Post by Eden Morgan on Sept 22, 2018 22:21:24 GMT -5
Chicago- Synergy
Eden had just rounded the corner with her escort of security guards, and already the scene at the end of the hall made her want to turn around and head right back to where Necron lay.
The door to Jordan King's office was ajar, King standing within the doorway, a concerned frown on his face. Outside, Rogan MacLean leans against a wall, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Gabriel Baal in the midst of what appears to be a sort of meltdown. Eden couldn't make out the words, but if the animosity between him and Caleb grew any worse, they'd come to blows--
It was Caleb who spotted her first, his angry gaze making her groan and almost shrink back between the security around her. She looks away just as Gabriel turns, his eyes widening incredulously to see her approaching.
“Hey, guys, I know you were told to escort me to the trainer's, but you know, I'm fine, and I think I'd rather just-- take a cab, call an uber, go into WitPro--”
“EDEN!”
Eden winces as her name is roared down the hallway, angry footsteps approaching.
“Never mind, guys, I think that ship has sailed--”
Security departs around her as Gabriel reaches her, as furious as she'd ever seen him. He opens his mouth to speak, clamping his lips shut as he takes in her appearance, Eden briefly considering that she likely should have requested a shower first to wash all the blood off. She was probably pretty terrifying right about now.
Gabriel says nothing but moves swiftly, his fingers locking around her arm, dragging her toward Jordan's office.
“Hey! Gabriel, wait-- would you stop!! OhmyFUCKINGgod-- hello again, Jordan,” Eden says in an aside, smiling sweetly at Jordan, as Gabriel yanks her into the exam room. She could feel the tacky blood on her face stretching with each movement. When she's finally released, Eden rubs her arm where Gabriel had gripped her.
“That fucking hurt, you dick,” she complains, Gabriel not even looking at her. Instead, he looks to Jordan.
“Examine her, make it quick,” he says shortly, turning toward the door, preparing to slam out of the room.
“I don't need to be examined, I'm fine—”
Gabriel turns back around, pointing a finger at her, his hand shaking, before retracting it. He seems to be fighting himself not to speak, turning back toward the door to exit, and then back around to face her.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!”
Eden's eyes narrow as she comes off the examination table, well aware they had an audience. The hulking Cazador now stands outside the office, adopting a similar stance as Rogan, but it was obvious the two of them were listening.
And then there was Jordan, who was watching the scene before them with wide eyes.
“Eden, I should probably check you out,” the head trainer begins, Eden turning on him angrily.
“When I say I'm fine, that means I'm fucking fine, Jordan--”
“Edie,” Jordan placates, “you're covered in blood--”
“IT'S NOT MINE!” she screams, gritting her teeth and then shrugging. “Well, most of it--”
“Get out,” Gabriel says quietly, his eyes not straying from Eden before him.
Jordan clears his throat.
“I'll give you two a few minutes,” he says, gathering up some papers and a clipboard before exiting his office and closing the door behind him-- though that did nothing to prevent anyone passing from hearing the ensuing argument.
“What... happened?” Gabriel asks. Normally, he would be pacing, there would be movement of some sort, but just now, there was none. He was entirely still, just watching her, and Eden was strongly reminded of the way a snake coils up before it strikes.
“I snuck out and went to find Necron,” she says boldly, holding her arms out to her sides, her blood-splattered body and clothes on display. “I found him.”
“So... fuck what we went through to get you back, fuck the worry, fuck the sleepless nights, the fucking nightmares, the fucking fear that you were dead! You just risk it all, that it?” Gabriel's voice rises with each word until he's shouting at her by the end.
Eden matches his anger with her own.
“Back the fuck off, Gabriel,” she warns him. “I made this decision because I knew you would never let it happen. I needed to do this for me. I did the same fucking thing with Necron that I did with Dragon... and you,” she says the last bitterly, watching him with flashing eyes. The last two words seem to take some of the steam out of Gabriel's anger, but before he can address it, the door opens without a knock.
“I said, GET OUT--” Gabriel begins, his words halting when he sees Ichabod standing there. Ichabod looks from Gabriel to Eden, a smile growing on his face.
“You did exactly what you should have done. Fuck, that was cathartic. When you hit him in the face with that cattle prod--”
Ichabod is cut off as Gabriel closes the distance between them, gripping him by the throat and slamming him against the wall. Ichabod's eyes bug out as he chokes, gasping for air.
“You fucking watched it and you said nothing?!” Gabriel rages.
“Watched it? He's the one who handed me the cattle prod,” Eden says with some amusement. Rogan's eyes meet hers through the open doorway, the expression serious. Ichabod looks over at her as his face starts to turn purple.
“Not... the time.. Princess,” he manages to croak out, staring into the angry face of the man who had ended his career.
Eden rolls her eyes and approaches slowly, touching Gabriel's shoulders lightly.
“Hey... Gabriel... come on. Let him go. Consider this, if he hadn't given me the cattle prod, I'd have faced Necron with nothing--” as expected her words bring Gabriel around on her, Ichabod forgotten. With the grip around his throat gone for the moment, Ichabod gasps in oxygen, his hand rubbing at the reddened skin around his neck.
“You were going after Necron WITH NOTHING?!” Gabriel rages.
“ENOUGH!” Ichabod shouts over him. He looks outside the door, waving toward Rogan. “You need to get in here. I have something to tell the three of you,” he says, still rubbing his throat, his voice a little hoarse.
Rogan seems to debate whether to join them or not before striding inside. He stands apart from all of them, watching them warily even though Gabriel hasn't looked away from Eden.
“You too, big guy. Get in here,” Ichabod says, waving Cazador in and shutting the door behind him. Cazador takes up a stance against the wall, his hulking frame filling the corner he chooses and making the room seem altogether smaller.
