Voices

[The Black Widow]

Dimly lit and nearly barren, the room fills with the echoes of the Black Widow's footsteps as she passes by two empty chairs upon her entrance. Brandy takes a position by the wall, seating herself on the ground to face the empty dining chairs. Her back leaned against the wall, her eyes pointed toward the furniture– she never makes eye contact with the camera. Instead, the angle is shot from the side, as if even the cameraman was a spectator in the performance to follow, versus playing an integral part.

"Growing up as a little girl, I always hated Thanksgiving. People just can't call the shit for what it is," Brandy scoffs, "which is a bunch of people sitting around a table, celebrating gluttony by sticking their forks and knives into a dead fucking bird."

Gently, she bangs the back of her head against the cold, cinder block wall in a rhythmic manner, five times in total. Her head slumps forward, her voice low. "Let me tell you a story about Thanksgiving in my home growing up, though."

Directing her attention to the camera, she explains: "That empty chair there– that's my dear, old Dad's seat. He isn't there, of course. He never was. He's somewhere out on the road -pick a city, if you want- either shedding his blood within the confines of barbed wire or a cage… or getting patched up after to do it again the next week."

"My mother would sit there, in that seat," she says, pointing to another empty chair. "She rarely missed these. By the time I was old enough to remember, she had retired. She was a perfectionist to her core. She used to love to fucking chastise me for the stupidest shit."

"Use your fork, Brandy."

"Sit up straight, Brandy."

"Elbows off the table, Brandy."

Stifling a laugh, the Black Widow shakes her head. "Fucking bitch. Now I'd tell her that, too."

Brandy's bluish-green eyes close as she audibly inhales a breath. Slowly, she exhales. "I used to think about the things my father would've said to me though, y'know, if he gave a damn. Gathered at the table, he wouldn't have been the kind to ask me for the gravy, or ask about my life. It probably would have been something along the lines of : Brandy, pass the Hennessy and my fucking pills! He always needed something to… drown the pain. Or he'd talk about the stories on the road, with his buddies, struggling to remember parts because of all the concussions."

"But that was the deal he signed two, three… sometimes four times a week in his own blood. This sport doesn't give anyone anything. Everything is a trade, and every trade has a price to be paid later… and he paid tenfold."

Brandy reaches into her jacket for her pack of Marlboros, producing a cigarette from it with an ease of someone who has done it far too many times before. A match is struck as she holds the cigarette in between her lips. Her face is illuminated by the light of the flame very briefly before she waves the match out.

"Our shitty Thanksgivings, his injury-riddled body, and my childhood ruined aside… I guess he got what he wanted. His voice carried weight."

Pausing for a drag off her cigarette, the Widow reflects. "The people that followed him -his Soldiers, as he called them- they fought for him. They listened to him. I can't say if that was out of respect, or if it was born out of the same fear his opponents had of him– but no one ever questioned him."

Pointing the butt of her cigarette at the chairs, she admits, "There is a part of me that wants that for myself."

"Make no mistake, I don't aspire to be my father's daughter; but for every ounce of venom I hold toward him, I realize I am my father's daughter nonetheless. I willingly shed my own blood, the same way he did. I chose the company I keep for the same reasons he did– because we're all on the same level in the gutter, just trying to crawl up out of the filth." Brandy holds her cigarette up for the camera, "We even share some of the same vices."

She shrugs. "It is what it is. I am fully capable of embracing my own contradictions."

"I want the reputation he had, though."

"I want my voice to carry the weight his voice did."

"I crave the taste of other people's fear."

"But this sport doesn't give anyone anything. Everything is a trade, and every trade has a price to be paid later."

She lowers her head, walking her fingers across the floor as her cigarette burns freely in her other hand. "So I made a trade. At Survival of the Fittest, I will team with Stephen Terrella so that, when it's over, I can fight him. History has shown me that's how you get your voice heard in our little family."

Brandy looks up at the camera for the first time, her face void of anything resembling any type of emotion. "Tyson… Charlie, if you think for a second that makes me a reluctant partner, think carefully. This war may be Stephen's war, but this battle is also mine."

Swiftly bringing her cigarette to her lip, she draws a breath in. Exhaling, a puff of smoke fills the air. "You are sacrifices, collateral damage in my war. Perhaps that offends you? Perhaps it should. Although, like any true predator, the spider doesn't concern herself with the opinions of maggots. They're meant to feed upon… and feed I will." She traces her tongue along her lips.

"Chaos is in my nature; and thanks to your own hubris, you created an environment tailor-made for my particular brand of mayhem."

"If I want to pummel you with a steel chair, I can."

"If I want to light you on fire, I may."

"If I want to stomp your face into a pile of broken glass, I will."

"I can come at you from anywhere, and everywhere… without the restraints of having to be tagged in."

Brandy allows herself a wry smile. "But, a true predator also understands its prey– its strengths, as well as its vulnerabilities. I will not walk into this blind."

"The two of you are bigger than me. The two of you may even be quicker than me, perhaps? Tyson has already used that speed and agility to bruise my partner's ego with defeat once. You are two bodies, uniquely suited to work as one entity."

She throws her head back with laughter.

"But I don't fear defeat the way my partner does, because what do you take from the girl that has nothing?"

"I don't fear pain. Pain is temporary. Pain distracts. Pain is merely a sensation that strengthens."

Casting her cigarette aside, she leans forward, as if she was having an up-close and personal conversation with someone that simply isn't there. "Tyson… Charlie, the only thing I fear… the thing that truly terrifies me… is if I became you."

"Two faceless cogs in a machine, devoid of their own, distinct voice. Driven by the love and acceptance of a crowd; too naive to realize that those same people that love you today, will be the very same people that cast you aside like garbage tomorrow. Only you won't leave the same way you came. Little-by-little, all of this will tear away pieces of you. And those pieces you so freely give, they won't be in service of yourselves. You will leave them on the canvas, in service of the man that pays your salary. You will lose them in service of the fans. You will fail to keep sight of them in the service of your partner… all without a voice to scream out 'no'."

"You may collect a few golden trinkets along the way, but they give you no lasting value in this world. If they did, the company and the unwashed masses wouldn't be salivating over a card where three of the four men putting their careers on the line were, at one time, possessors of trinkets."

Tilting her head, she smiles. "Brother versus brother sells though, the same way Charlie versus Tyson one day could. How much will be left of either of you by then I wonder…?"

"Less after Sunday, this much I know."

Leaning back, she once again commences tapping the back of her head against the wall. "Regardless of whether you survive us or not though, you should know… this world… these people… they have created a million other monsters… Just. Like. Us. You are the victims, and our victims help to make us well."

Brandy flashes a chilling smile as the camera goes black.