Post by Bonnie Blue on Apr 15, 2016 15:25:21 GMT -5
Earth -- 2163
Somewhere in the Tropics
It spreads before me like a cancer; the data displayed across a dozen monitors -- junk, salvaged from pawn shops and scrapyards. Fires rage out of control in what used to be the Pacific Northwest. It hasn't rained there in decades. Scorpions the size of terriers are the only things that can stand the intense heat and blaze.
Riots burn, too, all around the continent. Around the world. Human infernos, the masses writhing together in a singular surge; crashing like a wave against armored cyborg cops. Sick and starving, they are driven cruelly back, the slowest trampled beneath solid steel jackboots. Somewhere, I imagine I can hear the dark, hollow tones of laughter -- his laughter, cold and empty.
A chill crawls up my spine, and I whirl around in the dusty dimness, expecting to see the old enemy come to call.
Nothing meets my sweeping gaze. Nothing... save the dire images that play across the screens. On and on, without end.
Our world is dying.
It might be my fault.
=================================================================
Montreal, Canada -- April 15, 2016
The multi-storey parking structure attached to the Montreal Four Seasons is well lit and reasonably clean; clean to a point where it appears more appropriate to a film set than practical use. An emerald-green 1971 Ford Ranchero backs neatly into a slot, idling with the soft purr of a tiger as faint strains of music -- Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" -- filter through the closed windows.
Silence falls with the turn of a key.
Unaware yet of being filmed, Bonnie Blue and Don Jesus emerge from the vehicle, looking around to get their bearings. Bilingual signs point the way toward the hotel, and obediently, the pair follow -- only to be brought up short when WCF's senior correspondent intercepts them; clad in rumpled Armani, stubble trying to reclaim his jawline, and a slightly manic look in his eye. Hastily, he reaches up to smooth down unkempt hair and fixes a plastic smile on his face.
Hank Brown: Bonnie! I've been looking everywhere for you! Pretty swanky digs you got here.
He hitches a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the hotel -- a significant departure from her usual lodgings in generic roadside motels.
Bonnie Blue: Um... yeah, I guess so. I mean, I can afford it now, so I figured... why not see how the "other half" lives, right?
Hank Brown: Come into some money recently, did you? Who died?
Bonnie Blue: Nobody. I earned it.
Almost involuntarily, her eyes drift to a sleek, hard-sided briefcase cuffed to Chuy's wrist. Taking her glance as a signal, he relieves her of her duffel bag -- a brand-new one, with the word "Rebellution" embroidered on it -- and hurries off to get them checked in.
Hank Brown: I'll bet you did.
Bonnie Blue: The fuck's that s'posed to mean, Hank?
For the barest instant, his eyes seem to unfocus, and he shakes his head vigorously.
Hank Brown: I don't know, Bonnie. I think... I might be losing my mind...
Bonnie Blue: Long as ya been workin' for Lerch, wouldn't be at all surprised. Somethin' I can do for ya, Hank? Or are ya done hasslin' me?
As she moves to brush past him, he gets in front of her again.
Hank Brown: Sorry, Bonnie, it was -- I got sidetracked. Ok, let's start over. I'll have them edit this in post.
Good afternoon, WCF Galaxy! I'm Hank Brown, and joining me now is Bonnie Blue -- one of eight competitors vying for the Hardcore Title this weekend, here in Montreal.
Bonnie Blue: Seven, Hank. I don't think the current "champ" is out of the hospital yet.
Hank Brown: Why the air quotes?
Bonnie Blue: Because Katherine Phoenix is a paper champion, pure an' simple. It was a fluke she got the Hardcore strap in the first place. Did she even defend it once? I mean, other than last Sunday, when Sarah Twilight rung her bell... quite literally. Again.
Nah, Hank...that was mostly rhetorical. Don't bother answerin' -- ain't important. Phoenix is out of the runnin', which leaves seven.
Now, I done already addressed World War Z... from an alternate universe where I ain't even me. That is a sad, fucked up version of reality, an' I hope never to see it again. So, that leaves five competitors yet unmentioned.
Some ain't worth mentionin'. But I will, so's I can be clear... specifically this Shadowlove. Some dumbass whiteboy, white privilege, culture-appropriatin' dickleak. His valet exemplifies the worst of the Western world's ignorant stererotypes about Asians; I mean, put some thick-ass glasses on the bitch and get her to pretend she got buckteeth, you got you a World War Two propaganda poster. And people wanted to call Johnny Reb a racist... Shit.
