming features. “I think they’re filming it in Delaware or something,” came the reply, in the almost-unintelligible accent of the worst country’s worst region. Cole was warming up as he conversed with Mason, which made little sense considering the Apprentice’s work this weekend was already finished. But Cole liked to stay warm. “In this big soundstage. Debuting on YouTube at the end of the month. Pretty cool, huh? Could probably get you a spot, if you’re interested.”“Say what you want about deathmatches, kid, but that shit is killing the business,” Mason said, with a derisive snort and a shake of his head. His old rival and new friend’s disdain for the concept quickly dampened Cole’s spirits, and Michelle sensed in his eyes and his body language a desire to renege on his agreement with the promoter. “Doesn’t fit my character. No chance.”On her way through the arena concourses, she walked past - and duly ignored - a grinning Jeremy Best. He was wheeling an unwitting Krash around, as he had been since the Wolf’s unfortunate in-ring accident, exploiting the vegetable’s memory for as long as that memory would last. The audience was quite forgetful, generally speaking. The whole affair left a bad taste in her mouth. She sensed a Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic coming their way in the not-so-distant future. “You’ve gotta keep yourself looking strong, kid,” Summers was saying to one of the young guys they had working heel down in nGw. It looked like he’d accosted the poor rookie near the entrance to catering and was now dispensing free but unwanted lessons. The walking, talking, blond-haired lawsuit had his arm around the young talent, prompting the other to place a spare hand atop his fedora to keep it in place. “Everyone around this place, they’re always looking to steal your heat. That’s why I always kick out just after three, brother. Gotta keep yourself looking strong.”She shuffled past this uncomfortably one-sided conversation - inwardly wondering, as she frequently did, how a man like Shawn Summers had managed to escape the #SpeakingOut movement when it came for Dan Maskell - and did her best to ignore his unwanted but incessant gaze. “But it’s a different world nowadays, kid,” he went on, loudly enough for her to hear as she walked by. The sneer in his voice suggested he wasn’t particularly pleased about putting her over the week prior. “Got the broads doing more than bikini contests and lingerie matches, for one. An honest man like you or me’s gotta do what he can to keep looking strong.”Inside catering, Alyster Black was complaining to whoever would listen about the artificial maple syrup provided by the company’s kitchens. Most of his audience was less than interested, though the LuPones nodded their heads approvingly and muttered about it being about time someone said something. The masked man only stopped in his foul-mouthed tirade when the company’s world champion walked in, flanked by one of its executives, on-screen authority figures, and play-by-play commentators. All the same person. Alyster offered Peacock a cursory nod before leaving. They’d been forced into a tag team a few weeks before, ostensibly so the champion could feed off Alyster’s heat in the company’s latest plot to endear him to the fans. They’d tried the same trick with a number of other guys before and with limited results. The disco dancer was too obtuse to realise that his partner was getting less out of their relationship than he was, regardless of who held the gold. This fact hadn’t escaped Alyster, though. As the minutes ticked away towards her early meeting, she collected a tray’s worth of the meagre vegan offerings the company provided and sat down to attempt to enjoy it. By coincidence, she was positioned near a pair of new signings who'd been brought in following the FWA's change in broadcast partners. They'd both previously worked for the other promotion that ran semi-regular shows on their new network, and it had quickly become apparent that they’d agreed to stick together. The old guard wasn’t best pleased about the change, and were only begrudgingly grateful for a new and unfamiliar home following the capsizing of their old one. “Haven’t seen her all day,” the young, pretty, confident girl who played the young, pretty, anxious girl mused, whilst spooning up the remnants of her macaroni and cheese. Another wrestler once told her eating carbs before a match was a good thing and she listened to the advice of other wrestlers. She listened to the advice of other wrestlers because another wrestler had told her to do so. “Wasn’t at television last week, either.”“Don’t think we’ll see her for a while,” the other replied. He looked slightly ridiculous in his full ring gear (the spooky, dark archetype), eating french fries and ketchup from a paper plate on a plastic tray. He also - given what he was about to say - had terrible table manners, as most wrestlers do. “If someone took a dump in my gym bag, I’d probably want a few weeks off too.”Michelle afforded herself a direct glance at the dialogue. The young girl, aghast, pushed her lunch away from her. She’d suddenly lost her appetite. “What kind of place have we come to?” she asked, despondently. “People are saying it was Summers,” the other added, with a shrug. “The shoe fits, but I’m not sure.”“Someone should tell Truth about it,” the girl surmised. Michelle sensed a certain amount of reverence and respect being placed on the veteran’s name. She was used to it around here, but it was somewhat strange to hear it from the mouth of a relative newcomer. “Truth would do something.”
“Like another one of his crooked wrestler’s courts?” he replied, with a scoff. “Maybe he’ll force Summers to buy some of the vets a few beers. We’re on our own here, Trix. Don’t expect the old man to have our backs.”She traversed the final corridor between catering and Russnow’s office, where she was due at twelve thirty for the meeting she’d requested after the previous week’s television. She hadn’t been happy with her role in Fallout’s main event. She and Truth had been tasked with walking to the ring and staring at Chris Peacock for a few empty moments as curtain jerkers brawled around them and the show went off the air. Hardly seemed worth the bus fare to Detroit. She’d demanded to meet with Russnow after the show but had been fobbed off until now, and over time the heat and weight of her arguments had devolved into nothing through internalised repetition. But still, she’d give it a go. Why should this week be any different? Inside his office, Jon Russnow was throwing darts at the board that he had his underlings put up in whatever room he was stationed in that week. He was privy to a running joke amongst the boys that he booked his shows using this technique of randomly selecting ideas and, in typical fashion, decided to lean into it. Michelle noticed that he was getting rather good. All three of his arrows were nibbling the border of bull’s eye. “Michelle, you’re early!” Russnow said, as he removed his darts and took a seat behind his desk. He gestured for his employee to do the same. “I’m right on time,” she replied. She looked at her wrist but then remembered that she didn’t own a watch. “Yes, which is early for you,” Russnow answered. “How can I help you?”“I’m here about the end of last week’s Fallout,” she started, attempting to summon some of the passion and fire that had accompanied the actual moment. “And ultimately I want to talk about tonight. About the main event and the finish.”“You want to go over?” he asked, with a faint and knowing smile. He had a lot of meetings with talent and, ultimately, they all regarded that talent wanting to go over. “I guess, in a nutshell, that is what I want,” Michelle replied. “But it’s nothing less than I deserve. Nobody gets as much heat as I do out there. The Nephews are nuclear right now.”“Can’t argue with that,” Russnow said. “But I do question whether it’s the right kind of heat, Michelle. We’ve had this discussion before. It’s not like the company isn’t behind you. Seven-and-oh for the year is nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve been on your side since you got here. You’ve been champion twice already; it’s time someone else had a turn.”“I’m not sure my last run even counts,” Michelle began. She didn’t go any further than that. She didn’t want to hear Russnow’s monologue about the disappointing advance buys for Carnal Contendership 2022, plummeting merchandise sales, and the network’s cold feet. Not again. There was a new network, now, and this one was pressing the opposite agenda. Stability and familiarity. All well and good, but she felt this stability should be based around familiarity with her. “Even if the disco man has to go over, this whole programme has just been a mess. I assumed that Truth was being added to the match to take the fall, but then this nonsense about a three-way dance? You’re taking my legs out from underneath me.”“Cyrus Truth is good for ratings,” Russnow said. A simple statement of fact. “I, for one, could do without a twenty minute monologue to start Fallout every week,” she replied, whilst rolling her eyes. “Well, our audience disagrees,” he answered, again matter-of-factly. Something about his tone suggested the meeting was coming to an end. “It’s going to be a very busy day, Michelle. I’ve got to meet with Nate Savage and explain why he isn’t on the card, and the injury reports from the deathmatch tournament aren’t good. I’ll see you at the rundown meeting?”Michelle nodded, and left the office. She was unsurprised at how quickly she had acquiesced.  For once, in an attempt to show some of that dedication that so many of her bosses were fond of telling her she lacked, Michelle arrived early to the rundown meeting. Thomas West wasn't scheduled to appear on the show, and explained after taking a seat next to Michelle that he wouldn't be staying long. Something about meeting Uncle at the stadium's helipad. She could only assume he was here to keep her company, a duty that her actual tag team partner was currently neglecting. It was no secret that Grayson and Truth, owing to their impeccable punctuality and unerring professionalism respectively, were usually amongst the first to arrive for any backstage meetings. She was surprised, though, by how casually and comfortably they conversed. "Why are they so friendly?" she queried. The podcast host drew his eyes away from Allen Price, who was engaged in hurried pleas for advice ahead of his tag team match on the kick-off show. Not many were particularly responsive owing to his associations with the unpopular champion. Thomas West glanced over at GiGi and the Exile, and displeased Dreamer further by greeting their dialogue with a warm smile. "Cyrus was, like, his favourite wrestler or something," the podcast host explained. "It's nice that they're friends.""He should show a little loyalty," Michelle said. "Why isn't he here with us?""So the pair of you can bicker?" Thomas quipped. He was back to scanning the room and showed an interest in PONI-BOI. They appeared somewhat proud to be on pay-per-view and profoundly out of place as a result. "I, for one, am grateful for the quiet. Well, was grateful."Michelle took the hint and fell silent. Her gaze drifted upon Jackson Fenix, who was growing in confidence thanks to his minor win streak and the positive crowd reactions he'd been receiving as of late. He'd bought himself a new suit and a gold watch in an attempt to look the part of an upper midcarder, and was busy attempting to impress Natalie Rosenberg and Katie Baxter with these purchases. Michelle caught the ring announcer's eye and the pair shared a knowing, amused glance. "You want to talk about tonight?" Thomas asked, bringing her back into her immediate surroundings. "I assume Peacock is going over. Have you heard anything?""That's the way of it," Michelle said, with a sigh. The room was filling up with more bodies. Bryan Baxter walked in with both the North American Championship and Bill Scorpane in tow. Their pockets were bulging with what Michelle assumed were stolen condiment sachets from catering. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take, Thomas. The disco man's taking home what should be mine. I need it more than Cyrus, and I've earned it more than Peacock.""Earning it is a funny concept," Thomas mused. "When everything is predetermined.""You know what I mean," she answered. "The time put into developing and perfecting your craft, the creativity it takes to spark a reaction with the fans, the sheer force it requires to be heard over this barrage of noise. This is how I've earned it. But I know the argument. I am aware of what the puppeteers say about me behind closed doors. What happened last time…"She paused. She didn't really want to broach the subject of what happened last time, especially with the man sitting beside her right now. The decision to pivot towards Toner versus West at last year's Back in Business had been explained to her a hundred times but she still didn't fully understand it. They wanted to continue the successful and popular Tonerville-Nephews feud but not with her, despite the facts that she was just as much Nephew as Thomas West and had far more of a history with the handsome man. They told her she was earmarked for a showdown with Kennedy in what was expected to be his final match. Breaking the streak should’ve felt like a career-making achievement, but the humiliating nature of the twelve-second defeat that preluded it suggested punishment for her failed second reign. All of this was too much for her, here and now and with him. She fell silent, the thought unfinished. She glanced across the room and caught a familiar pair of eyes, twinkling like the last star in the sky, the man’s newly-won FWA X Championship upon his shoulder. "You know," West began. "There is more than one universe running parallel to ours where the FWA exists as you wish it to. With results decided in the ring by the skill and temperament of the athletes.""It's a cruelty that I'm stuck in this one," Michelle replied. This brought a chuckle from her counterpart. "Maybe we'll take you to one of them, some day," he said.  “... Nova’s going to get the pin,” Russnow went on, with his eyes firmly studying his notes. Michelle always thought this a cowardly tactic. He at least owed the wrestlers he was condemning a little eye contact. “Joe’s eating it. Twelve minutes. Once again, people: be tight with your timings tonight. Then we’ve got a backstage interview with Truth. Four and a half minutes. See Jean-Luc for bullet points. Same goes for everyone with promo time…”Looking around the room at the rundown meeting, Michelle was immediately struck by how empty it was for a pay-per-view, and how few of those that were there she really recognised. She put the sparsely populated room down to half the roster mutilating each other (and themselves) with light tubes and barbed wire at the King of the Deathmatch. Most of the tournament’s competitors had the night off tonight but some came along, anyway. Showing that they’re dedicated, no doubt. The office liked dedication, she’d been told. So why, then, had it not worked out that way for her? By any definition of the word, nobody was more dedicated than she was. Nobody had more matches or overall ring time under their belt in 2021 or 2022, and 2023 was off to a blistering pace, too. The crowd told her that she had the quality to back up the quantity. So why was she being thrown to the disco man to fluff his heat and feed his ego? “... that’s a submission finish after ten minutes. You got a minute or two room there if the crowd’s into it, but don’t waste that with crotch chops, Jackson. We’re expecting a lot of families tonight. Then after Rod and Jean-Luc shill the blender we’re going straight into the North American Championship match. We’re fortunate enough to have Ryan Hall here as Bryan’s mystery opponent tonight and it’s great for us to be in the presence of such a legend. Here’s hoping we can finally tell the story that needed to be told. Baxter’s going over by pinfall after sixteen minutes…”Peacock was standing next to Jean-Luc and Russnow at the head of the meeting. He didn’t wear disco flares or vibrant prints anymore. His suits and ties were generally muted colours, as befitting the face of the company, and tonight he’d gone for a navy blue pinstriped number. He wore his championship belt on his shoulder as he usually did, even behind closed doors at rundown meetings and other similar events. He was a jackass. There was no more plain way to put it. Initially, she’d watched from afar as he’d etched out a living in the midcard, dancing around like the obnoxious but generally inoffensive comedy act that he was. At the start, he’d relied on this juvenile retro act as a substitute for a character, before moving onto the employment of trope heel tactics as a substitute for a character. Now, his ambition had nestled him into prime position adjacent to the office, meaning he’d never have to develop a proper character at all. “... the Eternal segment cannot overrun again. Can’t stress that enough. Three minutes is all you’ve got, and then Chris has got five to sell the main event. We might want to use Michelle at the end of that, but we’re not sure. We’ll decide later on in the day. Then it’s back into the arena for the Television Championship. We’re running a D.Q. finish there after Summers clocks Tommy with the belt. Bit of colour for Tommy wouldn’t be a bad thing, if you’re feeling it tonight…”It appeared as though Truth had aimed to pick a position within the room that was diametrically opposed to that of Chris Peacock. Whilst the champion was standing next to the executives upon the patch of ground designated as the room’s invisible stage, the Exile sat quietly in a corner at the back. It had taken Michelle quite a while to locate him, but that wasn’t unusual. Truth enjoyed lurking in the shadows, much as his character did when the cameras were rolling. A lot of the other wrestlers would say that he was old school and she understood that this was something they thought worthy of respect. He rarely appeared in public and never out of character. Whilst Peacock maintained the presence of what he thought was a champion, which amounted to proudly holding his shiny new belt at every possible opportunity, Cyrus would preserve the mystique of his character even amongst his peers. Peers. She smiled at this thought. She’d worked with Truth for long enough to know that the Exile regarded himself as a man without peers. Perhaps he had them once but had outlasted them. Either way, his aloof and sullen aura presented itself as subtle condescension. “... we’ve got Chris’ big entrance. An evolution of disco, followed by an evolution from disco. They’re gonna go nuts. First elimination at thirteen minutes, with Chris pinning Michelle…”She sat upright a little too suddenly, this small act drawing a number of eyes onto her. In the moment, this didn’t mean very much to her. She barely noticed the stares of those quietly lusting for her downfall. She was to be eliminated first? What was the point of the F1 Climaxxx? To give her an easy and empty honour, without any real meaning or any real consequences? To satisfy her with a big trophy and a pat on the back and an atta girl? They might as well have given Truth the win and let her play with light tubes with the rest of the unbooked. She sat in silence and seethed. She didn’t listen to the rest of the meeting. She wasn’t interested in how long Peacock and Truth would be given before the disco man inevitably got the win. She only knew it was over when the people around her began to disperse. Russnow organised his notes and then prepared to leave, but - stirred into action by the moment slipping away - Michelle cut him off before he reached the exit. “Eliminated first?” she asked. “That’s the play,” he answered, simply. She said nothing. No formal promises had been made to her, but still this felt like something of a betrayal. “We want the Nephews involved. Failed run-ins, or something like that.”“If I have to lose, then at least don’t neuter my stable in the same moment,” she returned. She wasn’t happy with this bargaining position. Prefacing her arguments with if I have to lose was a long way from where she wanted to be. “Ban them from ringside or something. Don’t have them hanging out there like limp and useless appendages. Why was I even put in this match if I’m just cannon fodder?”“Cyrus needs to stay strong going into the C.C.,” Russnow reasoned, with a disheartened and slightly exasperated sigh. He seemed fatigued by constant confrontations with his talent, which amounted to only slight variations on the same self-centred theme. “You and Gerald have got the straps. You can take a loss or two in singles matches without losing too much steam in the tag division. If you want to do it clean, do it clean. That much creative freedom is yours. But the important thing is that you do it.”Russnow left her to squirm in the unwelcome collective gaze of those assembled around her. Some of them, like Summers, took enjoyment from her public scolding, whilst others, like her Gerald, looked upon her with sympathetic eyes. The second of these was the most painful. Truth, who was still lingering in the manner that he’d become renowned for, had a more inscrutable expression upon his face. His sneer hadn’t disappeared, and he wore the same snide superiority that regularly adorned his furrowed brow. It was now accompanied by a knowing glint in his eye that suggested satisfaction at being proved right. She didn’t enjoy the weight of his glare and was relieved when he finally left. Before they would be given the opportunity to get in the ring and work through their spots for the evening, the talent was tasked with filming short, individual vignettes for one of the company's YouTube channels. Michelle assumed that it was something to do with the release of the upcoming video game, which had dominated their media obligations for the past two months. She was under the impression that the game was meant to have been released already, but repeated delays owing to a lawsuit regarding its use of the ' Under Attack' subtitle meant the press trawl droned on. Some of the other talent was nearby, including Ratin and Steve. Michelle usually did her best to ignore their exploits but this wasn't always an easy task. As the months went on and their television time inexplicably increased, they became bolder, louder, and more obnoxious. It was impossible not to absorb at least a little of their shtick, even from afar and when one has a mind to. But Russnow liked to remind her that this was a variety show, and that comedy does well with the younger audience. She had never felt so out of touch. Most of the wrestlers were waiting to be interviewed alone, but some - those who couldn't be thought of but for in connection with another - were in pairs. Steve and Ratin was one such example. Another was her and Gerald. They were, after all, the FWA World Tag Team Champions. They had rendezvoused shortly before their time slot and Michelle was disappointed to see her partner arrive with the disco man. They were talking freely and amicably until Gerald noticed Dreamer watching them, at which point they said a brief goodbye before going their separate ways. The world champion cut to the head of the line and was ushered towards the green screen to record his vignette. "Making new friends?" Michelle asked, as the Daredevil approached. Between his conversation with Peacock now and the cosy dialogue with Truth earlier, Dreamer couldn't shake the thought that she was being somehow surrounded. "If you're going to cavort with the enemy, you at least might not rub my nose in it."Gerald couldn't help but chuckle at the turn of phrase. "Cavort with the enemy?" he repeated, with more than a hint of mockery in his tone. He looked around himself at the other wrestlers assembled near the recording booth. His eyes lingered for a moment on Ryan Hall, who was trying to recall some distant anecdote from the mostly-forgotten annals of ancient FWA history. "These are your colleagues, Michelle. You're not at war. You know I've got a lot of respect for Cyrus after all he's achieved. And Peacock's not such a bad guy either, despite what everyone says.""I wish you weren't so agreeable, Gerald," Michelle replied. She noticed that Hall was stumbling in his orating, struggling to recall the thread of events in his tale. "What were they talking about?""Who?" Gerald asked, playfully. Ryan, meanwhile, gave up on his endeavour. He moved onto the next person and the next story. "You know who," Michelle said, deadpan and with narrowed eyes. "Chris was just asking me for advice, actually," he answered. Gerald seemed rather proud of this fact. "Advice on dealing with me?" she asked, perhaps a little sharply. "No," he responded. "Well, yes, sort of. He wanted some guidance on his venture into the tag team division. Guess he wants to make sure he gets off on the right foot with Alyster.""Likely," Michelle said, with a derisive snort. "You're not convinced?" Gerald asked. He was slightly distracted by Joe Burr entering the holding area in typically bombastic and attention-seeking fashion. He proceeded to complain to the others waiting around about the pitiful ninety seconds he'd been given for his entrance tonight. Gerald went on, somewhat absently, whilst listening to Burr lamenting his extravagant and now ruined plans to Ratin and Steve. "Wouldn't surprise me if it was them we drop our belts to. Most of their shared identity so far is based around our downfall.""I doubt Alyster will last long with him," she replied, with a dismissive shrug. "The others haven't. Seems to me that theirs is a one-sided relationship. I can see what Chris is getting out of it, but Alyster?""Well, maybe that's why he was asking me for advice," Gerald said, opaquely. She could read his meaning. Back when they were forced together a couple of years ago, people were saying the same thing about their relationship. "That's different," she answered. It was all she had. She didn't explain why it was different because she didn't know why it was different. She decided to change the subject instead. "Do you know what this thing is even about?""They're giving us our ratings in the new game," Gerald explained. "Filming our reactions."Just then, one of the assistants ushered the tag team champions from the holding area to the green screen in a separate room. As they passed one another, the disco man gave her a smile that she thought too warm for their cooling relationship. After they had approached the green screen, Nova Diamond positioned himself between the pair. "This is what you're doing now?" Michelle asked. "There are worse ways to pay the bills," the former world champion said. The director, using the term very loosely, counted them down from behind the camera. "I'm standing by with the FWA World Tag Team Champions, and I'm sure at least one of them is dying to know their ratings in FWA 2k23, on shelves April 1st. So, who wants to go first?""Ladies first," Gerald replied. She despised his awkward chivalry. "Very well," the host went on. "Michelle, last year, you were a whopping ninety-three on 2k22, and this year… you've dropped two points, to a still very respectable ninety-one. Any thoughts?""Is there anyone higher?" Michelle asked. It felt a natural thing to query. "A few of the ‘Legends’," Nova explained. "Kennedy, Rondo, WOLF…""And on the active roster?" she went on with the interrogation. Diamond seemed reluctant to answer. "Just… Truth and Peacock," he said, finally. Michelle let out a sigh and narrowed her eyes in the direction of the host. "Moving on to the Daredevil, who last year was rated eighty five on the game. In 2k23, Gerald Grayson gains a point to eighty six… as well as a four point tag team bonus! If The Connection are used in unison, GiGi's rating is boosted all the way to ninety! What do you think about that, Gerald?"It was the Daredevil's turn to glare accusingly at Nova. "I think we'll leave it there."“Can you imagine the heat, though?” Summers asked Bedlam, as the two lingered around Gorilla position and worked through some spots. “They lost their shit when I just shoved her… if I gave her a Midsommar? The fucking marks would be rioting!”Michelle allowed herself a glance in Tommy’s direction as she passed by. He didn’t seem overly into the idea. She wasn’t sure if Summers was aware that Randi was shoot-pregnant, but she imagined he probably was. The pair were at Gorilla because they were waiting for their turn to get inside the ring, which is also why Michelle was there. As part of the main event, she was afforded that opportunity first. She passed through the curtain and into the arena for the first time in the day. Usually, upon being surrounded by thousands upon thousands of unoccupied seats, all pointed expectantly at a wrestling ring in the centre of this grand theatre, she would be overwhelmed by a sense of awe. The knowledge that they were here to see her was rarely lost on Michelle. Tonight, though, she felt this burden all too acutely. The fact that they would all be here to see her lose made her feel nauseous. Truth and Peacock were already in the ring. The disco man was showing a new escape he’d been working on for a side headlock, which consisted of a cartwheel followed by a Brooklyn Shuffle. The Exile watched the champion’s gyrating hips with a look of obvious and utter distaste. Michelle snickered at the non-verbal (but expressive none-the-less) interaction, drawing the attention of the men in the ring as she climbed into it. “You boys working out your finish?” she asked. The question was pitched somewhere between playfulness and cynicism. “You got anything you want to do?” Truth said, as he broke away from his conversation with the champion and turned towards Dreamer. The disco man retrieved his water from beneath one of the bottom turnbuckles. Michelle noticed that he’d positioned it next to his belt, which was gleaming beneath the arena lights. He must polish it well, she thought. “Not really,” she answered. She took a seat against the corner with her head resting on the second turnbuckle. She knew that the Exile hated this assumed posture, and antagonising Cyrus Truth was one of her favourite things to do. “I guess I’m the cowardly heel tonight. I should spend a lot of the early stretches on the outside.”Truth offered her a smirk. Perhaps more of a sneer. He concluded that she was angling for an easy night. But, surprisingly, he gave into her demands rather readily. Maybe he hoped it would stop her from rocking the apple-cart when the bell rang later in the night and it was time for her to do the job. “Fine,” he said. “How do you want to come back into it?”“Maybe Disco Baby over there is shaping up for his finish,” she mused, as Peacock listened closely and hydrated. “I pull him out of the ring by his legs and hurl him into the steps. That frees us up to go for a few minutes.”“You want to break it down into singles matches like that?” he asked. “Sure,” she answered, with a shrug. “Whatever’s easiest.”“You want to do the Journey’s End spot on the outside?” Cyrus continued, whilst standing in a central position within the ring with his hands on his hips. “From New Orleans?”“It was New York,” she corrected. “I’m not sure how that would work with Disco Baby out there, too. But if it goes that way I’m fine with it. We’ll call it out here.”Cyrus nodded but offered no more words. He was a pro, and she had no doubts that he’d know what to do when it was their time. Chris, on the other hand… “How do you want to do the first fall?” he asked. He was doing his best to sound somewhat assertive, even when asking her advice, but it was hollow. She could see what he was underneath and it wasn’t very much. He added, as if to suggest his position in the conversational hierarchy: “I’m supposed to pin you.”“And how do you expect you’ll do that, tulip?” she enquired. Peacock spent a moment in silent thought, a vacant look upon his face. “Well,” he said, slowly and carefully. “My finisher’s the Strut.”“Okay, very good,” Michelle offered as encouragement. “I’ll take off a turnbuckle cover and drop toe hold Cyrus onto it. Then a schoolboy for two. I’ll go to the top for a 450, but you knock me off. Use that ridiculous cane thing, if you insist on trying to get it over. Then you can Strut me and we’ll finish it there.”Peacock visualised the exchange in his head and, after processing this information, nodded affirmatively. Content that the negotiations were at a conclusion, Michelle pulled herself up to her feet and climbed out of the ring. It was only as she walked back up the ramp that she realised that they were in a different arena to last year. She didn’t know if this was a good omen. Michelle laced up her boots in her locker room, under the watchful and silent gaze of Quiet. The masked man leant back on his bench and folded his arms. He wore the pink tracksuit that was, by now, regarded as the uniform of the Nephews, except for the mask itself, which was as black as space. Michelle sensed the man’s gaze upon her but found him impossible to read by his body language alone. “What are you thinking?” she asked, plainly. “You think I shouldn’t do it?”