Post by LACKLAN on Sept 22, 2018 14:43:58 GMT -5
Hello, dear children
The need to survive and thrive is built into our DNA at a cosmic level by the Creator Himself. “Be fruitful and multiply,” so said God to Adam. Grow. Dominate. Name. Such is the battle we have in the world, the microcosm of life that is His favorite sport, the sport of wrestling. Be fruitful. Multiply. Hold dominion over the animals, lay claim to the land and sea. And above all else:
Outlast.
My charge, as you are all aware, is to take the chaos of this world, to embrace it, and create order in His glory. I have done so all year long, done so with a stamina unmatched and unrivaled by any other on the roster. And it is with THIS understanding, THIS belief, THIS truth, that I walk into Outlast with a confidence none other should have. Oh, some do, of course. But none SHOULD. For I, and I alone, have been here, facing the tribulations the Deceiver sends every week, and outlasting them all. And if anyone questions this, if anyone wishes to scratch an unfortunate growth on their chin and pipe in with “Actually!” allow me this moment to specify my case.
The field is awash with men and women who have chosen when to pick their battles instead of fighting the fight God wishes. While our world’s champion can nearly claim to have wrestled every week for the honor of the company, the truth is that he is missing a small handful of shows. And many within the company find themselves at the other extreme, the Wyldes and Lockhearts of the world, who seemingly take more time off than even a corrupt government official. And outside of the aforementioned Vain, the only people besides me to fight nearly every match is Fear, Somers, and Zane, and two of them are on my team. And on my direct opposing side, we have Gabriel and Eden, who have spent so much time doing their charity work that Mr. Hastings’ hat has given them breaks more time that Mizore Payne has been gifted unearned title opportunities; the giant Cazador who has proven himself to be not even able to lace the Harvester’s boots, much less be a monster; and Mr. MacLean, who had to be dug up out of obscurity, to borrow a touch from Fear.
So what does that mean? Does it mean that everyone aside from myself, Somers, and Fear are well-rested? Does it mean that they have an advantage? I say that they do not. Because the likes of myself and my two comrades have been forged in the fires of this company as if from the Lake of Fire itself. We are mentally stronger and tougher than the rest, and we will do on Monday that which we have done all year:
We will Outlast.
Of the nine people within the confines of this company who have had their hands raised more than ten times this year, three of them are all on my team. And when you think of wins over all across the year, again, my team dominates. Discounting the oddity that is Chill, Pain and Paradox have 17 wins, my opposing team of the serpents have 24, the Vaughan girl edges them out with 25, Teams Pain and Lockheart have 30 and 31 respectively, and then my own team eclipses them all with 44. The people on this team crush all others in consistency and the importance of victories.
We will Outlast, dear children.
Bonne nuit.
The wind had seen much over the years. It had seen a family of entrepreneurs, proud sons and their hardworking parents, move into the small house on the large plot of land. It had seen the family grow, and the house along with it, to become a palace. It had seen a bright-haired child turn into a man and a figure, had seen people flock to him, had seen houses erected to live in the shadow of the mansion. Had seen women come, women flee in the night. It had seen a funeral procession see the man put into the ground and the ball of flame rise. It had seen the flame be brought down to a smolder as an emerald took her place, shining with the glint of madness. And in all that time, it had seen many, many galas, each seemingly more pompous than the last.
The wind has seen another.
The wind had seen much confusion in the world about “Lacklanland,” the religious compound the mansion had spawned. The wind would smirk, its laughter causing trees to sigh and shake their leaves, as it thought of the source of that confusion, of that chaos, the little ball of fire. That ball of fire had embarked on a push for “tourism” and, across the forms of media, propagated the notion that the collection of abodes was itself its own nation, was “sovereign.” The dignitaries from the state of Maine suddenly became ambassadors, and the guards and gates to the private land was seen as a border check. The private high school’s marching band became the Mountain King’s Own.
Perception is reality. And just as people began to think of the little albino as “The Vampire of Lacklanland,” people began to see the reality of her home being the Rome of New England. And the wind, ever the proponent of chaos, appreciated the confusion that the little ball of fire created seemingly without effort. Of course, that was in her blood, and would be in the blood of her heirs, because as a new host of men and women were to learn tonight, madness reigned in this land.
The wind would chuckle, as sound to make the deer jump and giant forest spiders skitter away, as men and women, each disbelieving and disparaging, would be made to see reality as the Lacklans intended. Galas and dinners, training sessions and made-up holidays. One after another, they would arrive in long black cars, driven by a man in livery after being picked up at Bangor International, and expect to see the truth of the Lacklans. They would expect to see the mystic nonsense of religion, servants, and the everpresent battle of darkness and light to be strripped away, and instead see an old athlete, or a daughter over her head, or a perfectly normal woman with a fake French accent.
One by one, they have been proven wrong.
In their bewilderment, they step out of the car and onto a red carpet. They are greeted by the sound of the marching band playing the “National Anthem” of the land. Met with men and women, each wearing outfits of silk and lace, applauding their arrival. And in the course of hours and days, either the old man in the mask, the little ball of fire, or the woman with emerald eyes, would take them on a tour of twisting halls and a “society” pulled out of time. Friends and foes, stablemates and nemeses, all were welcomed into the madness.
