Post by dawnhalliwell on Feb 1, 2018 3:29:05 GMT -5
“-king dammit, Viv… could have kept my old trusty handheld camcorder. I knew how to use the camcorder, but OH NO, I can’t film my promos on that! It was made in 2004! I need some high-tech top of the line thingamajig that I don’t KNOW HOW TO FUCKING TURN ON! Wait, there’s a light there… what’s that light mean, so-called handy manual? Let’s see… oh, great, it is recording, but only my voice. Fan-fucking-tastic. Okay, so that just means that I have to… There!”
Dawn Halliwell is leaning in close to the camera when she comes into view, already looking pissed off. What is obviously a hotel room is visible behind her, and after she appears she moves away and sits on a chair near the window.
“How much of that pissed-off rant did I catch? Ugh, fuck it, not worth messing around with it more to restart. Anyways…
What the FUCK is up Boston?!”
Dawn claps her hands and rubs them together excitedly. “It is so damn good to be back in business. As some of you kiddos at home know I was put out of commission for a few months by a psycho BITCH over Imperial way. I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit in my time, and I’ve always been told to expect the unexpected in the ring… but I never thought I’d see the day when someone snapped and tried to fuckin’ eat me.”
She tilts her head back and points to the bite-marks on her throat.
“Yeah, that was fucking nuts. Three dislocated fingers, one broken. Multiple cuts on arms and torso, deep lacerations into neck. 92 stitches in total. Two bruised ribs. Seven missing teeth, six broken, and a cracked jaw. Moderate eye damage. Oh, and one of her scratches went so deep that it nicked a kidney. Least I got my smile back! Gotta love that sweet, sweet dental insurance.”
She flashes a toothy grin to emphasize her point.
“Week and a half in the hospital. Month in PT to make sure I’d properly recovered. Spike Kane himself invited me to his school to help make sure I got fighting fucking fit. Timing couldn’t have been better. Got a chance along the way to start up a new Women’s Division out here in Boston… and you’d better believe that felt like a homecoming. Just a half-hour drive from my home town? That right there is some fucking kismet – you’re damn right I said yes.”
“… Vivienne what the fuck is this?”
All of her three roommates were gathered in the kitchen – Vivienne, Ciara, and Cals. There was a cake on the table.
“Well, you’re leaving in the morning,” Vivienne explained happily. It was always happily. She’d be talking happily if she were being actively eaten by a swarm of rabid hornets, probably explaining to the nearest person that hornets deserved love. Once, Dawn had walked in on Vivienne crying, and when asked what was wrong Viv had earnestly declared how sad she was that snakes didn’t have arms, and as such couldn’t hug.
“… And?”
“And… so… it’s a good luck party. Thing.”
“She does this any time someone leaves for any amount of time,” Cals explained with a grin. Cals wasn’t her real name. Dawn didn’t know her real name. When she’d asked when she moved in after getting released from the hospital, Viv had abruptly changed the subject. Apparently “don’t ask about Cals” was the number one rule of the house.
“You’re going back into the ring for the first time after being… uh…”
“Rowan’d,” Ciara finished. Ciara and Dawn had grown pretty tight since Dawn had moved in. Ciara was even going to be leaving with her in the morning, having offered to take on Dawn as a new client. She’d said that if anyone needed a manager to keep them focused, it was Dawn. There’d been a fistfight at that statement, but even Dawn had to admit that Ciara had a point… if only because Ciara won said fistfight. Dawn had insisted ever since that Ciara only won because she’d just gotten out of the hospital, but had never asked for a rematch. The truth was that her new manager kind of scared her.
“… You’re… throwing a party?” Dawn asked slowly. “For… me?”
“… Yes?”
Dawn dashed forward and pulled Vivienne into a firm hug, beaming – only just managing to not cry. It was the first time anyone had made such a gesture.
“Thank you,” she croaked. “I’m going to miss you guys. I’ll try to spend as much time as I can up here between matches.”
Vivienne beamed. “Promise?”
Dawn pulled away and nodded. “Hell yeah.”
Vivienne bounced on her heels. “Awesome. Let’s eat cake."