“. …. ….’. .. .. …,” he answered. “I know it’s up to me,” Michelle snapped. She tucked the ends of her laces into her left boot and then began work on the right. “But I’m asking for your opinion. I could just get up and leave. I have enough money saved to last me a lifetime or three. I don’t need any of this shit.”“....’. …. … ……?” he asked, with a laboured exhalation of breath. Michelle wished he’d try to sound more enthused. “. …., …. .. .. ...... …..?”“I guess, at its heart, it’s about trust,” she started. Her words were slow, owing to the dawdling pace with which they first occurred to her as thoughts. “My first reign was okay, I guess. I got to defend it, even if nobody really liked who I defended it against. The way it ended, though… it all seemed incomplete, back then. Like this responsibility was taken off my shoulders, just as I was getting used to its weight. And then the second reign…”Michelle paused. Shook her head, mournfully. Turned a paler shade of white. The memories of those twenty seven days were painful. Each day seemed to bring with it a new hurdle: a new perceived shortcoming that was thrown up as a roadblock to her success. When it ended, in a handful of humiliating seconds, she half-wondered if it had all been a dream. Two months later, she was defeating Chris Kennedy at Back in Business. From punchline to conqueror. The puppeteers worked in strange ways, and she had long since given up attempting to decipher their mind. “The second reign was a disaster. There’s no other way of looking at it. It’s taken me nearly a year to recover. Despite everything that they’ve given me since, from the tag team titles to the streak to the F1, I’m still - to most of them - the girl that lost in twelve seconds to one of her own goons. And now my lot is to stand by and watch on like the ghost at the feast as Chris Peacock is handed the reign that should’ve been mine. And with Cyrus here, too? I’m relegated to a footnote. Obscurity, Quiet.”“......... …..’. ….. .. …,” Quiet mused. “Speak for yourself,” Michelle replied. Quiet, however, didn’t have a chance to speak for himself, because a moment later a loud and assertive knock on the door brought about a premature end to their dialogue. Unlike most similar interruptions in a professional wrestling locker room, the interloper waited patiently and politely for a response. Dreamer opened the door and found Cyrus Truth, a typically severe look on his face, standing on the other side of the threshold. "Ready for tonight?" he asked. It didn't escape her that they'd spoken less than an hour before. And yet he'd saved the small-talk for now. Perhaps, she surmised, he was waiting to be out of the champion's presence. As if in response to his question, Michelle stared down at her wrestling boots. The right one was still only half laced up. "I'm in the process," she answered. Cyrus lingered in the doorway. “Are you here for any reason in particular?”The Exile peered past her and into the locker room to check that they were alone. Quiet was sitting quietly behind the open door, hidden from view, which emboldened Truth to go on uninhibited. He looked at Michelle with a dour and solemn countenance. He had the emotional range of a watercolour painting. “Do you know how Joseph Stalin’s son died?” he asked, finally. Michelle blinked at him. Of all the reasons that Cyrus Truth could have appeared at her door two hours before their opening bell, this one seemed the most random and the least relevant. “Excuse me?” she replied, answering a question with another. Cyrus didn’t repeat or elaborate. He was confident that she had understood. When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to give her anything more than this simple but unexpected question, she picked up the conversational slack. “No. I don’t know how Joseph Stalin’s son died.”“He died in a German prisoner of war camp,” Cyrus declared. Michelle thought about pointing out that this was where he died rather than how he died, but before she could the Exile continued. “He was placed in a cell with a group of British officers, as the Germans thought appropriate for his station. The Russian disagreed. By all accounts, it appears that Stalin’s son thought himself above cleaning the latrine after using it. Eventually, it got to the point where the British officers complained about the Russian to their German captors. A committee was set up amongst the prison guards to settle this dispute, and of course found Stalin’s son to be proud and indignant. You see, you have to remember that this man was brought up and told, by everyone he surrounded himself with, that his father was God himself. Growing up believing that you are the son of God can do strange things to a boy's mind, it seems. And, more relevantly to this story, it can leave one with the impression that they are above cleaning up their own shit, even when their peers are expected to do the very same thing.”He paused here, and Michelle sensed that it was for effect. There was no denying that he was an expert monologuer. Right now he was only circling his point from afar. Dreamer wished he’d begin approaching it. She'd heard enough of his lengthy diatribes on weekly television. “Now, whether or not you agree with the son of Stalin’s stance on these men and their claim to be his peers is another question for another time, and probably not one for me to answer. What’s important are the facts: the German guards sided with the British officers and ruled that being the son of God didn’t absolve you from cleaning the latrine. Stalin’s son couldn’t reconcile these two facts: how could someone who emerged from divine loins, sent down from the Heavens themselves, be forced to confront something as debasing, shameful, and - unfortunately - inherently human as his own shit? Rather than face this great contradiction, he threw himself into an electrified fence at the camp’s perimeter.”He stared into her eyes and into her soul in a way that only the Wayward Warrior could. He’d been doing this for a very long time, and even if he wasn’t held in the same regard by management as he once was there was still a lot of reverence for him amongst the boys in the back. Incidentally, nobody held Cyrus Truth in higher regard and with more respect than Cyrus Truth himself. She thought she understood some of what he was saying. It was a fancy way of telling her to eat her shit sandwich, masqueraded in a metaphor about cleaning it up. It was clear to her that the Exile had seen at least one of her meetings with Russnow and drawn the correct conclusions regarding her motives. She shuffled uncomfortably beneath the weight of his gaze. “Politicking is a dangerous game, Dreamer,” he went on, eventually. “And perception is important. Be careful with your chase. I don’t want to see you in the defendant's box in my courtroom again.”After one more hard, long, and searching look, the Exile turned away and walked up the corridor. As Michelle closed the door and turned back around to face Quiet, she knocked the masked man's bag from an adjacent bench with an errant arm. It was open, and as it fell to the floor a quilt of brown, fur-like material cascaded from it. The bag landed on the floor with a dull thud. “.....,” said Quiet, as he lifted a gloved forefinger to his lips. She arrived at Gorilla position to predictably find both of her opponents already there. The disco man was pacing this way and that by the curtain, the muffled sounds of the Cowboy’s hideous entrance song along with the crowd noise permeating their sanctuary. The Exile sat in a corner with his head bowed. He wouldn’t speak to anyone this close to the bell. Part of the aura, she supposed. Whilst Truth was as abstracted and inscrutable as ever, Peacock wore his anxieties plainly. He was a bundle of nerves, as clearly displayed by his pacing, his fidgeting with his gear and with his belt, and the general nervous energy that poured from him. She’d only really worked with him once before, when they’d teamed together and she’d seen this pre-match self-torment even more openly. It was no secret that the champion suffered from frequent panic attacks, and she supposed it worthy of some respect that he was still here. A fighter in that regard, at least. Still, this modicum of respect didn’t stop her from poking at his insecurities. “I’ve got something new I want to try out there, Peacock,” she declared, suddenly. Michelle enjoyed watching the disco man squirm. She didn’t, of course, have anything new to offer the crowd or her opponents tonight at all. She’d been doing the same shit for ten years now, really. But there was amusement to be found in his rigid limitations and his lack of versatility. “I think we should just do what we spoke about earlier,” he replied, in a strained voice, the burdens of his anxieties dragging his posture towards the ground. “As you wish, champ,” she said, offering him a sly wink. Just then, the Cowboy appeared through the curtain with Randi underneath his arm, helping him to stumble past. His face was the proverbial crimson mask, beneath which he wore an angered scowl. Randi, for her part, looked petrified, as if she’d seen a monster out there. Given the Cowboy’s opponent, this didn’t really seem like much of an exaggeration. “Wait until I see that fucker!” the Cowboy seethed, as he struggled to support his own weight. “I told him not to put a hand on Randi! That bastard’s trying to fuck on me!”Michelle smiled to herself at the impending drama. It was only a shame that Anzu wasn’t here to enjoy it with her. Russnow scurried over to try and temper the flames. The champion, though, was staring at the curtain. It had opened momentarily as Bedlam emerged, affording him a glimpse of the expectant audience on the other side. “You got any advice?” he asked, as he finally turned away from the curtain and towards Michelle. She was surprised by his question. Even Truth lifted his head to regard and ponder the champion. “After tonight, you’ve as many successful defences with that thing as I do in both my reigns,” she said. “You’re in uncharted territory. No advice I can give you any more. Better ask the other guy.”She offered an illustrative nod towards the Exile, who had returned his eyes to the ground. “Still,” Peacock countered, after turning back to face the curtain again. “They say you’re the best.”Michelle smiled. Her eyes were drawn onto the championship belt gleaming on the disco man’s shoulder. She couldn’t escape the fact that, whilst she didn’t hold it, those words were hollow. But now it appeared more true than ever that possessing a belt did not make Chris Peacock a champion, either. “They say I’m the best,” she repeated, whilst struggling with this contradiction. Summers appeared through the curtain clutching his belt and she was surprised to find that he was bleeding, too. Something about the wide gash on his forehead and the enraged fire in his eyes suggested he’d gotten his colour the hard way, but fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective) Russnow had already managed to escort the Cowboy away from Gorilla. Der Basterd scanned the room, scowled at Michelle, and then stormed off towards his locker room. [MEDIA=youtube]MVRunwyoTMA[/MEDIA] The trogs were booing as she walked through the curtain and into the arena. The abuse that they were hurling at her was drowned into unintelligible static by the roaring thoughts that chaotically cascaded within her mind. Amongst them, always, was the disastrous second reign that had plagued her, nagged at her confidence, for close to a year now. But this failure, abject and staggering though it was, was not only hers to bear. The puppeteers had to take their share of it, too. She was positioned differently, now. Less sympathetic and conflicted. The shades of grey were still there but they were darker. The old her. But a reign of terror was being denied to her in favour of propping up an old man and a dancing suit. The differences between them were staggering: whilst Truth possessed the weight and gravity of a supermassive blackhole, Peacock was so light she worried he might blow away in the wind. She feared that ten pounds of gold wasn’t enough to anchor him down. The pair were united, though, in the trust and elevated position afforded to them by their silent masters along with the trogs who currently rained down upon her in a storm of derision. Their silent masters. It was this aspect of the process that she found most troubling. Russnow was their mouthpiece, and Jean-Luc - a man she unfortunately knew very well from a past life, before a coincidence of fate had installed him as her boss - was the public face of the promotion’s business interests. But there were more of them besides these two that Michelle had no interaction with at all. It struck her as inherently unjust that her fate should be decided in such a manner, behind closed doors and with no avenue for recompense. She was ready. She knew she was ready. But her current destiny was being shaped by other people’s perceptions of her readiness. People who knew as little about her as she did about them. We must all resign ourselves to certain truths. Certain facts of life that are unavoidable. In our jobs, for instance, we all make a trade of our time in exchange for improved quality of life. In our relationships, we trade a fragment of ourselves - in the form of our secrets or our ambitions or our love and care - for safety, security, and company. But then the great inevitability comes for us all and it makes fools of the trades that we made. Resignation to this final truth is the hardest and the least fulfilling. Resistance is invariably a better option, even if escape is only truly possible through a fantasy. Michelle paused at the bottom of the ramp. A deep breath. She stared only at the floor in front of her. She didn’t want to look at the trogs. It was painful enough to know that they would be going home happy, her untimely defeat a large part of that. Only now did she realise that she’d forgotten her own championship belt. The one she was trusted with. That didn’t seem so important. If only, Michelle thought, there was a world where her will to win was enough to overcome this meek surrender to these silent masters. If only…. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:49:38 GMT
Promo history - volume 108.
”Eat Your Maker” (April 22nd, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Jeremy Best and Bryan Baxter (FWA: Carnal Contendership). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ & GERALD GRAYSON
are
[CTHULHU’S NEPHEWS]
in
”EAT YOUR MAKER.”
***
Part One.
“Prologue.”
or: ‘Brooding Friendship.’
or: ‘A Buddy System Promo.’
or: ‘How To Eat Friends and Eviscerate People.’
Friendship, Indiana.
April 20th, 2023.
Universe 486DΣΔ-A2ΦΩ, Multi-Verse Substrand 6Ξ.
We open in a small, dank room. There is a single bed propped up against the wall, which is painted a drab shade of brown and sporadically stained with mould. These discolourations are only another shade of brown, and are visible despite the large number of pictures stuck onto every available surface. These images, everything from postcards through headshots to posters, each depict a ghoulish looking figure, cloaked and hooded and masked. All in black. The only other items of furniture in the room are an old, rickety wardrobe, an empty wooden chair, and a tall cheval mirror that is currently covered with a black bedsheet.
Standing with his back turned to the camera, next to the drawn blackout curtains in-between the bed and the wardrobe, is a short, frail, weedy gentleman wearing a dark, tailed (but not tailored) suit and a tall stovepipe hat. After a deep breath, as if steadying himself for the day to come, he pulls open the drapes, the afternoon sunlight streaming into the small room. This withering dandelion of a man - worn, hunched, almost malformed - recoils from the light, staggering backwards with his hands over his eyes. For a moment, he has the look of a Nosferatu ready to melt, though he eventually steadies himself. He is human, and only unprepared for the sudden adjustment to daylight.
