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Some weeks ago.....
Melanie's descent into madness had been viewed through ten thousand lenses, a million cameras and endless sets of eyes. It'd started as a benign thing, the errant actions of a young woman with and endless revenue and the looks to deny any charge, no matter how absurd or, at times, downright horrible. She'd forever been able to simply shrug and flutter long lashes, she'd been able to pose and preen, the darling of the media, rising super star in a world that adored heroes. The belle of the ball, the princess of the Outback. Too good, too pretty, too smooth. She's too cute, she's too harmless. She's too stupid. That's what they'd said when they turned away from the ghastly string of murders, the blood stained armor and the viper's flat stares.
It'd started some time ago, but who in this town wasn't crazy? Who was a sane person, who didn't have dark addictions? She'd lied, she'd lied and been caught. When ten thousand cameras focus on a single creature, one so destined for such an awful ending, there could only be a single, simple and ineluctable result. Stars collapse, volcanoes explode and storm winds rip houses to shreds, casting down the work of many men and many years.
"You know, I think she lied to us. I think she lied and I think she's pretty damn good at it, Lee." Two men sat in a lavish office that looked out over the city skyline. Melanie's agents, those who had been charged with repairing the damage she'd done so often, were at a blatant loss. "Fuck. Fuck, man." Between a haze of tobacco smoke and a single glass of scotch, the two marketing specialists stared through the wall to wall windows that spanned their private domain. "At least she's still in touch with us, but why?"
Lee's business partner, Jackson, shrugged. He sat in mute silence, entirely baffled by this striking turn of events. His eyes, things creased with stress and worry, turned down to look at a hand written note that rested atop the black table.
"Let's go over what we know before we go back to that. What do we know about her"? The question was one these two hand pored over for what felt like months at a time.
"Nothin'." Drunk, Jackson slurred the single, final word. It was acceptance and condemnation, finality and the proof of a pitiless game she'd played. Played with them all, the shark steeped in bloody water and macabre mystique.
"That's not true. We know she's not eating at all. She's losing weight. She's not sleeping at all. From what she's told me, she's slipping back into...another shape? Another form, I guess? That fourth layer of reality?" He was baffled by the siren's tongue, the half truths and twisted riddles she'd plied to mercilessly on the poor men. Trapped by her money and beguiled by her enchanting beauty, they'd been simply putty in her deft fingers. Lined with poison, she'd guided them, manipulated them and created the perfect storm. This what what she'd wanted all along, a message.
"So she's tryin' to kill herself or she's lookin' to make a message, Lee." Jackson was not, not at all, from this world. Born and raised on Coruscant, he at least knew of the Mandalorian world, those most strange and evasive of people. "Either way, it's goin' to be big. She's not goin' to kill herself, Lee, so what's that leave us with? What's the message she's tryin' to get across to everyone? See, her people, they love makin' statements. Ain't nothing they love more, Lee. Told you, she's a god damn snake but the first time she hopped in your bed you just couldn't stop, had to sign us up, right?" For the first time, Lee saw desperation in Jackson's eyes. It frightened him to the very core, deep in his bones.
He'd never been so accusatory before. "Well, she was money as well, man. We're still getting paid...."
The slam of a glass upon the table stopped his words before they ever really started to carry on.
"She's been usin' us, Lee. We're mouthpieces. She's been playin' the game and beatin' us blind at it, jus' like I told you. She's smarter than us, man. She's smarter than any of us, Lee. Now shuddup an' lemme see the note."
Silently, the man who was normally in charge passed the folded slip of paper across the wide table.
There comes a time, my friends, when a message must be sent to those who are wise enough to listen. Jackson, you'll understand this more than Lee will, so this is written to you. I've built an empire for myself based on what you told me I needed to be. That was your first mistake. Trusting me was your last. What's the message? Heroes fall, Jackson. Empires topple. The strong die as they lived.
Jackson folded the note with a shrug and a final, resolute nod. "We're goin' to die. That's the message. She's fallin' apart to show the world that heroes and stars collapse. She's martyrin' herself to prove a point ain't a soul goin' to understand. You got lucky, Lee. I'd have loved her had I known her like you did. Re-....."
He spoke no more. From within the room, a blinding flash erupted around the poor souls. The top story of a tall, tall building seemed, for a moment, to be wreathed in flame. As glass incinerated and ashes were strewn to the wind, two men's worlds went up in glorious, glorious fire that burned through the night's sky.
The media that camped outside of Melanie's fighting headquarters had been poised, as they were, each and every day. The precise moment of death, the exact time and place, were too perfect to be missed. Through the bottom doors, the gym area, Melanie strode. Thin and wasted, tired and exhausted, she nevertheless managed a wry, sarcastic grin for the cameras. "Must be a crazy day at the office, yeah?"
A tiger by her tail.
Moderator: Fourth
-
Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
"Justin! Justin! Where's Melanie?!"
The question was shouted a man who, strangely enough, seemed comfortable sitting at a long, low table in front of myriad cameras and a throng of hungry bottom feeders seeking only the newest story. Dressed in a sharp black suit, Justin shrugged and took a drink of the bottled water that rested at his side.
"I don't know, she doesn't report in to me. I'm her manager, not her babysitter." Only level tones came from the man who'd dealt with Melanie for longer than anyone else. Subdued, he seemed. There was no point in speaking for the baffling princess. He, of all people, knew this and knew it well.
"What about the explosion at her training facilities yesterday? You're going to tell me she's not involved?"
Again, Justin seemed to bore a hole into the walls behind the mass of men and women who waited on his, and vicariously, her every word or thought. A long sigh rolled past tense, pursed lips. "It's been cited as a building malfunction, we'll be talking to the contractors to see what might have caused such a tragic accident." He wasn't lying. He was speaking the only truth he knew. He didn't know a damn thing. He'd realized this early on and accepted the reality behind such a beguiling thought. The shadow spun nymph was always a step ahead of those who saw her as an ignorant, idiotic annoyance. He'd given up trying to understand precisely what she was doing. But was she involved? Did he want to know? "If she's involved, it'll show in the investigation. Ask yourself this, ladies and gentleman. Does anyone know what she's doing at any given time?"
There was barely stifled laughter as his words rushed across the listening ears. "Does she?"
The person who spoke such words wasn't easy to identify. Shouted from the back, the poorly worded question had risen from a particularly new knot of leaches. Justin's first answer came in the form of an arching brow and tightened shoulders.
"What precisely do you mean by that?" His words were still calm, he kept his composure.
"Does she even have a clue what she's doing at any given time? Maybe she's been beaten on a few too many times or maybe she's just spoiled. I like to call her insane, man. Look at her, Justin!"
The water bottle, half empty, spouted a dribble of water past the lips as his hand crushed the life from innocent plastic. "I've worked around high profile athletes for my entire career be it here or back at home, kid. I've also answered questions from a thousand idiots. You're finding yourself a spot on that list."
"What, I can't even ask a question? She's out of control, Justin! Aren't you supposed to keep her on a leash or something? Don't answer that, I bet you'd love to have her on a leash, am I right?" The poor man was still speaking ever as his friends and colleagues began to grow silent. Whether waiting for Justin's answer or simply realizing that the rookie had crossed lines, the room stilled and eventually grew silent.
"Stand up, let me see you." Justin's hand waved at the young man with scraggly brown hair, black rimmed glasses and a vest over slender pants. As he stood, he glanced around as if expecting some support. "I'd do yourself a favor and keep in mind who you're insulting, first and foremost. Why do I agree with her so much? Generally speaking, if you take a minute to listen, she's right. Secondly? If she heard you speak those words, and I'm not sure if she's watching this right now, you're going to have more serious problems than fixing the gears on your bike, kid. Sit back down." Stunned into silence, the young man seemed on the verge of speech but eventually thought better of it.
"Good." Justin's voice rose over the growing din of pens and papers, keyboards and buttons being pressed on so many recording devices.
"Like I said, I've worked with spoiled athletes. I can recognize them. She's not that. She's not entitled, she's not just acting out because she thinks no one can stop her. If she is, it's got nothing to do with sports. This is Rhy'Din, folks. We don't get humans here, not often. We get people who don't fit the norms. If this was New York City? Yeah, I'd call her a spoiled child. But it's not, and she's not." He paused to take another drink from the crumpled body.
"Put her on a leash? You clearly need to realize who you're talking to, man. She's break me in seconds. Sure, she's attractive. I like working for her because I like looking at her. She's any man's physical dream, I'll give you that. Seen her newest photo shoot?" His lips broadened as those who'd seen this show before seemed to relax. There was even a murmuring of laughter and a few wolf whistles.
"So yeah, I like to be around her because she comes into my office and she sits with me from time to time. You know what I'm looking at, most of the time?" Scorn lined his words as he spat them towards the back of the room.
"Her eyes. I stare at her eyes because she sits in a chair, far away from me, and curls up on it. She sits there and she sobs because my office is the only place you assholes don't have cameras in. Understand this, my friends, she's not spoiled. She's not been given anything with a silver spoon. You ask if she's going crazy? She had her girlfriend commit suicide, she's under pressure from every side to be nearly flawless on a day to day basis. She's got to keep this relentless pace up because you, this city, are addicted to it. You're addicted to her. You know what she'll tell me when she's sitting there? She'll turn and look at me, and it's hard to keep a stare with her in these moments, and she'll turn away. She's quick like that. You only get a few seconds of honesty, really. She'll tell me that she's not really that person. And you know what? I believe her."
Again, pens seemed to scribble with a ravenous hunger. An entire room and a set of television cameras stared, impatient and captivated.
"She acts the way that she does because, believe it or not, it's in the best interest of the fighting community here. She's not stupid, no. That's what I learned first. I thought she was, so I thought I could take advantage of that. I found out how wrong I was about thirty seconds into the first conversation I ever had with her. She layers honesty and perception in stupid words, sure, but it's there. She just doesn't feel obligated to explain herself. And why should she? No matter what she does, you're going to write about her, you're going to talk about her. And what's better for the sport than that? She's a talking piece, that's all. A figure head, that's what she's got to be. Need someone to blame? Need someone to hate? Need someone to talk sh*t about? Need someone to point the finger at? Need someone to be the bad guy so the ratings stay high? Need someone to fight a huge challenge against her best friend just to keep people interested? Yeah, sign her up. She does it because she's strong enough, personally, to handle the fallout of the storms she creates. So long as you guys keep talking, everyone wins. The image she's created only gets stronger. But...." He paused and held up a finger, stilling the start of a few questions.
"She still loses. The Melanie you all know wins, the Melanie a few of us know loses time and time again. She feeds you, so get right with the fact that it's her hand you're eating from. She's in charge here and that's what makes me stay with her. It's hard, my job. She makes it hard, she demands perfection. But in a weird sense, a way I can't really explain, I love the girl. I want her to be alright, I want her to come out in the end and win. I want her to be her, but she won't. She'll keep this up until it kills her. Look at her, it's not hard to see. She's confused, she's lost and she's not got the skills to deal with any of this, yet we all keep asking her to be more, do more, be better, be this. We put more on her shoulders. I'm to blame for this too, I guess. Let me ask you all some questions." He needed another bottle of water, his voice grew hoarse.
"Which one of you, before you crucify her, bothered to ever really get to know her? Which one of you ever even cared enough to look past her body and wonder what, if anything, lives within that armor she wears so often? Anyone?" Silence, only silence. "I didn't think so. I don't know her very well and I've worked with her for months. She's spoken to me at length about anything and everything but I don't have a damned clue as to what makes her be the way she is. All I know is this, all I know is why I'm infatuated with her and why I'm so curious. You're all curious too. I bet this is why, honestly."
As if setting himself up for some grand stroke of genius, he seemed to pause. His strength had to be gathered, his thoughts collected. Suddenly, however, his shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his close cropped hair. "Whatever comes her way, no matter who causes it, and it's often her, she'll take it on the chin and get right back up. That's my thoughts on her. There's no way to tell, but there's one thing we can count on. She'll keep getting up until she's dead."
"So, you really don't know where she is?" The question came, this time, from the front row. The man who asked was the man who'd seen her first, the man who'd caught her with a camera and spoken those short, candid words after the fallout of team Beat Down. He looked, and it was out of place, mildly concerned.
