Post by Deleted on Mar 17, 2015 13:00:43 GMT -6
[OOC: This is a direction continuation of “Legacy Part 1: Prelude” by Valora Salinas]
You could have fit a full sized ham shank into Rob Riot’s mouth as it gaped open, jaw hanging loosely, processing what Valora had just told him. All the air had been sucked out of him in one hideous instant and now he just stood there, dumbfounded and mute, looking for all the world like a poor taste inflatable sex doll. All the muscles in his face, which had been rigid in anticipation of her response, seemed to have collapsed at once. Even his eyes were unresponsive; they were wide open, pupils dilated like dinner plates and drying out with every passing second, but he couldn’t even order to them to blink. The little colour that he had in his face to start with had drained away now, and his plaid complexion coupled with the limpness of his facial features gave the impression of a twisted death scream. And that would have been somehow appropriate; in many ways right now he felt like dying. The net was surely closing in on him again. Every horror he’d ever imagined, every suspicion he’d ever had, voiced and been told was paranoia now seemed justified.
He didn’t know how long he’d stood there in freeze frame, but it was clearly long enough for Valora to become concerned in passing. She herself was tense, frozen to the spot, expecting some kind of reaction from him but not knowing what the specifics of it may turn out to be and therefore braced for anything. The two of them faced each other like statues in the apartment, almost as if they were children daring the other to blink. But it was she who spoke first.
VALORA:
Rob, say something. React. Or at least breathe.
RIOT: [in a weak, vague voice, barely croaking out of his throat]
Say that again.
VALORA:
Say something...
RIOT:
No. Not that. Her name. Say her name again.
VALORA:
Why do I need to do that? You know exactly what I said. You heard me just fine.
Snapping his mouth shut - his stiffened jaw audibly clicking as he did so, Riot did his best - in a shaking, breathless way - to compose himself and bring himself back into the room. He blinked, three times, hard. He swallowed the stale saliva that was turning into a small repository in the back of his mouth, and attempted to order his feet to uproot themselves from the floor and take a few paces forward, toward her. Pins and needles shot through his legs as he did so, and the ground beneath him seemed bogged down in a deep liquid he couldn’t see. It was like trying to walk through quicksand. His brain was running away from him at a Hellish rate and he needed to do something to bring it back into the room, or he was simply going to fall over here where he stood.
RIOT:
OW, FUCK!
A jolt of pain through his right foot - unpleasant, but exactly the distraction he needed. Looking down, he saw a shard of shattered glass had penetrated his shoe. It was one of many shards around his feet, and they themselves were soaked in a reddish-clear liquid. Whisky. At some point between Valora saying that name, and his mind processing it, he’d dropped the glass.
Before he knew what was going on, Valora was already over to him, pushing him aside and forcibly sitting him down on the room’s elegant sofa as she inspected the foot. Offering him a semi sympathetic look for a fleeting second, she quickly and cleanly pulled the glass back out again, making a hissing noise between her teeth as it was followed with blood.
VALORA:
Take your shoe off. If we send you back to that place injured they’re going to stop these little ‘observation’ trips we’ve managed to arrange for you.
RIOT:
It’s fine, it’s a scratch...
VALORA:
It was half an inch deep in your foot, and it’s bleeding. Shoe off. Now.
Complaining under his breath, Riot grimaced as he removed the show, noting with discomfort that his sock was already soaked right through with blood, and so he removed it as well. From somewhere, Valora had produced bandages, which she soaked in whisky and wrapped around the foot. Riot winced as she did so.
VALORA:
Don’t be such a child. The alcohol will clean the wound. If I wind this on tight it should stop the bleed. Are you going to be able to walk on it?
Riot, still wincing, nodded his silent agreement.
VALORA:
Good.
RIOT:
Are you going to waste all of that whisky on unnecessary medical procedures, or can I have some more?
VALORA:
I also can’t send you back there drunk.
RIOT:
You think I can even get drunk after what you just said to me?
VALORA:
I know you. You can always get drunk. And even if you didn’t, they’d smell it on you. That would be just as bad.
RIOT:
One drink. For my nerves.
Valora looked from Riot to the bottle and back again, eyeing him dubiously. As she did so, Riot reached forward and snatched it, taking a swig directly from the bottle hurriedly before Val snatched it back away from him and backhanded him around the face for good measure. Riot grinned at her sheepishly as she put it safely out of reach of him, shaking her head.
VALORA:
Straight from the bottle? Por el amor de Dios. And people say I’m a savage. Are you ready to start acting like an adult now? For a self-professed immortal that was a weak reaction.
