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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Layer Cake Part 3: Tell Me A Story
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
04-20-2021, 04:52 PM

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The interior of the elevator had become a sodden mess of brackish water, falling from the ceiling at a pronounced clip. Dexter sloshed around in the thigh high pool, his once pristine, pressed uniform now hanging from his body like a sagging second skin. Kicking aside one of the many buckets bobbing on the surface, he goes to the doors and sticks the tips of his fingers in the crevice between them. With a feral yell he tries to pull them apart, but only succeeds in nearly carving off a fingernail before relenting to the futility of the task. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! He looks up at the ceiling, and the falling water carves rivulets down the contours of his face. What do you want from me?! Huh?! What do you want?!!

It took a moment for the phantom presence to reply.

I want nothing. I am but a voice in the dark. An extension of the storyteller’s will.

Then what the hell does this storyteller asshole want?!

You’ll be able to ask him. Soon.

Dexter surveils the rising water. It better be soon. I’m on kind of a deadline here. He gulps. Emphasis on DEAD.

I can see that you’re very tense…

Oh go fuck yourself!

How about you let me continue? As I was saying, you seem tense, so let's change things about a little. Break up the monotony. You know, live a little!

You might half expect the intensity of Dexter’s anger to boil off the water on his scalp. He curls his fists so tight that his unshorn fingernails nearly mine for blood against his flesh. Oh...oh you…. A subtle change overcomes his expression. Some of the anger ebbs away and is replaced with new understanding. You know exactly what you’re doing. Spoken through gritted teeth.

As I said, “not me.” Now, second floor, if you would. And isn’t that exciting?! Taking the top down approach this time!

Dexter says nothing. A silent sliver of waterlogged, dismal humanity watching his death slowly creep up to his waist line, the man formerly known as The Engineer is but a gaunt revenant amidst these stifling rains. The generational works of water carving stone has here, in this place, been written in minutes instead. The rain is diminishing him. And so, he goes to the button panel. Off handedly, he wonders what will happen when the water reaches the buttons. But mostly, he just wants this to be over. Second floor… he whispers.

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AFAR


A slim panicked woman in a hospital gown cuts a corner sharply, her bare feet squeaking on the polished linoleum. She nearly loses her balance, toppling over but managing to get an arm under her to propel herself forward. Oddly enough, she’s clutching an old Glow Worm toy to her chest. The doll’s tassled head bobs to the beat of her frenzied movements as she races down the hall. A hall that looks awfully familiar. In point of fact, it’s the same hospital we’ve seen before.

The woman, possibly in her 30’s but with a bearing and wearied countenance that suggests a life lived beyond those meager years, continues to plunge down the hall at a reckless speed. She’s terrified, adrenaline pushing her body to access never used stores of energy and musculature. How ironic that she would never see that, in a manner of speaking, she was in this fleeting moment the strongest version of herself that ever existed.

Spying the entrance to the stairs, the possibility of escape from the hospital dawns on her. She practically rams into the door, but then steadies herself and pushes against the grab bar. The door held firm. She tried again, only to confirm the first attempt. With a howl of anger and despondency, she pushes away from the door. And that’s when she heard him. Heard him gaining on her, as his flat feet slapped the hard floor in the distance, the unwieldy gait of a large man even more unused to physical labor than she was. There was also, of course, the destabilizing factor of the large chainsaw he was holding.

The woman knows that the only thing there is for her now is movement. Movement was precious life. But she couldn’t completely ignore the burn in her chest, the stitch in her side. And the void whispered to her then, cloying and….No. No, she would not listen to that void. So she ran. Down the hall. Past a row of rooms, doors yawning open, their unstable contents long spilled back out into the world that would have preferred them out of sight and out of mind. A T junction lay ahead. The gymnasium was to the left. Her goal. Her salvation. It was so close. She almost chanced a smile. The fiend was still well behind her. He would never catch up now. With a renewed burst, she ran to the corner and rounded it. Veer left. Veer left. Her mind chanted. Almost home, baby girl….

The shadow slinked away from the wall, and then there was the caustic perfume of gasoline mixed with unwashed human body. The chainsaw roared to life. Too fast. Too fast. Her momentum took her right into the gnashing teeth of that terrible mechanical indifference. The blade passed into her stomach easily, ripping and tearing, painting the walls with life’s blood. One of the teeth caught on her lower intestine, ripping it out and tossing it aside where it met the ground with a resounding wet slap. The chainsaw’s wielder turned into her more, bearing down, oblivious to the gore that was now caking his face and chest. The chainsaw continued its terrible works, taking a path of least resistance straight on through her abdomen and then out her back, severing the spine.