The wind would roll its eyes, if it would get away with not paying the ball of flame a copyright fee, at the premise of tonight’s gala. It was not the first celebration for a fake charity, but it imagined it was the first one a serpent had been given. But many of the galas had been for reasons such as this, because the current ruling party had a scheme and narrative to employ, for trickery and manipulation were tools of the Lacklan family. Thus, it was for pure fancy that dignitaries and social figures arrived for the gala, each dressed as if attending a fashion show in Paris, a prerequisite for walking through the door. The wind found the most humor in, of course, the attendance of the larger-than-life personalities of those who made their living from fighting, as did the current generations of the family. The wind had seen many come, and it chuckled when it saw one it recognized arrive this night. Apparently, it was to be a yearly tradition for the one with the glorious hair.
The sounds of trumpets can be heard. The Queen’s Processional has begun and the gala started in earnest. The wind takes this time to fly to the windows and enjoy the show.
Jet Somers found himself in a place of duality.
He couldn’t help but groan and shake his luxurious hair-filled head at the joke about him being the person to carry the bags. Many...MANY...months ago, someone (Maggie?) had made a joke on twitter that Jet carried Eden and Gabriel’s bags, and since Bordy, in all her weirdness, took things on the internet to be 100% literally, she thought it was true. And not only that, but had named her OWN personal assistant “Jet,” because she thought that ALL people who carried bags were named Jet. He hoped that everyone appreciated his joke in return: Dumping all the bags into one of the six fountains.
He had been apprehensive about coming here, as it could easily turn into a brawl considering the recipients of the party, but the requests from the Grey-Lacklans were too strong. Thankfully, neither Eden nor Gabriel were at the party in their “honor,” something he never got an explanation for, but he didn’t really care; he was just glad they weren’t there. It made his mission that much easier.
“Da! Da! Da! Da da da! Da! Da! Da! Da da da! Da da-da!
He could’t help himself. He HAD to sing the Mission: Impossible theme song to himself as he “ninja’d” his was through the halls with a map Sarah had provided. He also couldn’t help himself to NOT use one of Sarah’s fake verbs like “ninja’d” or “ninja’ing.” There was something about this place, something about this house and this land, that made you do weird things. For instance, after he had dumped all the bags and gotten himself a drink from a liviered water, one of the fancily dressed party guests asked him if he wanted to play a game of Monopoly. He KNEW that was a bad idea, KNEW that there was NO WAY IN HELL he was going to get sucked into a 17 hour game like last year and land on both Park Place AND Boardwalk...WITH HOTELS...EVERY DAMN TIME...again this year. But he ALMOST did. He ALMOST said yes.
This place was weird.
Sarah had given him a slideshow presentation, which had made Kenzi groan and throw her head into her hands, about where she thought the video would be, and what Jet would have to do to retrieve it. The surprisingly detailed slideshow included maps, schematics, guard duty rotations, and an overly and unnecessarily complex character and backstory for Jet to assume, should he be caught. Sarah had also provided him with an appropriate outfit. Black bodysuit, a mask to “hide all that glorious hair,” which was said with legitimate Anime-hearts in her red eyes, and all manners of ropes, string, caltrops, and other assorted gear appropriate for a cat burglar.
He shook his head full of glistening mane as he made his way through the halls and to the double doors which lead to Bordy’s bedroom, that which once belonged to Kenzi and Sarah. If that “Escape from Lacklan Manor” game was accurate, the sheer amount of gross and depraved lesbian sex that happened in that room over the last year was an amount which would trigger people to write google docs about, but it was quiet now. Bordy infamously longed for her late husband, and there was surely no sex going on in that room since she took over months ago.
Through the large doors he goes, keeping his footfalls as quiet as he can, but then stops cold. The room was a mess. It looked as if a tornado had blown through and sent it kilter. The bed had a large canopy, but the sheets were on the ground in a puddle of cloth, and the mattress was laying on its side and had several slashes in it, the white fluff underneath peeking out through the slits. Dressers and end tables were on their side, the shattered remains of several broken vases and jars on the ground. A broken mirror on a wall, the glass spiralling to show a million reflections. Parts of the walls punched in, others cut with a knife.
Jet could hear sounds of the revelry on the first floor of the mansion as he ruffled through the debris that was Aveline Lacklan’s bedroom. He knew he was taking too much time, knew that people would be looking for him, but he had to find his target. Sarah knew that her “Step-Mumsie” would keep what was rumored to be an embarrassing, and possibly incriminating, video of Kenzi close to her person, but amidst the wreckage, he couldn’t see how he would ever-
And there it was. A laptop laying on the ground under an overturned desk. He popped it upon and groaned when he saw it needed a password. He was no tech wizard, he couldn’t hack it. What would she use as a password? He tried everything he could think of.
Champion of Chaos
Blade of God
Edge of God
Stop Stalking Me, Donovan
Lesbians are the worst
Nothing worked. But then it hit him. His fingers hit the keys and he smiled as he saw a plain background pop up.
Il est ressuscité
"He is risen."
