vol. 1, ch. 1: running up that hill [RP vs. Mason and Angel]

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Brenna Gordon’s seemingly too-large eyes stared down at the lacquered ebony box that she clutched with both hands, pallid knuckles somehow managing to be even paler somehow from how tight her grip was. It was hard to imagine how a presence as large and world-consuming–

world ending she almost ended me almost ended us!

–as Moira Gordon could fit into something so small, but yet? There she was, the mad self-styled goddess who had made her only child’s life Heaven and Hell in equal measure reduced to nothing but a few handfuls of ash. The childish urge to shake the box and see if the cremains within would rattle rose from the deeps of Brenna’s mind, but she shoved it down beneath the surface with an ease borne of practice before she forced herself to look up to meet the funeral director’s gaze.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Miss Gordon?” Christopher Hile posed the question with the feigned patience that any who work with the bereaved eventually developed, though Brenna could taste the copper of his impatience in the back of her throat. How long had she stood there, anyway?

Best not to think about that.

“Yes, thank you.” The smile Brenna managed was strained, but she could still feel his eyes focus on the curves of her lips. It seemed that the feminine charms her mother had used with impunity in life lived on in her after all even if she actively fought against using them. “The insurance paid everything in full?”

Hile nodded, watery green eyes rising to meet her own. Was it her, or did he cease to blink upon meeting her gaze? “And then some. The remainder has been donated as you directed.”

“Good, thank you.” A nod and she who was Born of Myth turned her back pointedly–and perhaps it was a moment of whimsy or her subconscious caught a flicker of a reflection or something of the sort, but she swore she felt him wince at how she put such an emphatic end on their shared eye contact.

---

“Hello, PWE. Brenna Gordon speaking.”

The visual slowly fades in on a shot of downtown St. Louis at night–not from afar, but from one of the many lower-laying rooftops that is surrounded by its higher brethren. There’s nothing in the way of the rather lovely view, though the feminine voice that greeted the viewers can be easily heard thanks to what has to be an external mic. That faint Irish accent makes itself more obvious as she continues to speak, tone vaguely bemused.

“You’re going to have to forgive me for not stepping in front of the camera–until very recently, the only way I addressed my opponent was through the written word. With things changing on a personal level, however, I am daring to edge my way into a more… interactive format. Forgive me for asking, though, but this is where I’m supposed to try to make myself seem to be the biggest threat to walk through this company’s doors, right? Where I’m supposed to exaggerate my accomplishments, furiously masturbate my ego until I shoot off with empty threats of dominance. I’d say I’m sorry to disappoint everyone, but if you truly expected that out of me, then you deserve to be let down.”

A pause; Brenna chuckles.

“Besides, Blake Mason’s done enough disappointing everyone to last the next hundred debuts at this point.”

Even without seeing her, it’s clear that Brenna’s smirking sharply as she continues.

“I have seen a lot of Blake’s career thanks to an… acquaintance, let’s say, who put her petite little boot on the throat of the VWA and never let up until the place closed, so I know that there are three constants in his career. One; every woman that crosses his path, in one way or another, winds up becoming someone that he fixates on whether or not they want to humor his existence. The Blake Mason Experience is only pleasant for Blake himself and whatever poor woman he’s got tricked into thinking that he’s worth their time. As much as I wish that Xaria Linette was right when she says that he is her best friend, No matter who he’s dating or engaged or, in this case, married to? I saw it happen with Natalie Bateman, Kara Abheri, Viola Dupree, Bree Lancater–the list, it doth go on. PWE’s management may wind up having to pay for restraining orders for the female members of the roster at some point.”

A soft, throaty chuckle.

“Two: he has a vastly overblown sense of self-worth. Blake Mason has never been the cornerstone of any company he has ever called home, and his lackluster performance so far in PWE is just further evidence of this fact. He’s always bragging about his money, his prowess in the ring, his mastery of this and that and these and those–but yet when the bell rings? More often than not, he’s the one taking the L. That’s his true specialty, you know… letting everyone that is foolish enough to believe a single word that comes out of his mouth while also wounding his million-dollar ego, one I’m sure is designer. That leads us to three, which is how the moment things don’t go his way? The tantrums begin. He thinks he’s entitled to success because his mommy and his daddy told him that he was special when he was a snot-nosed little brat, and the only word out of that phrase that no longer fits him is little–well, unless rumor is to be believed, anyway. But you know what? Let’s call a spade a spade and just call Blake Mason what he is; professional wrestling’s version of Donald J. Trump, but somehow he’s even more of a fraud than Cheeto Mussolini.”

