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X-treme Wrestling Federation » XWF Live! » Character Development RPs
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S.O.S.
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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
09-24-2021, 05:07 PM

9.6.21



Corey stared out at a scene both familiar and not. Children played Duck, Duck Goose by the treeline. A crop of fruit was being harvested and dropped into wicker baskets in the greenhouse. Malcolm, The Engineer’s former protege, was talking up a newcomer named John. His body language was all awkward tenses and longing. By all accounts, another completely normal day at the compound.

But it wasn’t a normal day. Like a predatory fish just below the surface, something baleful lurked beneath this pretense. He couldn’t miss the whispers in his passing, the cautious looks followed by the quick and inevitable look away when eyes met. Christian was loving and supportive and just generally being his amazing self, but there was something else there too. An unchanneled frustration. With him, no doubt.

Corey wasn’t oblivious to the rippling after effects of his actions. He knew he put himself in serious jeopardy. This time around, he had had a choice, and he chose poorly. And these people knew. They knew. And Corey hoped that, in time, they would grow to trust his judgement again.

His ruminations were interrupted by the sight of a black sedan pulling up to the gate in the distance. The long winding road eventually disappeared out of Corey’s view, so he turned to head to the front door.

[Image: giphy.gif]


The room reeled, and at first Corey felt sure of his footing, but it didn’t last long. In the blink of an eye, he was on the floor, having braced his fall with his now stinging forearms. Ah… He winced and started picking himself up. The room had since reasserted itself, but the experience reminded him of the doctor’s recriminations. Only rest. Eat, sleep, drink. Sedentary activities only for at least 2 weeks. Talk about hell on Earth.

Corey grabbed his cane, which he despised (but begrudgingly accepted). Testing his perception and finding it satisfactory, he started making his way forward at a slow clip. He reached an intersection in the halls when Christian called out. Hey ‘Cor, what you up to?

Corey winced. What you up to? His boyfriend tried to dress it up nice, but it was still a barb that pierced his autonomous sense of self right in the gullet. Reluctantly, he answered. There’s a car coming up the drive. Were we expecting visitors?

Not that I know of. I’ll take care of it.

No, I got it. Corey replied a bit too quickly. Christian gave silent appraisal before nodding and stepping away. Christian was probably a bit miffed, but Corey had to field this one. Of course, he could also just go to the intercom, but a saunter up the drive was also calling to him. He just hoped Christian remained none the wiser.

Stepping through the front entrance, Corey began to carefully make his way down the stairs, only to see with some bemusement that a golf cart had moved in to meet him. Terri, a 17 year old runaway that refused to be remanded to social services, was at the wheel. Her short green hair glistened in the sunlight because someone had turned the thing into a convertible.

Hey Corey, want a lift?

Did you call you uncle yet?

Terri sniffed. No....

Corey sighed and resigned himself to sliding in next to Terri.

Where we headed to boss?

Front gate. We got a visitor.

Ohhhh! A new resident?

Based on the wheels, I'm thinking not. Corey did his best Picard point. Engage.

Dork. Terri lurched the cart into motion, headed up the drive where the black sedan was patiently waiting at the closed gate. Instantly, a canker worried itself in his stomach. Something didn't feel right. Perhaps it was the slightly tinted windows, or the fact that the only time a car like that pulled up it was usually driven by a PI or a government official with another pop inquiry.

Slowing the cart to a crawl, Terri jerked her head towards the car. Looks like money. Maybe they want to donate.

Maybe...he replied unconvincingly. Terri, why don't you head back, I got this.

You sure?

He paused. Yeah. Then, swinging his legs out of the cart and grabbing for the cane again, he thankfully found his footing with no issue. If I'm not back in 20....

Concern intensified, Terri nodded nevertheless. Okay. She pulled away with a small degree of reluctance, but Corey was indeed left to fend for himself. Stepping to the gate such that his face was mere inches from the wrought iron bars, he called out. Can I help you?

He could see movement behind the steering wheel, but the opaque windows were a muddy filter that permitted little else. It took what seemed like a series of protracted moments before a man stepped out of the car.

[Image: tilllindemann2020-e1585316787800-678x381.jpg]


Corey's earlier worries peaked. The man screamed...something. A sinister mien, perhaps. This was certainly no investigator hired by a possessive abusive spouse or paunchy government official with a misplaced sense of superiority. The man's eyes were keen, his clothes hiding the middle aged remainder of a powerful frame. And above all else, there was a nagging familiarity too. Corey knew this wasn't someone he was acquainted with personally, but yet...

Mr. Smith? He called out, attempting friendliness but not quite concealing the authoritative tone of one accustomed to being obeyed.

That's me. Can I help you? Once more, with feeling.

Perhaps. The man walked up to the bars, but at a greater distance than Corey's. Hands in his pockets, he struck a casual pose. Are we going to talk through these bars?

Are you going to tell me who you are? Corey countered, eyes narrowing.

The man seemed to relax. I'm sorry. Your caution is warranted. My name is Jace. I was wondering if we could discuss a party we know mutually.

