Post by Bonnie Blue on Mar 20, 2016 16:07:15 GMT -5
Sunday, March 6th, Following Slam:
An automatic door slides back at the swift, purposeful approach of Rebellution, Grayson Pierce in the lead, as the trio storm through the emergency room of a local hospital. Each of them wears a nearly identical expression: a blend of concern for their fallen comrade and outrage at the actions of their enemies. More than a shot across the bow; an act of war.
Unadvisedly, the duty nurse drags her ponderous bulk from behind the admission desk and moves to block their progress. The Livewire draws up short, a shadow darkens his face, and he stares the large woman dead in the eye, pointing at the set of double doors beyond her.
Grayson Pierce: DeMarcus Jordan. Now.
Nurse: I can't let you back there. Not unless you're... family.
She arches a brow and looks the three of them over with a skeptical expression. From Pierce's left, Bonnie steps forward, smoothly interposing herself between the nurse and her friend's building wrath.
Bonnie Blue: We are family. Now, move... or I'll move ya.
Bonnie's tone brooks no argument. Obstinate, the heavyset nurse stands her ground a moment longer; but something in the younger woman's fiery gaze prompts a hasty reconsideration. She reluctantly steps aside and allows them to pass, though she's clearly not happy about it. They proceed without further hinderance down a short hallway that opens up into a wide space, partitioned into dozens of alcoves by heavy curtains. Locating their friend turns out to be simpler than expected. In one of the alcoves, a young black man sits up on a bed, his knee temporarily splinted, and slaps away the hand of a resident doctor trying to shine a penlight in his eyes.
DeMarcus Jordan: Get that shit outta my face, man. I told you already, I'm fine.
Doctor: But, Mr. Jordan -- hey!
The physician is jostled aside as the trio enter the alcove. Slightly more savvy than the ER nurse, he recognizes the members of Rebellution and opts to give them their space. This isn't his first rodeo; he knows better than to interfere. No one notices anyway. Spotting his friends, DeMarcus breaks into a wide grin, possibly assisted by the shot of Demerol he'd been given upon arrival.
DeMarcus: Andre, Gray... Baby Blue.. Damn, girl, what happened?
His grin shifts to a look of consternation as he gets a view of the purplish bruise along the contour of her jaw.
Bonnie: Same as you. Got a text about the attack, came runnin'... Rabid was waitin' for me.
DeMarcus: Where the hell were you guys?
Holmes and Pierce exchange a glance. The mood suddenly turns cold.
Andre Holmes: What the fuck's that supposed to mean?
Grayson Pierce: Now's not the time for this, guys.
Andre: And when is the time? If DeMarcus thinks we'd leave him -- and Bonnie -- to Beach Crew's mercy --
DeMarcus: That's not what I --
Bonnie: Shut up, both of y'all! There wasn't nothin' anybody coulda done about what happened tonight. They'd been plannin' it for weeks. Let us think they'd forgotten us. Then...this, outta nowhere. Tryin' to weaken us. An' if we fall apart now, we'll be playin' right into their hands.
She looks to Pierce, as if for confirmation; as do the others. His brow furrows, thoughts in a turmoil, trying to sort fact from speculation. The burden of leadership weighs heavy on his shoulders just now. Slowly, he nods.
Grayson Pierce: Bonnie's right. Arguing amongst ourselves isn't going to help anyone but them. What we need now, more than ever, is solidarity.
===============================================================
Detroit, MI
Friday Morning:
Our scene opens on a windblown lot. Cracked pavement, unable any longer to constrain the hand of Nature, peeks through tufts of tall, reedy grasses. Two wide, low brick ruins crouch in the encroaching wilderness. Empty windows stare out over the landscape, dismal save for the rays of the midmorning sun as they shine down on a singular vehicle: emerald of hue, sparkling faintly, and accented by gleaming chrome. And casually leaning against the fender, clad in short denim cutoffs and a Rebellution tank top, is Bonnie Blue. Her eyes blaze like fire as she stares directly into the camera lens.
Bonnie Blue: You look around Detroit, an' y'see the ruin wrought when powerful men exceed their own grasp... Could call it a metaphor for what might happen to our beloved Wrestlin' Championship Federation, if someone don't put a stop to Beach Crew. But that's only part of the truth. Ain't that right, Mr. Rush? Sorry, Rabid. D'ya prefer Johnny? John? Maybe... Jack, if you're feelin' nostalgic for a bygone era, say, around the Eighteen-Eighties.
