Post by styg on Jun 21, 2015 10:59:25 GMT -6
The piles of jewellery, art supplies and old coffee cups on the shelf rattled at the heavy knocking, and the wooden sign above the door - "Best Care Anywhere" - thumped against the mural on the wall. Laurel didn't look up from the full-length mirror propped against her dresser as she responded: "Come in."
The door scraped open through mounds of clothes and a head, framed by shaggy black hair, poked around the side.
"Ey."
Laurel nodded once but remained where she was, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the side of her bed. She still didn't take her eyes from her reflection as she replied to her brother Matty in kind: "Ey." Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with her fringe held out of the way with clips. She squeezed a dollop of red cream costume makeup onto a sponge and started smearing it across her cheek.
"So, none of us can be arsed cookin' tonight," Matty informed her, "Sooo... we're thinkin' we're gonna order some pizza. Y'want in?"
It took a moment for Laurel to reply, and when she did, it was a vague, "Um. Yeah, sure."
"Well... you wanna come down to see what kind you want?"
"Just get me whatever," she shrugged, "Sure it'll be fine. You know what I like."
"You always say that," sighed her brother, "But you always tell me it's wrong anyway. Can't you just come down an' do it yourself for, like, a couple of minutes?"
His sister finally turned round to him and held her messy, paint-covered hands up in the air, to match her messy, paint-covered face, and said, "Uh, not really, no. Not right now." She gestured at her torso; all she was wearing was a pair of pajama bottoms. "My hands are all covered in shit, aren't they, an' everyone'll moan at me if I come down without a top on."
Matty rolled his eyes, both at his sister's intransigence and at the fact that the rest of the household - unlike the Guerra siblings - were prudish about nudity. "How do you always manage to be tryin' out facepaint designs, or somethin' equally awkward, whenever we want you for somethin', yeh?"
With another shrug, Laurel said simply, "'Cause both'a those things rely on me bein' in the house, which is all of about five minutes a week lately?"
"Thought you were meant to be cuttin' down," said Matty archly, leaning against the door frame.
"I have!" she protested, "'I'm on like two matches a week now, ain't I? But you know I got people to visit. Friends to keep track of. Mia, Melody, Molly... everyone's been havin' a shit time of it lately. If I don't look after 'em, who will?" Matty started to reply, but Laurel evidently wasn't done. "Like this weekend... needta leave early to check on Wulf an' Ruby before the show, aye? They were nasty injuries they got at the PPV. Nasty as fuck."
Sensing that there was still more coming, Matty slipped through the door and pushed it almost-closed behind himself, and threw himself down on his sister's bed. His instincts proved to be right - as they usually were, when it came to Laurel - as she continued, "I mean, y'know, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be bothering with pissin' about facin' Christian, aye? Me an' him both got more important things to worry about right now than each other. I got REVOLUTION still to worry about no doubt, an' goddamn Hardaway an' his mates prolly lookin' for revenge on Ruby takin' his title. Christian's got Chris Strike still after his blood an' prolly Christum Furor to boot wantin' a clear path at Strike. But I am, so that means I got to spend time preparing for him, eatin' up time I could be doin' more productive things..."
She tossed the red-soaked sponge in a plastic dish, with her face now coated in a thick layer of the same colour, and started hammering herself with a different sponge covered in setting powder. Matty didn't say much; he knew that practising her facepaint was one of the ways Laurel relaxed. His crusade to make her respect the limits of her own body and psyche had not abated, but he was aware that cutting away her outlets was probably not the most useful way to go about it. And whether she was wrestling or not, Saikosoma would have been appearing at the next EXPRO on FX either way.
Instead, he asked: "How you gonna do in EXODUS on Monday?"
"If trends continue?" she asked absently, "Violently, I guess."
"I mean... now you've been outed?"
She turned to look at him for a moment, her face framed by a cloud of powder hanging in the still air of her bedroom. With the cream on her face still damp, she fought the instinct to crease her brow, but mumbled, "Huh?"
"Y'know," he stated, On the preview for the next show. Statin', like, explicitly that Saikosoma is actually Laurel. I thought it was... like... meant to be this big secret."
"Oh." And she turned back to the mirror. "Not really, I don't care. This woman shows up who just happens to be my height, my build, have my tattoos and my voice... sure plenty people'd already worked it out, aye?" But Matty could detect an undercurrent of bitterness in her voice, despite her words.
"Will it change how people see you, though? I mean... when you came up with Saikosoma, you told me it was about pushing that one side of... how... how you're perceived by, certain... parties?" He cast his mind back, trying to remember the words she'd used: "'If they want me to be a monster, I'll show them a monster.'"
