Post by wblstudios on May 9, 2006 14:50:19 GMT -5
Torment and humiliation. Ellis had been used to such things over the course of her short un-life. But that night at Slam, she’d gotten it in spades, in front of a national audience. Soon to be global, if the reason Kikyo was at the airport ever came to pass. She knew no amount of cutting herself would take away the pain, take away the humiliation, that she’d suffered at Jack’s hands. The hands of a man who still claimed he was just toying with her for toying’s sake. It was time for her to stop crying, time for her to stop cutting. At least, stop cutting herself.
The plan ran though Ellis’ head even days after it’s ill execution as she sat alone in Apartment 26, cradling the blade so close to her chest. When Kikyo got into the production truck, she was supposed to flicker the lights slightly before they went out as a 5-second warning. Alas, someone had recognized her, and she only had time to cut the lights straightaway for twenty seconds, instead of the planned forty.
The scythe had been planted under the ring before the night even began, bringing it in under the pretense that it was going to be sold at an online auction for the WCF. When the lights hit, she scrambled to get over the rail, throw off the disguise, grab the scythe, and bloody someone with her blade. The only hitch was, apparently when dragging her scythe out of the ring, she’d nicked Genocide rather badly. She didn’t care one way or the other, but it’d hindered her, feeling the blade connect with flesh before she’d even gotten in the ring.
She’d felt Jack push against her on his way up, but why he didn’t recognize her still haunted her. Maybe, for once in her slashed-up existence, luck was on her side. Twice, technically, as she’d still had time to bloody her blade with Jack before the lights came back on. The only problem was, with her time cut in half, she didn’t have time to disappear and leave a bloody handprint on the referee’s shirt. But as she stood there, staring down at the revenge her blade had sown, aesthetics fell to the wayside in lieu of pure satisfaction.
Wasn’t that why people did run-ins anyways?, she asked herself.
Regardless, the unkindliest cut was made. And even better, Jack would be advancing. Ellis, while despising the man she was forced to partner with, forced herself to give him a little respect as he had held his own, keeping the fire going until Biggs and Cairo self-destructed. She believed that Jack would be teaming with Nate Nytro the next week, seeing the man as no threat, as she’d missed half the show due to preparing for the unkindliest cut. But now Nytro was going to accompany Torture, and in the newest wrinkle, she was going against Logan. Logan the owner. Logan the ‘good old boy’. Logan the spotlight stealing braggart who’d interjected himself into something he had no business with.
It was the Team of Treachery again, she thought ruefully as she and her blade crossed over to the apartment’s kitchen island, futilely searching for something to fuel this rotting body she felt trapped in. The old stars, the established stars, seeing the newcomers crossing the frame and wanting to take the spotlight for themselves. Wreck, Rick Mad, Rage, and now Havock, were all gone. Logan and Lerch were the only ones left, and apparently Logan, Ellis reasoned as her hand gripped around a glass of V8 as she closed the refrigerator door with the one she now called her “Second Stage Turbine Blade”, or more simply “My Blade“, saw that his spotlight was waning. That if he didn’t jump in on this gravy train that was taking WCF to higher ratings and higher distribution, he wouldn’t be so much living legend as legacy when a new round of fans joined the fold.
Ellis spun off the bottle top and drank deep from the crimson vegetable concoction. It was WCW all over again, she thought. I should just leave right now. Because of him. Of her. Of God and Satan and ten thousand fans applauding and booing a bloody blade.
The bloody blade... the argument Ellis had had with Kikyo that night over how to bloody her blade raged on into the early morning. Kikyo’s insistence that she wasn’t important enough to commit Second Stage assault over fell on deaf ears, and after the longest time, the conversation had turned to how to get her in, bloody her blade, get her out, and get her ready in time for her match. She almost went for the scythe during the ‘party’, but she’d found a blade easily enough.
Kikyo didn’t seem all that concerned in the women’s locker room when she and Ellis were discussing their match, about having to fight at the next Pay-Per-View, she thought as she finished her chemical and tossed the bottle aside. First off, she was under the legal age to wrestle, and second, Kikyo’s father had more than enough time and resources to sue the WCF out of existence should something happen. A father that’s willing to take time and money from his own company to help protect his daughter., Ellis thought. Kikyo doesn’t know how lucky she is.
A powerful knock on the door shocked Ellis out of her thoughts. Kikyo had a key, and she wasn’t sure that Jack had found her address yet. It was probably Mr. Dustman, the super for Yagami Apartments. Still, Ellis gripped her blade tight as she crossed over to the door, peeking through the peephole and coming face-to-door-to-chest with a 6 and a half foot wall of muscle and bad fashion sense. It was Dustman alright, a man who seemed like a bald Mr. Furley on steroids. Ellis opened the door and crossed the frame.
“Hey... just wanted you to know some fucking guy’s been looking for you. I sent him over to the meth lab at apartment 5.”
Jack’s found me, she thought. I’m not safe anywhere, can’t be alone anywhere now. She gripped the Second Stage Turbine Blade even more tightly, wondering where Kikyo was, praying silently for her safety.
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t recognize him. All those Japs look the same to me. Not nearly as bad as the fucking Jews, though. Hook-nosed bastards.”