He ejected the DVD drive and, with the sound of Link opening a treasure chest going through his mind, he saw a DVD marked “K. Grey, A. Chase.” Little Jet would have LOVED to put the CD back into it and take some time to “investigate” what was rumored to be a sex tape featuring Kenzi Grey and Ashley Marie Chase in a Las Vegas hotel a couple of years ago, but his larger head outweighed his smaller on. He grabbed the DVD, tucked it into the fanny pack Sarah had provided, and headed back out to enjoy the party.
Necron would have been fooling himself if he had thought that walking into the Lacklan mansion would have meant being greeted with open arms.
He was not.
Oh, the Royal Crier, the Richard Vaughn of Vaughnemous Legend, was there to call out a litany of titles as he walked into the hall, just as every other guest of the party, but anyone even halfway perceptive could see that he was treated somewhat tersely. Whereas Jet and Deimos received a host of drink and food options carried by servants, the Harvester was left to fend for himself. But since he was probably just going to find some unwitting chambermaid to kidnap, grape, torture, and ultimately cook over an open fire after borrowing some of Chez Jean-Paul’s blackening spices anyway, he was not too worried about becoming famished.
The giant ignored the looks of disdain and disgust from fellow party-goers as he lit up a handful of Coffin Nails and let out a massive plume of smoke while puffing on four at a time. He walked around in that cloud of smoke while he took in the measure of the mansion. He had been fascinated by Bordy from the moment he saw her, and her rise from living in a dilapidated warehouse to taking the fineries of her late husband’s wealth did not lesson that fascination. What was she? Rival? Friend? Lover? Everything? He still didn’t know.
He enjoyed the refinement of the house, though it was certainly odd. It seemed to be a mixture of modern architecture and turn-of-the-century furnishings, with walls covered in murals and tapestries, massive red and gold rugs on the hardwood floors, and a seemingly unending line of statues and busts. Most seem to be of the founders of the family, with some looking to date back several generations, but the ones of Bordy’s late husband continually caught his eye. It took a while to realize that three different people were really all the same, perhaps in a hint of Bordy’s God’s trinity nature, but once he knew what to look for, a set of eyes which seemed to be pools within the Abyss, he could see the connection. One bust was of a handsome man with shoulder-length hair. Another was of a bald man with a facemask, his head full of burn scars. And then the third, of a mask hiding his entire head, with those Abyss-filled eyes seen behind a dark glass set into the mask.
He took the time to ask one of the servants for an explanation, and the clearly terrified little man answered the Harvester: Jean-Paul Lacklan, the man. Jean-Paul Lacklan, the Savior after fires had ruined his face. And Jean-Paul Lacklan, the Voice of God, who was afflicted with cancer, and who needed help talking and breathing.
Tough way to go.
He also enjoyed the busts and paintings of “Little Red,” the albino girl who liked to light fires and had purchased what should have been a lifetime supply of his cigarettes. Paintings of her in ballet, of her in cheer in high school, of her wearing a dark robe and too much makeup, of her wearing a black wedding dress while her wife wore a white, the two living their shared duality. Interesting girl. And considering the house she grew up in, it made a lot of sense to see how she turned out: Full of sharp modern edges, yet wrapped up in centuries’ old clothing..
The dragon-sized creature grimaces when it hears “music.” The gargantuan ball of smoke rolls over to where the string quartet had been set up and saw a rock band in their place. He didn’t know it, but the late patron of the house not only enjoyed guitar-driven rock as much as classical, but he had even opened a club for his followers to gather many years ago called Salvation’s End. He also didn’t know that “The Jew,” for whom the Jew’s Cross had been fashioned, had burned down that musical venue during their time fighting in completely unrealistic ways. Necron would have enjoyed that. But what he DID know is that this band was decent...but the drummer was terrible.
He hated bad drummers.
It was time for the drummers harvest to be grim.
Because he’s the Grim Harvester.
Did you know that Phrixus Deimos’ day job was as a food critic?
You didn’t?!
Welp, you do now!
The chefs at Chez Jean-Paul scoffed as the aged wrestler slipped into the kitchen like he was a llama named Kuzco (Hi, Ang!). Indeed, they had been pushing out Michelin star-worthy cajun food, the favorite of the Lacklan family for generations, for well over a decade. What did HE have to know or say about anything THEY could put out?
Lots, apparently.
Gone were the prawns in butter. Gone were was the blackened salmon. Gone, even, were the little pigs in a blanket, those disgustings things that the Queen of Red liked to eat. In their place, under the strict direction of Deimos, were plates full of crostini smeared with pork tenderloin, crab cakes stuffed with a sweet and cool salsa, and the Queen’s prefered jarred hotdogs replaced with delectable sausage. The chefs were worried about backlash from the guests of the gala, and mostly notably the Queen who was known to flog servants for lesser offenses.
They needn’t have.
None before would have known that Fear’s journals were less about analytical thoughts and observations of his peers and more about recipes from across the world and time, but now all know his deepest, darkest secret.
There was no way for Fear to know that he would find a warm welcome when he came to the mansion, but he soon realized that was exactly what he received. The greeting from the Queen may not have been as warm as that extended to Baal, but her was still heartily welcomed and made to feel at home by the staff moving throughout the party. Drinks, and his own overseen small plates, were brought to him with smiles. Eventually, the always perceptive Fear understood:
Outside of her chiding and teasing, Sarah had been quite vocal of her appreciation for him, and after being around her “people,” he could see why. Nearly everything everyone said was guarded, as if each were playing a social game of chess with one another. It was as if this entire group, from both the church-goers and the representatives from the state, spent every moment together in an unended battle of words, intentions, and misdirections.