The barest hint of a smile graces her pale pink lips; fades away just as quickly.
Bonnie Blue: Just a... speculation, of course. Now, bear with me, Jack. This is all relevant, everythin' bein' interconnected an' so forth. Ok, we all get that attempted murder is standard procedure for Beach Crew, 'specially where I'm concerned -- an' I do find that just a little bit flatterin', if I'm gonna be honest. This makes, what? The third time? Seemed awfully personal, though. The fact that you felt a need to tamper with my stash, to set a trap just for little ol' me, that makes me wonder. Not why. Why is secondary. I don't buy this "family man" routine you play at, like you're a regular human bein'. Your wife know what you are? Your boy?
She tilts her head at a slight angle, her expression one of genuine curiosity.
Bonnie Blue: Would Junior be proud of his big, strong daddy; knowin' you hadda drug a woman half your size, lead me into an ambush? I mean, maybe if you'd finished the job, ya coulda justified yourself. Now, I ain't gonna argue that I'd be on a slab in the morgue now if it hadn't been for Dune's timely intervention -- an' I reckon that means I owe him; but what a disappoinment for you, huh?
See, here's the thing I don't get: why ya hadda involve my teammate. My friend. DeMarcus Jordan. Woulda been one thing if it was about your faction, my faction. But this was about you and me, for whatever bizarre reason you've invented in your head. I guess immortality does take a toll on the ol' intellect, huh?
Bonnie taps her temple with a forefinger, smirking a little.
Bonnie Blue: You think we got a score to settle? Then let's settle it. You and me. Assumin', of course, there's anythin' left after Dune gets through with ya at Explosion.
The Daughter of Time hesitates, her brow furrowed subtly as she collects her thoughts.
Bonnie Blue: On further reflection, I s'pose I oughta take some responsibility for this. There were a couple other incidents I let slide. That was my mistake. I didn't think it was important. Some no-talent hack wants to try and make his name tanglin' with me, I'm s'posed to rise to the bait?
She shrugs.
Bonnie Blue: Guess so. 'Cause otherwise it gives folks the impression that I'm gonna let these offenses go unanswered. No, sir, Mr. Rabid. To paraphrase the Dude, this aggression shall not stand. I think you might wanna pay special attention to mine an' Dre's match 'gainst Scathe and his unfortunate partner; I intend to correct all your misapprehensions on Sunday night, Johnny-boy.
At last, Bonnie gives the camera a full smile, cocky and self-assured.
Bonnie Blue: But enough about Johnny Rabid. He'll get his. Sooner, rather than later. I got more immediate matters to address. This week, me an' Dre take on Scathe an' um...what's his name? Emesis Tsunami? Wait...that's not right. Edward Nygma? Nah, that's the Riddler. Oh! Emeka Nnamani! That was it. Sorry, man, I'm not real good with names sometimes.
Anyway, Emeka, we find ourselves in a rather unenviable position. Any other day, we'd probably have more in common than not, but you got stuck with that jackass Scathe for a partner. I guarantee you, he's gonna screw ya over. Kinda his M.O. I ain't gonna insult ya by advisin' ya not to show up. You might, however, make yourself unavailable for taggin' in. I mean, if ya wouldn't mind. Me an' Scathe got some issues to work out.
The young blonde holds up a hand, as if to forestall any protest.
Bonnie Blue: Don't get me wrong; I ain't askin' ya to throw the match, or even to not participate. What I am sayin', is don't do your partner any favors -- 'cause he sure as hell won't do any for you. I dunno if you know what sorta things go on 'round here, Emeka. Most folks don't; wouldn't believe ya if ya told 'em. There are dark forces at work, an'...
She shakes her head.
Bonnie Blue: Well, nevermind about that. I shouldn't trouble ya with it. Once you're aware of it, ya get dragged in, an' there ain't no comin' back. My point, Emeka, is that I would love to test our skills against one another, under more equal conditions. Scathe ain't interested in winnin' or losin' -- in fact, I don't reckon he's won a match since he showed up -- he's got some personal interest in Rebellution. An', well, honestly, who doesn't? We are the only line of defense against the likes of Beach Crew, or K.L. Henson an' his thugs, or even fiends like Scathe.