He was tap dancing around the point, finessing it. Yeah, something wasn't right. What is this about exactly?

I'm going to tell you something, Mr. Smith. Your immediate reaction will be anger. Or disgust. You will bid me to leave. But I ask that you simply let me explain.

Dude, what is this about? Corey allowed annoyance to treacle into his voice.

Madison Dyson.

The name was a dolorous gong in Corey's head. His jaw clenched instinctively, and he found himself leaning for more support on the cane. She's dead.

She is not. Mostly.

Corey's features twisted and warped. Get the hell away from my gate.

I told you this would...

I don't care what you told me. That name gets spoken in my presence as anything but a cuss word, I get antsy. And now, I got you, "Jace", pulling up to my home and telling me my dead sworn enemy is not dead. But she is dead. That bitch is in the ground. Thanks to you. Please, leave. Now.

I'm telling you, she's alive. Jesus, but that sounded truthful. And...

This isn't funny. Go away or I'm calling the police. And for the record, I hate calling the police. But buddy, you're warranting it.

Jace took another step towards the gate. At this distance, Corey could make out the cragginess in his features. The gentle black whorls under his eyes. The creeping ghosts of gray in his hair. This was a man experienced in life in more ways than one, with a countenance that bespoke of decades of turmoil. And if you do that she'll continue to live. If what she is can be called living....

Yeah, you keep saying it like that....

..and my son will still be in jeopardy and eventually she will come for you and burn everything you love here to the ground.

SHE'S DEAD! His response was louder than he had intended. Jace clamped his mouth shut, waiting for Corey to mellow. Look, I don't know if this is some joke, or grift, or what, but I want no part of it.

It is neither. The man sighed. Give me ten minutes. If after ten minutes you still want me to leave, I will. But all I ask is ten minutes.

Corey took an accounting of the man, and surprisingly did not find him wanting. If he was a liar, he was particularly good at it. Of course, being talented at it was certainly a possibility. But ten minutes was an admittedly small amount of time to afford to either a con artist or cruel jokester. And there was still that nagging sense he had seen this face before.

You have five.

Very well. My name is Jace Mingla.

That NAME.

Stop. Corey held up a hand.

Will this count against my time? There's a sliver playfulness there.

Heh. No. Why does your name sound familiar to me?

I used to be a wrestler. I was also an ally of Madison's for quite some time.

Corey went wide eyed. Ooof. You are NOT selling this!

Do I still have five?

I guess.

Thank you. His momentum rallied. I'm telling you that I was an ally of Madison's up front because I want you to trust me. Plus, I know you'll just Google me later. You'll see plenty of other things about me that are less than flattering.

Corey shook his head and blurted out a sardonic little laugh.

Again Mr. Smith, the truth.

Okay. Fine. You're telling me the truth. Then how is it that Madison Dyson is still alive?

Corey, with all the experiences you've had on Heaven and Earth, THIS is the thing that seems far fetched? It was a two prong assault, invoking his first name and his extensive history cavorting with the strange and unusual. With a significant reluctance, Corey had to concede the man's point. The long and short of it is that she's being kept alive artificially. I know this because I helped steal the technology that's doing so. But it's a living death. Her body is still decaying, and it's driving her increasingly more insane.

Yeah, and she didn't have much left to jettison in the first place. Corey concluded, again with a sardonic edge. Okay, so we got Madison pulling some Dawn of the Dead shit. What else do I need to know? She still BFF's with Aiwass?

No....it's.....something else entirely.
This was the first time Jace spoke with an air of fear.

Uh huh. Did she finally trade up to Satan himself? I always saw Aiwass as kind of a B-tier player myself.

Why do I feel like you're still not taking me seriously?

Corey, is everything okay?

Christian's voice cut through the tension as he jogged up. Coming alongside his boyfriend, he looked at Jace, and put two and two together quickly. You're not letting him in?

Corey considered Jace to study the man's reaction as he replied. No.

Jace grimaced, and the spectre of a quiet rage rose up and was quelled. You're making a mistake. You're still not thinking clearly.

Hey, fuck you. Corey spat back. No, you're not welcome here. Now if you'll please depart my property.

Christian's glance ticked back and forth between Corey and Jace, his anxiety ratcheting by the second. Jace stood his ground, temporarily, before finally ceding to Corey's will. It's your property. But I hope you remember this moment when she comes for him, indicating Christian, and everyone else you care about.

Yeah, well, if she can shuffle her undead ass here to do it, sure. But I'm not letting a friend of Madison Dyson, past or present, into my home.

With an icy glare, Jace stepped back to the car and got back in wordlessly. Christian and Corey watched him go, peeling back in reverse before swinging the car around and driving back up to the road with haste.

Who was that guy? Did he know Madison?

I dunno. Maybe. Point is, he was a creep. And I'm about done with creeps.

Christian folded up his right elbow in the grip of his left hand. Corey knew enough to know that was one of Christian’s tells. Are you okay?

It sounded like he was threatening us.

Not so much him….Madison Dyson.