Laurel's arm hung in midair for a moment, and then - slowly - she set the sponge down. Who exactly was Saikosoma in relation to Laurel Anne Hardy? It was a good question, and one with a lot of complicated answers. Figuring those answers out had been a very large part of why she'd even decided to adopt this new persona in the first place. Perhaps it would help her figure out who Laurel Anne Hardy was in relation to Laurel Yunokawa; perhaps it would teach her about the edges of her... condition in ways she wouldn't explore elsewhere. Perhaps channelling her frustrations into an alter ego would help her work through them. Or perhaps it would fracture her further and break down whatever mental barricades still remained inside her.
Perhaps. Perhaps a lot of things.
Her voice faltered slightly as she sighed.
"...I don't know. I guess I'll find out."
The door scraped open through mounds of clothes and a head, framed by shaggy black hair, poked around the side.
"Ey."
Laurel nodded once but remained where she was, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the side of her bed. She still didn't take her eyes from her reflection as she replied to her brother Matty in kind: "Ey." Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with her fringe held out of the way with clips. She squeezed a dollop of red cream costume makeup onto a sponge and started smearing it across her cheek.
"So, none of us can be arsed cookin' tonight," Matty informed her, "Sooo... we're thinkin' we're gonna order some pizza. Y'want in?"
It took a moment for Laurel to reply, and when she did, it was a vague, "Um. Yeah, sure."
"Well... you wanna come down to see what kind you want?"
"Just get me whatever," she shrugged, "Sure it'll be fine. You know what I like."
"You always say that," sighed her brother, "But you always tell me it's wrong anyway. Can't you just come down an' do it yourself for, like, a couple of minutes?"
His sister finally turned round to him and held her messy, paint-covered hands up in the air, to match her messy, paint-covered face, and said, "Uh, not really, no. Not right now." She gestured at her torso; all she was wearing was a pair of pajama bottoms. "My hands are all covered in shit, aren't they, an' everyone'll moan at me if I come down without a top on."
Matty rolled his eyes, both at his sister's intransigence and at the fact that the rest of the household - unlike the Guerra siblings - were prudish about nudity. "How do you always manage to be tryin' out facepaint designs, or somethin' equally awkward, whenever we want you for somethin', yeh?"
With another shrug, Laurel said simply, "'Cause both'a those things rely on me bein' in the house, which is all of about five minutes a week lately?"
"Thought you were meant to be cuttin' down," said Matty archly, leaning against the door frame.
"I have!" she protested, "'I'm on like two matches a week now, ain't I? But you know I got people to visit. Friends to keep track of. Mia, Melody, Molly... everyone's been havin' a shit time of it lately. If I don't look after 'em, who will?" Matty started to reply, but Laurel evidently wasn't done. "Like this weekend... needta leave early to check on Wulf an' Ruby before the show, aye? They were nasty injuries they got at the PPV. Nasty as fuck."
Sensing that there was still more coming, Matty slipped through the door and pushed it almost-closed behind himself, and threw himself down on his sister's bed. His instincts proved to be right - as they usually were, when it came to Laurel - as she continued, "I mean, y'know, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be bothering with pissin' about facin' Christian, aye? Me an' him both got more important things to worry about right now than each other. I got REVOLUTION still to worry about no doubt, an' goddamn Hardaway an' his mates prolly lookin' for revenge on Ruby takin' his title. Christian's got Chris Strike still after his blood an' prolly Christum Furor to boot wantin' a clear path at Strike. But I am, so that means I got to spend time preparing for him, eatin' up time I could be doin' more productive things..."
She tossed the red-soaked sponge in a plastic dish, with her face now coated in a thick layer of the same colour, and started hammering herself with a different sponge covered in setting powder. Matty didn't say much; he knew that practising her facepaint was one of the ways Laurel relaxed. His crusade to make her respect the limits of her own body and psyche had not abated, but he was aware that cutting away her outlets was probably not the most useful way to go about it. And whether she was wrestling or not, Saikosoma would have been appearing at the next EXPRO on FX either way.
Instead, he asked: "How you gonna do in EXODUS on Monday?"
"If trends continue?" she asked absently, "Violently, I guess."
"I mean... now you've been outed?"
She turned to look at him for a moment, her face framed by a cloud of powder hanging in the still air of her bedroom. With the cream on her face still damp, she fought the instinct to crease her brow, but mumbled, "Huh?"
"Y'know," he stated, On the preview for the next show. Statin', like, explicitly that Saikosoma is actually Laurel. I thought it was... like... meant to be this big secret."
"Oh." And she turned back to the mirror. "Not really, I don't care. This woman shows up who just happens to be my height, my build, have my tattoos and my voice... sure plenty people'd already worked it out, aye?" But Matty could detect an undercurrent of bitterness in her voice, despite her words.
"Will it change how people see you, though? I mean... when you came up with Saikosoma, you told me it was about pushing that one side of... how... how you're perceived by, certain... parties?" He cast his mind back, trying to remember the words she'd used: "'If they want me to be a monster, I'll show them a monster.'"
