Siobhan Townsend vs. Abigail Lindsay

[THEAdmin]

Singles Match
Siobhan Townsend vs. Abigail Lindsay

Deadline: 6-17-14 at Midnight CST

[Siobhan Townsend]

OOC Note: While I have known about my opponent's fatigue, I went ahead and did a proper promo anyway. I blame my inability to half-ass things even when I have the chance to, eheh.

Wednesday, June 4th, 2014
11:55 PM
Townsend Residence

The sting of hydrogen peroxide is no stranger to Siobhan.

Truth be told, if she could get away with it? She'd be cauterizing the open wounds she has herself, but her husband would never let her hear the end of it. 'It's too barbaric,' he'd say, before trying to convince her to let a doctor lay his hands on her... and so the two have come to a compromise. So long as she treats her wounds in a way that he approves of, he lets her steer clear of a profession that she has disdain for on the best of days. That means having to haul out that large, simple brown bottle and liquid bandages, the only thing she finds remotely close to being a substitute for what she'd rather. Staring down her reflection in the mirror, the Requiem tips the bottle-- a fresh wave of pain hitting her as the hydrogen peroxide subtly foams. She doesn't so much as flinch, though, her gaze remaining level as she lets the antibacterial liquid do its work. There is no one to posture for, no one that would know any better if she winced or even cried out in pain... but she would know.

And with her luck?

Crimson smeared along white tile, the blood almost cartoonishly bright but she didn't dare say a word to disturb the stranger she found in the bathroom--

So would he.

--a stranger who was currently busy cleansing himself without much concern for the mess he was making in the process. Blood covered his lithe frame, from his collar bone down to the weathered khaki-cum-crimson cargo pants that barely hung onto his hips, staining his pale white flesh so thoroughly that it seemed as though it would never come off. The majority of it wasn't his - minor, shallow wounds were visible upon the webbing of his hands - but such things were beyond him; it was just an annoyance, pure and simple. Dipping a wash rag into the basin of water, he took a few long moments to wring out the pinkish water from the ruined cloth before he went back to his task. All the while, those wounds upon his hands continued to weep a waning river of blood along his palms-- a fact he seemed ignorant, if not apathetic, to as he worked. Staring into the mirror with eyes that seemed to never blink, he observed his work, mopping away congealing fluid and rinsing his tool of choice out before carrying on. No breaks. No rest. No matter what the subtle dark rings beneath his eyes said-there was work to be done, a task always at hand and an objective to complete.

That task was interrupted by something small and soft bumping his shoulder.

There's another tip of that bottle, another shot of pain to her senses-- but still Siobhan doesn't blink. She doesn't dare let herself blink, one might think if they were watching on... and they wouldn't be far from the truth. Putting the bottle aside, her hand moves to dunk that wash rag into the hot water in front of her, swishing it about before bringing it up to the dried blood upon her cheek.

Here.

The eight-year-old blond regarded the stranger without so much as an inkling of fear-- quite the feat, considering the circumstances. For a few moments, the man remained motionless; his eyes seen shifting in the mirror's reflection to view the girl and her terry cloth offering. He didn't look back at her, nor did he seem to pay her much mind. Without so much as a word, he was placing the ruined cloth in his hand upon the countertop before reaching back to accept the one she held out and went back to the act of cleaning himself as though she were never there in the first place.Even if his expression gave away nothing, Siobhan remained right where she was-- as if waiting for him to say something to acknowledge her assistance. In reality?

She was transfixed by what she saw.

Allowing the red-stained cloth to tumble from her fingers, those blue eyes that captivated her husband and struck fear into the hearts of those that tried to intimidate her only to find no response subtly widen. Leaning in subtly, a hand reaches for her reflection before she can so much as consider the idea of not doing such a thing... lightly trembling fingertips smearing their way down along the glass. The smooth surface is cold, so very cold to the touch when compared to the exertion-heated flesh of her hand-- but she pays it no heed. Instead, she finds herself utterly ensnared in a gaze that looked familiar beyond belonging to her. How could it not?

Do you need me to get you another one?