"No, I've got no idea. She left the Outback last night but she's not come home. If she's been in the gym, she's been hard to find. She's good at that, really. Like I said, she doesn't know how to handle this anymore. If she comes back to me, I'll let you know." Justin was speaking directly to the man who'd asked the question. The entire room knew it. "I'll let you know when and if I know." His words trailed off into a short, awkward silence.
"Look, she's not going to kill herself, I know that. I know her well enough to know that she'd never even dream of actually pulling a trigger. Does she want to? Yes. Do I blame her? Not really. Would I if I were ever in her shoes? I'd be drinking and taking sleeping pills. The girl's lived a nightmare life, she's told me about parts of it in passing. It makes me stay up at night, really. Some of the things she says? That's the second reason. She's so f*cked up, people, she's a mess. And yet somehow, always somehow, she manages to get right back up and start swinging again. It's endearing. Love her, hate her, there's no way you don't care. It's not possible. And...." His voice broke again, his head shook as he stood and started for the side doors.
"That's all I've got, take it for what it's worth. Catch a tiger by the tail, she'll turn on you. Keep that in mind. You're pushing something that's going to start swinging back sooner or later, you know. She's doing this because it's what's good for everyone, not for her. Ever seen a person martyr themselves? Ever seen someone sob and bawl behind closed doors, then go back and make a point of being the polarizing lightning rod no one can stop watching? Yeah, I bet she's hurting. It hurts me to watch her do it and you know what hurts more?" Weary and exhausted, the stricken man carried on shaking his head as he made his way through the doors and out of this hellish building. Seconds before passing, he turned and stared back across the quiet room once again.
"I don't know how to help her. I don't think anyone does."
The question was shouted a man who, strangely enough, seemed comfortable sitting at a long, low table in front of myriad cameras and a throng of hungry bottom feeders seeking only the newest story. Dressed in a sharp black suit, Justin shrugged and took a drink of the bottled water that rested at his side.
"I don't know, she doesn't report in to me. I'm her manager, not her babysitter." Only level tones came from the man who'd dealt with Melanie for longer than anyone else. Subdued, he seemed. There was no point in speaking for the baffling princess. He, of all people, knew this and knew it well.
"What about the explosion at her training facilities yesterday? You're going to tell me she's not involved?"
Again, Justin seemed to bore a hole into the walls behind the mass of men and women who waited on his, and vicariously, her every word or thought. A long sigh rolled past tense, pursed lips. "It's been cited as a building malfunction, we'll be talking to the contractors to see what might have caused such a tragic accident." He wasn't lying. He was speaking the only truth he knew. He didn't know a damn thing. He'd realized this early on and accepted the reality behind such a beguiling thought. The shadow spun nymph was always a step ahead of those who saw her as an ignorant, idiotic annoyance. He'd given up trying to understand precisely what she was doing. But was she involved? Did he want to know? "If she's involved, it'll show in the investigation. Ask yourself this, ladies and gentleman. Does anyone know what she's doing at any given time?"
There was barely stifled laughter as his words rushed across the listening ears. "Does she?"
The person who spoke such words wasn't easy to identify. Shouted from the back, the poorly worded question had risen from a particularly new knot of leaches. Justin's first answer came in the form of an arching brow and tightened shoulders.
"What precisely do you mean by that?" His words were still calm, he kept his composure.
"Does she even have a clue what she's doing at any given time? Maybe she's been beaten on a few too many times or maybe she's just spoiled. I like to call her insane, man. Look at her, Justin!"
The water bottle, half empty, spouted a dribble of water past the lips as his hand crushed the life from innocent plastic. "I've worked around high profile athletes for my entire career be it here or back at home, kid. I've also answered questions from a thousand idiots. You're finding yourself a spot on that list."
"What, I can't even ask a question? She's out of control, Justin! Aren't you supposed to keep her on a leash or something? Don't answer that, I bet you'd love to have her on a leash, am I right?" The poor man was still speaking ever as his friends and colleagues began to grow silent. Whether waiting for Justin's answer or simply realizing that the rookie had crossed lines, the room stilled and eventually grew silent.
"Stand up, let me see you." Justin's hand waved at the young man with scraggly brown hair, black rimmed glasses and a vest over slender pants. As he stood, he glanced around as if expecting some support. "I'd do yourself a favor and keep in mind who you're insulting, first and foremost. Why do I agree with her so much? Generally speaking, if you take a minute to listen, she's right. Secondly? If she heard you speak those words, and I'm not sure if she's watching this right now, you're going to have more serious problems than fixing the gears on your bike, kid. Sit back down." Stunned into silence, the young man seemed on the verge of speech but eventually thought better of it.
"Good." Justin's voice rose over the growing din of pens and papers, keyboards and buttons being pressed on so many recording devices.
"Like I said, I've worked with spoiled athletes. I can recognize them. She's not that. She's not entitled, she's not just acting out because she thinks no one can stop her. If she is, it's got nothing to do with sports. This is Rhy'Din, folks. We don't get humans here, not often. We get people who don't fit the norms. If this was New York City? Yeah, I'd call her a spoiled child. But it's not, and she's not." He paused to take another drink from the crumpled body.
"Put her on a leash? You clearly need to realize who you're talking to, man. She's break me in seconds. Sure, she's attractive. I like working for her because I like looking at her. She's any man's physical dream, I'll give you that. Seen her newest photo shoot?" His lips broadened as those who'd seen this show before seemed to relax. There was even a murmuring of laughter and a few wolf whistles.
"So yeah, I like to be around her because she comes into my office and she sits with me from time to time. You know what I'm looking at, most of the time?" Scorn lined his words as he spat them towards the back of the room.
"Her eyes. I stare at her eyes because she sits in a chair, far away from me, and curls up on it. She sits there and she sobs because my office is the only place you assholes don't have cameras in. Understand this, my friends, she's not spoiled. She's not been given anything with a silver spoon. You ask if she's going crazy? She had her girlfriend commit suicide, she's under pressure from every side to be nearly flawless on a day to day basis. She's got to keep this relentless pace up because you, this city, are addicted to it. You're addicted to her. You know what she'll tell me when she's sitting there? She'll turn and look at me, and it's hard to keep a stare with her in these moments, and she'll turn away. She's quick like that. You only get a few seconds of honesty, really. She'll tell me that she's not really that person. And you know what? I believe her."
Again, pens seemed to scribble with a ravenous hunger. An entire room and a set of television cameras stared, impatient and captivated.
"She acts the way that she does because, believe it or not, it's in the best interest of the fighting community here. She's not stupid, no. That's what I learned first. I thought she was, so I thought I could take advantage of that. I found out how wrong I was about thirty seconds into the first conversation I ever had with her. She layers honesty and perception in stupid words, sure, but it's there. She just doesn't feel obligated to explain herself. And why should she? No matter what she does, you're going to write about her, you're going to talk about her. And what's better for the sport than that? She's a talking piece, that's all. A figure head, that's what she's got to be. Need someone to blame? Need someone to hate? Need someone to talk sh*t about? Need someone to point the finger at? Need someone to be the bad guy so the ratings stay high? Need someone to fight a huge challenge against her best friend just to keep people interested? Yeah, sign her up. She does it because she's strong enough, personally, to handle the fallout of the storms she creates. So long as you guys keep talking, everyone wins. The image she's created only gets stronger. But...." He paused and held up a finger, stilling the start of a few questions.
"She still loses. The Melanie you all know wins, the Melanie a few of us know loses time and time again. She feeds you, so get right with the fact that it's her hand you're eating from. She's in charge here and that's what makes me stay with her. It's hard, my job. She makes it hard, she demands perfection. But in a weird sense, a way I can't really explain, I love the girl. I want her to be alright, I want her to come out in the end and win. I want her to be her, but she won't. She'll keep this up until it kills her. Look at her, it's not hard to see. She's confused, she's lost and she's not got the skills to deal with any of this, yet we all keep asking her to be more, do more, be better, be this. We put more on her shoulders. I'm to blame for this too, I guess. Let me ask you all some questions." He needed another bottle of water, his voice grew hoarse.
"Which one of you, before you crucify her, bothered to ever really get to know her? Which one of you ever even cared enough to look past her body and wonder what, if anything, lives within that armor she wears so often? Anyone?" Silence, only silence. "I didn't think so. I don't know her very well and I've worked with her for months. She's spoken to me at length about anything and everything but I don't have a damned clue as to what makes her be the way she is. All I know is this, all I know is why I'm infatuated with her and why I'm so curious. You're all curious too. I bet this is why, honestly."
As if setting himself up for some grand stroke of genius, he seemed to pause. His strength had to be gathered, his thoughts collected. Suddenly, however, his shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his close cropped hair. "Whatever comes her way, no matter who causes it, and it's often her, she'll take it on the chin and get right back up. That's my thoughts on her. There's no way to tell, but there's one thing we can count on. She'll keep getting up until she's dead."
"So, you really don't know where she is?" The question came, this time, from the front row. The man who asked was the man who'd seen her first, the man who'd caught her with a camera and spoken those short, candid words after the fallout of team Beat Down. He looked, and it was out of place, mildly concerned.
"No, I've got no idea. She left the Outback last night but she's not come home. If she's been in the gym, she's been hard to find. She's good at that, really. Like I said, she doesn't know how to handle this anymore. If she comes back to me, I'll let you know." Justin was speaking directly to the man who'd asked the question. The entire room knew it. "I'll let you know when and if I know." His words trailed off into a short, awkward silence.
"Look, she's not going to kill herself, I know that. I know her well enough to know that she'd never even dream of actually pulling a trigger. Does she want to? Yes. Do I blame her? Not really. Would I if I were ever in her shoes? I'd be drinking and taking sleeping pills. The girl's lived a nightmare life, she's told me about parts of it in passing. It makes me stay up at night, really. Some of the things she says? That's the second reason. She's so f*cked up, people, she's a mess. And yet somehow, always somehow, she manages to get right back up and start swinging again. It's endearing. Love her, hate her, there's no way you don't care. It's not possible. And...." His voice broke again, his head shook as he stood and started for the side doors.
"That's all I've got, take it for what it's worth. Catch a tiger by the tail, she'll turn on you. Keep that in mind. You're pushing something that's going to start swinging back sooner or later, you know. She's doing this because it's what's good for everyone, not for her. Ever seen a person martyr themselves? Ever seen someone sob and bawl behind closed doors, then go back and make a point of being the polarizing lightning rod no one can stop watching? Yeah, I bet she's hurting. It hurts me to watch her do it and you know what hurts more?" Weary and exhausted, the stricken man carried on shaking his head as he made his way through the doors and out of this hellish building. Seconds before passing, he turned and stared back across the quiet room once again.
"I don't know how to help her. I don't think anyone does."
-
Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
The ruptured spire of Melanie’s habitual gloom descended upon familiar, frightful places. Live a vengeful specter, the woman’s misconstrued, malignant grace haunted the guts of the city, West End. So many people called her beautiful, they saw her as some sort of rose with black petals. They glossed over the obvious thorns, the stares that spoke only in twisted, heinous tongues. Maybe that was why she enjoyed this place so much, this place of such ill repute? Perhaps.
She fit in here, sort of. The men and women still stared as she walked past, there would be no changing of that. Such a fluid form and perfection of bodily magnificence would not be ignored no matter where she went. She was the art work that’d driven a master insane, thrown him into rapture the very second the final, ill fated stroke rested along so tainted a canvas. Should she be a flower, the dark rose was an apt analogy, full of spines and enticing scents. The nightmare weaver, for she was ever fit to spin the things of dreams, exotic dreams, then shatter them with but a glance, kept to the sidewalks, another shadow in a world filled with the dark mist. The sun did not reach the dank, dreary depths of West End, almost as if the orb of Heliod intentionally turned a blind eye. Dirty deeds are best done in the dark, they say, where things go bump in the night. Still, not a soul approached Melanie during her rambling, pointless walks. Instead of fearing her beauty and seeing her as some forbidden fruit, the men and women who lurked along these dusty corridors saw the truth behind the peacock’s feathers. Each man and some women dreamed, caught in her idle wake, but none dared. Killers and cuthtroats, all of them, they recognized the Outback’s princess for what she truly was. They shrank back from the shark, unwilling to stir the bloody waters she prowled so well. No, not today. This was no easy mark coming to see the downtrodden, though she did bleed big city lights and a life of luxury. The Princess of the Outback? Maybe. These men weren’t followed by the siren’s song. They heard the screams beneath, they avoided dystopia’s shattered queen like the plague.