This felt like home.
Aveline Lacklan was smug.
The Queen of Red stood atop the dias of the stairs and looked down upon the gala before her. She wore a brilliant dress of red silks with a train which took two servants to carry, and we resplendent to the eye. In a rare showing, the dress was cut low enough to show cleavage, rather than up to her neck as was normally proper, and there were no sleeves, so that the scars which run up and down her arms, some neat and clean while others are jagged and coarse, can be seen by all. Emeralds hang from her eyes, buffed to a shine that matched her eyes, and her newly-bleached platinum hair was up off her neck and in a high beehive.
“I thank you all for joining us.”
Her French accent was thick, her pronunciation of words often reverting to the nassal sounds of her birthplace, and not always easily distinguishable by those listening. But every set of eyes were on her, every breath abated for her, every attention glued to the Mistress of the Manor.
“Tonight is not just about the actions of two dear friends of mine, Eden Morgan and Gabriel Baal-”
She nearly faulted in her speech due to their surprising absence from the gala, but the pause was momentary and likely unnoticed by any.
“-but is about the very idea of what they espouse. Once, they wished to create something better than they had, though they found themselves let down by those who would join them-”
Her eyes slip and find Jet Somers, the Defiler of Truth, clutching a sack.
“-but their message and ideals still live with the faithful. Because as long as there is a Lacklan, a TRUE Lacklan, in the halls of this manor, there will always be someone looking to create order within the world, always looking to take what God wants and make it available to all. True, there may be times of strange bedfellows-”
Emerald eyes find Necron for a moment.
“-but such is life. Some might well find what happens on Monday to be poetic.”
She could feel it. She could feel the magic of this place, of Lacklanland. The magic which had first drew her to her late husband, which had drawn his harem before her. What had drawn all of those who followed the Path of the Light Church. Strange things happened her. Odd things. Whenever her husband had invited a friend or foe to be with him at his home, he had always offered them a warning:
Madness reigns.
She could feel it now. She could hear music. Was the orchestra playing? Did anyone else hear it?
“And though my career, and that of others within this room, often involves crimes against one another, crimes of anger, despair, pain, and theft, we are not, after all, complete devoid of feeling for one another. We often live by strife, often fighting one another in an attempt to demoralize as well as physically injure, we are always sorry to have to go to that level. For what, I ask-
That came out in song, her voice clear in the air.
She could feel the magic. The madness. This wasn’t strange. This was normal here in Lacklanland.
The music in her ears, the string quartet, build up in volume with a fast crescendo. All of the guests down below her, each and every one, turned on their heel and faced away from her, making every face looking out and upwards toward the heavens. Then, as one, they fell to their knees and raised their arms into the air.
Their voices broke into a choir’s powerful fortissimo, each note in the chord finding bodies to fill it and stretch it.
The choir dropped into a sudden piano, the throats of men and women alike opening to allow the same strength of voice at the lower dynamic.
The next note hits strong and then backs off, only to build with a crescendo again, possibly the world’s greatest sforzando forte-piano crescendo in the history of music.
In the greatest balance ever, the entire choir sounds as one, yet each individual voice can also be distinguished by the trained year. Aveline’s nassal alto. Fear’s broad base. Jet’s pleasing tenor. And, in the surprise of the night, Necron’s crystal-clear soprano. No one saw that one coming.
The voices move up and down throughout the notes, movement from within that brought chills to spines.
Silence. Heavy breathing. Awe at what they both witnessed and were apart of. Indeed, life and Outlast was full of poetry, and madness reigns in the hall of the Mountain King.
What is this? Where am I? What am I doing
The party. Gala. Eden.
WHY DIDN’T SHE COME?!
When did it end? Hours ago. We sang. We all sang. Because madness reigns. And then Jet. Dancing? Did that happen? What about Eden? Did Eden dance? Did she
WHY DIDN’T SHE COME?!
Gabriel. My friend. My friend was not there. Why was he not there? Why didn’t he come. Why didn’t
WHY DOESN’T HE HELP ME?!
I need help. I need DRIVE. I need I need I need I need
Outlast. Outlast is on Monday. Vain. Vainy. Vainy Vainy. Why is he so vain?
WHY IS ALAN SO VAIN?!
God doesn’t want you to be vain. Humble. Be humble, Alan. You have no reason to be vain. World championship? Means nothing. It is for no one.
I AM THE CHAMPION OF CHAOS
That is what matters. The world title doesn’t matter. Ugly, unwashed Zane. Dirty, disgusting lesbian Lucy. Arrogant Vain. Who cares?
WHO CARES?!
Not what I want. I want my title. I want Pierce. I want
Necron
Necron must not win.
Necron must be eliminated.
I will do it.
I WILL do it.
I will DO it.
I will do IT.
I WILL DO IT
When he doesn’t see it. When he doesn’t suspect. Help Necron. Save Necron. Defeat his foes.
And then betray him.