“Gabriel, don't kill her yet. You may need her at Outlast. After that, well, choice is yours,” Ichabod jokes, Eden casting him a withering look. “At Outlast-- all of you are going to be standing across from Necron, and after everything that's happened, you need to be ready. Princess--” Ichabod begins, looking to Eden. “If you think this is over after what you did earlier, as impressive as you were with that hammer, you haven't been paying attention.”
At mention of the hammer, Rogan's eyes widen just a bit. Eden could feel his stare on her, studying her like she was some new and interesting specimen. Gabriel seemed to want to ask something, but bites the question back as Ichabod continues.
“Necron likes to throw around this 'Ichabod's Children' phrase like he thinks it's cute. It's nonsense, of course, but we know who he considers that to be. Gabriel. Eden. Rogan. Jase. I can't imagine him not including Holden, and Holden is well aware of the potential for him to be a target. Necron has this notion that, like Mekare, I've reared warriors to place between myself and his vengeance--”
“Haven't you?” Gabriel asks sharply.
Ichabod stares at him for a long moment before continuing.
“I want you to understand that my intentions were not meant to use you as hurdles. Or sacrifices. That being said, I'd be lying if I pretended at least some of the guidance I offered wasn't meant to prepare you for the eventuality that you might one day come face to face with my own personal demon. He's here, and maybe you understand now that you can't just shrug him off.”
Ichabod starts to pace, shaking his head.
“This, the joining of you three,” he indicates Gabriel, Rogan, and Eden, “has to end at Outlast. Bringing even the three of you together for an extended time is probably the stupidest fucking thing we can do, because he'll most likely just knock you all out at once like bowling pins, so I wouldn't go looking for B-Pac, Desmond, or Holden after this.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” Rogan murmurs.
“I'm being realistic. Overconfidence will end you, do NOT get cocky with Necron,” Ichabod warns. “You've got your requisite team of four to participate in this tournament, and you're each capable of unleashing unbridled hell on Necron. Do it. But I'll tell you this; losing contact with so many of the people each of you love may be the smartest thing you can do, and it would probably serve each of you best if you made peace with the idea that you'll probably lose each other too,” he looks directly at Gabriel and Eden as he speaks. “Fight against that and he'll use it to kill you. You need to be prepared for the worst possible outcome. I'm not kidding here. If you aren't ready to watch each other die, you're fucked, because he'll know how to break you, and once you're broken, he won't stop haunting you with it. Necron hates for anyone to have something over his head, and you made sure you did. This is the graveyard you chose to walk through.”
“I never chose this, despite what you or Necron say,” Eden says darkly.
“Nor I,” Gabriel agrees.
Rogan shakes his head silently, but appears to be in agreement with his teammates.
“Be that as it may, it's here. It's upon you. I lived through my war in Gehenna, and walked away victorious, but empty. I have nothing left to give this war except this advice: You haven't seen anything yet,” Ichabod says grimly.
Goosebumps rise along Eden's skin. She looks down at her arms, marveling at the fact that even though her flesh was splattered with his blood, hearing those words from Ichabod made her fearful. And still, she could hear the wet thunk, feel the vibration as the heavy sledgehammer drove into Necron's body that was as yielding as any man's--
“Necron has playfully let you scratch the surface. Do you think the big bastard and the spooky preacher are all? You think that city is all he has? That's his fucking ant farm. You haven't met the serial killer named for the sound your guts make when they hit the pavement. You haven't met the genetically altered monster that the military created--”
A grunt this time from Cazador, who they'd all forgotten was there, but seems to be listening intently.
“You might do well to get your Russian friend to look up what he can about something called BioGen, and then realize you can't pray hard enough to keep him from bringing those motherfuckers in on this. This is an unending nightmare, and the only way out of it is to take the path I took. Just let go.”
Gabriel looks over at Eden, realizing that was exactly what she'd done.
“Now, if you want an edge, take that picture you found and figure out a way to get it to Roxy Cotton. I can't believe you choads haven't figured that out yet, gods damn it,” Ichabod glares at Eden and Gabriel. “Stop stumbling about like angry, blind children, and start throwing shit in the pot and see what happens.”
“Perhaps if you didn't treat this like it's a game and actually gave us the information we need when we ask for it-- considering this is the remnants of your war. It all comes back to you--” Gabriel takes a menacing step forward, Eden catching his arm. He continues to stare daggers at Ichabod.
“Blame me all you want, but at the end of the day, this war is on your doorstep, and you don't have a choice whether you answer the call or not. I'd say good luck, but you're all out. So I'll repeat what I said to Eden earlier tonight,” he looks directly to her, past Gabriel. “Don't let up. DO. NOT. LET. UP.”
Ichabod looks to each of them, as if that one look could seal his message in their minds... and then walks out of the room.
Just beyond the edge of the woods and into a clearing, possibly in this realm and possibly in another, lies what is known as The Devil's Playground. Sometimes it appeared, sometimes it didn't with neither rhyme nor reason. Woe be to those who tread where demons dance, and yet.... oh, and yet...
There was nothing particularly glamorous or magical about this particular carnival. It simply was. Dingy, red and white striped tents strung with lanterns take up the majority of the clearing. The furthest tent towers over the others, lording over them all. The smell of stale popcorn and sickly-sweet cotton candy fill the air, the glittering lights of carousels brightening up the darkness. The jingling sounds of midway games echo throughout, the delighted “carnies” calling patrons over to place a harmless wager.
A fun house can be seen in the distance, its line long, a tall, blonde man with lime-green eyes doffing his top hat as he welcomes new customers into its confines. He glances up, a wry, secretive smile curving his lips, a slight shimmer to his skin as if something lurks just beneath the depths, some unspeakable horror or glamor, perhaps.
A hulking giant of a man wearing a plague doctor's mask oversees the “strong man competitions”, culling the wheat from the chaff, the best of the best moved away from the crowd with the promise of the ultimate prize.
It all appears on the up and up... until you look just a bit deeper, just below that shining, glimmering circus. Suddenly, the cries from the funhouse don't sound as happy and excited as they did before, more like panicky, terror-field screams that echo into the perpetual night. The house pulses and writhes as though it were a living thing, digesting the fear of those within.
