Post by LACKLAN on Feb 9, 2019 0:07:43 GMT -5
~~Six Months Gone~~
Flowers wilt.
A haze rises.
The heat of Texas is overwhelming.
A decrepit apartment, the door lined with locks, the lone window cracked and fixed with tape.
A bare floor, several empty rum containers scattered about.
A lone table holding an old television set, the rabbit’s ears of an antenna pointing at 12 and 3.
A guitar leaning against a corner, the only thing in the room holding any life or color.
A mattress upon the floor, stained and with springs so worn that they hold no spring.
A man in black sitting upon the mattress, his head in his hands.
Graying hair and beard, both shaggy. In need of a barber’s care.
Marble blue eyes.
Filled with death.
The words playing on the screen, filled with as much static as clarity, are background noise for him. He does not see the short man in the glasses weather a lime green suit, nor the tennis racket in his hand. He does not see the man’s arms waving and flying, his face turning red, as he proclaims that there is a “new face of all of puro” to be wary of. He sees nothing at all.
Only despair.
Only death.
His eyes move up towards the television as a flash of the green catches them, but they stare in with a dullness only depression can bring. He sees without seeing as the small man slaps the shoulder of the man next to him. He doesn’t register as the camera moves up...and up...and up to take in the man.
The man in black on the mattress blinks in confusion.
“...what?”
He blinks again and again, the light finally coming to his eyes, as finally focuses on the promotional video playing on his television. They finally focus on the giant of a man next to the man in the ugly suit. The Japanese man was tall and strong, with shoulders broad in both width and girth. Bright white hair makes him blink, the contrast startling.
And the eyes.
He knows those eyes.
“...my God…”
He falls forward onto his knees and shuffles across the bare floor until he is in front the table. He takes ahold of the television’s cord and gives it a yank until it falls to the floor with a crash. He picks up the screen and stares at it.
Stares at the large Japanese man.
Stares at the man with the bright white hair.
Stares at the man with Lacklanlander Blue eyes.
Aveline Lacklan’s eyes cross.
The Queen of Red slumps down as her knees give way and she finds herself sitting on a stool. The silks for her dress, bright white with slashes of gold along the sleeves, fold into a clump around her legs, and the bodice rises and falls in great movements as she tries to breathe. She presses the back of her right hand to her brow, feeling the sudden chilled sweat, and pushes away the long bangs hanging at the side of her face. She breathes out in a rush and then reaches back to bring her hair together in a rough tail, the bleached mass wavy after being taken out of its bun days before.
“You can’t…”
She shakes her head and breathes out again.
“You can’t be serious, Écrivain.”
Green eyes look up from her lap and take in the disheveled man before her. Her sitting room, a place meant to meant privately with those of importance, was just as lavish as the rest of the manor, and the man in black before her stood out in stark contrast. Whereas the carpets were freshly washed, this man’s hair was shaggy and in need of a brush. Whereas the tabletops and walls were polished to a gleam, his face was in need of a shave, his clothes in need of a press. Whereas the scent of forsythia, the pale yellow flowers picked just that morning, fills the air, his was the stench of despair and death.
“Is what it is, Ava.”
The large man shrugs his shoulders and reaches into the pocket of his long coat, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from them. Aveline shoots him a dirty look, but he just shrugs again and pulls out one of the butts.
“You know how he worked. You know his calling. There were many before you.”
Aveline’s eyes flash in anger.
"Aucun après, Écrivain!”
The man in black raises up his hands apologetically before placing his cigarette into his mouth and lighting it with the practiced ease of a lifelong smoker. He snaps his lighter closed, snuffing out the red and yellow burst of flame, as he takes and lets out his first puff of acrid smoke.
“None after. The Mountain King found his Queen. But in the beginning? Before he really even understood his ‘mission?’”
He shrugs and lets out another plume of smoke.
“He didn’t speak much about his time in Japan, not even for the book. He trained there under the Emerald Warrior. He worked alongside Tōtsū. His parents died in a plane crash coming to see him. Nothing else.”
He lowers his eyes to the ground for a moment, the grey-blue orbs seeming to dull, his gaze lost in time.
“But I knew, Ava. I knew. As soon as I saw those eyes. Not to mention the hair. And the height!”
He looks back up to her.
“And so I went. Kid’s family name is Nakama. I didn’t get to see him, though. Guess my own name doesn’t carry much weight these days, not after what went down with me and Foote. But I talked to his...manager? Agent? Whatever that little toad is. He wasn’t up for giving me much info, but I got someone on the inside now. I’ll be able to get close soon enough.”
Aveline gives him a look wrought with thought.
“So you don’t KNOW that this man is the son of my husband, il est ressuscité. You only...assume?”
The man shrugs again.
“I know what I know. And I’ll prove it soon enough.”
With another plume of smoke, he pitches the butt of his cigarette to the floor. Aveline scowls at him and the offending butt, but a servant comes rushing out within moments. The eyes of the Queen of Red do not even take in the woman wearing the black uniform with the slashes of purple for relief, and the servant does not speak or motion, only sweeping up the ash and butt with a dustpan and rushing off again. The big man shakes his head at the display.