The girl that would become the Requiem's voice was soft, unobtrusive as she remained at the stranger's elbow, her gaze remaining upon the mirror before them both. He looked... unassuming, almost harmless despite the blood that he had washed away. That wasn't what she noticed most of all, though, as he finished getting the worst of that potential biohazard off of him. That honor belonged to those eyes, so distant and unfeeling-- and the same exact shade as her own. It was a leap of logic most would assume beyond a child her age, but she made it easily enough. Not only that, but she found it in herself to pose a question that many would have avoided.

Are you my cousin?

It was only then, with that question posed, that he would react. Turning his head away from the mirror, his gaze shifted down to meet her own. Her blue eyes seemed to shine brilliantly in that off-white light of the overhead fixtures, while her other features seemed as though they belonged to the ghost of a man long since forgotten. It was something that almost left him taken aback, if he would ever allow himself such. For a few long moments, he left that question hanging in the air as he looked her over before he brought a hand up-those now clean digits briefly brushing her blonde locks out of her face before lighting patting her head in a way she would both come to adore and dread in the coming years.

...Ja.

That was the first time he'd acknowledged her, a thought that seemed almost irrelevant in the here and now-- but a faint smile finds itself upon Siobhan's lips as she returns her attentions to the basin in front of her. Paying no mind to the streaks she has left upon the mirror, only the sound of her husband's approaching footsteps filter through her awareness enough for her to take note. Her expression turns rueful as the door to the bathroom opens, revealing that her husband has opted to get into something more...'comfortable' for the evening. Dressed in the finery of dark blue silk pajamas, he would've appeared more than acceptable if he had stopped there. However, the exaggerated night cap that drooped down over his chest-a fuzzy red ball at the very end, while a pair of Moogle wings were situated above his temples-and a pair of inordinately large and unbearably hideous plush TARDIS slippers on his feet...tends to drag things down exponentially. Looking at her from behind a pair of unnecessary glasses, he brought up a toothbrush that was fashioned like the Eleventh's Sonic Screwdriver before he begins to speak.

Are you okay in here? I need to make my pearlies whi-oh. Ooohhh.

He winces uncomfortably as he takes note of the 'work' she had to do, a tad bit of a recoil his initial reaction before he's able to curb it.

...uhhh...'nother day at the job, I see?

He chuckles, the noise telling of the inherent discomfort that comes with seeing his wife in such a state. Shaking her head subtly, the Requiem manages to make her smile a more real and convincing thing as she loops her cleaner arm around the small of his back. It is a slight hug she gives him, yes... but it is a hug nonetheless, one that is augmented by her tilting her head to rest it against his shoulder.

Ja. I will be fine, Dommy. You don't need to worry about me.

It is perhaps an indicator of how much he loathes seeing her in such a state.. or maybe it's because he is the only person beyond that relative of hers to know just what all she has had to endure while saying that she's fine, but another quiver runs its way along Dominic's frame. For everything she's seen, every terrible and horrifying thing... that simple reaction has her gaze wavering. Her head turns, burying itself against that soft silk and the surprisingly firm surface beneath it.

Funny, what it takes to make the Requiem flinch.

-------------------------Ω-------------------------

One has to wonder if the Valkyries of her homeland's lore would be proud of the state Siobhan is in. There is no denying that she is battered and bruised, having taken more than her fair share of punishment in the Civil War match. One could even say that she endured more than most, on account of her words and her absolute refusal to stay down making her a target... but none of that stops her from holding her head high. If anything, the wounds and contusions that are visible where the simple white tank top and jeans do not cover are all the more reason for her to stand tall. After all, she said time and time again that she would not be stopped in her quest to bring wrestling back to where it belonged, to help it find its way back to evolving instead of backsliding no matter what anyone did to try and stop her. The fact that she is still standing after enduring the worst that the Establishment could throw at her is proof positive of that, an affirmation that no one can take away from her.

Not even delusional, bottom-feeding cheaters that don't deserve so much as a modicum of her respect.

Blond hair is left loose to do as it will in the wind's currents as the Requiem stands with her hands loosely in her pockets, her surroundings appearing to be a rather lush temperate forest. In all reality, though, the gears and other steampunk touches one can glimpse in the background is all the more one needs to figure out that it is simply the Townsends' back yard. With the sun shining overhead, it's clear the whimsical backdrop is Dominic's idea. As it turns out, though?

