Post by Bonnie Blue on May 20, 2018 16:56:59 GMT -5
Bonfire blazes under the night sky, lights sand and surf in flickering yellow-orange. Waves hit the beach and recede again, playing at delicate bare toes. Perched on the tailgate of her 2017 Ford Ranchero, Bonnie Blue watches the evening tide, a distant look in her sea-blue eyes as she lifts a smoldering blunt to pink-glossed lips. A long draw; a slow exhale; smoky haze drifts away on night's steady breeze.
“Well, here we are. Havoc come an’ gone; an’ ya girl -- I done exactly what I said I was gonna. I knew there was no chance of winning, not for me. I'm not, I dunno… on that level anymore? I guess. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Wade was the real hero of the night, an’ even if we ain't together no more -- “
Biting her lip, the young goddess pauses, turning her face from the camera to wipe an errant grain of sand from her eye. Another drag off the blunt brings a modicum of composure; a hint of a smile as she looks up again.
“Point is, I couldn't be happier for him. Or more grateful -- that chair shot coulda ended my night real early. But it didn't, and I finally got the upper hand on those three cheatin’-ass douchebags. Honestly, if them shitty little tag belts mean that fucking much to y'all, keep ‘em. They're worthless so long as Team InCel has ‘em anyhow -- and unlike y'all, I don't need the money. So fuck you and fuck your trash titles. You make a mockery of the entire division, and so does every loser tag team that's popped up since Havoc.
Just like this company continues to make a mockery of me. Right back to the undercard for ya girl Bonnie. Whatever. Who cares? I ain't shit without my Guardians, or the dregs of #beachkrew.
But for real, what is this shit? Claire fucking Hawkins, the ‘Metal Witch’? So, y'know, I'm watching these matches, and like, she has a victory over Bishop. Not Kevin Bishop, the man I beat in an electrified steel cage for the UCI World Championship -- just plain Bishop, who hasn't been relevant since like Twenty-Ten?
Then I at least expected that, calling herself a ‘metal witch’, maybe she had the ability to manipulate magnetic fields or some kinda telekinesis -- an’ yet again, disappointment. I sat through promo after promo, looking for anything remotely interesting about this bitch, and what do I get?
Black Canary.”
Taking another hit from the blunt, Bonnie gives a theatrical shrug.
“Well, I guess a little bit Zatanna, too. Throw in the emotional maturity of a three-year-old with Tourette’s, and that's Claire. Like for real, bitch wanna play like she a badass; like she all about that brutality. Oh, yeah, you really had it made last week at Havoc, didn't ya, sugar? Uh-huh, right in the middle of all that chaos, where ya do your best work, right?
Ell-Oh-Effing-Ell!!!
So, was falling right on your face part of your plan the whole time, or were ya just winging it?
Wait, I know! All that action got ya so hawt, ya just couldn't contain yaself. It was so damn hardcore, ya couldn't control the SLICK, ain't that right, babygurl?”
Smirking, Bonnie shakes her head.
“Nah. It ain't. You the kinda girl, like to pretend ya into that rough shit, but you the first one screaming the safe word the second you even think it might hurt. That's all you good for, honey -- you got a shriek that would get Roger Corman rock hard for days, and a backstory so cheesy, he'd film it.
Oooh, she's a scary witch!
Y'know, except for the scary part. Bitch, do you even have the first clue who I am?
I am Bonnie mothafuckin’ Blue -- the young goddess, the Daughter of Time, the #DeepBlueSea -- and I ain't losing to a spoiled little skank like you. Fuck you. I've seen your interviews, your promotional videos; and it's all the same: Claire Hawkins bein’ an over-emotional cunt. Yeah, it's called Zoloft, maybe try it sometime.
I mean, nah, I get it. If I were a talentless waste of space, I'd probably take it out on defenseless interviewers, too.”
A slight frown creases her brow as the Time Witch appears to reconsider her own words.
“Oh, wait. No, I wouldn't. I mean, I lose ninety percent of the time, and not once have I terrorized anybody over it. Because I'm not a useless twat-waffle. You don't prove shit beating on poor journalists, except that you ain't got the SLICK to handle real competition.
Lemme tell ya about competition, babygurl.
