Post by americangrime on Feb 2, 2021 13:05:42 GMT -5
BLAIR REGENT PRESENTS
WHEREFORE ART THOU?
-
Scene I - One of Those Nights
The light flicks on. Blair’s still not used to it, the apartment they now rent, courtesy of one signing check from Callum Walker. Her eyes adjust to the light for a moment, illuminating her new digs. Unfamiliar, but welcoming. Unknown, but hers. Something she owned, for once.
“Cool digs.”
But you’d better get used to a place quick if you’re bringing a girl home.
“Yeah, pretty sweet, huh?” Blair chuckled as she swung around to lock eyes with the bartender from one of her favorite new spots in town. Her nametag read ‘Hannah’, but she was content with being called ‘Han.’ Preferred it, honestly. “Here, make yourself at home. Lemme get you a drink-you must be fuckin’ beat after a shift like that.”
“Hell yeah, Blair.” Han looks around the shelves in the apartment as Blair pulls two bottles of beer clear from her fridge. Han catches a few photographs-Blair in her early wrestling days, and then Blair with Vic on the road, and, finally, her more current ring appearance, holding some independent wrestling championship from somewhere in her lineage. “I didn’t realize you held gold when you told me you’d done this whole...pro wrestling thing.”
“Just once, y’know?” Blair shouts from the kitchen, before emerging mid-pull from one bottle of beer while she holds the other out to Han. Han graciously takes it. “I don’t like to dwell on it much. Didn’t mean much to me when I got my hands on it-it’s all about the legacy surrounding that shit, and the pay, y’know? It was pay. It was...cool, I guess, but that was about it.” Han glances at Blair, and Blair quickly tries to hide the fact that she was dwelling on that time. Han holds her beer up.
“Well, maybe you should dwell on it a bit more. It’s a cool fact, right?” The two toast briefly, before moving through the shelf-clad hallway and into the living room. More photographs await, and as they turn some late night program on the television while Han tucks herself into Blair’s arm, Blair finds herself lost in thought, drifting back to old times. She eventually breaks her fog as she finishes her beer.
“Han, let me ask you something.” Blair glances down to the woman at her side. “You ever want to be, like, known?”
“Well, yeah. We all have that.” Han teases, but quickly becomes serious again. “What do you mean, though?"
“I mean, like...I’ve spent my entire life feelin’ like a sidekick to someone. Ugly girl to a hotter roommate, roadie-groupie to the lead at the Zeroes, even when I was wrestlin’ I wasn’t anyone’s first choice.” She glances to Han. “I just wanna be, you know, the star. The first choice. The one people are tryna’ get with. The one people wanna see, not the one they settle for.”
There’s a bit more silence, and a moment later Han gets back to her feet and returns with two more beers. She presses one into Blair’s hand, and hooks herself back into the nook she sat in before, still quiet. Blair, now marinating on her words, takes a long sip from her beer-before she’s interrupted by the clearing of a throat.
“Sometimes, Blair, you just gotta be that person for you, or one other person. Y’know? You can’t have everyone’s ass without provin’ you belong-but to prove that, you gotta have your own back. You gotta believe in yourself, and I know you do. All you gotta do now, princess, is go claim that namesake.”
“Namesake? What namesake?” Blair raises a brow.
“Regent. You know, like the kings, queens…tyrants.”
Blair takes a momentary pause, and then she nods.
“Yeah.” She chuckles. “Maybe I should start acting my namesake.”
-
Scene II - Heavy Lies The Crown
“Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
The scene has changed, rather drastically. One Blair Regent sits with her legs crossed atop the seat of a cracked, yet once-immaculate throne made of gold and glossy black stone. She’s dressed in her ring gear, though overtop of it she has sort of a gaudy, thrifted coat, and a crown tilted upon her head, not quite fitting so she’s content to let it droop down. Around the throne, as we get a view of the slight surrounding area, various ‘subjects’ in different forms of dress prostrate themselves in reverence of the Pop Punk Prince. She presses her fist into her face, seeming to be bored as in ponderance of the question she just asked.