Once you start to see the cracks in the facade, everything begins to chip away. The music plays on, but now it's at a dragging, slovenly rate that causes the hairs on the back of the neck to raise. The pipes of the calliope were rigid and hollow tubes... but ones found within the body. The whistling, steam-propelled sounds force their way through human trachea, the entire steam engine dripping a puddle of dark crimson fluid beneath it. It seems to struggle, to take a last gasping breath and then--- fresh screams all around and the music picks up once more.
The stale popcorn and sickeningly sweet cotton candy that had once scented the air takes on a more fetid stench. The candy apples glow an eerie fluorescent green or sometimes black, and in their shiny, inviting surfaces, death is present. You watch as the unwary take a bite, the masterminds within the food carriage chuckling to themselves.
There are no quick deaths here, only aching, nerve-searing, mind-ripping torment. Twisted and contorted bodies are swiftly moved out of the way, shuffled off to the House of Freaks to be gawked at in their death throes.
One particularly proud culinarian covered in stains and body fluids, proudly hawks what he considers to be the “best BLT of all time”. That sounds utterly normal, perhaps...
Dynamic bacon, a brand known for its immense streaks of fat. A wylde tomato, the only nutrient rich portion of the sandwich, but rendered ineffective in its current location, struggling to survive beneath the lashings of grease dripping from the bacon and weighing it down, the Iceberg lettuce beneath it utterly useless, devoid of any taste or nutrition. What was its point in the sandwich, anyway? The whole disappointing thing was held together by two slabs of unfulfilling, dull, and lackluster payne bread, so named because the only real use for the bread was to clog drafty windowpanes in winter.
If you decide to pass up such a terrible sandwich, you could hardly be blamed... but then would you have much of an appetite once you'd delved within the horrors on display in the Freak Show?
A brand new exhibit has taken center-stage within the House of Freaks, a quartet of young women on display, each with her own sorrow lying just behind her eyes.
A young blonde wrapped in furs sits as still as possible, trying as she may not to move, though her efforts are in vain as a loud cymbal crashes behind her, a malevolent snicker echoing through the chamber as she clambers to her feet with a frightened shriek followed by screams of pain as she collapses onto all fours. A chorus of meows comes from seemingly within her, and it's then noticed that she isn't clothed head to toe in fur... her flesh is covered in it. The fur roils and meows, a paw sticking out here, a claws slashing the air, a tale twitching furtively there. It's as though cats are sewn within her, all of them still alive and each of them fighting to rip their way out of her. Her screams echo around the chamber as she claps her hands over her ears, trying desperately to stop the constant cries of her beloved felines that rage in her ears even as they try to pull themselves free of her, tugging her every which way imaginable.
Watching the young blonde is a slightly older one, her face haggard, red eyes squinting at those who peer at her and her other half. She is one half of the conjoined twins, not born, but created. Where she is abnormally fair, her other half is dark. She stands before the gawkers and the spectators, tears running down her cheeks as they mock her and the deathly still dark lady whose head rests on her shoulder. They'd been sewn together, conjoined by a metal wire binding one half of each of their bodies. It was their curse that they could never be together, yet always were, as their bodily symptoms could only support one of them alive at a time. And so, when one of them died, the other rose from the proverbial grave to see the last few seconds of life slipping from her loved one's eyes.
The final member of the quartet is an extremely lifelike ventriloquist dummy. She sat alone in her immobile plastic perfection on a chair, just waiting to be lifted up and placed on someone's lap. Patrons were invited to “try her out”, guaranteed to get a scream from her bubblegum pink lips when they force their hand inside her. And suddenly, her mouth would be moving, words spilling out that weren't her own. Her brain was still perfectly fine, her mind a prison of outrage and horror at her circumstances. Most of the spectators at least placed her back in the chair that had become hers, though every now and then, one would grow disgusted by the lewdness of the doll and toss her to the side. She could see it coming but couldn't stop it, couldn't even cry out as she felt the ground rush up to meet her, smashing her face into the dirt. Only the most observant would witness the solitary tear that trickled from her crystalline green eye down her plastic cheek.
Finally, if one wanted, you could witness Vanity's defeat inside the Hall of Mirrors. Watch as the once arrogant braggart struggles through an undefeatable maze, every mirror touched erupting in shards of glass spraying outward toward him only to be replaced immediately. Spectators flock to the area to point and laugh as the broken man ricochets through the maze, sharp glass spraying around him and cutting him to ribbons, his eyes bloody, sightless ruins so that he can't even stand still and enjoy the comfort of his own beauty.
This... is The Devil's Playground, where macabre minds collaborate to bid you welcome to their wickedness. Mind your step, dearie, for purveyors of pestilence walk these paths. Here, sin is a currency more dear than copper.
Scream if you need anything.
September 19, 2018
New York- Demonsacre
Eden drops down into the plush chair behind her desk, the silence in the office she shared with Gabriel a novelty. A slow smile creeps across her face as she glances around, looking again at the nameplate she'd recently acquired for herself, and then across at the one she'd gotten for Gabriel.
Eden Morgan, SEVP of Baal Holdings.
The door to the office opens, Eden looking up, expecting to see Caleb, or even Gabriel, but instead Rogan MacLean fills the doorway.
“Sup' Rogie?” she asks irreverently, clasping her hands together on the desk before her as she looks at him.
Rogan casts a withering glare her way and then looks to the empty chair in the desk across from hers.
“I've just been to see Jase, I was going to speak with Gabriel, but as he isn't here, I'll do so later. See you in Pittsburgh--” he starts to leave, closing the door behind him.
“What's the rush? We haven't had much time to catch up, you and I,” Eden says.
“What's to catch up? We were never close.”
“No. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say there's always been some... friction between us. Why is that, do you think?” Eden asks.
Rogan turns around, entering the office. He stops before her desk, planting his hands shoulder-width apart on it and leaning down toward her. Eden stays where she is, the smile not moving from her lips.