“I had forgotten what that was like. I’m glad I did.”
Aveline narrows her eyes.
“Living in the compound is perfection, Écrivain. You would do well to remember that.”
“Sure.”
The bearded face curls into a smile as Aveline’s scowl deepens. He fishes out another cigarette and flashes open his lighter once more.
“But enough about what I’ve been up to. What about you? You ready for this big match at Infinity.”
Aveline’s face brightens at the mention of wrestling.
“Of course! It will be extremely honorable to fight Zane Scott.”
The man barks a scoffing laughter.
“Zane’s a pussy.”
Aveline’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops open.
“Langue, écrivain! Such filth! Such-”
“Jesus Horatio CHRIST, I liked you better when you were still Ava!”
Aveline’s eyes turn from their indignation to anger.
“I was a different person! My husband, il est ressuscité, showed me the Light, brought me to the Path. He fixed my broken body AND spirit! He-”
The man waves at her with his cigarette, the smoke billowing around his head.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”
She snarls at his dismissal, but then rolls her eyes.
“You could do with some Light in your life, Écrivain. It would help you recover from..your Beloved.”
An awkward silence falls between the two, deepening as the man smokes.
“But...still...why do you think this way of Zane? Is he not a great champion? Is he not the true gate keeper of this business? I think he is.”
The writer ponders this for a moment, his bearded face scrunching around his cigarette. After a few moments, he takes the cigarette back out, leans his head back to let out a great plume into the air, and looks back at her.
“Two things. First...Zane has spent half of his promotional time this year crying while jerking off on the collected works of Eden Morgan in a display that I would normally associate with Pierce being at the center of a UGWC Legends circle-jerk.”
Aveline’s eyes go wide again, and her mouth opens and closes several times, words failing to come out, and the writer presses.
“Seriously, YOU have shown the whole damned world how to deal with loss and adversity. What happened when you found out Japles had died? You not only picked up his sword, but you drove it straight into the hearts of his enemies. When Eden died, all Zane did was head over to corpsebrideerotica.com and had himself a little grieving session. When YOU had your own FAMILY turn against you in the form of the Grey-Lacklans, you beat down every person that got in your way and carved out a name for yourself as the Chaos Champion. And what did Zane do when Hastings set him up? Went all deadlights on us like Pennywise showed him where we all float. When Necron attacked your followers and burnt their homes to ash, you ripped the head off the dragon and set into motion his downfall. When Deimos beat the fuck out of Larry, it took him three goddamn WEEKS to show any fire at all, and a whole nother MONTH to take out his frustrations on Hastings.
“Do you think THAT is a great champion, Ava? Do you think THAT is what should be keeping the gates of this business?”
“Well..I...um...I never really thought of it like th-”
“And second, have you ever noticed how HARD he tries?”
Green eyes blink.
“What?”
“Okay, this is a little meta...and maybe it’s just because analyzing people is what I do for a living...but he tries REALLY hard. I mean, its like he REALLY wants to you know who he is and how he's doing things. For an example, have you seen any of his promos lately? I have. And there is a BIG emphasis on making sure that the camera is at just the RIGHT angle, or that the lighting is JUST SO. He doesn’t even MOVE naturally any more. He does this-”
The man moves his right hand very deliberately, making sure that the green eyes track him.
“-to make sure that you know it’s his RIGHT arm moving, and not just that he’s moving his arms. It seems that he has become desperate for you to believe the image he WANTS you to believe, and not the one that he IS.”
“And what is he, if not what we see?”
“An amateur.”
He takes a large puff of his cigarette and flicks it to the ground. He breathes the smoke out slowly as the servant performs her invisible duty once more.
“Pros make things look easy, Ava. When a pitcher throws a ninety-eight mile an hour heater? It looks easy. But if you tried it, you would throw out your arm to hit forty. A figure skater flips through the air with a quad and lands it with a smooth motion. But if you tried it, you would fall on your face after half a revolution. Pros make things look easy. Like they aren’t even trying. But Zane? Since his trip to go see Georgie in the sewer? Everything he does is clunky and forced. He REALLY wants you to believe that he’s the best...and it shows.
“You, on the other hand-”
He fishes out another cigarette.
“-you make things look easy. While he’s giving himself monikers to try to BE something, you just ARE. He desperately wants people to think he’s SOMETHING, that he’s some bullshit edgelord personification of concepts, while you are the walking incarnation of chaos. You don’t TRY to be chaos. You just ARE. And that difference is not only seen in all these promos and media pieces you guys do for your company, it carries over into the ring.”
The flash and click has him puffing again.