“It’s a question that’s long since stumped various fuckin’ freshman English classes in various high schools and universities across the United States. You can consider the wording to mean, like, where are you, considerin’ that Juliet’s slinging it from the top of her ivory tower-or you can look beyond the general wording to the context and reaHane it’s got nothin’ to do with geography and everything to do with the personage. ‘What is Romeo’, or, ‘Why is Romeo’, y’know? The existence of said person being brought into question. Their purpose in this transcendental clusterfuck that we call life. In the end, the drivin’ message behind this question was what lead these star-crossed lovers to off themselves in a dusty catacomb like they didn’t have more to live for.
I’m hoping when I ask myself the same question regarding me, it doesn’t have quite the same outcome.”
She pauses.
“Sorry, bit of a lit nerd in school. Guess you never leave all that behind, do you?”
Blair adjusts herself to become more comfortable as she continues.
“What’s in a name? What’s in my name? To start rootin’ through all of it, you gotta start at the source. You have to dig out what a person is, what they’ve always been. Me? Well, we’ll get to that. I more define myself based on what I haven’t had than what I have.
But I’m not everyone. I sure as shit ain’t the rest of this field, who, names, monikers, accomplishments or personas, all got a hell of a fuckin’ story to tell.
Let’s start with Ozymandias, for example. The former WrestleWorld European Champion, monstrous motherfucker. I mean, look at him-if that steely glare don’t punch a hole through your soul, he probably fuckin’ will with his bare hands. You look at his gear, his monikers, his ideals…The Butcher of Reine is no man to be fucked with. He’s a harbinger, at best, and a bad, violent motherfucker, at worst. My first pop-up in this company,I watched him truck on through one of the crowd’s golden fellas as if they weren’t even there, as if they were the same corpses that his namesake trade would pull to pieces, to their barest parts. I have no illusions against it that Ozymandias is the kinda guy who people are gonna assume to win this whole fuckin’ thing.
But beyond the mask? Beyond the cold, steely visage that greets ya when you look him in the eyes? He’s just a puppet. Don’t matter that he’s made of steel and flesh, when you can’t even do your shit for your own gain, and let some woman with the voice of ‘The Deep’ in her head stick her hand up your ass and make you dance like a wooden dummy. You can come swingin’, Ozzy, but your swing’s only as strong as your will is, and you ain’t got that. You got a constitution thinner than tissue paper, and I’ll cut right the fuck through it.
Speakin’ of paper-thin constitutions, let’s talk about Alex Slayer, the Rated-R Reaper. You lost last week, man. It was a close fight, though! I’ll give you props for that, you really brought the fight to the Big Drip Dude. You got a mean talk, and I like the…” Blair snaps her fingers. “Cut of your jibe, right? I like how you use those words of yours and how you try to dress down every poor sod who tries to get in your way. Shame it’s not more effective, though, considerin’ you walked out of Unbreakable Resolution empty handed, and, hey, you did it on Proving Ground right after, too! Me and Big Drip, we got different flavors of music, fashion, fun, but I can respect ‘em for being winners. Wouldn’t be surprised if they walked out with another contendership under their collective belts here.
You, though? The only thing you’re reapin’ in are those losses.
You can turn this back on me, prolly. Tell me I haven’t competed, so I can’t really say shit, can I? But they clearly saw somethin’ in me to throw me straight into this shit show out the gate. When I signed my contract, I was told it would be a big one, and here we are now. We share a ‘Proving Ground’,” Blair sticks her tongue out at the pun, “and while I’m tryin’ to prove that I belong, you’re tryin’ to prove that you’re worth the paper your shit is printed on. Keep on Reapin’, though, Alex-maybe this’ll be the one that you pull forth from.
But I ain’t the only one lookin’ to prove something in this match, am I? I’m joined by Kagome Akaibara, the Blade of Nagasaki. Spooky name, doll! I’d dig it more if I wasn’t on the receivin’ end of the fuckin’ thing, right? You got a cute face, some cute moves, and I’m willin’ to bet you’re just as hungry as I am, but you’ve tasted that fame before. I saw your face on the Idol mags, watched you throwin’ your hips here’n there, and I’ll never fault you for doin’ what you need to do to get famous, to get big. You want to throw all your weight here, though, and you wanna show how tough you are, that a glamour girl like you can throw a punch, break a nail, and keep on pushin’. I respect it-fuck, god knows I’ve had to prove my shit before, but lemme ask you somethin’.