Nothing annoys me more than a sycophant.

No amount of pretty surroundings is going to soften the blow of the Requiem's words.

With the amount of disgust dripping off of that word, it's like the blond is comparing such a thing to being a child molester or a rapist. While some could consider it extreme, it makes perfect sense when one takes the Requiem's mission into account. Shaking her head in disappointment, she continues.

You parrot out whatever you think will keep you in Troy Stone's good graces, a spot that has no actual value to anyone with any level of intelligence-- but yet there you sit, sucking up and helping him twist the truth into whatever makes him feel important because you need someone to make you feel like you matter. You're too weak to stand on your own, after all... and the fun part is that you've always been that way, haven't you Abigail? From your 'bodyguard' to the Lohans to Troy Stone to whoever else you're going to cling to, you're the equivalent of a beggar on the street corner-- pleading for someone, anyone to take pity on you for a few spare seconds of fame. Of course, you could extend your stay in a spotlight you never deserved to be in to begin with if you'd do some actual work... but you're too vain, too lazy, too stupid to do that. Instead, you dip into the well of all those tired, cheap old tricks that weren't all that hard to work around fifty years ago, much less now. I would say it's a shame that you're wasting whatever potential you have, but if each and every time you've fallen short against a professional wrestler that actually is a professional isn't enough to serve as a wake-up call, I don't think there's anything within your nearly empty little head worth saving. And make no mistake about it-- your head is as empty as they come. Why else would you think you stand a chance against someone that trains as often as you say stupid shit?

Which happens to be quite a lot, for those wondering at home. Allowing that point to linger for a moment, Siobhan idly runs a hand through her hair to guide it out of the way of her face before she continues.

Even though I'm sure you'd screech in indignance and point at me as an example of what I'm about to say being false, let me remind you of that one key difference-- I'm a professionally trained fighter that would give a Marine a run for his money if it came down to a brawl. You, on the other hand, are a wannabe model whose jaw is made of glass. That's not even taking into account how you're so scrawny it's a wonder you've ever managed to clothesline anyone that wasn't a preschooler, much less how you think that throwing anything at me shy of a chair shot is supposed to make me even rock back a little... and even then, I don't think you'd do anything more than piss me off. Thinking about it, though-- I wonder if that is even possible, you making me any angrier than what your mere existence does as it is. As I've said, I hate people like you for a passion... and that is why I'm going to take another step toward making this business capable of survival by eliminating you from it. The more parasites like you that I burn off of its skin, the healthier it will get. Who knows? Maybe your good buddy Troy will take what I do to you as a warning and jump ship to save his own hide.

And if ever one wonders just why she holds the supposed legend in such low regard? That, right there, is her reason... well, beyond the whole ego and selfishness thing. The future number one contender to the world title shakes her head before she decides to bring things to a close.

Just like when you tried for the brass ring only to fall short against the man that will be revealed as mortal to his own delusional mind, you're going to find yourself dealing with the harsh reality of not being good enough to overcome me. The only difference is that after I beat your ass? I don't want you trying to cling onto me. I'm not even going to acknowledge your existence unless I absolutely have to, as a matter of fact. And once I've humbled Troy and left you without anyone to cling to, your only choice will be to fall into obscurity. Considering how that is where you have always belonged, I find it a more than fitting sentence for the crimes you have committed. Then again, it's entirely possible this will be the blow to your head that it takes to knock some semblance of sense into you. I think it's more likely to be the one to leave you unable to breathe unassisted, but truly-- either way works for me. What you find more convenient doesn't matter.

A pause; the Requiem's head tilts faintly to one side, boring her final point home with the sort of harshness one should have come to expect from her by now... or, at least, one will expect it if they have an IQ higher than 2.

It never has... and neither have you.

Everything fades to black as that pointed gaze remains locked on, unblinking and unflinching. Such is the sort of thing that a select handful of people will understand the intensity of... and out of that precious few?

One of them is bound to be nodding to himself in approval.