“You rush at people with ease, never worrying out pleasing a crowd with flips or twists, and beat everything in front of you into submission. You drive them through tables, smash them with that lock, make creative use of chairs. And all the while, there is a grace and smoothness that you probably couldn’t even explain. You make do with what you need and show the world what it means to BE somebody. On the other hand, a Zane match looks like someone trying to win the style competition at a UGWC 19 video game competition by using over thirty different moves, each more ridiculous than the last. Once again, he’s trying to BE something, trying to BE the highlight reel, while you just ARE. He’s got moves from Mexico, Japan, Canada, every region in America, and even a little British thrown in there. He’s basically like every punk kid on the independent circuit with a training pedigree that consists of playing Def Jam Vendetta for a marathon weekend. Next to you, he might as well be stinking up some rec center with McWrestleface and trying to get a pop with apron powerbombs and nut shots from twenty-five neckbeards.
“THAT is what he brings to the table. THAT is what he’s trying so hard to be. THAT is what he is spending every moment of every day trying to convince you, and maybe even himself. Trying to convince you that he’s some badass. But all he is a poor man’s VonKnorre who hasn’t realized that he’s not the stoic and focused monster he is TRYING be, and is really just the monotone boring lower-card act he IS.”
He takes a large puff of his cigarette and gives Aveline a small nod.
“In short: Zane’s a pussy.”
He smiles around his cigarette as Aveline shakes her head.
“Always the dismissive sort, Écrivain. But I will not fall into that trap. True, he HAS been slower and distracted, and he is certainly not the man I defeated back in May, but I will not dismiss him. Dismissal of an opponent, any opponent, is bad form.”
The writer waves her off.
“Bah! People being critical of dismissing an opponent is overrated. Just a bunch of basement dwellers getting all up in their feels. Really, I-”
The writer cuts off as they hear a knock. The two turn and see one of the servants at the door, accompanied by a tall femine form in a hood, the face of the curvy figure obscured.
“Oh! My apologies, Écrivain, but I have other matters.”
The writer stares at the tall woman with an odd expression on his face.
“Do I-”
“Severen!”
He snaps back to Aveline with a start.
“Sorry. I...um...what were we talking about?”
“I wish for you to go back to Japan. Attempt again to meet with this...Nakama. Your name may not carry weight, but mine does.”
Green eyes flash away from the writer and to the woman at the entranceway for a moment and then return quickly.
“Take my crier with you. He will carry the seal of the house, and that means my name. That will get you in, surely.”
“Fern?”
Behind him, the taller of the two women gives a small start, which momentarily draws the green eyes of Aveline once more, but she again brings them back to the man.
“Never liked that guy. Surprised to see him back. Then again, we all come back here, I guess. Where is he?”
“I sent him away yesterday.”
Green eyes again make their lightening movements to the woman and back to him.
“Find him in Bangor, Écrivain. He was tasked with finding out why the UGWC steaming service’s feed was lost during the most important match of the night last week. Find him and take him. Light be with you, Monsieur Severen.”
She gives him a small nod of her head, the dismissal clear, and he chuckles before tossing another spent cigarette butt to the floor. He winks at her before turning, making sure to avoid the servant rushing in to clean his mess, but then slows as he walks by the taller woman in the hood. He has to turn his face up to look at her, but the woman subtly shies away from him. He shakes his head as he makes his way out, the boots making a heavy stomp on the tile. After he leaves, Aveline faces the newcomer fully.
“Walk with me.”
Neither question nor answer, neither command nor request. A specialty of the Lacklans, a technique used to coerce people into action while making them think it was their own idea, this technique was employed by every person of the house. Aveline walks forward and the woman turns and follows behind her, though she skips a step as Aveline motions for her to take her arm. The two walk in silence, the woman in the hood a head or more taller than the queen, moving through hallways filled with tapestries, lined by carpets, and lit by lanterns with flickering lights. Tiny puffs of white coming from their mouths show the coldness of the day, a day which would see snow if there had been precipitation.
Aveline smiles as they round a corner and enter a large room containing a fireplace, the belly of the beast roaring to life and fighting off the New England cold. The two walk forward until they are close to the fire and Aveline points up to the portraits above the mantel.
“The house rises, Mary.”
The womanly figure in the hood raises her hands to her head and pulls back the hood. She shakes her head, allowing her golden locks to free themselves, and looks up at the portraits. There would never be any doubt who the mother of Angelica Vaughn was: Mary had the same cheekbones, the same jawline, and the same golden hair. Though lines of worry marred her cheeks, she was still a beauty on the outside to match her inside.
“...he was so beautiful…”
She raises a hand toward the trio of portraits on the left, those showing the progression of the Lacklan patriarch from silver-haired rookie to the white mask and burned head to the conclusion of the black hood. Her light eyes move between the first two, the man she loved and what he became not long after she fled, and they shine with tears.
“He still is, ma sœur.”
Mary turns from the portrait and back to Aveline at that pronouncement.
“Sister?”
Aveline nods.
“We may not be sister-wives...not really...not the way you were with the others before...but you are due as much honor in this house as any other who belongs here. YOU are destined for greatness, ma sœur. You BELONG here. You...and Angelica.”
Aveline motions to the portraits and Mary looks with her.
“The world will know soon enough. But even before then, the world will see OUR house rise. Infinity...the Trios...the world changes.”