Are you really ready to be tough?
By all means, if you want this opportunity, you’re gonna get it. But you’ve had that fame, you know? You’ve not had to worry ‘bout eatin’ scraps because you didn’t have a damn thing in this world. You’ve not had to worry ‘bout people hatin’ you because you made the wrong call in an engagement with ‘em. It’s a tough lesson to learn, but while you got those fame smarts, I’ve had to watch my ass the whole time, and it’s made me tougher than an idol like you can ever hope to be.
Someone like you, too, is Emmanuelle.”
Blair runs her fingers through her hair as she considers her next words.
“Because Emmy, I’ve read about you, too. Saw you beat Asakura back on Those Islands. It’s impressive, yeah? You dethroned the true shogun. Hell, you carry that belt around like it’s candy. You told him you were comin’, and then you took what was yours. You and I? We got somethin’ similar in the mindset, here. We don’t love all of this, this sport, the gruel and grime of it. I see that look in your eyes when you step in the ring-it’s one I’ve seen in the mirror, before and after matches, reflectin’ off the eyes of my opponent when I step into a ring.
This? This ain’t forever. The people who think it is, those are the same people who wind up with their brains already rotted for decades ‘fore their body finally gives out. It’s sad. This sport, it’s not gonna give me a goddamn thing, it’s not gonna give you a goddamn thing, and even if we’re fuckin’ good at it, we’re in to get out. I’d be willin’ to bet you just want to make a buck, stuff your bag, and walk away.
Me too, although in a different sorta direction.
So these silly fucks can talk ‘bout how they want to prop gold up on their shoulders and show the world that they’re the fuckin’ best, but I hope this shit comes down to me and you, so we can show every kid watchin’ back home that our way is the best way.”
Blair sucks in air through her teeth, and then sighs.
“Ain’ even fuckin’ halfway through. But, the next three should be easy. Hunter, Darling, Warstein. The upper echelon. The icing on the cake, the cherry on the fuckin’ sundae! You boys got everything ridin’ on this, don’t you. You’re all big question marks, aren’t you? All got your hands in various different pots, but still lookin’ to become Tyrant.
I wouldn’t blame you any of you for skippin’ past this one, honestly, not throwin’ all your weight into it. Y’all aren’t hungry. Y’all got belts around your waist or accolades in the palm already. Y’all got gold for days. Fort Knox type deal, right? The three of you, this might be another feather in the cap, but even if you want this, you don’t want this. Your stomach’s not hurtin’ for it. You’re not any of the rest of us, who’re ready for that gulp of air to pull ourselves above water. You can walk free of this match and still call yourselves victors, call yourselves champions, call yourselves the upper crust.
Still, though, you’re odds-on favorites. Would be foolish to just pass ya over, wouldn’t I?
Hunter, I don’t got too much to say about you. You’re vanilla. Milquetoast. White rice on a paper plate. Glass of milk in a snowstorm. I could go to any indie show back in Philly, or Delaware, or Jersey, and see two guys like you almost every match. I bet you’re a real hit with the dudes online who think that if you can go, you should go straight to the top, but I’m wastin’ words on you, just like you’re wastin’ a roster spot. So what if you can fuckin’ wrestle?
You remind me of me ‘fore I threw some sad music in my intro, some eye-shadow on, and got a tailor to throw me together a pair of ripped up jeans. Throw some nail-polish on, honey-you’ll stand out more. Much like the fans, I’ll forget about you once I move onto the next person here.
Warstein. You talk a lot of shit. You have a smug look on your face. I’d hate it if I wasn’t so into it. You’ve got a catalogue of gold, you’re one of the top 100 wrestlers in the fuckin’ world right now. Am I gonna undersell you? Hell no. You’re not a pushover, you’re not a weak competitor, and I’d be foolish to sell you as such. You’re the kind of guy who other dudes list as an inspiration, a dream match, so on and so forth. Hell, I don’t do dream matches, though if I did, you’d be close to the top.