“Let's get something straight, lass. I don't like you, and if ever there were a more true pairing of serpents than you and Baal, I can't think on it. This whole thing-- I have half a mind to walk away now, to leave the two of you standing with Cazador at Outlast--”
“I had coffee with him just before I got here earlier, he really is a lovely man, I don't know what Gabriel was talking about he only says two things, he spoke English with me quite fluently--”
Rogan slams the palm of his hand down on her desk, rattling her new nameplate.
Eden frowns at him.
“Well now you're just being rude--”
He does it again, the nameplate now teetering on the edge.
“This whole thing with the Grim Harvester sounds an awful like an Eden and Gabriel problem,” Rogan says with meaning.
Eden leans forward, practically purring.
“Except with what happened with Jase, you and I both know it isn't just an Eden and Gabriel problem. My suggesting you to add to our cause was me broadening the scope. Dear,” she uses the endearment as though it were a slur.
Rogan observes her in silence for a long moment.
“Have you been to see him?” he asks quietly.
“Why would I do that? I haven't given a fuck about Jason Ingalls in years,” she answers, just as emptily as he'd asked.
Rogan smirks.
“A lie, that. You understand your part in what's happened to Jase. You're the originator. I saw your face in the San Jose facility--”
“That was nothing more than having a stark reminder of what Necron is. Jase has new nightmares to keep him warm. I've had them for weeks,” Eden replies and then cocks her head with a smile. “Until Synergy anyway.”
“I should be surprised at your capacity for violence, but I'm not. You're the product of quite a few of the most violent types this sport has ever seen. James Spyder. Colin Zale. Ichabod. Your mentors are a roadmap to your realities,” Rogan says almost to himself, studying the woman before him. He suddenly seems to snap out of it. “Tell me what happened with Jet.”
Eden flinches at the sudden topic change and the subject matter, but her tone takes on an air of nonchalance that causes Rogan's eyes to narrow.
“Jet did what Jet does best-- he went all high and mighty. He turned on Gabriel and myself...” she trails off, shaking her head. “I had a choice to make and so did he. I did what I could to help him make the choice he had to make. I'd made mine long before I actually realized I did,” she says, looking to Rogan. “Why are we talking about Jet when our focus should be Necron?”
Rogan shrugs, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
“I wanted to know if I could trust you in the ring with him. I'm not sure I can,” he says, musing.
Eden glares at him.
“Never have I ever backed down from Jet Somers in a ring.”
Rogan holds up his hands in mock surrender.
“Fair enough, lass. And what of Deimos and Le Bord de Dieu?”
The smile gone from her face, Eden appraises Rogan.
“Let me make this perfectly clear-- anyone who stands with Necron is an enemy. I don't care if that's Jet, who has once again managed to conveniently put aside his morals in the search for a W, Phrixus who is still sore with me over what I did to his prized library, or Aveline who, despite her simpering and professed hatred for him, still worked with The Grim Harvester at Synergy... as you well remember,” she says snidely.
Rogan glowers.
“I know that Gabriel has singled her out for mercy-- I have not,” Eden says harshly. “There will be no mercy for Aveline, none for Phrixus, none for Necron, and none for Jet. This goes beyond us making it to any final where Alan Wallace waits, resting upon laurels he'll pretend he's earned. This is about us destroying Necron and everyone who stands with him. No matter the cost.”
Rogan muses on her words, and nods.
“So be it,” he says, moving toward the door. “Tell Gabriel I've been to see Jase. He seemed--” Rogan pauses, hunting for the word. “-- more peaceful. I was happy to see it.”
“He's not... repeating that... word... anymore?” Eden asks, the tone of her voice indicating indifference, but the halting manner in which she spoke the words giving lie to it.
“Why don't you go see him and find out?” Rogan challenges her, closing the door behind him.
And within. Oh, within.
There were choices to make within the funhouse, each person's experience customized to their own choices, their unique fingerprint. No two were alike, no two experienced the same thing... no two died the same way.
The creativity of those within even impressed him.
The Fomorian scratches a nearly clawed hand at his chest, feeling the tentacles that lay hidden beneath his shirt and the overlying glamour. He glances back over those in line before him. A jaded former talk show host, full of his own self-importance stands first in line. Behind him is a beautiful, petite woman, her hair changing in the lights from a silvery-grey to black. Her eyes meet the Fomorian's and anger flashes there. She was full of rage, and those within would glut themselves on the conflict brewing just beneath the surface. She was a powder keg just waiting to blow and it didn't matter who on--
The Fomorian's thoughts on the woman in line trail off as he notices another watching him suspiciously. Her gaze roams over his torso and up to his face, her eyes flicking about as if watching movements that no one else could see. The Fomorian grins as the redhead watches him with narrowed eyes, slowly backing away from the entry to the funhouse. She reaches out to catch the angry woman's arm, to warn her about what lay ahead, but stops short of touching her shoulder as the sound of a flock of birds fills the air.
The Fomorian's smile grows more and more fiendish as a horrified realization washes over the woman. She stares up at the fully black, star-less sky filled with the fluttering of wings and the calls of crows. Her face drains of all color as she breaks into a dead run. To anyone without the Sight that she so apparently possessed, she would simply appear to be a woman running through the carnival grounds with a flock of copper red birds flying just overhead.
But The Formorian knew what she saw, the stuff of nightmares chasing after her. The Wild Hunt were loosed, the Sluagh, the most fierce and terrifying things among them, with a target.
She doesn't get far before a macabre curiosity gets the best of her and she turns to fully see what chases her... and there in the midway she stops and drops to her knees, clawing her eyes from her face as the copper birds and hell hounds descend over her-- and she ceases to exist.
It was as if she'd just disappeared from sight, but The Fomorian watches with a smile as she joins the Wild Hunt as a destroyed and ravaged soul.
He turns and takes the tickets from the talk show host and the angry woman with a smile. Business as usual.
