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Division of Responsibility
Author Message
Corey Smith Offline
Active in XWF



XWF FanBase:
Some of everyone

(cheered; very rarely plays dirty but isn't lame either; many likable qualities)


#1
03-17-2019, 06:45 PM

Lux's kick echoes thunderously off the black bag, the concentrated product of days worth of anxiety, aggravation, and fear channeled into the blow. She unleashes another, and another, in rapid succession, breathing out a quick burst of a shout with each. She pauses momentarily to recollect herself before her features settle into a renewed anger, and she unleashes again, over and over, each shot a thunderclap ringing about in the empty gym.

What did that bag ever do to you?

Lux chokes back a startled cry as she spins about to consider Corey's mental projection. I told you to stop doing that.

Sorry, it's fun. Corey flashes a playful grin.

Lux relents, reaching down to pull her shin guards off as she continues to speak. We don't have time for fun. We've been found out. Somebody knows about me.

Corey breathes in a bit, the cocky smile vanishing. So you've said. Corey steps towards a nearby table, where HELPER is currently laying prone, with a docking cable tethering him to a laptop. His eyes, usually a steady hue, are blinking in rapid succession almost like a human in REM sleep. Has he found anything yet?

Nothing. Lux sighs. “Number 44” could literally be anyone or anything. She looks up at him. We need to consider dropping out of the XWF.

Corey's eyes widen. What?! Why?!

Grabbing a metal folding chair, she plants herself in it as she begins to cast off the second shin guard. When I signed up here I thought I would be protected by the fact that the people I'm hunting don't know I'm coming. Couldn't POSSIBLY know I'm coming, because to them, I was a complete nonentity and their worst crimes were still ahead of them. That I could slide in here to the world's premier fight company, train your body and blend in with the rest of this roster's motley assortment. She tosses the shin guard down. I thought I could safely tell my story, in part, as a way to sell myself to management. No offense, but a reedy baby faced Corey Smith was a tough sell.

But we're so charming! Corey tries to flash another grin, but he's weighed down by Lux's seriousness. Ok, I get what your saying. But you said it yourself, Wilson Stokes only knew that you were coming for him. He didn't know WHY. That's gotta provide us with some protection.

I thought about that, and I think I understand. My guess is Number 44 avoided telling Stokes why I was coming because Stokes would assume he's a crank and would never believe him. “Oh, by the by your an integral part of the world slowly dying, and a body trading assassin from the future is coming to kill you for crimes you didn't commit yet.”

Our lives ARE pretty f'ed up. But why do we have to leave the XWF?

She considers him with frustration. Are you serious? Corey, we're on national television! Our movements are tracked in the most public of spheres! There is no way that is not working against us.

Corey starts to pace a bit, face screwed up in contemplation. Hmmmm....

What?

He holds up a finger with a degree of impatience. Hold up. Processing.

Lux watches him pace for a series of minutes, until finally Corey starts, slapping his hands together as the proverbial lightbulb blinks on. I got it!

Got what?

We can tie it all together! Okay, so I know you haven't been thinking much about the tournament lately, but Lacklan....

Lux snorts derisively.

Lacklan has a major lady hate boner for the weirdest aspects of the XWF and she's probably going to try to riff on us and say we're just making all this stuff up. But we also need to give ourselves some plausible deniability. We can kill two birds with one stone.

The assassin shakes her head in frustration. I don't see what you're getting at.

Corey stops and walks up to Lux, excitement beaming on his features. Let's tell the world it's all bullshit. Everything we do is made up.

Lux's eyes wander, and her expression turns stoic as she mulls over Corey's words. Corey plunges ahead. We can completely head people like Lacklan off at the pass by removing the only real tool in her arsenal, AND we can give ourselves that plausible deniability in the public eye. Number 44 wants to warn your targets that you're a really-real assassin who's really-real coming to kill them. Might sound kinda crazy seeing as how you've already admitted you're just another wacky pro wrestling gimmick.

Huh.