I know you’ve been slotted in as as tag team guy since you’ve been here, and you and Raven are definitely an impressive unit, but I bet you’re hungry for a taste of the singles life, eh? You want to sharpen your will against some of the best and brightest, the oldest and newest, myself included. You’ve got a sharp tongue, and I’m sure you’re going to start spitting sometime soon, sending us all ass-over-head and our chances slidin’ down the charts.
But Warstein, I’ve got that hunger. I’ve got that desire to prove somethin’. That drive that’s gonna keep me goin’, and goin’, and goin’, until there’s nothin’ else left to go for. Even if I gotta come head to head with a heavy hitter, head-honcho style like yourself, I’ll fuckin’ do it.
You’d be the most sought-after person in this match for that factor, the fightin’ feat i’ll come after you with, if it wasn’t for the last man on our side of the match.
Which is...Indy Darlin’.
I like you, Indy. Don’t get it twisted. Who wouldn’t like you? You’re a guy who’s easy to cheer for. You’re a guy who sorta speaks up for people like us, you’re a guy who’s never made it super big ‘til now, you and I, we can probably share the same gut feeling about not being anybody ‘til now. You’re a renegade, like me, but the difference is I ran away from the chains of my past, you let ‘em drag you down. I’m a bit concerned, Indy, because I know you’re gonna be a hell of a beast to put down, but I’ll be cutting myself short if I’m not gonna fuckin’ try. I respect you, Indy, which ain’t something I say about a lot of people. Just look at what I said about some of the sods above. I’ve got my bad attitude, I’ve got my chipped shoulder, I’ve got a desire to push on past all this shit.
And I damn well will, to get to you.
You’re the singles champ comin’ into this match. The Golden Goose who killed another Golden Goose by the name of Colton Saint to get where you are. That belt of yours, you ain’t seen much action with it much, so lemme get a swing at it. Lemme get a swing at you. Lemme take a bite out of you, see how similar the two of us taste, since you look like my kinda guy, and lemme come ‘round to do that dance with you.
When I’m Tyrant, Indy, you’ll be my first conquest. You dig?”
Blair winks.
-
Scene III - Low on Fuel?
They’d run out of beer more quickly than Blair had anticipated it, so to the streets they went. The bars might’ve been closed, but the twenty-four hour stores were still open. Blair was a bit more drunk than she was, so she hung off of her, limp to the wind like a coat catching breeze. The two laughed, snorted, talked, were obnoxious, but it’s that kind of obnoxiousness you don’t notice at first.
Like, y’know, first date and you really hit it off type shit.
They stumbled and staggered through the street, eventually finding a liquor dispensary attached to a late night bar. They pick out something-the shiniest bottles, the fanciest cans, it didn’t really matter. It’s the kind of drink you have with a connection, where what matters isn’t what you’re drinking, but that you’re having it, period. They nearly slipped out of the store, Blair catching herself and Han tumbling on top of her, but the two had a laugh about it. Blair hauled the other woman up on her shoulders, and Hannah was caught off guard by it for a moment.
“So, where’re we headed? Back to the apartment?” Hannah slips off of Blair’s shoulders, and looks dead at her, but Blair’s glancing ahead, over Hannah’s shoulder to the street beyond.
“Nah, there’s a hill near here. Fuck the apartment, ain’t nothin’ good on TV, right?” Blair cracks a cocky grin. “Let’s head that-a-way.”
And, off they would head. The hills were a twenty minute walk, but when you’re in that state of mind, especially with someone who’s presence makes it all worth it, the time flies by. They joked, they ran, and eventually, they reached the hilltop. The sky was clear, and as they settled against a tree planted at the hill’s top, they each cracked a can of beer and leaned back, enjoying the cold of the night and the stars above. Han leans into Blair’s chest, and Blair takes a long sip from her can as the two stare up at the sky, wordless.
Finally, the silence breaks.
“Hey, Blair?”
