Post by Valiant_ESQ on Feb 24, 2017 20:48:50 GMT
To start with, an explanation. And lucky you, it's the kind that's simple enough for even the dullest of dullards:
Sometimes, I change my fucking mind.
Yes, I said that I would take the Redemption 105 tag match seriously, give it my all, yadda yadda. And at the time of saying it that was a genuine sentiment. Key word: was.
But after that I got to thinking: am I really so single-minded and desperate that I'll keep chasing that $20 bill on the sidewalk, knowing that Seth Black is just going to tug on the string at the last moment every time? That kind of behaviour, it's so working-class; scrabbling for scraps like an orphan in a Charles Dickens story. It's not me. Not one heir to the Valiant name in two centuries has begged for their fortune. We take what is ours, and if the world stands in our way, we bury it. I will not be an exception to that rule.
My final decision became even easier during the match itself. Seth Iser, apart from being abnormally hairy and unwashed, barely seemed to know where he was or what he was doing. It was embarrassing, having to be on the same side of the ring as...it. And then he reached out to me like a leper in need of a miracle healing and - hah, well, amazing though I can be, I am no saint. Don't have the patience of one, for a start. So I ditched him. What the hell. Another black mark on a record that already looks permanently in shadow was nothing worth fretting over, and odds were good that bailing him out that time would simply mean having to repeat the trick over and over for every subsequent screw-up until, inevitably, he made a mistake too severe for me to fix.
So: I changed my fucking mind. Deal. With. It.
"OW! Son of a...pfffft!"
My thumb's just turning a little red from the hammer, it's not bleeding or anything. Even so, ow.
Oh, hi. Why am I mucking around with a hammer? Has my ego deflated to the point where housework feels like my destined course in life? No, obviously, it's just that I had some avant-garde ideas about a promo video this week - an actual one - and I need some new lighting fixtures installed in the office for it to work. Suppose I could've called a joiner but they stink, and I'm loath to let strangers into my private quarters. That being said, why am I doing this alone...?
"Melanie!"
You'd think she'd have volunteered by now. Honestly, some people...and now she's not answering. Huffing, I get down off the stepladder -
"Seriously, Melanie, get off Facebook and come help...me?"
The room is empty. So is the antechamber. TVs are all off, PCs are on screensaver, nary a hint of cheap Joop! perfume in the air. It all feels terribly quiet all of a sudden. I'm about to turn back and get on the phone when I notice a familiar scribbling on a post-it note, stuck to the edge of a monitor. Tearing it off, I read:
'HERA BO55
GON NA GO UUT UIT
MADJA 4 EIMER &
KZZYYMEZ
BEX 2NARROW!
- MEL 2 THA G XOXO'
...yes, that's really what it looks like. Interpreted into the language of the not-crazy people, it says something like:
'HEYA BOSS
GONNA GO OUT WITH
NADIA 4/FOR DINNER &
KISSYTIMES (?)
BACK2MORROW! TOMORROW
- MEL 2 THA G (MELANIE) XOXO'
"And just who gave you permission to saunter off on a date whenever you feel like it, lady?"
Say I, to no-one in particular. The note gets thrown to the floor in a crumpled ball, and I head back to the main office, noting again how quiet it is. It's soothing, in a way. Imagine how much I could get done with less Melanie in my life. So much less stress to cope with. I could...
I could...
...
I think I've been sitting on the arm of this chair for three minutes without moving or saying anything.
"Oh god, there's nothing..."
Can't even bring myself to complete the sentence, but it's horribly true. I...really don't have a life anymore, do I? I have a career, one I frequently find myself despising. And I have, ugh, 'friends'. I suppose that's the best term for people who aren't outright enemies by a matter of degrees. They have lives, but all I do is exist around them. Melanie has her dates, good and bad, and I'm only here to berate her for her happiness, or be an awkward shoulder to cry on. There's Stella, who I haven't spoken of much here to date - which is an act of kindness on my part, believe me - and she just overpowers me in basically every sense whenever we're together. Every quality I have, she has in greater abundance. Richer, better looking, smoother talker - not smarter, of course, but that rarely seems to matter. Who grades women based on their intelligence? No-one in a world where Kellyanne Conway reaches the White House before I do, for starters.
