Post by Deleted on Feb 11, 2008 11:23:05 GMT -5
OOC: As always, there is opponent representation. This one should be very easy to figure out. Not only is it the only "outside character" but I feel the occupation fits to a "Tee". This is the first of two roleplays. The second will focus on the Tag Team Title Match. Enjoy!
Eleanor was swiftly growing weary of spending her days cooped up in hospitals, especially as it related to 240 pounds of walking, talking sleeze. This was the third time she had occasion to visit one since taking charge of The Deville’s managerial duties as many weeks ago. She hoped against hope that it was the last.
The first came two days after their meeting at his house. Eleanor had been suspicious of how the evening transpired, distrusting Pierce’s relation of events, so she paid a visit to her family doctor, not just to test for alcohol in her system, but to gauge whether or not any other toxins were prevalent. None were. Aside from having some alcohol still kicking around in her blood, Eleanor was in perfect health.
The second visit was to a veterinarian, for the rabid dog The Deville unleashed on Tha CBT and then feigned ignorance to. They hadn’t gotten the results back yet, as the dog was still in observation, but the vet had told her she was 99% sure the dog was infected. Deville’s smug attitude about it pissed her off. In a conversation with President Jonathan Parker, Deville had intimated that according to his lawyers they didn’t need to issue any sort of press release. No one came in close contact with the dog except personnel, so only personnel needed to be notified and immunized.
Which brought Eleanor to her third visit. The dog hadn’t bitten her, but not knowing what Pierce was up to, she had ignored his warnings of leaving the beast in its cage and not touching it. It had not only licked her hand, but her face as well, practically drowning her with its slobbering kisses. Because of that bit of ignorant innocence she might have contracted a fatal disease.
Only a few weeks into the job and already her life hung in the balance.
A part of her wanted to kill Deville for that. A bigger part wanted to run as fast and as far as she could without looking back. She harbored little doubt that Pierce had known beforehand -- in fact, she more than suspected he selected the dog specifically for the purpose -- and if he was sick enough to plan that she wasn’t comfortable putting anything past him. If he was that sick, the only thing he lacked more than conscience was morals.
Even being on his side offered scant protection, as Eleanor’s presence in the hospital demonstrated. She was his right-hand-man, his confidant, yet she was as susceptible to harm as anyone else. Moreso than most, even, for Eleanor was always right at the source of it. Being his manager seemed to be as hazardous as being his opponent.
She had told him as much when she accused him of orchestrating the entire ordeal. He denied it, of course, acting hurt that she would think such things, genuinely offended that she felt beneath his protection. She didn’t buy it. His response when she told him so made matters much worse.
"If I did plan it," he had begun, shrugging, smiling, sounding as if the matter weren’t important enough to address but he’d humour her anyhow, "you would be safe. Trust me. But if you did somehow contract the disease and die . . ." Trailing off, he looked down, shaking his head. When he finally met her gaze again, his eyes were flat, his expression grim. "Collateral damage."
When she erupted, slapping at him and shouting names, he protested that it was strictly hypothetical, that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. "You’re in the eye of the storm, Eleanor" he breathed after snatching both of her wrists and lifting her from the ground, dangling her so their eyes were level. "It’s the safest place to be."
Inhaling the pungent odor of gauze and antiseptic, listening to people moaning in pain and others arguing with nurses, waiting for the results of her blood test, Eleanor didn’t feel safe. Not in the least. She felt vulnerable and exposed, out of place in her own skin. She felt trapped in a doorless, windowless room, with noxious gas seeping in through a vent she couldn’t see.
She jerked when she noticed she was scratching furiously at her inner elbow and made herself stop. Not because you weren’t supposed to scratch the pinprick after having blood drawn -- it wasn’t even the right arm for that -- but because during her revisit of claustrophobia something vague and ominous had dawned on her. Then when she saw herself scratching the wrong arm, the fog dissipated, and she leapt to her feet with a strangled gasp.