September 19, 2018
New York- Demonsacre
It hadn't been long after Rogan left that Gabriel rejoined her, as had Caleb, his sour mood seeming to have taken its leave.
“Question...” Gabriel breaks the silence in the room.
“Answer,” Eden responds, not even looking up from her phone. She smiles mischievously and types away on it.
“Who gives stitches before putting said snitch in a ditch?” her partner ponders. Caleb looks at Gabriel as though he'd lost his mind, but Eden shrugs, well aware how his mind worked, and that he'd likely been puzzling over something she'd said earlier.
“The person they fucked over, I suppose,” she says easily and then stops, frowning. “Oh. Wait...” she considers the question and what she'd just said, frowning.
“Are you really giving this question consideration?” Caleb asks, askance.
“I think the stitches come after they're found in the ditches... in need of stitches... so maybe it should be... snitches end up in ditches in need of stitches? Well, that sounds decidedly less gangsta,” she grumbles, placing her phone on her desk and crossing her arms.
Caleb rolls his eyes, Gabriel chuckling.
“You know, why would you even ask that, now I feel like everything I know about life is wrong--” Eden begins, interrupted by Gabriel.
“Yo, snitches end up with the requirement for non-surgical medical attention in an open hole on a plot of land with a high potential for death... son,” Gabriel finishes and throws up gang signs, he and Eden dissolving into fits of laughter while Caleb shakes his head.
“Please, don't ever do that again. For all our sakes,” the guard grumbles. “Appears you two are in a mood.”
Eden shrugs.
“Necron' new Phone Monkey has been active on Twitter. Mentioned he never actually arrived at a hospital after he left the arena. So I suppose we'll definitely be seeing him at Outlast--”
“You him him with a fucking sledgehammer, I saw the footage!” Caleb exclaims.
“Gabriel hit me with a sledgehammer before and I'm still here,” Eden points out.
“I'd just like to say we were on different terms then, and that was a love tap, hardly the same,” Gabriel puts in.
“You're not the only one to hit her with a hammer,” Caleb mutters under his breath. Eden's eyes widen and she looks over at him, Gabriel watching him suspiciously.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Uhhh,” Eden stutters, looking down at her Twitter feed. “We may not have to do anything, looks like Vinnie Lane wants a go at the bastard. Poor Roxy is having issues,” she fake pouts.
“You're gonna get that man killed,” Gabriel answers, still looking suspiciously between Caleb and Eden.
Eden shrugs.
“Either a miracle happens and he manages it and we don't have Necron to worry over any longer--”
“Not happening,” Gabriel interjects.
“-- or Vinnie the Loverboy gets mangled and the world's IQ increases. I see no issues here, it's a win-win,” Eden ends with a smile, Caleb shaking his head.
“Has anyone ever told you that you're a cold-hearted bitch?”
“Daily,” Eden and Gabriel answer simultaneously. “It's how I finish her off,” Gabriel quips, Eden and Caleb staring at him with wide eyes.
“Lolz,” Gabriel chortles, Eden rolling her eyes.
“What we really need to talk about is this damned gala thing that dear Bordy,” Eden says the name mockingly, ignoring Gabriel's ever-suffering sigh, “is supposedly holding in my honor,” she waves the invitation in the air. “You're not really buying this, are you?” she asks Gabriel.
“She's trying to be nice--”
“HA!” Eden replies.
“-- and perhaps we should make an appearance. All of us,” Gabriel amends.
“You can't be serious,” Caleb asks, looking at Gabriel as though he's lost his mind.
“I'm deadly serious, Caleb.”
“Yeah? And what happens when Necron shows up?”
“Weren't you just the one who was disputing that he'd even make it to Outlast because she hit him with a sledgehammer?” Gabriel asks.
“I'm putting it out there-- I don't like Aveline. I don't trust her, at all,” Eden says quietly.
“Noted. Now on the subject of the gala, I think--”
“-- and I've said as much to Rogan. And Cazador. We give no quarter at Outlast. Not even to her,” she says pointedly, looking to Gabriel.
Gabriel starts to protest, Eden shaking her head.
“I didn't have to tell you, Gabriel, but we're not having any secrets between us. You offered for her to side with us, purely against Necron and then we'd handle things between the rest of us as they should be. She gave you your answer last week. She slapped away that offer and made it very clear what side she's chosen. No. Fucking. Quarter. I want that bitch laid low just like everyone else on that team. We all have choices to make, and they made theirs.”
Gabriel exhales forcefully.
“Fine. Yeah, fine,” he agrees.
They sit quietly for a time until Eden gets to her feet.
“Where are you off to?” Gabriel asks, watching as Caleb gets to his feet as well. He was once again her shadow, even within these walls. Understanding that after Eden's actions at Synergy Necron might not wait until Outlast, Gabriel had increased security and moved them all within Demonsacre. The facility was now their temporary home, and while within the walls they were safe. They could relax, breathe-- except Caleb didn't lax his guard of Eden. She'd stopped telling him he didn't have to follow her, it did her no good.
“Going to have a chat with someone,” she say evasively, Gabriel arching an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“I need to do something I should have done long ago,” she says with an almost sad look on her face before she and Caleb leave the office, closing the door behind them.
He flexes straining muscles, pressing the plague doctor mask more into his scarred visage, inhaling the scent of blood from his last bout. It was almost completely dried, no good anymore, no good, no good... he needed to dip it in the blood of the conquered, fill its beak again and then the euphoria would fill him with the taste of copper on his tongues.
The Hunter stops and scents the air, the salty tang of sweat permeating the air. He grinds his teeth in anticipation to see the brightly colored, muscle-bound man before him.
Two more. He only needed two more. He'd already acquired three for the trials, one a weary but hardened biker, one a mouthy blowhard whose luck was hit or miss with the hammer, but when he struck home it was one of the loudest gongs that had ever blessed his pointed ears. He had acquired the inner city bruiser who had a penchant for going on and on ad nauseum, and who proceeded to try to navigate him into a discussion of his prowess and how no one quite understood him...
