"Bring her in," I call to Mikael, who stands in the hall outside my office, not bothering to look up from the book that's gripped all of my interest for the past hour or so. The door swings open, and in he steps, his hand clenching the new Jessie's wrist. Struggling, she too makes it into the room, and the door slams shut behind the two. Closing the book, I set it off to the side before getting up out of the chair and walking over to the pair. In her other hand; Jessie buries her new face. A smile comes across my face, gripping her by the chin and forcing it upwards. Ah, eye contact.

"What do y-" she utters before I place one finger to her lips, cutting her off. Growing silent, she looks at me, the hand Mikael just let go of falling to her side. Pacing back and forth, I see out the corner of my eye her's following me. Not breaking concentration, swaying back and forth like a pendulum, stalking each step. Coming closer to her once more, I bring my hand out and slap her in the face. Her head follows the path set by my hand before snapping back into the position it was in previously.

"Mikael?" The one worded question came out slow, admittedly in the most seductive tone I could muster. It appears to have worked, judging from the look on his face. Pupils dilated, he directs his attention from the tapestry hung on the wall behind my desk to me, standing diagonal from him, still in front of the sullen woman collapsed on the floor. "Oh sweetheart," I continue, drawing nearer to him and stomping on the bitch's hand in the process. She lets out an agonized yelp, which fuels the schoolgirl like giggle I give the man in the room. "If you could; take our patient back to her room. But first," I start once more, walking back to my desk and picking up a small vial containing a pale blue liquid. Returning to him, I slip it into his grasp. "Give her this." I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and pull him in, kissing him on the lips. Pulling away, his hand grips onto Jessie's. Kneeling down in front of her, two fingers on each hand grip onto her jaw and nose, pulling in opposite directions and forcing her mouth open. She claws at my arms, forming a nice little gash running up my right forearm. Mikael leans in, pouring the liquid into her mouth and as it falls down her throat, it appears to happen instantaneously. She stops struggling. Her head falls downward, mouth closing once I remove my fingers from her face. Backing up, I watch as her entire body goes limp and sprawls across the floor of the office.

Placing his hands on opposite sides of her waist, Mikael picks her up and slings her unconscious body over his shoulder. I watch as he carries her out of my office, slowly backpedaling to my desk. Backing into it, I hop up and sit on the surface, reaching backwards to grab the book. Flipping through the pages, I come to where I left off.

Ah, Agatha Christie, I think as my eyes scan the top of the page. Enlighten me, just exactly how many were there, again?

---

"Sit," the voice commanded, hissing the s at me like a famished snake. A think blanket of pitch blackness engulfed me, the sight of dull static emanating from a television sat upon a cart in front of my body providing the only hint of escape, the only reprieve. Sitting in front of the television, in front of me, was a chair. Hesitation rears its ugly head, leaving me an immobile mess, staring at the screen like a deer in the headlights. "Sit," it repeats, growing in intensity, anger levels rising like the amount of sweat forming on my armpits. I place my fingers around the back of the chair, widening my stance to move with each leg on opposite sides. I release my grip, and fall ass first into the seat, resting my back against the solid wood. Slinking down in the seat, I cross one leg over the other, and cross my arms, hoping to look as defiant as I possibly could.

"Good," the voice snarls, the low pitched, guttural voice growling the last syllable. The television cuts to black momentarily, as if the power had been cut. Just as fast as it went off, it came back on once more. A flash of red, gently easing out into a still shot of a bloodied, mangled corpse. Sliced open down the sternum all the way to pelvic region. Its skin pulled back, to the point where the spine was easily visible. The organs were gone, nowhere in sight. Blood painted every inch of visible skin a chipping, dried crimson. In disgust, I look down, covering my face with my hands.

"Look," it screamed. "Look at me!"

Dread coursed through me, my hands trembling and slowly falling into my lap. What felt like a two ton weight pressed down on my neck, but after much struggle I force my head up and my eyes lock onto the screen.

A gray skinned face, the whites of the eyes dulled, outshone by the orangish red irises and striking pupils greets me. Its nose rotten and hanging off the side of his face by a small patch of black, rotten skin. That grin, though. The mouth spread itself wide, the lips chapped and bloody. Its teeth rotten, yellow with green fungus/infection (whatever the fuck you'd call it) hanging down from the blackened gums. The red and grey mass it would call a tongue presses against one of the molars, causing it to fall out with ease. Crimson blood and eggshell pus ooze from the hole, dripping onto its bottom lip.

I cringe, tears welling in my eyes.

I want to look away.

But, I can't.

"Come on Jessie, don't be such a wimp!" The voice teases me, laughing a dark, hearty rumble at the look on my face. "You love this kind of stuff, don't you?" Once more, the sickening laugh fills the room. The screen cuts back to the mangled body, and once more to the static.

"Stand."

I do.

"Turn."

I do.

"Good," the voice says, and odd sense of satisfaction ringing through the word. In front of me now was a door. Walls visible on either side. My escape.