"Eleanor?"
The voice beside her was startling, and the doctor almost received a broken nose before Eleanor was stammering apologies, rambling about how she’s been on edge lately. The doctor hummed, nodding his understanding, and hugged the file he was holding to his chest. Looking over her shoulder, he cleared his throat and waited a moment before beginning.
"You came in here for rabies inoculation. Is that correct, Mrs. Kannon-Hall?" The way he enunciated it, he didn’t understand how it could be.
Eleanor struggled to swallow, her mouth a desert. Please don’t let me be right. "Yes," she answered hollowly, her voice sounding alien in her ears. "Yes, that’s correct."
"I see." the doctor said, scratching his head. "Did something go wrong the last time?"
Eleanor blinked. "What?"
The doctor hesitated, opening her file and nodding to himself. "Well, your blood shows that you’re already immune."
Time slowed for Eleanor. Her hand went unconsciously back to the crook of her elbow, scratching.
"There’s no record of you getting the shots in your medical history," the doctor went on, unaware of Eleanor’s reaction as he flipped through her file, "but the antibodies are developed. According to the tests I did, you were immunized almost a month ago." The doctor stopped leafing and looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "So again, did something go wrong the last time? Where did you get it done?"
The chair she had been sitting in scratched against the linoleum as she backed into it and almost fell. The doctor reached forward to help her, but she slapped his hand away as if it was poison.
"Mrs. Kannon-Hall?" The doctor was concerned now, following her as she backed down the hallway, rifling her head back and forth.
Somewhere in her mind Eleanor knew this couldn’t be happening, that this was all just some ridiculous dream wrought of watching too many primetime crime stories. The rest of her mind was more in tune with reality.
He did it, she thought acidly, almost disbelievingly, scratching at the spot Pierce had "taken blood" from while she was unconscious and in his care. Turning, she bolted down the hallway and out of the hospital, ignoring the angry shouts in her wake.
He did it.
Now that Eleanor knew for sure, now that she knew everything, she couldn’t help but wonder which was worse . . .
That Pierce Deville was sick and demented enough to have used the rabid dog as a weapon intentionally, and had been planning it since before Super Brawl, before Tha CBT ever wronged him.
Or that he was going out of his way to protect her. That he cared for her.
The eye of the storm indeed.
The harlequin smiled openly, happily, juggling multicoloured balls behind the big sign that marked his section of the street. Face painted and clothed in a dizzying array of colors, he looked like every other garden-variety reject from Ringling Bros. Just another sad bum ruined by a horrid story and inability to cope, hindered by a desire to put a happy face on the surface instead of dealing with the turmoil beneath.
The other panhandlers dotting the street were in much the same predicament, but the harlequin saw himself as different from them. They were sad about their status, angry with the world for neglecting them. They knew they had no future and it made them bitter and resentful.
The harlequin, on the other hand, had been blessed by epiphany. His newfound philosophy and battlecry shouted proudly from the faded white bristle board in large black letters.
"Carpe Diem?" Pierce Deville asked mockingly as he approached, flickering his gaze between the clown and his sign. Decked out in a silk suit of immaculate white, he moved like a ghost.
The clown nodded proudly, never faltering in his juggling. "Seize the day, my friend."
The Deville smirked. "Yeah. Seems to have done wonders for you thus far." The clown opened his mouth to protest, to defend his stance, but Pierce was already sauntering past him, no longer looking his way. "Try seizing your life first."
The harlequin’s eyes bulged. He stopped juggling, ready to lecture the man who had been lucky enough to grow up with everything he didn’t, but The Deville disappeared into the jewelery store the clown was parked in front of.
Glaring at the door swinging shut, glaring at the place in general, the harlequin pocketed his balls and waited. He was sick of people acting condescending toward him just because he chose to live his life differently than theirs. Was he supposed to feel bad that he couldn’t afford a single thing in that store? Was he supposed to feel bad that while others were working on their status and portfolio, trying to move up in an artificial world, he was working on developing his own mind and sense of being?