But she’s dead!

Tell him. Corey folded an arm around Christian’s torso and popped a playful kiss on his lips. Let’s just forget about it, okay? We got enough to worry about.

Christian’s freckles had pushed to the fore after Corey’s kiss. Christ, it was adorable. Okay. But if something’s wrong, you’d….?

Tell you? Corey finishes. Of course. Just like I told you when I reaggravated my head injury. The barb went mercifully unspoken.

Then, righting his embrace and turning to face him. But we’re okay Christian. I’m okay. You’re okay. I’m okay.

You repeated “I’m okay.”

Yeah, because I think you needed to hear that one twice. Corey smiled warmly. But I wouldn’t be averse to a big strong cute boy carrying me back up to the house regardless.

Christian served up his best shit eating grin as he scooped Corey up in his arms. Corey gave a whoop of surprise before planting another kiss on his love’s lips.

Later….

Elsewhere….


You know, dear, I’m really not sure how I feel about that Jace Mingla guy. The figure cut a sharp but eccentric countenance. He was slim and clad in, well….

[Image: origin.jpg?w=1200&h=1000&fit=crop&crop=f...2Ccompress]


A trained eye, and I know you have one, would recognize this man. Beneath the layers of casual bon vivace, designer makeup and blouse that only the most esoteric fashion designer could love, you recall his name is Razors. We’ve seen him around.

I know you two have history and all. Side bar, EW. But there’s just something off about him. Untrustworthy. You know? I can feel it deep down in my fluids.

At this point, the shot is focused solely on Razors. Everything else blends into the background with a myopic blur. He seems like the kind of guy that wears Crocs to go to the supermarket late at night, thinking that at that hour nobody would care. But we DO care, Jace. The royal WE, those of us with good taste, with a flair for textiles. Call me a dandy if you will, but…

We hear an indistinct sound from just off camera. It sounds like a cross between a sigh and a moan. Razors reacts with annoyance. I’m getting to the point! Enjoy the ride! He throws his arms out to drive it home. Heh. At any rate, I don’t think he’s quite with us. And don’t get me started on that creepy “son” of his. He air quotes “son”. I mean, who talks like that and calls themselves WHISPER? Fucking WHISPER. It’s the label on the box. That would be like if I went around calling myself “Sex Bomb” or “Fashion God” or “Divine Artist”, leave a little bit of mystery for Chrissakes, that’s what I say!

Another sound. This time it sounds more like a frantic gurgle. Razors ignores it.

But I’ll be a good boy. I’ll play ball with creepy and creepy the second. For now. And then, his cadence changes. So, how did that sound? Too pushy? Not pushy enough? Think I’m just being paranoid? It’s always so rough criticisizing your boss’ choice in friends. Eh? He prods.

The shot pans out, and what you see is repulsive. A woman is bound and tied down, pinioned against a wall. Her face has been splayed out like the torso of a slaughtered deer, the flesh peeled back in strips and pinned to the wall behind her. In a demented way, it made her look like…

A flower! That’s what you are! Razors dropped in close to admire his perverse handiwork. The woman’s head lulls, or at least as much as the wires and pins will allow. She’s been drugged to keep the shock from setting in. A beautiful blossom! And you’re welcome for that. Mercy, you and I both know that you’ve never looked this good.

Mercy barely responds to the sound of her name, bloodied eyes raising, displaying a dulled intellect drowning in chemical haze.

So you do remember it? Who you are? Who you were? Who you’ll never be… he voice drops into a lascivious growl. That’s what you get for fucking with pure power. But! On a positive note, congratulations are in order. It’s your anniversary! Or rather, OUR anniversary. I’ve kept you, my pet, for 100 days today. How time flies...yadda, yadda….

Now say it with me. “I’m a pretty flower.”

Mercy can only manage a confused grunt.

“I’m a pretty flower.”

Uhhhhhhh….

NO! “I’m a pretty flower! And so help me Hades if I have to repeat myself I’ll make your uterus getting ripped out in a back alley Mexican chop shop feel like a spa day! “I AM A PRETTY FLOWER!”

Her head lulls again. Uhh….’pre…..flo’er….

Razors takes a step back. He cants his head, like he's making a show of studying fine art. I’ll give you a pass. I somehow forgot I took out your tongue somewhere around day 70. Whoopsie doodles! He shrugs and laughs. But anyhoo...he walks over to a stereo system and turns it on.



Razor’s body surrenders to the music, swaying and twerking in reply to the grating metal sounds emitting from the speakers. His dancing grows increasingly more erratic, a drunkard’s Tango, as he draws closer to Mercy, twirling his hips and sliding his hand down the front of his torso sensually. He brings his right arm up, and for the first time you notice that its movement is not quite as fluid as the rest of him. In fact, his hand bears a plastic sheen that reflects the lights in the room. It’s a prosthetic. Drawing in uncomfortably close, he takes the fingers of his false hand and slowly starts to force them into Mercy’s mouth. She instinctively gasps and sputters, moaning in pain as the narcotics reach their limit and hell returns.

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