But this one, this eccentric fanatic who practically vibrated with energy, this one would be his fourth...
And then he would only need one more, just one, and he could hunt again, pitting his strength and skill against the best of the best.
None survived, each death more violent than the last as he bloodlust grew. With the first, he was reverent, drenching his greedy skin in their rich blood, soaking his mask in it until it filled his senses. The first was the true sacrifice, the worst of the lot and also the one to quench his thirst.
He fully expected the blowhard to be the first to fall.
And the rest... he would allow them to gain weapons, to think he could be defeated. They would learn differently.
They would learn when their bodies were torn asunder under brute strength and pressure. They would learn as their brain matter and skull fragments rained down around them. In that split second of consciousness before they were destroyed one and all, they'd each have the same thought.
I never stood a chance.
And it was close, so close...
The man who declares himself a Captain through shouted words takes the hammer from him and brings it down solidly on the platform, sending the weighted disc up to hit the bell with little effort.
Behind his mask, The Hunter smiles.
He was pleased.
Just one more.
Phrixus. Only a fool would completely write you off considering how you continually manage to somehow slither in between the cracks and retain a foothold on this industry.
Just one question... how's the journal collecting going? I know you don't have near what you used to have, in fact, you never well. I'd apologize, but I'm afraid it would ring hollow.
You see, you're what's expected, Phrix. We all know what you're going to do. You're going to write in your journal something incredibly insightful and scathing, you're going to close your book and sit there and bask in your perceived superiority. You're what Kem Dynamo has to look forward to if she keeps going the way she is with all of her ridiculous methods of research and labeling the odds. I can just see her notebooks lined up with numbers all through them, greasy fingerprints smudging the pages... but I digress. So after you've done the dear diary thing, you're going to get in the ring with us at Outlast... and you'll be the first from your team to be eliminated. Followed by a second, a third, and a fourth.
What is it that Donovan says? It's inevitable? It's true. Look at history. There hasn't been a single year where I've failed to make it into the final round in Outlast. What about you?
There's something that you and your teammates need to understand. This match we're going into means a lot more than just making that final round and being the one who gets to kick Alan's ass up between his shoulders. For Gabriel and I, and even Rogan, this match means far more than that, simply because of your Captain.
Now, I know Gabriel has made you three and offer, you, Aveline, and Jet. Turn on Necron. Join us in utterly destroying him... and then we can have the match as it should be. It's an offer each of you should seriously consider because believe me when I say that you don't want to be on the side of Necron in this.
I'm sure you all say what happened Monday. Don't think for a second that that can't as easily happen to one of you. Go ahead, paint a target on your back, stand with the monster. Let's see what happens.
Aveline-- you yourself have been a victim of his. You, with your overtures of friendship and honeyed words. I know all about honeyed words, dear Aveline, and I know exactly what they hide. I know how they usually hide the knives ready to dig into your back, and despite Gabriel's thoughts to the contrary and his continued faith in you-- I know better.
Woman to woman? I don't like you. And deep down, I know you really don't like me either.
So. Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?
My one career is worth fifty of yours, and not just fifty of yours. Take every other woman in this entire company and stack them together, and all of them combined aren't worth one of me.
Bold words?
You see, I realized last week, before I made the decision to go after Necron alone, that I've been a shadow of who I used to be. It's no secret that this has been a difficult year for me, and in realizing that, I had to weigh some things, namely my future in this company or in wrestling period.
Pay attention, because this is relevant to your interests.
Fact. I still love what I do. I still enjoy climbing into that ring every time I do it; I still revel in the mindgames that once threw me for a loop that I now employ with fervor; I still love my career here, the reaction from the fans when I walk out, positive or negative.
And no matter what anyone says, no matter what my current record shows, you all still see me as a threat and well you should because you know damn well at any time I can become that contender I once was. That contender who takes every bout seriously and puts her heart and soul into each and every match she's involved in.
And that's where you fall short, Aveline. You lack the heart and soul to be successful here. I know, because as soon as I lost mine, I began to plummet from the mountaintop.
It's time to look up again.
Jet. I won't lie and say that Necron's initial choice of you shook me up... and at the same time, I expected it. It was meant to be a blow to me, and it did its job.
Really, I'm just surprised you're going along with this. Isn't this the exact opposite of what Jet Somers says he stands for? Is what Necron did to me worse than my crimes? How does it all weigh out on the Jet Somers karma meter?
I'm just going to say what everyone else who looks at this situation is thinking- you're a hypocrite, Jet. Not that that's a newsflash, you've been a hypocrite ever since I've known you. If there's something you need to do? You'll stress over it and worry it to death until you figure out a way to rationalize what you want to do, when it's something you would normally turn your nose up in disgust if someone else committed that particular sin.
It's all according to what Jet Somers finds necessary at the time, you and your labile morality.
I forgot to tell you something that last day, Jet. Thank you. It's been ridiculously easy, light, and refreshing since 'The Living Weapon' and all the guilt that comes with him has been out of my life.
Except now... you have a choice to make. Do you turn on your captain who stands for things that just aren't in the Jet Somers code of conduct anymore, so sayeth the Jet?
Or are you going to prove all of us right and once again show that you're as full of shit as you've always been? You rant and scream about Alan, but you're just like him. Anything it takes to get that win, right Jet?
Prove me wrong.
And now, Necron. You know, part of me sincerely hopes you show up to Outlast on Monday. I can't help but hope you aren't dead in a ditch somewhere, because how anticlimactic would that be? No, you see, I felt something when I slammed that cattle prod into your face last Monday. Something inside me that I've held in check for a long, long time snapped.
I can honestly say that I've never felt something so freeing as when I repeatedly drove your own sledgehammer into you.
Except for maybe when I did the same to Mickey Dragon with a wrench?
Either way, I hope you enjoyed your sleep. Your new Phone Monkey seemed to be under the impression that you didn't do it much, and that was my way of helping you.