RIOT:
Being immortal only means I can’t die. It says nothing about pain. Quite conversely, it means I’ll take more pain than anybody because I can be hurt and hurt again without ever passing away. But you should know that already. You claim to be an immortal yourself. And we both know I don’t need to teach you anything about pain.
Now it was Val’s turn to silently not her agreement, and as she did so, Riot looked her up and down, slowly. She was back at his feet again, crouched there as she had been when she took the glass out. She was somehow more elegant and classy in her posture than she was when he’d seen her elsewhere - same eyes, same face, same body, same expressions to an extent, but at the same time completely different. He wondered again whether this really was just her training being demonstrated to be successful, or something deeper than that. Possibly something both from her training. A good cover story is good. It keeps you safe. But an agent who was so engrossed in their cover story that they believed it to be true? That was something else entirely. The perfect soldier. Someone so deep in cover that they’d lost their own identity to it - and therefore impossible to crack under interrogation. Add in all the loss and suffering she’d been exposed to back when she was merely Veronica, had her real self just run away? Was Valora more than just a mask for Veronica - was she a full blown fugue state? And if she was, was she even aware of it? Could her training...
Ah yes, her training. That’s where all this had started.
RIOT:
Say it again.
Valora looked at him sharply.
VALORA:
Are we back to that again? Really?
RIOT:
I need to hear you say it.
VALORA:
You already heard me say it.
RIOT:
Ah, but as you keep telling me, I’m crazy. And I get more and more crazy with the longer I spend in that room. I keep drawing broken clocks, and then breaking real ones. I may or may not have developed an erotic fixation based around the fact that I can hear Hunter Valentyne having sex constantly. I’m locked in there like a lab rat with only my thoughts for company and it’s entirely possible I’ve started hearing things. Plus I have a long history of paranoia. I love nothing more than a good conspiracy. I once based my entire identity around one and spent a whole summer wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and collecting Disciples for the God I believed myself to have become - and yes, I will tell you about that another time - so I need to know for sure that you said what I think you said.
VALORA:
But I’m crazy too. And you know that, as well. I’m broken inside, I wear so many masks that sometimes I wake up and struggle to remember who I’m supposed to be on any given day. I see my dead lover around every corner and I’ve turned my back on the waking world. So how can you trust a word that comes out of my mouth even if I did say it?
RIOT:
Because you wouldn’t lie to me.
VALORA:
And you know that for sure?
RIOT:
If I don’t, I know nothing at all.
Another heavy, pregnant, prolonged pause. They’re staring at each other, eye to eye, only a few feet apart; each one scanning every tiny movement of the other’s face, looking for the slightest hint of betrayal. Watching each other think. Watching each other breathe. When Valora spoke, it was in a whisper.
VALORA:
I said Rebecca Laali. I think I may have been trained by Rebecca Laali.
Riot nodded, slowly, not breaking eye contact with her.
RIOT:
Then my entire life is nothing but a charade. I’ve been manipulated for years. I’m the fucking Truman show, live and in colour. Everyone around me is no more than a character, pushed into my life ready to be ripped away again at a moment’s notice. Every interaction is a test. Even my son could be a lie. He could never have been mine at all. Every emotion I’ve ever felt redundant, every effort a waste. All of it’s for nothing.
VALORA:
Why? Just because I once met Cardone’s ex girlfriend? I don’t even know if it was her for sure. But she fits the description.
RIOT:
Does she? How would we even know for sure? I’ve seen one photo of her, from behind. She walks through the world and doesn’t leave a trace anywhere in terms of the physical, but her name turns up at houses I’m directed towards searching. Her name turns up in murders I’ve tried to solve. I can trace back more than ten years of my own timeline and it seems she was there somehow - her or Annabelle; maybe her and Annabelle for all I know. How can one name keep appearing in front of me over and over again, and I be expected to dismiss it as a mere coincidence?
VALORA:
Because if what you’re saying is true, then I’d have to be included in it as well. And you just said I’d never lie to you. You can’t believe both things at the same time. Am I real, Rob? Am I who you think I am?
RIOT:
I don’t know if you even know who you think you are.
VALORA:
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
RIOT:
All those identities inside your head; which one’s you? When did you last feel, walk, talk, think like Veronica?
VALORA:
I told you never to use that name.
RIOT:
But I have to. Because it’s you. It’s who you were when you were born. Is she still in there somewhere? If you can change everything about yourself so easily, then are you slipping on a new identity every day and discarding the old one, or are you rotating them? Can you pick and choose them as if you were sorting through a wardrobe? How much of Valora is Veronica? How much Veronica is there left?
VALORA:
There’s nothing of her left. You know that, and you know why. Valora is who I am. Everything else is an act.
RIOT:
But you remember being Veronica?