“You wanna know something funny? I’ve never been in a tag match before. You’d think such a well-fucking-spoken bitch like myself would be ass deep in invitations to join forces, but apparently I don’t give off much of a ‘team player’ vibe. I’ve never met Caitlyn Wright before, but I get the feeling we’re gonna tear shit up HARD. I mean, yeah, she’s a fuckin’ nerd and – even worse – a Jersey kid… but I’m not the sorta gal who’s gonna look down on that too hard. Girl’s a fighter, and even if she’s not the most trained joker in the pack, I know how far a rock-hard drive will take you. So Caitlyn? Let’s fucking roll.
At least my physical therapist will be happy that even in my first match back I’m still taking it easy.
’Sup, Hilton? Oh, yeah, I remember you. We may never have crossed paths in the old stomping grounds, but I sure remember who you are. I mostly remember how much of a fucking laughing stock you were.
And by all accounts still pretty much are.
Tell me, Crystal-honey – how long has it been since you actually won something? I mean, not just a match, but… anything at all. Seriously, I’m willing to wait here, because by all accounts you’re gonna have to go pretty far back in your fucking calendar. I mean, far be it from me to mock the suffering of others, but… well shit, that’s actually one of my favorite fucking passtimes. But I tell you… I almost feel like I can’t dig in on you. I mean, you’ve just been losing fucking everything lately, haven’t you? Matches… marriages… cultural relevance… respectability as an athlete. I almost don’t want to rag on you for all of it, because I’m usually not one for striking at low hanging fruit. What’s the fun of hitting an easy target?
Won’t stop me from hitting you in the ring, though.
When it comes down to it, Crystal, you’ve got fucking nothing to threaten me with. You’ve got your zippy-flippy-lucha what the fuck ever you want to call it. All that’s going to do for you is get you closer to me faster. You’ll be so fucking busy showing off for no good goddamn reason, begging for attention like a gilded whore – and then I’ll grab you, get you on the ground, and squeeze until you break. You’re not a fighter, Crystal. You’re a shiny little porcelain doll – and I can and will break you with my bare hands.
That said, maybe you’ll spend the whole time hiding behind your partner – Zelda Knite. Zelda Knite? Seriously? I’m getting pitted against little miss ‘I’m a gamer girl and there’s nothing else special about me’? Someone who’s taller than me, but has so little meat on her bones that I have to worry about breaking her like a fucking twig? I swear to Christ, Zelda, when I saw what your billing weight is my jaw hit the fucking floor – it’s rare for me to find that I have a 20 pound weight advantage on someone. What the fuck do you eat?
But sure, you know what? Fine. I get it. You’re not just some random bitch. You’re a legend. Wrestling royalty. You’d probably have me bow down and scrape at your feet before “the queen of NCW”. By all rights I should simply sit here, basking in the glory of your prestige…
Because I am clearly such a fucking SLUT for prestige.
Let me break it down for you, Zelda -
You. Mean. Nothing. To. Me.
All you are is a spoiled fucking brat who got told she was pretty too many fucking times. Do you have any idea how many little shits like you I put down in high school? You are the definition of the kid who was just begging to have their lunch money stolen. You had your glory days where nobody could touch you… but those achievements pale in comparison to the legendary tantrum you threw when you finally lost. Oh, back when I was still getting trained, Emma had STORIES to tell about you, I’ll tell you what. The look on your face when you lost your belt to her… she actually has a screenshot from that episode framed in her training center. Hilarious shit.
You’re nothing but a spoiled, entitled little shitstain who’s long since forgotten that everything in this life is temporary. While everyone else in the world might be seeing me going against a titan, but all I see is a whining, petulant child. So when we get in that ring, I am gunning RIGHT for you, Zelda. I'm coming for you, I'm going to lock your ass in the Living Dead Girl, and I'm going to leave you coughing up blood for a week - because you are someone in desperate need of a beating.
And that’s what I do best. Beating people. Breaking things. The family fucking business.
And with Spike Kane in charge… Combat Wrestling IS my family business.”
Dawn jumped down from the practice ring, sweating hard but smiling harder. Spike Kane tossed her a towel and gestured for her to take a seat at the nearby bench. She obliged, and he joined her.
“Yeah, as far as I’m concerned? You’re ready to get back in the ring. Damn proud to see how quickly you’ve recovered.”