Almost home, baby girl…. She drops the glow worm. Her mind is afire, synapses in their death throes and they didn’t even know it. And suddenly, her perspective changes. She’s on the floor. She doesn’t understand how she got there. She doesn’t understand whose legs those are. She doesn’t understand who made all this mess. She ekes out one final thought before brain death mercifully claims her. Love you, baby girl…

~~~~~~~The Gym~~~~~~~~


RJ Dyson is perched on the edge of the weight bench, both feet under him, his back arched such that the ridge of his spine poked through the blood spattered doctor’s jacket he was wearing. His eyes are fixed on the grainy security cam monitor, set amidst the rest of the hospital’s observation system that he had ripped from their moorings and brought here. And why? Well, the more the merrier….

The gym floor was pocked with figures grimy, terrified, and destitute. Some were hospital staff. Others were patients who weren’t quite insane enough to play RJ’s vile games. But now, bedraggled as they were, the line between authority and subject had dulled.

RJ’s laughter starts out as a slight titter, before cascading into an eruption. Laughing until tears start to form, he kicks out his long spindly legs before him, gesturing at the monitor and the sickness displayed on it. The eviscerated woman continued to bleed out onto the floor. A hulking figure, wearing gore smeared patient’s garb and what was the doctor’s tie, holds up his chainsaw triumphantly. RJ’s laughter turns into a manic shriek as he looks at another screen, seeing the obese assailant he had also hired huffing his way down the hall. Jesus Larry, lose some goddamn weight, eh?! He slaps his knee, drinking in the fear of the assembled. Two chainsaw guys? Who saw that coming?! I’m a genius! But, unfortunately, good ‘ol Gretchen didn’t finish the race. We’re gonna need another contestant!

Terrorized faces shy away from him. Some gasp or sob quietly. RJ stands tall, walking amongst them. Suddenly, a nurse’s aide on the periphery of the group makes a run for it. RJ just sighs and shakes his head. Everyone else averts their eyes. They know what’s coming.

That foul worm appears again. It had never left of course. But it did not let itself be seen. That way it could be everywhere and nowhere. Aiwass’ crippled form cracks like dry fractures as it moves. Weeping sores have formed around some of the bones that had pushed out through the flesh. The fallen god was in agony every time it moved, which only imbued it with a white hot rage and a desperate hunger for misery. Its face, with its pulverized flesh, was barely more than a maw composed of an abyss of serrated teeth. With more obscene cracking, Aiwass charges the aide, and its jaw unmoors itself from the rest of its face like a predatory snake slavering in anticipation of fresh kill. The jaw continues to open, wider, wider, until the mouth is a massive ovoid black pit. Black smoky tendrils lash out from within it, ensnaring the poor man about the arms and legs. He is taken down to the floor, where he commences screaming. Begging. Pleading. But no one intervenes.

RJ watches intently, oblivious to the erection straining his trousers and the giddy spittle flecking his lips. The tendrils pull the man closer, and his screams of fear turn to a mad squeal as the boughs of his sanity crumble beneath the weight of this wretched impossibility from out of time. The distended jaws take him whole. He may have actually been laughing by the time he surrendered. Aiwass’ mighty jaws then snap shut, the hinges making clicking noises as the reconstituted scar tissue force functioning back into the beast’s face. RJ claps his hands together like a carefree child, hopping up and down and causing the tent in the crotch of his grimy slacks to bob. An obscene counterpoint to his veneer of childlike wonder.

Finally, he looks down, and when he does his mouth forms an “oh” of disdain. He raises a fist and brings it down on his own groin. SICK, SICK, SICK! He howls through the self inflicted pain. That's only for perverts! And deviants! He rails like he's preaching a hellfire gospel. The survivors wither under his acrimonious stare.

Across the way, Aiwass raises what’s left of its head in the air. A beastial wheeze emits from its maw and the two tiny nasal craters above it start to pulsate. It resembles a dog snuffling the air, keen to a new scent. RJ notices this, and his sideways smile widens. He advances towards the nearest window, still cupping his bruised groin. But what he sees outside makes him forget all about his affliction.

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A gleeful sound passes his lips. He leans back in Aiwass’ direction. Our ride’s here! Then, whirling about on his heels, he returns to the group. I’m sorry everyone, but we really must be going. But I just wanted you all to know how much I appreciated this time we spent together. He holds his hands together, as if in prayer. Thank you! The prisoners look at him, dumbstruck. But RJ doesn’t notice at all. He extends his hand towards Aiwass, and starts to sing an off key lullaby.

Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!


Aiwass responds to the tune, slithering through the cowed group. They fearfully scatter away from it as it moves towards RJ. Reaching him, the wretched thing coils around his leg, slithering up his torso and winding around it. Aiwass settles its head on RJ’s shoulder. RJ considers the fallen God lovingly, face ticking as unheard insights pour from Aiwass’ shattered mind and into his. He turns from the group, his smooth hands swaying in the air like a demented conductor leading an orchestra of the damned as he transitions to humming the song. The prisoners hear the sound of boots clomping in the halls before the eerie white garbed figures burst into the room, each one carrying a wicked butcher knife in hand. The gym resounds with screams as scores of Aiwass’ faceless minions trickle in to do the devil’s work. RJ doesn’t so much as spare a glance as the cultist’s drive the group together, cutting off their means of escape and herding them into a single mass before going to work with their knives. Riding high on the current of suffering sounds behind him, RJ dances through the gymnasium doors. Aiwass cradles the madman in its grip as he goes, drinking in the primal stench of blood like a perfume and considering the many different ways it can murder the world.

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The water in the elevator is now deep enough to tread, reaching halfway up the walls. Dexter, looking thoroughly miserable, spies the remaining berth of fresh air he has left. Spitting out some water that had found its way into his mouth, he calls out to the narrative voice.

Can’t you guys just get this over with?!

Dexter, are you afraid to die?

What kind of stupid ass question is that? YES! He replies, floundering.