Romance? Hah. Well, I lost my most recent fling to someone's grandmother before he disappeared altogether. Wish I could just say 'good riddance' and wash my hands of it but, for those few weeks we were together, I felt like a whole person again. Like, someone was actually seeing me as me and not just an extension of another. I miss that feeling. Not to mention it was the only pleasurable contact I'd had with a man since Jun, and...
Okay. Here's the thing about Jun: before we were a 'thing' romantically, he worked for me. He was technically my vice-president, but more often than not he was my PA, since pre-Melanie I went through secretaries faster than cups of coffee. Hell, even after I realized he'd been quietly in love with me practically since we first met, I continued to be his boss, professionalism be damned. Even after I retired from the game - the first time - and we got married, it always seemed to take an effort on his part to call me Veronica and not 'Miss Valiant'. And...and I loved that. And then I think about how we broke up, over arguing about why I needed to keep coming back to wrestling, but it was never about wrestling, was it? It was about control. Jun was 'the one' for years because he put everything in his life to one side just to cater to me. Until the day came where he had to put his foot down, and I couldn't accept that, just this once, he wouldn't bark on command.
Conclusion: I am a closeted dominatrix, and all my recent woes stem from trying to adapt to a submissive role, and failing.
"That's fucking stupid."
It's not though, is it? I want - I need to be the centre of attention, or so I tell everyone. Yet nearly everything I do is catered to someone else's needs. I boost Melanie's feelings. I keep a firm grip on Stella's arm when she's gotten shitfaced after a night out, again. And the attitude bleeds into my actual work, as at Phoenix I'm just the supporting player in a bunch of other people's lives. I'm nothing more than a roadblock, a henchman for the Ana Starlings or Bailey-Huffs of the world to trounce on their way to their chosen final battles. Oh, I talk a big game in advance - that part's easy - but inwardly the damage has already been done, and I may as well just lay down on my back before the opening bell has even rung.
So. What do you do about it, Veronica? Gonna sit here and learn to love the feel of a collar around your neck? I let out a long-held sigh.
"...gonna get the rest of these lights fixed."
And then I'm gonna figure out how to make Seth Iser a footnote in my goddamn legend.
> Fade to: interior, office of Veronica Valiant, local.
An in-depth description of how the office looks will have to wait for another day, as its current presentation is...curious. The main lights are turned off; instead, a series of narrow-focus spotlights highlight specific points of the room. A chair with Veronica's typical ring attire slumped over the back and an unknown title belt on the seat. An unoccupied desk with a bright pink phone and a collection of lurid romance paperbacks on top. A framed watercolour painting showing the kind of age that denotes considerable expense. A more modest frame containing a photograph of Veronica in a wedding dress and an Asian man we haven't seen before, clearly in happier times. And the 'main' desk, with a PC running Excel, a yellowed degree from Harvard in Veronica's name and a folded-up Financial Times. There Veronica sits, in a pure white pantsuit, one crooked leg folded over the other. The spotlight isn't fully on her, glowing through her hair from behind while leaving her face cast in shadow. There seems to be a device like a remote control in one of her hands.
When she speaks, the voice is low, but clear and even-toned.
"So, apparently my actions at Redemption 105 upset Seth Iser and the gibbering suit-clad monkey that follows him everywhere to fret over things. Dear me, I can't imagine how it must feel to be disappointed in a Phoenix Wrestling ring. Oh, wait, I can. But I express no sympathy to you, Seth, because unlike me, you earned your misfortune with your ineptitude. But you can't accept that, because for all your claims of higher rationality you're still just a man at heart, and so you go to the higher-ups to get payback. They say this was Slaine Rodrick's call, but, tch, I can sense Black's hand in this. He likely considers this another punishment for me."
> Veronica's head angles to one side.
"Bless his silly heart."
> Her head re-aligns, and her hands clasp together.
"Now, I've examined how you work, Seth, at least to a point. Don't be flattered, it was for the benefit of teaming up with you, not due to fear of facing you. You, being apparently the world's angriest atheist, like to focus on your opponent's psychology, especially any beliefs or totems that might give them strength, and render them void one by one. It's not a bad plan, honestly. Here, let me give you a hand..."
> She jerks her thumb back over her shoulder.
"You could start with, let's say, my past accomplishments. I tend to bring those up a lot, it's true. Won a bunch of belts in Divas Unleashed, 3WL, et cetera, and I still sometimes act like people should know what those are or give me respect for them, even though I know full well nobody here was around back then and it's all just noise to them. So you take that away..."