Dawn cracked her neck, breathing hard from the regimen that Spike had drilled her through as a proving. She’d been asking for days if she could get in on the ground floor of Combat Wrestling, and he had finally relented to give her a shot – IF she could prove she’d recovered. Despite the exhaustion and the aches from what she’d been put through, she couldn’t remember being happier in her life… which was strange, for her, given the circumstances.
“I’m just glad that my career wasn’t over, you know? That… that would have sucked, after everything. I just wish…”
She shook her head. Memories of her mother on her deathbed hit her hard, and she couldn’t finish the sentence. Spike seemed to look right through her.
“She’d be proud of you, too,” he said quietly.
Dawn scratched the back of her neck, looking away. “Thanks…”
“She raised you alone?”
Dawn nodded. “Yeah. Dad… was never in the picture, growing up.”
Her hand instinctively went to her pocket, where she still held the slip of paper that held her mother’s last message to her – her father’s name.
"Whoever your old man is, kid? He's an asshole. He should be here with you."
Dawn was quiet for a while before responding. "I told myself for 20 years that when I saw him I'd punch the motherfucker in the dick. But... I got better shit to do."
Spike looked at the floor. "My old man was a twisted fuck. Faked his death, drove my mom to suicide... then showed up at the orphanage I was at. Sick bastard made us fight each other."
"Mine probably never knew I existed. Knocked up my mom in a post match party celebrating a win. She wouldn't tell me who he was until she was dead. Left a note with the nurse."
"Heh..." Spike smiled very slightly with nostalgia. "That's kind of how I ended up with Wa....Warren... I didn't know."
"Turns out he lives in a mansion and might have been able to afford to help her pay for medication that might have saved her life. I can only guess why she didn't try to reach out."
Spike cocked an eyebrow. "Pride maybe? I mean, I guess that's why I lied about not having cancer."
Dawn sighed. "Might have been because she figured the mess wouldn't work. Just make shit worse before the end. She wouldn't take radiation or chemo."
"Some people just wanna go out their own way, I guess."
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry? For what it's worth."
“I…” Dawn closed her eyes. Steeling herself, she spoke – slowly. Quietly. Deliberately. "Her name was Abigail. Abigail Halliwell. She was a strong woman all the time I knew her. Career bartender. Worked down in Boston for a few years when she was young before moving back to Salem when her sister got hit by a car."
Spike's head jerked a little. The name sounding, somehow, familiar....
Dawn opened her eyes, turning and staring at him without blinking. "She slept with a guy who'd just won his first match in the US."
"Oh... fuck."
She reached into her pocket and removed a small scrap of paper - old, but carefully preserved. She unfolded it and handed it to him. His hand shook very slightly as he took it, opening it expressionlessly as he read the words – his own name.
"This is the part where if things weren't fucked I'd be punching you in the dick.”
Spike turned and stared at her for a few long moments, seeming completely at a loss for what to say.
He lowered his head, rubbing his forehead with his forefinger and thumb. "Jesus Christ, kid... I'm so sorry."
She sighed. "Aw, fuck… look. You don't need to apologize. I don't want that. I just... figured you might wanna know or something. I don't expect you to do anything with it. You don't know me and as far as I'm concerned you're not under any obligation to. This isn't me trying to extort twenty-one years of birthday presents out of you or whatever."
"Ha... well. A lot of people think I'm an asshole. I'm really not once you get to know me. As I said, as far as I'm concerned you're good for the ring. If IWF doesn't say so, then at least I know we'd love to have you in Combat. I'd... love you have you in Combat. And when you're there... if you're interested... maybe we can get to know each other a little. Give me a chance to at least try and be there for you."
Dawn froze. He wasn’t turning her away. He wasn’t calling her a liar. All of her fears of this moment, all the anger… it was all melting away. Instead, at last… acceptance. Her fears of what would happen when she finally told him hadn’t come to pass, and instead he honestly wanted to make up for lost time. She wanted to laugh, scream, cry, dance… but instead, she simply managed a small grin.
"I’d… like that. Okay. You're on, old man."
"Oh yeah - you fuckers heard that correctly."
She spreads her arms wide.
"My name is Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
And I am the Daughter of the Blood God.
So all I have left to say is this:”
And I am the Daughter of the Blood God.
So all I have left to say is this:”
Her face breaks into a savage grin.
“ALL.
BLOODY.
HAIL."