All but one man, a single urchin who sat on the corner of two pointless streets. This man, of all men, perhaps had the least to lose. As he sat in front of a case, he strummed aimlessly at an old, worn down guitar. “‘Eh, Melanie? Got some change, superstar?”
The raven feathered locks that rested so easily around ink clad shoulders turned quickly, a full whipping of Calypso’s beguiling stare. Eyes the color of the darkest sin, twin pools of faded inspiration and tattered pride, latched onto the man who’d spoken. Not angry, she seemed more amused that someone had used the gifted title she heard so often in the limelight, at posh parties thrown with the intent of some endorsement or another. Standing close, she folded both arms across her chest and peered down at the shaggy, bearded man who perched atop a packing crate. The man who stared so boldly up into an image Mafia king pins quelled under.
“You know, girl, I come to as many of your fights as I can, always have. ‘S somethin’ about you, child, that reminds me of somethin’.” He squinted up, booze ridden eyes rimmed in red, and waved an errant gesture towards the fickle paragon of ruination. “Ya been knocked down, girl, an’ you’re still standing. I’ve seen the photo shoots, you got a tiny body, small bones. I was a soldier once, yeah? I been hit, I seen you get hit harder, yet you’re standin’. How many of them take downs fracture bones, girly?” He cackled, a wild and manic sound. Assuming the man was insane, Melanie spared hi dire retribution, it was not often she was spoken to so boldly, and turned back to the street.
“Nah, Melanie, come on back here. I got somethin’ to say to you, provided you throw me some cash. Father knows you got ‘nough of it.” As Melanie turned, for whatever reason, she caught a glint of true intellect behind the man’s foggy eyes. Maybe that’s why she stayed. She’d seen the same look in her own during those rare moments she spent in front of a mirror. Closer this time, she leaned against the street corner directly to his side.
“Talk to me first, killer.” The smooth words, silk drawn across a sharp blade, seemed poorly suited to such a grimy, dirty abode as this.
“I’ve watched you change, girl. You’re thinner than before, eyes are wider. Think I don’t know what a person who ain’t eatin’ at all looks like? You’re losin’ yourself, maybe losin’ whatver battle you’re fightin’ in here.” A hand covered in a dirty cloth glove reached up and prodded his own chest. “All I’m sayin’ is I’ve seen you get back up, Melanie, but I’m seein’ through it more’n some others might ‘cause I’ve been where you’ve been in some ways. I ain’t never been rich, but I know what it’s like to be fightin’ a battle you just ain’t going to win, you know. I done that a time or two, sure’n I have.” A moment of humanity from the bottom dweller ended as he sighed and shook his head. “Look, girl, I got a song to sing for you, provided you’ll listen. Ain’t even gotta pay me, I think you need to hear it, truth be tol’. I been watchin’ you, so’s a lot of this city. We need you, in a sense, to keep gettin’ back up. So long as you can get back up, we think we can. To hell wit’ the boys that’re payin’ you, those ain’t the people you’re helpin’. You’re helpin’ here. You can fight your fight, in that ring an’ outside of it? So can we.”
The man’s voice, as he bent over the guitar and started to sing, was as husky and grungy as one could expect from such a man in such a place. Still, there was a captivating twist to the words he spun. Something, she wasn’t sure what, kept Melanie in place during the man’s song.
“I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away.
You're cutting lines out on a bible,
Too busy dying to stop and live.
You done gave up on survival,
You gave all that you can give.
And I sure wish you would come back home,
Nothing else for you to prove.
I know you try real hard to make your mark
But that world don't love you the way I do.
I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away
There just ain't no coming down
When there ain't no one around.
And your head still makes that sound,
And I watch it drive you crazy.
Your mama's saying prayers,
Pleading with the man upstairs.
You feel like no one cares,
And I watch it drive you crazy.
You run run run run hiding from the sun u un.
And I know you wanna turn around,
But there's nothing I can do.
I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away.
These demons behind their faces,
You know the lies they tell are true.
You paint yourself into a corner
And you chose the color blue.
And you look for inspiration
In the dark where the sickness lives.
And you're stumbling over your own two feet,
And you're headed for the edge of a cliff.
I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away.
I watch you stumble watch you fall,
And I just can't seem to help at all.
And I feel...feel like I'm wasting my time with you,
And I know the way you feel, been there myself.
And I just don't wanna see your plan
And I don't wanna see you go through hell.
I know it hurts, I know it stabs
And I know it makes you feel real bad.
Feel those things that are going on,
Inside your head and make your eyes
Bloody red and I sympathize.
Cuz I know the way you are,
And I know you won't get far.”
His voice, soaked by years of cheap chin and rot gut whiskey, was enough to keep Melanie standing right there. Something struck her as odd about this man. He wasn’t preening before her or vying for her fickle interest. She wasn’t a source of income to him, just another way to line pockets and sell tickets, tee shirts and posters. None of this made sense.
Caught between her own mind and reality, she stood, mouth agape like some fish, and found herself leaning against the dirty building wall. There was a sudden shake to her knees and tremor through her entire body. Oblivious to the effect of the song, the unknown mouth stilled and looked up, curious as to Melanie’s silence. “Didn’t like it, girl?”
For long moments, there was no air to create words. There was no inspiration to form sentences as her mind raced through the hazy labyrinth of walls and barriers she’d erected on that fateful day. New walls, walls the size of King Priam’s, walls akin to those proud Hector and Achilles had fought and died before. A thin stream started to run down the cliffs of her cheeks, a twin trail of glittering, glossy liquid poured from eyes that had lost a measure of ambiguous pall. No longer impassive, though shone with the light that’d been stolen so long ago, a young woman’s light, a naive, curious light. Sapped by years of constant war, drained by the demands placed upon her shoulders, the ceaseless need for perfection had robbed her not only of childhood but of anything close to a personal, private side. Vacant were the spaces in a woman’s heart that should have been filled with things like love and hope. Instead, those innocent hollows were filled with the bitter lies of a convoluted, arrogant people, the hate that stemmed from repeated untruths. They’d been stolen, the hints and traces of virtue that not even her people’s methodical mental and emotional torture had stamped out. A warped dichotomy, self fulfilling desires to be the most dangerous, most guarded wolf among a lethal pack, had become nothing more than a way for Melanie to defend the still aching scars and bleeding wounds that lined a soul so jaded and corrupt. The tears came unchecked, the first sign of naked, blatant honesty in long, long years. As both hands found her face, a hopeless, vain attempt to stem the overwhelming tide of emotions, Melanie turned her face from the musing Wit, for he must have been some angel, some avatar of a benign god seeking to draw the most vile of culprits back into the fold.
“Walls don’t come down…..in seconds, man.” Melanie’s accent had broken, it’d scattered the winds that threatened to consume a frail, fragile mind garbed in such toxic cloth. Thrown out between racking sobs, she murmured the words to nothing as she lost her eyes in the dingy, drab skies. “But I’ll try, I promise you that.”
“Tha’s all anyone’s ever needed from you, Melanie. Ain’t gotta be perfect, nah’ by a long shot. Jus’ gotta keep on walkin’. Hell’s a big place, trus’ me I know, but if you keep walkin’, maybe one day you’ll come out the other side. Lord knows if you walk, people’ll start followin’ but it’s gotta start wit’ you. Be the leader you can be, princess. Let someone in, let a few people start followin’ an you’ll have an army, girl. I can promise you dat.” His voice had lost some of the rugged nature it’d held before. He knew, somehow, that there was a turning point. Before, she’d stood a dying woman, something fading, soon to be lost. A diamond falling back into the bloody, ichor soaked fields. Pressure had created such a multifaceted, baffling diamond, those same fields had forged the heart of a true warrior, a true hero rarely seen and never understood. The moon had died the day she’d been born, the world had been thrown into darkness eternal. But from that darkness, he thought he, he of all people, could see the faintest glow. Far, far away, a gem rested, suspended by thin strands of pure gossamer. Balanced precariously, it yet wobbled like some foal barely able to stand on the feet it had just realized existed. Wounded, yes. Bleeding, yes. But standing still, standing alone and cast aside, close to the edges of the spiteful malaise that’d given it birth.
“Jus’ don’t give up the fight too soon, Melanie. I know you were meant to be somethin’ else, I can see it in ya. Let yourself be it, damn it!” The words, harsh words, were a command, pure and simple, a straight laced demand.
Melanie took one final look at the man who sat on the corner of two nameless streets. In silent response, he shook his head. “I’m best here, Melanie. Don’t you try an’ take me away from this life. I do my work, you’ll do yours. Jus’ know that the next time it’s too much an’ you start bleedin’, come an’ find me. I’ll sing you a song.” He’d stood as if to move away, but Melanie chased him down, quickly.
Havingly seemingly disregarded the fact that rain now poured from the sky, Melanie pressed a flawless body, clean and fresh, against the man’s haggard chest. Thin arms wrapped around the man’s broad shoulders. Confused, he paused for a moment, unsure of what to do until he felt the black haired siren’s head pressed against his chest. As his arms traced her shoulders, he felt the tension bleed out of the hard, tight walls of flesh and bone. Limp in the stranger’s arms, the rain mingled with her own tears, a mute testament. Within seconds, she pulled away and drew herself back to form, a defiant, challenging pose that held mesmerizing hints of Bachian beauty, hedonistic promises. Gone in a flash, the moment of weakness was swallowed as thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. “Yeah, I’ll find you, champ. And…” As she started across the street, she turned over a shoulder and murmured a word, just one. “thanks.” With both hands in her pockets, she faded into the driving rain, head held high.
The nameless man stared after her, stricken between his own private emotion, a smug pride, and the feeling she left so many with, the one that’d drawn them all in to start. How, he thought, how the hell, does one rise, time and time again, like some dark winged phoenix. How many more times, he asked himself, would she stand, chasing the light she was never destined to touch? As his head shook and water ran through a filthy beard and onto a set of tattered clothing, he turned in the opposite direction. A single, lingering glance found Melanie’s hazy, blurred form for a final second. The man sighed, thinking to himself. ‘This is how it should be, the image.’ She walked alone, ever alone, and against an insurmountable tide. The fight she’d lose, the only one, was the penultimate destiny she walked towards so willingly. “All’s right in the world, Sa’ha.” As he pressed his fingers to his arm, a motion designed to scratch an itch, a solitary flash of lightning revealed, through a hole in his jacket, a dark red tattoo. A twin tusked skull set against olive skin, the perfect match to Melanie’s own ghastly marking. “Unity, Na’hakotten, in unity we find strength.” Joined again for moments, the pair parted in seconds.
((Song credit goes to the band Rehab, song title "Can't Catch Up to You."))
She fit in here, sort of. The men and women still stared as she walked past, there would be no changing of that. Such a fluid form and perfection of bodily magnificence would not be ignored no matter where she went. She was the art work that’d driven a master insane, thrown him into rapture the very second the final, ill fated stroke rested along so tainted a canvas. Should she be a flower, the dark rose was an apt analogy, full of spines and enticing scents. The nightmare weaver, for she was ever fit to spin the things of dreams, exotic dreams, then shatter them with but a glance, kept to the sidewalks, another shadow in a world filled with the dark mist. The sun did not reach the dank, dreary depths of West End, almost as if the orb of Heliod intentionally turned a blind eye. Dirty deeds are best done in the dark, they say, where things go bump in the night. Still, not a soul approached Melanie during her rambling, pointless walks. Instead of fearing her beauty and seeing her as some forbidden fruit, the men and women who lurked along these dusty corridors saw the truth behind the peacock’s feathers. Each man and some women dreamed, caught in her idle wake, but none dared. Killers and cuthtroats, all of them, they recognized the Outback’s princess for what she truly was. They shrank back from the shark, unwilling to stir the bloody waters she prowled so well. No, not today. This was no easy mark coming to see the downtrodden, though she did bleed big city lights and a life of luxury. The Princess of the Outback? Maybe. These men weren’t followed by the siren’s song. They heard the screams beneath, they avoided dystopia’s shattered queen like the plague.