> Veronica clicks the remote, and the spotlight over the chair with her ring gear goes dark.
"Or how about my money? Because like all rich people, if there's a problem that can be solved by just throwing cash at it, you better believe I'll do that. It works, and it reminds everyone else how far above them on the ladder of life I am. Ah, but you'll say that money doesn't mean anything, right? That it's, what, part of a system designed purely to elevate a chosen few above their station while keeping the rest of mankind ground down? And it doesn't matter how full my bank account is if there's an emptiness in my heart? Oof. That stings. Good going, me-as-Iser."[/B]
> Another click, and the fancy artwork disappears into darkness.
"How about friends? We all lean on our friends a lot. Full disclosure, I've been thinking about that very subject a lot today. How we view ourselves through the prisms of our familiars, y'know? Heavy stuff. Of course, you don't have any friends, Seth. You have...an associate, Mr. Moretti, but you prefer to keep him at arm's length. I suppose for you, attachment is a weakness, since it breeds sentiment and another nice things that have no place in war. Or is this more to do with being shallow and egotistical? The need to be liked, and how popularity is a false metric of success? Either way, boom, gone."
> Click. Lights out for Melanie's empty desk.
"Love is always a juicy target, especially the broken kind. And dear me, do I have some stories to tell about that...I loved a man, once. He was cute, smart, always dressed to impress. Always doted on me. An absolute firecracker in the sack, when he was in the mood. Yeah, you'd go for that...uh, not the sex, Seth, I'm pretty sure you're not into it and if you are I really don't wanna know. Really. But mocking people for falling in love, that you'd do for sure. Let me guess, love isn't real, it's just a lying chemical reaction in your brain, and if you give into it you're just proving incapable of mastering your instincts or forming another of those damned attachments that'll be your Achilles heel one day. Seems legit."
> Click. No more wedding day photo.
"And lastly, my intellect. The very thing that gifted unto me my career, my success, my former marriage and various friends by proxy, my wealth...just about everything. The prime target for you. So what's the tack here, Seth? Do we go the grunting neanderthal Men's Rights Activist route and growl about how only physical strength matters? That 'men bleed on the battlefield, but women only bleed on the birthing table!' An actual quote I read once, by the way. Not making it up. Or do we go more vague and sorcerous, talking about how the mind can play tricks and doesn't always see the truth, so only a fool would put much stock into it? Or, alternatively, the straightforward approach - that when you get in the ring, instinct takes over and higher thought ceases to matter? That's at least two sensible skewerings out of three, so, bye-bye brain, and bye-bye Veronica."
> The last click takes away Veronica's desk, and leaves the whole room in shadow. We can't see anything.
"Ah, but wait!"
> An extra click - and a new spotlight is switched on, this one focused solely on Veronica, revealing her face properly as she pulls an expression of shock. The illumination makes her pantsuit shine all the brighter.
"I'm...I'm still here? After all that? Wow, Seth! It's almost like your petty little barbs mean jack-shit!"
> Veronica holds the earnestly-stunned look for another moment before collapsing back into a more typical sardonic smile, uncrossing her legs to lean closer to the camera.
"Here's the thing, Seth - you can try all you like to stamp on anybody's past, but the present won't change. Make everything that makes Veronica Valiant so very Veronica Valiant and in the end, that second match on The Awakening card isn't going to look any different. I'm still packing the brain of Stephen Hawking in the body of a Playmate Of The Year; you're still looking like a horse's ass and smelling of the shit that comes running out of it. It doesn't matter where any of us have been, what matters is where we are now. You're hopping mad because some girl did a thing you don't like. Me?"
> She shakes her head slowly.
"I'm just looking at a pathetic man-child and wondering how much fun it's gonna be to put him out of my misery."
> And then, the video ends.
...Elsewhere.
Ugh. What's...where...
I can hear talking, but - gawd my head's killing me. And what's - there's something in my mouth, like, cloth? It gets in the way when I breathe.
And I try to take it out but my arms won't move far enough. It's like they're too far from my brain, kinda? And also there's a pressure on my wrists like I've been tied...up...
I...have a bad feeling...
"She's waking up. Is that a problem?"
Can hear them...who's 'them'?
"She's likely still drugged. No threat."
Drugged? What - wait...
"And exactly how nice do we need to be with her?"
