OOC: Bit of a content warning, some graphic images are used in this RP. NSFW!

June 2020

It was a hot time in the big city, and the flies were just sitting down to dinner. Mercy awoke to the drone of insects first, and then a putrid sweet smell soon after. Getting up and casting aside the flattened box she had been using to conceal herself, her attention was drawn to the cloud of insects about the prostrate figure across the alley from her. Shuffling up on unsteady feet, she moved to inspect it.

She didn't even know his name. Or maybe she did and it was just lost to the chaotic sinkhole that was her mind now. But he was a homeless man who had taken up residence on this particular patch of concrete not even a week ago. He was quite dead now, eyes glassy, open and half lidded, with a soup of liquid excrement working its way down his pant leg and around the filthy slippers he wore that passed for shoes.

Mercy stood and watched as the flies held a grim funeral party for the deceased, injecting their eggs in the yellowing sallow flesh and devouring the necrotic. A fly landed on the dead man's exposed eye ball, it's fetid little feet tip toeing on the milky dance floor of the corpse's iris.

One of the errant little buggers landed on her arm, and she swatted it, clamping her palm down and crushing it. Retracting her hand, she found that the insect had blossomed into a rose of crimson. And with that, the memories came unwound.









Flashes of discordant images, bleeding into and out of each other. Mercy was unable to discern which ones were real and which ones merely delusion anymore. Surely some of them were impossible. She even had a vague recollection of killing Dracula. But day by day, the necessity of objective reality was becoming more and more....inapplicable. This onslaught of numbing horror was becoming her norm, and in so becoming was now akin to a comforting blanket.

With a quiet gasp, she remembered her charge. Returning to the box that was her bedding, she lifted it aside to take hold of the delicate thing within.



My poor baby....Mommy's so sorry, baby....

Mercy drew the doll close, and as it pitched forward it's one good eye snapped open. The other eye was set back in a wreckage of broken plastic, perpetually affixed towards the heavens.

“Ma-ma....” The doll cooed in that rote, artificial way that came factory preset. Mercy hugged her child close, chastising herself for her momentary bout of forgetfulness. Lowering the doll to stomach level, she held it just so, just, just so, mimicking the position she would have maintained if she had been in her stomach...in her uterus. Before infection and psychotic obsession had caused it to be scrapped out of her like a cavity causing plaque from a decaying tooth.

With a shuddering voice, Mercy began to sing to her baby.

Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green,
When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen:
Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?
‘Twas mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.
Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work,
Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork;
Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn,
Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm.
If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap,
You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap;
Who told you so, dilly dilly, pray tell me why?
That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry.

LATER

The hunger was upon her, kneading her stomach in fresh waves of pain, nearby doubling her over. Mercy knew she would have to part with it, the mask. The last symbol of her power. The black studded bodysuit was already gone, sold to some perverts in a sex shop weeks ago. Wheeling her baby's tattered stroller down the sidewalk, and quite oblivious to the overt stares from passers by, Mercy stopped in front of the garish window lights of a pawn shop. Reaching into the stroller, she carefully withdrew the mask from beside her baby so as to not disturb her.


The mask's empty eyeless vessels bored into her accusingly. Mercy afforded a glance to the pawn shop sign and then looked back down at the mask with guilt etched on her features. I'm sorry. We're starving. I'm sorry. She placed it face down atop the stroller and entered the shop, propping the door open so that she might get the stroller inside. The threshold jostled the stroller, drawing a “Ma-ma” from beneath the soiled hood. Oh no, now the baby's awake.... Mercy muttered. Allowing the door to slam shut behind her then, she entered the shop. Thankfully, she was the only one inside aside from the man behind the counter. Not surprising really, given the time of night.

As she came to the center of the store, she passed by an antique mirror haphazardly propped against an end cap, and for the first time in, well, as long as her broken mind could recall, she caught a glimpse of herself.

With a pained moan, she turned away from her own visage. Still hideous. Still ugly. She thought, completely unaware of the distorting influence of her own psychosis. Mercy looked a mess, surely, but she was not the gaunt corpse like horror that was reflected back at her. Mercy turned the mask back over, eager for its concealing embrace. She ran her finger over the cracks in its enamel lovingly, reverently. For the first time she noticed the dried blood deep in its crevices, brief evidence of the gore soaked psychic wounds that had pushed through her mental breakwall earlier that evening.

HEY EVERYBODY! It's me, Dr. Neil Joy!