VALORA:
Of course I do.
RIOT:
Then you could choose to be her, surely, just by remembering.
VALORA:
No I couldn’t. I couldn’t be her any more than you could be who you were before you lost your son. It’s not an option. I’m Valora Salinas.
RIOT:
I thought you were an FBI agent right now?
VALORA:
I know the difference between the act and the reality, Rob, even if you don’t!
RIOT:
Then help me work it out, because I’m struggling. All of you, sharing one head, how am I supposed to know if I’m talking to the Valora I know, or something entirely different, with different values and different attitudes towards me, and everything we’ve done, and everything I was starting to learn about you!
Valora shouts out, in despair...
VALORA:
I’M VALORA SALINAS!
RIOT:
THEN PROVE IT!
Valora, somewhere between rage and despair, throws herself toward Riot, a motion born half as an attack and half as collapse, and somewhere between the two conflicting sides she lands on top of him, on the sofa, finding his hands catching her wrists and letting her fall further.
They’re laid there, body to body, eye to eye, furious with a mutual rage of upset and confusion. Rob could feel every inch of her pressed against him....the warmth and shape of her; the scent of her; her aura, if such a thing existed, and the whole world around her ceased to exist. There was only him and her, and the sofa, and that second isolated in time - and for that beautiful, fleeting instance of reality, nothing else mattered at all.
He let go of her wrists and grabbed her, roughly, hand on the back of her head with a handful of hair and pulling her close to him, wrapping an arm around her waist, legs entangled; and he felt the heat of her hands on his chest, grabbing on to him but not resisting. Their mouths were inches apart....closer....centimetres....their eyes were still open.
And they stayed there, just a few seconds longer, wrapped in a bubble of time, as if they were afraid making a single motion further would shatter it.
VALORA:
.....we shouldn’t.....
RIOT:
.....I know....
VALORA:
I’m not supposed to be able to feel anything....
RIOT:
Those are dumb rules. And you can break them....
VALORA:
....which would mean giving you everything.
RIOT:
I can take it.
VALORA:
It’s not that. It’s whether I want you to have it.
A few seconds more....so close they were breathing into each other’s mouths when they spoke, Rob felt every word vibrate off the roof of his mouth, breathing her in as if he could taste her.
And then the moment passed. Slowly, but deliberately, she pulled herself away, straightening her clothes and crossing the room to the whisky bottle. This time it was her drinking it straight, without a glass. Riot felt it better not to comment. He looked at his hands, and then at the clock, awkwardly.
RIOT:
We should probably get me back to the loony bin.
VALORA:
Yes. We should.
RIOT:
And I’ve got a match I should be thinking about.
VALORA:
Yes you have. Ryan Elias.
She glanced backward at him, over her shoulder.
VALORA:
...you going to be ok with that?
RIOT:
Oh, I should think so. It’s a name I’ve been in there before with. Years ago, in PWA. I underestimated him, and he got the better of me. That won’t be happening again. But really, that’s not what New Edge is about for me, Val. I didn’t come her for the titles. I came here to stop Hunter. And I came here for you.
She looks at him sharply.
VALORA:
I never asked you to.
RIOT:
No. But I wanted to.
And those were the last words spoken before they left the room.
They stayed in silence, all the way back to the institute, and all the way through the check-in procedure. If the staff noticed traces of alcohol on his breath, they didn’t say a word. Despite his discomfort, he managed to avoid limping on his way back in. He’d have to think of a more creative way to explain the cut when the staff eventually noticed. Perhaps find a way of blaming it on Hunter, if such a thing were possible.
Valentyne himself was non too impressed when he became aware of them passing his cell, hammering on the door and firing venom at the silent pair as Riot was returned to his own enclosure.
HUNTER:
Welcome home, lovers! I guess you’re still no closer to escaping with her, Rob? So what use is she to you? I’m all you’ve got. I’m the only thing you’ve got. I’m your only way out of here and you know it. How does that feel, Mr. Legend? Being dependant on me for your freedom? And I don’t even need to leave here to get laid. I might even stay. How do you feel about that? Me and you, neighbours forever! How do you like it?
As he sat down on his bed, Riot snarled at the bile coming through the wall, and this finally prompted a response from Valora, who clicked her tongue and shook her head.
VALORA:
Ignore him. If you rise to it, you know it’ll be used against you. Until we get you out of here, you’re just going to have to do a better job of making yourself appear calm and balanced. Even if we both know you aren’t.
RIOT:
But I will see you again?
She nods, cautiously.
VALORA:
Of course you will, Rob. It’s my professional responsibility, after all. I’ll be back later this week.
With a wry smile, which she returned, he watched her go.