I do not care who wins.
But Necron must NEVER be world champion.
I will make sure of it.
Oh, husband, where I are you? I need you now.
Take this cup from my lips, Lord.
Let me sleep.
The need to survive and thrive is built into our DNA at a cosmic level by the Creator Himself. “Be fruitful and multiply,” so said God to Adam. Grow. Dominate. Name. Such is the battle we have in the world, the microcosm of life that is His favorite sport, the sport of wrestling. Be fruitful. Multiply. Hold dominion over the animals, lay claim to the land and sea. And above all else:
Outlast.
My charge, as you are all aware, is to take the chaos of this world, to embrace it, and create order in His glory. I have done so all year long, done so with a stamina unmatched and unrivaled by any other on the roster. And it is with THIS understanding, THIS belief, THIS truth, that I walk into Outlast with a confidence none other should have. Oh, some do, of course. But none SHOULD. For I, and I alone, have been here, facing the tribulations the Deceiver sends every week, and outlasting them all. And if anyone questions this, if anyone wishes to scratch an unfortunate growth on their chin and pipe in with “Actually!” allow me this moment to specify my case.
The field is awash with men and women who have chosen when to pick their battles instead of fighting the fight God wishes. While our world’s champion can nearly claim to have wrestled every week for the honor of the company, the truth is that he is missing a small handful of shows. And many within the company find themselves at the other extreme, the Wyldes and Lockhearts of the world, who seemingly take more time off than even a corrupt government official. And outside of the aforementioned Vain, the only people besides me to fight nearly every match is Fear, Somers, and Zane, and two of them are on my team. And on my direct opposing side, we have Gabriel and Eden, who have spent so much time doing their charity work that Mr. Hastings’ hat has given them breaks more time that Mizore Payne has been gifted unearned title opportunities; the giant Cazador who has proven himself to be not even able to lace the Harvester’s boots, much less be a monster; and Mr. MacLean, who had to be dug up out of obscurity, to borrow a touch from Fear.
So what does that mean? Does it mean that everyone aside from myself, Somers, and Fear are well-rested? Does it mean that they have an advantage? I say that they do not. Because the likes of myself and my two comrades have been forged in the fires of this company as if from the Lake of Fire itself. We are mentally stronger and tougher than the rest, and we will do on Monday that which we have done all year:
We will Outlast.
Of the nine people within the confines of this company who have had their hands raised more than ten times this year, three of them are all on my team. And when you think of wins over all across the year, again, my team dominates. Discounting the oddity that is Chill, Pain and Paradox have 17 wins, my opposing team of the serpents have 24, the Vaughan girl edges them out with 25, Teams Pain and Lockheart have 30 and 31 respectively, and then my own team eclipses them all with 44. The people on this team crush all others in consistency and the importance of victories.
We will Outlast, dear children.
Bonne nuit.
The wind had seen much over the years. It had seen a family of entrepreneurs, proud sons and their hardworking parents, move into the small house on the large plot of land. It had seen the family grow, and the house along with it, to become a palace. It had seen a bright-haired child turn into a man and a figure, had seen people flock to him, had seen houses erected to live in the shadow of the mansion. Had seen women come, women flee in the night. It had seen a funeral procession see the man put into the ground and the ball of flame rise. It had seen the flame be brought down to a smolder as an emerald took her place, shining with the glint of madness. And in all that time, it had seen many, many galas, each seemingly more pompous than the last.
The wind has seen another.
The wind had seen much confusion in the world about “Lacklanland,” the religious compound the mansion had spawned. The wind would smirk, its laughter causing trees to sigh and shake their leaves, as it thought of the source of that confusion, of that chaos, the little ball of fire. That ball of fire had embarked on a push for “tourism” and, across the forms of media, propagated the notion that the collection of abodes was itself its own nation, was “sovereign.” The dignitaries from the state of Maine suddenly became ambassadors, and the guards and gates to the private land was seen as a border check. The private high school’s marching band became the Mountain King’s Own.
Perception is reality. And just as people began to think of the little albino as “The Vampire of Lacklanland,” people began to see the reality of her home being the Rome of New England. And the wind, ever the proponent of chaos, appreciated the confusion that the little ball of fire created seemingly without effort. Of course, that was in her blood, and would be in the blood of her heirs, because as a new host of men and women were to learn tonight, madness reigned in this land.
The wind would chuckle, as sound to make the deer jump and giant forest spiders skitter away, as men and women, each disbelieving and disparaging, would be made to see reality as the Lacklans intended. Galas and dinners, training sessions and made-up holidays. One after another, they would arrive in long black cars, driven by a man in livery after being picked up at Bangor International, and expect to see the truth of the Lacklans. They would expect to see the mystic nonsense of religion, servants, and the everpresent battle of darkness and light to be strripped away, and instead see an old athlete, or a daughter over her head, or a perfectly normal woman with a fake French accent.
One by one, they have been proven wrong.
In their bewilderment, they step out of the car and onto a red carpet. They are greeted by the sound of the marching band playing the “National Anthem” of the land. Met with men and women, each wearing outfits of silk and lace, applauding their arrival. And in the course of hours and days, either the old man in the mask, the little ball of fire, or the woman with emerald eyes, would take them on a tour of twisting halls and a “society” pulled out of time. Friends and foes, stablemates and nemeses, all were welcomed into the madness.