All but one man, a single urchin who sat on the corner of two pointless streets. This man, of all men, perhaps had the least to lose. As he sat in front of a case, he strummed aimlessly at an old, worn down guitar. “‘Eh, Melanie? Got some change, superstar?”
The raven feathered locks that rested so easily around ink clad shoulders turned quickly, a full whipping of Calypso’s beguiling stare. Eyes the color of the darkest sin, twin pools of faded inspiration and tattered pride, latched onto the man who’d spoken. Not angry, she seemed more amused that someone had used the gifted title she heard so often in the limelight, at posh parties thrown with the intent of some endorsement or another. Standing close, she folded both arms across her chest and peered down at the shaggy, bearded man who perched atop a packing crate. The man who stared so boldly up into an image Mafia king pins quelled under.
“You know, girl, I come to as many of your fights as I can, always have. ‘S somethin’ about you, child, that reminds me of somethin’.” He squinted up, booze ridden eyes rimmed in red, and waved an errant gesture towards the fickle paragon of ruination. “Ya been knocked down, girl, an’ you’re still standing. I’ve seen the photo shoots, you got a tiny body, small bones. I was a soldier once, yeah? I been hit, I seen you get hit harder, yet you’re standin’. How many of them take downs fracture bones, girly?” He cackled, a wild and manic sound. Assuming the man was insane, Melanie spared hi dire retribution, it was not often she was spoken to so boldly, and turned back to the street.
“Nah, Melanie, come on back here. I got somethin’ to say to you, provided you throw me some cash. Father knows you got ‘nough of it.” As Melanie turned, for whatever reason, she caught a glint of true intellect behind the man’s foggy eyes. Maybe that’s why she stayed. She’d seen the same look in her own during those rare moments she spent in front of a mirror. Closer this time, she leaned against the street corner directly to his side.
“Talk to me first, killer.” The smooth words, silk drawn across a sharp blade, seemed poorly suited to such a grimy, dirty abode as this.
“I’ve watched you change, girl. You’re thinner than before, eyes are wider. Think I don’t know what a person who ain’t eatin’ at all looks like? You’re losin’ yourself, maybe losin’ whatver battle you’re fightin’ in here.” A hand covered in a dirty cloth glove reached up and prodded his own chest. “All I’m sayin’ is I’ve seen you get back up, Melanie, but I’m seein’ through it more’n some others might ‘cause I’ve been where you’ve been in some ways. I ain’t never been rich, but I know what it’s like to be fightin’ a battle you just ain’t going to win, you know. I done that a time or two, sure’n I have.” A moment of humanity from the bottom dweller ended as he sighed and shook his head. “Look, girl, I got a song to sing for you, provided you’ll listen. Ain’t even gotta pay me, I think you need to hear it, truth be tol’. I been watchin’ you, so’s a lot of this city. We need you, in a sense, to keep gettin’ back up. So long as you can get back up, we think we can. To hell wit’ the boys that’re payin’ you, those ain’t the people you’re helpin’. You’re helpin’ here. You can fight your fight, in that ring an’ outside of it? So can we.”
The man’s voice, as he bent over the guitar and started to sing, was as husky and grungy as one could expect from such a man in such a place. Still, there was a captivating twist to the words he spun. Something, she wasn’t sure what, kept Melanie in place during the man’s song.
“I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away.
You're cutting lines out on a bible,
Too busy dying to stop and live.
You done gave up on survival,
You gave all that you can give.
And I sure wish you would come back home,
Nothing else for you to prove.
I know you try real hard to make your mark
But that world don't love you the way I do.
I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away
There just ain't no coming down
When there ain't no one around.
And your head still makes that sound,
And I watch it drive you crazy.
Your mama's saying prayers,
Pleading with the man upstairs.
You feel like no one cares,
And I watch it drive you crazy.
You run run run run hiding from the sun u un.
And I know you wanna turn around,
But there's nothing I can do.
I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away.
These demons behind their faces,
You know the lies they tell are true.
You paint yourself into a corner
And you chose the color blue.
And you look for inspiration
In the dark where the sickness lives.
And you're stumbling over your own two feet,
And you're headed for the edge of a cliff.
I can't catch up to you,
You're already gone too far.
And you don't remember
Who you are or who I am.
I can't catch up with you,
You're way up ahead of me.
And you're getting harder see
Everyday as you run away.
I watch you stumble watch you fall,
And I just can't seem to help at all.
And I feel...feel like I'm wasting my time with you,
And I know the way you feel, been there myself.
And I just don't wanna see your plan
And I don't wanna see you go through hell.
I know it hurts, I know it stabs
And I know it makes you feel real bad.
Feel those things that are going on,
Inside your head and make your eyes
Bloody red and I sympathize.
Cuz I know the way you are,
And I know you won't get far.”
His voice, soaked by years of cheap chin and rot gut whiskey, was enough to keep Melanie standing right there. Something struck her as odd about this man. He wasn’t preening before her or vying for her fickle interest. She wasn’t a source of income to him, just another way to line pockets and sell tickets, tee shirts and posters. None of this made sense.
Caught between her own mind and reality, she stood, mouth agape like some fish, and found herself leaning against the dirty building wall. There was a sudden shake to her knees and tremor through her entire body. Oblivious to the effect of the song, the unknown mouth stilled and looked up, curious as to Melanie’s silence. “Didn’t like it, girl?”
For long moments, there was no air to create words. There was no inspiration to form sentences as her mind raced through the hazy labyrinth of walls and barriers she’d erected on that fateful day. New walls, walls the size of King Priam’s, walls akin to those proud Hector and Achilles had fought and died before. A thin stream started to run down the cliffs of her cheeks, a twin trail of glittering, glossy liquid poured from eyes that had lost a measure of ambiguous pall. No longer impassive, though shone with the light that’d been stolen so long ago, a young woman’s light, a naive, curious light. Sapped by years of constant war, drained by the demands placed upon her shoulders, the ceaseless need for perfection had robbed her not only of childhood but of anything close to a personal, private side. Vacant were the spaces in a woman’s heart that should have been filled with things like love and hope. Instead, those innocent hollows were filled with the bitter lies of a convoluted, arrogant people, the hate that stemmed from repeated untruths. They’d been stolen, the hints and traces of virtue that not even her people’s methodical mental and emotional torture had stamped out. A warped dichotomy, self fulfilling desires to be the most dangerous, most guarded wolf among a lethal pack, had become nothing more than a way for Melanie to defend the still aching scars and bleeding wounds that lined a soul so jaded and corrupt. The tears came unchecked, the first sign of naked, blatant honesty in long, long years. As both hands found her face, a hopeless, vain attempt to stem the overwhelming tide of emotions, Melanie turned her face from the musing Wit, for he must have been some angel, some avatar of a benign god seeking to draw the most vile of culprits back into the fold.
“Walls don’t come down…..in seconds, man.” Melanie’s accent had broken, it’d scattered the winds that threatened to consume a frail, fragile mind garbed in such toxic cloth. Thrown out between racking sobs, she murmured the words to nothing as she lost her eyes in the dingy, drab skies. “But I’ll try, I promise you that.”
“Tha’s all anyone’s ever needed from you, Melanie. Ain’t gotta be perfect, nah’ by a long shot. Jus’ gotta keep on walkin’. Hell’s a big place, trus’ me I know, but if you keep walkin’, maybe one day you’ll come out the other side. Lord knows if you walk, people’ll start followin’ but it’s gotta start wit’ you. Be the leader you can be, princess. Let someone in, let a few people start followin’ an you’ll have an army, girl. I can promise you dat.” His voice had lost some of the rugged nature it’d held before. He knew, somehow, that there was a turning point. Before, she’d stood a dying woman, something fading, soon to be lost. A diamond falling back into the bloody, ichor soaked fields. Pressure had created such a multifaceted, baffling diamond, those same fields had forged the heart of a true warrior, a true hero rarely seen and never understood. The moon had died the day she’d been born, the world had been thrown into darkness eternal. But from that darkness, he thought he, he of all people, could see the faintest glow. Far, far away, a gem rested, suspended by thin strands of pure gossamer. Balanced precariously, it yet wobbled like some foal barely able to stand on the feet it had just realized existed. Wounded, yes. Bleeding, yes. But standing still, standing alone and cast aside, close to the edges of the spiteful malaise that’d given it birth.
“Jus’ don’t give up the fight too soon, Melanie. I know you were meant to be somethin’ else, I can see it in ya. Let yourself be it, damn it!” The words, harsh words, were a command, pure and simple, a straight laced demand.
Melanie took one final look at the man who sat on the corner of two nameless streets. In silent response, he shook his head. “I’m best here, Melanie. Don’t you try an’ take me away from this life. I do my work, you’ll do yours. Jus’ know that the next time it’s too much an’ you start bleedin’, come an’ find me. I’ll sing you a song.” He’d stood as if to move away, but Melanie chased him down, quickly.
Havingly seemingly disregarded the fact that rain now poured from the sky, Melanie pressed a flawless body, clean and fresh, against the man’s haggard chest. Thin arms wrapped around the man’s broad shoulders. Confused, he paused for a moment, unsure of what to do until he felt the black haired siren’s head pressed against his chest. As his arms traced her shoulders, he felt the tension bleed out of the hard, tight walls of flesh and bone. Limp in the stranger’s arms, the rain mingled with her own tears, a mute testament. Within seconds, she pulled away and drew herself back to form, a defiant, challenging pose that held mesmerizing hints of Bachian beauty, hedonistic promises. Gone in a flash, the moment of weakness was swallowed as thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. “Yeah, I’ll find you, champ. And…” As she started across the street, she turned over a shoulder and murmured a word, just one. “thanks.” With both hands in her pockets, she faded into the driving rain, head held high.
The nameless man stared after her, stricken between his own private emotion, a smug pride, and the feeling she left so many with, the one that’d drawn them all in to start. How, he thought, how the hell, does one rise, time and time again, like some dark winged phoenix. How many more times, he asked himself, would she stand, chasing the light she was never destined to touch? As his head shook and water ran through a filthy beard and onto a set of tattered clothing, he turned in the opposite direction. A single, lingering glance found Melanie’s hazy, blurred form for a final second. The man sighed, thinking to himself. ‘This is how it should be, the image.’ She walked alone, ever alone, and against an insurmountable tide. The fight she’d lose, the only one, was the penultimate destiny she walked towards so willingly. “All’s right in the world, Sa’ha.” As he pressed his fingers to his arm, a motion designed to scratch an itch, a solitary flash of lightning revealed, through a hole in his jacket, a dark red tattoo. A twin tusked skull set against olive skin, the perfect match to Melanie’s own ghastly marking. “Unity, Na’hakotten, in unity we find strength.” Joined again for moments, the pair parted in seconds.
((Song credit goes to the band Rehab, song title "Can't Catch Up to You."))
-
Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
There was little Melanie could do to keep the cameras away for very long. They flocked to her every word and drained her every thought. Ratings couldn't be higher, not after she'd returned to a secondary profession that opened her to an altogether new base of 'fans'. That, at least, she'd learned from Clarice. She could almost hear the blonde telling her to market everything she could, sell her image to any buyer so long as she kept enough to give back.
There was but a single camera this time, a familiar thing that'd been manipulated by a familiar face. Black tape was starting to make a monochromatic canvas of her hands. Comfortable in the locker room, she reclined against the wall, seated on the floor. "You know why I let you come in here?"
She'd not bothered to speak for the last ten minutes the man had been filming. The unprovoked words were a shock to the young reporter, thus his rapid blinks. "No, not really."
"You focus the camera on my face, not my bra." Her words, mused in a bewitching voice, was as serious as anything she'd ever said. "I'd have killed you for that, by the way."
"I know, Melanie. I know. We're not going to let that air, but I've got a question, if you've got time. Just one." The man behind glasses lifted one finger, just one.