Five minutes later when The Deville emerged from the store, he had worked himself up into a considerable frenzy.
"You think you’re better than me, don’t you?" the harlequin hissed, marching toward Deville to cut him off before he could leave. Deville gave a start, as if surprised at being addressed, then grinned wryly as he settled on the source of the voice.
"Better isn’t the right word, really," Deville allowed thoughtfully. "Infinitely superior is more apt. Has a better ring to it, too, illustrating the point beautifully."
The harlequin seethed. Stabbing a finger at Deville, he opened his mouth to put the arrogant bastard in his place. Unfortunately, Deville grabbed his finger, bent it back with a vicious crack, then casually mashed his face against the wall.
"Here," The Deville said, producing a wad of bills from his pocket as the buffoon crumpled. He peeled a couple off and let them flutter down to the moaning clown. "That’ll get you looked at in a hospital and buy you some food besides. In the future, try to watch where you put your grubby hands."
"You think I want your charity?" the clown sputtered, holding his nose to curtail the flow of blood.
Pierce shrugged indifferently. "No, but you need it." Shaking his head, The Deville returned the money to his pocket. "Seems you need some advice, too, and since I’m feeling charitable . . ."
Deville gestured toward the sign. "Living for the day is pathetically short-sighted and infantile. Keep doing it and you’re going to stay exactly where you are, on the dark side of nowhere, struggling to keep a hold on nothing. If you want to come up in the world, shift your focus to the future."
"The future?" The harlequin glared up through watery eyes. "But what about today?"
"Seize tomorrow . . . and today takes care of itself."
He didn’t allow his opponent’s feable attempt at sabotage work. He knew, all along, that Tha CBT would make it appear as if he wouldn’t be able to show; doing his damndest to get whatever edge he could on what he knew to be an unbeatable adversary. Deville came prepared moreso than ever. The chants for his name were deafening.
For a long, agonizing moment they had fled, hiding behind silent disbelief and dread as CBT decimated their hero with the Pon De Replay, but three slaps of the mat and a replay later, the match was back on and the crowd was back in it, trying to lift Their Mom’s Favorite Wrestler with their spirited voices.
It worked.
The mighty CBT scooped him up again and went for another, but the resourceful Deville reversed it into a finishing move of his own, The Gridlock. CBT’s screams of agony couldn’t be heard over the tens of thousands of voices shouting Deville into the history books. When his music started up, no one noticed. No one could hear it either.
It was glorious. He had won. He was still the National Champion.
And the world loved it. The world celebrated it with raised arms and voices, with hoots and hollers, with louder Deville chants than had ever been before. They were like kids on Christmas after just opening the one gift they truly wanted. They were buoyant and ecstatic, bouncing around like imps on the day of return.
Except for one fan up in the nosebleed section who did none of those things. Not because he wasn’t a Deville fan, but because it simply wasn’t his style.
Applauding respectfully, Satan slowly nodded his appreciation of his efforts. He had wanted him to win as well, had known from the getgo that he would. Watching him cradle the belt like a newborn baby, exhausted and slouched over it as if he really had given birth to it, The Lord of Darkness felt happiness welling up within him.
He was happy for him, for his accomplishment. He was proud too. After RPW [Deville's old federation for those unaware] folded he wasn’t sure he’d ever hold such a championship again. Unsure that he'd be able to retain on a stage as grande as Super Brawl. Wasn’t sure he’d climb the mountain again. Not because he thought him incapable, but because he thought him unwilling.
He was a hard person to read. He was intriguing.
He intrigued The Devil, at least.
Which was another reason he was happy seeing him triumphant. Not just for him, though that was a big part of it, but for himself as well. For the plans he had made, unfolding flawlessly. Slowly, ever so slowly, his smile slid to a mischievous grin.