The wind would roll its eyes, if it would get away with not paying the ball of flame a copyright fee, at the premise of tonight’s gala. It was not the first celebration for a fake charity, but it imagined it was the first one a serpent had been given. But many of the galas had been for reasons such as this, because the current ruling party had a scheme and narrative to employ, for trickery and manipulation were tools of the Lacklan family. Thus, it was for pure fancy that dignitaries and social figures arrived for the gala, each dressed as if attending a fashion show in Paris, a prerequisite for walking through the door. The wind found the most humor in, of course, the attendance of the larger-than-life personalities of those who made their living from fighting, as did the current generations of the family. The wind had seen many come, and it chuckled when it saw one it recognized arrive this night. Apparently, it was to be a yearly tradition for the one with the glorious hair.
The sounds of trumpets can be heard. The Queen’s Processional has begun and the gala started in earnest. The wind takes this time to fly to the windows and enjoy the show.
Jet Somers found himself in a place of duality.
He couldn’t help but groan and shake his luxurious hair-filled head at the joke about him being the person to carry the bags. Many...MANY...months ago, someone (Maggie?) had made a joke on twitter that Jet carried Eden and Gabriel’s bags, and since Bordy, in all her weirdness, took things on the internet to be 100% literally, she thought it was true. And not only that, but had named her OWN personal assistant “Jet,” because she thought that ALL people who carried bags were named Jet. He hoped that everyone appreciated his joke in return: Dumping all the bags into one of the six fountains.
He had been apprehensive about coming here, as it could easily turn into a brawl considering the recipients of the party, but the requests from the Grey-Lacklans were too strong. Thankfully, neither Eden nor Gabriel were at the party in their “honor,” something he never got an explanation for, but he didn’t really care; he was just glad they weren’t there. It made his mission that much easier.
“Da! Da! Da! Da da da! Da! Da! Da! Da da da! Da da-da!
He could’t help himself. He HAD to sing the Mission: Impossible theme song to himself as he “ninja’d” his was through the halls with a map Sarah had provided. He also couldn’t help himself to NOT use one of Sarah’s fake verbs like “ninja’d” or “ninja’ing.” There was something about this place, something about this house and this land, that made you do weird things. For instance, after he had dumped all the bags and gotten himself a drink from a liviered water, one of the fancily dressed party guests asked him if he wanted to play a game of Monopoly. He KNEW that was a bad idea, KNEW that there was NO WAY IN HELL he was going to get sucked into a 17 hour game like last year and land on both Park Place AND Boardwalk...WITH HOTELS...EVERY DAMN TIME...again this year. But he ALMOST did. He ALMOST said yes.
This place was weird.
Sarah had given him a slideshow presentation, which had made Kenzi groan and throw her head into her hands, about where she thought the video would be, and what Jet would have to do to retrieve it. The surprisingly detailed slideshow included maps, schematics, guard duty rotations, and an overly and unnecessarily complex character and backstory for Jet to assume, should he be caught. Sarah had also provided him with an appropriate outfit. Black bodysuit, a mask to “hide all that glorious hair,” which was said with legitimate Anime-hearts in her red eyes, and all manners of ropes, string, caltrops, and other assorted gear appropriate for a cat burglar.
He shook his head full of glistening mane as he made his way through the halls and to the double doors which lead to Bordy’s bedroom, that which once belonged to Kenzi and Sarah. If that “Escape from Lacklan Manor” game was accurate, the sheer amount of gross and depraved lesbian sex that happened in that room over the last year was an amount which would trigger people to write google docs about, but it was quiet now. Bordy infamously longed for her late husband, and there was surely no sex going on in that room since she took over months ago.
Through the large doors he goes, keeping his footfalls as quiet as he can, but then stops cold. The room was a mess. It looked as if a tornado had blown through and sent it kilter. The bed had a large canopy, but the sheets were on the ground in a puddle of cloth, and the mattress was laying on its side and had several slashes in it, the white fluff underneath peeking out through the slits. Dressers and end tables were on their side, the shattered remains of several broken vases and jars on the ground. A broken mirror on a wall, the glass spiralling to show a million reflections. Parts of the walls punched in, others cut with a knife.
Jet could hear sounds of the revelry on the first floor of the mansion as he ruffled through the debris that was Aveline Lacklan’s bedroom. He knew he was taking too much time, knew that people would be looking for him, but he had to find his target. Sarah knew that her “Step-Mumsie” would keep what was rumored to be an embarrassing, and possibly incriminating, video of Kenzi close to her person, but amidst the wreckage, he couldn’t see how he would ever-
And there it was. A laptop laying on the ground under an overturned desk. He popped it upon and groaned when he saw it needed a password. He was no tech wizard, he couldn’t hack it. What would she use as a password? He tried everything he could think of.
Champion of Chaos
Blade of God
Edge of God
Stop Stalking Me, Donovan
Lesbians are the worst
Nothing worked. But then it hit him. His fingers hit the keys and he smiled as he saw a plain background pop up.
Il est ressuscité
"He is risen."