But you’re not even the real Dexter Bright, are you? You’re a recollection, a figment. What do you have to fear?

Dexter doesn’t respond, ignoring the voice now in favor of searching for a way out.

You shouldn’t have anything to fear, Dexter. You do not exist. Therefore the possibility of not existing shouldn’t be any cause for alarm. Make sense?

Nothing about this makes sense! He allows himself a reply as he runs his hands along the walls, looking for a weak point, a hidden switch, SOMETHING.

Oh, but it does, Dexter. It does. Even your fear makes sense. Because you see, the storyteller instilled fear IN you. It birthed you for the sole purpose of making you afraid, of making you suffer.

WELL, ISN’T THAT FUCKING SWELL?! Bashing a fist on the wall, he relents for a moment to focus on treading water. I can’t even see the stupid buttons anymore! Did ya think of that?!

I did. It’s ok. We never TRULY needed you to press them anyway.

Dexter screams in rage and pounds both fists on the wall now. Somewhere, the sound of the music in the elevator makes a *ZAP* sound before going quiet. Thank God for small favors. [/I]

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With Out


Tommy Gunn drops over the side of the wall, landing stealthily on the other side. Corey follows suit, dropping into a crouch to soften his landing. Scowling deep, Tommy unholsters a rifle from his back that doesn’t look like a traditional firearm of the class. He hisses at Corey, I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this. He shakes the gun for emphasis.

I said I’d double your pay. Corey retrieves a similar rifle. I’ve had enough killing for one lifetime. Corey reaches into a knapsack at his side and withdraws a couple tranquilizer darts, which he carefully loads into the rifle.

Yeah, well, these assholes are full auto and don’t have your peacenik stance on killing.

Then I guess we’ll just have to be stealthier. Corey grins in that Devil may care fashion before slinking towards a wall of shrubberies. After a cautious survey, Tommy follows him. Using the man sized plants as cover, they advance towards the mansion. Upon reaching the edge of their cover, they’re stopped by the beam of a flashlight landing on the ground just ahead of them. Corey nods at Tommy and takes up a firing stance. After a tense ten second wait, the guard comes into view. Corey pops off a dart into his bicep, and like clockwork Tommy springs into action, clapping a hand over the man’s mouth and dragging him behind their cover. He kicks and struggles for a moment before the sedative takes a deep dive into his bloodstream. Corey peeks his head around the shrubbery to ensure no one heard the commotion before waving to Tommy. From there, they make their way behind a grand staircase that leads to the main entrance, pausing once again for cover.

Tommy now has a sidearm in hand. He checks the clip before slapping it back in. Corey gestures at the gun and shakes his head. What the hell, man? He whispers.

Got it off that guy. Deal with it.

Only use it if you absolutely have to.

Scout’s honor.

You were a boy scout?

Tommy scoffs. Those pussies? Nevertheless, Tommy holsters the gun in favor of the non lethal option, which elicits an approving look from Corey. There’s a rear service entrance at the back of the house. It’s only used during the day. I figure that’s our best bet.

You’re the boss.

After scouting the immediate area again, the duo are on the move once more, hugging tight to the walls of the manse and making ample use of the shadows as they advance. As they clear round the right side of the building, another flash light beam dances in the distance. With no immediate cover in sight, Tommy moves 10 feet further out onto the lawn and drops down onto his belly. Corey does the same, rifle at the ready. The light approaches, it’s another guard on a perimeter check. Corey raises his rifle to fire and his finger pulls the trigger before Tommy can intervene. The dart clears the open air in front of the guard, missing him and impacting on the side of the house. Corey hears Tommy curse under his breath.

The guard stops abruptly, tensing up and withdrawing his weapon, going from passive to active visual scanning. Tommy sizes the man up now and pops off a shot. It lodges in his neck. The man reflexively tears it out and withdraws his radio. We have an intruder on the property! I repeat an...an….int...in…. He slumps down to one knee as his world spins. Tommy springs into action, rapidly making up the distance between them and landing a stiff kick to the man’s jaw, hastening his slide into unconsciousness. Tommy scoops up the radio and wheels on Corey.

God dammit I told you to wait until we were closer!

No you didn’t! And besides, we had to take the shot or he was going to spot us!

Okay, maybe I didn’t VERBALIZE it and assumed it was common fucking sense….Tommy holds up the radio, refocusing. I gotta deal with this.

You gonna Han Solo it up?

What…?

You know, like when Han and Luke and Chewie were rescuing the princess on the Death Star and Han answered the check in.

Tommy stares at Corey like he just heard the stupidest goddamn utterance in the world. Triple pay. He snarls before bringing the radio up to his mouth. Just as he does so, another voice sounds out in reply on it.

Tango, I didn’t copy. Can you repeat?

Tommy swallows, looking dour. Finally he speaks, quickly and with a purposeful lack of clarity. So-...not…….-ing.

Corey shoots Tommy an impressed thumbs up at his ingenuity.

I didn’t catch that either. Move to signal B. There must be some interference.

Tommy mouths “fuck” and starts to play with the dial, trying to find the other signal.

Just forget it man, we don’t have time.

Just shut up a minute! Tommy barks back. After a solid 30 seconds of radio silence, he finally keys into the correct signal.

I repeat, do you copy?

Y-....bu-.....sig-........bad. He goes to the well again.

This time, the response sounds exasperated. It must be your radio. Bring it back to home and we’ll get you a new one.

Shaking his head in irritation, Tommy replies. Y-....ok.

Do you think they bought it?

Probably not. Let’s go. Tommy hustles around the side of the building, and they eventually find their way to the rear service entrance. Tommy pulls out a Brockhage Lock Pin Gun, and starts to go to work on the lock in the metal door handle. Corey stands guard at Tommy’s back as he works.

How much longer?

Not much.

I haven’t heard anything else on the radio.

You won’t. They know it's compromised. With a bit more finagling, Tommy finally grunts in satisfaction. Corey plants his back at the side wall while Tommy eases the door open from the left of it. Nothing. Tommy signals to Corey with a head nod and advances inside. The success is short lived however, as a loud report of gunfire resounds inside the darkened room. Corey cries out in alarm as Tommy is pushed back through the door, landing on his side. Corey grabs Tommy’s shoulder and pulls him away as another blast of gunfire hits the turf just outside the door.