Everything was falling into place.
The future, as always, was his.
Eleanor was swiftly growing weary of spending her days cooped up in hospitals, especially as it related to 240 pounds of walking, talking sleeze. This was the third time she had occasion to visit one since taking charge of The Deville’s managerial duties as many weeks ago. She hoped against hope that it was the last.
The first came two days after their meeting at his house. Eleanor had been suspicious of how the evening transpired, distrusting Pierce’s relation of events, so she paid a visit to her family doctor, not just to test for alcohol in her system, but to gauge whether or not any other toxins were prevalent. None were. Aside from having some alcohol still kicking around in her blood, Eleanor was in perfect health.
The second visit was to a veterinarian, for the rabid dog The Deville unleashed on Tha CBT and then feigned ignorance to. They hadn’t gotten the results back yet, as the dog was still in observation, but the vet had told her she was 99% sure the dog was infected. Deville’s smug attitude about it pissed her off. In a conversation with President Jonathan Parker, Deville had intimated that according to his lawyers they didn’t need to issue any sort of press release. No one came in close contact with the dog except personnel, so only personnel needed to be notified and immunized.
Which brought Eleanor to her third visit. The dog hadn’t bitten her, but not knowing what Pierce was up to, she had ignored his warnings of leaving the beast in its cage and not touching it. It had not only licked her hand, but her face as well, practically drowning her with its slobbering kisses. Because of that bit of ignorant innocence she might have contracted a fatal disease.
Only a few weeks into the job and already her life hung in the balance.
A part of her wanted to kill Deville for that. A bigger part wanted to run as fast and as far as she could without looking back. She harbored little doubt that Pierce had known beforehand -- in fact, she more than suspected he selected the dog specifically for the purpose -- and if he was sick enough to plan that she wasn’t comfortable putting anything past him. If he was that sick, the only thing he lacked more than conscience was morals.
Even being on his side offered scant protection, as Eleanor’s presence in the hospital demonstrated. She was his right-hand-man, his confidant, yet she was as susceptible to harm as anyone else. Moreso than most, even, for Eleanor was always right at the source of it. Being his manager seemed to be as hazardous as being his opponent.
She had told him as much when she accused him of orchestrating the entire ordeal. He denied it, of course, acting hurt that she would think such things, genuinely offended that she felt beneath his protection. She didn’t buy it. His response when she told him so made matters much worse.
"If I did plan it," he had begun, shrugging, smiling, sounding as if the matter weren’t important enough to address but he’d humour her anyhow, "you would be safe. Trust me. But if you did somehow contract the disease and die . . ." Trailing off, he looked down, shaking his head. When he finally met her gaze again, his eyes were flat, his expression grim. "Collateral damage."
When she erupted, slapping at him and shouting names, he protested that it was strictly hypothetical, that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. "You’re in the eye of the storm, Eleanor" he breathed after snatching both of her wrists and lifting her from the ground, dangling her so their eyes were level. "It’s the safest place to be."
Inhaling the pungent odor of gauze and antiseptic, listening to people moaning in pain and others arguing with nurses, waiting for the results of her blood test, Eleanor didn’t feel safe. Not in the least. She felt vulnerable and exposed, out of place in her own skin. She felt trapped in a doorless, windowless room, with noxious gas seeping in through a vent she couldn’t see.
She jerked when she noticed she was scratching furiously at her inner elbow and made herself stop. Not because you weren’t supposed to scratch the pinprick after having blood drawn -- it wasn’t even the right arm for that -- but because during her revisit of claustrophobia something vague and ominous had dawned on her. Then when she saw herself scratching the wrong arm, the fog dissipated, and she leapt to her feet with a strangled gasp.
"Eleanor?"
The voice beside her was startling, and the doctor almost received a broken nose before Eleanor was stammering apologies, rambling about how she’s been on edge lately. The doctor hummed, nodding his understanding, and hugged the file he was holding to his chest. Looking over her shoulder, he cleared his throat and waited a moment before beginning.
