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Jul 16 2015, 11:37 PM
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YAAAS GIVE IT TO ME</div></div> </div>
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I am not afraid, I won't burn out in this place.
<br>My intention is to fade and I will, I will.
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Smoke drifted lazily from her nostrils, the bathroom dingy and unclean – peeling linoleum and the spider-webbed cracks of the mirror, arching in all directions, marring anyone’s reflection who cared enough to bother with looking. Lifting the cigarette to her lips, she dragged hard on the vapor – letting the death fill her lungs, a new strain they’d been working on out there. Tobacco would always be part and parcel for the Mojave, but what good was it if it didn’t evolve the way it’s people did, if it didn’t get tougher to handle the same way people did. Harsh and choking yet oddly smooth once it hit your throat, the tingle at the base of her neck strong and cool. Lifting the rag from the room temperature water, she squeezed the excess out – small streams pouring over the head of the little girl in the tub as squealed giggles filled the small space. “Mommy, why’s your face all black.” Carla didn’t answer right away, simply smiling down at her daughter, running the rag over the dirt she’d collected throughout the day. “Daddy, babygirl. He got mad at me.” Wringing the rag out, she carefully brushed it through the girl’s swiftly growing hair – caked in sweat and grime coming loose with each gentle tug. “Is he really a ‘son of a bitch’?” Fingers fumbling, the rag dropped into the water, Carla’s eyes on fire.
<P>“The hell just came out of your mouth?”
<P>“I heard you call him that once, ma.” Hand fishing around in the tub for only a second before scooping up the rag, Carla sighed – shaking her head gently. Of course, she had to hear that too. She wanted to tell her that it wasn’t true, that he was a great man, that he provided for them and kept them safe, he and all the men of the town. She wanted to lie to her daughter, spare her the gory details of what lied outside those doors, underneath that harsh, hot sun. Lie and spare her of the things that would eventually happen to her if they stayed there. As soon as Penny gets her first blood, we’re fuckin’ gone. Finding her daughter’s eyes, Carla offered the frail little girl the smallest of smiles; “Did you? Well…don’t ever let him or me hear you call him that, alright Addy?” Those sweet, brunette brows furrowed and Carla took on her ‘motherly’ stare; “Adelaide, now I ain’t playin’ with you. Yeah, he is but you don’t ever repeat it, alright?” At her nod, Carla gave her the most tender of kisses to her head before lifting her up and out of the water – toweling her off. “I’m cold.”
<P>“I know you are, babygirl – it’s the water. But be glad the well gives us what it does, there are a lot of people in this world that don’t have what we have and we gotta give thanks for it, alright? C’mon, go get in bed and say your prayers.” A clean if not oversized tee-shirt thrown over her head, Carla watched from the doorframe as the little girl scampered down the hallway and hopped into bed where her older sister was curled up, asleep. Fingers finding the stinging bruise outlining her eye, Carla didn’t bother looking in the mirror. Fuck.
<P>“Where were you last night?” The question was quiet, her voice barely above a wavering whisper as she sat across from him – glass of lukewarm coffee sitting in her hand, a scavenged grind – older than fuck probably but strong when she boiled it over the cookfire. Bitter and black and foul but enough to keep her eyes open, keep electricity sparking in her muscles and in her lungs. He was rolling cigars across from her – old, weathered hands working skillfully with the herb and paper, gentle almost. Carla idly wondered why that gentleness was never transferred to her, why it was always rough grabs and slaps and punches and screaming. He wasn’t the man she married. No, he’d died with the loss of their first baby. He shrugged his shoulders non-committedly; the movement of a man who was simply listening to the whispers on the wind and not the earnest question of his wife. “Charlie?”
<P>“Where were you last night?” She swallowed another mouthful of the thick brew, tasting acid at the back of her throat – tangy and stinging, a rusty metallic taste washing over her tongue with another sip. “The fuck does it matter, Carla?”
<P>“Can you please not use that sorta language inside the house? It’s not decent and what if the girls heard you?”
<P>“The fuck should I care?!” On his feet, he smacked the humidor sitting between them on the table out of the way, the wooden box clattering loudly to the floor as Carla pushed herself to her feet, her back straight and shoulders set. “It’s my goddamn house!” She had expected the slap, hard and vicious and cruel. Always so fucking cruel with him, always angled the right way – always with the edge of his fingers so it stung like fucking hell. Always had to beat her down, remind her who she was, what she was. Her feet tripped over one another and she hit the ground hard – her shoulder bearing the brunt of the weight, a crack resounding as the joint popped painfully. “I go where I damn well please, ya’ uppity slut!” Pulling herself back to her feet – she refused to lay on the floor like some helpless wallflower – she wiped at the edge of her mouth, red just barely staining the tips of her fingers. “All I wanted to know was where you were, baby. I wasn’t accusing you of anything, I wasn’t accusing you of being over at that little, red-headed slut’s house – always tittering around town in that pretty, white dress she fucked whoever for. Goddamnit, if she’s who you want, why the hell don’t you just up and leave?!” She would have pulled the words back inside her own mouth if she’d been able. But the damage was done, she saw that as he turned towards her, the hateful rage in his eyes bleeding out – terror clenching at her heart that this was it. He’d beat her black and bloody, this was it, it was one or the other and it sure as shit wasn’t gonna be her.