"Ask it, champ." Long limbs and burnished skin twisted with all the exotic, untouchable beauty of the sun's rising, though dark hair eclipsed Apollo's face with Circe's wings, black hair.
"You're living a dream, most people say. At least it looks that way. Wasn't it a hard transition?" He knew the question was an abstract one, but this was why he was so well suited to chase the starlet's murky words. It'd been posed in a manner that left worlds open to her caustic tongue.
"A dream?" There was, of course, a mini bar in the locker room. Posh and beautiful, she lived a lavish lifestyle that she never seemed to recognize. So many layers of deception. With a glass half full of tequila, she lounged against the counter and shrugged. "If it's a dream, it's a lucid one, man. I never thought I'd be here, so I guess I'm living the dream as I'm having it?" Smoke filled words floated up towards ebon hued eyes, dark and glowing with a black luster. "I don't know how to answer that, really. This isn't my dream, it's someone else's."
"Who's it for, then?" As soon as he spoke, he knew he'd placed a foot poorly. Teasingly, Melanie dipped two fingers into the glass of tequila and flicked the stray drops towards her muse.
"Just one, that's what you said." The motions were a dancer's, the dangerous grace that'd lulled so many into a sleep studded with nightmares as bright as stars in a dark sky. With no shame, she stepped out of the faded, ripped jeans and wriggled her hips into a pair of shorts. Her hair, when tied back, was pulled away from her shoulders as she unhooked an expanse of black lace, only to replace the lingerie with a sports bra.
"You can air that, if you want." A shark's smile, something that smelled so much blood, was thrown in the man's face as she fluttered fingers, a parting wave before she chased her own shadow into the gym she called home.
There was but a single camera this time, a familiar thing that'd been manipulated by a familiar face. Black tape was starting to make a monochromatic canvas of her hands. Comfortable in the locker room, she reclined against the wall, seated on the floor. "You know why I let you come in here?"
She'd not bothered to speak for the last ten minutes the man had been filming. The unprovoked words were a shock to the young reporter, thus his rapid blinks. "No, not really."
"You focus the camera on my face, not my bra." Her words, mused in a bewitching voice, was as serious as anything she'd ever said. "I'd have killed you for that, by the way."
"I know, Melanie. I know. We're not going to let that air, but I've got a question, if you've got time. Just one." The man behind glasses lifted one finger, just one.
"Ask it, champ." Long limbs and burnished skin twisted with all the exotic, untouchable beauty of the sun's rising, though dark hair eclipsed Apollo's face with Circe's wings, black hair.
"You're living a dream, most people say. At least it looks that way. Wasn't it a hard transition?" He knew the question was an abstract one, but this was why he was so well suited to chase the starlet's murky words. It'd been posed in a manner that left worlds open to her caustic tongue.
"A dream?" There was, of course, a mini bar in the locker room. Posh and beautiful, she lived a lavish lifestyle that she never seemed to recognize. So many layers of deception. With a glass half full of tequila, she lounged against the counter and shrugged. "If it's a dream, it's a lucid one, man. I never thought I'd be here, so I guess I'm living the dream as I'm having it?" Smoke filled words floated up towards ebon hued eyes, dark and glowing with a black luster. "I don't know how to answer that, really. This isn't my dream, it's someone else's."
"Who's it for, then?" As soon as he spoke, he knew he'd placed a foot poorly. Teasingly, Melanie dipped two fingers into the glass of tequila and flicked the stray drops towards her muse.
"Just one, that's what you said." The motions were a dancer's, the dangerous grace that'd lulled so many into a sleep studded with nightmares as bright as stars in a dark sky. With no shame, she stepped out of the faded, ripped jeans and wriggled her hips into a pair of shorts. Her hair, when tied back, was pulled away from her shoulders as she unhooked an expanse of black lace, only to replace the lingerie with a sports bra.
"You can air that, if you want." A shark's smile, something that smelled so much blood, was thrown in the man's face as she fluttered fingers, a parting wave before she chased her own shadow into the gym she called home.
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
"You know what else you can air?" Melanie's presence was ubiquitous within seconds. For such a slight and slender frame, her charisma was a weapon she wielded more effectively than she'd ever used her fists. It was an aura, a living thing that pulsed and radiated from the sultry siren's very being.
Alex, the man who'd become a chronicler of sorts, the single media member allowed into the darkened vaults of the wounded killer's personal life, glanced up from behind the black rims of his glasses. He'd been sitting in her locker room after their last meeting, hoping against hope that she'd come back soon enough. "Uh, I actually had a question for you, Melanie..." Nervous and shy, his eyes fell quickly. It wasn't that he'd never dealt with high profile people before, politicians and athletes, business and career attitudes. He'd jut never quite figured out how to handle the looming shadow of the exotic fighter's bewitching form, he'd never learned to understand the eclipses that threw such radiant glory into such twisted shadow. His mouth, wide open with unspoken words, stilled as he saw her feet come closer. Too close. The poor man was seated on a bench with his back against the wall. A computer set on his bag rested between his feet, then suddenly it rested between hers. The screen had been playing the brief interview from before on a constant loop. His mind had been, moments ago, vainly searching for a way to edit the images that needed no touch. A blanket of darkness, however, fell across the computer's screen.
"Wha-..." It didn't take long for him to realize that she'd dropped the flimsy tank top she habitually fought in over the glowing screen. Over her own face. As his eyes panned up, they were met with the smooth, sensual lines of hips attached to long legs, they panned across the perfection of a core rigid with lean muscle yet still far, far too enticing for anyone's good. Too close, his mind screamed. And yet his body denied the sanity his mind demanded. One hand, almost against his will, reached across and trailed along the killer's arched hip, fingertips drinking in the smooth, supple play of form and function. Like a dancing cobra, she descended to her knees, one around each of his thighs. Effectively straddling the poor man, she pressed her bare chest to the flannel of his shirt. He could smell her, the subtle twist of hair too long and thick, the tempting, natural scent of rampant desire. Her lips, the teasing swells forever set into a perpetual pout, traced a slow line across the protruding, prominent ridge of the young man's jaw before she, with parted lips, pressed them against his own. So much of her was a hammer's blow to the mind, this was no different. Demanding and almost needy, she draped herself around him and levered the entirety of her honeyed poison along the pour man's mouth. Acting on instinct, Alex reached an arm around tattooed shoulders, seeking to gain purchase and draw her closer, further and deeper.
Too far. The second she felt fingers on her back, she pulled her head away and shook it slightly. The raven's wings that adorned such a glorious visage, feathers for some dark peacock, shifted as she drew away, quickly and fluidly. Back on her feet, she stared down at him, almost waiting for something. The moment the man's mouth opened to stammer some apology, she lowered her hand, fingers wide and palm open, to rest on his chin. As she tipped his face up, more towards her, Alex couldn't get the exotic, potent flavor off of his mind. Too much, too quickly. A single finger pressed itself onto his lips, bisecting them and holding them closed. The pose lingered for moments before, with no explanation, Melanie turned and started towards the showers.
With his breath caught in his throat, Alex could only watch the involuntary switch of Melanie's hips as she fled the scene of her crime, leaving only a trail of clothing in her wake. Thrown to the floor with callous disregard, she faded behind the glass walls of her shower, a private shower. Said glass quickly became smoked, tainted with the steam that bled from heated water. The man was close enough, he provided an outlet. For some reason, the walls didn't close in, they didn't seek to collapse around her like everything else did. Control. She could control this situation with an iron fist. Her form, hazy and outlined through the dirty glass, became Alex's fixation, the focal point of his slow descent into addiction.
"You had a question, Alex?" Melanie's words and voice seemed to fit the slow curl of steam that reached out over the pearlescent walls, her castle of glass. Drawled and purred, blurred by her lips and twisted through her accent, she spoke ambiguous promises, bed room whispers best moaned to dark walls.
"What?" The poor youth barely into his twenties was still trying to wrap his mind around the fleeting embrace and the sumptuous, opulent show that seemed to dance before his very eyes. "Oh, yeah I did." Silently, he blessed the fact that she didn't seem to be looking at him, she might miss the confusion on his face. Something in his mind screamed that this was a predator unlike any he'd seen, a shark who bathed in water painted red. Sadly, his body understood another fact, something he couldn't ignore. Like a spiked drink, her body's allure was a silent, stalking intoxicant, a lighthouse that lead to jagged rocks and a steep, long fall. "I wanted to know how you wanted me to edit this, what we shot. I think it looks fine as it is, I don't think you really need any editing, but I guess I wanted your approval...."
He stopped short as he heard the glass door's sliding across the runners that bound them to the floor. The image, he thought, reminded him of a door opening to paradise, a forbidden fruit hung high on the gallows rungs. The way her hair struck to her shoulders, long and slick with the water, seemed to frame the cloying, demure lines of a coy face graced with a viper's flat eyes. His own crawled across the expanse offered, it tracked each bead of water as it dribbled down her chest only to pool near her feet. Both arms reached up as Melanie collected her hair and dragged it from her face, a motion that only brought the elongated curves into harsh, glossy detail. "Don't you think I'm pretty as I am?"
Alex's jaw fell as he absently realized that the steam spewing collection of imperfections had reached a hand in his direction, fingers curled and pointed back at the shadow spun canvas of an insane artist's masterpiece. "I don't like to shower alone, Alex."
He knew he was dancing with the devil, but somehow, the man's feet took up the tune and began the short steps down a long flight of slippery, slick stairs. "Justin was looking for you..." The last words were murmured before the door slammed shut, aided by willing hands.
Alex, the man who'd become a chronicler of sorts, the single media member allowed into the darkened vaults of the wounded killer's personal life, glanced up from behind the black rims of his glasses. He'd been sitting in her locker room after their last meeting, hoping against hope that she'd come back soon enough. "Uh, I actually had a question for you, Melanie..." Nervous and shy, his eyes fell quickly. It wasn't that he'd never dealt with high profile people before, politicians and athletes, business and career attitudes. He'd jut never quite figured out how to handle the looming shadow of the exotic fighter's bewitching form, he'd never learned to understand the eclipses that threw such radiant glory into such twisted shadow. His mouth, wide open with unspoken words, stilled as he saw her feet come closer. Too close. The poor man was seated on a bench with his back against the wall. A computer set on his bag rested between his feet, then suddenly it rested between hers. The screen had been playing the brief interview from before on a constant loop. His mind had been, moments ago, vainly searching for a way to edit the images that needed no touch. A blanket of darkness, however, fell across the computer's screen.
"Wha-..." It didn't take long for him to realize that she'd dropped the flimsy tank top she habitually fought in over the glowing screen. Over her own face. As his eyes panned up, they were met with the smooth, sensual lines of hips attached to long legs, they panned across the perfection of a core rigid with lean muscle yet still far, far too enticing for anyone's good. Too close, his mind screamed. And yet his body denied the sanity his mind demanded. One hand, almost against his will, reached across and trailed along the killer's arched hip, fingertips drinking in the smooth, supple play of form and function. Like a dancing cobra, she descended to her knees, one around each of his thighs. Effectively straddling the poor man, she pressed her bare chest to the flannel of his shirt. He could smell her, the subtle twist of hair too long and thick, the tempting, natural scent of rampant desire. Her lips, the teasing swells forever set into a perpetual pout, traced a slow line across the protruding, prominent ridge of the young man's jaw before she, with parted lips, pressed them against his own. So much of her was a hammer's blow to the mind, this was no different. Demanding and almost needy, she draped herself around him and levered the entirety of her honeyed poison along the pour man's mouth. Acting on instinct, Alex reached an arm around tattooed shoulders, seeking to gain purchase and draw her closer, further and deeper.
Too far. The second she felt fingers on her back, she pulled her head away and shook it slightly. The raven's wings that adorned such a glorious visage, feathers for some dark peacock, shifted as she drew away, quickly and fluidly. Back on her feet, she stared down at him, almost waiting for something. The moment the man's mouth opened to stammer some apology, she lowered her hand, fingers wide and palm open, to rest on his chin. As she tipped his face up, more towards her, Alex couldn't get the exotic, potent flavor off of his mind. Too much, too quickly. A single finger pressed itself onto his lips, bisecting them and holding them closed. The pose lingered for moments before, with no explanation, Melanie turned and started towards the showers.