"You came in here for rabies inoculation. Is that correct, Mrs. Kannon-Hall?" The way he enunciated it, he didn’t understand how it could be.
Eleanor struggled to swallow, her mouth a desert. Please don’t let me be right. "Yes," she answered hollowly, her voice sounding alien in her ears. "Yes, that’s correct."
"I see." the doctor said, scratching his head. "Did something go wrong the last time?"
Eleanor blinked. "What?"
The doctor hesitated, opening her file and nodding to himself. "Well, your blood shows that you’re already immune."
Time slowed for Eleanor. Her hand went unconsciously back to the crook of her elbow, scratching.
"There’s no record of you getting the shots in your medical history," the doctor went on, unaware of Eleanor’s reaction as he flipped through her file, "but the antibodies are developed. According to the tests I did, you were immunized almost a month ago." The doctor stopped leafing and looked up at her, eyes narrowed. "So again, did something go wrong the last time? Where did you get it done?"
The chair she had been sitting in scratched against the linoleum as she backed into it and almost fell. The doctor reached forward to help her, but she slapped his hand away as if it was poison.
"Mrs. Kannon-Hall?" The doctor was concerned now, following her as she backed down the hallway, rifling her head back and forth.
Somewhere in her mind Eleanor knew this couldn’t be happening, that this was all just some ridiculous dream wrought of watching too many primetime crime stories. The rest of her mind was more in tune with reality.
He did it, she thought acidly, almost disbelievingly, scratching at the spot Pierce had "taken blood" from while she was unconscious and in his care. Turning, she bolted down the hallway and out of the hospital, ignoring the angry shouts in her wake.
He did it.
Now that Eleanor knew for sure, now that she knew everything, she couldn’t help but wonder which was worse . . .
That Pierce Deville was sick and demented enough to have used the rabid dog as a weapon intentionally, and had been planning it since before Super Brawl, before Tha CBT ever wronged him.
Or that he was going out of his way to protect her. That he cared for her.
The eye of the storm indeed.
~><>…<><~
[/center]The harlequin smiled openly, happily, juggling multicoloured balls behind the big sign that marked his section of the street. Face painted and clothed in a dizzying array of colors, he looked like every other garden-variety reject from Ringling Bros. Just another sad bum ruined by a horrid story and inability to cope, hindered by a desire to put a happy face on the surface instead of dealing with the turmoil beneath.
The other panhandlers dotting the street were in much the same predicament, but the harlequin saw himself as different from them. They were sad about their status, angry with the world for neglecting them. They knew they had no future and it made them bitter and resentful.
The harlequin, on the other hand, had been blessed by epiphany. His newfound philosophy and battlecry shouted proudly from the faded white bristle board in large black letters.
"Carpe Diem?" Pierce Deville asked mockingly as he approached, flickering his gaze between the clown and his sign. Decked out in a silk suit of immaculate white, he moved like a ghost.
The clown nodded proudly, never faltering in his juggling. "Seize the day, my friend."
The Deville smirked. "Yeah. Seems to have done wonders for you thus far." The clown opened his mouth to protest, to defend his stance, but Pierce was already sauntering past him, no longer looking his way. "Try seizing your life first."
The harlequin’s eyes bulged. He stopped juggling, ready to lecture the man who had been lucky enough to grow up with everything he didn’t, but The Deville disappeared into the jewelery store the clown was parked in front of.
Glaring at the door swinging shut, glaring at the place in general, the harlequin pocketed his balls and waited. He was sick of people acting condescending toward him just because he chose to live his life differently than theirs. Was he supposed to feel bad that he couldn’t afford a single thing in that store? Was he supposed to feel bad that while others were working on their status and portfolio, trying to move up in an artificial world, he was working on developing his own mind and sense of being?