He ejected the DVD drive and, with the sound of Link opening a treasure chest going through his mind, he saw a DVD marked “K. Grey, A. Chase.” Little Jet would have LOVED to put the CD back into it and take some time to “investigate” what was rumored to be a sex tape featuring Kenzi Grey and Ashley Marie Chase in a Las Vegas hotel a couple of years ago, but his larger head outweighed his smaller on. He grabbed the DVD, tucked it into the fanny pack Sarah had provided, and headed back out to enjoy the party.
Necron would have been fooling himself if he had thought that walking into the Lacklan mansion would have meant being greeted with open arms.
He was not.
Oh, the Royal Crier, the Richard Vaughn of Vaughnemous Legend, was there to call out a litany of titles as he walked into the hall, just as every other guest of the party, but anyone even halfway perceptive could see that he was treated somewhat tersely. Whereas Jet and Deimos received a host of drink and food options carried by servants, the Harvester was left to fend for himself. But since he was probably just going to find some unwitting chambermaid to kidnap, grape, torture, and ultimately cook over an open fire after borrowing some of Chez Jean-Paul’s blackening spices anyway, he was not too worried about becoming famished.
The giant ignored the looks of disdain and disgust from fellow party-goers as he lit up a handful of Coffin Nails and let out a massive plume of smoke while puffing on four at a time. He walked around in that cloud of smoke while he took in the measure of the mansion. He had been fascinated by Bordy from the moment he saw her, and her rise from living in a dilapidated warehouse to taking the fineries of her late husband’s wealth did not lesson that fascination. What was she? Rival? Friend? Lover? Everything? He still didn’t know.
He enjoyed the refinement of the house, though it was certainly odd. It seemed to be a mixture of modern architecture and turn-of-the-century furnishings, with walls covered in murals and tapestries, massive red and gold rugs on the hardwood floors, and a seemingly unending line of statues and busts. Most seem to be of the founders of the family, with some looking to date back several generations, but the ones of Bordy’s late husband continually caught his eye. It took a while to realize that three different people were really all the same, perhaps in a hint of Bordy’s God’s trinity nature, but once he knew what to look for, a set of eyes which seemed to be pools within the Abyss, he could see the connection. One bust was of a handsome man with shoulder-length hair. Another was of a bald man with a facemask, his head full of burn scars. And then the third, of a mask hiding his entire head, with those Abyss-filled eyes seen behind a dark glass set into the mask.
He took the time to ask one of the servants for an explanation, and the clearly terrified little man answered the Harvester: Jean-Paul Lacklan, the man. Jean-Paul Lacklan, the Savior after fires had ruined his face. And Jean-Paul Lacklan, the Voice of God, who was afflicted with cancer, and who needed help talking and breathing.
Tough way to go.
He also enjoyed the busts and paintings of “Little Red,” the albino girl who liked to light fires and had purchased what should have been a lifetime supply of his cigarettes. Paintings of her in ballet, of her in cheer in high school, of her wearing a dark robe and too much makeup, of her wearing a black wedding dress while her wife wore a white, the two living their shared duality. Interesting girl. And considering the house she grew up in, it made a lot of sense to see how she turned out: Full of sharp modern edges, yet wrapped up in centuries’ old clothing..
The dragon-sized creature grimaces when it hears “music.” The gargantuan ball of smoke rolls over to where the string quartet had been set up and saw a rock band in their place. He didn’t know it, but the late patron of the house not only enjoyed guitar-driven rock as much as classical, but he had even opened a club for his followers to gather many years ago called Salvation’s End. He also didn’t know that “The Jew,” for whom the Jew’s Cross had been fashioned, had burned down that musical venue during their time fighting in completely unrealistic ways. Necron would have enjoyed that. But what he DID know is that this band was decent...but the drummer was terrible.
He hated bad drummers.
It was time for the drummers harvest to be grim.
Because he’s the Grim Harvester.
Did you know that Phrixus Deimos’ day job was as a food critic?
You didn’t?!
Welp, you do now!
The chefs at Chez Jean-Paul scoffed as the aged wrestler slipped into the kitchen like he was a llama named Kuzco (Hi, Ang!). Indeed, they had been pushing out Michelin star-worthy cajun food, the favorite of the Lacklan family for generations, for well over a decade. What did HE have to know or say about anything THEY could put out?
Lots, apparently.
Gone were the prawns in butter. Gone were was the blackened salmon. Gone, even, were the little pigs in a blanket, those disgustings things that the Queen of Red liked to eat. In their place, under the strict direction of Deimos, were plates full of crostini smeared with pork tenderloin, crab cakes stuffed with a sweet and cool salsa, and the Queen’s prefered jarred hotdogs replaced with delectable sausage. The chefs were worried about backlash from the guests of the gala, and mostly notably the Queen who was known to flog servants for lesser offenses.
They needn’t have.
None before would have known that Fear’s journals were less about analytical thoughts and observations of his peers and more about recipes from across the world and time, but now all know his deepest, darkest secret.