<P>Screams erupted from outside, gunshots and pounding fists on their door – shouts for them to grab their weapons, raiders. Dashing from the room as her husband did the same, Carla ran out into the living room – grabbing the seat cushions of the couch they’d kept from burning for fuel. Flinging the seats up, the small armory was revealed – guns and bullets and all manner of killing implements. Hefting her 12 Gauge – Carla screamed; “Charlie! Where the hell are the girls?”
<P>“They was outside!” Shell chambered, Carla racked the weapon – the sound filling the air as she pushed her way outside. Hefted in a hurry, the shotgun sprayed its load wide and far at the Reaver charging towards her door – a Molotov cocktail held high in his hand. The shotgun didn’t discriminate, death never did. Burstfire hit him solidly in the chest – opening him up in a spray of red and white bone fragments; muscly wings sprouting from where his spine should’ve been. He landed with a wet, squelching thud – blood erupting from his mouth, choking on crimson, life barely clinging to the ruins of his flesh. A slide of the breach, the shell discharged as a new slid into place – one more pull of the trigger and his head was nothing more than a slurry of red jelly saturating the sand. Adelaide! Penelope! Voice hoarse, Carla screeched – darting around the side of the house as fast as her feet could carry her – eyes frantic, breath coming way too quick in much too short gasps. She heard screaming coming from the shed. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no… Hiding underneath the rusted wheelbarrow – the Reaver laughing as he moved in; machete drawn, gleaming in the radioactive sunlight. Lifting the barrel of the gun, she had the drop on him and Carla had always been blessed with good aim (not that she needed it). Brains and bloody slurry exploded atop his shoulders, the scream of the girls indicating they hadn’t known to close their eyes.
<P>Hollow thud as his corpse smashed into the ground, Carla kicked the wheelbarrow over, slinging the weapon over her shoulder as she gathered up her children – hovering over them in the shade of the shed as the firing grew more intense, the sounds of battle vicious and horrid until it died down, until the sounds of Reavers dying and choking on their own innards filled her ears and she knew her and her babies were safe. “Shh, shh…” She hated the way her hands shook, the way the terror scattered her voice into some unearthly vibrato as she held the faces of her children, kissing their foreheads, calming them – hiding their eyes from the violence. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re both gonna be okay, shh…” Reavers weren’t supposed to come out this far, they weren’t supposed to be a threat out here – this little township all it’s lonesome.
<P>They weren’t supposed to draw attention. Fuck.
<P>“You and your family are the only ones with a barn on your property that’s not a useless, crumbling ruin. He stays with you.” She wanted to spit fire, she would’ve too if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s hand clamping down hard on her wrist – so hard she winced in discomfort, the sound only increasing his sadistic grip. “He’s not our problem, I don’t want him near my goddamn kids!” Carla shouted at the gathering of townsfolk, wrenching her hand away from Charlie – closing her eyes at the knowledge that she’d pay for it later. That she always paid for it at some point. “You can’t fuckin’ force him on us, we don’t goddamn want him.”
<P>“Watch yer fuckin’ mouth, woman.” Charlie all but hissed at her, seething rage pouring through every syllable out of his mouth. Wheeling on him, she was already gonna get it – may as well make it good and protect the girls; “Are you really willing to let that monster within 100 feet of your children? Penny and Addy just saw me blow someone’s head off; the last thing either of them need is that fucker somehow gettin’ in their heads! Reavers do that! They worm their way in there, make ya’ think ya’ like what they’re doing to you!” Chattering gossip passed amongst the townsfolk and one of the older men turned towards Carla. Wiping her hair out of her face, she looked him dead in the eye and crossed her arms; she wouldn’t be put out over this. He wasn’t staying.
<P>“What would you have us do? Let him go? Kill him?” Rolling her jaw, Carla’s crossed arms fell to her sides, the shake of her head telling them that she wasn’t exactly sure what any of them should do. “I don’t want him near my kids.”
<P>“So forbid your kids from going near the barn. He’s bound up good and tight; he ain’t going anywhere, Carla. We need information from him, you know that, you’re a smart girl, ain’t cha?” The very idea that Carla wasn’t smart insulted her just a small bit, but she nodded her head all the same. Trying to combat the misogyny in this place was like trying to blow out a goddamn light-bulb. “You do it.”
<P>“Excuse me?”
<P>“You take care of him, work on him. That way you can be sure to check his restraints, make sure he stays away from your children, question him for us, get to know him. You’re a sweet girl, seductive when you wanna be.” Several of the older men chuckled and Carla felt herself flush, shame creeping up the length of her neck, taking a few steps back – shaking her head slightly. They made me, they made me, they made me – I’m not that girl anymore, never again.