**************************************************************
Several hours had passed since then - several hours which felt like days, and for all Rob knew, may have been. During this time, Hunter had pulled his little stunt, and Riot had spent many of his hours reading through the legal paperwork that he’d been landed with.
The vile bastard had taunted him through the wall - many times over now- and that was inbetween bouts of fucking. The brief moment of joy, and escape, that Rob had shared on the sofa with Val now seemed like it happened in a different lifetime.
He was back in reality. Back to listening to his own self destructive thoughts hammer away at the increasingly delicate inner casing of his skull, threatening to find a way out and manifest themselves. He’d stared at that wall when Hunter banged on it, or spoke through it. Stared at it and imagined breaking it down, reaching through the hole and strangling the bastard - watching the life die away from his eyes as the final flecks of spittle dried on the outside of his lips and he went pale. And he knew, in that moment, he’d be happy for a while. But at the same time, he also knew it meant he’d never get out of here. So he had to park the thought and let it fester, souring every thought he had around it.
He wanted to draw, but he knew he shouldn’t. Wanted to break something, but he knew he couldn’t. So he’d entered a semi catatonic state for a while, wishing it could become something more meditative than the living coma that it felt like. And then he’d written a letter. A letter he didn’t want to write.
Stripped of his freedom and his dignity already, he was now going to have to surrender his pride. Hunter had managed to get the offices of RSW temporarily closed down. The wrestlers would be fine, and the show would go on, but the staff who worked for him were suddenly and immediately unemployed. And Rob was in no position to do anything about it. Nor could he, from where he was. OSHA were hardly likely to listen to the rantings of a man who was detained under mental health laws for his own ‘protection’, and so he was going to have to involve someone who was in a position to act.
Oh, how he’d had to force his hand across the page to write a letter to RB Cardone asking for his help.
Cardone would act, of course. He had to. It was his company as much as it was Riot’s. But Rob knew how much he’d enjoy receiving that letter. No doubt sharing it with his allies on the roster and further poisoning their minds against him. Rob had gone mad, he’d tell them. Rob is no longer fit to carry out the duties of a CEO. Cardone would try to force him out, and he’d try to use the roster to make the task easier for him. Rob knew all this, and asked for the letter to be sent anyway. If he was going down, he had no excuse to take his staff down with him. That truly would be the action of a madman. So the company would survive. But how much had his hand been further weakened by protecting it?
Hunter was right about one thing, of course. Well, definitely one thing, and possibly two. Firstly, as much as he hated to admit it, he was his best chance of escaping here right now. His plan was workable, and if they could genuinely co-operate on it, then it could even succeed. And so it was the only logical course of action to follow. Even if all his other senses deserted him, his logic stayed, and as such it had to be listened to.
The other thing Hunter had a point on was that there was someone else he needed to be angry at. And his name was Jesse fucking Styles. Jesse fucking Styles who could have him released at any given second at the stroke of a pen, and yet still refused to do so; wheeling him out to perform on his shows like a performing monkey and then re-incarcerated to give the appearance of “doing something” about the fans that Rob and Hunter had assaulted at Tension in Texas. Fuck those fans. Were they even seriously hurt? How much were they suing for? Could Rob cover it himself? If Rob DID cover it himself, would Jesse let him out of here?
More to the point, when did his life become embroiled in so many lawsuits? And how had he gone from a position where he’d only come into New Edge to seek justice for Chloe Logan’s family, only to have Hunter somehow twist Chloe’s family against him? Was there no end to the injustice of it all?
No, Rob, focus. However pissed off you are at Jesse, Hunter is the true and deserving target. He dragged you in. He caused that fight. He pulled the wool over your eyes, and he is your clear, present and persistent tormentor. Right now you may need him in order to escape, but you won’t always. And the moment you don’t - it’s neck snapping time.
The retribution Hunter so clearly deserved would have to wait, though, for the relevant moment. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t start trying to redress the balance in the here and now. He couldn’t kill Hunter, but he could surely distress him just as much as he himself was being distressed. Like Valora said - nobody really wanted to deal with either one of them in here. That’s part of the reason Alisa gets such free, easy and lamentable access to Hunter; and presumably why nobody probes any deeper into the real reason Valora came to visit, or how far she’d got with her ‘observations’. So if Alisa could sneak favours and benefits in for Hunter, couldn’t Valora do the same?
And with Valora being as resourceful as she was, how practical would it be for her to interfere with Hunter’s medication? Yes, he needed him alive, but that didn’t mean he had to be free of pain. Or free of psychotropic drugs for that matter, either. Hunter had been working hard in there. He deserved a little ‘trip’ away. Could it be arranged? That was a question for Valora.