A bright, sing songy voice sounds out, drawing Mercy's attention. It's coming from a large flatscreen TV on display. She draws closer and sees a garishly painted man in front of a studio audience that's politely clapping for him.

My friendly friends, today is the first day of the rest of your lives. Because today, I offer you the chance to break the habit of being yourselves. Now, you might be wondering “why would I want to do that? Why would I want to be anyone BUT myself?” And well, lots of people think that way. But lots of people also fail to realize that who they are right now is....he pinches his nose.....STINKY DOO DOO!

The crowd laughs obediently.

The fact of the matter is, the biggest thing holding you back is YOU! Your fears! Your insecurities! Your history! And all that other icky wicky slimey whimy stuff!

He points to himself. But I can help. Me and my patented Dr. Joy Ego Suppression System!

Enrapt, Mercy pulls herself in closer to the screen.

For 17 low monthly payments of 99.99 my system offers you a year's worth of do it yourself psychological techniques, daily self affirmations, self hypnosis guides, and essential oils all geared to make YOU into an even better YOU! YAAAAYY!

The crowd claps again like trained seals.

If you want it bad enough, my Ego Suppression System will get you there. Dr. Joy turns to look directly into the camera. Do you want it? Do you want it BAD enough?

Mercy nods her head “yes” emphatically. Yes! Yes, I do!

Good! Because I think you can do it! I know you can do it! AAAAAAAAND..... the crowd joins him in unison.....IIIIIIIII BEEEEEEEELIEVE IN YOUUUUUUUUUUU! He points towards the camera, yellow stars and fireworks exploding from his finger tip towards the viewer. Mercy jerks back a bit in surprise, but then a thin smile creeps onto her lips.

Yes. Yes! I must find Dr. Neil Joy! Then, rushing up to the counter, she surprises the clerk there who was absent mindedly flipping through a titty magazine.

Dr. Neil Joy! DR. NEIL JOY!

The clerk cants his head, looking confused. Uhhhhh...what?

HOW DO I FIND HIM?!

He slaps the titty magazine down on the counter, annoyance leaking into his expression. Wait a minute, I know you. You're that crazy bitch who sleeps behind the dumpster a couple blocks up.

Mercy shakes her head in frustration, and in so doing a couple bugs drop out of her hair and hit the counter. The clerk, disgusted, sweeps them off with the magazine. Fuck's sake.....

She scrambles for the mask, setting it down on the counter. How much?

Eying the mask with distaste, the clerk turns it over so it's face side up while doing his damndest to avoid touching it too extensively. The kink shop is down the street.

I need money to go see Dr. Neil Joy! Mercy responds emphatically, eyes wide and frenzied.

Yeah well we don't buy this freaky shit. Sorry. Now get the fuck out.

Mercy looks back at Dr. Joy as he minces across the stage on the television, and then back at the clerk. You have to buy it! My baby is hungry!

The clerk looks at the broken doll in the stroller, winces, and then reluctantly returns his attention to Mercy. If your crazy ass don't leave this store.....

She pushes the mask further towards him, almost toppling it off the counter. MONEY!

That's it, I'm callin' the cops!

NO! Mercy screamed inwardly. Cops meant pain. Cops meant jail. Cops meant no food and most importantly, no Dr. Neil Joy! Her mind burned and spun for a few precious seconds, until she settled on reaching for the mask and pulling it down over her face. Then, like a spasmodic marionette, she pitched forward, driving her masked face into the glass counter. The glass buckled beneath the penetrative onslaught of the steel countenance, shattering instantly. The clerk stumbled backwards in shock, and Mercy reached into the broken morass and pulled out the longest most jagged shard she could find. With no wasted movement, she then vaulted over the counter. The clerk finally mustered his wits, pulling a rolling office chair between them as he retreated around the counter.

With a feral, angry cry, Mercy then hefted the entire chair up and tossed it at the retreating clerk's back, where it crashed into the base of his skull sending him pinwheeling into the wall. Mercy was upon him in an instant, diving onto him and ramming the glass shard into the side of the clerk's neck. His scream petered out into a gurgled froth that punched up past his lips and spilled over onto his cheeks. Mercy didn't stop there, and continued to plunge the shard down again and again, focusing on the eyes now and turning both of them into a pulpy mush within the sockets. In the background, she was vaguely aware of Dr. Neil Joy invoking his mantra once more.