I been in that ring with gods and monsters; with demons and angels, psychopaths and saints. Earlier this year, I stood toe-to-toe with Odin Balfore himself, and in the end, it wasn't Ragnarok that took ya girl down. Nah. It was a hasty knockout punch, borne of desperation.
Of fear. I made the Allfather fear the Time Witch -- only for a moment, but that moment is mine forever. After that, I went on to claim the Dubya-See-Eff Hardcore title -- only the third woman in seventeen years to have done so. Yeah, you think you're hard, Claire -- but you ain't no Bonnie Blue.
I was You-See-Eye’s golden girl, the most decorated wrestler on the roster; former World Champion and triple crown winner. The biggest accomplishment in your career is being spank bank filler. That's it. That's where you top out.”
Slender shoulders rise and fall in a shrug of supreme unconcern.
“You were right about one thing. This is a big, big ocean, little fish, full of predators -- and prey. So you got two options: bend the knee, or get rolled over by the #DeepBlueSea.”
Her mind replayed the scene again: cornered by Stapleton and Shaw, a steel chair brandished high overhead. And as she braced herself for the inevitable -- he was there. She saw him wince under the impact meant for her as the tide of battle swept them apart.
He'd risked his own victory to protect her.
That meant something, didn't it?
Bonnie Blue shook her head. She wasn't certain of anything. They'd both said things they couldn't take back, but the young goddess knew she'd been far crueler. The Serpent’s venom twisted sinuous through her veins; coiled within and ready to strike.
”I did this,” she said aloud, to no one in particular.
Soft, southern tones echoed off the hard concrete walls of the Guardians’ subterranean headquarters, somewhere beneath the streets of Chicago. R-Seven, the android formerly known as “Boudlebot,” glanced up at her from its charging port with a machinelike expression of curiosity.
”I was so afraid of losing him -- again -- I pushed him away. Too far. And now I don't know if… “
The Time Witch trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought. Everyone had told her this was how it would end, after all. She didn't want to believe it, not then. Not now. It wasn't as if Bonnie hadn't known him for what he was, hadn't seen firsthand the monstrous acts Wade Moor had committed. But she knew the man within, too, struggling against his own savage nature. And she loved them both, the monster and the man alike.
“Maybe Wade had a point, Seven. About distractions. I mean, he won Havoc. Reckon he shoulda cut me loose a lot sooner.”
With an exaggerated eye-roll, the android huffed derisively.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Miss Blue. What’s done is done. Either tell the man how you feel, or move on.”
”Or… I could save us both a lot of pain. Go back and put a stop to the whole thing before it gets serious.”
“Right. Because that won't blow up in your face. Remember when you tried that with Sanchez?”
”Yeah, maybe not,” Bonnie agreed.
Still, as she worked to improve Seven’s integration with his android interface, Bonnie couldn't help thinking it might've been easier on them both if she and Wade had never gotten involved. Or if things had stayed casual. Maybe she should never have pushed things further. Bonnie had been the one to say she'd loved him first. Maybe he hadn't really meant it; she'd just put him on the spot, caught him by surprise.
Adding a final touch of solder, the young goddess closed the maintenance panel and watched the synthetic skin heal itself in seconds. While the android settled in to update and reboot, Bonnie grabbed her duffel bag and hurried down the twisting, brick-lined tunnel; used in the Prohibition days by bootleggers to run liquor from the Chicago Bay into town. The corridor wound under the streets, around the sewers, and let her out into the basement under the now-abandoned St. Therese’s Chinese Catholic Church. The property belonged to the late Armand De LaFontaine, subsequently willed to his protege Preecha Kamon; and lately,reclaimed by Bonnie as her personal gym.
Except, as she crossed the threshold, a chill ran up her spine. Weakness seized her suddenly. Gray spots swam before her eyes, expanded to fill her view -- then just as suddenly, receded again. When her vision cleared, everything was different.
Florescent lights shone down on gleaming-new equipment. Still in a gym, one half-recalled from over a year ago. Bonnie cast back in her mind as her gaze traveled over rows of weights, machines, treadmills, bikes. Her phone chimed an alert, distracting her briefly as she checked.
Twitter. A message from Wade. Brow furrowed, she read it again -- and remembered. This was the day, right after she'd celebrated her first decisive victory over David Sanchez, when it had all begun. Somehow, Bonnie had crossed her own timeline to wind up in the past. And on the precise date that could change everything. All she needed to do was say no.