And there goes PWE’s Republican demographic–though is there even much of one to worry about? Blake is dismissed with another of those damnable chuckles, the focus of she who is Born of Myth shifting smoothly to her other opponent.

“That brings us to Angel… a woman whose chosen name is meant to be ironic, perhaps? Though I suppose that one could call her the Patron Saint of Every Tired Satanic Cliché Known to Mankind if they were feeling generous. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be–but in comparison to the Mediocre White Man Experience? Sweetie, you and your cartoonish threats of violence are a breath of fresh air. It’s almost comforting, really, which I’m sure is the absolute last thing you want to hear. After all, you wanna be the scary spooky murderer that’ll kill me in my face and drink my blood in your morning coffee and so on and so forth… but unfortunately for you, I’m all too familiar with that game. There was a point where I was sayin’ that kind of shit to people too, y’know? I thought it made me sound threatening and intimidating when I was anything but. It worked on the rubes I was surrounded with at the time, though… but eventually, I realized that those empty words weren’t actually making a difference, not then. Do you know how old I was when I learned that lesson, Angel? Go on, guess. Give it your best shot.”

A snippet of the Jeopardy theme is hummed for about ten seconds or so before Brenna clears her throat.

“Fourteen. I was fourteen when I grew up and realized how idiotic I sounded. What’s your excuse?”

A sigh, Brenna likely shaking her head.

“I mean, I guess I can see why you’d fail to see the obvious truth in front of you–that for all of your adorable attempts at being Spookier Than Thou, you’ve accomplished precisely nothing of note with any of it–because of how desperate you are to please your daddy and the other cloaked beings that have surrounded you with their delusions, made you absorb them like a sponge shoved into a vat of corn syrup mixed with red food dye.There is nothing for me to fear from you, not a single solitary thing. Know why? Because I’ve faced your kind before–I’ve faced them many, many times–and just about every time, I came out the victor. And that was over wrestlers who had reason to be feared and respected in that ring, not just some deluded little girl who thought that she should get those privileges just because she said so. If you want people to believe you, you’ve got to give them reason to–and from what I’ve seen? The only emotion that you inspire is pity.”

Brenna pauses… before she’s laughing, the sound bright as brass.

“That’s what you both have in common–at the end of the day, in spite of your big talk, you’re both so pitiful it’s borderline pathetic. Both of you threaten and whine, wasting your energy and everyone else’s time instead of focusing that energy on actually improving. But hey, I’m not going to complain too much. Unlike you two poor little rich kids, I know the path to success lies not in running my mouth, but going down that ramp and proving that I’m worth every penny that I’m being paid because unlike both of you, I had to work my fucking ass off to earn every last bit of training and experience that it took to get to this point. So Blake, go ahead and shove your silver spoon down your throat–and you can do the same with yours, Angel. Shove those spoons down into your gullets to the point that you choke… well, choke again.”

The camera is lifted, the lights moving in dizzying fashion before the visage of she who is Born of Myth comes into view, beautiful features in sharp contrast of light and shadow. It’s as if she is carved from the moonlight itself, though there’s no romanticizing the hard, vicious look in those big, dark eyes.

“It’ll be good practice for when I make sure you both drown in the Undertow.”

Fade.

---

The hotel was simple, cheap… but it would serve its purpose well enough.

Depositing her phone and the cheap external mic she picked up on a lark on the dresser beneath the TV, Brenna let out a breath she wasn’t aware that she had been holding as she undressed. It had been a long day between retrieving her mother’s ashes and making the journey to St. Louis, not to mention shooting the closest thing to a promotional video that she had ever done. Sleep would probably come easily for a change, she couldn’t help but to think as she made her way over to the bed–and as much as she had accomplished, she deserved such. Slipping between the covers, she settled in with a sigh before reaching over and turning off the light.

…only to find she was no longer alone in that bed.

The sudden feeling of weight beside her where there was none before, the drop in temperature of the air to her right–the familiar feeling of lips along her cheekbone and a slender arm draping itself over her stomach sending unpleasant chills along every single fiber of her being. Brenna tried to recoil, but it felt as if every nerve in her body was paralyzed, rendered useless by the waking nightmare that the darkness dropped her into–a darkness she sank deeper and deeper into like a stone. It was only when the terror willed it that she who was Born of Myth could move, her head turning to reveal who joined her… and what greeted her gaze was a sight that triggered the sardonic sense of humor that had become a defense mechanism with an observation that somehow made matters all the worse.

Even when she was starting to decompose, Moira Gordon was still a beauty.

"Mo cheann beag," the apparition said, cuddling closer and numbing Brenna's very soul with its chill.