IIIIIIIIIIII

**STAB**

BEEEEEEEEELIEVE

**STAB**

IIIIIIIIIINNNNNNN

**STAB**

YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!

**STAB**

When it was all said and done, with a heaving chest and hammering heart, Mercy looked upon he ruination of a stranger's face, and was gone.

NOW

Mercy is seated cross legged in a small walk in closet. It's dimly lit, providing just enough illumination to disclose that the walls of the closet are covered in a haphazard array of mirrors. Some of them antique, some of them generic Wal-mart fare. A poppy Betty Boop themed mirror can be seen just over Mercy's shoulder. The mirrors reflect back on each other into infinity, creating a disorienting effect, when they're not depicting various angles of Mercy's own body.

Mercy is wearing her black leather ring gear, crisscrossed in haphazard broken seams. The bottom half of her face is enveloped in a white cloth mask, leaving naught but two glassy haunted eyes to stare back at you.

I gOT bEttEr. She intones, punctuated by a sharp slurp of saliva that continues throughout her monologue at regular intervals.

SAY wHaT yOU waNt aBOuT mADiSOn....

Mercy suddenly stops, squeezing her eyes shut in...frustration? Concentration? You see some movement of her jaw behind the mask. Her eyes snap back open then.

Say what you want about Madison Dyson, and many people do, but the bitch keeps me on the straight and narrow. So to speak. When I don't have her, my mind is a blitzed fuck hole of God knows what. Though, the pills help too. Keep my thoughts organized just enough. Just enough to focus, but not enough to curb my more....aggressive impulses. A dull wheeze passes through the mask. It takes you a moment to recognize it's kind of a laugh.

So why did I pick you Melanie? It's simple. Because you spell it C-R-A-Y-Z-E-E. Another mirthless wheeze of a laugh. That told me all I need to know about you. All I need to know about your take on insanity. She leans in a bit. First things first: Fuck your “Funko Pop presents DC's Harley Quinn, slap it on a t-shirt and make it cute and spunky” take on being crazy!

You kNoW whAt.... She stops again, and we hear a deep, wet slurp from behind the mask....you know what crazy is really like, Melanie? It's hunger and fear and pain. It's a revolving door of shrinks and hospitals. It's feeling like your brain is on fire and about to explode out your eyeballs. It's waking up and wishing you hadn't! It's.... Mercy is trembling now, she takes a deep breath and pushes it down....

It's....it's not pretty.

Melanie, your existence is insulting to me. I hate what you are. And no, it's not because you're beautiful. I'm past that now. I'm comfortable in this ruined body. No, it's because you are an affront to my suffering. You trivialize it and make it small. Make it fit for prime time. You clean it up and make it shine. But in the end, you're a shallow and easily breakable thing, passing through life like a leaf on the wind, giggling and playacting without a care in the world.

I'm going to mAkE yOu pAy....Another pause, another deep swallow....I'm going to make you pay for your ignorance in blood until you're broke, bitch! Mastermind is going to have to find a new shameless doll to fill the hole in his group of pissant also rans. The only question now is how much is it gonna hurt. And that's on you. You keep your mouth shut and your head down and I might think on slipping the knife in somewhere easy and immediate. But you rile me up and get me twisted? My personal best is 84 discrete stab wounds before the brain shut down and the blood stopped flowing.

I can make you hurt for a good long time, woman. And given that somebody on high saw fit to make this an Xtreme Rules match? Heh...I'm thinking the bossmans were fixing on seeing just that very thing. Who did you piss off? Other than me, of course.

Choose your words carefully, Melanie. Choose them like your life depends on it. Because it really, REAlY dOEs....

You're treated to another intake of saliva from beneath Mercy's mask, and you actually see a thin strip of it start to dangle precariously past her chin. That's about when there come a few small knocks at the closet door. A child's voice can be heard through the wood.

Mamá, ¿estás ahí?

Startled, Mercy trains her sights on the door. Another time, Melanie. My life awaits.

Mercy leans up and opens the door. Standing behind it is a boy of about 8 or 9. His skin is a dusty brown hue, his eyes an even deeper darker brown. He doesn't even react to the sight of this monstrous woman in a closet of mirrors. In fact, his eyes don't react to much at all. He's blind.

I'm here, baby. Mercy reaches up, taking one of the boy's hands in hers with a gentleness you wouldn't think her capable of. She envelopes the small hand in her pallid, bony ones. Her serrated lips open into a smile, pulling at the fabric of the mask. MaMa's HeRe....