Tommy grimaces. It’s fine...hit the vest!

How many?!

Couldn’t see.

Damn! Corey tried to still his racing heart, channeling the inner peace that Lux was somehow able to find in situations like this. A peace that brought form to chaos and dispelled the biting edge of fear without dispelling it completely. Some fear was productive. Corey still hadn’t mastered it, and his hand shook a little as he coiled his finger around the trigger of the rifle. Just then, there was another report of gun fire from the left.

Shit! Tommy hollered.

Corey’s eyes locked on immediately, another guard had rounded the corner. Corey fired another dart, which missed. The gunman settled into a kneeling firing stance and fired again. Tommy hit the ground and Corey rolled out of the way, springing to his feet and circling the guard with the rifle. The guard tried to follow Corey’s movements, but was a hair too slow and Corey was able to land his next shot, popping the guard in the thigh with a dart. The guard raised his weapon up again at Corey, but then faltered on wobbly sea-like legs before collapsing.

Just then, the guard that had been firing from inside the house emerged through the door, oblivious to Tommy’s presence. Tommy leapt up, getting a shoulder up and under the man’s firing arm and stripping the gun from him with practiced ease and retraining it on its owner. Tommy then kicked the man in the knee cap, dropping him, before firing a tight shot right into the side of his head. The man dropped dead instantly, slick blood forming a quickening pool in the grass.

I thought we agreed no killing! Corey hissed, forming back up with Tommy.

Tommy just shot him a steely glower in response and growled, I’m getting home alive. Let’s move!

With a mournful look back at the corpse, Corey followed Tommy inside. They came out in a darkened kitchen area. Tommy activated the light on the gun he just pilfered, sweeping the room to ensure it was clear. They hustled past it, coming to a hall just outside. Down the hall, a warm light could be seen.

We have no idea where Malcolm is. Corey pointed out.

We’re gonna find somebody who does.

Forming up on each other in a tight unit, Corey and Tommy slink down the hall, eventually coming out in a lavish dining room. Still there was no resistance. Moving on, they pass a wide archway into a large hall. A grand staircase swept up to a second floor balcony. Corey just barely caught a glint from behind a marble pillar, and he grabbed Tommy and threw him to the ground just as another burst of gunfire ripped through the wall he was just standing in front of. Corey fired a dart, but it just bounced uselessly off the pillar. Tommy scrambled on his hands and knees to a smaller room behind the staircase and Corey followed. They emerged in a sitting room. There, Tommy forced one of the stolen handguns into Corey’s hands as he took out the other. USE IT. Taking it with a grave reluctance, Corey took cover in the door frame as the shooter rounded the staircase. Tommy stood ready, firing off a couple shots that went wide before he too sidled up beside the door frame.

It appeared as though the sitting room wound around the back of the staircase, so the duo abandoned their post and hurried out the other side. Unfortunately, the gunman had correctly surmised what they were doing, taking up a stance on the staircase and opening up on them again. Tommy dove one way and Corey another. Corey landed hard on his wrist on the unforgiving marble floor. He didn’t see what followed, but heard a single shot echo out, followed by a strangled shout and something tumbling down the stairs. Corey kipped up, trying to work some feeling back into his hand as he took note of the dead man laying at the base of the stairs.

If you keep killing them no one will be able to tell us where Malcolm is!

Tommy didn’t even reply, simply gesturing for Corey to follow him up the stairs. They reached a juncture at the top that split off into two hallways.

Where do you think this guy is?

Eeny meeny miney moe. He replied sarcastically, taking the left side.

Corey’s wrist still stung, and he prayed he hadn’t fractured it as they took up positions on either side of the hall. Suddenly, a door in front of them flew open, and another guard stepped out into the hall with a heavy assault rifle. Tommy opened fire, but his slugs merely caught in the guard’s bullet proof vest, staggering him but not dropping him. Corey knew with a weapon that deadly he needed to end this quickly. He ran in on him, high and tight, sliding in with a double leg takedown. The weapon barked as the man lost his balance, lighting up the ceiling and bringing bits of plaster down on their heads. Corey scrambled for the man’s gun, taking hold of it with one hand. But before he could secure it, the man pulled Corey’s head down into a vicious headbutt, stunning him. Thankfully, Tommy came to the rescue, rolling into the fray and popping off a shot right into the man’s face. Corey felt the hot spray of blood on his cheek instantly, and he rolled off the body, still seeing stars.

Something in Tommy uncoiled, and he let out a relieved breath. That should have been the last of them.

Should have…? Spoken as he wiped the blood from his face.

Reasonably sure. He panted.

It’s you!

They were both startled by a reedy voice at the end of the hall. Tommy had his weapon trained on him instantly, but the man appeared unarmed. He was thin, with sandy hair, a pencil mustache, and a shadowy sunken face.

Are you Marcus Bouchier? Corey called out. I advise you drop any weapons you may…

I’m unarmed. He retorts cooly, as he continues to approach.

You stay right fucking there or you’re about to get ventilated five ways from Sunday!

We need him! Corey speaks just above a whisper in Tommy’s direction.

Bouchier stops, but he looks anything but intimidated. Rather, he seems enthralled. By Heaven and Hell, it’s you. His unsettled dark eyes had found Corey. But The Engineer’s not there anymore, is he?

No. Corey answers the question with finality. We’re here for Malcolm.

Bouchier smiles in a decidedly unsettling way. Of course you are.

You will take us to him now.

I will?

Don’t fuck around with us! Tommy called out. You CAN survive this, if you want to.

Oh please. You won’t leave me alive. Not after all those extrajudicial killings you just committed. He casually waves his hand at the dead guard.

Self defense.

Hmmmm…..of course. There’s more than a touch of bemusement there. Well, I must say I’m not inclined to give you the information you desire.

No?

No. At least, not without laying down some… Bouchier is interrupted by a bullet from Tommy’s gun shattering his Tibia. He hollers and falls back, clutching at the damaged limb.

Fuck’s sakes, Tommy!

He’s not gonna die from that. Tommy approaches the wounded man, reaching down and grabbing a handful of his wispy graying hair. But you sure as shit will if you don’t start talking!