When the small man turns around, we see a furry, black moustache bristling on his upper lip. It throws a shadow over his weatherworn frown. He walks with a pronounced limp towards the empty chair, taking a seat and looking at the camera with a meek, painted smile.
???: “It’s nice to let some light in, whenever I get the chance. Which isn’t all that often. I’m ready when you are.”
The response comes from behind the camera.
Director: “Why don’t you walk us through what you do between now and nightfall, Krash?”
Krash: “Well, there’s no rest for the wicked.”
We cut away from the room and to a shot of the documentarian’s subject waking up, his Nokia 3310 playing a monophonic version of Bobby Pickett’s Monster Mash as an alrm. The moustached man rolls over and puts a stop to it, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up on the edge of the bed.
Krash (v.o.): “I work through the night, for obvious reasons, so I sleep through the morning for as few hours as my infernal biology will allow. There’s a lot of work to be done in the afternoon. I start with cleaning up after the night before.”
The malformed maverick is shown struggling up a narrow, stone, spiral staircase, his hands full with various items of cleaning apparatus.
Krash (v.o.): “Other than the cleaning, everything else that happens here happens at night. There’s a feast here at the Manor almost every moon. Such extravagance invariably causes a reasonable amount of mess.”
He arrives in a banqueting hall, a long and low table wrought of stone the dominating feature. At one end of the table are two regular-sized plates in front of two regular-sized chairs, mostly empty but for the remnants of a thick, red sauce that oozes on the china. At the other end, before a huge throne, is an equally gigantic trough swimming in ruby red blood, the end of a femur protruding from the barbaric broth. In the middle of the table is a ribcage, the flesh torn clean from it and candles arranged thoughtfully within its hollows. The floor and walls around this peculiar, culinary altar are splattered in the same dark red as the table itself.
Krash, looking over the scene with a sad recognition in his eyes, lets out a deep sigh before reaching for his mop.
Krash (v.o.): “But it’s not just cleaning up after the feast. There’s a lot of thought that goes into the preparation, too. It’s becoming more and more difficult to find food that my Masters will enjoy nowadays. Deteriorating morals, I guess. Fact of the matter is that there are just a lot fewer virgins in Indiana in 2023 than there were when I first took this job. And the old woman who taught me how to whip up a good meal for the Masters - my predecessor, if you will - had her pick of whole churches of them back in the seventies, when they first arrived from Europe and she was their familiar.”
As the voiceover continues, we watch as Krash spends his afternoon snooping around locations that might serve up a good meal. He is spotted talking to an anxious young man at the library, lingering around the gates of a church at afternoon mass, and buying a ticket to a local independent wrestling event. Everywhere he goes, he is friendly and amiable and does his best to ingratiate himself with anyone curious and gullible and (most importantly) lonely enough to be convinced to take a trip to the Manor.
Krash (v.o.): “And then there’s the pigs.”
In the back garden of the Manor, Krash is shown entering the gates of a large pig-pen.
Krash (v.o.): “There’s Old Major, Napoleon, Snowball, and Squealer. Squealer’s a pest.”
Four huge sows scurry around him, more reminiscent of excited dogs than what they actually are. The moustached servant scratches them behind their ears affectionately.
Krash (v.o.): “To be honest, the pigs are one of my favourite things about the job. Except for my Masters, of course. I guess I just enjoy service. Devoting oneself to another, y’know? Taking care of people. That’s what I’m about.”
With the pigs sedated, the proud servant sits next to the creatures and four ‘trima’ machines. The blood being withdrawn from the animals is pumped into huge, cylindrical vats. With the miracle of a jump cut, the pigs are revived and scampering around happily in their pen, Krash filling their troughs to the brim. The vats of blood are stacked nearby, ready for transportation to the Manor.
Krash (v.o.): “It’s a symbiotic relationship. They can’t exactly go to the store and buy their own grain. And I don’t have a supply of virginal human blood on tap. And it saves them a trip to the slaughterhouse, too.”
A montage of Krash fulfilling his described, manifold chores.
Krash (v.o.): “I open the mail, which is mostly junk except for a few key correspondences from the old communities back in Europe. I do the regular housekeeping, the stuff that doesn’t rely on the removal of ribcages and the like, such as vacuuming and polishing and dusting. Make sure the prisoners are poorly fed. An hour or two of study just before sundown. And then it’s nightfall, and time for wake-up.”
We are back in Krash’s bedroom. After describing some (but not all) of his daily duties, there seems to be a sense of weariness and fatigue about the moustached and malformed miscreant.
Director: “Sounds like you’re a busy man.”
Krash cracks a smile.
Krash: “That’s just the warm-up. The real work begins when my Masters are awake.”
A shot of the sun disappearing over the horizon. Darkness settles. The shadows grow until there’s nothing but.
Inside the Manor, the servant walks into a dark room decorated by dust and cobwebs. He is holding a candle and has an excited look about him as he stands between two coffins. One is about the size you’d expect for a regular human, the other maybe twice as wide and thick and deep. Both are made of black Hungarian ironwood with leaden lining. Krash sets his candle down on a low table next to the larger coffin, and - after ceremoniously staring out at the ascending moon in the purplish-black sky - he begins to heave open the lid. It sits perpendicular to the base as the servant steps backwards and bows deep.
Krash: “Behold!”
Slowly, a huge, hulking, pale, and pallid figure rises from the shadowy depths of the casket. When he is standing erect, a dominating and mysterious presence, he lifts both of his arms into the air so that his cape billows and spreads, knocking Krash’s candle to the floor. The large man speaks with a thick, Nordic accent.
???: “Quick! Out! Put it out!”
The servant is indeed quick to stomp on the flames and smother them with a nearby vat of water. The large, mysterious figure looks down at the damp ground mistrustfully.
???: “Not holy water?”
Krash: “Evian.”
We cut back a few hours in time, the afternoon light shining in through the servant’s window. Krash still sits in the hot-seat, shuffling uncomfortably as his talking head continues. Another question comes from off-screen.
Director: “Can you tell me a little about your Masters?”
Krash: “The Friendship Coven numbers three, not including me. I’m just a familiar, of course. First of all, there is Brjánn Baxbjarnarson… also known as Brjánn the Bastard, Lord Brjánn of Hellissandur, Icehammer, Virgin’s Bane.”
Cut to an altogether different room, where the large, pallid figure we saw rising from his casket sits on a colossal, black throne.
???: “My name is Brjánn Baxbjarnarson… also known as Brjánn the Bastard, Lord Brjánn of Hellissandur, Icehammer, Virgin’s Bane.”
The large man smiles, showing his pointed cuspids, accentuated and highlighted by his pale skin and his high, black collar. Behind him, on the wall, is a painting of him in his youth, standing in front of a burning castle and posing with a pair of stolen wives.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “And as for how I came to be here? Well, for the good of my people, of course. The furtherment of the vampire species. And fame and fortune are a nice side hustle, too.”
As further audio from Krash’s talking head plays, we see a montage of various primary sources - newspaper articles, extracts from novels or plays, paintings (and later photographs), sculptures, etc - created by those affected by the bloodthirsty travails of the great Brjánn Baxbjarnarson.
Krash (v.o.): “Lord Brjánn was, for at least three centuries, one of the most revered and feared vampires in Northern Europe, for a time second in stature only to the great Nosferatu himself. That’s according to all reputable sources that I could dredge up. I’d like to consult the Council’s archives in Rotterdam at some point. But in the blink of an eye - after three hundred years of domination, with Virgin’s Bane using a terrified and awe-struck Iceland as a base for his operations - the Lord of Hellissandur traded Northern Europe for North America.”
Lord Brjánn sits in his throne, both casual and imposing, his pointed canines bared. It is difficult to tell if this is posturing or a threat.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Why did I leave? A new challenge, of course. That and to do something with Jeremy again. Iceland is my home and my kingdom, but it is an isolated place. When he asked me to come, I came. Although, I’m not really sure if he ever really did ask.”
An animated map shows a ship marked with B.B. leaving a port on the west of Iceland, travelling southwards and around the United Kingdom to London to meet another line. This one is marked J.B. and has snaked across Europe from the Middle East, and now the two lines cut swiftly across the Atlantic Ocean to port in New York.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson (v.o.): “It was the 1970s. An exciting time for everyone. Especially for us. A new frontier and the idea that we would populate it. We were the New York Coven for a while, and we dreamed of many others sprouting up, from sea to shining sea. A few hiccups, though. The New York Blackout wasn’t great. A power outage should have been perfect, but an angry mob chased us out of the city.”
On the map, a campervan drives across the U.S. to Friendship, Indiana. When the animation ends, we’re in a different room with a different guest. This one is narrow and wiry, his pale skin outmatched only by his luminous white teeth. His smile is sharp in more ways than one.
???: “My name? Jeremy Best is what my friends call me. All of my friends now. Here. In Friendship, Indiana. Less mod cons means less craziness in a blackout. People don’t know what they’re missing.”
He smiles to himself, perhaps imagining the cheap pop upon saying his chosen home city’s name. Behind Jeremy’s chair is a portrait of four men: Lord Brjảnn, Jeremy, and a third we’re yet to meet, and then - stood a little to one side like the black sheet begrudgingly allowed into the family portrait - is Krash.
Jeremy Best: “I used to go by many names, though. I’d say I was at my peak at, oh, I don’t know…”
Best hesitates, already slowing the pace of the documentary down to a halt with his monotonous drone.
Jeremy Best: “I’d probably say it was about… 1AD, maybe. Or perhaps 1BC. Certainly around that time. That was when I was living and feeding in the Middle East, until that whole crucifixion thing. Not a huge fan of crosses. Anyway, what did they used to call me?”
Another pause. The camera crew is forced to wait as their subject engages in silent thought, tapping his chin as he dredges up the memory.
Jeremy Best: “Jeremiah Afdil was one, if I recall correctly. Or IIRC, as the kids are saying. Did I get that right? There was הטוב ביותר, also, though I’m not quite sure how I’d transliterate that for you. But those days - the wild days, the carefree, bloodthirsty days - are long behind me, really. I’d love to stay and tell you more. I’ve got quite a lot to tell, and it’s a long and thoroughly enjoyable story too. But I’m afraid I have to go to work. Maybe some other time.”
We watch as Best, dressed in a long, grey trenchcoat, white shirt, and black funeral-ish tie, arrives at the Fantasy Diner for his nightshift.
Krash (v.o.): “Mr. Best doesn’t really need as much taking care of as Lord Brjánn. He mostly keeps himself to himself. His eating habits are a lot less indulgent, too. There was a time, from what I gather, where his legend was as great and as terrible as Icehammer’s, but he’s long since settled into life as an energy vampire.”
Jeremy is behind the counter at the empty diner, sapping the energy of a co-worker.
Jeremy Best: “And that’s the great thing and friendship really, isn’t it? Don’t you think?”
He pauses for an answer that isn’t forthcoming, his young and tired co-worker yawning as he continues.
Jeremy Best: “It’s something so implacable, and yet so universal. I read this great quote once. How did it go…”
The energy vampire engages in thoughtful silence. His colleague almost drops off, awakes with a startle, blinks rapidly, shakes her head, squints, etc.
Jeremy Best: “Oh, that was it… Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It’s not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything.”
He smiles. The woman is too tired to notice his teeth.
Jeremy Best: “Great quote, huh? You know who said that, Elena? Hey, Elena, do you know who said that?”
Co-worker Elena: “I don’t know who said that, Jeremy.”
Jeremy Best: “That was Muhammed Ali. Who’d have thought it? Pretty wise for a pugilist. I got some other great friendship quotes, too. There’s one from Tennessee Williams, Audrey Hepburn, Charles Darwin, St. Francis de Salles, Herodotus, Maya Angelou, a few from the Bible. Lots of great quotes. I’ve got them all memorised, if you want to hear any of them. You’ve just got to ask.”
Finally, Elena relents, slumping over the counter, completely sapped of her energy. Jeremy’s grin is wild and frantic, his eyes wide as he satiates his hunger.
Back at the Manor, in the afternoon sun, Krash continues his interview. We revolve around the other subjects as they speak in turn.
Krash: “The other person in Jeremy’s photos? That’s Mr. Astor. William. I’m not really sure how he came to be part of the Coven. I don’t think he was with Lord Brjánn and Mr. Best back in Europe.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “William? No, I didn’t know him until I came here. He’s originally from England, apparently. But I don’t know much more than that. He came with the house.”
Krash: “Mr. Astor calls himself a financial vampire. I’m not sure if that’s an official subspecies. I can’t find anything in the records. At the very least, they’re daywalkers. Mr. Astor leaves for his day-job at the inland revenue every morning at a little before eight.”
We see a shady figure scuttling out of the house, his briefcase under his arm, drinking an Irish coffee laced with pig’s blood to get him going.
Jeremy Best: “He’s human. I’m almost sure of it. No vampire is that shady.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “No matter what he is, he’s not worth dinner. Would taste foul.”
With the sun now hanging low in the sky outside of his bedroom window, Krash sits in his chair, the preliminary, introductory interview (finally) reaching its conclusion.
Krash: “It is a busy life. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m the familiar for the biggest and most feared vampire coven in North America! The only vampire coven in North America, in fact! That’s something to be proud of, when you think about it.”
He smiles nervously.
Director: “Is that why you do it? For pride?”
The familiar shuffles uncomfortably under the weight of the question. It’s obvious there’s something more. He promptly decides not to bother hiding it.
Krash: “That, and an unspoken promise. The greatest gift that my Masters could ever offer me.”
