Post by Eira on Jul 27, 2014 20:54:57 GMT -5
There’s something tragic about torn lace.
From the ruined innocence of nuptial underpinnings torn away in a storm of passion, to the decayed elegance of a once-beautiful crone’s death veil. Or, in this case, snagging the delicately patterned sleeve of an evening gown with a careless movement.
A scowl twisting her features, Eira glares at the offending garment, her honey-colored skin pale beneath the dark lace. Glancing over at the mantlepiece clock, an exasperated sigh whispering along behind her as she moves to the study. Slipping the dress off her shoulders, she reaches her desk, double-checking the creamy parchment envelope one more time. Tickets for two, box seats for the premiere of “Don Giovanni” up in Charlotte, and yep - enough time to change. Still about four hours ‘til showtime.
Her eyes flick over to the wall calendar, a ubiquitously peaceful, generic scene pasted above a grid of dates. Less than two days ‘til her match against “Mr. Showtime” Michael Wryght and who knew what else? Showtime’s... wife? Manager? Whoever she was, had returned to him with none other than Pure Class Wrestling’s long-gone legend, Billy Sadistic. Because Grimm by himself wasn’t enough, right? But...
What does ANY of that have to do with me?
As things stood now? Not a damn thing, and for that Eira was sincerely grateful. Tag team or no, she felt a pang of genuine pity for “Psychedelica", certain that the duo would be entering the ring at Trauma 158 to be worked into a rainbow smear on the mat. Eira herself, while wary of the addition to the roster and the ongoing saga of Grimm, didn’t find much to be concerned with. Didn’t find much except the ridiculously long history between Grimm, Sadistic, and her next opponent.
History that I don’t quite figure into.
Too new to belong to the Old Guard, but at nearly 2 years with Pure Class Wrestling she felt too veteran to be one of the New Kids. While it wasn’t as if her tenure with PCW had been an unmitigated success, she’d still won more than she'd lost. On top of that, there weren't many in the roster, be it past or present, who could lay claim to having held the PCW World Title within their first two years of competition.
Not that I have it anymore.
Whitey “The Asshole” Ford had made good on his promise to keep the belt away from her. She’d gotten that last match from the rematch stipulation alone, with that gone... she’d have to prove herself to management all over again. All because that overrated, drunk, misogynistic, pig-ignorant prick ... what? Didn’t play fair? Not like anyone expected him to, and at the end of that match, either of them could have been the one on the mat. It just happened to be her.
So now, here I am, heading into a match against Showtime for no reason I can actually figure out unless it’s management trying to sort me into the right place. I can’t tell who’s being tested though. Am I being tested to make sure I can still take Showtime down, or is he being tested to see if he can finally get one over on me? To hell with it. I don’t NEED a title on the line to beat Whitey’s ass from tailbone to taint, I’ll do it just to make the world a better place.
“Y’know, if you keep making that face, it’ll freeze like that. Might be an improvement.” Eira whirls in place, one hand hitching the neckline of her dress back up in an uncharacteristically feminine gesture, eyes fixed on Jackson’s form and the two large men standing at his sides - then on the gun in his hand. Gun trained on her, he chuckles, waving the barrel a bit. “Oh no, don’t bother on my account. Nothin’ I ain’t seen before, and nothin’ I’m interested in. Turn around, hands behind your back.”
Jackson laughs at her flat denial, the men at his sides moving forward, his laughter abruptly cutting off as he throws both arms in front of him. “I wouldn’t, boys. She could kill you in five seconds flat, and she’s in heels. She’s being pulled in JUST for questioning, and we do this by the books, you hear me?” His eyes wander back to Eira, his gaze on her partially exposed chest belying his claims of disinterest. “Come on, sugar. Hands behind your back. Don’t worry if that dress slips a little, it’s just us chickens.”
With modesty taking a level of priority somewhat lower than not getting shot in the face, Eira complies, anger reddening her cheeks as her neckline slips back down around her upper arms. “Oooh, look at this, boys... she blushes. Didn’t think this one would.”
“Get FUCKED, Jackson.”
He chuckles with his men, the back of her neck prickling at his oily proximity. “Is that an offer?" She tenses as he leans in close his breath on her neck a soft counterpoint to the scratchiness of his stubbly chin as he whispers words meant for her ears alone. “I’d sooner stick my dick in a blender, Princess.”
Okay. Keep calm. I can figure this out. Just as long as -
Walking in to see the love of his life with her dress torn and askew, menacing figures standing around her, is hardly the best way to set the tone for an evening. Body shifting smoothly into an aggressive stance, he looms over Jackson like the shadow of impending Death itself.
“I don’t know how many bullets I got in this thing, but I bet it’s enough to drop you, Monster Man.” Murdoc halts in place with tightening fists, the crinkle of floral cellophane an absurd counterpoint to the gravity of the situation.
“You will go NOWHERE with her.”
Eira locks eyes with him across the room, standing tall between the guards at her sides. “Please, Love. Let this happen. It’s standard procedure when an Operative’s loyalty is called into question, nothing more.”
“Your loyalty was NEVER in question until HE got involved.” Thick fingers stab towards Jackson, the stocky man still holding Murdoc at the end of a gun.
“Wait, so now this is all MY fault? Please. That Cleric, Veronica? She’s got it out for you and your girl. She’s the one who sent me here. Now I ain’t overly fond of the bitch, and I was gonna let it slide, but you know what, Monster Man?” Jackson sidles forward, the barrel of the gun pointed directly at Murdoc’s large chest. “I just don’t fuckin’ like you. Tits over here is alright I guess, bit frigid maybe, but you? You’re an asshole. All full of yourself, with this bullshit Emperor of Darkness shtick you’ve got going on.”
Jackson’s eyes widen as Murdoc steps forward, the barrel of the gun pressing deep into the large man’s sternum as he advances with clear, malevolent intent. Eira feels his rage beneath the firestorm of her own ire, the earth-pulverizing rumble that causes birds to burst into flight moments before a volcanic eruption.
“MURDOC.” Eira’s voice snaps across the claustrophobic space, the subtle tilt of Murdoc’s head the only indication that he was listening to her. “Please. I’ll go in, answer their questions, and be free to go. If we fight, it will look like I do have something to hide, and this will get much worse than either of us can possibly imagine right now.”
“Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth. Best listen to your little cupcake.” Jackson guffaws as he precedes the guards - and Eira - through the door, shouldering past Murdoc and coyly blowing across the barrel of his gun before jamming it back into its holster. A smirk crosses his face as he leads the way to the unmarked black vehicle waiting in the drive, turning to wave cheerfully at Murdoc. “See you around, Monster Man.”
The feared, legendary beast of PCW’s history is forced to stand motionless, watching as his lover is escorted away. Eira casts one last glance at him over her shoulder, her silvery hair whipping about in the fitful breeze to get one last look at Murdoc in the deepening twilight, the bouquet of crimson roses hanging forgotten in his massive hand.