And there's no end to it! Everything we do is just part of some big pro-wrestling meta-storyline. Corey snaps his fingers. Wrestling is AWESOME!

It...could work. Lux offers cautiously. We can stay in the XWF for now and test this out. I'm not a big fan of the duplicity, but it does have some merits. She points at Corey. You were right about one problem though. My head is NOT in this tournament. I need to start making plans to move again, time is of the essence. So I have an idea. Why don't you handle all the hype and pre-match coordination.

Corey looks a bit taken aback by this, but finally he shakes his head affirmatively. Don't worry about it. I got this! Division of responsibility. You focus on Lux stuff this time around, and I focus on XWF stuff. I've already got some big brain ideas that'll really turn the momentum in our favor. All you need to do is show up on March 31st and kick ass. Everything before that is on me.

A thin smile crosses Lux's features. You're enjoying this, aren't you?

After that last spot we did against Mastermind, I guess I kinda caught the bug. Eyes bright, he mimes catching an insect out of mid-air, looking every bit like an excited teenager.

Lux found herself warming inwardly at the sight, seeing Corey happy and engaged and with something to look forward to. Seeing him capture his passion. Putting this much responsibility on Corey was a major risk, but one she was finding herself willing to acquiesce to. Especially if it kept him smiling like that.

No. None of that.

Lux forced it back down again. We'll need to hash out the exact times we each get control. But I think this arrangement is just what we both need.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Corey Time~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Hi World, it's Lux's lesser half again. Turns out she has made the choice to let me lead the charge into battle for the tournament. And seeing as how we're in the same body, I got to think this counts for our contractual obligations right?

Oh, which reminds me! All that stuff about me and Lux and their being two separate consciousnesses in the same body, one of which is a time traveling body swapping badass from a near post-apocalyptic future....**deep breath**....it's all a show.

Bomb dropped.

No, really. It's not real. I'm sorry. It's a fun story and nothing more. Don't get me wrong it's going to continue. But yeah, fake with a capital “F”. So Lacklan, you can breathe a sigh of relief that we are not muddying up the sanctity of pretty men and ladies rolling around in their underwear for you. And by all means, please don't worry that uncanny valley, horror movie Kewpie doll face of yours about the future. It's completely safe and absolutely not circling the bowl, like I said before.

However! That is NOT to say that stories themselves, as we all know, can't have value. I mean, what is wrestling if not an ongoing drama. In it's most basic form it has heroes and villains. It has high tension and conflict. Build, climax, and denouement. That's a five dollar word I just learned today by the way. “Denouement.” Granted, it's a simple tale, unlike mine. But I'm not sure that being simple strips it of it's inherent beauty.

So lets talk about stories for a moment, shall we? Let's talk about what we present to the world. Because after all, even in the most simple and subtle ways, we're all telling stories, large or small. Every day we choose how to act around certain people. Minorities code switch around white people. Lovers feign affection when the spark is gone. Employees suck up to their bosses. Even in the tiniest of ways, each of these are stories that we tell. Lies maybe. Exaggerations, surely. But we all tell them. Some are just....heh....more fanciful than others.

In fact, my story kicks your story's ass, Lacklan.

And.

Away.

We.

Go.


Because if my fantasy is just some meaningless show, what does that make the story YOU tell? Glitz, glamour, popping off the cover of teen beat magazine with a veritable b-team of wacky supporting characters that honestly, no one cares about. A vapid corporatized sheen of nonstop narcissistic prattle about how amazing you are. It's all world building, it's getting people to see what you want them to see. Which is precisely what you're accusing me of. The problem for you is, that your world building BLOWS. Because I at least took the time and energy to invest in something a bit more innovative that the vapid, preening pablum of “OMG totes random” social media regurgitation that is you. The waste product of a culture that is so damned desperate for attention yet has so little of any substance to offer. A void that is, in reality, no culture at all save blind worship at the idol of narcisstic, self absorbed blather and surface level tabloid hackery.