She draws Mary’s attention back to her with a movement of her hand.
“I entered the Round Robin tournament to provide a shining example to the world of what God TRULY wants. I could show the world, again and again, what OUR house means! What OUR house determines! Just as Jesus showed the world the TRUE power of David, the TRUE life of Adam, it is up to ME to show the world the Path of the Light.
“Zane is a man of great renown, a man of great power and prowess, but he is not me. Championships galore! But he is not the Champion of Chaos. Too blinded by betrayal. Too dependent on trust. Too engaged in the micro to see the macro. But I, as we have discussed, AM the macro. I AM the business. I AM what God wishes to have being the general to His army in this war against mediocrity and insistence in the commonplace.”
She gestures back at the trio of portraits.
“He fought. Fought against the tide of garbage wrestling and excuses. And then he fell, his body failing him, his life full of success and glory to God. But he lives. He lives through me.”
She reaches up and takes Mary by the shoulders.
“He lives through you.”
She steps closer and her voice drops down into intimacy.
“The winner of my match at Infinity is likely the winner of the Round Robin. Pierce...eliminated! Cotton...eliminated! Only your beautiful daughter remains, and depending on how she does against Vain, she may not even be a factor...and instead the champion I chase at the Trios. Either way, we RISE.”
She steps back again but keeps her hands on the taller woman’s shoulders.
“Imagine it, ma sœur! Together! Though the world does not know. Together! We reign over this entire business as God wanted. Together! We stand tall as the CHAMPION this world needs!”
With each cry of “Together!” Aveline shakes Mary’s shoulders. She turns green eyes full of fire back to the portraits, and Mary’s blue eyes join, also filling with a fervent fire.
“One UNIFIED champion! One ULTIMATE champion! Standing atop the world and ruling with the fiery fist of God’s wrath. THAT was his mission. And now it is mine. Now it is OURS.”
She turns back to Mary and shakes her again, and when she turns back to her, her eyes brim with the fire that had begun to fill them moments before.
“I WILL defeat Zane on Monday, ma sœur! This tournament is but the things of the world to him. He wishes to win to show that he 'deserves’ to be champion, but he does not understand! Like the Romans pinning Jesus to the cross, we must forgive Zane for not understanding, not knowing, what he does. These things of the world...FALSE! This is about DIVINITY! About MANIFEST DESTINY! And at Infinity, the Holy Ghost WILL make Himself be known through divine providence! And I, the Champion of Chaos, soon to be the GREATEST Chaos Champion of ALL time, FOREVERMORE, will win the Round Robin. And then…”
She pauses, her breath coming hard, her fingers clenching Mary’s shoulders with enough force to turn her knuckles white and red with the pressure. She licks her lips and smiles.
“If Vain survives...then he faces his reckoning. He faces something he has never encountered. He is tired...worn...too many great battles in this last year to withstand the light I shine down. He WILL lose as I show him the TRUE mettle that my house offers. That OUR house offers! But!”
She cackles suddenly, a dry sound of equal parts mirth and madness.
“But! If he does NOT prevail...if he, instead, falls to your daughter, your beautiful Angelica...then I will fight her at the Trios. And I WILL win.”
She leans in close to Mary again, craning her head to keep her counterpart’s eyes.
“...the Trios…”
Her voice is again the intimate whisper, her eyes flashing even brighter than before in the firelight.
“...it may be...it very well may be...Vaughn...against Lacklan...against GREY-Lacklan…”
She suddenly moves forward and pulls Mary into a tight embrace, her head resting upon her collar.
“...my God, ma sœur...it will be beautiful!”
Mary looks down at the top of Aveline’s head, the woman’s platinum hair shining in the light, and hugs her back.
“Do you still fear l'Enfant Démon?”
Mary pushes Aveline back, her hands on her shoulders, and stares at her after the question.
“Wh...what?”
Aveline smiles.
“Why you fled. Do you still fear her? What she is?”
Mary’s eyes lower to the ground for a moment and her brow furrows in thought. She then looks up at the portrait of the famed “Vampire of Lacklanland” and, after a moment, gives her head a small shake.
“N...no. No. She-”
“You SHOULD.”
Mary’s eyes snap back down.
“What?”
“Do not be fooled by her, ma sœur. Do not be lured into her trap of contentedness. She may seem as the housecat growing fat on cream, but I am certain that she is but one reason, one obstacle, away from being everything you ever feared. Be weary, ma sœur. Be vigilant. Be-”
“Bonsoir, Reine Mère.”
The two women look towards the entranceway at the greeting and see a woman approaching in a hooded gown. As she enters the room, she pulls back her hood to show a brunette with lips seemingly built for kissing and large dimples. She spreads her skirts and gives the two women a deep curtsy. As she returns to standing, Aveline squeezes Mary’s shoulders and smiles.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle Bergeron. Did your mission go well?”
“Yes, Reine Mère," she says with an accent thick with Louisiana. The Blood Princess doesn’t suspect a thing.