In the words of the douchebag Wallace... you're welcome.
One way or another, this all ends Monday, Necron. Let me make one thing very, very clear to you.
You will not be making it to the final round of this competition. In fact, I won't be happy until you're leaving in a fucking bodybag, whether your merry little team of miscreants side with you or not. If they choose to turn their backs on you and stand by while we systematically destroy you... fine. If they choose to join in... fine. If they choose not to desert you and stand at your side?
I hope you bring your sledgehammer to the ring. I'll enjoy using it on each one of you.
Fact is, Necron-- I've already beaten you once, and that was by myself. That was without Gabriel, Rogan, and Cazador beside me. Yeah, that match ended with Gabriel having to help me to the back, and it resulted in a trip to the hospital.
This one is going to end differently. This one is going to result in the end of you, the end of this reign of terror and this ridiculous vendetta you have against those of us that bald bastard Ichabod has taken an interest in.
This is not at all going to go like you want it to, Necron, and I honestly can't wait to spit in your face and tell you to go fuck yourself.
And once we're done with that, Gabriel and I and the rest of our team will go on to the final round where 'Vain' Alan Wallace awaits.
How's that for a confession?
September 19, 2018
New York- Demonsacre
Eden slips into the modest hospital room, the walls the same nondescript cream color most of them always were. She turns back to Caleb behind her.
“There's only one way in and one way out. I think I'll be fine,” she says, Caleb making a face.
“There was only one way in and one way out in Jordan's office too,” he shoots back, Eden rolling her eyes.
“Just give me some privacy? Thanks,” she says, closing the door. She turns, jumping when she sees the nurse sitting at the desk in the corner, watching her.
“Shit!” she exclaims, placing a hand over her chest to calm her pounding heart. “You scared me--”
“I'm sorry,” she apologizes with a smile. “I assumed Dr. Baal would have told you he has the patient monitored around the clock.”
“I must have missed that,” Eden hedges. Gabriel hadn't known she was coming here, had in fact avoided Jase altogether. His utterings of “confess” had been like nails on a chalkboard for her, yet there he lay, silent.
“How-- how is he?” Eden asks.
“He seems better today, more at peace than he has been. You're his third visitor today. I'm not complaining, gives me a break until my relief shows up,” she says, stretching.
Third? She knew Rogan had come, but who--
Eden shakes her head.
“Yeah, go ahead, I'll sit with him a bit, but I won't be long. Can he-- can he hear me?” she asks.
“He can hear you,” the nurse confirms. “I'll be back in a few minutes,” she says, slipping from the room.
As the door closes, Eden looks back to the bed and the man lying within it. She approaches, taking in the mass of blue and purple that splotches his tanned skin. He looked so odd lying there, utterly still. Jase was never still, constantly in motion, constantly doing something that would no doubt get him into trouble-- not to mention the lack of a beard. Had she ever really seen him without at least stubble? He looked so young...
Eden takes a seat in the chair near the bed, not sure what to do. She looks over to the bed, slipping her smaller hand into Jase's larger one, inspecting even the fingernails that were evenly filed and clean. Had it really been years ago that he'd held her hand last?
“You know, a lot of people blame me for their misery. Why not, I'm a convenient target. I give them someone to blame, someone to hate, someone to pin their faults and flaws on. They can hate me instead of themselves and their own failures. But there's some-- a few-- who I deserve every bit of that from. You're one of them, Jase,” Eden says quietly. She looks to the window in the small room, unable to look at the man in the bed who had at one time been her lover.
“You didn't deserve what I did to you, though at the time... I would have argued that. You went against my brother and your beloved club for me. Took a beating for it too,” she says with a chuckle. “You didn't ask for what happened between us. And I don't believe you meant for what happened to Ryan to happen. That was all Dragon,” she says, sliding her thumb over his rough skin.
“But I used that pain, that guilt, that anger. I used it, and I used you. Ryan's death fueled something in me that I didn't know existed until then. I hated everyone, blamed everyone, including myself, when I should have let it all begin and end with the man who took it upon himself to do what he did. How different would things have been if I had been stable enough to accept that? If I'd never turned on Jet and Travis, never tried to destroy them? If I'd never sent you to Chaos and Cypress with that note, knowing what would happen...” she trails off when Jase's fingers spasm in her hand. She watches his hand a moment and the continues.
“You were tortured for months for something you didn't even do. If I had let you be, if I had let you go... you never would have carried that grudge you did against Chad. You never would have entered a ring, been in that nightmare match with Raenius; you never would have caught Rogan MacLean's eye.. or Ichabod's. You never would have been etched with the label of one of his “children”. And you never would have been in that facility in San Jose for Necron to destroy,” she finishes, her face pale with her words.
“Of anyone and anything I've ever harmed-- I've been the worst to you. And all you ever tried to do was love me. Protect me,” Eden thinks back to her first year at UGWC, when Jason Ingalls was the Head Trainer, the position Jordan King now held. How different things had been then, how... naïve she'd been. She'd fallen in love with him, remembered lying out on a blanket and naming the stars in the Colorado sky with him when he'd brought her home for Thanksgiving that year. She'd met his mother, his brother, known Jase on a level that not many ever had or would again-- and then she'd destroyed him.
Eden gets to her feet, still holding his hand.
“I can't take back what I did. I wish I could. So many domino pieces falling from one moment... one decision... one idea that I couldn't let go of, and now there's only a few left, still stubbornly standing...” she trails off and shakes her head. “Saying 'I'm sorry' isn't at all enough for what you've been made to suffer, but it's all I have to give. So... I'm sorry, Jase. And I promise, with everything that I am, I will do everything in my power to ensure you never suffer again if I can prevent it.”
Eden leans down, placing a kiss on Jase's forehead, raising just as the nurse enters the room again. Eden turns to leave, lowering Jase's hand back to the bed, startled when his fingers again spasm around hers, clinging to her hand for a moment and then relaxing again.
She gives him a wan smile that he would never see and then leaves the room.