Lacklan, you are a whippets huffing “manic pixie dream girl” who is so overexposed she still hasn't picked up on the fact that “the empress is wearing no clothes”. A Kardashian-esque parody of fame with the personality of an ADHD riddled child, off meds, and bouncing from candy aisle to candy aisle with sticky little fingers touching everything and screaming “OH GOD PLEASE LOOK AT ME!”. Hell, you're even a lesbian, just to add that little add twist of tantalization. Now please don't mistake me, I have no problem with gay relationships. In your case it's the thing about you that comes closest to looking genuine and honest. But considering how often you shamelessly trot it out in front of the camera to be devoured it's hard not to be a little cynical. “Oh hey world, don't forget I'm a LESBIAN with a SUPER SEXY GIRLRIEND. Isn't that HOT?” In the end it makes you seem like nothing more than a simple cam whore with a slightly higher smattering of class. Is there anything about you that is not a product to be bought, sold, and consumed by a depressed directionless culture obsessed with vapid celebrity?

Why bother to save the world when you can just look pretty in it. Bat your creepy “I swear to God it turned it's head and LOOKED AT ME” red China doll eyes, wear some pretty sequins and aspire to absolutely no higher cultural milestone than that.

You just try so damn hard to get yourself over it's nauseating. Past stars in this business have made it look damn near effortless, but you? Magazine covers. Cameras in your face 24/7. The nonstop prostitution of every facet of your life, including your love life. What emptiness drives that? That constant craving for even the barest shred of attention. That incessant hunger for more eyes, more clicks, more likes. Pressing flesh like a sweaty thigh at it's 12th hour on the stripper pole. None of this makes yous special, or some kind of vital asset. It makes you DESPERATE. The XWF has thrived for this long, and it will continue to do so without you. See, and for all your vaunted knowedge about the history of wrestling, you lack the wisdom to see that the success of this industry is a joint effort. It doesn't hinge on one innane, histrionic, attention whore...it's the culmination of decades and decades of the blood, sweat and tears of thousands. People like you who demand to be a constant center of attention are POISON for this business. You're not a leader. Hell, you can't even lead Dolly without taking shots at her diction and make-up skills, as if that is the measure of what a human being is truly worth.

So let's say you still insist on taking issue with the story I present to the world, even if yours is as mind numbingly tedious as I just described. Then I want you to explain to me how exactly that makes a 17 year old boy who has exploded onto the scene from out of nowhere and started kicking the faces off of men twice my size....how does that make me LESS dangerous? And when it boils right down to it, that's the thing you can't contend with. My talent. My efficiency in the ring. Oh you're good, don't get me wrong. But you're so stone drunk on your own ego that it's going to cause you to make mistakes. Nothing you say, nothing you refute about what I show the world has any bearing on what I bring in the ring. Nothing. The people and my own peers voted me Superstar of the Month almost the very moment I set foot through that door. You yourself were just ITCHING to call me out before you even knew if I was going to beat Mastermind or not. And that is because, in your heart of hearts, you know I'm the one to beat. The fact that I weave a cool story doesn't mean that I'm going to kick that weird pasty face of yours off any less.

So you want to call me out for being fanciful? Go for it. Though it's a tad redundant at this point. Kind of like the rest of your shameless and utterly exhausting hyperactive “Mary Sue” act.

Come at me.

As for you Dolly do you really want to be a back up dancer to this celebrity trash? Because that's exactly what you will be. You're better than that. You're smarter than playing second fiddle to petty pop culture refuse. Dolly, I know you hate this “buttering each other up” crap, so I'm going to stop before we get too awfully saccharine and cut to the chase. I have plans for my time in the XWF. Plans that I want YOU to be a part of. I think that deep down, you and I have more in common than you and Lachlan. How you could see any common ground with some silver spoon sucking self obsessed socialite (whoa, random bout of alliteration!) I have no idea.

I'm not going to claim to understand you completely. I'm not Mastermind. For as much as he himself is a “mastermind” of anything. But I know you come from stronger stuff than Sarah. And I know you've got way too reasonable a head on your shoulders to get seduced by the allure of petty celebrity bullshit. You don't strike me as the kind of person who needs validation for much of anything. So what gives? Did you sign on the dotted line with this Bravo Channel shit heap or what? God, I so want to be right about this one.