Aveline turns back to Mary, her eyes and smile filled with mania.
“Our house rises. Together. United.”
Mary returns her smile.
~~la fin~~
Flowers wilt.
A haze rises.
The heat of Texas is overwhelming.
A decrepit apartment, the door lined with locks, the lone window cracked and fixed with tape.
A bare floor, several empty rum containers scattered about.
A lone table holding an old television set, the rabbit’s ears of an antenna pointing at 12 and 3.
A guitar leaning against a corner, the only thing in the room holding any life or color.
A mattress upon the floor, stained and with springs so worn that they hold no spring.
A man in black sitting upon the mattress, his head in his hands.
Graying hair and beard, both shaggy. In need of a barber’s care.
Marble blue eyes.
Filled with death.
***THE FOLLOWING IS AN XPRESS FIGHTING SYSTEMS PROMOTIONAL VIDEO***
Only despair.
Only death.
His eyes move up towards the television as a flash of the green catches them, but they stare in with a dullness only depression can bring. He sees without seeing as the small man slaps the shoulder of the man next to him. He doesn’t register as the camera moves up...and up...and up to take in the man.
The man in black on the mattress blinks in confusion.
“...what?”
He blinks again and again, the light finally coming to his eyes, as finally focuses on the promotional video playing on his television. They finally focus on the giant of a man next to the man in the ugly suit. The Japanese man was tall and strong, with shoulders broad in both width and girth. Bright white hair makes him blink, the contrast startling.
And the eyes.
He knows those eyes.
“...my God…”
He falls forward onto his knees and shuffles across the bare floor until he is in front the table. He takes ahold of the television’s cord and gives it a yank until it falls to the floor with a crash. He picks up the screen and stares at it.
Stares at the large Japanese man.
Stares at the man with the bright white hair.
Stares at the man with Lacklanlander Blue eyes.
Aveline Lacklan’s eyes cross.
The Queen of Red slumps down as her knees give way and she finds herself sitting on a stool. The silks for her dress, bright white with slashes of gold along the sleeves, fold into a clump around her legs, and the bodice rises and falls in great movements as she tries to breathe. She presses the back of her right hand to her brow, feeling the sudden chilled sweat, and pushes away the long bangs hanging at the side of her face. She breathes out in a rush and then reaches back to bring her hair together in a rough tail, the bleached mass wavy after being taken out of its bun days before.
“You can’t…”
She shakes her head and breathes out again.
“You can’t be serious, Écrivain.”
Green eyes look up from her lap and take in the disheveled man before her. Her sitting room, a place meant to meant privately with those of importance, was just as lavish as the rest of the manor, and the man in black before her stood out in stark contrast. Whereas the carpets were freshly washed, this man’s hair was shaggy and in need of a brush. Whereas the tabletops and walls were polished to a gleam, his face was in need of a shave, his clothes in need of a press. Whereas the scent of forsythia, the pale yellow flowers picked just that morning, fills the air, his was the stench of despair and death.
“Is what it is, Ava.”
The large man shrugs his shoulders and reaches into the pocket of his long coat, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from them. Aveline shoots him a dirty look, but he just shrugs again and pulls out one of the butts.
“You know how he worked. You know his calling. There were many before you.”
Aveline’s eyes flash in anger.
"Aucun après, Écrivain!”
The man in black raises up his hands apologetically before placing his cigarette into his mouth and lighting it with the practiced ease of a lifelong smoker. He snaps his lighter closed, snuffing out the red and yellow burst of flame, as he takes and lets out his first puff of acrid smoke.
“None after. The Mountain King found his Queen. But in the beginning? Before he really even understood his ‘mission?’”
He shrugs and lets out another plume of smoke.
“He didn’t speak much about his time in Japan, not even for the book. He trained there under the Emerald Warrior. He worked alongside Tōtsū. His parents died in a plane crash coming to see him. Nothing else.”
He lowers his eyes to the ground for a moment, the grey-blue orbs seeming to dull, his gaze lost in time.
“But I knew, Ava. I knew. As soon as I saw those eyes. Not to mention the hair. And the height!”
He looks back up to her.
“And so I went. Kid’s family name is Nakama. I didn’t get to see him, though. Guess my own name doesn’t carry much weight these days, not after what went down with me and Foote. But I talked to his...manager? Agent? Whatever that little toad is. He wasn’t up for giving me much info, but I got someone on the inside now. I’ll be able to get close soon enough.”
Aveline gives him a look wrought with thought.
“So you don’t KNOW that this man is the son of my husband, il est ressuscité. You only...assume?”
The man shrugs again.
“I know what I know. And I’ll prove it soon enough.”
With another plume of smoke, he pitches the butt of his cigarette to the floor. Aveline scowls at him and the offending butt, but a servant comes rushing out within moments. The eyes of the Queen of Red do not even take in the woman wearing the black uniform with the slashes of purple for relief, and the servant does not speak or motion, only sweeping up the ash and butt with a dustpan and rushing off again. The big man shakes his head at the display.
“I had forgotten what that was like. I’m glad I did.”