With his breath caught in his throat, Alex could only watch the involuntary switch of Melanie's hips as she fled the scene of her crime, leaving only a trail of clothing in her wake. Thrown to the floor with callous disregard, she faded behind the glass walls of her shower, a private shower. Said glass quickly became smoked, tainted with the steam that bled from heated water. The man was close enough, he provided an outlet. For some reason, the walls didn't close in, they didn't seek to collapse around her like everything else did. Control. She could control this situation with an iron fist. Her form, hazy and outlined through the dirty glass, became Alex's fixation, the focal point of his slow descent into addiction.
"You had a question, Alex?" Melanie's words and voice seemed to fit the slow curl of steam that reached out over the pearlescent walls, her castle of glass. Drawled and purred, blurred by her lips and twisted through her accent, she spoke ambiguous promises, bed room whispers best moaned to dark walls.
"What?" The poor youth barely into his twenties was still trying to wrap his mind around the fleeting embrace and the sumptuous, opulent show that seemed to dance before his very eyes. "Oh, yeah I did." Silently, he blessed the fact that she didn't seem to be looking at him, she might miss the confusion on his face. Something in his mind screamed that this was a predator unlike any he'd seen, a shark who bathed in water painted red. Sadly, his body understood another fact, something he couldn't ignore. Like a spiked drink, her body's allure was a silent, stalking intoxicant, a lighthouse that lead to jagged rocks and a steep, long fall. "I wanted to know how you wanted me to edit this, what we shot. I think it looks fine as it is, I don't think you really need any editing, but I guess I wanted your approval...."
He stopped short as he heard the glass door's sliding across the runners that bound them to the floor. The image, he thought, reminded him of a door opening to paradise, a forbidden fruit hung high on the gallows rungs. The way her hair struck to her shoulders, long and slick with the water, seemed to frame the cloying, demure lines of a coy face graced with a viper's flat eyes. His own crawled across the expanse offered, it tracked each bead of water as it dribbled down her chest only to pool near her feet. Both arms reached up as Melanie collected her hair and dragged it from her face, a motion that only brought the elongated curves into harsh, glossy detail. "Don't you think I'm pretty as I am?"
Alex's jaw fell as he absently realized that the steam spewing collection of imperfections had reached a hand in his direction, fingers curled and pointed back at the shadow spun canvas of an insane artist's masterpiece. "I don't like to shower alone, Alex."
He knew he was dancing with the devil, but somehow, the man's feet took up the tune and began the short steps down a long flight of slippery, slick stairs. "Justin was looking for you..." The last words were murmured before the door slammed shut, aided by willing hands.
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
"Alex...." Melanie's words were spun in a song like fashion, lyrics drenched with an age old temptation that'd long since been the most proven weapon in a deadly arsenal.
She flowed up the steps in a manner that was, although surely bewitching, also an incredibly obvious statement to the man who'd turned in her direction. So many people in this town called themselves soldiers or fighters, so many claimed experience in a war. From the way Melanie pied the angle of the staircase with a natural ease to the manner in which her shoulder was held level, the left handed one, the man realized a striking fact. She'd been trained for this. The motions were a symposium on urban warfare, the manner in which one purposefully finds another and ends his life. Controlled chaos, synchronized insanity.
"Yeah?" The poor man, just a kid in college a few short weeks ago, still didn't understand how to handle the manipulative, devious maven that so gloriously wrapped herself around the back of his chair. With her chin on his shoulder, she leaned against him and pressed both hands into his thighs.
"I need you to do me a favor, Alex." The words were purred, mere puffs of breath spread across the day's worth of Alex's stubble. Aware of her potent presence, she brushed her lips along the anchoring line of his jawbone and let more of her slender, frail weight rest on the man's shoulders. "Can you do something, boss, for me?"
"Uh, yeah....what's up?" Lame, the man's response. Pathetic in the face of Aphrodite, a siren with black wings spread across the sun.
"That." One of her hands slipped and slid along Alex's thigh until the tips of her fingers pressed along taut cloth below the man's belt buckle. "But really, this. You're good at computers, so I need you to, you know, hack some stuff for me, yeah? I need to find someone."
Taken aback by the strange request, Alex choked down a hard swallow and glanced down at her hands, one of which was currently unbuckling said belt with deft, easy motions. Whatever reservations he'd had about the vigilante's criminal intentions washed away as the deceptively smooth fingers found warm flesh.
"Yes....f*ck yes, Melanie..." His mind was already swimming along the twisted, murky riptides that followed her every motion. Out of reflex, his head tipped back the very second Melanie found the target of her pointed reach. "Yeah, I'll do it, just don't...nnnnn, don't stop..."
Her lips found his, a tequila fueled brush with a shark's lazy smile. "I need to find a rapist, Alex. And you're going to help me." The words died as she faded into a toxic kiss, a trail of her lips that followed her motions to the front of the poor man, the front and down.
She flowed up the steps in a manner that was, although surely bewitching, also an incredibly obvious statement to the man who'd turned in her direction. So many people in this town called themselves soldiers or fighters, so many claimed experience in a war. From the way Melanie pied the angle of the staircase with a natural ease to the manner in which her shoulder was held level, the left handed one, the man realized a striking fact. She'd been trained for this. The motions were a symposium on urban warfare, the manner in which one purposefully finds another and ends his life. Controlled chaos, synchronized insanity.
"Yeah?" The poor man, just a kid in college a few short weeks ago, still didn't understand how to handle the manipulative, devious maven that so gloriously wrapped herself around the back of his chair. With her chin on his shoulder, she leaned against him and pressed both hands into his thighs.
"I need you to do me a favor, Alex." The words were purred, mere puffs of breath spread across the day's worth of Alex's stubble. Aware of her potent presence, she brushed her lips along the anchoring line of his jawbone and let more of her slender, frail weight rest on the man's shoulders. "Can you do something, boss, for me?"
"Uh, yeah....what's up?" Lame, the man's response. Pathetic in the face of Aphrodite, a siren with black wings spread across the sun.
"That." One of her hands slipped and slid along Alex's thigh until the tips of her fingers pressed along taut cloth below the man's belt buckle. "But really, this. You're good at computers, so I need you to, you know, hack some stuff for me, yeah? I need to find someone."
Taken aback by the strange request, Alex choked down a hard swallow and glanced down at her hands, one of which was currently unbuckling said belt with deft, easy motions. Whatever reservations he'd had about the vigilante's criminal intentions washed away as the deceptively smooth fingers found warm flesh.
"Yes....f*ck yes, Melanie..." His mind was already swimming along the twisted, murky riptides that followed her every motion. Out of reflex, his head tipped back the very second Melanie found the target of her pointed reach. "Yeah, I'll do it, just don't...nnnnn, don't stop..."
Her lips found his, a tequila fueled brush with a shark's lazy smile. "I need to find a rapist, Alex. And you're going to help me." The words died as she faded into a toxic kiss, a trail of her lips that followed her motions to the front of the poor man, the front and down.
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
Two people in dark armor stood, boots washed with the ever shifting grains of sand that'd been their lives for so long. One figure, a female form with both arms crossed over her chest, turned her chin towards the man who stood at her shoulder.
"Tom, I've got a question." Melanie's voice had never changed, the sultry, smoke filled murmur of a full throated tone.
"Yes?" The man's voice was deeper, more hollow.
"Why do we waste all this time? What does it? We don't even pick up the trash from the last war and here we are, right? Why?" Melanie's hand, gloved and plated, gestured over a field strewn with shattered weapons and broken vehicles.
"Well, we make weapons, so we us-..." The gesture turned into a violent point, a shove along the man's armor.
"No, Tom, we don't. Weapons don't do this. We do. We're sick and I'm going to be the cure, I swear."
The dream faded, though she'd not been sleeping. So many people had assumed the strange, mystic killer slept more often than she did. Rather, splayed out across a man's form, washed in the morning's light that died along the black expanse of inky hair, she'd simply drawn back into the fractured, shattered hollows of her own mind. A last refuge, she'd hidden within the fortress, an impregnable set of defenses against time's undying march towards the darkness.
"Melanie, you told me to make sure you were awake at 2100." Alex's hand brushed stray strands back along the shadow siren's eyes. Said eyes, in fits and starts, fluttered back to life, long lashes freeing the pools of darkness to consume the light. As she shifted across the surface of Alex's chest, she drew away and up, a poised viper on her knees. At home in the black and white lace, she shrugged softly and pressed fingers to her lips in a vain attempt to hide a demure, elegant looking yawn that parted painted lips.
"I did, yeah." There could be no more secrets, not physically, between the two part time lovers. With the fluid grace of a cobra, she slipped from the bed and left the closet door open as she walked in, a teasing display and a tantalizing promise.
There was no shame in the manner that Melanie threw clothing at her feet, there was less in the way she bent down to inspect various shoes. Paid for her fights and paid for her killing, the home she claimed was a palatial abode, a queen's ruptured spire. As she felt the man's attention line long legs, she turned and batted smokey lashes, a common enough gesture. As she squirmed and shifted into jeans that could have been painted, she lingered over the long sleeved, black top. Long enough, of course, to turn her face towards the bed and display the enchantress' body. With wide eyes, the relatively fresh man sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes cast down as he contemplated his question.
By the time he'd looked back up, his breath caught for an entirely different reason. Instead of inspecting shoes, Melanie had kicked open a case filled with a platoon's worth of various rifles, all of them killers. Intent on her search, she ignored the obvious stare and shouldered a compact, slim lined marksman's rifle. With a black stare, impassive and placid, she turned her eyes back to the man on the bed.
"Yes?" The single word was a question even as she checked the rifle, an easy task for one so used to such a menial task.
"Should I, you know, get used to this?" Alex's words were shy and quiet, serious and collected. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer, really.
"What, f*cking me?" Teasing, Melanie's tones were mocking as she started for the door. "Or f*cking me before I go to kill someone?" With her hand on the door, she paused to throw a flashing, amused glance over her shoulder. Lips perpetually pouting pressed together as she blew a luxurious, opulent kiss in the poor man's direction. "The answer's maybe, Alex."
"I uh-....Melanie..., god damn it." The door had already closed before Alex's fist slammed into the pillows he'd loved so very much scant hours before.
"Tom, I've got a question." Melanie's voice had never changed, the sultry, smoke filled murmur of a full throated tone.
"Yes?" The man's voice was deeper, more hollow.
"Why do we waste all this time? What does it? We don't even pick up the trash from the last war and here we are, right? Why?" Melanie's hand, gloved and plated, gestured over a field strewn with shattered weapons and broken vehicles.
"Well, we make weapons, so we us-..." The gesture turned into a violent point, a shove along the man's armor.
"No, Tom, we don't. Weapons don't do this. We do. We're sick and I'm going to be the cure, I swear."
The dream faded, though she'd not been sleeping. So many people had assumed the strange, mystic killer slept more often than she did. Rather, splayed out across a man's form, washed in the morning's light that died along the black expanse of inky hair, she'd simply drawn back into the fractured, shattered hollows of her own mind. A last refuge, she'd hidden within the fortress, an impregnable set of defenses against time's undying march towards the darkness.
"Melanie, you told me to make sure you were awake at 2100." Alex's hand brushed stray strands back along the shadow siren's eyes. Said eyes, in fits and starts, fluttered back to life, long lashes freeing the pools of darkness to consume the light. As she shifted across the surface of Alex's chest, she drew away and up, a poised viper on her knees. At home in the black and white lace, she shrugged softly and pressed fingers to her lips in a vain attempt to hide a demure, elegant looking yawn that parted painted lips.
"I did, yeah." There could be no more secrets, not physically, between the two part time lovers. With the fluid grace of a cobra, she slipped from the bed and left the closet door open as she walked in, a teasing display and a tantalizing promise.
There was no shame in the manner that Melanie threw clothing at her feet, there was less in the way she bent down to inspect various shoes. Paid for her fights and paid for her killing, the home she claimed was a palatial abode, a queen's ruptured spire. As she felt the man's attention line long legs, she turned and batted smokey lashes, a common enough gesture. As she squirmed and shifted into jeans that could have been painted, she lingered over the long sleeved, black top. Long enough, of course, to turn her face towards the bed and display the enchantress' body. With wide eyes, the relatively fresh man sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes cast down as he contemplated his question.