And then we have Game Girl. GG, you deserve better than to be an afterthought. But I'm going to disappoint you. Just for now. I swear. Because quite honestly, I have a place in my heart for you too. I mean, not like....romantically. You already have your Game Boy, right? I may be a majorly elaborate liar, but virtual home wrecker I am not! We'll talk soon. Off camera, I hope.

Errr...don't read too much into that.

Talk to you all later. In the meantime I'm going to try to get some sleep and try not to attribute every weird noise I hear to Lacklan climbing down off my Grandma's shelf with a butcher knife. Goddamn Annabelle looking motherfucker....


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Lux Time~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lux finished watching the rough cut of Corey's promo on her laptop and despite the tremendous mental strain she was under, couldn't suppress a laugh. It felt good. Moreover, it felt good to let Corey have this. To let him take the reigns of his life again...to LIVE. She closed the laptop and turned away from the table, drawing her robe around her as she neared the bed. Laying down and settling in, she shut her eyes and tried to drown out the tumult of her life.

But one niggling notion could not be kept at bay. And it was not fear of letting the world down, fear of letting Corey down. It wasn't even fear of death. Or fear at all really. No.

Guilt is what caused Lux's eyes to snap open. Guilt that for all the benevolence she afforded this decision to let Corey take the reigns, it was all a lie. Guilt because, what Lux truly wanted, was a distracted Corey. An out of the way Corey. A Corey who wouldn't try to stop her as she stalked and eliminated her next target.

A Corey who wouldn't try to stop her from killing a child.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~WHERE MONSTERS FEAR TO TREAD~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The altars were hungry.

The sound of a laden garbage bag can be heard pulling across the dusty and debris piled factory floor as it reaches it's destination. The bag is clutched in the filthy fist of a 12 year old boy, a child reminiscent of the old tales of feral children raised by wolves. His nails are untrimmed shivs. His hair long, matted, and grease slicked, and his body covered in peals of assorted filth. Wearing only a pair of yellowing tighty whities, he pulls the bag onto the abandoned factory floor and into a clearing.

The lights in the building have long laid dormant, but the moonlight provides ample illumination to allow the boy a view of his beloved altars. Each is a haphazard erection of mismatched timber and other building materials fashioned into pillars, yawning approximately seven feet high. There were four such structures, assembled in a precise square. But more noteworthy than that was what hung from each altar. The wood of each altar was bathed in the blood of animal carcasses. Some of them long dead and weeping pus and rot, others fresh and only just starting to turn. Their guts slopped down onto the base of each altar, running onto the factory floor and pooling into a recession into the middle where it filtered down a drain.

The boy upended the bag, disgorging tonight's haul. Three more animals corpses to affix to his altars. Three more sacrifices to the demanding voices babbling in his ear night and day. This was a good day he mused, as the moonlight glinted off the black eye of the dissected doberman. The boy became aware of a tautness in his underwear as he scrutinized his haul. A mysterious physiological response he suspected had to do with procreation, yet always seemed to occur in these most sacred of moments. A blasphemy of sorts. He whispered an apology to the altars and promised to punish the wayward member later.

Excuse me....young man?

The feral child spun on the stranger, who had yet to leave the cover of shadow next to the mighty boiler beside his church.

Who the fuck are you? The feral child demanded.

A friend. Still he did not reveal himself. From the future.

Huh?

I don't expect you to understand. Not yet. But you're going to be very, very important to me one day. My name is Number 44. And I want to help. He stepped forward and the child took half a step back. He looked like the voices. He looked like God. Will you let me help?

Yes. He said reverently.

Someone is coming to kill you.

The child smiled, a vicious serrated thing.

Cool.

[Image: giphy-downsized.gif]

TARGET: THE BOY

[Image: CoreySig6A.png?width=270&height=406]
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