With trembling fingers, Bonnie pressed “reply.”
And with all her will, she wanted to type out “Not interested.”
But to her dismay, (or was it relief?) her fingers slid across the touchscreen, spelling out the same words as before: “Gelato sounds great. I'll msg you as soon as I'm done at the gym.”
It was sent; there was nothing she could do. Her lips turned up in a smile as she tucked away the phone, going through all the same motions as before. Her heart beat just a little faster in anticipation, forcibly reminding Bonnie of how she'd felt that day. Already riding the high of a hard won triumph, she had been flattered at Wade's invitation. Excited at the prospect of going out with him, curious what might happen. The chemistry between them had always been volatile, but now it was less gunpowder, more fireworks.
How could she have turned him down?
How could she take that experience from them, knowing what was to come?
Bonnie knew the answer -- she had all along. She wouldn't have changed their relationship for any reason, and certainly nothing so petty as trying to spare herself a broken heart. She'd fix a few mistakes, though. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe if she --
A sudden jolt of electricity shocked her from her reverie.
Blinking, Bonnie Blue looked up into the concerned crimson eyes of Ripper-Seven as the android leaned over her. She saw an electrode retreat back into his index finger as he helped her sit up. Beneath her was the dusty stone floor of the church sub-basement. The young goddess frowned.
”What happened?” she asked, still reeling from her abrupt return to the present.
“Your vital signs spiked simultaneously,” explained the artificial intelligence. “And then you blacked out. Do you remember anything?”
Slowly, Bonnie shook her head.
“Nah,” she lied. “Nothing after coming down here. Probably just stress. Not like there ain't plenty of that going around.”
Seven gazed at her, clearly unconvinced. Bonnie wished again that Rabid hadn't programned the damn thing quite so thoroughly. They stared each other down, woman and machine, in silent, mutual challenge. At last, R-7 nodded curtly and helped her to her feet.
“Bioscan indicates no further anomalous readings,” the robot told her, and then stalked stiffly away, leaving the Daughter of Time deep in contemplation.
What had actually happened? Was it all just the fevered imagining of an exhausted mind? Or had she, somehow, involuntary traveled back along her own past; and if so… why?
They were questions with no immediate answers, so Bonnie shoved them aside. For now, she had one single, driving focus that shut out everything else: Claire Hawkins.
Her overriding motivation: annihilation.
“Well, here we are. Havoc come an’ gone; an’ ya girl -- I done exactly what I said I was gonna. I knew there was no chance of winning, not for me. I'm not, I dunno… on that level anymore? I guess. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Wade was the real hero of the night, an’ even if we ain't together no more -- “
Biting her lip, the young goddess pauses, turning her face from the camera to wipe an errant grain of sand from her eye. Another drag off the blunt brings a modicum of composure; a hint of a smile as she looks up again.
“Point is, I couldn't be happier for him. Or more grateful -- that chair shot coulda ended my night real early. But it didn't, and I finally got the upper hand on those three cheatin’-ass douchebags. Honestly, if them shitty little tag belts mean that fucking much to y'all, keep ‘em. They're worthless so long as Team InCel has ‘em anyhow -- and unlike y'all, I don't need the money. So fuck you and fuck your trash titles. You make a mockery of the entire division, and so does every loser tag team that's popped up since Havoc.
Just like this company continues to make a mockery of me. Right back to the undercard for ya girl Bonnie. Whatever. Who cares? I ain't shit without my Guardians, or the dregs of #beachkrew.
But for real, what is this shit? Claire fucking Hawkins, the ‘Metal Witch’? So, y'know, I'm watching these matches, and like, she has a victory over Bishop. Not Kevin Bishop, the man I beat in an electrified steel cage for the UCI World Championship -- just plain Bishop, who hasn't been relevant since like Twenty-Ten?
Then I at least expected that, calling herself a ‘metal witch’, maybe she had the ability to manipulate magnetic fields or some kinda telekinesis -- an’ yet again, disappointment. I sat through promo after promo, looking for anything remotely interesting about this bitch, and what do I get?
Black Canary.”
Taking another hit from the blunt, Bonnie gives a theatrical shrug.