Laying back on the bed, Riot allowed himself to smile as he thought of his two favourite ‘V’s.
Valora.
And vengeance.
You could have fit a full sized ham shank into Rob Riot’s mouth as it gaped open, jaw hanging loosely, processing what Valora had just told him. All the air had been sucked out of him in one hideous instant and now he just stood there, dumbfounded and mute, looking for all the world like a poor taste inflatable sex doll. All the muscles in his face, which had been rigid in anticipation of her response, seemed to have collapsed at once. Even his eyes were unresponsive; they were wide open, pupils dilated like dinner plates and drying out with every passing second, but he couldn’t even order to them to blink. The little colour that he had in his face to start with had drained away now, and his plaid complexion coupled with the limpness of his facial features gave the impression of a twisted death scream. And that would have been somehow appropriate; in many ways right now he felt like dying. The net was surely closing in on him again. Every horror he’d ever imagined, every suspicion he’d ever had, voiced and been told was paranoia now seemed justified.
He didn’t know how long he’d stood there in freeze frame, but it was clearly long enough for Valora to become concerned in passing. She herself was tense, frozen to the spot, expecting some kind of reaction from him but not knowing what the specifics of it may turn out to be and therefore braced for anything. The two of them faced each other like statues in the apartment, almost as if they were children daring the other to blink. But it was she who spoke first.
VALORA:
Rob, say something. React. Or at least breathe.
RIOT: [in a weak, vague voice, barely croaking out of his throat]
Say that again.
VALORA:
Say something...
RIOT:
No. Not that. Her name. Say her name again.
VALORA:
Why do I need to do that? You know exactly what I said. You heard me just fine.
Snapping his mouth shut - his stiffened jaw audibly clicking as he did so, Riot did his best - in a shaking, breathless way - to compose himself and bring himself back into the room. He blinked, three times, hard. He swallowed the stale saliva that was turning into a small repository in the back of his mouth, and attempted to order his feet to uproot themselves from the floor and take a few paces forward, toward her. Pins and needles shot through his legs as he did so, and the ground beneath him seemed bogged down in a deep liquid he couldn’t see. It was like trying to walk through quicksand. His brain was running away from him at a Hellish rate and he needed to do something to bring it back into the room, or he was simply going to fall over here where he stood.
RIOT:
OW, FUCK!
A jolt of pain through his right foot - unpleasant, but exactly the distraction he needed. Looking down, he saw a shard of shattered glass had penetrated his shoe. It was one of many shards around his feet, and they themselves were soaked in a reddish-clear liquid. Whisky. At some point between Valora saying that name, and his mind processing it, he’d dropped the glass.
Before he knew what was going on, Valora was already over to him, pushing him aside and forcibly sitting him down on the room’s elegant sofa as she inspected the foot. Offering him a semi sympathetic look for a fleeting second, she quickly and cleanly pulled the glass back out again, making a hissing noise between her teeth as it was followed with blood.
VALORA:
Take your shoe off. If we send you back to that place injured they’re going to stop these little ‘observation’ trips we’ve managed to arrange for you.
RIOT:
It’s fine, it’s a scratch...
VALORA:
It was half an inch deep in your foot, and it’s bleeding. Shoe off. Now.
Complaining under his breath, Riot grimaced as he removed the show, noting with discomfort that his sock was already soaked right through with blood, and so he removed it as well. From somewhere, Valora had produced bandages, which she soaked in whisky and wrapped around the foot. Riot winced as she did so.
VALORA:
Don’t be such a child. The alcohol will clean the wound. If I wind this on tight it should stop the bleed. Are you going to be able to walk on it?
Riot, still wincing, nodded his silent agreement.
VALORA:
Good.
RIOT:
Are you going to waste all of that whisky on unnecessary medical procedures, or can I have some more?
VALORA:
I also can’t send you back there drunk.
RIOT:
You think I can even get drunk after what you just said to me?
VALORA:
I know you. You can always get drunk. And even if you didn’t, they’d smell it on you. That would be just as bad.
RIOT:
One drink. For my nerves.
Valora looked from Riot to the bottle and back again, eyeing him dubiously. As she did so, Riot reached forward and snatched it, taking a swig directly from the bottle hurriedly before Val snatched it back away from him and backhanded him around the face for good measure. Riot grinned at her sheepishly as she put it safely out of reach of him, shaking her head.
VALORA:
Straight from the bottle? Por el amor de Dios. And people say I’m a savage. Are you ready to start acting like an adult now? For a self-professed immortal that was a weak reaction.
RIOT:
Being immortal only means I can’t die. It says nothing about pain. Quite conversely, it means I’ll take more pain than anybody because I can be hurt and hurt again without ever passing away. But you should know that already. You claim to be an immortal yourself. And we both know I don’t need to teach you anything about pain.
