Post by Bonnie Blue on Feb 21, 2016 16:43:05 GMT -5
The Metaverse sings to me; an infinite spectrum of sound, a harmonic concordance of inutterable beauty and immeasurable complexity. Neither Architect nor shadow-wraith, I cannot flip through the pages of uncountable realities like some omnidimensional comic book. I perceive only pieces of the whole, but what I see is troublin'...
It's Sunday night, and Slam is already underway. The audience sits in rigid, attentive silence, identical blank stares on every face. Yellow standby indicators glow steadily from the neural implants worn by over ninety percent of the crowd; those without -- the wealthy and the otherwise favored -- shift in their ringside seats, chatting amiably. Even these priviliged individuals quiet as the house lights dim, and an orchestral version of "Master of Puppets" by Johann Sebastian Bach XV hits the speakers.
A spotlight picks out the proud figure of Seth Lerch, immaculately dressed in a Saville Row bespoke suit, gripping his lapels with gray kidskin driving gloves. With a flourish, he doffs his custom bowler, tucks it beneath one arm, and removes the monocle from his eye to polish it with a square of silk. He slips the monocle into a pocket as the stage lights come up to reveal a number of figures arrayed behind him; bound in chains made more of shadow than substance are three of the members of Rebellution and the veteran Steve Orbit. At a gesture, something invisible tugs on the chain, leading the quartet down the ramp and toward the ring.
Bonnie glances around, so preoccupied she doesn't hear what Lerch is saying. Something about an example having to be made. The thousands of steady yellow lights switch suddenly to green, and the crowd erupts with applause. Ahead of her, Grayson Pierce -- no, the face paint; Gemini Battle -- mounts the ring steps with halting motions, as if fighting to assert his will. She tries to stop, only to find that the half-ethereal chains bind all the tighter in proportion to her resistance; and not just hers alone. The message is clear: if one is defiant, all will pay the price.
Once all four are in the ring, the chains fall away and dissolve into thin air as illumination floods the arena once more. Already awaiting them are the night's opponents, though Bonnie only barely recognizes them. One is a hulking, mutated version of Logan, at least seven feet tall, with razor-sharp tusks that protrude from his jutting mandible; a threatening growl rises in his throat. Next to him, the Amazon-sorceress Sarah Twilight, a half-spoken spell on her smirking lips, one hand frozen in the midst of an esoteric gesture; she awaits only the ring of the bell to unleash her magic. Leaning against the ropes, attended by a flock of crows, is the half-raven, half-woman goddess of war, Morrigana. Last, and possibly least, the cadaverous ferryman of Hades known as Charon, a long scull hefted over one shoulder, wearing an expression of supreme unconcern.
Something else tugs at Bonnie's consciousness, and as she shifts her attention to the source, everything around her seems to fade into the background. She is vaguely aware of the sound of a ring bell, but it's a man's voice -- familiar, concerned, that brings her back to herself.
With hours yet to go before tonight's edition of Slam, the backstage corridors of the AT&T Center are busy with the comings and goings of WCF crew; busy enough that nobody had taken much notice when Bonnie Blue and Grayson Pierce slipped into an empty locker room. Now, Bonnie is perched on the edge of a bench, Pierce gazing at her with worry in his eyes.
Grayson Pierce: Hey, you all right?
With a slight frown, the young woman nods her head.
Bonnie Blue: I...think so. Kinda zoned out for a minute. Ever since Scathe -- nah, that's silly. Prob'ly just the concussion.
Pierce gives her a sharp look.
Grayson Pierce: What do you mean?
Bonnie Blue: It's nothin', Gray. I been... seein' things, is all. Just sometimes. Anyway, the envelope Jay Omega sent... can't believe ya still ain't opened it.
He hesitates, as if unwilling to drop the matter of Scathe. Then, after a moment's consideration, he shrugs and pulls the envelope from his pocket, now slightly creased, and passes it to Bonnie. The seal is broken, but it's fairly obvious the contents haven't been touched. With a questioning glance at her friend, a nod in response, she pulls several sheets of parchment from within. The heading on the first page nearly makes her drop the whole bundle.
Bonnie Blue: No... it can't be...
The young woman's voice is a breathless whisper, her face a mask of dawning shock.
Grayson Pierce: What? What is it?
Without waiting for a response, he snatches the papers from Bonnie's yielding grip. A frown creases his brow as he reads the words aloud.
Grayson Pierce: Last Will and Testament...? Is he d...d....