Aveline narrows her eyes.
“Living in the compound is perfection, Écrivain. You would do well to remember that.”
“Sure.”
The bearded face curls into a smile as Aveline’s scowl deepens. He fishes out another cigarette and flashes open his lighter once more.
“But enough about what I’ve been up to. What about you? You ready for this big match at Infinity.”
Aveline’s face brightens at the mention of wrestling.
“Of course! It will be extremely honorable to fight Zane Scott.”
The man barks a scoffing laughter.
“Zane’s a pussy.”
Aveline’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops open.
“Langue, écrivain! Such filth! Such-”
“Jesus Horatio CHRIST, I liked you better when you were still Ava!”
Aveline’s eyes turn from their indignation to anger.
“I was a different person! My husband, il est ressuscité, showed me the Light, brought me to the Path. He fixed my broken body AND spirit! He-”
The man waves at her with his cigarette, the smoke billowing around his head.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”
She snarls at his dismissal, but then rolls her eyes.
“You could do with some Light in your life, Écrivain. It would help you recover from..your Beloved.”
An awkward silence falls between the two, deepening as the man smokes.
“But...still...why do you think this way of Zane? Is he not a great champion? Is he not the true gate keeper of this business? I think he is.”
The writer ponders this for a moment, his bearded face scrunching around his cigarette. After a few moments, he takes the cigarette back out, leans his head back to let out a great plume into the air, and looks back at her.
“Two things. First...Zane has spent half of his promotional time this year crying while jerking off on the collected works of Eden Morgan in a display that I would normally associate with Pierce being at the center of a UGWC Legends circle-jerk.”
Aveline’s eyes go wide again, and her mouth opens and closes several times, words failing to come out, and the writer presses.
“Seriously, YOU have shown the whole damned world how to deal with loss and adversity. What happened when you found out Japles had died? You not only picked up his sword, but you drove it straight into the hearts of his enemies. When Eden died, all Zane did was head over to corpsebrideerotica.com and had himself a little grieving session. When YOU had your own FAMILY turn against you in the form of the Grey-Lacklans, you beat down every person that got in your way and carved out a name for yourself as the Chaos Champion. And what did Zane do when Hastings set him up? Went all deadlights on us like Pennywise showed him where we all float. When Necron attacked your followers and burnt their homes to ash, you ripped the head off the dragon and set into motion his downfall. When Deimos beat the fuck out of Larry, it took him three goddamn WEEKS to show any fire at all, and a whole nother MONTH to take out his frustrations on Hastings.
“Do you think THAT is a great champion, Ava? Do you think THAT is what should be keeping the gates of this business?”
“Well..I...um...I never really thought of it like th-”
“And second, have you ever noticed how HARD he tries?”
Green eyes blink.
“What?”
“Okay, this is a little meta...and maybe it’s just because analyzing people is what I do for a living...but he tries REALLY hard. I mean, its like he REALLY wants to you know who he is and how he's doing things. For an example, have you seen any of his promos lately? I have. And there is a BIG emphasis on making sure that the camera is at just the RIGHT angle, or that the lighting is JUST SO. He doesn’t even MOVE naturally any more. He does this-”
The man moves his right hand very deliberately, making sure that the green eyes track him.
“-to make sure that you know it’s his RIGHT arm moving, and not just that he’s moving his arms. It seems that he has become desperate for you to believe the image he WANTS you to believe, and not the one that he IS.”
“And what is he, if not what we see?”
“An amateur.”
He takes a large puff of his cigarette and flicks it to the ground. He breathes the smoke out slowly as the servant performs her invisible duty once more.
“Pros make things look easy, Ava. When a pitcher throws a ninety-eight mile an hour heater? It looks easy. But if you tried it, you would throw out your arm to hit forty. A figure skater flips through the air with a quad and lands it with a smooth motion. But if you tried it, you would fall on your face after half a revolution. Pros make things look easy. Like they aren’t even trying. But Zane? Since his trip to go see Georgie in the sewer? Everything he does is clunky and forced. He REALLY wants you to believe that he’s the best...and it shows.
“You, on the other hand-”
He fishes out another cigarette.
“-you make things look easy. While he’s giving himself monikers to try to BE something, you just ARE. He desperately wants people to think he’s SOMETHING, that he’s some bullshit edgelord personification of concepts, while you are the walking incarnation of chaos. You don’t TRY to be chaos. You just ARE. And that difference is not only seen in all these promos and media pieces you guys do for your company, it carries over into the ring.”
The flash and click has him puffing again.
“You rush at people with ease, never worrying out pleasing a crowd with flips or twists, and beat everything in front of you into submission. You drive them through tables, smash them with that lock, make creative use of chairs. And all the while, there is a grace and smoothness that you probably couldn’t even explain. You make do with what you need and show the world what it means to BE somebody. On the other hand, a Zane match looks like someone trying to win the style competition at a UGWC 19 video game competition by using over thirty different moves, each more ridiculous than the last. Once again, he’s trying to BE something, trying to BE the highlight reel, while you just ARE. He’s got moves from Mexico, Japan, Canada, every region in America, and even a little British thrown in there. He’s basically like every punk kid on the independent circuit with a training pedigree that consists of playing Def Jam Vendetta for a marathon weekend. Next to you, he might as well be stinking up some rec center with McWrestleface and trying to get a pop with apron powerbombs and nut shots from twenty-five neckbeards.