“Well, I guess a little bit Zatanna, too. Throw in the emotional maturity of a three-year-old with Tourette’s, and that's Claire. Like for real, bitch wanna play like she a badass; like she all about that brutality. Oh, yeah, you really had it made last week at Havoc, didn't ya, sugar? Uh-huh, right in the middle of all that chaos, where ya do your best work, right?
Ell-Oh-Effing-Ell!!!
So, was falling right on your face part of your plan the whole time, or were ya just winging it?
Wait, I know! All that action got ya so hawt, ya just couldn't contain yaself. It was so damn hardcore, ya couldn't control the SLICK, ain't that right, babygurl?”
Smirking, Bonnie shakes her head.
“Nah. It ain't. You the kinda girl, like to pretend ya into that rough shit, but you the first one screaming the safe word the second you even think it might hurt. That's all you good for, honey -- you got a shriek that would get Roger Corman rock hard for days, and a backstory so cheesy, he'd film it.
Oooh, she's a scary witch!
Y'know, except for the scary part. Bitch, do you even have the first clue who I am?
I am Bonnie mothafuckin’ Blue -- the young goddess, the Daughter of Time, the #DeepBlueSea -- and I ain't losing to a spoiled little skank like you. Fuck you. I've seen your interviews, your promotional videos; and it's all the same: Claire Hawkins bein’ an over-emotional cunt. Yeah, it's called Zoloft, maybe try it sometime.
I mean, nah, I get it. If I were a talentless waste of space, I'd probably take it out on defenseless interviewers, too.”
A slight frown creases her brow as the Time Witch appears to reconsider her own words.
“Oh, wait. No, I wouldn't. I mean, I lose ninety percent of the time, and not once have I terrorized anybody over it. Because I'm not a useless twat-waffle. You don't prove shit beating on poor journalists, except that you ain't got the SLICK to handle real competition.
Lemme tell ya about competition, babygurl.
I been in that ring with gods and monsters; with demons and angels, psychopaths and saints. Earlier this year, I stood toe-to-toe with Odin Balfore himself, and in the end, it wasn't Ragnarok that took ya girl down. Nah. It was a hasty knockout punch, borne of desperation.
Of fear. I made the Allfather fear the Time Witch -- only for a moment, but that moment is mine forever. After that, I went on to claim the Dubya-See-Eff Hardcore title -- only the third woman in seventeen years to have done so. Yeah, you think you're hard, Claire -- but you ain't no Bonnie Blue.
I was You-See-Eye’s golden girl, the most decorated wrestler on the roster; former World Champion and triple crown winner. The biggest accomplishment in your career is being spank bank filler. That's it. That's where you top out.”
Slender shoulders rise and fall in a shrug of supreme unconcern.
“You were right about one thing. This is a big, big ocean, little fish, full of predators -- and prey. So you got two options: bend the knee, or get rolled over by the #DeepBlueSea.”
*******************************************
Her mind replayed the scene again: cornered by Stapleton and Shaw, a steel chair brandished high overhead. And as she braced herself for the inevitable -- he was there. She saw him wince under the impact meant for her as the tide of battle swept them apart.
He'd risked his own victory to protect her.
That meant something, didn't it?
Bonnie Blue shook her head. She wasn't certain of anything. They'd both said things they couldn't take back, but the young goddess knew she'd been far crueler. The Serpent’s venom twisted sinuous through her veins; coiled within and ready to strike.
”I did this,” she said aloud, to no one in particular.
Soft, southern tones echoed off the hard concrete walls of the Guardians’ subterranean headquarters, somewhere beneath the streets of Chicago. R-Seven, the android formerly known as “Boudlebot,” glanced up at her from its charging port with a machinelike expression of curiosity.
”I was so afraid of losing him -- again -- I pushed him away. Too far. And now I don't know if… “
The Time Witch trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought. Everyone had told her this was how it would end, after all. She didn't want to believe it, not then. Not now. It wasn't as if Bonnie hadn't known him for what he was, hadn't seen firsthand the monstrous acts Wade Moor had committed. But she knew the man within, too, struggling against his own savage nature. And she loved them both, the monster and the man alike.
“Maybe Wade had a point, Seven. About distractions. I mean, he won Havoc. Reckon he shoulda cut me loose a lot sooner.”
With an exaggerated eye-roll, the android huffed derisively.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Miss Blue. What’s done is done. Either tell the man how you feel, or move on.”