Before he can say more, the door bursts open, startling the pair. Swiftly, Gray tucks the assortment of paperwork behind his back. Andre Holmes doesn't seem to notice that he's interrupted anything.
Andre Holmes: There you are! I've been looking all over for you two. Come on, Orbit wants a few words.
Alone with her thoughts once again, Bonnie leans against a wall outside, a hand-rolled joint smoldering between pale pink lips. The red ember blazes brightly as she takes a long draw and holds it in. A heady rush fills her from the center outward, and she exhales slowly. Matters begin to come into focus. The situation with Omega, and Gray -- or Gemini -- will have to wait. And Scathe is DeMarcus' problem, even though...
No. I can't let him distract me. I already have my hands full with Rabid... or at least I did. Yeah, so much for "dangerous enemies." Ever since he let Sharkboy take command again; ever since he lost those tag titles to my teammates, well... it's like his claws have been blunted. What might have been a threat, once, is now no more menacing than a kitten. Oh, well...
Bonnie takes another hit from her joint and stubs it out on the pavement beneath her feet as she notices a camera pointing in her direction.
Focus. That's not important. What is important is.. well, I dunno, 'zactly. Tonight we face the self-described "Family"... none of whom have done anythin' but create drama.
Bonnie Blue: Charon. The ferryman of the Dead. Oh, an' you're a violent sonofabitch, ain't ya? Didn't ya hit a guy with a damn oar? Or did that happen in a dream? Anyway, it sucks to be you, Mister Ferryman. You got stuck with some of the most damned unreliable nutjobs in the business today. I mean... Logan? I hope y'ain't countin' on his leadership to get ya anywhere near a title belt, or even a remotely important match. Dude's a glory hog, an' nothin' else. He won't let you surpass him.
An' Twilight... man, I dunno. Never met her in person, but I know the hist'ry, a li'l bit. I'm learnin' that the things I was taught in school might not be entirely accurate. Either way, she's basically just like Logan. All she wants is her time in the limelight -- an' yours, too. You'd be way better off cuttin' ties.
Morrigana? That bitch got kicked out of the UFC for molestin' other bitches. That's pretty fucked up. That you're the sanest person in that group, Charon, speaks volumes about your imbecile partners.
Bonnie shakes her head, a rueful smile on her lips.
Bonnie Blue: Speakin' of Morrigana an' her ...uh, proclivities -- bitch, you put one hand on me someplace I don't like, and I'll feed you your own damn teeth, you feel me? That goes for that dyke Twilight an' that hotdog-swillin' miscreant Logan, too. You got in the way of Rebellution business, an' tonight, y'all gonna pay the price. An' after tonight, I don't wanna see none of y'all in the same ring with me ever again.
With that, Bonnie walks away, leaving the camera to film empty space before the scene fades out.
Thirty-Three Degrees From Reality Prime:
A spotlight picks out the proud figure of Seth Lerch, immaculately dressed in a Saville Row bespoke suit, gripping his lapels with gray kidskin driving gloves. With a flourish, he doffs his custom bowler, tucks it beneath one arm, and removes the monocle from his eye to polish it with a square of silk. He slips the monocle into a pocket as the stage lights come up to reveal a number of figures arrayed behind him; bound in chains made more of shadow than substance are three of the members of Rebellution and the veteran Steve Orbit. At a gesture, something invisible tugs on the chain, leading the quartet down the ramp and toward the ring.
Bonnie glances around, so preoccupied she doesn't hear what Lerch is saying. Something about an example having to be made. The thousands of steady yellow lights switch suddenly to green, and the crowd erupts with applause. Ahead of her, Grayson Pierce -- no, the face paint; Gemini Battle -- mounts the ring steps with halting motions, as if fighting to assert his will. She tries to stop, only to find that the half-ethereal chains bind all the tighter in proportion to her resistance; and not just hers alone. The message is clear: if one is defiant, all will pay the price.
Once all four are in the ring, the chains fall away and dissolve into thin air as illumination floods the arena once more. Already awaiting them are the night's opponents, though Bonnie only barely recognizes them. One is a hulking, mutated version of Logan, at least seven feet tall, with razor-sharp tusks that protrude from his jutting mandible; a threatening growl rises in his throat. Next to him, the Amazon-sorceress Sarah Twilight, a half-spoken spell on her smirking lips, one hand frozen in the midst of an esoteric gesture; she awaits only the ring of the bell to unleash her magic. Leaning against the ropes, attended by a flock of crows, is the half-raven, half-woman goddess of war, Morrigana. Last, and possibly least, the cadaverous ferryman of Hades known as Charon, a long scull hefted over one shoulder, wearing an expression of supreme unconcern.