…
“Yeah?”
…
“You’re not nearly as unapproachable as you seem to think you are.”
A laugh. From both of them. Blair looks down.
“What makes you say that?”
Han swings around. She crosses her legs.
“You put on that facade, the makeup, the eye-shadow, the ripped up gear when you do your…shows, but you ain’t all that unapproachable. You’re like...you’re sweet, when you dig past all of it.” Hannah chuckles. “Why do you try to hide that?”
Blair thinks for a moment. She thinks back to the time of the once-roadie, the time of the couch-surfer, the time of the non-impressive performer...and she shrugs.
“I’m tryna become somethin’ big, Hannah, and you don’t get big without putin’ on a mean face and pickin’ a couple fights, you know? I don’t...I’m not…” She snaps her fingers as she tries to put words to thoughts. “I’m not bad, not all the way through, but I gotta be as bad as I can to make sure that these motherfuckers never take anything from me ever again. I gotta make sure that I’ve got a boot in the back of their fuckin’ head, a knife to their fuckin’ throat, leave that impression. I can’t let myself fall loose.”
There’s a momentary silence between the two, and Blair’s concerned she scared Hannah away, who sits a few inches away from her as opposed to keeping right up on her as she had prior. Finally, Hannah speaks up.
“But why? It ain’t always you. Not from what I’ve seen...y’know, and I don’t know you as well as some, but I’ve gotten to know you quite a bit from seein’ you and your ilk after the shows. Enough to do, well, this.”
It’s Blair’s moment to pause now. She contemplates her next words carefully, and then speaks.
“Because I don’t wanna be nobody again.”
The two marinate on that thought as we cut to black.
-
Scene IV: Heavy Lies The Crown (Reprise)
The throne has changed. It’s a white ivory and silver color. The cloak has changed too, and the crown, and those prostrating themselves before Blair. Regent tips her crown back on her head for a moment, and cracks a toothy grin.
“And you didn’t think I’d just be payin’ attention to these fine seven competitors, would I? You didn’t think I’d let PG take the blast without lettin’ some of the others take the…Fallout, did ya?”
There’s no answer, and there shouldn’t be. It’s all posturing, of course.
“I’ve heard a few comments about the Fallout roster-‘spot monkeys’, ‘rabid’, ‘crazy’...it’s experimental, to say the least, but you can’t write someone off just ‘cus they’re not on your show, now can ‘ya? I respect you Fallout folk, takin’ your own Magna Carta into hand and settin’ out into this Brave New World, brass balls in your hands and bravado upon your faces. It’s somethin’ I wish I could say I was doing...but the challenges of Proving Ground are much, much greater.
Still, gotta pay yous respect where it’s due, right?”
Blair ticks off her fingers as she considers where to start.
“Let’s go for the big dogs first, eh? Jason Long, otherwise known as Maverick. You’re the big guy in this match, aren’cha? The dude who everybody’s had their eyes on? You fill your waist with gold from ‘round the world, you travel up and down the continents, in search of...y’know, whatever floats your fancy. When you’re not gettin’ banned on twitter, you’re gettin’ fried in the ring, right? I’ve heard people talk you up ‘round the locker rooms I’ve hung ‘round, heard ‘em sell you as the next big thing who just ain’t quite there yet. Prince to Prince, lemme tell you somethin’ real;
You’re the kinda guy to believe people when they piss on you and tell you it’s rainin’.
That’s not entirely to insult your intelligence-despite the tail you chase and the fact that your brain seems t’be focused on bein’ horny all the goddamn time, you are a damn good competitor. But there’s a lotta ass in your match that’s got more brain cells focused on winnin’ than you, and you’re gonna have to negotiate that if you wanna come toe-to-toe with PG, eh? I’ll let you figure that one out.” Blair ticks her next finger off.
“Next up? Who to pick, who to dwell on…Bruce McLeod sounds good! Trained veteran, you’ve been ‘round a couple blocks, haven’t you? Paid your dues and competed. Made some mistakes along the way, as we all have. Amazing what you can find on social media, innit? A cursory glance told me all I needed to know about you! Your vanity, penchant for postin’ pictures of yourself posin’ with your pecs exposed, I’d be impressed if you weren’t like every other hot-and-bothered social media addict in this fuckin’ industry. You got some muscles, you got some wins, and you consider yourself a father to, y’know, all of this.