”Or… I could save us both a lot of pain. Go back and put a stop to the whole thing before it gets serious.”
“Right. Because that won't blow up in your face. Remember when you tried that with Sanchez?”
”Yeah, maybe not,” Bonnie agreed.
Still, as she worked to improve Seven’s integration with his android interface, Bonnie couldn't help thinking it might've been easier on them both if she and Wade had never gotten involved. Or if things had stayed casual. Maybe she should never have pushed things further. Bonnie had been the one to say she'd loved him first. Maybe he hadn't really meant it; she'd just put him on the spot, caught him by surprise.
Adding a final touch of solder, the young goddess closed the maintenance panel and watched the synthetic skin heal itself in seconds. While the android settled in to update and reboot, Bonnie grabbed her duffel bag and hurried down the twisting, brick-lined tunnel; used in the Prohibition days by bootleggers to run liquor from the Chicago Bay into town. The corridor wound under the streets, around the sewers, and let her out into the basement under the now-abandoned St. Therese’s Chinese Catholic Church. The property belonged to the late Armand De LaFontaine, subsequently willed to his protege Preecha Kamon; and lately,reclaimed by Bonnie as her personal gym.
Except, as she crossed the threshold, a chill ran up her spine. Weakness seized her suddenly. Gray spots swam before her eyes, expanded to fill her view -- then just as suddenly, receded again. When her vision cleared, everything was different.
Florescent lights shone down on gleaming-new equipment. Still in a gym, one half-recalled from over a year ago. Bonnie cast back in her mind as her gaze traveled over rows of weights, machines, treadmills, bikes. Her phone chimed an alert, distracting her briefly as she checked.
Twitter. A message from Wade. Brow furrowed, she read it again -- and remembered. This was the day, right after she'd celebrated her first decisive victory over David Sanchez, when it had all begun. Somehow, Bonnie had crossed her own timeline to wind up in the past. And on the precise date that could change everything. All she needed to do was say no.
With trembling fingers, Bonnie pressed “reply.”
And with all her will, she wanted to type out “Not interested.”
But to her dismay, (or was it relief?) her fingers slid across the touchscreen, spelling out the same words as before: “Gelato sounds great. I'll msg you as soon as I'm done at the gym.”
It was sent; there was nothing she could do. Her lips turned up in a smile as she tucked away the phone, going through all the same motions as before. Her heart beat just a little faster in anticipation, forcibly reminding Bonnie of how she'd felt that day. Already riding the high of a hard won triumph, she had been flattered at Wade's invitation. Excited at the prospect of going out with him, curious what might happen. The chemistry between them had always been volatile, but now it was less gunpowder, more fireworks.
How could she have turned him down?
How could she take that experience from them, knowing what was to come?
Bonnie knew the answer -- she had all along. She wouldn't have changed their relationship for any reason, and certainly nothing so petty as trying to spare herself a broken heart. She'd fix a few mistakes, though. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe if she --
A sudden jolt of electricity shocked her from her reverie.
Blinking, Bonnie Blue looked up into the concerned crimson eyes of Ripper-Seven as the android leaned over her. She saw an electrode retreat back into his index finger as he helped her sit up. Beneath her was the dusty stone floor of the church sub-basement. The young goddess frowned.
”What happened?” she asked, still reeling from her abrupt return to the present.
“Your vital signs spiked simultaneously,” explained the artificial intelligence. “And then you blacked out. Do you remember anything?”
Slowly, Bonnie shook her head.
“Nah,” she lied. “Nothing after coming down here. Probably just stress. Not like there ain't plenty of that going around.”
Seven gazed at her, clearly unconvinced. Bonnie wished again that Rabid hadn't programned the damn thing quite so thoroughly. They stared each other down, woman and machine, in silent, mutual challenge. At last, R-7 nodded curtly and helped her to her feet.
“Bioscan indicates no further anomalous readings,” the robot told her, and then stalked stiffly away, leaving the Daughter of Time deep in contemplation.
What had actually happened? Was it all just the fevered imagining of an exhausted mind? Or had she, somehow, involuntary traveled back along her own past; and if so… why?
They were questions with no immediate answers, so Bonnie shoved them aside. For now, she had one single, driving focus that shut out everything else: Claire Hawkins.
Her overriding motivation: annihilation.