Something else tugs at Bonnie's consciousness, and as she shifts her attention to the source, everything around her seems to fade into the background. She is vaguely aware of the sound of a ring bell, but it's a man's voice -- familiar, concerned, that brings her back to herself.
San Antonio, Texas (Prime)
Grayson Pierce: Hey, you all right?
With a slight frown, the young woman nods her head.
Bonnie Blue: I...think so. Kinda zoned out for a minute. Ever since Scathe -- nah, that's silly. Prob'ly just the concussion.
Pierce gives her a sharp look.
Grayson Pierce: What do you mean?
Bonnie Blue: It's nothin', Gray. I been... seein' things, is all. Just sometimes. Anyway, the envelope Jay Omega sent... can't believe ya still ain't opened it.
He hesitates, as if unwilling to drop the matter of Scathe. Then, after a moment's consideration, he shrugs and pulls the envelope from his pocket, now slightly creased, and passes it to Bonnie. The seal is broken, but it's fairly obvious the contents haven't been touched. With a questioning glance at her friend, a nod in response, she pulls several sheets of parchment from within. The heading on the first page nearly makes her drop the whole bundle.
Bonnie Blue: No... it can't be...
The young woman's voice is a breathless whisper, her face a mask of dawning shock.
Grayson Pierce: What? What is it?
Without waiting for a response, he snatches the papers from Bonnie's yielding grip. A frown creases his brow as he reads the words aloud.
Grayson Pierce: Last Will and Testament...? Is he d...d....
Before he can say more, the door bursts open, startling the pair. Swiftly, Gray tucks the assortment of paperwork behind his back. Andre Holmes doesn't seem to notice that he's interrupted anything.
Andre Holmes: There you are! I've been looking all over for you two. Come on, Orbit wants a few words.
The AT&T Center, San Antonio
(Later)
Alone with her thoughts once again, Bonnie leans against a wall outside, a hand-rolled joint smoldering between pale pink lips. The red ember blazes brightly as she takes a long draw and holds it in. A heady rush fills her from the center outward, and she exhales slowly. Matters begin to come into focus. The situation with Omega, and Gray -- or Gemini -- will have to wait. And Scathe is DeMarcus' problem, even though...
No. I can't let him distract me. I already have my hands full with Rabid... or at least I did. Yeah, so much for "dangerous enemies." Ever since he let Sharkboy take command again; ever since he lost those tag titles to my teammates, well... it's like his claws have been blunted. What might have been a threat, once, is now no more menacing than a kitten. Oh, well...
Bonnie takes another hit from her joint and stubs it out on the pavement beneath her feet as she notices a camera pointing in her direction.
Focus. That's not important. What is important is.. well, I dunno, 'zactly. Tonight we face the self-described "Family"... none of whom have done anythin' but create drama.
Bonnie Blue: Charon. The ferryman of the Dead. Oh, an' you're a violent sonofabitch, ain't ya? Didn't ya hit a guy with a damn oar? Or did that happen in a dream? Anyway, it sucks to be you, Mister Ferryman. You got stuck with some of the most damned unreliable nutjobs in the business today. I mean... Logan? I hope y'ain't countin' on his leadership to get ya anywhere near a title belt, or even a remotely important match. Dude's a glory hog, an' nothin' else. He won't let you surpass him.
An' Twilight... man, I dunno. Never met her in person, but I know the hist'ry, a li'l bit. I'm learnin' that the things I was taught in school might not be entirely accurate. Either way, she's basically just like Logan. All she wants is her time in the limelight -- an' yours, too. You'd be way better off cuttin' ties.
Morrigana? That bitch got kicked out of the UFC for molestin' other bitches. That's pretty fucked up. That you're the sanest person in that group, Charon, speaks volumes about your imbecile partners.
Bonnie shakes her head, a rueful smile on her lips.
Bonnie Blue: Speakin' of Morrigana an' her ...uh, proclivities -- bitch, you put one hand on me someplace I don't like, and I'll feed you your own damn teeth, you feel me? That goes for that dyke Twilight an' that hotdog-swillin' miscreant Logan, too. You got in the way of Rebellution business, an' tonight, y'all gonna pay the price. An' after tonight, I don't wanna see none of y'all in the same ring with me ever again.
With that, Bonnie walks away, leaving the camera to film empty space before the scene fades out.