“THAT is what he brings to the table. THAT is what he’s trying so hard to be. THAT is what he is spending every moment of every day trying to convince you, and maybe even himself. Trying to convince you that he’s some badass. But all he is a poor man’s VonKnorre who hasn’t realized that he’s not the stoic and focused monster he is TRYING be, and is really just the monotone boring lower-card act he IS.”
He takes a large puff of his cigarette and gives Aveline a small nod.
“In short: Zane’s a pussy.”
He smiles around his cigarette as Aveline shakes her head.
“Always the dismissive sort, Écrivain. But I will not fall into that trap. True, he HAS been slower and distracted, and he is certainly not the man I defeated back in May, but I will not dismiss him. Dismissal of an opponent, any opponent, is bad form.”
The writer waves her off.
“Bah! People being critical of dismissing an opponent is overrated. Just a bunch of basement dwellers getting all up in their feels. Really, I-”
The writer cuts off as they hear a knock. The two turn and see one of the servants at the door, accompanied by a tall femine form in a hood, the face of the curvy figure obscured.
“Oh! My apologies, Écrivain, but I have other matters.”
The writer stares at the tall woman with an odd expression on his face.
“Do I-”
“Severen!”
He snaps back to Aveline with a start.
“Sorry. I...um...what were we talking about?”
“I wish for you to go back to Japan. Attempt again to meet with this...Nakama. Your name may not carry weight, but mine does.”
Green eyes flash away from the writer and to the woman at the entranceway for a moment and then return quickly.
“Take my crier with you. He will carry the seal of the house, and that means my name. That will get you in, surely.”
“Fern?”
Behind him, the taller of the two women gives a small start, which momentarily draws the green eyes of Aveline once more, but she again brings them back to the man.
“Never liked that guy. Surprised to see him back. Then again, we all come back here, I guess. Where is he?”
“I sent him away yesterday.”
Green eyes again make their lightening movements to the woman and back to him.
“Find him in Bangor, Écrivain. He was tasked with finding out why the UGWC steaming service’s feed was lost during the most important match of the night last week. Find him and take him. Light be with you, Monsieur Severen.”
She gives him a small nod of her head, the dismissal clear, and he chuckles before tossing another spent cigarette butt to the floor. He winks at her before turning, making sure to avoid the servant rushing in to clean his mess, but then slows as he walks by the taller woman in the hood. He has to turn his face up to look at her, but the woman subtly shies away from him. He shakes his head as he makes his way out, the boots making a heavy stomp on the tile. After he leaves, Aveline faces the newcomer fully.
“Walk with me.”
Neither question nor answer, neither command nor request. A specialty of the Lacklans, a technique used to coerce people into action while making them think it was their own idea, this technique was employed by every person of the house. Aveline walks forward and the woman turns and follows behind her, though she skips a step as Aveline motions for her to take her arm. The two walk in silence, the woman in the hood a head or more taller than the queen, moving through hallways filled with tapestries, lined by carpets, and lit by lanterns with flickering lights. Tiny puffs of white coming from their mouths show the coldness of the day, a day which would see snow if there had been precipitation.
Aveline smiles as they round a corner and enter a large room containing a fireplace, the belly of the beast roaring to life and fighting off the New England cold. The two walk forward until they are close to the fire and Aveline points up to the portraits above the mantel.
“The house rises, Mary.”
The womanly figure in the hood raises her hands to her head and pulls back the hood. She shakes her head, allowing her golden locks to free themselves, and looks up at the portraits. There would never be any doubt who the mother of Angelica Vaughn was: Mary had the same cheekbones, the same jawline, and the same golden hair. Though lines of worry marred her cheeks, she was still a beauty on the outside to match her inside.
“...he was so beautiful…”
She raises a hand toward the trio of portraits on the left, those showing the progression of the Lacklan patriarch from silver-haired rookie to the white mask and burned head to the conclusion of the black hood. Her light eyes move between the first two, the man she loved and what he became not long after she fled, and they shine with tears.
“He still is, ma sœur.”
Mary turns from the portrait and back to Aveline at that pronouncement.
“Sister?”
Aveline nods.
“We may not be sister-wives...not really...not the way you were with the others before...but you are due as much honor in this house as any other who belongs here. YOU are destined for greatness, ma sœur. You BELONG here. You...and Angelica.”
Aveline motions to the portraits and Mary looks with her.
“The world will know soon enough. But even before then, the world will see OUR house rise. Infinity...the Trios...the world changes.”
She draws Mary’s attention back to her with a movement of her hand.