With that, he stands from his chair to draw the curtains, shaking his fist at the sun theatrically as he does so.
Over breakfast, Krash announces that the Friendship Coven has received a letter with a European stamp, which he holds out to Lord Brjánn deferentially. The Lord continues to eat his blood sausage.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Well, go ahead. Letters generally don’t read themselves.”
The familiar opens the letter and, his hands ever-so-slightly but noticeably shaking, scans the sheet within. The other three residents at the Manor - the Lord of Hellissandur, Jeremy Best, and the Scorpion - sit around their long stone table (only recently cleaned but in need of another) and tuck into their dusk breakfast (for Brjánn and Jeremy), late lunch (for Krash - not that he ate anything), and time-appropriate supper (for William).
Krash: “It’s from Rotterdam. From the Council.”
All three of the vampires react to this proclamation in their own way. Lord Brjánn simply cocks an eyebrow. Best stops chewing, stares up at the familiar, and gulps down his food ominously. The Scorpion stands up from his chair, rather suddenly and as if ready to defend himself.
-----
[for the following sequence, cthulhu’s nephews kindly allowed the filmmakers to access nephew-familiar-body-cam footage and record an e.v.c. council meeting, as well as assisted in collecting cctv footage from surrounding municipalities.
this was done under the proviso that the footage was kept with alphonse in the swiss vaults until such a time that all other filming for this documentary is completed.]
***
Paris, France.
April 13th, 2023 [ONE WEEK EARLIER].
CCTV footage from the Pont d'Iéna. Chaos is erupting on the bridge. It is difficult from these pictures to pinpoint the exact cause of the commotion, but a huge amount of people - tourists, students, locals alike - are throwing themselves out of the way of, well… of nothing, really. One young man, wearing a pink tracksuit and with a frantic look of concern upon his face, strides with purpose through the clearing mass of people. He is crying out but the footage is silent.
Footage from the young man’s body camera. Most of the scene is the same, but from this new angle we can see the Eiffel Tower rearing up in front of him, and beyond that le lune… as well as three brawling figures - invisible on the CCTV pictures shown previously - that scramble in a ball of limbs across the wide road. A family of tourists scatter as the three fighters bundle into and through the railing.
???: “Oh shit…”
The filming follower hastens to look over the newly formed gap in the bridge’s railing, just as the figures plunge into the Seine below. The young man leans over, looking down into the water as the three plunge deeper and disappear beneath the Pont d'Iéna. The young man takes a deep breath, seemingly considering diving in after them, but apparently he thinks better of it.
Back to the CCTV footage as the young follower - along with a hundred or so bystanders now embroiled in the ongoing drama - stares down into the river. Until, all of a sudden, they turn in unison, water thrown up in geiser-like columns from the Seine, the disruption not apparent on the silent and static picture.
From the young man’s perspective, though, we see the three figures emerge from the river and land on the Pont d'Iéna again. One of them, a youngish looking pale woman with short and untidy blonde hair falling in tangles to her shoulders, strikes one of the others with a knee in the sky. The stocky man lands with a thud on the concrete in front of the follower, and across the road the pallid woman comes down atop her second assailant, driving him deep into the tarmac with a vile and vicious footstomp. The pale woman stands, her black cloak unfurling and gently wafting in the Parisian wind, and dusts herself off. The other approaches.
???: “They’ll be awake again soon unless we cut off their heads. Did you bring my sword, Gerald?”
The servant looks down, his body camera following his gaze, as he unsheaths a long katana, the cold steel glimmering in the pale moonlight.
Gerald: “Where did they come from? Not European, if they were that unfriendly to the Council.”
The other has already walked off, the sword in her hand, approaching the larger of their two foes.
Gerald: “Michelle?”
The familiar scurries after her.
Gerald: “Lady Dreamer? Did you hear me?”
The Dreamer: “I’d say they were American, tulip. Pretty undisputed. Judging by the cologne, the clothes, the general thuggish demeanour. The smarmy one’s flirting. All those crotch chops. All of it points to the new world.”
Gerald: “Someone’s making new vampires in the States?”
Michelle hacks off the head of the felled savage, Gerald lingering nearby but a little too perturbed by the preceding chaos to help with the clean-up.
The Dreamer: “Seems that way. And, seeing as there’s only one brood scratching out a living out there, I have a pretty good guess as to who that is.”
She turns towards her familiar, holding up the severed head of the American vamp.
The Dreamer: “Open your bag.”
***
Rotterdam, the Netherlands. April 13th, 2023 [LATER THAT DAY].
Within the chambers of the European Vampire Council, the Lady Dreamer and her familiar, Gerald, arrive just in time for an emergency summit. The meeting is well-attended, with almost all of the pale and ghoulish beings present dressed in a mixture of black and pink, the coupling of tracksuit and cape apparently in vogue amongst this unit. The returning envoys to Paris take their place in the chamber, the meeting’s randomly assigned chair - Thomas West, in this instance, who was dressed in a plush indigo cape with a high, black collar atop his hot pink tracksuit - opened up proceedings.
The Host: “Thank you for coming here today, from your own disparate corners of the continent, to discuss two great and pressing issues that come to us from the new world. To get down to business, as they say, the first issue is the annual ‘Canine Contendership’ Mass Hunt, which the organisers have again insisted on hosting over in the States. Some place called Nashville, allegedly. Sounds frightful.”
The Maid: “I went once. To Nashville, I mean. I’ve been to the Mass Hunt a lot more than once.”
The Silence: “.... … ………. ….?”
The Maid: “The same as the rest of the country. New and shiny and graceless. Every time I go, I’m glad to come home.”
The HORROR: “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Nephew!”
The meeting’s chair shuffles in the centre of the horseshoe, clearing his throat in an attempt to bring the Council back to some sort of order.
The Host: “Then I’m sure, Maid, that you won’t wish to put your name forward to be our representative at the hunt?”
The HORROR: “Representative? Singular? Nonsense! We’ll all go!”
There’s an affirmative murmur amongst the rest of the Council. The chair, however, shakes his head, his pointed cuspids visible as he grimaces.
The Host: “Not this time, I’m afraid. The organisers are insisting upon each brood sending at most one representative to this year’s hunt. They’re capping the field at thirty.”
General outcry and uproar.
The Host: “I know, I know… I think it’s ridiculous, too. It’s meant to be the biggest virgin hunt of the year, and they’re capping it at thirty? But that’s the ruling. No reason we can’t go as moral support, though. My initial thought was that the Lady should go.”
Dreamer is sitting at the edge of the horseshoe, her familiar looming above her in his attentive, almost lapdoggish fashion. It is unclear at first whether she is even listening, until slowly she shakes her head.
The Dreamer: “I’ve got my own business to attend to. Though it’s in the same place. Gerald, if you would empty your bag.”
The familiar walks into the centre of the horseshoe, the chair standing aside to give him the floor, as he pours the contents of his rucksack onto the white-stone floor. Two heads roll around at his feet.
The Dreamer: “This alliance came to our shores to wreak havoc and challenge our claim. As you can see, we have since put them in their place, but this affront throws up some interesting questions. They shared our blood, though it was younger and warmer. And they came from the new world, where the only known coven is our slack-jawed brethren in Friendship.”
The HORROR: “You think old Baxbjarnarson’s been siring?”
The Silence: “.....’. ……. …”
The Dreamer: “Not sure. But I’d like to find out. I’ll take Gerald with me, of course. But I could use more hands. No offence, Harry. The Maid and the Avatar would be my first choice.”
The HORROR’s familiar clenches his artificial hand and narrows his eyes.
The HORROR: “Wounded that you wouldn’t take me, Nephew. But perhaps you’re right. My inherent glowing warmth is perhaps not right for this specific context.”
The Maid and the Avatar nod in Dreamer’s direction, the party set and the mission laid out before them.
The Host: “That leaves only the small matter of the hunt.”
From the other edge of the horseshoe, the sound of two knives being scraped against one another - sharpening each other in the process - punctures the ensuing silence. All eyes (and eye-like organs) are drawn onto her: the sullen and sombre huntress, staring down at the floor with a dull and passive countenance. Her black and white scales shimmer under the chamber’s dim candlelight.
The Huntress: “I’ll go.”
She thrusts her daggers - silver-bladed, a rare tool for one of their kind to call their ally - back into the sheaths at her sides. The act seems somewhat decisive.
The Host: “I guess that’s decided, then.”
Before their departure from the meeting, the Lady von Horrowitz turns to her familiar, a determined expression on her face.
The Dreamer: “Send a letter to the Friendship ‘Coven’ and tell them to expect us. Inform them that our visit is to inspect the progress they’ve made in the conquering and colonisation of the new world. Sign my name but in your blood. Pack bags for the Huntress, the Maid, the Avatar, and myself, and then meet us at the harbour. Understood?”
The familiar nods, feeling the moment’s urgency stirring compliance within him.
The Dreamer: “Okay, bat!”
The Avatar: “Bat!”
The Maid: “Bat!”
The Huntress: “Bat!”
With this sudden, synchronised, simultaneous outburst, the four women transfigure into four black bats, and take off into the night in the direction of the Atlantic. Gerald takes a deep, calming breath, before disappearing to begin his work.
-----
We return to the dining room. Our traditional, emotional, and financial vampires still staring at their familiar with mouths agape at his sudden, unexpected declaration.
William Astor: “The fuck do the Council want?”
Jeremy Best: “Doesn’t seem like any time at all since we last saw them. And, for once, those are friends I’d rather leave un-reunited.”
The Lord’s tone was hopeful.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Maybe they’re coming for an orgy?”
We are back in Brjánn’s private quarters, where the Lord of Hellissandur sits in front of his self-portrait, delivering his talking head interview.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “I am excellent at orgies. I was renowned for it back in Iceland, but unfortunately I don’t get much opportunity to sharpen those talents here in Friendship. Maybe back in New York City. But that was part of the reason we were chased out. But I’ve made a name for myself in clusterfucks.”
As he speaks, illustrations in pencil (taken from A History of the Orgies of the Nordic People, written by Baxbjarnarson himself) depicting decadent and debaucherous acts flash up on the screen. When Icehammer has finished blowing his own trumpet (and showing his doodles of other people blowing it for him), we are back at the breakfast letter-reading.
Krash: “It says they’re coming to the States. To Friendship. They want a progress report. On the forty-sixth anniversary of your arrival in the new world, tulips, the European Vampire Council seeks an audience for an update as to your progress pertaining to the conquering and colonisation thereof. It’s signed by Dreamer herself. Not that she needed the signature, what with all the tulips.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Good job we already ate that Reagan kid before we got this letter. Would’ve hated it.”
Jeremy Best: “You ate him. We just drank a little of his blood.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Philosophical difference.”
William Astor: “When are they coming? How long do we have to prepare?”
Krash: “Tomorrow.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Tomorrow?”
Krash: “April 21st. Apparently, the postal system isn’t the most efficient way to send word from Europe in 2023.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Well, that settles it. A strong meal and then to bed. I’ll be rested for their arrival, at least. Maybe I’ll have those two Korean boys we captured for dinner.”
Jeremy Best: “I’ll feed at work.”
William Astor: “I’ll feed myself.”
All of a sudden, the familiar was left in the dining room with the hungry Lord.
Krash: “I’ll go and fetch the Koreans.”
*** Part Two.”What We Do In The Shadows.”or: ‘ Gerald Grayson: familiar with match focus.’ or: ‘ The Meat of the Matter.’ or: ‘ The Travails of Lord Brjánn Baxbjarnarson of Hellissurdor, Jeremiah Afdil, הטוב ביותר, and William Astor the Scorpion as they skirt the circumference of conquering and colonisation.’ or: ‘ This Title Was Too Long (So Now It’s Shorter)’. The next day, a UPS truck arrives outside the Manor, and then a short time later a motorbike. The late afternoon sun is high in the sky. The biker, wearing hot pink leathers, steps off his vehicle and removes his helmet, receiving the arriving moustached, malformed familiar on the Manor driveway.
Krash (v.o.): “The Council’s familiar was exactly as I expected him to be. Daring and diligent, in equal measures. I guess there’s a lot I could learn from him. Gerald is essentially the leading familiar in the whole of the western world, which has to count for something.”
We see Krash and Gerald shaking hands, each of them shielding their eyes from the unfamiliar sun, and then - in montage - they go about removing a trio of coffins from the back of the van and hauling them into the Manor.
Krash (v.o.): “They arrived at a little after one, which meant that my Masters were resting. William was at work. But, fortunately, the same was true of Gerald’s masters, too. The Council would wake from their slumber when the moon was in the sky, an arrangement I was grateful for. Hosting the familiar was an intimidating enough experience in itself.”
The three coffins are brought down into a windowless basement room hitherto (ostensibly) used for storage. Gerald and Krash carefully position the third and final casket next to the other two and, on the other side of it, a disused stairmaster that William bought but never really got into.
Krash: “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind: finding out you were coming, and then the battle to make sure that everything was ready. It hasn’t really had a chance to settle in. It’s always been a dream of ours to host you here at the Manor.”
Gerald: “A dream?”
The Council’s familiar was smiling. It appeared he approved of the moustached man’s choice of words.
Krash: “A dream, and - of course - a nightmare. The Friendship Coven and the European Vampire Council are each respected upon their own continents, ruthless and revered. Some would say they are the two most feared groups in the world: the most powerful broods in North America and Europe respectively.”
The other continues to smile. The tone of his response is polite, but this gentle manner does little to conceal the thinly veiled barbs present in his words.