"We don't need collateral on this op...but if she dies, she dies."
I am in so much trouble.
Sometimes, I change my fucking mind.
Yes, I said that I would take the Redemption 105 tag match seriously, give it my all, yadda yadda. And at the time of saying it that was a genuine sentiment. Key word: was.
But after that I got to thinking: am I really so single-minded and desperate that I'll keep chasing that $20 bill on the sidewalk, knowing that Seth Black is just going to tug on the string at the last moment every time? That kind of behaviour, it's so working-class; scrabbling for scraps like an orphan in a Charles Dickens story. It's not me. Not one heir to the Valiant name in two centuries has begged for their fortune. We take what is ours, and if the world stands in our way, we bury it. I will not be an exception to that rule.
My final decision became even easier during the match itself. Seth Iser, apart from being abnormally hairy and unwashed, barely seemed to know where he was or what he was doing. It was embarrassing, having to be on the same side of the ring as...it. And then he reached out to me like a leper in need of a miracle healing and - hah, well, amazing though I can be, I am no saint. Don't have the patience of one, for a start. So I ditched him. What the hell. Another black mark on a record that already looks permanently in shadow was nothing worth fretting over, and odds were good that bailing him out that time would simply mean having to repeat the trick over and over for every subsequent screw-up until, inevitably, he made a mistake too severe for me to fix.
So: I changed my fucking mind. Deal. With. It.
~V~
"OW! Son of a...pfffft!"
My thumb's just turning a little red from the hammer, it's not bleeding or anything. Even so, ow.
Oh, hi. Why am I mucking around with a hammer? Has my ego deflated to the point where housework feels like my destined course in life? No, obviously, it's just that I had some avant-garde ideas about a promo video this week - an actual one - and I need some new lighting fixtures installed in the office for it to work. Suppose I could've called a joiner but they stink, and I'm loath to let strangers into my private quarters. That being said, why am I doing this alone...?
"Melanie!"
You'd think she'd have volunteered by now. Honestly, some people...and now she's not answering. Huffing, I get down off the stepladder -
"Seriously, Melanie, get off Facebook and come help...me?"
The room is empty. So is the antechamber. TVs are all off, PCs are on screensaver, nary a hint of cheap Joop! perfume in the air. It all feels terribly quiet all of a sudden. I'm about to turn back and get on the phone when I notice a familiar scribbling on a post-it note, stuck to the edge of a monitor. Tearing it off, I read:
'HERA BO55
GON NA GO UUT UIT
MADJA 4 EIMER &
KZZYYMEZ
BEX 2NARROW!
- MEL 2 THA G XOXO'
...yes, that's really what it looks like. Interpreted into the language of the not-crazy people, it says something like:
'HEYA BOSS
GONNA GO OUT WITH
NADIA 4/FOR DINNER &
KISSYTIMES (?)
BACK
- MEL 2 THA G (MELANIE) XOXO'
"And just who gave you permission to saunter off on a date whenever you feel like it, lady?"
Say I, to no-one in particular. The note gets thrown to the floor in a crumpled ball, and I head back to the main office, noting again how quiet it is. It's soothing, in a way. Imagine how much I could get done with less Melanie in my life. So much less stress to cope with. I could...
I could...
...
I think I've been sitting on the arm of this chair for three minutes without moving or saying anything.
"Oh god, there's nothing..."
Can't even bring myself to complete the sentence, but it's horribly true. I...really don't have a life anymore, do I? I have a career, one I frequently find myself despising. And I have, ugh, 'friends'. I suppose that's the best term for people who aren't outright enemies by a matter of degrees. They have lives, but all I do is exist around them. Melanie has her dates, good and bad, and I'm only here to berate her for her happiness, or be an awkward shoulder to cry on. There's Stella, who I haven't spoken of much here to date - which is an act of kindness on my part, believe me - and she just overpowers me in basically every sense whenever we're together. Every quality I have, she has in greater abundance. Richer, better looking, smoother talker - not smarter, of course, but that rarely seems to matter. Who grades women based on their intelligence? No-one in a world where Kellyanne Conway reaches the White House before I do, for starters.
Romance? Hah. Well, I lost my most recent fling to someone's grandmother before he disappeared altogether. Wish I could just say 'good riddance' and wash my hands of it but, for those few weeks we were together, I felt like a whole person again. Like, someone was actually seeing me as me and not just an extension of another. I miss that feeling. Not to mention it was the only pleasurable contact I'd had with a man since Jun, and...