Ellis sighed through Dustman’s racist tirade, the one she had to put up with every time he came over to fix something. A Japanese man looking for her? Must have been either a friend of Josephine’s or Kikyo’s. Her anxiety satiated and her curiosity piqued, she grabbed her keys and wallet and made her way down the hallway, keeping a sharp eye on her surroundings, and a sharp blade cradled close...
---
~Ellis
The plan ran though Ellis’ head even days after it’s ill execution as she sat alone in Apartment 26, cradling the blade so close to her chest. When Kikyo got into the production truck, she was supposed to flicker the lights slightly before they went out as a 5-second warning. Alas, someone had recognized her, and she only had time to cut the lights straightaway for twenty seconds, instead of the planned forty.
The scythe had been planted under the ring before the night even began, bringing it in under the pretense that it was going to be sold at an online auction for the WCF. When the lights hit, she scrambled to get over the rail, throw off the disguise, grab the scythe, and bloody someone with her blade. The only hitch was, apparently when dragging her scythe out of the ring, she’d nicked Genocide rather badly. She didn’t care one way or the other, but it’d hindered her, feeling the blade connect with flesh before she’d even gotten in the ring.
She’d felt Jack push against her on his way up, but why he didn’t recognize her still haunted her. Maybe, for once in her slashed-up existence, luck was on her side. Twice, technically, as she’d still had time to bloody her blade with Jack before the lights came back on. The only problem was, with her time cut in half, she didn’t have time to disappear and leave a bloody handprint on the referee’s shirt. But as she stood there, staring down at the revenge her blade had sown, aesthetics fell to the wayside in lieu of pure satisfaction.
Wasn’t that why people did run-ins anyways?, she asked herself.
Regardless, the unkindliest cut was made. And even better, Jack would be advancing. Ellis, while despising the man she was forced to partner with, forced herself to give him a little respect as he had held his own, keeping the fire going until Biggs and Cairo self-destructed. She believed that Jack would be teaming with Nate Nytro the next week, seeing the man as no threat, as she’d missed half the show due to preparing for the unkindliest cut. But now Nytro was going to accompany Torture, and in the newest wrinkle, she was going against Logan. Logan the owner. Logan the ‘good old boy’. Logan the spotlight stealing braggart who’d interjected himself into something he had no business with.
It was the Team of Treachery again, she thought ruefully as she and her blade crossed over to the apartment’s kitchen island, futilely searching for something to fuel this rotting body she felt trapped in. The old stars, the established stars, seeing the newcomers crossing the frame and wanting to take the spotlight for themselves. Wreck, Rick Mad, Rage, and now Havock, were all gone. Logan and Lerch were the only ones left, and apparently Logan, Ellis reasoned as her hand gripped around a glass of V8 as she closed the refrigerator door with the one she now called her “Second Stage Turbine Blade”, or more simply “My Blade“, saw that his spotlight was waning. That if he didn’t jump in on this gravy train that was taking WCF to higher ratings and higher distribution, he wouldn’t be so much living legend as legacy when a new round of fans joined the fold.
Ellis spun off the bottle top and drank deep from the crimson vegetable concoction. It was WCW all over again, she thought. I should just leave right now. Because of him. Of her. Of God and Satan and ten thousand fans applauding and booing a bloody blade.
The bloody blade... the argument Ellis had had with Kikyo that night over how to bloody her blade raged on into the early morning. Kikyo’s insistence that she wasn’t important enough to commit Second Stage assault over fell on deaf ears, and after the longest time, the conversation had turned to how to get her in, bloody her blade, get her out, and get her ready in time for her match. She almost went for the scythe during the ‘party’, but she’d found a blade easily enough.
Kikyo didn’t seem all that concerned in the women’s locker room when she and Ellis were discussing their match, about having to fight at the next Pay-Per-View, she thought as she finished her chemical and tossed the bottle aside. First off, she was under the legal age to wrestle, and second, Kikyo’s father had more than enough time and resources to sue the WCF out of existence should something happen. A father that’s willing to take time and money from his own company to help protect his daughter., Ellis thought. Kikyo doesn’t know how lucky she is.
A powerful knock on the door shocked Ellis out of her thoughts. Kikyo had a key, and she wasn’t sure that Jack had found her address yet. It was probably Mr. Dustman, the super for Yagami Apartments. Still, Ellis gripped her blade tight as she crossed over to the door, peeking through the peephole and coming face-to-door-to-chest with a 6 and a half foot wall of muscle and bad fashion sense. It was Dustman alright, a man who seemed like a bald Mr. Furley on steroids. Ellis opened the door and crossed the frame.
“Hey... just wanted you to know some fucking guy’s been looking for you. I sent him over to the meth lab at apartment 5.”
Jack’s found me, she thought. I’m not safe anywhere, can’t be alone anywhere now. She gripped the Second Stage Turbine Blade even more tightly, wondering where Kikyo was, praying silently for her safety.
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t recognize him. All those Japs look the same to me. Not nearly as bad as the fucking Jews, though. Hook-nosed bastards.”
Ellis sighed through Dustman’s racist tirade, the one she had to put up with every time he came over to fix something. A Japanese man looking for her? Must have been either a friend of Josephine’s or Kikyo’s. Her anxiety satiated and her curiosity piqued, she grabbed her keys and wallet and made her way down the hallway, keeping a sharp eye on her surroundings, and a sharp blade cradled close...
---
~Ellis