~~~~~~~~Minutes later….~~~~~~~~~


Bouchier leaned on Corey as they found their way to a large metal door in the basement. It looked older than the materials that had built the house, almost medieval in design. There was a tiny, barred window most of the way up the broad length of the door. Tommy snatched a key from Bouchier, whose attention was focused more on his injured leg, which had continued to bleed through the sheet stanch that Tommy had haphazardly roped around the wound.

We’re here to help, so don’t do anything stupid. Tommy forewarned anyone inside the cell. Pressing the key into the lock, it gave rather quickly, and the door yawned open with a petulant squeal. At first, it was difficult to discern if there was anyone actually inside. There was a soiled mattress, and a hole in the floor with a stench that confirmed it was a makeshift commode. Corey guided Bouchier into a sitting position and stepped in the cell, eyes acclimating to the darkness. And that’s when the figure was revealed, dressed in worn dirt stained clothing, the young man had sleepless circles under his eyes and a pallid complexion. He shied away from the beam as Corey turned on a flashlight, holding a hand up and squinting.

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Soon, dismay gave way to fright as Malcolm realized who was approaching him. No, no, no! He howled, backpedaling towards the wall and almost tripping over the mattress as he did so. Stay away!

Corey stopped, holding his hands out to his sides in a gesture of nonhostility. He’s gone, Malcolm. The Engineer is gone.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked back and forth between Corey and Tommy, who was now standing in the door frame. Malcolm retrained on Corey, and asked in a guarded wavering voice….

Then who’s left?

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The elevator was now three fourths full of water. The Engineer’s head almost reached the roof now, and he was trying to plug up some of the leaks with his hands. A futile act, because by this point the onslaught of water could not be stopped.

Okay, okay, I give! Am I supposed to confess all the bad stuff I did? Tell the storyteller he’s better than me? Tell him he’s got a giant horsecock and I got a little pecker? What?!

We’ve already been over this. You were made to suffer. Brought back from the recesses of Corey’s mind, made tangible, and doomed from the start.

Yeah...yeah….Dexter concedes. The narrator’s words were a shiv buried to the hilt. He grew silent, and in so doing the only noise inside this waterlogged prison was the gentle rippling of the water as he tried to stay afloat.

Pondering something?

If you mean, “am I thinkin’?” Then yeah, I’m thinkin’. Just had a great idea in fact.

Want to share with the class?

Dexter is wearing an eerie grin now, and he looks up towards the ceiling. I was just thinkin’ there’s something this story tellin’ asshole can’t control. And with that, Dexter stopped treading water, sinking beneath the crest and drifting downwards. Once well below, he opened his mouth to let the water in to fill his lungs and end this. Because if there was one thing he could still control, it would be his own death. Dexter braced for the pain, the panic of suffocation...but it didn’t come. The water had formed a bubble about his mouth.. Dexter tried to breathe in, actively inviting his demise, but was unsuccessful. Finally, kicking out with his legs, he broke the surface.

Something wrong?

Goddamn cock sucker, you know…. He huffed.

Must be frustrating. To not even be able to control when you die. It’ll happen when it happens Dexter.

Then, the water jostles, sending Dexter slamming into the wall. The elevator is on the move again. One last floor.

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Gehenna


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Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, this next match up is a King of Corey Smith’s Brain match! Iggy pitches into a microphone that is seemingly dangling from out of thin air. As the view pans back, we see that we have abruptly been transposed into an XWF ring. However, the stands are empty, rendering the whole affair with an eerie silence. Iggy’s voice echoes within the cavernous emptiness of the arena. In one corner, Corey’s pal and good guy, IGGGGGYYYYYYY! Iggy covers the mic mimicking the cheers of a crowd. And in the other corner….

Yes, indeed. The other corner. The Engineer is there, clutching the top ropes in his hands, his face a mosaic of anger, confusion, and frustration. He turns towards Iggy, a fresh snarl already at the ready.

…..The Engineer! Bad guy supreme and definitely NOT Corey’s friend. He boos into the microphone now, even going so far as to point a thumbs down with his free hand.

What is the meaning of this?! What have you done?! The Engineer roars, stepping out from the corner.

Uh uh! The bell hasn’t rung yet.

Fuck the bell. He stops short. Why does that keep happening to my voice?

Iggy shrugs. Sometimes I goof up.

What the hell are you talking about?!

Iggy smiles, looking especially childlike as he grasps his hands together behind his back and crosses one leg over the other. Tellin’ stories. I ain’t perfect at it, but I think I’m pretty darn good.

The Engineer measures Iggy, now seeing the situation quite differently. Sensing that things were not what he presupposed them to be. And that lack of control was, to say the least, alarming.

You’ve been doing all of this. A declaration.

Yep! He beams with pride as he offers a shake of the head. In doing so, he almost loses his hat. Catching it in time to straighten it, he mutters, Ooopsie!

What the fuck are you?

I’m a part of you, silly!

The Engineer stabs a finger at Iggy. A minute part! A speck of nothing! Bold words that are inlaid with something crumbling deep inside. And I’ll prove it.