Okay. Here's the thing about Jun: before we were a 'thing' romantically, he worked for me. He was technically my vice-president, but more often than not he was my PA, since pre-Melanie I went through secretaries faster than cups of coffee. Hell, even after I realized he'd been quietly in love with me practically since we first met, I continued to be his boss, professionalism be damned. Even after I retired from the game - the first time - and we got married, it always seemed to take an effort on his part to call me Veronica and not 'Miss Valiant'. And...and I loved that. And then I think about how we broke up, over arguing about why I needed to keep coming back to wrestling, but it was never about wrestling, was it? It was about control. Jun was 'the one' for years because he put everything in his life to one side just to cater to me. Until the day came where he had to put his foot down, and I couldn't accept that, just this once, he wouldn't bark on command.
Conclusion: I am a closeted dominatrix, and all my recent woes stem from trying to adapt to a submissive role, and failing.
"That's fucking stupid."
It's not though, is it? I want - I need to be the centre of attention, or so I tell everyone. Yet nearly everything I do is catered to someone else's needs. I boost Melanie's feelings. I keep a firm grip on Stella's arm when she's gotten shitfaced after a night out, again. And the attitude bleeds into my actual work, as at Phoenix I'm just the supporting player in a bunch of other people's lives. I'm nothing more than a roadblock, a henchman for the Ana Starlings or Bailey-Huffs of the world to trounce on their way to their chosen final battles. Oh, I talk a big game in advance - that part's easy - but inwardly the damage has already been done, and I may as well just lay down on my back before the opening bell has even rung.
So. What do you do about it, Veronica? Gonna sit here and learn to love the feel of a collar around your neck? I let out a long-held sigh.
"...gonna get the rest of these lights fixed."
And then I'm gonna figure out how to make Seth Iser a footnote in my goddamn legend.
~V~
> Fade to: interior, office of Veronica Valiant, local.
An in-depth description of how the office looks will have to wait for another day, as its current presentation is...curious. The main lights are turned off; instead, a series of narrow-focus spotlights highlight specific points of the room. A chair with Veronica's typical ring attire slumped over the back and an unknown title belt on the seat. An unoccupied desk with a bright pink phone and a collection of lurid romance paperbacks on top. A framed watercolour painting showing the kind of age that denotes considerable expense. A more modest frame containing a photograph of Veronica in a wedding dress and an Asian man we haven't seen before, clearly in happier times. And the 'main' desk, with a PC running Excel, a yellowed degree from Harvard in Veronica's name and a folded-up Financial Times. There Veronica sits, in a pure white pantsuit, one crooked leg folded over the other. The spotlight isn't fully on her, glowing through her hair from behind while leaving her face cast in shadow. There seems to be a device like a remote control in one of her hands.
When she speaks, the voice is low, but clear and even-toned.
"So, apparently my actions at Redemption 105 upset Seth Iser and the gibbering suit-clad monkey that follows him everywhere to fret over things. Dear me, I can't imagine how it must feel to be disappointed in a Phoenix Wrestling ring. Oh, wait, I can. But I express no sympathy to you, Seth, because unlike me, you earned your misfortune with your ineptitude. But you can't accept that, because for all your claims of higher rationality you're still just a man at heart, and so you go to the higher-ups to get payback. They say this was Slaine Rodrick's call, but, tch, I can sense Black's hand in this. He likely considers this another punishment for me."
> Veronica's head angles to one side.
"Bless his silly heart."
> Her head re-aligns, and her hands clasp together.
"Now, I've examined how you work, Seth, at least to a point. Don't be flattered, it was for the benefit of teaming up with you, not due to fear of facing you. You, being apparently the world's angriest atheist, like to focus on your opponent's psychology, especially any beliefs or totems that might give them strength, and render them void one by one. It's not a bad plan, honestly. Here, let me give you a hand..."
> She jerks her thumb back over her shoulder.
"You could start with, let's say, my past accomplishments. I tend to bring those up a lot, it's true. Won a bunch of belts in Divas Unleashed, 3WL, et cetera, and I still sometimes act like people should know what those are or give me respect for them, even though I know full well nobody here was around back then and it's all just noise to them. So you take that away..."
> Veronica clicks the remote, and the spotlight over the chair with her ring gear goes dark.