There was no way for Fear to know that he would find a warm welcome when he came to the mansion, but he soon realized that was exactly what he received. The greeting from the Queen may not have been as warm as that extended to Baal, but her was still heartily welcomed and made to feel at home by the staff moving throughout the party. Drinks, and his own overseen small plates, were brought to him with smiles. Eventually, the always perceptive Fear understood:
Outside of her chiding and teasing, Sarah had been quite vocal of her appreciation for him, and after being around her “people,” he could see why. Nearly everything everyone said was guarded, as if each were playing a social game of chess with one another. It was as if this entire group, from both the church-goers and the representatives from the state, spent every moment together in an unended battle of words, intentions, and misdirections.
This felt like home.
Aveline Lacklan was smug.
The Queen of Red stood atop the dias of the stairs and looked down upon the gala before her. She wore a brilliant dress of red silks with a train which took two servants to carry, and we resplendent to the eye. In a rare showing, the dress was cut low enough to show cleavage, rather than up to her neck as was normally proper, and there were no sleeves, so that the scars which run up and down her arms, some neat and clean while others are jagged and coarse, can be seen by all. Emeralds hang from her eyes, buffed to a shine that matched her eyes, and her newly-bleached platinum hair was up off her neck and in a high beehive.
“I thank you all for joining us.”
Her French accent was thick, her pronunciation of words often reverting to the nassal sounds of her birthplace, and not always easily distinguishable by those listening. But every set of eyes were on her, every breath abated for her, every attention glued to the Mistress of the Manor.
“Tonight is not just about the actions of two dear friends of mine, Eden Morgan and Gabriel Baal-”
She nearly faulted in her speech due to their surprising absence from the gala, but the pause was momentary and likely unnoticed by any.
“-but is about the very idea of what they espouse. Once, they wished to create something better than they had, though they found themselves let down by those who would join them-”
Her eyes slip and find Jet Somers, the Defiler of Truth, clutching a sack.
“-but their message and ideals still live with the faithful. Because as long as there is a Lacklan, a TRUE Lacklan, in the halls of this manor, there will always be someone looking to create order within the world, always looking to take what God wants and make it available to all. True, there may be times of strange bedfellows-”
Emerald eyes find Necron for a moment.
“-but such is life. Some might well find what happens on Monday to be poetic.”
She could feel it. She could feel the magic of this place, of Lacklanland. The magic which had first drew her to her late husband, which had drawn his harem before her. What had drawn all of those who followed the Path of the Light Church. Strange things happened her. Odd things. Whenever her husband had invited a friend or foe to be with him at his home, he had always offered them a warning:
Madness reigns.
She could feel it now. She could hear music. Was the orchestra playing? Did anyone else hear it?
“And though my career, and that of others within this room, often involves crimes against one another, crimes of anger, despair, pain, and theft, we are not, after all, complete devoid of feeling for one another. We often live by strife, often fighting one another in an attempt to demoralize as well as physically injure, we are always sorry to have to go to that level. For what, I ask-
IIIIIIIIS LIIIIIIIIIIFE...”
That came out in song, her voice clear in the air.
”...withoooout a touuuuuuch…”
She could feel the magic. The madness. This wasn’t strange. This was normal here in Lacklanland.
”...of pooooetryyyyy iiiiiin iiiiiit?”
The music in her ears, the string quartet, build up in volume with a fast crescendo. All of the guests down below her, each and every one, turned on their heel and faced away from her, making every face looking out and upwards toward the heavens. Then, as one, they fell to their knees and raised their arms into the air.
HAAAAIL POOOOETRYYYYY
THOU HEAVNNNNN’-BOOOOORN MAAAAAID!
THOU GILDEST E’EV THE PIRATE TRAAAAADE
HAAAAAAIL, FLOWING FOUNT OF SEEENTIIIIMENNNNNT
ALL HAIL! ALLL HAAAAIL! DIVIIIIIIIINE!
EMOOOOOOLLIEEEEEEEEENT!
What is this? Where am I? What am I doing
The party. Gala. Eden.
WHY DIDN’T SHE COME?!
When did it end? Hours ago. We sang. We all sang. Because madness reigns. And then Jet. Dancing? Did that happen? What about Eden? Did Eden dance? Did she
WHY DIDN’T SHE COME?!
Gabriel. My friend. My friend was not there. Why was he not there? Why didn’t he come. Why didn’t
WHY DOESN’T HE HELP ME?!
I need help. I need DRIVE. I need I need I need I need
Outlast. Outlast is on Monday. Vain. Vainy. Vainy Vainy. Why is he so vain?
WHY IS ALAN SO VAIN?!
God doesn’t want you to be vain. Humble. Be humble, Alan. You have no reason to be vain. World championship? Means nothing. It is for no one.
I AM THE CHAMPION OF CHAOS
That is what matters. The world title doesn’t matter. Ugly, unwashed Zane. Dirty, disgusting lesbian Lucy. Arrogant Vain. Who cares?
WHO CARES?!
Not what I want. I want my title. I want Pierce. I want
Necron
Necron must not win.
Necron must be eliminated.
I will do it.
I WILL do it.
I will DO it.
I will do IT.
I WILL DO IT
When he doesn’t see it. When he doesn’t suspect. Help Necron. Save Necron. Defeat his foes.
And then betray him.
I do not care who wins.
But Necron must NEVER be world champion.
I will make sure of it.
Oh, husband, where I are you? I need you now.
Take this cup from my lips, Lord.
Let me sleep.
x2