A flash of movement, and the beast is on Iggy, his garb free flowing behind him black as pitch like the wings of a fallen angel. His face contorts into its true form: grayed, fanged, with blood red inhuman eyes that lusted for….

Iggy rips out his throat.

At first, The Engineer looks confused. He tries to decipher an impossibility, something so foreign and utterly outside the realm of his consideration that it defies being condensed into thought or word. Nonetheless, his throat was a ragged aperture of torn flesh. Blood freely cascaded down the front of his clothing, pattering on the canvas at his feet. He took a half step, quivering hand rising to investigate.

It’s ok. It’s over. It’s ok. Iggy’s tone was different now, like a loving child cupping a dying parent’s hand at their bedside. But there was no true warmth there. He stepped back from this wounded animal as The Engineer slumped to his knees, the violence in his neck now congealing into something known and understood. But still, he tried to speak, looking up at Iggy with reverent, despondent eyes as the blood continues to escape, uninhibited by the hand he has feebly placed over the hole. All that escapes from that ravaged throat is a series of wet throaty gurgles, the sound that comes at the end of all things as your body betrays you in those final moments.

Iggy simply watches as The Engineer crawls towards the edge of the ring. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. Or why. He’s lost. Broken. Dead Iggy smiled as his patron fell to his stomach and the movement stopped. He briefly considers the crimson sheen on the hand that did the deed before moving on. Stepping through the blood and leaving a trail of it, he spares no further expense of attention on the dead form in the ring.

He goes to the elevator instead.

Just up the ramp, twin doors of an antique elevator occupied an impossible space. Trailing gore in his wake, he briskly approaches those doors, and raising his blood sullied hand, he knocks out the “shave and a haircut, two bits” ditty. The doors respond by opening. And within, the sight is as strange as it is without. The interior is filled with water, nearly to the top now. But it doesn’t escape when the doors open. Atop the water, Dexter Bright continues to sputter and struggle. His eyes go wide when he sees the door open.

Iggy proffers Dexter a friendly wave. Heidi-ho!

You little shit! He splashes the water with his fists.

So how did you like my stories? He says, bearing the grin of a five year old showing off their latest finger painting.

I shoulda known! God damnit! Dexter chokes as more of the unrelenting water gets in his sinuses. Why are you doing this?!

Because Corey is my friend.

THAT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE!

Sure it does! For being one of Corey’s memories you suuuuure don’t know him very well. What is the one thing Corey loves the most?

I don’t know! Gay sex?! Romantic comedies?! That feeling of satisfaction you get after a particularly large dump?!

No, no, no! Iggy waves his hands in the air. Wrongo! Corey most loves getting to be a hero. He loves helping people. It’s the reason he started Coreytopia. It’s the reason he stands up to bad people. But the problem lately is that Corey hasn’t had the chance to do something really, REALLY heroic. Like Superman heroic! So, I started telling stories.

The Engineer shoots him a sidelong glance. Whaddya mean you started…. And then, it dawns on even his simplistic mind. How much of this shit you just showed me was real?

Does it matter?

YES!

NOOOOOOO! Iggy playfully calls back. It doesn’t matter. Because when I start stacking Corey’s memories side by side, both my stories, and the stuff that happens to him out in the world, it’s ALL gonna seem real to him. And I’m gonna give him new bad guys to fight, new people to rescue. And because it’s all gonna happen in his head, there’s no way he’ll actually get hurt! That’s the best part!

Did you make RJ Dyson?! Jesus Christ! What kind of sick mind cooks up that psycho! Why couldn’t you have just written some Star Wars fan fiction or some shit?

Iggy scrunches his nose up in consternation. “Star Wars fanfiction”? That would be pretty weaksauce, dude! Like, why rip off somebody else’s characters when I can create my own? It seems kinda lame.

Well, I guess when you….

It seems kinda lazy too. Takes all the effort out of making your own cool characters.

Okay, fine…

Star Wars doesn’t even have anything in common with the XWF! I mean, one is a space opera that's made for kids and weird old fat guys who smell like Doritos, and the other is a brutal violent bloodsport. They got nothing to do with each other! And trying to slam them together like that would just seem SUPER awkward.

Yeah, so…..

I’m thinking of how dumb this would be! Like, what if Corey went to Dagobah to get trained by the force ghost of Yoda? People are gonna hear that and be like, “What?! That’s kinda r-worded!”

UGGHHH!

It would be like when they did those real dumb crossovers in comic books. Like, RoboCop joins the X-Men for a day. Or Batman teams up with the Ninja Turtles. It takes both stories, mushes ‘em together and the whole thing just ends up a big pile of gooey craps! I guess what I’m trying to say is I actually got some pride in my stories unlike SOME people….

CAN WE STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT STARS WARS?!!!!

I….oh. Iggy finally takes notice of Dexter’s present circumstances. The water has reached a level such that only Dexter’s face is visible above it. His breathing room is receding by the second. That looks bad.

Look! You did all this, right?! This is the “story” you made for me. So start working on a happy ending!

Iggy looks off to the side, biting the side of his lip. Maybe I don’t want to….

WHAT?!!

You heard me! He looks back up at Dexter, and for the first time a trace of anger can be heard in his voice. You know what else I found out, Dexter? I found out that I can erase Corey’s stories too! I can take the things that are already there, the things that make him sad, and I can just make them go away.

Dexter sounds disgusted. You’re talkin’ about fucking with peoples memories, kid! You’re talkin’ about messin’ with their heads without them knowin’.