I guess all I'm really sayin' is... watch your back, Emeka. You're stuck with a partner who has some personal vendetta against me an' mine; who will see you as an unnecessary burden, a minor obstacle. He has no respect. Not for you, nor for me. Not for the sanctity of a WCF ring, nor the Timekeeper's Precepts. The base creature desires only chaos an' destruction.
So why should I have been surprised? Hmm?
Bonnie's confident smile fades. Her delicate features harden, blue-green eyes glittering like ice.
Bonnie Blue: Our little bargain, Scathe...I'm not pleased. Though I gave you nothin' in exchange, I still feel like I got the short end of it. Ya gave me the wrong detective. Guess I oughta give ya half credit -- he checked out, he's a real P.I. -- but he ain't mine. Claims he is. Ain't never laid eyes on the man, yet he insists I hired him. Oddly, he can't tell me how he ended up in Lake Ponchetrain, or much of what happened after, up until ya handed him over to me. Pardon me if that makes me a li'l suspicious.
What'd ya think, Scathe? I'd just welcome a stranger into my inner circle? Especially one provided by you... C'mon, I might be young, but even I ain't that naive. You wanted a spy in our camp, ya mighta tried a little bit harder.
That's just fuel for the fire, though. These last few weeks, your constant harrassment has been a distraction from my -- our -- goals. It is the intent of Rebellution to lift the WCF from the morass of wickedness an' villainy that has become so rampant in this age. Yet we find you, Scathe, standin' in our way at ev'ry turn. Lookin' for our weaknesses. Those ain't gonna be easy to find, Darkitecht. We may not be whole; but we are still sound, still solid, still united in our purpose. However...
At last, she pushes away from the car and begins to pace back and forth.
Bonnie Blue: The day has come for me to accept who an' what I am. I am the Daughter of Time -- or as the Beach Boys like to call me, Time Witch (among other things, I'm sure) -- and as such, I have certain responsibilities. You have violated the Precepts set forth by the Timekeeper, meant to keep peace among the Architects. Now it's on me to do somethin' about it, an' in the ring is the best place to do so.
In the ring, the rules apply even to you. That is the one Precept that may not be transgressed. The toll of the bell nullifies your powers. And mine. It has ever been thus. Of course, you're aware of that; it's why you forfeited your match against DeMarcus, why you took a countout rather than stay in the ring with Andre. Even under circumstances that benefitted ya, you couldn't get the job done. You an' Rabid have a lot in common, now that I think about it. Stack the deck in your own favor, an' ya still fail.
Gonna be diff'rent this time, Scathe. Dre an' I are unfettered by rules, by the threat of disqualification. Y'know that sayin' about when a good man goes to war don'cha?
She pauses, looks at the camera, gives a mischievous wink.
Bonnie Blue: See, my boy Dre... my brother... he's the kinda guy whose passions are bound only by his own sense of honor; an' that includes adherence to the rules. You don't let a man like that off his leash -- not 'less you're ready for the livin' definition of Relentless. Truth be told, I don't even know if he'll let me have a turn; he wants your head on a platter that damn bad.
Either way, Scathe, you will serve as a useful object lesson. After tonight, when me an' Dre get through with ya, ain't gonna be no choice but for you to creep back into whatever extradimensional hole you crawled out of. But not before we make an example. You're gonna show everybody what it means to fuck with Rebellution. An' then we're done.
Tempus vindice.
Slowly, the scene fades out.
====================================================================
One Week Earlier:
Deep inside a dingy, poorly-lit warehouse, dust motes dance intricate patterns on shafts of orange sodium light that pours between the broken boards covering shattered windowpanes. The dusty concrete floor is covered by a thick sheet of clear plastic, roughly twenty feet to a side. In the middle of the plastic is a chair with a man tied to it, sweating under the glare of a pair of industrial work lights focused directly on him. Beyond the ring of light, three figures prowl, talking in voices that fall just short of his hearing range. At least, until the one -- a tall, reedy man dressed like some kind of college professor -- raises his voice in indignation.
"I won't do it!" protests Nikola Tesla, loudly. "I will not help you torture this man!"