It's all within the blink of an eye, but if you continue over the red carpet that leads directly into the darkness within the largest tent, if you traipse along what seems more and more like a tongue leading into a mouth, ignoring the squelching of blood underfoot, you'll find a scene that will chill you to you bones.
For within lies the Demon King and the Succubus.
The two of them sit atop an elevated dais, identical thrones side by side. Snakes of various types and description wind their way throughout the room, undulating bodies writhing up the thrones to slip beneath hands that caress them as though they were beloved pets.
The thrones are formed from those who have dared to oppose them, some of them still moist with chunks of flesh clinging and not yet rotted away.
Rumor had it that The Grim Harvester had fallen to the Demon King and the Succubus--
A sudden movement within the chamber draws the eyes of all, several of the snakes turning their heads in the direction of the entryway as three huddled figures are shoved forward to make obeisance. Serpents hiss and strike at the trio, but none of them sink fangs, not yet. They hadn't been given permission.
The Demon King sits atop his throne, the Succubus ensconced on his lap rather than in her own seat. He indulgently runs a hand up and down her back, her deep blue eyes focusing on the ones before them.
These three were the ones who had assisted the Grim Harvester in his folly. They had each been offered a way out, none of them having a real reason to aid him, and yet... they had sided with him.
They'd chosen wrongly.
The Succubus slips from the Demon King's lap and descends the stairs with a regal bearing, staring at each of them in contempt as she circles them. She stops before one man who stares furiously ahead, refusing to meet her gaze. At one time, he had been as one with her, a man she considered family. And now... he was dead to her.
She looks to the Demon King, the two of them quickly conversing in their minds before he gives the nod, glancing to the back of the room to find The Hunter.
Finally, he had his five.
The Hunter comes forward to take his protesting prize, the Succubus staring icily at him until he disappears from view.
She then turns her gaze to the next man, the rim of his broad hat shielding his face from view. She knocks it from his head, staring hard into his eyes, forcing him to meet her gaze, capturing it as though she were a snake and he a particularly delicious-looking bird. She smiles slowly as the Demon King's voice fills her mind, telling her of the man's fate.
The man before her fed on the fears of others, using them and forcing them to turn it on themselves... it was only fair that he should experience that and worse.
Almost as if he read her mind, The Fomorian steps forward, laying claim to the one who only thought he was the true meaning of fear, dragging him away into his house of horrors.
And then there was one.
The woman all in red kneels before her, the Succubus placing a single finger beneath her chin and raising her face upward, her eyes meeting those of the white blonde. There was nothing in her mind from the Demon King.
Mercy. Mercy for this one.
The Succubus' right hand twitches and then slashes forward with a lightning quick movement. The woman's eyes widen in surprise as her throat is torn open, the Succubus' dainty hand closing around her trachea and ripping it from her body. With her other hand, she signals the snakes that surround the woman to attack, numerous fangs sinking into her body.
She was dead before her body had crumpled to the ground.
The porcelain skin of the Succubus slowly absorbs the blood decorating it, drinking it down as though it were the tastiest of morsels. She turns to the Demon King, holding up the brand new trachea that would adorn the calliope that even now was enchanting its listeners.
The Demon King rolls his eyes heavenward, his reptilian eyes traveling over the form of his Queen.
Deep down, he knew she had, indeed, been merciful.
Alan.
I would imagine that right now, you feel like you're sitting pretty high above everyone else below, but allow me to be the one who kicks the proverbial ladder out from under you. After all, I'm probably the only one in this entire lot you have gunning for you who you at one time considered a friend.
So let's get some facts out of the way, shall we?
In all the years that Outlast has gone on, only two Champions have been placed in the pool of talent who could be drafted into the qualifying matches.
Eden Morgan and Gabriel Baal. Seems like a man who is making his second title defense at Outlast might want to step up to the plate and challenge himself a little, doesn't it? No? Okay.
In the year when I was the World Champion going into Outlast, I fought in the qualifying match with my team as well as in a brutal final that you qualified for TWICE.
I have one question for you, Alan: who pinned you twice in one match at Outlast to get you eliminated from the final, twice when you had two chances to take my title off me.
I'll give you a hint- you made a half-ass attempt at setting her on fire after Donovan did what Donovan does and fucked up what had the makings of match of the year.
Let's have another fact, shall we?
The first time you defended a title at Outlast, we were both members of the Syndicate. I visited you at your home in Miami, and I told you one simple thing there.
You can trust me.
I told you that I would have your back at Outlast that year, and you were perplexed. Because you're an intelligent man, you didn't take me at my word then, in fact, you wanted to know exactly why you should ever trust me.
And that's when I told you that when I took the World Championship off of you, I wanted to make sure you were someone worth taking it off of first. Match after match against Mainstreamer/Holden Orson had left me bored, but seeing if you could hold on to the title at Outlast? That was what I wanted.
I was as good as my word, wasn't I, Alan? I was there with you in that final round then, and I know as soon as you saw me step through the ropes you felt your stomach cut a flip. You wondered if I could be trusted, knew deep down I couldn't be, but I did everything I could to see that you retained.
And then what did I do? I cashed in on you at Sin City. I told you I wanted you to retain at Outlast so that title that had come to mean so much to you actually meant something when I took it.
And then I did.
Sure, Killian came in with the briefcase and cashed in right after my win and took it away, but the fact remains that I have already done what an entire roster couldn't do.
I took the World Championship off of 'Vain' Alan Wallace. The only other person to do so is smoking pot with a puppet somewhere.
You know as well as I do that I'm the biggest threat coming for you, Alan. And I know you'll push all of that bravado my way. You beat me at WrestleStock. You broke that cursed streak.
But I think you'll recognize the Eden Morgan you see arriving at Outlast. She's an Eden I haven't been in quite some time, and she's the Eden who told you she was going to wait to take that title off of you.
She is the Eden who is the alpha, the omega, and everything in between.
I won't be waiting this time.
There's your notice.