You aren’t, though.
You wanna be a father, you gotta take care of your house-and this ain’t your house. Ain’t mine, either, not yet. As long as I’ve got fuckin’ flesh in the game, this won’t fall to one of you Fallout fucks. Call it brand loyalty or somethin’...but the checks that i’m gettin’ read Proving Ground, and I’m not about to disappoint them by letting some fuckin’ fossil flatten my face.
And on the topic of F-Words, let’s talk about Julius Fairweather! Set foot on the scene and started flopping about with your own production! Fair-play takin’ the edge out of, well, The Edge. The sharpness of your product might be impressive, considering I’ve seen what you’re sellin’ and been left with a positive impression. I’m sure you’re riding high off that banger showcase against Bruce McLeod, but one man ain’t everything, even if you two put out a hell of a fight. You’re lookin’ for glory and retribution amongst your own peers, to put a name on yourself ahead of Fallout, fittin’ with your ego as you put your own show up to snuff against those already existin’ on this roster.
Truth be told, assumin’ I come toe-to-toe with you in Wargames, the only F-Words I’ll be thinkin’ about are fighting words-fists, flyin’ knees and kicks, so on and so fuckin’ forth. You and I, if we lock up? We’ll be past the speakin’ point.”
Blair runs her hand through her hair and adjusts the crown, blowing a wayward streak out of her face.
“Pyro and Reznik are lookin’ to rebound for...different reasons, y’know? Reznik, you’re an impressive girl, and I wish you all the best goin’ forward in this competition. In a way, you’re one of the few i’m hopin’ to match up against, hopin’ you come out swingin’ and try to put one in my head when I try to put one in yours. I’ve heard about you loomin’ on the edge of somethin’, on the edge of becomin’ somethin’, and that’s a feeling I’m all far too fuckin’ familiar with. Maybe we both make it to the end here, eh? Maybe we both, y’know…show up and out. Maybe we both make the most of all of this, and write our legacy down. I’ll be at the end of all this, but you, doll? I hope you’re there, too.
...Pyro, not so much.
Sorry, I don’t play nice with the trigger-happy flame-fanatic bedwettin’ serial killer types. You want this bad, don’t you? Want somethin’ to hang your hat on, a place from which to watch the world beneath you burn, and you wanna throw that little match to start the whole fuckin’ thing. I quite like having a place to work and get paid, though, so I’ll have to ask that you kindly don’t.”
Blair shrugs.
“Kayla Richards wants to talk shit, and I can see we’re kindred spirits there, what with the dreamkillin’ and what have you. Unfortunately, you won’t be stompin’ me out so easily, Kayla. I’m not gonna spew you some shit about dreams bein’ bulletproof, because I’ve seen my own fall to pieces before, but I’m not about to let you stomp me out, kill me fuckin’ dead, stall my rise the fuck out before I can even hit orbit. I’m not about to end my night under your foot, pinned under your body, I’m not about to let this slip away from me so some foul mouthed fucking Hellion can get what she thinks is hers! The same goes to Victoria Strader, impressive debut, come out fuckin’ swingin’, but you’re gonna have to do a lot better than knocking just one bitch out to come for somethin’ like this. You’re two mean fuckin’ bitches, but the truth is this;
Neither of you want this like I want this!
Neither of you need this like I need this!”
Blair calms herself down a moment, before she continues.
“And, last...Kasey Winterborn. Nice hair, girl.
You...the almost-Grand Champion. The undefeated-since-then competitor. Damn near queen of this company, so close to something, reminding newcomers that if they step before you, they bend the knee. You’re like Indy, in some ways. Damn near everyone likes you, voice for the voiceless type, fist of the underdog type. You want to show the world that you’re capable of more than the office you’ve been given, that you can hang with some of the best and brightest in this competition, that you-and you alone-can become something greater than your peers.