Laurel's arm hung in midair for a moment, and then - slowly - she set the sponge down. Who exactly was Saikosoma in relation to Laurel Anne Hardy? It was a good question, and one with a lot of complicated answers. Figuring those answers out had been a very large part of why she'd even decided to adopt this new persona in the first place. Perhaps it would help her figure out who Laurel Anne Hardy was in relation to Laurel Yunokawa; perhaps it would teach her about the edges of her... condition in ways she wouldn't explore elsewhere. Perhaps channelling her frustrations into an alter ego would help her work through them. Or perhaps it would fracture her further and break down whatever mental barricades still remained inside her.
Perhaps. Perhaps a lot of things.
Her voice faltered slightly as she sighed.
"...I don't know. I guess I'll find out."
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We step into the rote garden with a declaration not of intent but of denunciation: of all the things wrong with Christian Kane. We invoke his ego - the contract demands, the showboating, the need to be the centre of attention at all times. We condemn his lifestyle - the parties, the casual sex, the substance abuse. We drag into the crisping and blistering shafts all the things he has done to his enemies over the years - regardless of how many spotlights have been shone on them before. We walk the steps laid down by generations before; the path of stones through the rote garden, smooth with the footfalls of thousands.
I step on the soil.
I am many things, a rainbow of the perverse and turpitudinous, but I am not a coward. I am not afraid to see myself clearly. I will not attack Christian Kane for the fact he has, in his life, enjoyed the unbalancing of chemical stimuli or the warmth that floods into him when footlights and camera flashes are trained on him. I have nothing to attack Christian Kane for. Anything I can tell him is something he already knows and which he is - here, now - trying to make amends for. And if amends don't matter, then what would that say about myself?
Perhaps recidivism is intrinsic to the lifestyle of the likes of you and I, Christian. Perhaps your time as the hero is some strange quirk of the turning of the wheel. Maybe then I'll come to gobble you up. But I don't need to hide under your bed, Christian. Not now. The childhood horror swirling to your heels steps with you - not after you.
Courtesy of Dan and Hadley Herrera, you and I will not face each other at All-Star Showdown IV for the FGA World Tag Team Championship. I would be glad, if the alternatives were better. I don't want to face someone I respect. Not in a title match. Not without the comfort of death. But if not you, then it's Dan Herrera, or Whiskey Ayano, and now we find that we're to face each other regardless. I can't mask the fact that where your redemption is in glory and honour, mine is in depravity and destruction. And I beg to the stars that I won't destroy you. Walk into the thresher, Christian, if this has to happen. When I tear this garden apart I have no desire to tear you apart with it. Walk into the thresher, and walk out stronger from the other end. Find your glory. Find your honour.
If there's still hope for you, then there's still hope for me.
-------------------------------------------------------------
We step into the rote garden with a declaration not of intent but of denunciation: of all the things wrong with Christian Kane. We invoke his ego - the contract demands, the showboating, the need to be the centre of attention at all times. We condemn his lifestyle - the parties, the casual sex, the substance abuse. We drag into the crisping and blistering shafts all the things he has done to his enemies over the years - regardless of how many spotlights have been shone on them before. We walk the steps laid down by generations before; the path of stones through the rote garden, smooth with the footfalls of thousands.
I step on the soil.
I am many things, a rainbow of the perverse and turpitudinous, but I am not a coward. I am not afraid to see myself clearly. I will not attack Christian Kane for the fact he has, in his life, enjoyed the unbalancing of chemical stimuli or the warmth that floods into him when footlights and camera flashes are trained on him. I have nothing to attack Christian Kane for. Anything I can tell him is something he already knows and which he is - here, now - trying to make amends for. And if amends don't matter, then what would that say about myself?
Perhaps recidivism is intrinsic to the lifestyle of the likes of you and I, Christian. Perhaps your time as the hero is some strange quirk of the turning of the wheel. Maybe then I'll come to gobble you up. But I don't need to hide under your bed, Christian. Not now. The childhood horror swirling to your heels steps with you - not after you.
Courtesy of Dan and Hadley Herrera, you and I will not face each other at All-Star Showdown IV for the FGA World Tag Team Championship. I would be glad, if the alternatives were better. I don't want to face someone I respect. Not in a title match. Not without the comfort of death. But if not you, then it's Dan Herrera, or Whiskey Ayano, and now we find that we're to face each other regardless. I can't mask the fact that where your redemption is in glory and honour, mine is in depravity and destruction. And I beg to the stars that I won't destroy you. Walk into the thresher, Christian, if this has to happen. When I tear this garden apart I have no desire to tear you apart with it. Walk into the thresher, and walk out stronger from the other end. Find your glory. Find your honour.
If there's still hope for you, then there's still hope for me.