"But Bernardo," Chuy says, matching him in drama and volume, "he will not tell the truth otherwise. It is only a little electricity..."
"I'll talk!"
All three of them turn to look at the figure tied to the chair -- the man Scathe had turned over to Bonnie at last week's Slam. In broad terms, he more or less fits Sal Minella's description: average height; a litlte on the heavy side; thick, wavy hair; and the fashion sense of a hobo. Tesla and Don Jesus step into the light, followed by Bonnie Blue. The stranger's eyes light on each fading, discolored bruise and come to rest on a diagonal cut across otherwise perfect lips.
"What else you got to say that we ain't already heard?" she demands. "You keep givin' me the same damn story -- I hired ya to look into Rabid's dealin's, entirely over the phone, without either of us havin' ever met in person. There is so much wrong with that, startin' with the fact that I did not hire you. I have employed exactly one man for that purpose, an' he did his job."
"You said you needed someone who wouldn't be on the guy's radar. That he might recognize the other one. And you told me that if I got caught, you might not recognize me. You said I oughta keep my trap shut, unless things became dangerous."
"Didn't think it was dangerous when you got yourself killed?" Bonnie raises an eyebrow.
He shakes his head. "I don't remember that. None of it. I was... on my way to Louisiana, I think. Then it's a real long blank until I woke up in the back of a van with a bag over my head."
The man shrugs as best he can, as if it's unimportant. Something about his attitude seems a little off.
"You're right, though," she says. "Things are dangerous. You need to tell me everything."
He nods slowly, takes a deep breath, and says, "Recognition code: Niner-two-seven."
Suddenly, Bonnie is sent reeling, as if shoved by a powerful force. Except that it's not physical. She feels a lightness, a sense of incalculable speed, and then she's standing somewhere else. Somewhere she's seen before. A bank of video monitors is spread before her, each one displaying the same kinds of images as before: the sights of a hundred battles, all across the globe. Suffering. Misery. Hunger and disease. All the terrors that human beings visit on one another played out in full-color, high-definition broadcast.
Every monitor, that is, except one set just a little apart from the others. The scene before her seems familiar -- is familiar. Bonnie can see the warehouse, the bound detective, her friends... and herself. She's got her hands on her hips, and is staring at the captive.
"OUT!" says the Bonnie on the monitor, turning to Chuy and Tesla. "Both of you, get out right now!"
Startled at her vehemence, the two men withdraw, leaving her alone with the private eye. As soon as she's certain they're gone, Bonnie pulls a small utility knife from her pocket. The detective flinches briefly, then relaxes as she starts sawing at the ropes.
"You shouldn'ta tried shakin' down Rabid for cash, you idiot," she tells him, plainly annoyed. "Not him or his old lady. She's as dangerous as he is, in her own way. What were you thinkin'?"
His silence speaks volumes. A few moments' work, and the bindings fall away. The man stands unsteadily, rubbing at his wrists to restore circulation, and refuses to meet her gaze.
"I should pull you off this," Bonnie says. "Shouldn't even pay ya, bad as you screwed up. But I got a way you can redeem yourself. Listen close."
And while Bonnie watches from some unknown distance on a small, black and white monitor, the Bonnie on the screen leans in and whispers something to the gumshoe. After several seconds, he nods stiffly, straightens up, and walks off in the opposite direction from the one taken by Tesla and Chuy just a few minutes ago. Then, without warning, Bonnie's consciousness is catapulted back to exactly where she'd begun. She's standing there, staring at an empty chair, when her friends return.
"What happen, Bernardo?" Chuy asks.
Bonnie can't tell him about this. Not yet. Not when she isn't sure anything even happened. Perhaps it had all been something on the order of a hallucination -- she still wasn't certain what she'd been drugged with, or what the aftereffects might be. And she can even recall her reasoning for letting the guy go.
"I cut him loose," she replies. "Since he's under the impression I hired him, I gave him a little job to do."
"I see..." Don Jesus says, thoughtful. "Ah, yes. And how he performs this task -- if at all -- will tell us more about his motives than interrogating him. Very clever, Bernardo."
He shoots Bonnie a quick smile; she beams back at him. Of course that was how it had gone down. What else could it be?
To be continued....