I inch my way towards it, scanning the ground for any obstacles. Nothing. The floorboards creak with each step, growing in volume as I begin to speed up. One particular step sounds hollow, as if there was nothing under it. I disregard this, for by the time it registers, I'm already at the door. Wrapping my hands around the handle, I take a deep breath before turning it.

It won't budge.

I turn it again.

It's locked.

With that, I slump down. Sitting on the ground, I hug my knees, bringing them as close to my body as possible. I rest my head between my thighs, and sob.

---

"You know? I just don't get it.

I don't understand how someone as fucking moronic as John Austin can actually lead people into believing in his idiotic pseudo religious spiel that in actuality hits anyone with a rational fucking thought process as impactfully as an Eli James IV rant, when he himself claims to be against their teachings.

Newsflash, .

They're the exact same fucking thing, only with a different combination of street whore make up. Something Christine Nash knows plenty about, I'm sure. That's right, I'm insulting my own teammate. Fuck her. She's sucking Austin's dick anyway, so she's practically the enemy at this point.

Jesus. I swear that if that bitch is the reason our team loses..."

"I'll fucking slaughter her."

"Anyway, onto the men of the hour, huh? The oh so impotent (and no, I most certainly did not mean important) team of John Austin, David Stevenson (Oh, it's Steve Davids? Oh well, not like anybody else remembered that either,) NAZI, and Matt fucking Ward. Hell, I'll extend the threat of death to anyone who fucking drops the ball if these idiots win. If I lose this match, fucking gut me like a fish, because I'll do the same to you.

Enough fucking stalling, huh? Let's get to the shit.

Matt Ward. You got stabbed into a hospital bed by Smoke Man, but before that you made your name doing two things. A, being Christine Nash's slave bitch, and B, losing to John Black. John Black! If you even make it to the match, provided NAZI hasn't murdered you yet, I expect you'll do nothing more than get your ass kicked. Keep on training, because it never fucking shows. Keep on thinking that Christine (who has so little talent, that not even Alexandra Callaway wanted anything to do with her) is the biggest threat on my team, because that's a fucking falsehood. Just go on, keep being wrong."

"I have no problem beating the correct answers into you, fucktard."

"Speaking of NAZI, how does it feel, Nathaniel? How does it feel, knowing that while you couldn't beat Ann Thraxx, we did? That's right, the girl commonly referred to as Jessie Diaz (because naming the specific personality at the time of beating is next to impossible for you guys,) a fucking dyke, beat the woman you couldn't?

I mean, if the failure was hard to swallow then, I'm sure you're on the verge of suicide thinking that. By losing to Thraxx, you've metaphorically lost to me now, and come Wednesday, I'll turn that into a physical loss. Even if it means dragging Christine and her eighty fucking cousins, children, and other relatives along with me, I'll beat your team and I'll specifically try to pin you.

Why?

Added humiliation, you kraut cunt.

David Stevens. Shit, Steve Davids. Every time! Are you psychotic? Have you taken your meds in the last twenty four hours, or are you always this fucking braindead? Huh? I mean seriously, you come back and get into an argument with Mister Supernova, so sure that you can beat him when history has proven that you can't?

What, do you just not make sense because it's cool, or something. It really doesn't make you look edgy or psycho. Just like a bumbling Gilmour idiot fuck it they're the same thing anyway.

Oh, and because it seems to get your lace panties up in a wad...

Bitch.

Lastly, team captain John Austin.

Okay, where to start?

First, so called queen? Aren't I like, the only woman in this fucking place who doesn't take on the phrase queen and shove it up my own ass because it's such a fucking pretty title? No, I've never called myself the queen of anything in my life, and I sure as fuck wouldn't start just because.

I rule with an iron fist? I don't accept the darkness that surrounds my soul? Sorry, but are you really trying to fucking convert me with false flattery with veiled insults? That's your fucking ace in the hole? Your pseudo (and I mean pseudo in the tense of false, because that's all religious bullshit is) religious shit is really the weakest of all the gimmicks you've pulled out of your ass. Just because Eli James can look up to the sky and claim Jesusauris Rex is the reason why he wins so much doesn't make it so. Look at what happened when he faced a team of true non believers (and I don't mean Cam Lang level non believers. They're just too big of pussies to admit that they secretly bought into his shit.)

Look at it.

Now, I'm a trios champion, which if you were keeping track at home, puts me a whole two titles ahead of John Austin! Meaning of course, that I'm no doubt a better wrestler than him, and in the end that's all it comes down to.

I was a better wrestler, ESP was a better wrestler, Tri Bute was a better wrestler than both the Congregation and the Extreme Brotherhood.

We won.

I'm a better wrestler than you, Steve Davids, NAZI, and definitely Matt Ward.

And that's why I'll win.

That's why I'll likely have to be the one to get the pin, lest Kain and Lennox get their shit together.

Hey Austin! Can you remove Nash's mouth from your dick so she can film a promo?"

---