Now it was Val’s turn to silently not her agreement, and as she did so, Riot looked her up and down, slowly. She was back at his feet again, crouched there as she had been when she took the glass out. She was somehow more elegant and classy in her posture than she was when he’d seen her elsewhere - same eyes, same face, same body, same expressions to an extent, but at the same time completely different. He wondered again whether this really was just her training being demonstrated to be successful, or something deeper than that. Possibly something both from her training. A good cover story is good. It keeps you safe. But an agent who was so engrossed in their cover story that they believed it to be true? That was something else entirely. The perfect soldier. Someone so deep in cover that they’d lost their own identity to it - and therefore impossible to crack under interrogation. Add in all the loss and suffering she’d been exposed to back when she was merely Veronica, had her real self just run away? Was Valora more than just a mask for Veronica - was she a full blown fugue state? And if she was, was she even aware of it? Could her training...
Ah yes, her training. That’s where all this had started.
RIOT:
Say it again.
Valora looked at him sharply.
VALORA:
Are we back to that again? Really?
RIOT:
I need to hear you say it.
VALORA:
You already heard me say it.
RIOT:
Ah, but as you keep telling me, I’m crazy. And I get more and more crazy with the longer I spend in that room. I keep drawing broken clocks, and then breaking real ones. I may or may not have developed an erotic fixation based around the fact that I can hear Hunter Valentyne having sex constantly. I’m locked in there like a lab rat with only my thoughts for company and it’s entirely possible I’ve started hearing things. Plus I have a long history of paranoia. I love nothing more than a good conspiracy. I once based my entire identity around one and spent a whole summer wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and collecting Disciples for the God I believed myself to have become - and yes, I will tell you about that another time - so I need to know for sure that you said what I think you said.
VALORA:
But I’m crazy too. And you know that, as well. I’m broken inside, I wear so many masks that sometimes I wake up and struggle to remember who I’m supposed to be on any given day. I see my dead lover around every corner and I’ve turned my back on the waking world. So how can you trust a word that comes out of my mouth even if I did say it?
RIOT:
Because you wouldn’t lie to me.
VALORA:
And you know that for sure?
RIOT:
If I don’t, I know nothing at all.
Another heavy, pregnant, prolonged pause. They’re staring at each other, eye to eye, only a few feet apart; each one scanning every tiny movement of the other’s face, looking for the slightest hint of betrayal. Watching each other think. Watching each other breathe. When Valora spoke, it was in a whisper.
VALORA:
I said Rebecca Laali. I think I may have been trained by Rebecca Laali.
Riot nodded, slowly, not breaking eye contact with her.
RIOT:
Then my entire life is nothing but a charade. I’ve been manipulated for years. I’m the fucking Truman show, live and in colour. Everyone around me is no more than a character, pushed into my life ready to be ripped away again at a moment’s notice. Every interaction is a test. Even my son could be a lie. He could never have been mine at all. Every emotion I’ve ever felt redundant, every effort a waste. All of it’s for nothing.
VALORA:
Why? Just because I once met Cardone’s ex girlfriend? I don’t even know if it was her for sure. But she fits the description.
RIOT:
Does she? How would we even know for sure? I’ve seen one photo of her, from behind. She walks through the world and doesn’t leave a trace anywhere in terms of the physical, but her name turns up at houses I’m directed towards searching. Her name turns up in murders I’ve tried to solve. I can trace back more than ten years of my own timeline and it seems she was there somehow - her or Annabelle; maybe her and Annabelle for all I know. How can one name keep appearing in front of me over and over again, and I be expected to dismiss it as a mere coincidence?
VALORA:
Because if what you’re saying is true, then I’d have to be included in it as well. And you just said I’d never lie to you. You can’t believe both things at the same time. Am I real, Rob? Am I who you think I am?
RIOT:
I don’t know if you even know who you think you are.
VALORA:
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
RIOT:
All those identities inside your head; which one’s you? When did you last feel, walk, talk, think like Veronica?
VALORA:
I told you never to use that name.
RIOT:
But I have to. Because it’s you. It’s who you were when you were born. Is she still in there somewhere? If you can change everything about yourself so easily, then are you slipping on a new identity every day and discarding the old one, or are you rotating them? Can you pick and choose them as if you were sorting through a wardrobe? How much of Valora is Veronica? How much Veronica is there left?
VALORA:
There’s nothing of her left. You know that, and you know why. Valora is who I am. Everything else is an act.
RIOT:
But you remember being Veronica?
VALORA:
Of course I do.
RIOT:
Then you could choose to be her, surely, just by remembering.