She rolls her eyes dramatically.
Bonnie Blue: And this whiteboy don't even know the word "Halfbreed" is hate speech. That's some racist ass shit. Pretending to be AmerInd, even moreso. Dude can't even decide on which nation's culture he wants to appropriate. Lakota? Cherokee? Shawnee? What the hell? Not bad enough the American government wholesale slaughtered entire peoples, brainwashed the language and traditions out of most of the rest, and continue -- to this day -- to relegate 'em to livin' in Third World conditions: abject poverty, rampant alcoholism, an' readily curable diseases.
Then, in addition to stealin' from the cultures of the first people, this motherfucker has the audacity to shill for whatever corporation is willing to part with a couple of bucks. Least he could do is give back to the communities whose traditions he's leanin' on. That kinda shit right there negates whatever minimal physical attraction a girl like me might have. Maybe if he spent a little less time masturbating to his own reflection, an' a little more in the gym, Mr. Selflove, the Handsome Halfwit, might -- just might, mind ya -- stand a chance. Of not being outright killed. Claimin' that Hardcore belt, though? Way outta his league.
Brown appears a little stunned at this unexpected tirade.
Hank Brown: Yeah... ok. Well, if you're not impressed with Shadowlove, then who do you consider to be your biggest challenge in this match?
Bonnie Blue: Honestly, Hank, it could be anyone, at any time. But I've got it narrowed down to two -- my Rebellution brother, Andre Holmes... and Dustin Beaver.
The name drops from her lips flatly, a clear indication of her personal opinion of the man.
Bonnie Blue: I made the mistake of underestimatin' our resident wannabe pop princess on a previous occasion. That ain't happenin' again. I know this boy's hardcore, I don't need nobody to tell me that. I seen it firsthand.
Unconsciously, her fingers lightly brush the pale skin at her throat.
Bonnie Blue: I'll confess, right before it got life-threatenin', it was a little bit... excitin'. Or woulda been, if'n it'd been anybody other'n Dustin.
Hank Brown: Whoa, TMI.
Bonnie Blue: Relax, Hank. Point is, that boy is a bonafide threat. When he decides to bring the heat, he brings it all like Farenheit Four-Fifty-One. I may not like him, but I respect what he's capable of. The flipside of that, Hank, is I been workin' harder'n ever before to make damn sure I'm in the best possible condition for this match.
This is my opportunity to prove myself in a way even Johnny Reb never did. Am I a hardcore wrestler? Not partic'ly, no. But I've had some experiences lately that have changed me, as an athlete. Every match, I walk away havin' learned somethin' new. These last several weeks have me primed an' ready for the hardcore scene.
For a month, now, I been facin' this Scathe motherfucker -- I still dunno who he is, where he came from, what's so damned significant about him that he gets Lerch to agree to the most ridiculous terms... Chooses his own opponents, every match contested as no disqualification, an' who does he decide to pick on, week after week?
The Daughter of Time points at herself with both thumbs.
Bonnie Blue: This girl. Apparently, we got us a problem, but he ain't lettin' me in on the secret. My last... what? Three matches? Four? Whatever the count's up to by now, I ain't stepped into the ring with nobody else, practically since he showed up outta nowhere. So basically, this dude has been trainin' me -- albeit inadvertently -- for just this occasion. Preparin' me to take my place as the new WCF Hardcore Champion.
At the end of the night, when the ref hands me that strap, I'ma have to make damn sure I thank Scathe proper -- by lettin' him get an up-close an' personal look at my shiny new title. Repeatedly. Until he's bleedin' an' maybe unconscious.
A slight smile crosses her lips, but everything in her eyes says she isn't even remotely joking.
Hank Brown: I notice you avoided the matter of Andre Holmes -- your Rebellution teammate. You said he was the only other credible threat in the match.
Bonnie Blue: Don't put words in my mouth, Hank. What I said was that he an' Beaver are the two I'm most concerned about. Everyone in the match is a credible threat. But I get what you're after, Hank. Not real subtle. You want me to tear down my friend. I ain't gonna sink to that. Suffice it to say, we work out together so often, know each other so well, there won't be any surprises.