You want to prove that you should have gotten that belt over Dickie, don’t you? Want to show that you deserve the crown of Project: Honor’s first-ever Tyrant?
It’s almost a perfect Cinderella story.
...almost.”
Blair lets her words dwell for a moment as she considers her next move.
“The truth of the matter is, every single one of the sixteen of us in this match has a drive, has a motivation, a desire to pull ahead and win this goddamn thing. Every single one of us wants that crown, every single one of us wants that title and the fuckin’ prestige that comes along with it. I consider this a blessing, an opportunity I wouldn’t get anywhere else, the chance of a lifetime to make a splash, rip the pages of this company’s ol’ history out and scrawl my message across every single one.
Spread my tale across this place.
Scream my name to the heavens.
My name.
…
What’s in a name?
Regent. It’s the one I chose, not the one I was given, although I’ve long since eschewed the former in this one’s favor. My last name did me no favors, but this? This is all mine. This is a destiny i’ve carved out, a desire I’ve drawn forward. Every day in my life, I’ve wanted so desperately not just the ability to be someone, but the chance to prove that I’m worth bein’ someone. That I’m not just the sad girl in the corner of the bar, or the one doin’ the fancy flips, or the one that hauls the amp from place to place chasin’ some bitch who sees ‘em for free labor before anythin’ else.
For too long, I was nobody.
For too long, I had nothing, and when you have nothing, even your first opportunity to get your hands on something is, well...everything.”
Blair adjusts her coat and crown one more time, and stares into the camera-driven, fierce, defiant.
“This my namesake, to guard over this, to hold this position and become the gatekeeper. I already fuckin’ sound like royalty, I might as well take a bite out of the goddamn thing in the process of getting there, too. This name-what I’ve christened myself, what I’ve made my identifier-this is the only thing guaranteed to me. My memory could fade, my body could rot, and I’d still have this name, so I’d best fucking honor it to the best of my ability. I’d best give myself, my opportunity, my pride the best fucking shot I can to be the best in this match.
Because I am hungry-no, not hungry. That doesn’t do it justice. I’m fuckin’ starving. I’m famished. My stomach’s been empty for far too fuckin’ long, and I’m ready to eat. I’m not waitin’ to be called to the table, I’m cutting the line and slamming my plate right down! This is mine, and I damn well am going to take it!”
Blair cools her rage for a moment. She pulls back, and breathes heavily as she lets the crown flop back to the other side of her head. She taps it back into place, and stares dead at the camera.
“So if you want to stop me, if you want to cut me down and prevent me from winning this match, from taking my namesake, you better bring as much weaponry, as much ammunition, as much fire and brimstone as you can muster, because the only way I’m staying down is if you put a stake in my heart, double tap me, and set me on fucking alight.
Otherwise, I will not stop.
I will not give in.
I will become Tyrant.
...or I will fucking die trying.”
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Scene V: Sunrise, Sunset
The first rays of morning sun were what awoke Blair at the hilltop. Curled up in a mix of their jackets, her and Hannah awoke and, as expected, cracked the final two beverages in their possession as a toast to the sunrise. They sat in silence, admiring, for a moment, the world around them-the dew on the grass, drops falling from the trees above, the gentle sounds of animals out in the world.
It was a sort of peace you don’t get often. One that’s more fleeting than we’d ever like it to be.
After a few more minutes of silence, focus, and atmosphere, Hannah finally spoke up. Blair heard her clear her throat, and glanced down to her. She was afraid of what would come next.
“Blair?”
…
“Yeah?”
“I want you to know that you are someone to me, alright? No matter what comes after this, you’re a person. Not disposable.”
“Thanks.”
...
“Hey, Blair?”
“Yeah?”
“Go out there and show ‘em why you are somebody, something, whatever you wanna be. Go kill those motherfuckers. And whenever you leave-win, lose, whatever-so long as you’ve still got air in your lungs, I’ll be waitin’ for you. Maybe even if you don’t.”
There’s a wink. A bit of cheekiness A laugh between the two of them, and then a return to silence.
A contemplative, but positive one.
fin.