Gerald: “Europe is where the Council is based, but the fear and respect that it commands is not confined by lines on a map. North America is different in many ways now to when you first came here, but in the most important way it is the same. Your purpose here was conquering and colonisation. Remaining the largest brood in North America without every adding to your numbers isn’t all that hype.”
Krash shuffles uncomfortably, his posture growing ever more hunched and weighted.
Krash: “Well, there’s William.”
The other familiar pauses. His smile turns into a sneer.
Gerald: “Yes, the daywalker. I’m sure that the Council looks forward to meeting him when they wake.”
Krash: “Let me show you to your room.”
Gerald, still holding his helmet beneath his arm, shakes his head furiously.
Gerald: “No, I’ll sleep here. Protection is part of a familiar’s duty.”
The moustached man smiles weakly. Double thumbs up. Finger guns. When he leaves the room, the other climbs up onto the middle coffin, curls up into a ball, and then falls into an uneasy sleep.
***
Jeremy Best: “Of course we should wake them! I don’t think they’d be too happy if we didn’t.”
The three Friendship vampires are garrisoned in the Lord’s chambers. Brjánn is lounging in a relaxed and nonchalant manner in his black throne, in front of his portrait of himself. The familiar is standing at his shoulder, his arms folded, fretting, a nervous edge upon him. William sits by an open window, the moon rising in its frame, a cigar perched in his lips.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Leave it to their familiar. I’m sure he knows their plans. Stop worrying.”
Jeremy Best: “I just want to make sure that we make a good first impression. This is a big opportunity for us.”
With a sigh, the Lord rises to his feet, cutting a hulking figure as he gives orders to his brood.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Okay, fine. Krash, go and fetch seven glasses of blood. The freshest batch. The pigs’ will have to do. I’m sure they won’t even be able to tell the difference. Then we’ll find the familiar and see if the Council is ready to be welcomed. Sound good?”
The familiar nods his head dutifully and limps across the room, but as he opens the chamber door he is greeted by three pale women and their already-familiar familiar.
Krash: “Um, I think they are ready to be welcomed, sire.”
A short time later, the Council sit alongside the Friendship Coven around the stone table in the Manor’s dining room. The moustached servant arrives with goblets for each of their guests. Jeremy seems nervous and, for once, is unable to formulate small-talk with these potential new friends. Instead, he simply glances at each of them anxiously as they sniff and then sip at their ruby red drinks.
The Maid: “Pig’s blood, of course.”
The Avatar: “A shame.”
The Dreamer: “Yes, but a lot of broods on our side of the Atlantic are having to find creative ways to stay hydrated now, too. The world has changed.”
She shrugs, and takes a long pull from her glass.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “We have dinner planned, too, of course. A special something I’ve been saving for quite some time. But we wanted to oblige your request for a progress report at the earliest possible opportunity, if it should please your leader.”
The Dreamer: “The Council has no leader.”
The Avatar: “We are an anarchist collective with no appointed first.”
The Maid: “The Council opposes hierarchical systems.”
The Coven recoil at their bristling guests. Jeremy’s sweat glands are active for the first time in a couple of centuries. He manages a pair of short, stuttered sentences.
Jeremy Best: “We can eat first. If you’d prefer.”
The Dreamer: “The blood will do for now. Please, go ahead. We are interested to know how the conquering and colonisation has been going. It’s been nearly fifty years, after all.”
Jeremy Best: “Well, how far do you want us to go back? Do you want to hear about our friends Nathan and Jack?”
The Lord’s response is perhaps a little too quick.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “I don’t think they want to hear about our friends Nathan and Jack, Jeremiah.”
The Dreamer: “Well, tell us something we would want to hear about, Icehammer.”
After a moment of thought…
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “I don’t think I have to remind you of the H1...”
As the H1 is mentioned, we cut away from the gathering and to Krash, sitting in his room and giving another talking head. This time, the hovering moon has replaced the sinking sun in the sky.
Krash: “The object of the Hunt was simple.”
We cut to a series of puppets, dancing amongst a huge expanse of forestland around a small town. These marionettes, two of them instantly recognisable when they appear on screen, act out the familiar’s description of the H1. We are informed in the corner of the screen that this is only a reconstruction and not the real deal.
Krash (v.o.): “Capture as many targets as you could in the forty-eight hour timeframe. There were other hunters too, though, and if - by a cruel twist of fate - one managed to snare another, they added their captive’s collected souls to their own total. Brjánn performed in a predictably admirable and brutal fashion, though he was felled in the final hours of the competition by Dreamer herself, who would go on to win the Hunt with his scalps on her belt.”
Back at dinner, Michelle sips at her pig’s blood with a wry smile on her face.
The Dreamer: “I’d have thought you might’ve needed the reminder. That didn’t turn out so well for you, in the end.”
The Maid: “A little honour earned, maybe.”
The Avatar: “Honour in defeat, though.”
The Dreamer: “Worst kind of honour.”
It’s clear that the Lord regrets bringing the whole affair up, and attempts to re-seize control of the dialogue.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Say what you will, the H1 propelled me into that business with Little Lizzie. And that is what really won me the respect of the North American people.”
As Brjánn the Bastard tells the tale, the events are re-depicted in claymation, text in the corner again reminding us that this is a reconstruction. The sequence begins with a gargantuan kaiju-Brjánn towering above the tallest skyscrapers in a modern, nameless American city. From over his shoulder, we see a young woman marching towards him with her fists clenched at her side and a face like thunder.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson (v.o.): “I might have had the size advantage, but Little Lizzie had a black hole heart. That thing weighed as much as a thousand suns. She’d earned herself a bit of a reputation fighting monsters in the past. The continent’s champion, they called her.”
Little Lizzie’s eyes glow red, fire roars from her mouth, and she leaps up towards her foe. Her attack is thwarted, though, and the girl finds herself caught in the pincers of a scorpion.
We return to the dining room.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “I couldn’t have done it without William, of course. But that’s what friends are for.”
Jeremy Best: “You do listen.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “No choice, a lot of the time. Anyway, I punted Little Lizzie into another universe and left the continent without a champion. I became its champion.”
The guests don’t seem overly impressed.
The Dreamer: “A champion indeed. Beating the people’s hero on the people’s turf is always admirable, Lord Brjánn, but this story essentially amounts to you frightening and overcoming a little girl named Elizabeth. You weren’t sent here to become the continent’s champion, Icehammer. You were sent here to conquer it.”
Another stony silence. Jeremy now sits in a puddle of his own sweat. He reaches around in desperation for something to say.
Jeremy Best: “Well, there’s the prisoners.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “What about them?”
Jeremy Best: “The caves below this place are full of prisoners. Most of them caught on one night, too.”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “The carnival was quite special. The moon was so large…”
We cut to a huge animated moon hovering in a purple sky. One more reconstruction, according to the text in the lower right corner of the screen.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson (v.o.): “They had a boxing ring at the carnival and a cash giveaway for anyone that could beat this dancing strong-man over three rounds. We watched a whole host of them try. There were the Koreans, the carpenters from north of the border, the ones that went crazy after capture, spouting about alternate realities and other such garbage, the Wiccans... quite an oddball collection, really.”
As Brjánn continues to narrate, we see animated representations of this peculiar collective entering the boxing ring and attempting to overcome the travelling strongman. The professional also has a moustache, and makes short work of his enterprising opponents with his gloved and fast hands.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson (v.o.): “The rest, they say, is history.”
In the dining room, Jeremy cocks an eyebrow in the Lord’s direction.
Jeremy Best: “You’re not going to tell the whole story? About how we ended up with all the contestants and the strongman in the caves beneath the Manor?”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “I don’t like long stories.”
Jeremy blinks. It’s clear that he disagrees. All good stories can be longer.
The Dreamer: “A minor success, but limited in scope. I have to be honest, gentlemen. This isn’t very much at all. The only thing you’ve managed to achieve of note, as far as I can see, is William, here. Who is pretty impressive for a daywalker, but hardly a sufficient return for fifty years of toil.”
It is the Coven’s turn to bristle. A flash of anger passes over Brjánn the Bastard’s pale face. His pointed canines flare.
Brjann Baxbjarnarson: “Posturing. That’s all this is. What have you ever done, to feel so confident in passing judgement on us?” [/color][/span][/div][/font]
Dreamer smiles. She enjoys the outburst immensely. Some fire to warm her cold blood, finally.
The Dreamer: “You mean besides capturing you at the H1?”
Icehammer quietly seethes. Gerald and Krash both shuffle uncomfortably, uneasy around the tension. Jeremy continues to sweat. William lights a cigar.
The Dreamer: “Well, there were the Tag Wars, of course. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Eight weeks of bloody battles, with myself and my familiar standing alone at the end of it. And then there’s the bloodbath that I believe they call the Mile High Massacre. Word gets around, doesn’t it? And that’s only the last half a year, gentlemen. We’ve been doing this sort of thing for a long time.”
She sips at her drink, comfortable in her hosts’ discomfort.
The Dreamer: “Now how about some dinner?”
***
The camera is left in the corner of the dining room. It is still turned on (perhaps accidentally) but is discarded for the moment, as we hear two muffled voices speaking to one another. One is clearer than the other.
Director: “Where’s the camera?”
Cameraman: “I left it inside.”
Director: “Okay. Hopefully they don’t try to eat it.”
Cameraman: “You got a spare?”
Director: “You started smoking, Jon?”
Cameraman: “It’s pretty tense in there.”
The sound of a lighter sparking a few times is heard, and then - as the two filmmakers slowly inhale from their smokes - the camera is somewhat unexpectedly picked up. The Maid looks down into the lens, smiles at the viewer, and then points the camera out of a nearby window. The cameraman and the director - along with a silent sound guy - stand at the end of the driveway, staring at the enlarged, pale moon. The latter still has his microphone switched on and we can hear their conversation as a result. The cameraman shakes his head.
Cameraman: “You certain we don’t have enough stuff filmed already? Between this and the Europe trip, I think we got it.”
Director: “We need to see them feeding. We came all this way. We’ve got to get the money shot.”
Cameraman: “I don’t know, Joe. The young ones keeps looking at me. Licking her lips.”
The director lets out a nervous chuckle.
Director: “You’re imagining things.”
Cameraman: “The Indianans were bad enough, but I sort of got the impression from them that their bark was worse than their bite…”
Director: “Like you were never really in danger, so long as you kept your wits about you. Yes, I felt that too.”
Cameraman: “But the council has me spooked. I have to keep looking up from the viewfinder to check nothing’s taken a bite out of me.”
The director looks his cameraman up and down. He’s shaking but it isn’t that cold.
Director: “Get a hold of yourself. I thought you said you were going to hug them?”
Cameraman: “I don’t remember saying that at all.”
Director: “What do you think, Jam?”.
The sound technician says nothing. He continues to look at the moon. After one last, long, thoughtful drag, the director throws his cigarette into a nearby drain.
Director: “Come on. Let’s finish up.”
As the two filmmakers walk back up the drive, the Maid places the camera back into the corner of the room.
***
We return to an image of Krash, sitting in his room to give one last talking head. It is still dark outside, and the intermittent bumps and bangs that we hear emanating from downstairs suggest that the tense dinner party is still transpiring.
Krash: “We shouldn’t be gone too long. They’ll probably need me downstairs.”
The director speaks from off-camera.
Director: “How do you think it’s going?”
Krash: “Could be better.”
The familiar smiles awkwardly.
Krash: “Look, this isn’t exactly new territory. My masters aren’t the best at first impressions. There’s a whole list of people who get the wrong idea about Lord Brjánn when they first meet him. Sometimes, whole villages can get up in arms about him before they really get to know what he’s like. Who he really is. They hear the nickname Virgin’s Bane and they run a mile. Even my own family…”
A pause. Krash’s voice trails off.
Director: “Does your family know you’re here?”
He nods his head.
Krash: “They know I’m here. They aren’t too happy about it. Every day I get letters pleading with me to come to Australia. They think I’ve been brainwashed or kidnapped or something. They don’t really understand that I want to be here. Or maybe it’s why I want to be here that they don’t understand. Is what it is. They don’t know what’s at stake.”
More bumping and banging from downstairs.
Krash: “They’re getting restless. I think it’s dinner-time.”
We cut to downstairs, where Jeremy and William remain with the Council and their familiar. Lord Brjánn and Krash have disappeared into the caves to fetch the food. Dreamer looks around at the drab and minimalistic interior of the Manor. She seems uninspired.
The Dreamer: “Do you have a library here?”
Jeremy Best: “The Lord isn’t really much of a reader.”
The Dreamer: “Unsurprising.”
Jeremy Best: “I have my own personal collection. You’re welcome to take a look. Have you ever heard of Barbara Cartland? I have lots of her books.”
At that moment, Icehammer and his familiar return, leading a naked, tired, and confused man on a chain into the dining room. He has the look of one who was once muscular and athletic, but has spent a period of time on the shelf and let himself go. His untidy hair is wild and untamed, his moustache ragged and fibrous. But still, despite the disrepair that his apparent captivity has allowed his body to slide into, there is a vague, distant glow about him that even the camera picks up.
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Please, tuck in.”
[thirty minutes later.]
The dining room has quickly been transformed into a vomitorium. This is not a voluntary arrangement. Both the Council and the Coven sit around the low, stone table, having turned from a ghoulish white into a ghoulish pale green, massaging their stomachs and intermittently adding to the puddles of sick that have accumulated around them.
The Dreamer: “This meat is bad.”
The Maid: “Infected.”