If this was one-on-one, I'd be worried. Chances are high that, 'tween the two of us, Dre would whoop my ass. Eventually. But it would be far from one-sided. He might be bigger'n me, an' stronger -- just about everyone here is -- an' yet, my record speaks for itself. Y'can put me down, but I don't stay down. Not ever.
Every goddamn time, I'm gonna get right back up, an' keep on comin'... harder'n before. Y'all think li'l ol' Bonnie Blue ain't got shit when it comes to hardcore, everythin' on the line, life or death. Y'all got it all wrong. How many times, Hank, have individual members of arguably the most dominant faction of our time -- that bein' (ugh) Beach Crew --attempted to facilitate my entry into the next world? Hmm? Wade Moor, Oblivion... Dustin Beaver?
Hank Brown: Johnny Rabid...
Scoffing, she makes a dismissive gesture with one hand.
Bonnie Blue: Don't even bring him up. The man's a coward, plain an' simple. Too scared of a fair fight to meet me in the ring, even when I give him the option to stack the deck however he sees fit. That lowdown, dirty little sidewinder ain't none of my concern.
The set of her delicate jaw, the blaze in those blue-green eyes, tells a different story.
Bonnie Blue: My concern -- my focus -- is entirely on that Hardcore belt. Sunday night, I am walkin' out of Montreal the new WCF Hardcore Champion, an' ain't nothin' gonna stop me. Not Honey Boo-Boo, not some third-rate coulda-been like Beaver... Not even the Relentless one himself.
Now... is my time to shine. That gold is comin' to Rebellution -- but it'll be Bonnie Blue bringin' it home.
Hank Brown: Fair enough, I guess. And there you have it, WCF Galaxy -- your soon-to-be (maybe) Hardcore Champ, Bonnie Blue.
Swiftly, he gestures, fingers drawn across his throat in imitation of a blade, the universal signal to "cut." And all at once, the screen is again filled with darkness.
============================================================
The Future (Again)
Shadows draw close around me, an effect of more than the spectral light spilling from dozens of screens, and slowly coalesce into the form of a man. I recognize him right away, of course. The face may be different, but the entity behind the guise is unmistakable. Of all the names in all the lifetimes he'd had, my mind grasps the most familiar.
"Scathe."
He nods his acknowledgment without a word. I reach for the pistol duct-taped to the underside of an ancient mahogany table. The air comes alive with the electric crackle of immense dark power -- and the gun is pried from my hand before my fingers can close around the grip. Flung across the room, it hits the far wall with an echoing thud.
"What are you doin' here?"
"I sensed your summons," he tells me, his new voice quiet and oddly calm.
"You're delusional. I would never send for you."
I back away, cautiously groping in the semidark for the next weapon cache. A girl never knows when she's going to need protection, after all. He doesn't even try to stop me.
"Not consciously, perhaps." He looks around, the surroundings familiar, and smiles slightly. "Interesting choice for a hideout."
"It was the only place I could be reasonably certain nobody'd look. The bounty on my head is -- Is that what you're here for?"
He makes a sort of indignant sound. "If I were going to hunt you down, it wouldn't be for money. And certainly not on anyone's behalf but my own."
Well, that's comforting. The great irony in all of this, of course, is that Scathe may be the only creature with whom I can be completely honest anymore. Maybe he's right. Maybe what had drawn him to me was my need for ... something. Not a friend, not him. Advice, perhaps? He has eons of experience. Why waste another moment that he isn't actively being hostile to me?
"Ok, supposin' you're tellin' me the truth... "
"I have no reason to lie to you." His voice seems louder, and I realize that suddenly, he's behind me, and stalking around me in a tight circle. "If I had come here to harm you, we wouldn't be having this conversation." He leans in so close I can feel his breath on my ear. "By now, you'd be screaming in sweet agony. But..." Scathe sighs wistfully, "Fortune smiles on you again, Time Witch."
"Do you really need to be so damn creepy?"
Scathe shrugs in a noncommital way and paces across the broad marble floor, once resplendently white, shot through with veins of silver and sparkling mica; now, cracked and pitted following years of neglect and a singular instance of intense shelling. His gaze rests on the bank of monitors, and the barest hint of emotion flirts with his rugged features. I know him well enough to understand that he is deeply troubled.
"I believe," he announces, turning to face me, "that you and I might reach a mutually beneficial arrangement...."
(To be continued...)