"Or how about my money? Because like all rich people, if there's a problem that can be solved by just throwing cash at it, you better believe I'll do that. It works, and it reminds everyone else how far above them on the ladder of life I am. Ah, but you'll say that money doesn't mean anything, right? That it's, what, part of a system designed purely to elevate a chosen few above their station while keeping the rest of mankind ground down? And it doesn't matter how full my bank account is if there's an emptiness in my heart? Oof. That stings. Good going, me-as-Iser."[/B]
> Another click, and the fancy artwork disappears into darkness.
"How about friends? We all lean on our friends a lot. Full disclosure, I've been thinking about that very subject a lot today. How we view ourselves through the prisms of our familiars, y'know? Heavy stuff. Of course, you don't have any friends, Seth. You have...an associate, Mr. Moretti, but you prefer to keep him at arm's length. I suppose for you, attachment is a weakness, since it breeds sentiment and another nice things that have no place in war. Or is this more to do with being shallow and egotistical? The need to be liked, and how popularity is a false metric of success? Either way, boom, gone."
> Click. Lights out for Melanie's empty desk.
"Love is always a juicy target, especially the broken kind. And dear me, do I have some stories to tell about that...I loved a man, once. He was cute, smart, always dressed to impress. Always doted on me. An absolute firecracker in the sack, when he was in the mood. Yeah, you'd go for that...uh, not the sex, Seth, I'm pretty sure you're not into it and if you are I really don't wanna know. Really. But mocking people for falling in love, that you'd do for sure. Let me guess, love isn't real, it's just a lying chemical reaction in your brain, and if you give into it you're just proving incapable of mastering your instincts or forming another of those damned attachments that'll be your Achilles heel one day. Seems legit."
> Click. No more wedding day photo.
"And lastly, my intellect. The very thing that gifted unto me my career, my success, my former marriage and various friends by proxy, my wealth...just about everything. The prime target for you. So what's the tack here, Seth? Do we go the grunting neanderthal Men's Rights Activist route and growl about how only physical strength matters? That 'men bleed on the battlefield, but women only bleed on the birthing table!' An actual quote I read once, by the way. Not making it up. Or do we go more vague and sorcerous, talking about how the mind can play tricks and doesn't always see the truth, so only a fool would put much stock into it? Or, alternatively, the straightforward approach - that when you get in the ring, instinct takes over and higher thought ceases to matter? That's at least two sensible skewerings out of three, so, bye-bye brain, and bye-bye Veronica."
> The last click takes away Veronica's desk, and leaves the whole room in shadow. We can't see anything.
"Ah, but wait!"
> An extra click - and a new spotlight is switched on, this one focused solely on Veronica, revealing her face properly as she pulls an expression of shock. The illumination makes her pantsuit shine all the brighter.
"I'm...I'm still here? After all that? Wow, Seth! It's almost like your petty little barbs mean jack-shit!"
> Veronica holds the earnestly-stunned look for another moment before collapsing back into a more typical sardonic smile, uncrossing her legs to lean closer to the camera.
"Here's the thing, Seth - you can try all you like to stamp on anybody's past, but the present won't change. Make everything that makes Veronica Valiant so very Veronica Valiant and in the end, that second match on The Awakening card isn't going to look any different. I'm still packing the brain of Stephen Hawking in the body of a Playmate Of The Year; you're still looking like a horse's ass and smelling of the shit that comes running out of it. It doesn't matter where any of us have been, what matters is where we are now. You're hopping mad because some girl did a thing you don't like. Me?"
> She shakes her head slowly.
"I'm just looking at a pathetic man-child and wondering how much fun it's gonna be to put him out of my misery."
> And then, the video ends.
~V~
...Elsewhere.
Ugh. What's...where...
I can hear talking, but - gawd my head's killing me. And what's - there's something in my mouth, like, cloth? It gets in the way when I breathe.
And I try to take it out but my arms won't move far enough. It's like they're too far from my brain, kinda? And also there's a pressure on my wrists like I've been tied...up...
I...have a bad feeling...
"She's waking up. Is that a problem?"
Can hear them...who's 'them'?
"She's likely still drugged. No threat."
Drugged? What - wait...
"And exactly how nice do we need to be with her?"
"We don't need collateral on this op...but if she dies, she dies."
I am in so much trouble.
~V~