I… Iggy looks uncertain...but I’m doing GOOD things. He points back to the bloody ring. I just made Corey forget all about The Engineer! Poof! Gone! Just like that!

Kid, you’re just as fucked up as The Engineer was. No, actually, you’re worse ‘cause you actually think you’re doin’ the right thing! But you ain’t. Dexter chokes as some more errant water enters his mouth. He has a couple inches of room left before he’s totally engulfed.

I am NOT worse than The Engineer! A childish intonation re-enters his voice.

Dexter wheezes, his breath coming out in panicked exchanges. You know what...you right, you right! You’re good! So maybe do the good thing and help me out here!

Iggy cants his head. And he listens.

I’m gonna fucking DROWN! HELP ME! Dexter’s struggling grows more agitated, more desperate. I NEVER DID NOTHIN’ BAD TO COREY!

You’re an Engineer. All Engineer’s are bad. The words are spoken matter of factly and mercilessly. They broach no argument, resting on the laurels of fanaticism.

NO….NO….KID…..PLEASE….PLEASE DON’T…..

And then he’s silent. But he keeps fighting, thrashing and kicking. He swims over to the edge of the water, that impossible edge held at bay by Iggy’s force of will. Dexter starts to pound on it with his fists….over and over….but Iggy’s will has no give. It’s relentless.

Dexter’s movements start to slow, the fight slipping away. His expression softens, tipping from rage, to resignation, to that far away look that presages touching the unknown. Finally, a gout of bubbles explode out of his mouth as his body’s last bulwarks fail.

Iggy watches his body sink to the floor. It was oddly beautiful in a way, beholden to a sort of slow moving grace. Like dancing. Iggy pressed his face up to the wall of water to get an even closer view.

I’ll protect you Corey. I’ll keep you happy. Always.

[Image: 805d5fbc1b0370a1258009be3a32f1c5.gif]


Waterfront Park, Portland, Oregon


Corey is taking the walking path at Waterfront Park. It’s sparsely populated, being an early spring day. But the cherry blossom trees have started to bud. Some of them have even exploded into being, dotting the landscape with ethereally beautiful soft whites and pinks. Corey takes note of one such tree, and he decides to sit beneath it. He takes a moment to look up through the branches as the sunlight tickles the blossoms on the way down. He leans his head against the slim trunk, kicking his feet out.

Sometimes, in our long travels, in our distant wars on foreign soil, or in the wars we fight inside ourselves, it is easy to miss the small beautiful things begging for your attention in the cracks. Corey smirks. I think that was in a fortune cookie. Sounds like it anyway. Pauses. Jesus, was that seriously something I committed to paper when I prepped this thing?

The camera nods “yes”.

Well, damn. He shrugs. ‘Sup, Bets? Still killing with kindness I see. Is’ alright. You know what, in a way, it shows a strength of character most of us lack. It’s easy to be cruel. It’s even easier to be cruel to those who are kind, because you know they lack the vitriol to rub your face in it. You sticking to your guns reveals a degree of character that the vast majority of us lack. Myself included. I mean, it’s positively Ruby-esque. He notes playfully. But then, the playfulness fades, replaced by something sad and wistful.

I’m terrified it’s going to get you killed. And not by The Left Hand! As you noted, I was dead on the money about them. TOOT TOOT! He pantomimes tooting his own horn. I had that constipated malcontent pegged from the word “go”. Guy slips up and tries to land a bitch ass barb on me, Thunder Knuckles of all people calls him out, and the next thing we know he’s….gone? I gotta assume he’s gone. It seems like precisely the hue of yellow he is. Which leaves all of Lycana and Marf. A tag team. Sweet. Just small enough to drown ‘em in a bucket now.

So maybe B.O.B. will do you in? Eh, they stand a slightly better chance. Robbie’s a beast, TK’s a rotten little shit, Miss Fury’s devious as hell and Money Oswald is...is...well, he’s there I guess. And I guess they got a lot of, ya know….others.
Insert shit eating grin. And that’s where you said our attention was due. Corey sighs, and makes a scrunched up face that suggests he’s not convinced. You see though, I’m more of a long game kinda guy. Always looking forward. Always looking at those cracks in the foundation and guessing how long it’s going to take for the whole house to fold. Which is exactly why I’m not all that worried about B.O.B. They may be great at ambushing people and getting co-opted by weak ass Universal Champions who then go on to take credit for the group’s existence like that’s definitely how it happened all along. Corey winks in an exaggerated fashion. But long term threat? Hardly. They’re so bloated and chock full of egos now they are liable to combust at any moment. Page is gonna drag ‘em right into the pit and then he’s gonna pat himself on the back and say that was “MY MASTER PLAN ALL ALONG!” Corey chortles. What a wanker!

So, you may be wondering, what IS going to get you killed? Answer? Somebody like me. Or Doc. And they may not even mean to! Well, Doc would. I, on the other hand, certainly would never try to hurt you more than I absolutely have to. But Betsy, if you don’t get those goddamn stars out of your eyes you are gonna walk right into the kill shot. You’re gonna get HURT.

And I’m honestly pretty goddamn pissed at Raven about this. He’s been around the assholes in this place longer than damn near any of us. He knows how dangerous it is. He should have sat you down and had THE TALK with you. No, not THAT talk. The “The XWF is an amoral hole that’s practically an honorary level of hell that you can never EVER show weakness in” talk. Clearly, he did not.

I’m glad it’s me this time, Betsy. I have a conscience. I’m going to do just enough to put you away. And I WILL put you away. You’re too starstruck for me not to. But the next guy who waves his clout in front of your face and makes you go “ooh la la”? Probably gonna be a shit head. And you are going to be in a world of hurt.