VALORA:
No I couldn’t. I couldn’t be her any more than you could be who you were before you lost your son. It’s not an option. I’m Valora Salinas.
RIOT:
I thought you were an FBI agent right now?
VALORA:
I know the difference between the act and the reality, Rob, even if you don’t!
RIOT:
Then help me work it out, because I’m struggling. All of you, sharing one head, how am I supposed to know if I’m talking to the Valora I know, or something entirely different, with different values and different attitudes towards me, and everything we’ve done, and everything I was starting to learn about you!
Valora shouts out, in despair...
VALORA:
I’M VALORA SALINAS!
RIOT:
THEN PROVE IT!
Valora, somewhere between rage and despair, throws herself toward Riot, a motion born half as an attack and half as collapse, and somewhere between the two conflicting sides she lands on top of him, on the sofa, finding his hands catching her wrists and letting her fall further.
They’re laid there, body to body, eye to eye, furious with a mutual rage of upset and confusion. Rob could feel every inch of her pressed against him....the warmth and shape of her; the scent of her; her aura, if such a thing existed, and the whole world around her ceased to exist. There was only him and her, and the sofa, and that second isolated in time - and for that beautiful, fleeting instance of reality, nothing else mattered at all.
He let go of her wrists and grabbed her, roughly, hand on the back of her head with a handful of hair and pulling her close to him, wrapping an arm around her waist, legs entangled; and he felt the heat of her hands on his chest, grabbing on to him but not resisting. Their mouths were inches apart....closer....centimetres....their eyes were still open.
And they stayed there, just a few seconds longer, wrapped in a bubble of time, as if they were afraid making a single motion further would shatter it.
VALORA:
.....we shouldn’t.....
RIOT:
.....I know....
VALORA:
I’m not supposed to be able to feel anything....
RIOT:
Those are dumb rules. And you can break them....
VALORA:
....which would mean giving you everything.
RIOT:
I can take it.
VALORA:
It’s not that. It’s whether I want you to have it.
A few seconds more....so close they were breathing into each other’s mouths when they spoke, Rob felt every word vibrate off the roof of his mouth, breathing her in as if he could taste her.
And then the moment passed. Slowly, but deliberately, she pulled herself away, straightening her clothes and crossing the room to the whisky bottle. This time it was her drinking it straight, without a glass. Riot felt it better not to comment. He looked at his hands, and then at the clock, awkwardly.
RIOT:
We should probably get me back to the loony bin.
VALORA:
Yes. We should.
RIOT:
And I’ve got a match I should be thinking about.
VALORA:
Yes you have. Ryan Elias.
She glanced backward at him, over her shoulder.
VALORA:
...you going to be ok with that?
RIOT:
Oh, I should think so. It’s a name I’ve been in there before with. Years ago, in PWA. I underestimated him, and he got the better of me. That won’t be happening again. But really, that’s not what New Edge is about for me, Val. I didn’t come her for the titles. I came here to stop Hunter. And I came here for you.
She looks at him sharply.
VALORA:
I never asked you to.
RIOT:
No. But I wanted to.
And those were the last words spoken before they left the room.
They stayed in silence, all the way back to the institute, and all the way through the check-in procedure. If the staff noticed traces of alcohol on his breath, they didn’t say a word. Despite his discomfort, he managed to avoid limping on his way back in. He’d have to think of a more creative way to explain the cut when the staff eventually noticed. Perhaps find a way of blaming it on Hunter, if such a thing were possible.
Valentyne himself was non too impressed when he became aware of them passing his cell, hammering on the door and firing venom at the silent pair as Riot was returned to his own enclosure.
HUNTER:
Welcome home, lovers! I guess you’re still no closer to escaping with her, Rob? So what use is she to you? I’m all you’ve got. I’m the only thing you’ve got. I’m your only way out of here and you know it. How does that feel, Mr. Legend? Being dependant on me for your freedom? And I don’t even need to leave here to get laid. I might even stay. How do you feel about that? Me and you, neighbours forever! How do you like it?
As he sat down on his bed, Riot snarled at the bile coming through the wall, and this finally prompted a response from Valora, who clicked her tongue and shook her head.
VALORA:
Ignore him. If you rise to it, you know it’ll be used against you. Until we get you out of here, you’re just going to have to do a better job of making yourself appear calm and balanced. Even if we both know you aren’t.
RIOT:
But I will see you again?
She nods, cautiously.
VALORA:
Of course you will, Rob. It’s my professional responsibility, after all. I’ll be back later this week.
With a wry smile, which she returned, he watched her go.
**************************************************************
Several hours had passed since then - several hours which felt like days, and for all Rob knew, may have been. During this time, Hunter had pulled his little stunt, and Riot had spent many of his hours reading through the legal paperwork that he’d been landed with.