By the time he'd looked back up, his breath caught for an entirely different reason. Instead of inspecting shoes, Melanie had kicked open a case filled with a platoon's worth of various rifles, all of them killers. Intent on her search, she ignored the obvious stare and shouldered a compact, slim lined marksman's rifle. With a black stare, impassive and placid, she turned her eyes back to the man on the bed.
"Yes?" The single word was a question even as she checked the rifle, an easy task for one so used to such a menial task.
"Should I, you know, get used to this?" Alex's words were shy and quiet, serious and collected. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer, really.
"What, f*cking me?" Teasing, Melanie's tones were mocking as she started for the door. "Or f*cking me before I go to kill someone?" With her hand on the door, she paused to throw a flashing, amused glance over her shoulder. Lips perpetually pouting pressed together as she blew a luxurious, opulent kiss in the poor man's direction. "The answer's maybe, Alex."
"I uh-....Melanie..., god damn it." The door had already closed before Alex's fist slammed into the pillows he'd loved so very much scant hours before.
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
"So, I was all 'No, Terry, I don't want to go see a movie about turtles!' I mean, why would she even ask me that?" Though Melanie's hands dripped blood and many, many a wall carried traces of her scraped and battered knuckles along harsh bricks, her breath seemed to have stilled. Seconds after hearing the fateful words, she'd taken the door at a dead sprint and ran, an aimless escape. Anywhere but right there. With a bottle of rum clutched in one hand and her phone in the other, she wondered through the streets of New Haven as if she'd never be stopped, never be questioned.
"Umm...Melanie, can we have a talk?" Alex's voice was sleepy, he'd clearly been jolted awake by Melanie's phone call, something he couldn't even begin to ignore.
"Aren't we talking, guy? I'm on my way to your place, by the way." For once, she'd offered to vent, she'd reached out to another for simple words, not fists and shouts.
"You might want to grow up, Melanie. Really. I mean, crying over turtles? Let's be real here, you're an adult. People might take you more seriously if you acted like it, I'm just saying...." The words only were allowed to go that far because Melanie had taken to staring at her phone in blank, mute silence. She couldn't, not for the life of her, believe he'd spoken such a thing, such a brutal salvo of words aimed towards a woman with no defenses. No defenses for this sort of thing, at least.
"So I'm not allowed to be upset when someone offers something to do with turtles? I'm not allowed to be upset over that when all I can think about is the turtles my dead ex-girlfriend bought for me? I'm supposed to just be alright with that, Alex? You know, this entire quasi relationship worked on the basis that you'd not, you know, treat me like shit and maybe you'd let me be me. That's not happening right now." Her words were dangerously silent, a glaring threat reaching through the storm of her accent like some lost lighthouse on a forgotten shore. Honesty, clarity and emotion. Rare things, rare indeed.
"....I'm sor-." Cut off again, the poor man was.
"Don't lie to me. Adults shouldn't lie to children, should they? Spoiled, rich children. Thanks for the heads up, Alex. I appreciate it." A slug of the rum drowned her words in a toxic flow of liquid.
"Should I come to work tomorrow? Maybe we can talk about it there, right?" Hopeful, the man's words. Pathetically hopeful.
"You're an adult. You'll figure it out." The phone, when slammed down on the ground, became the target of a well placed, twisting heel meant to shatter glass and ruin plastic. Again, the sound of tennis shoes only paused when she'd slammed into the front door of the shared house. Strangely silent, she plied the dark rooms until she'd found Wellington, the traitor of a panda. Curled up in Terry's bed, she found the beast sleeping in the still awake girl's arms.
"Ayo, Mel, I'm sorry...." A hand was lifted as Melanie shrugged out of her pants and tank top, quick to shed layers of clothing in front of one she could hide so very little from. Within seconds, she'd taken the strange beast, black of fur, into thin arms and burrowed into the blankets at the foot of Terry's bed. Contented enough, the animal seemed placid as it was drawn into a dark paradise, one split by the soft, rhythmic sounds of deep sobs, broken things.
"Umm...Melanie, can we have a talk?" Alex's voice was sleepy, he'd clearly been jolted awake by Melanie's phone call, something he couldn't even begin to ignore.
"Aren't we talking, guy? I'm on my way to your place, by the way." For once, she'd offered to vent, she'd reached out to another for simple words, not fists and shouts.
"You might want to grow up, Melanie. Really. I mean, crying over turtles? Let's be real here, you're an adult. People might take you more seriously if you acted like it, I'm just saying...." The words only were allowed to go that far because Melanie had taken to staring at her phone in blank, mute silence. She couldn't, not for the life of her, believe he'd spoken such a thing, such a brutal salvo of words aimed towards a woman with no defenses. No defenses for this sort of thing, at least.
"So I'm not allowed to be upset when someone offers something to do with turtles? I'm not allowed to be upset over that when all I can think about is the turtles my dead ex-girlfriend bought for me? I'm supposed to just be alright with that, Alex? You know, this entire quasi relationship worked on the basis that you'd not, you know, treat me like shit and maybe you'd let me be me. That's not happening right now." Her words were dangerously silent, a glaring threat reaching through the storm of her accent like some lost lighthouse on a forgotten shore. Honesty, clarity and emotion. Rare things, rare indeed.
"....I'm sor-." Cut off again, the poor man was.
"Don't lie to me. Adults shouldn't lie to children, should they? Spoiled, rich children. Thanks for the heads up, Alex. I appreciate it." A slug of the rum drowned her words in a toxic flow of liquid.
"Should I come to work tomorrow? Maybe we can talk about it there, right?" Hopeful, the man's words. Pathetically hopeful.
"You're an adult. You'll figure it out." The phone, when slammed down on the ground, became the target of a well placed, twisting heel meant to shatter glass and ruin plastic. Again, the sound of tennis shoes only paused when she'd slammed into the front door of the shared house. Strangely silent, she plied the dark rooms until she'd found Wellington, the traitor of a panda. Curled up in Terry's bed, she found the beast sleeping in the still awake girl's arms.
"Ayo, Mel, I'm sorry...." A hand was lifted as Melanie shrugged out of her pants and tank top, quick to shed layers of clothing in front of one she could hide so very little from. Within seconds, she'd taken the strange beast, black of fur, into thin arms and burrowed into the blankets at the foot of Terry's bed. Contented enough, the animal seemed placid as it was drawn into a dark paradise, one split by the soft, rhythmic sounds of deep sobs, broken things.
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
It'd started as a short walk, slow strides that were composed and contemplative. She'd left the Teas and Tomes bemused but pleased, confused. So wary, so shy. Like a light in a dark sky, a falling star, she could see another end, another path. The smile she wore was girlish and almost naive, coltish and immature. Juvenile. Real, a memory left over from the moment her life had stopped, the moment hope had died.
It came on like a black flood, a living storm. Within seconds, the world died in her eyes, consumed by an infinite maw and twisted around dagger like teeth. Ripped from her body, the woman's frail mind seemed an explosion within the confines of her head. Desperate for relief and fully aware of the grisly spectacle at on the grim horizon, she did all she knew. With nary a thought, she descended into the bowels of her own corruption and slipped into the shadows she created so easily. Her feet became silent blurs, each slamming into the ground as she ran, she ran endlessly.
A warehouse in West End, a degraded, broken down building that'd been all but forgotten by the opulent masses. Lost to the annals of time and ignored by the creeping progress that was civilization's curse, the building held ghosts of past nightmares and reminders of current repression. Within the basement, locked in a room blanketed in darkness and blessed by the night, Melanie found herself staring at a blank wall, waiting for the moment she'd be called to answer for tonight's mistake.
It came upon her with the roiling force of an earthquake contained within a frail shell. The voice was thunder, the agony burned at each and every nerve ending. Though her body was wracked by the touch of ten thousand heater tips, she barely even noticed. Past physical pain, she could not ignore the sensation of being unraveled, pulled apart and torn into shreds from the inside out, from the mind down. As she fell, slumped along the floor's cracked tiles, a final gesture placed hands over her eyes, it drew her knees to her chest.
"So, Keeper, you would like for them to know your secrets?" Coated in venom, the murmur radiated out from a cold, metallic mask hidden underneath black robes. Trapped in her own mind and memories, Melanie saw herself standing in the past, though the words were in the present. "Perhaps I will show you my secrets?"
She couldn't hope to move, nor could she pull her mind from the scene that began to play itself out before her very being. A bound body, hung from wrists tied above her head, inky hair spread out along a bleeding back. The snap of a whip, an explosion of motion from someone who couldn't fight, not this young. The wet crack of bones under flesh, over and over, as fists and feet, hands and metal rods rained down blow after blow. The way her body fell, broken and beaten, when the rope was cut, only to be replaced with another, a different posture. Taken again and again, time and time over with a hand over her mouth. Screams and laughter, pointless fighting and eventual defeat. Time and time again, each and every night. Years.
The man's voice, the only fixture in her mind, seemed soothing, compassionate. "They were your friends, Keeper. And they broke you." He sounded apologetic, the words were cold bandages on heated, broken flesh, a towel on a sweat stained brow.
"As you have given up a secret, so will I." More laughter crept from the scene, only this time it was closer, inches from her ear. As breath poured along her skin, she felt her chest tighten, she knew the old fear she'd thought was gone. "I enjoyed watching, girl."
The pain was there, it lingered along her flesh as she woke, hours later. Blood spilled from the places where nails had cut into her palms, a sign of how she'd clenched her fist. Just a dream, she thought, a fragment of her broken mind.
Just a dream until she looked up and past tangled, tousled hair. Her breath caught as she stared, unwilling to believe the obvious sign left for her, a warning and a promise. The skull was there, the red skull that heralded the return of her dreams, the reality of her world. A simple phrase was painted in blood beneath the twin tusks. 'We all have secrets, Keeper. They are yours to keep.'
It came on like a black flood, a living storm. Within seconds, the world died in her eyes, consumed by an infinite maw and twisted around dagger like teeth. Ripped from her body, the woman's frail mind seemed an explosion within the confines of her head. Desperate for relief and fully aware of the grisly spectacle at on the grim horizon, she did all she knew. With nary a thought, she descended into the bowels of her own corruption and slipped into the shadows she created so easily. Her feet became silent blurs, each slamming into the ground as she ran, she ran endlessly.
A warehouse in West End, a degraded, broken down building that'd been all but forgotten by the opulent masses. Lost to the annals of time and ignored by the creeping progress that was civilization's curse, the building held ghosts of past nightmares and reminders of current repression. Within the basement, locked in a room blanketed in darkness and blessed by the night, Melanie found herself staring at a blank wall, waiting for the moment she'd be called to answer for tonight's mistake.
It came upon her with the roiling force of an earthquake contained within a frail shell. The voice was thunder, the agony burned at each and every nerve ending. Though her body was wracked by the touch of ten thousand heater tips, she barely even noticed. Past physical pain, she could not ignore the sensation of being unraveled, pulled apart and torn into shreds from the inside out, from the mind down. As she fell, slumped along the floor's cracked tiles, a final gesture placed hands over her eyes, it drew her knees to her chest.
"So, Keeper, you would like for them to know your secrets?" Coated in venom, the murmur radiated out from a cold, metallic mask hidden underneath black robes. Trapped in her own mind and memories, Melanie saw herself standing in the past, though the words were in the present. "Perhaps I will show you my secrets?"
She couldn't hope to move, nor could she pull her mind from the scene that began to play itself out before her very being. A bound body, hung from wrists tied above her head, inky hair spread out along a bleeding back. The snap of a whip, an explosion of motion from someone who couldn't fight, not this young. The wet crack of bones under flesh, over and over, as fists and feet, hands and metal rods rained down blow after blow. The way her body fell, broken and beaten, when the rope was cut, only to be replaced with another, a different posture. Taken again and again, time and time over with a hand over her mouth. Screams and laughter, pointless fighting and eventual defeat. Time and time again, each and every night. Years.