“I entered the Round Robin tournament to provide a shining example to the world of what God TRULY wants. I could show the world, again and again, what OUR house means! What OUR house determines! Just as Jesus showed the world the TRUE power of David, the TRUE life of Adam, it is up to ME to show the world the Path of the Light.
“Zane is a man of great renown, a man of great power and prowess, but he is not me. Championships galore! But he is not the Champion of Chaos. Too blinded by betrayal. Too dependent on trust. Too engaged in the micro to see the macro. But I, as we have discussed, AM the macro. I AM the business. I AM what God wishes to have being the general to His army in this war against mediocrity and insistence in the commonplace.”
She gestures back at the trio of portraits.
“He fought. Fought against the tide of garbage wrestling and excuses. And then he fell, his body failing him, his life full of success and glory to God. But he lives. He lives through me.”
She reaches up and takes Mary by the shoulders.
“He lives through you.”
She steps closer and her voice drops down into intimacy.
“The winner of my match at Infinity is likely the winner of the Round Robin. Pierce...eliminated! Cotton...eliminated! Only your beautiful daughter remains, and depending on how she does against Vain, she may not even be a factor...and instead the champion I chase at the Trios. Either way, we RISE.”
She steps back again but keeps her hands on the taller woman’s shoulders.
“Imagine it, ma sœur! Together! Though the world does not know. Together! We reign over this entire business as God wanted. Together! We stand tall as the CHAMPION this world needs!”
With each cry of “Together!” Aveline shakes Mary’s shoulders. She turns green eyes full of fire back to the portraits, and Mary’s blue eyes join, also filling with a fervent fire.
“One UNIFIED champion! One ULTIMATE champion! Standing atop the world and ruling with the fiery fist of God’s wrath. THAT was his mission. And now it is mine. Now it is OURS.”
She turns back to Mary and shakes her again, and when she turns back to her, her eyes brim with the fire that had begun to fill them moments before.
“I WILL defeat Zane on Monday, ma sœur! This tournament is but the things of the world to him. He wishes to win to show that he 'deserves’ to be champion, but he does not understand! Like the Romans pinning Jesus to the cross, we must forgive Zane for not understanding, not knowing, what he does. These things of the world...FALSE! This is about DIVINITY! About MANIFEST DESTINY! And at Infinity, the Holy Ghost WILL make Himself be known through divine providence! And I, the Champion of Chaos, soon to be the GREATEST Chaos Champion of ALL time, FOREVERMORE, will win the Round Robin. And then…”
She pauses, her breath coming hard, her fingers clenching Mary’s shoulders with enough force to turn her knuckles white and red with the pressure. She licks her lips and smiles.
“If Vain survives...then he faces his reckoning. He faces something he has never encountered. He is tired...worn...too many great battles in this last year to withstand the light I shine down. He WILL lose as I show him the TRUE mettle that my house offers. That OUR house offers! But!”
She cackles suddenly, a dry sound of equal parts mirth and madness.
“But! If he does NOT prevail...if he, instead, falls to your daughter, your beautiful Angelica...then I will fight her at the Trios. And I WILL win.”
She leans in close to Mary again, craning her head to keep her counterpart’s eyes.
“...the Trios…”
Her voice is again the intimate whisper, her eyes flashing even brighter than before in the firelight.
“...it may be...it very well may be...Vaughn...against Lacklan...against GREY-Lacklan…”
She suddenly moves forward and pulls Mary into a tight embrace, her head resting upon her collar.
“...my God, ma sœur...it will be beautiful!”
Mary looks down at the top of Aveline’s head, the woman’s platinum hair shining in the light, and hugs her back.
“Do you still fear l'Enfant Démon?”
Mary pushes Aveline back, her hands on her shoulders, and stares at her after the question.
“Wh...what?”
Aveline smiles.
“Why you fled. Do you still fear her? What she is?”
Mary’s eyes lower to the ground for a moment and her brow furrows in thought. She then looks up at the portrait of the famed “Vampire of Lacklanland” and, after a moment, gives her head a small shake.
“N...no. No. She-”
“You SHOULD.”
Mary’s eyes snap back down.
“What?”
“Do not be fooled by her, ma sœur. Do not be lured into her trap of contentedness. She may seem as the housecat growing fat on cream, but I am certain that she is but one reason, one obstacle, away from being everything you ever feared. Be weary, ma sœur. Be vigilant. Be-”
“Bonsoir, Reine Mère.”
The two women look towards the entranceway at the greeting and see a woman approaching in a hooded gown. As she enters the room, she pulls back her hood to show a brunette with lips seemingly built for kissing and large dimples. She spreads her skirts and gives the two women a deep curtsy. As she returns to standing, Aveline squeezes Mary’s shoulders and smiles.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle Bergeron. Did your mission go well?”
“Yes, Reine Mère," she says with an accent thick with Louisiana. The Blood Princess doesn’t suspect a thing.
Aveline turns back to Mary, her eyes and smile filled with mania.
“Our house rises. Together. United.”
Mary returns her smile.
~~la fin~~
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2013, '18, '23 
2013 
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