The vile bastard had taunted him through the wall - many times over now- and that was inbetween bouts of fucking. The brief moment of joy, and escape, that Rob had shared on the sofa with Val now seemed like it happened in a different lifetime.
He was back in reality. Back to listening to his own self destructive thoughts hammer away at the increasingly delicate inner casing of his skull, threatening to find a way out and manifest themselves. He’d stared at that wall when Hunter banged on it, or spoke through it. Stared at it and imagined breaking it down, reaching through the hole and strangling the bastard - watching the life die away from his eyes as the final flecks of spittle dried on the outside of his lips and he went pale. And he knew, in that moment, he’d be happy for a while. But at the same time, he also knew it meant he’d never get out of here. So he had to park the thought and let it fester, souring every thought he had around it.
He wanted to draw, but he knew he shouldn’t. Wanted to break something, but he knew he couldn’t. So he’d entered a semi catatonic state for a while, wishing it could become something more meditative than the living coma that it felt like. And then he’d written a letter. A letter he didn’t want to write.
Stripped of his freedom and his dignity already, he was now going to have to surrender his pride. Hunter had managed to get the offices of RSW temporarily closed down. The wrestlers would be fine, and the show would go on, but the staff who worked for him were suddenly and immediately unemployed. And Rob was in no position to do anything about it. Nor could he, from where he was. OSHA were hardly likely to listen to the rantings of a man who was detained under mental health laws for his own ‘protection’, and so he was going to have to involve someone who was in a position to act.
Oh, how he’d had to force his hand across the page to write a letter to RB Cardone asking for his help.
Cardone would act, of course. He had to. It was his company as much as it was Riot’s. But Rob knew how much he’d enjoy receiving that letter. No doubt sharing it with his allies on the roster and further poisoning their minds against him. Rob had gone mad, he’d tell them. Rob is no longer fit to carry out the duties of a CEO. Cardone would try to force him out, and he’d try to use the roster to make the task easier for him. Rob knew all this, and asked for the letter to be sent anyway. If he was going down, he had no excuse to take his staff down with him. That truly would be the action of a madman. So the company would survive. But how much had his hand been further weakened by protecting it?
Hunter was right about one thing, of course. Well, definitely one thing, and possibly two. Firstly, as much as he hated to admit it, he was his best chance of escaping here right now. His plan was workable, and if they could genuinely co-operate on it, then it could even succeed. And so it was the only logical course of action to follow. Even if all his other senses deserted him, his logic stayed, and as such it had to be listened to.
The other thing Hunter had a point on was that there was someone else he needed to be angry at. And his name was Jesse fucking Styles. Jesse fucking Styles who could have him released at any given second at the stroke of a pen, and yet still refused to do so; wheeling him out to perform on his shows like a performing monkey and then re-incarcerated to give the appearance of “doing something” about the fans that Rob and Hunter had assaulted at Tension in Texas. Fuck those fans. Were they even seriously hurt? How much were they suing for? Could Rob cover it himself? If Rob DID cover it himself, would Jesse let him out of here?
More to the point, when did his life become embroiled in so many lawsuits? And how had he gone from a position where he’d only come into New Edge to seek justice for Chloe Logan’s family, only to have Hunter somehow twist Chloe’s family against him? Was there no end to the injustice of it all?
No, Rob, focus. However pissed off you are at Jesse, Hunter is the true and deserving target. He dragged you in. He caused that fight. He pulled the wool over your eyes, and he is your clear, present and persistent tormentor. Right now you may need him in order to escape, but you won’t always. And the moment you don’t - it’s neck snapping time.
The retribution Hunter so clearly deserved would have to wait, though, for the relevant moment. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t start trying to redress the balance in the here and now. He couldn’t kill Hunter, but he could surely distress him just as much as he himself was being distressed. Like Valora said - nobody really wanted to deal with either one of them in here. That’s part of the reason Alisa gets such free, easy and lamentable access to Hunter; and presumably why nobody probes any deeper into the real reason Valora came to visit, or how far she’d got with her ‘observations’. So if Alisa could sneak favours and benefits in for Hunter, couldn’t Valora do the same?
And with Valora being as resourceful as she was, how practical would it be for her to interfere with Hunter’s medication? Yes, he needed him alive, but that didn’t mean he had to be free of pain. Or free of psychotropic drugs for that matter, either. Hunter had been working hard in there. He deserved a little ‘trip’ away. Could it be arranged? That was a question for Valora.
Laying back on the bed, Riot allowed himself to smile as he thought of his two favourite ‘V’s.
Valora.
And vengeance.