The Avatar: “Was this guy even a virgin?”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “He talked like one. Danced like one. Certainly fought like one.”
Dreamer’s eyes narrow.
The Dreamer: “Looks can be deceiving.”
Gerald: “My grandfather used to say that you should never judge a book by its cover. And that’s how he lost his job as chairperson of the Raleigh Annual Book Cover Awards.”
The Dreamer: “Sometimes, though, a cover can tell you enough. Like in the case of our conquerers and colonisers, here. I think we have certainly seen enough, even if we haven’t eaten enough.”
Here, Michelle gives a side-eyed glance to the cameraman, the sound technician, and the director. When she turns back towards the Friendship Coven, the filmmakers take a nervous step away.
The Dreamer: “It’s clear that your mission has failed. Your successes are trivial, and your failures are evident in the meek and submissive way that you hide in this Manor. You’ve brought shame to the underworld, and the name that you carried with you from the old world to this new one.”
As she speaks, Dreamer seems to grow in size until her shadow swallows even the Lord whole. He sits next to Jeremy and, fear beginning to smother the pair of them for the first time in centuries, they slowly recede from their accuser and into a nervous hug that brings with it only false comfort. The Lady smiles. And, when the Friendship vampires attempt to relinquish their embrace and recede further, they find that they cannot. They are held in place, their arms folded around one another, by an invisible force that - judging by their perplexed expressions - neither can immediately explain.
Jeremy Best: “Are you doing this?”
Brjánn Baxbjarnarson: “Of course they’re doing this.”
The Dreamer: “Just a little something that Uncle’s familiar whipped up. He’s a dab hand with potions. We put it in your drinks. You should be more comfortable.”
Out of nowhere, the Lord’s familiar sprung into action, diving at Dreamer in a silent and swift motion. She met him with a forearm so hard that, as he flew through the air, his soul left his body and floated into an alternate dimension. Visions swirled around him of Dreamer pinning him, only a much stronger, more athletic, more virile version of him, in a wrestling ring in a rundown warehouse.
In Friendship, he hit the ground hard and was knocked out.
The filmmakers have backed up into the corner of the room, and only now - with the familiar unconscious and two of the three vampires unable to move a muscle, struggling impotently against each other’s arms, tied around them like thick rope - do the Council’s eyes settle on the two men behind it.
The Dreamer: “Are you still hungry, William?”
We realise that the Scorpion still has full control of his limbs and his faculties.
William Astor: “I could eat.”
She smiles, approvingly.
The Dreamer: “The food is much better over in Europe. Gerald, start gathering our things. We’ll leave after dinner.”
The dutiful and diligent familiar nods before removing himself from the room. The three women encroach on the cameraman, who drops his tool in fright as the Council pounce like hungry predators. The camera watches listlessly, motionless, as they feed for a second time. The Friendship Coven struggle helplessly as three more human bodies are reduced to stripped piles of bones.
Eventually, the Maid picks up the camera.
The three women, the Scorpion, and Gerald the familiar assemble outside the burning Manor. The Council nods to the masked man sitting in the driver’s seat of their van, which is still parked outside of the building. As the Lady and the Avatar climb back into their coffins, loaded into the back of the vehicle, Gerald mounts his motorbike and kicks up the stand. He gets a head start, turning his bike around and heading for the Atlantic. The Maid climbs into the back of the van, sitting on her coffin and filming out of the back window as the flames lick higher and higher into the penetrating night. She feels safe in the shadows. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:52:06 GMT
Promo history - volume 109.
”LAUGHING, I WON’T ALWAYS LOVE YOU, TROUSERS, TURBINES, UP SONG, DANCERS…” (May 1st, 2023).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Dave O'Houilihan and Buster Murphy (FWA: Meltdown XXVIII). [episode twenty two]”LAUGHING, I WON’T ALWAYS LOVE YOU, TROUSERS, TURBINES, UP SONG, DANCERS….”***** 1979. Earth. [001]
“Good Will Hunting” || Black Country, New Road.G. was awoken by the stomping of boots and hushed, hurried whispers. The thin layer of dark blue skin over his bulbous, red eyes peeled back, consciousness suddenly imposing itself upon him. He was lying down on a hard, wooden bed, itself atop the hard and unforgiving stone inside a cave. He figured he shouldn't grumble. He was surprised his captors had even provided him with a wooden board and a few sheets. Even if he did his best not to grumble, his thorax did enough of that for him. He sat up and massaged the source of the pain, but the urgent eyes of the trio of marines surrounding him suggested there was no time for such endeavours. Each of them wore camouflage facemasks through fears of catching a peculiar and exotic disease from the specimen. That's what they called him. Prisoner was closer to the truth. He sighed a deep, dissatisfied, and unfulfilled sigh. Another day. Before he had the chance to do so himself, two of the marines descended upon him and - wrapping gloves hands around all four of his arms - dragged him up onto his feet. Being couriered along had become something of a running theme. He was led from his cell and through a warehouse, eventually emerging into the bright and oppressive sunlight of an unfamiliar desert. It wasn't the American one he recognised, where he'd been held for weeks before a lengthy flight wearing a blindfold. They'd removed that upon arrival, at least. Given the number of Chinese military types standing around and speaking in Mandarin, he guessed that they were somewhere in China. One such man - wearing a dark grey Mao suit and smiling even through his facemask - waited for the trio of marines next to a truck. G. was loaded into the back of it, his narrow and tired legs soon penned in by an American either side of him. The captain and the Chinese man climbed into the front, and they began on their way through the desert. Nobody said anything during the journey. G. looked at himself in the vehicle's rear-view mirror. His navy blue skin glistened and glimmered under the harsh, hot sunlight. His thorax was bent and bowed through fatigue and his wide, oblong head felt heavy upon the end of his short neck. His ruby red eyes were wide and sad, and he noticed that a pair of tears were emerging from one of them. He didn't even know he had tear ducts. His human host had them, of course. He made use of them often during his teenage years. He didn’t remember anything from before his arrival on Earth. He thought of the family that he’d infiltrated in North Carolina. A happy enough bunch. Father, mother, brother. Real nuclear. They had no idea what was living inside their son, of course. Not until the government descended on their house and ripped it out of him. The host didn’t survive the ordeal. Never does. But he had, and that’s when he was taken to the Deep South facility for observation. All those years hiding were spent in fear of exactly this. Despite the love that this surrogate family poured into him - love meant for his host but absorbed readily by the being living inside of it - a lack of belonging pursued him alongside a foreboding (and eventually validated) paranoia. Perhaps if he knew where he was really from, he would be able to find himself and the part of him that was missing. That he’d left there, along with his memories. He remembered so little of what happened before his arrival on this strange, alien land. This anti-home. And so, G. remained hidden, within his host and amongst this unknowing family, inactive through a vague fear of what they’d do to him if he was discovered. He couldn’t remember exactly when and where he’d heard the horror stories about experiments and dissections, but they were always there in the back of his mind. He had an unexplained but firm understanding that, here on this bizarre and backwards planet, his peculiarities and uniquities would be used against him. “Almost there,” the man in the Mao suit said. He pointed towards an overhanging ridge of rock, bereft of sand. “Just up in the shade, there.”“I don’t like it,” the marine captain replied, whilst shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. “You don’t trust our Russian friends?” the other answered, as the truck bumped and bounced through the sand. “I barely trust my Chinese ones,” the captain replied. “You need to open up more,” was the dismissive response. “What is it you guys say? Take a chill pill?”The captain didn’t enjoy the recycled idiom and fell silent again. The uneasiness was only brief and was soon displaced by urgency when they arrived at the meeting spot. The Russian envoy had already arrived. Their own truck was tailed by two more filled with marines, matched by three identical ones carrying Spetsnaz agents who disembarked when the American contingent came to a halt. Dotted amongst the Soviets were a handful of Chinese men, most of whom looked more like academics than soldiers. G. was left in the back of the truck as the marines and their escort climbed out of their truck. "Мы уже можем видеть его в вашем грузовике," the Spetsnaz commander said, a cigarette between his lips and derision present in his tone. "Он синий. Это другое. Вы должны вывести его. Давайте лучше посмотрим."None-the-wiser as to his opposite number's meaning, the marine captain glanced up at his escort. The man in the Mao suit had taken up position between the two groups, where he was joined by others wearing the same uniform. They had come to facilitate and translate, but also to get a good look of their own. "They say they can already see the specimen," the escort said, whilst nodding at the truck. G. stared back at them from the backseat, his oblong head poking out of the window. "They want you to bring him out."The commander nodded at his underlings. They opened the truck's backseat and took a grasp of G.'s four arms, pulling him out and into the sand for the commander's inspection. "Интересный," the commander said. He took a couple of steps towards G., the marines either side of him tightening their grip as if worried the Russian might make off with him. "Очень интересно. Такой же, и в то же время другой. Я тронут, но и обеспокоен. Самец и самка вместе…"The commander said no more. The captain's eyes turned to the translators. "What did he say?" he asked. "The commander is moved, but also he has fears," the man in the Mao suit said. "He is worried about a male and a female existing here together. Concerns about reproduction, I assume."The marine captain cocked an eyebrow. Was the first he'd heard about the gender of the Russian specimen. "We want to see theirs," the captain said, simply. "We've acted in good faith."The Chinese man bowed slightly before turning to face the Russians. "Они хотят увидеть ваш экземпляр, товарищи," he said. "Такова была сделка."The Spetsnaz commander, most of his face hidden by his red facemask, looked at G. once more with his cold, blue eyes. Then, with a glance at the marines, he nodded his acquiescence. One of the trucks behind him opened up and a hooded, four-armed figure was led out. The Russian prisoner was placed into a kneeling position in front of G. before their hood was finally removed. She was like him, but not like him, just like they said. Her skin was dark green, shimmering slightly in the aggressive sunlight, a little taller than him but more slender in her arms and thorax. Her hair was silver and fell in tumbles to her shoulder. She wore a black dress, ragged and tattered after what he assumed was an equally lengthy period of imprisonment. Fatigue lay heavily upon her lithe frame. He looked at her with recognition in his red, bulbous eyes, and she returned his gaze with the same inexplicable familiarity. He knew that she was M., and she knew that he was G., but neither of them were sure how exactly this knowledge was earned. G.'s mind was filled with visions of unplaced memories. Wet grass beneath his bare feet. The feeling of the untamed wind rushing against his skin. Dancing in the moonlight next to a blackwater lake. And in none of these images, for the first time (at least that he could remember), was he alone. M. was at his side in each of them, a dormant feeling of togetherness and completeness stirring deep within him. He reached out with one of his hands, his palm open. She did the same. Before they could touch each other, he watched one of the Spetsnaz agents bring the butt of his rifle thudding into the back of her head. She fell face-first into the sand. The sudden sensation roaring through his own skull suggested that the marines had done the same. He rolled onto his front as one of the scientists climbed upon him, a syringe filled with sedative in his gloved hand. There was no use fighting. He stared only at M. as he lost consciousness. *****  [002]As they were both dragged back to their respective forms of transportation - under the helpful (to their captors) influence of the powerful sedatives administered in the Chinese desert - both G. and M. were blessed by vivid dreams that felt more like memories. They each bathed happily in this warm nostalgia, to the point where the American marines as well as the Soviet Spetsnaz reported peculiar smiles upon their peculiar faces during transit. For G., it was a short truck ride before a long flight, and happy dreams of a blackwater lake. Two pale moons and a planet with dense, colourful rings danced across the black sky, innumerable stars twinkling between them. Sometimes, when he looked across the arcing coastline of the dark lake, the grass was covered with the reclining bodies of everyone of his kind that he'd ever known. Of course, he'd never really known any of them in the conventional sense, or at least had no recollection of such acquaintances. But here they all were, each stirring within him recognition and a vague sense of place. These figures were only peripheral, though, despite the strange effect that they had on him. More often, he was with only her. Or, perhaps, his investment within her was enough to blind him to every one and every thing else. For G. in those stolen moments, there was only M. and the blackwater lake and the dancing celestial bodies hanging on strings high above them. She moved with the same rhythm as the moons, and G. was not sure if this galactic ballet was meant for him. She was more abstracted than the stars she danced beneath. She was lost in herself and he was lost in her. For M., her truck ride was followed by an even longer train journey, rickety and loud and generally uncomfortable (especially for a prisoner). Somewhat fortunately, she spent much of the early stretches of it unconscious and under the power of the sedatives. She dreamt of a small boat being ravaged by huge, apocalyptic storms. Black clouds angrily groped at the tiny vessel, which the towering waves threatened to swallow whole. Rain lashed down upon a tiny figure attempting to man the mast, a tiny speck within the immensity of Poseidon's rage. After a while, though, another stood with her. He climbed up onto the bow of the ship, and with nothing but the strength of his voice alone he began to quell the violent storm. He sang and he screamed and he whispered, and under his spell the whims of Mother Nature were tempered, her rage massaged and soothed by his gentle commands. Amidst the retreating rains, a column of sunlight shone down upon G., a captain upon the bow of his ship, his thorax puffed out towards a morning that he himself had brought about. The column grew and grew until they existed within an island of serenity, the wanton destruction of the storm continuing in a maelstrom around them. Eventually, M. and G. were each returned to their less spectacular and less fulfilling personal realities. They were also returned to their cells. Half a world lay between them. *****  [003]