Five minutes later when The Deville emerged from the store, he had worked himself up into a considerable frenzy.
"You think you’re better than me, don’t you?" the harlequin hissed, marching toward Deville to cut him off before he could leave. Deville gave a start, as if surprised at being addressed, then grinned wryly as he settled on the source of the voice.
"Better isn’t the right word, really," Deville allowed thoughtfully. "Infinitely superior is more apt. Has a better ring to it, too, illustrating the point beautifully."
The harlequin seethed. Stabbing a finger at Deville, he opened his mouth to put the arrogant bastard in his place. Unfortunately, Deville grabbed his finger, bent it back with a vicious crack, then casually mashed his face against the wall.
"Here," The Deville said, producing a wad of bills from his pocket as the buffoon crumpled. He peeled a couple off and let them flutter down to the moaning clown. "That’ll get you looked at in a hospital and buy you some food besides. In the future, try to watch where you put your grubby hands."
"You think I want your charity?" the clown sputtered, holding his nose to curtail the flow of blood.
Pierce shrugged indifferently. "No, but you need it." Shaking his head, The Deville returned the money to his pocket. "Seems you need some advice, too, and since I’m feeling charitable . . ."
Deville gestured toward the sign. "Living for the day is pathetically short-sighted and infantile. Keep doing it and you’re going to stay exactly where you are, on the dark side of nowhere, struggling to keep a hold on nothing. If you want to come up in the world, shift your focus to the future."
"The future?" The harlequin glared up through watery eyes. "But what about today?"
"Seize tomorrow . . . and today takes care of itself."
Flash Forward
Super Brawl V
Super Brawl V
He didn’t allow his opponent’s feable attempt at sabotage work. He knew, all along, that Tha CBT would make it appear as if he wouldn’t be able to show; doing his damndest to get whatever edge he could on what he knew to be an unbeatable adversary. Deville came prepared moreso than ever. The chants for his name were deafening.
For a long, agonizing moment they had fled, hiding behind silent disbelief and dread as CBT decimated their hero with the Pon De Replay, but three slaps of the mat and a replay later, the match was back on and the crowd was back in it, trying to lift Their Mom’s Favorite Wrestler with their spirited voices.
It worked.
The mighty CBT scooped him up again and went for another, but the resourceful Deville reversed it into a finishing move of his own, The Gridlock. CBT’s screams of agony couldn’t be heard over the tens of thousands of voices shouting Deville into the history books. When his music started up, no one noticed. No one could hear it either.
It was glorious. He had won. He was still the National Champion.
And the world loved it. The world celebrated it with raised arms and voices, with hoots and hollers, with louder Deville chants than had ever been before. They were like kids on Christmas after just opening the one gift they truly wanted. They were buoyant and ecstatic, bouncing around like imps on the day of return.
Except for one fan up in the nosebleed section who did none of those things. Not because he wasn’t a Deville fan, but because it simply wasn’t his style.
Applauding respectfully, Satan slowly nodded his appreciation of his efforts. He had wanted him to win as well, had known from the getgo that he would. Watching him cradle the belt like a newborn baby, exhausted and slouched over it as if he really had given birth to it, The Lord of Darkness felt happiness welling up within him.
He was happy for him, for his accomplishment. He was proud too. After RPW [Deville's old federation for those unaware] folded he wasn’t sure he’d ever hold such a championship again. Unsure that he'd be able to retain on a stage as grande as Super Brawl. Wasn’t sure he’d climb the mountain again. Not because he thought him incapable, but because he thought him unwilling.
He was a hard person to read. He was intriguing.
He intrigued The Devil, at least.
Which was another reason he was happy seeing him triumphant. Not just for him, though that was a big part of it, but for himself as well. For the plans he had made, unfolding flawlessly. Slowly, ever so slowly, his smile slid to a mischievous grin.
Everything was falling into place.
The future, as always, was his.