The man's voice, the only fixture in her mind, seemed soothing, compassionate. "They were your friends, Keeper. And they broke you." He sounded apologetic, the words were cold bandages on heated, broken flesh, a towel on a sweat stained brow.
"As you have given up a secret, so will I." More laughter crept from the scene, only this time it was closer, inches from her ear. As breath poured along her skin, she felt her chest tighten, she knew the old fear she'd thought was gone. "I enjoyed watching, girl."
The pain was there, it lingered along her flesh as she woke, hours later. Blood spilled from the places where nails had cut into her palms, a sign of how she'd clenched her fist. Just a dream, she thought, a fragment of her broken mind.
Just a dream until she looked up and past tangled, tousled hair. Her breath caught as she stared, unwilling to believe the obvious sign left for her, a warning and a promise. The skull was there, the red skull that heralded the return of her dreams, the reality of her world. A simple phrase was painted in blood beneath the twin tusks. 'We all have secrets, Keeper. They are yours to keep.'
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
Once more, Melanie'd reached for more than she could ever hope to place her fingers on, that toxic touch that seemed so dangerous to any who came close. She'd not bothered to change, she'd not even bothered to go back downstairs. Rather, she'd lingered among the fallen petals, dying flowers burned by a sun that seemed, in her mind, like some scathing, mocking eye that missed nothing.
Her steps, dainty things that should have been on some stage on Broadway, took her body, a long and exotic thing that should have been cast on some silver screen, through the twisted paths that formed a maze walled in with so many boxes, so many flowers. Roses, all of them were roses of various colors. Black, red and white. All of them, in their own way, seemed perfect. A perfect metaphor for the creature that walked through them. She could not call herself human, she could not see herself as such. So far removed, she felt, cast out and thrown away. Used and spent, she felt like a shell casing ejected from the sniper's rifle. Wasted.
Calloused fingers trailed along the flowers, this one and that. It mattered little, they all had thorns. They were all graceful and regal, elegant and majestic. And they were all so hard to touch. Each fleeting embrace left her hand pricked once more. Some drew blood, some simply stung. The thorns were reminders, barbs. They served to remind her of two things. She realized, as she touched, how very alike they were, her and the flower. Seemingly defenseless, seemingly frail. Secondly, she realized that she could still feel. Each self inflicted wound was another pointed reminder. She had emotions, she understood them. One was easier, however. One was comfortable. Pain. She could relate to that best of all.
Without much care, her steps wandered towards a far corner of the palatial roof top garden that sat above her brand's headquarters. A gym, her offices, her agent's offices. Recently rebuilt, she'd installed this bastion of peace above a place filled with so much fighting. A suite that spanned ten floors, she stood over the city and stared down from her own private Olympus. Within the shadow of the trees she'd had planted, she seemed more at ease. Branches tangled above her and blotted the sun as a soft wind carried the faint scent of natural perfume about a form that spurned makeup and scorned scents one bought at a store. All was not, she quickly discerned, perfect in her personal grove. Something else. Someone else.
Eyes lurked, human eyes. She couldn't see the man, not his physical form. His presence assaulted her, it reached out for her mind in a way that she'd thought she left behind almost a year ago. It was, she realized, familiar. Dangerously so. It was also unknown, like a different vintage of the same wine. It smelled like bloody sand in her mind's scope. It tasted like bitter smoke and it sounded like distant thunder, gunfire. It was home. Instantly, Melanie drew back into own mind and threw the same shadows about her, her people's defense. Effectively invisible to anyone not seeing with the Force, she lurked at the edges of the grove, wary and nervous. She'd not been face to face with another of her kind in a year. She'd not had to face the people she betrayed.
"I was there, Apsala." The man's voice was a deeper, more well bodied version of her own. It twisted and lilted like so many birds of paradise cast into a world that was no longer a jungle.
"Last night?" It was the first thing that came to mind. She, of all people, knew how pointless attempting to keep another pure blooded Mandalorian out of any physical place. Sure that this was another of her ilk, one of her particular breed, she didn't bother to ask.
"No, Apsala. At the start." He paused, seemingly unsure. He, of course, understood. More so than most, perhaps, he knew the dangerous, volatile nature of the woman who stood before him. He knew to respect the beast they'd made, he knew to tread lightly around such a crafted, flawless picture of pointed, perfected lunacy. Sheer insanity. "At the start of your life. Do you know yourself?"
The question seemed to floor Melanie. It surely paused the diatribe she'd planned on starting. Words lived and died on pouted, curious lips. The only answer was an honest one, possibly the most honest thing she'd ever said. "No." Just one word, a single bell tolling in the murky gloom they'd projected towards each other. Blurred, the secrets of her people.
"Let me tell you when you are ready." Deep inside, they both knew a single thing. She wasn't. Not just just yet, not right now.
Her steps, dainty things that should have been on some stage on Broadway, took her body, a long and exotic thing that should have been cast on some silver screen, through the twisted paths that formed a maze walled in with so many boxes, so many flowers. Roses, all of them were roses of various colors. Black, red and white. All of them, in their own way, seemed perfect. A perfect metaphor for the creature that walked through them. She could not call herself human, she could not see herself as such. So far removed, she felt, cast out and thrown away. Used and spent, she felt like a shell casing ejected from the sniper's rifle. Wasted.
Calloused fingers trailed along the flowers, this one and that. It mattered little, they all had thorns. They were all graceful and regal, elegant and majestic. And they were all so hard to touch. Each fleeting embrace left her hand pricked once more. Some drew blood, some simply stung. The thorns were reminders, barbs. They served to remind her of two things. She realized, as she touched, how very alike they were, her and the flower. Seemingly defenseless, seemingly frail. Secondly, she realized that she could still feel. Each self inflicted wound was another pointed reminder. She had emotions, she understood them. One was easier, however. One was comfortable. Pain. She could relate to that best of all.
Without much care, her steps wandered towards a far corner of the palatial roof top garden that sat above her brand's headquarters. A gym, her offices, her agent's offices. Recently rebuilt, she'd installed this bastion of peace above a place filled with so much fighting. A suite that spanned ten floors, she stood over the city and stared down from her own private Olympus. Within the shadow of the trees she'd had planted, she seemed more at ease. Branches tangled above her and blotted the sun as a soft wind carried the faint scent of natural perfume about a form that spurned makeup and scorned scents one bought at a store. All was not, she quickly discerned, perfect in her personal grove. Something else. Someone else.
Eyes lurked, human eyes. She couldn't see the man, not his physical form. His presence assaulted her, it reached out for her mind in a way that she'd thought she left behind almost a year ago. It was, she realized, familiar. Dangerously so. It was also unknown, like a different vintage of the same wine. It smelled like bloody sand in her mind's scope. It tasted like bitter smoke and it sounded like distant thunder, gunfire. It was home. Instantly, Melanie drew back into own mind and threw the same shadows about her, her people's defense. Effectively invisible to anyone not seeing with the Force, she lurked at the edges of the grove, wary and nervous. She'd not been face to face with another of her kind in a year. She'd not had to face the people she betrayed.
"I was there, Apsala." The man's voice was a deeper, more well bodied version of her own. It twisted and lilted like so many birds of paradise cast into a world that was no longer a jungle.
"Last night?" It was the first thing that came to mind. She, of all people, knew how pointless attempting to keep another pure blooded Mandalorian out of any physical place. Sure that this was another of her ilk, one of her particular breed, she didn't bother to ask.
"No, Apsala. At the start." He paused, seemingly unsure. He, of course, understood. More so than most, perhaps, he knew the dangerous, volatile nature of the woman who stood before him. He knew to respect the beast they'd made, he knew to tread lightly around such a crafted, flawless picture of pointed, perfected lunacy. Sheer insanity. "At the start of your life. Do you know yourself?"
The question seemed to floor Melanie. It surely paused the diatribe she'd planned on starting. Words lived and died on pouted, curious lips. The only answer was an honest one, possibly the most honest thing she'd ever said. "No." Just one word, a single bell tolling in the murky gloom they'd projected towards each other. Blurred, the secrets of her people.
"Let me tell you when you are ready." Deep inside, they both knew a single thing. She wasn't. Not just just yet, not right now.
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Fourth
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Posts: 325
- Joined: Thu Aug 22, 2013 9:21 pm
- Location: She's never hard to find.
- Contact:
"I'm not ready for this!" Melanie wasn't screaming at some poor man who'd made her dress or the person behind the register and a chic, new shoe store. Rather, she prowled across the sunlit garden f her roof top abode. Bright, shining eyes painted in black darted around. This was the flaw of her people's defenses, the mental armor that rendered them able to blatantly scorn so many who sought their demise. She couldn't often see the man, he couldn't often view her.
"What can't you do? Frankly, I think there's not much you can't do, girl." The voice was the same. A voice in the omnipresent wall of shadows. This one, however, had a body. Finally.
"This! I'm tired of being me. Can I trade it back, can you give me my mind?" So calm, for once. Her voice. Everything was becoming clear, the tension was unraveling her already eroded grasp on sanity. Last night's session, penance for revealing so much of her people's dangerous secrets, had shaken the moorings loose, tenuous.
"Ah, no." The denial was quick. It was compassionate, in so far as one of her people's dark zealots could ever be. "Do you know my answer to that?"
Aware of what the first answer would have been, Melanie didn't hope for anything else. Rather, she sat with her back to the city, her feet off of the ground as she perched on the high railing. It'd been a different city, a different roof top, but the memory was still there. This felt easy, this posture. "No." To the second question.
"Because you've not swallowed your sun yet, viper. I do not care if you are sad, I do not care if you are angry. I do not feel sorry for you, nor would I if I could." Whips, the words. "You have a purpose, and until you die, you will carry on that purpose, secret keeper, oath keeper."
As soon as he'd spoken them, Melanie knew the game. Her rational mind, the child's mind wanted to give up, it wanted to quit. The ninety percent, the jagged edges of a broken soul, turned a haughty, angry glare in the direction of the voice. Defiant.
"I'll be the star that burns brightest, right before it falls to the ground, yeah? That's what I should be, isn't? That's what you all crafted me to be, all those nights, a ticking time bomb, a suicidal soldier unable to turn her back on those who did this to her because, in the darkness, after they'd hurt me, they'd help me, right? Someone who just can't quit." There was a mocking touch to her words, quick and sharp edged.
"Yes." She could feel the smile through the man's words, an almost proud smile. Soothing once more.
"What can't you do? Frankly, I think there's not much you can't do, girl." The voice was the same. A voice in the omnipresent wall of shadows. This one, however, had a body. Finally.
"This! I'm tired of being me. Can I trade it back, can you give me my mind?" So calm, for once. Her voice. Everything was becoming clear, the tension was unraveling her already eroded grasp on sanity. Last night's session, penance for revealing so much of her people's dangerous secrets, had shaken the moorings loose, tenuous.
"Ah, no." The denial was quick. It was compassionate, in so far as one of her people's dark zealots could ever be. "Do you know my answer to that?"
Aware of what the first answer would have been, Melanie didn't hope for anything else. Rather, she sat with her back to the city, her feet off of the ground as she perched on the high railing. It'd been a different city, a different roof top, but the memory was still there. This felt easy, this posture. "No." To the second question.
"Because you've not swallowed your sun yet, viper. I do not care if you are sad, I do not care if you are angry. I do not feel sorry for you, nor would I if I could." Whips, the words. "You have a purpose, and until you die, you will carry on that purpose, secret keeper, oath keeper."
As soon as he'd spoken them, Melanie knew the game. Her rational mind, the child's mind wanted to give up, it wanted to quit. The ninety percent, the jagged edges of a broken soul, turned a haughty, angry glare in the direction of the voice. Defiant.
"I'll be the star that burns brightest, right before it falls to the ground, yeah? That's what I should be, isn't? That's what you all crafted me to be, all those nights, a ticking time bomb, a suicidal soldier unable to turn her back on those who did this to her because, in the darkness, after they'd hurt me, they'd help me, right? Someone who just can't quit." There was a mocking touch to her words, quick and sharp edged.
"Yes." She could feel the smile through the man's words, an almost proud smile. Soothing once more.
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