I still don’t believe you even want to win this match. I think, deep down, you would see it as some kind of insult to me. And I think, unconsciously perhaps, you’re GONNA pull your punches here. And I am PLEADING with you not to do that. Because I will NOT. Just because I’m the kind of guy who stops short of crippling the opposition, doesn’t mean I fail to see weakness written all over someone. And girl, you are BROADCASTING it on 600 premium channels, Netflix, Hulu, YouTube, even on that shitty streaming service that only played 15 minute movies and, coincidentally, also had a shelf life of about 15 minutes. I can’t NOT see the weaknesses in people. Lux taught me that. Before she..
.Corey gets a strange look on his face. He narrows his eyes in concentration, but then the moment passes and he’s back on point.

And you know what, I get it. You want to be a good person. You want to be decent. Me too. But you’re missing the forest for the trees here. You don’t need to fight a half assed death cult. You don’t need to fight a cartoonish super villain organization that’s about to collapse under the strain of its own narcissistic largesse. You know what you can do? Come to my house and tell some scared kids fresh of the streets your stories of space exploring derring-do. No, I’m serious! Come help us make some fresh bread. Or tend the crops. We have plenty of hungry mouths. Or, just come be there for someone who’s had no one. Anytime you want, Bets.

I think you’d find some peace there too. Sometimes people don’t realize how good things can be because they’re just used to being stuck in the shit so long. And I think, to an extent, you’re stuck in the shit. Legacy is toxic. You got Atara pining for your man (and what exactly has your man done about that?), Warstein off sulking in some corner and pretending to have a chip on his shoulder because it puffs him up, and James...hehhhhh, James. You can tell me James and Shawn have ooey gooey centers that I just CAN’T SEE all you want. But just because they’re nice to you, because you’re their lover, or their friend, or their faction mate, really doesn’t mean much of anything. The true test of somebody’s character is how they treat people that they DON’T know.

How would they treat somebody they don’t know, Bets? Would James make a commune for wayward souls? Would Shawn ever even pretend to give a shit about someone that’s not Noah or one of the Twitter followers he vague posts his angst to? And shit’s sake, Atara can’t even muster up the empathy to not treat you, her supposed friend, like shit. You think she’s got kindness in the tank to spare? You say you want to be this force for good but you surround yourself on the daily with these selfish emotional vampires. You’re going around asking OTHERS to saddle up with you and fight the forces of darkness here in the XWF when you’re own lover wrote this place off a year ago.

Long story short, you want me to take these overtures of your seriously? Pick better friends. Now, that’s not to say that I won’t be your friend if you refuse to cut them loose. But until you do, well, I don’t think we’ll ever be on the same page 100%.


Corey takes a breath, picking up a fallen pink bud.

But this isn’t about Legacy is it. It’s about us. This fight. And who wants it more. And I think the answer to that final point is clear.

I WANT THIS.

I want to knock off the fabled Betsy Granger. I want that high octane fuel of a push heading into Leap of Faith, where I’m going to snag that briefcase, hold it high, and tell Chris Page to get hosed. Hell, even if he’s not the champion, I’m STILL gonna tell him to get hosed just because it’s a really fun thing to do. But I’ll cash that briefcase in on the person with the goods. Whether it be Page himself, or Robert Main or Miss Fury or “Surprise” *snrkt* Entrant...or….well…you.

And do you know why? Do you know what the raison d’etre for all of this is? Because that Universal Championship comes with POWER. It comes with INFLUENCE. And to be frank, it comes with cash. Bonuses. Product endorsements. The works, babay. But all that, it’s not for me. I’ve got Madison Dyson’s Nazi gold put to good use already. But with an even greater influx of cash, there is so, so much more I can do for Coreytopia. And for all the eyes and ears of the people who follow this sport and believe in the integrity of that Universal Championship, I have a simple but very profound message.

Do. For. Others.

You see, I’m going to use the Universal Championship in a way it’s never been used before. I’m going to use it as a platform for decency. I’m going to remind the XWF and the world at large that kindness is cool. And that anybody who doesn’t think so can eat an entire bag of dicks. And if you think this sounds like a really lame way to spend a Universal Title reign? See aforementioned menu of dicks.

But it starts with you Betsy. It starts with the momentum I earn from this match.

And as for after? Please do come sit at my table. Just leave the shitbirds at home.


Later, Star Child. Give the heavens my regards.

Corey drops the bud he had picked up earlier and watches it drift to the ground. He makes a subtle throat slashing motion to indicate he’s done. He nods and waves his thanks to the camera crew and takes out his phone. He dials a number, and Dolly answers by the third ring.

What’s up Rescue Ranger?

Not much. Just got done trying to be mean to Betsy.

Ohh, you didn’t, did you?!

Nah. Not much. But I’m expecting a Tweet storm from Warstein any time now. So, how’s the new house guest?

Malcolm seems to be settling in alright. But, he’s been through a lot.

Yeah, I know. Just try to make him as comfortable as you can, okay? I’m hopping on the first flight back right after Warfare.

Dolly pauses on the other end of the line, as though calculating her next words carefully. You may want to give him some space though.

Corey looks perplexed. How come?

Another noteworthy silence passes. Well, what do you mean “how come”? It’s her turn to sound confused.

Why would he want space from me? I’m the guy who rescued him.

Corey… She utters, registering some shock. He still doesn’t know if he can trust you. He still thinks you might be The Engineer.

Corey actually pulls the phone away from his face looking both amused and a bit addled. He returns the phone to his ear and takes a moment to tamp down a laugh before replying.

Dolly, who the hell is The Engineer?

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