“Laughing Song” || Black Country, New Road.She waited in the gravelled courtyard outside the camp, a mop in her hand and most of the men already garrisoned there with her. They were clustered in groups, each of which would intermittently glance in her direction mistrustfully. The three hands which weren't grasping her mop clenched into fists. She was unwelcome here, even if she was purportedly being held against her will. The guards were assembled on the courtyard, too, and had conducted a headcount before sending the most junior of their number back into the camp to rouse the missing inmate. A few minutes later, he returned with an old, tired, and somewhat queasy-looking man with a white beard and an ever-expanding bald spot on the crown of his head. M. vaguely knew him as Ivan Denisovich. She only knew most of the men vaguely. They kept themselves away from her and she had little choice but to do the same. "Поздно, Иван Денисович," one of the guards said, sternly, as the late prisoner arrived. It seemed for a moment as though Ivan Denisovich may have thought about fighting his case, but in the end he closed his mouth and remained silent. M. couldn't blame him for thinking better of it. "Ты с богомолом. Очистите караульное помещение."For Ivan Denisovich, the task of cleaning the guardhouse was a punishment for his tardiness. For M., it was the duty she was assigned each and every morning, regardless of the standard of her time-keeping. She reasoned that the guards preferred to keep her secluded from the other men (and from themselves) as often as was possible. Maybe being paired up with her was part of the punishment for poor punctuality, too. Ivan Denisovich didn’t seem to mind, though. He rattled on as they changed the soft, clean sheets on the officers’ beds for the second time this week. “Человек ничего не может поделать, если он плохо себя чувствует!” he said. He punctuated his statement with exaggerated body language to convey the fact that he really was feeling unwell. “Я даже не знаю, когда успею сходить к врачу.”M. didn’t reply. She never did. But she shared his doubts. He’d be too late to see a doctor, the only man who could sign him off for the day. Which meant he’d be out there in the fields just as soon as they were done with the guardhouse, regardless of the legitimacy of his claims of ill-health. Ivan Denisovich wasn’t so bad. At least he would speak to her, for a little while, until it became clear that she wasn’t going to say anything back. The rest of them just glanced at her, ever watchful and reproachful, in silent judgement of the fact that she had four arms instead of two, and of the peculiarity of her thorax. In truth, the glances had been the same well before she’d been ripped out of her host. Looking the same as them didn’t really change anything. The years she’d spent in Moscow had been filled with the same vague sense of disillusionment. It was always difficult to tell whether this grew from within or was imposed on her from without. Perhaps a little bit of both. Cyclical, even. The fact remained that she suffered on the periphery of the city, of society in general. There were always people, of course. Not her people, but people none-the-less. It was difficult to avoid them in the sprawling, swamp-like metropolis. She was often dragged down in the mire with them, but as she slipped below the mud there was no escaping the fact that she was dying alone. Alone with everybody. It was no surprise when they came for her. The KGB had been circling her mundane activities for a while. Being inside Gulag S42, which had been her home (uninterrupted, but for her recent train ride into the middle of the Chinese desert) for more than a year now, was little different from her tedious life in Moscow. The limited freedom afforded to her in the city was only the illusion of freedom. Her agency had long deserted her, ever since she’d arrived on this godforsaken planet with no memory of where she was before. Of where she belonged. Of where was home, if such a concept existed for her. M. was proved right, and that day Ivan Denisovich joined them out on the fields, struggling through his illness. The same was expected of him as when he was fit and healthy, and he made sure to give it. He worked with M. in the team that carried rocks from the crumbling wall to the centre of the field where a windmill was being built. The metals being used for the turbines were to be brought in from the city after the stone had been broken down from the surrounding wall and carted into position. The younger and stronger men were tasked with using picks to pry the wall apart. They assumed that M. was as fragile and weak as she looked, and so she joined the old and the infirm in carrying stones of various sizes from point A to point B. Today wasn’t a bad day. Long, but all days were long here. Hard, but all days were hard here. The sun was shining but not too hot. At a few points through the day, she even got to stop and look at it. Not for too long. It hurt her eyes to stare at it for too long. But the blue sky - which resembled a gaping entrance, an open highway, a wild frontier - made her heart skip. For all the time she’d been here, she knew that she could leave at any time. Escape wasn’t the difficult thing. Gulag S42 couldn’t contain her. The only problematic element was where exactly she’d escape to. Now, though? Now it was different. He was out there, somewhere. She smiled, and continued to push her wheelbarrow down the hill. *****  [004]Once more, he was being led out of his cell. This time, though, the dwellings were more familiar, as was the compound through which his captors escorted him. There were four of them in total, the closest two keeping a tight grip of a pair of arms each and holding them behind his back. There was an urgency about them that G. didn’t enjoy. As he was pushed through the livestock cages the cows backed away from him. Maybe they could smell his fear, or perhaps the sudden sight of him was too much for even them. More marines joined the escort at various points around the compound until eventually they emerged into the surrounding desert. G. wondered how close the nearest living soul was. His antennae couldn’t sense anything, other than his own fear and the guard’s barely concealed ill-will. The desert was familiar, too. He’d been taken for exercise around these dunes a number of times. But that didn’t seem likely to be the cause of their current excursion. The moon was already beginning its ascent and the sky had turned a purplish-blue. Although he recognised this sand better than the desert they’d driven through on his recent, unexpected, and unexplained trip across this world, a world that wasn’t his, this knowledge and recognition didn’t bring him any additional comfort. This wasn’t where he wanted to be. This wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He was unsure if the guards knew that he understood them well enough. He’d spent years in the company of a well to-do family in North Carolina, after all. Perhaps his captors drew no association between the gangly, bug-like specimen they walked through the desert now and the handsome daredevil he’d inhabited through adolescence and young manhood. His parents certainly couldn’t make that connection after they’d ripped their poor son apart and dragged G. out. Regardless, the marines that watched over him felt little need to guard their conversations, and as a result he was privy to what they were going to do with him. Their superiors were scared of what he was and what he could do. He wasn’t showing them any particularly impressive talents or abilities, but that didn’t mean that there were none to be found. They meant to dispose of him and planned to capture the Russian specimen so that they could do the same to her. Total eradication in just two simple moves. As he spied the noose atop the cliff, G. once again pondered his lack of place in this world. His recent meeting with M. was a curse as much as it was a blessing. Before that encounter, he had begun to accept that he would always feel this way. Always be unwhole. Always wander around amongst the otherly, searching for an adventure, a rush that might fill an unfillable void. Her mere existence was enough to light that in him again. These feelings were better off dead. Hope only led to disappointment. They arrived at the noose. They forced G. up onto a low platform and placed his head into the loop. A burly, young, hooded marine that G. didn’t recognise stood next to a taut rope with a sharp axe in his grip. A priest approached from a line of witnesses. Everyone upon the cliff wore camouflage except for the father and the prisoner. The holy man began to read G. his last rites. He understood the individual words but the composition of some of his sentences were confusing to him. After a while he struggled to keep his focus. He began to watch the sky instead. A flock of birds flew across the purple canvas. Was there even a point in carrying on? Perhaps he should go quietly. Meekly acquiesce. Maybe his time was over. In the distance, a second group of birds met the first and joined the formation. They flashed over the face of the moon and disappeared over a high peak in the north. G. sighed. Then, he unfurled his wings. The priest and the commander took a step back, aghast, as G.’s hitherto unknown appendages spread out either side of his thorax. They flowed with vibrant bioluminescence in elaborate arrays of navy blue and indigo and bright pink upon his thin, translucent wings. Showing initiative, the hooded marine struck the taut rope with his axe. The platform disappeared beneath G,, but with two flutters of his huge wings he tore the gallows apart and became a speck upon the face of the large, pale moon. The rope still hung from his neck. *****  [005]
“Concorde” || Black Country, New Road.G. closed in on his ignorant prey in the Ural foothills. The large cat (he couldn’t tell you the name of it) lounged in slumber near the riverbank. He had flown a long way and was hungry. He was quick and quiet enough to reduce the beautiful, wild animal to a carcass, which he dragged beneath the trees to consume away from the harsh, morning sun. He had many gifts. Gifts that had prepared him well. He could sense that he was getting closer to her, and that she was getting closer to him. He knew, as well, that they were on his tail. His antennae informed him of the radio communications of his hunters. The Americans had launched a global search with the rather barbaric mandate to execute him upon capture. Uncle Sam wasn’t the only one with a vested interest in his discovery. The Russians were well aware that he was on the loose. He sensed a number of Spetsnaz units present on the ground. And the Chinese wanted a piece of the action for themselves, as well. If the Americans were going to be so careless, perhaps the specimen could be used to the advantage of one of their enemies instead. “他就在这附近的某个地方,” a voice said, passing by only a few metres away from him. Instinctively, he backed away from the trail he was following and took cover in a dense thicket of bushes. “这些山上没有别的东西可以打倒这样的老虎。西边也太远了。”He held his breath, the footsteps continuing away from him and up the mountain. Slowly and with great caution, he dislodged himself from his hiding place… and felt someone’s tight, firm grip on his wrist. G. turned around to be greeted by the cold, blue eyes of the Spetsnaz commander. Two of his underlings were at his sides. They lowered the barrels of their rifles to rest on either side of his wide head. In a cautionary gesture, the commander lifted a gloved finger up to his masked mouth. G. glanced at each of the guns that were directed at him. He thought about escape and then thought better of it. The commander took a thick and long length of rope from his waist and began to wrap it around G., being particularly careful to contain his wings in the binding. “Over there!” the American cry startled the commander, who thrust a thick, muscular forearm into G.’s face to knock him to the ground. A series of bullets flew overhead, a pair of them making contact with the commander’s underlings and throwing them down next to him. His bulbous eyes remained fixed open as the Spetsnaz agents fought for their last, difficult breaths. The commander drew his revolver and shrouded himself in the shadow of a nearby patch of trees. “美国人！” came a second voice, followed by another whistle of bullets. “俄罗斯人也一样！”Sensing his opportunity, G. rolled through the undergrowth and to the lip of a small but steep decline. With one glance back at the ensuing carnage, he threw himself over the lip and cascaded down the hill. He lay still at the base of it, dislodged branches and leaves and roots falling atop him and providing some sort of cover from unwelcome eyes. His bonds were tight, and even if he wanted to move it would’ve been difficult to do so. Getting up, at least for now, was out of the question. He would have to wait for his moment. Wait for his miracle. He remembered how mundane, unexciting, and ultimately disappointing this planet was when the familiar grasp of the marine captain pulled him back onto his feet. He was alone and his eyes said what his hidden mouth didn’t have to. G. was to keep quiet and go with him, if he valued his life. The captain was strong, and lifted G. up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He forced a way through the undergrowth and the forest for several kilometres, rarely complaining but for a few muttered expletives along the way. Eventually, he arrived at his unit’s camp. Several of them were still away searching but there were enough of them here. He threw G. down from his shoulders and onto the rock in the middle of the group, which was gathered together beneath the shadow of the forest’s eaves. “Should we wait for the others?” one of them asked. “You know the order,” the captain said. “No reason to wait.”G. was tied to a tree less than a hundred metres outside of the American camp. He noticed there was no priest here. It was difficult to imagine one parachuting in with the marines. There were five soldiers in front of him, four of them holding their service weapon at their sides and waiting for their captain’s command. “Aim.”Upon hearing the solemn command, each of the marines lifted their weapons and pointed the barrels at the prisoner. He expelled a deep sigh and glanced up at the blue, clear sky. A huge flock of birds traversed the face of the bright, yellow sun. “F –”As the squad’s forefingers massaged their triggers, a huge chiral blast interrupted proceedings. Much of the undergrowth along with the entire marine unit was sent flying thirty feet into the air. Most of them returned to the ground well clear of the vicinity. Only the captain remained close. He lifted his rifle, but M. discharged another blast of energy from her outstretched palm, leaving a charred patch of Earth where the captain once stood. M. unwrapped G.’s bonds. In unison, they unfurled their wings, hers dancing with dark green bioluminescent lighting to compliment and contrast his midnight navies. They flew away from the camp and to the edge of a round, clear lake, hidden behind the broad, grey shoulders of the surrounding mountains. “Bовξσγ=," she said. The surface of the lake began to ripple. "Β+ηγg οθhл -)6, hфф 8₽γ ηθщe7&! l?рпе.""Цφς∆§," he replied. A dull, faint whirring noise permeated the scene from the sky. "Ξψо шщ#6 зфλ73, θοπнe64.""Sцйκσ, υτρфжшб хз*₽8. £gдмяθ ξσрн&."As the faint sound of human voices conversing in hurried English, Russian, and Mandarin carried up the hill, G. and M. gazed at the sky as a large, octagonal disc skipped upon it and positioned itself above them. With a blinding flash of strange energy, they both disappeared. Three units wearing different uniforms emerged on the edge of the lake as the spaceship hurtled back out of sight. G. and M. joined their comrades on the bridge. There were a large number of them, and each greeted the newcomers like old friends. It goes without saying that this family that suddenly surrounded G. and M. created more of a sense of belonging than either had experienced before, when they had been apart. Each of them was different to the rest, most obviously and immediately because of their brightly coloured skins. Violet and plum, indigo and purple, teal and dark orange and fire brick (whatever that is). But all of them wore a hot pink tracksuit, indicative of the togetherness that you could feel even without seeing. They watched through the large, floor-to-ceiling window at one end of the room as three smaller ships burst into the picture. Just like the beings around them in the bridge, these vessels were similar but different, and each of them bore the insignia representative of their disparate political identities. The stars and stripes, the hammer and sickle, the gold stars. Three photon streams emerged from their ship, their pursuers reduced to a violent but spectacular burst of energy. G. took M.’s hand in his own as their old home disappeared behind their new one. |
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