“We’ll come by, work him over ourselves from time to time, but you…you do the heavy lifting for us. You’ll protect your family, won’t you, Carla? Won’t she, Charlie?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod and she knew she was fucked no matter what. “Fine. But then he’s my prisoner. He gets treated the way I see fit, he eats when I say he eats, he drinks when I say he drinks. None of y’all get to dictate that, understand?” A wave of agreeable nods passed amongst the older men and Carla sighed, blowing her bangs out of her face. Fuck.
<P>Piss and vinegar – the bar reeked of it, though it always had. The wooden doors clattered shut behind her as she entered, casting the interior into cool shade – her eyes needing a few moments to adjust to the gloom before she walked forward. She didn’t know why, but she’d been expecting…not him. She’d been expecting huge and brutish, missing teeth – maybe an eye-patch. A neck tattoo of his mother’s pussy or something and a dick piercing with a tattoo above his happy trail that said ‘Happiest place on earth’. She wasn’t expecting plain, she wasn’t expecting handsome and almost…normal. There were tattoos, pretty ones sure but definitely nothing relating to his mother’s cunt. The decades old hay crunched under booted feet as she approached, her head tilted sideways as she stared into the eyes of a man who’d no doubt rape and gut her for his own amusement after doing the same to her children. She expected to see the devil in those eyes – a flash of red perhaps, maybe black – a flicker of the light and a too wide mouth to appear – filled with jagged, razor-edged teeth. Yet still nothing. Just a man. No demon, no monster, no Legion. Just flesh and blood.
<P>Carla lifted her pistol silently, letting him stare down the barrel – letting him see the light at the end of the tunnel, letting him taste that fear of death for even just a moment before she fired…
<P>And the scorpion that had been creeping up behind him, six feet back exploded as the round hit it, a sickening crunch as it’s carapace was practically obliterated. Sheathing the pistol in the back band of her jeans, she walked around him - tied up with thick rope between two of the support beams as he was – she toed the remains, plucking the twitching tail and stinger from the mess, walking by and gently trailing the barb along the edge of his throat. “Second time I’ve saved your life today.” It was the first thing ever spoken to him and she liked the way she sounded. Strong – in control of this situation despite all the situations outside the barn she was a victim of. Dropping the barb and tail, she sat down in front of him, a few feet back – the hay crunched beneath her. “The first was about an hour ago. See, either I accepted you as my prisoner or they were probably just gonna torture you and then kill you and let me tell you – out here? People don’t die easy. Tied to a pole and left to starve until you’re nothing more than easy pickings for a vulture, you lucked out.” She wanted to hit him; she wanted to stand to her feet and bash his fucking face in and be done with it. But she didn’t.
<P>“I’m your warden now, big fella. I’m in charge of your meals; I’m in charge of when you’re allowed to have a sip of water. I’m in charge of when you’re allowed to take a piss, I’m in charge of when you’re allowed to fucking breathe. I am not a happy camper with you, I am not in a pleasant mood. One of your cronies went after my children. There’s a saying back in Texas that the most dangerous place in the world is between a mother and her children and I’d even offer you to let you ask your friend if he still had a head.” Hand slipping into her pocket, Carla pulled her baggie of rolled cigarettes from it – lighting up with the harsh, heavy smoke invading her lungs and system, drilling down within her, fruity and perfect. “I’m supposed to get information out of you…” She wanted him to feel that tinge of fear, that she might torture him for what she wanted. She shook her head, scoffing – a ring of smoke drifting from her lips.
<P>“I ain’t gonna torture you. I ain’t gonna put that on my soul or on my conscience. But don’t for one second think it’s because I don’t think you don’t deserve it. Understand? Push me and you’ll see just how nasty I can get, alright? Now…we’re gonna lay down some ground rules.” Dragging off her smoke, she pulled herself to her feet, brushing off the back of her jeans. “Number 1: I am forbidding my children from coming out here. I don’t trust you, I can’t trust you, I’d be a fool if I did, so I will tell you this. They don’t always listen to me and they’re willful so they may very well come to investigate you. It is in your best interest to ignore them if they do. One fucking word to either of my little girls and you will not like what happens afterwards, am I clear?” Taking a few steps closer, she smirked down at him – her eyes hard.
<P>“Number 2: You will eat when I say and you will drink when I say. I mentioned that before but I’m not a cruel woman. I ain’t gonna starve ya’ but you need to eat and drink when I bring it to you, alright? Pride’s gonna get you killed at that part because I won’t fight with you to make sure you stay fed and hydrated.” Lifting her hand, her fingers grazed underneath his chin – lifting his eyes to hers as she kneeled partially in front of him and gently placed her cigarette between his lips, allowing him a single drag before taking it away again.
<P>“Number 3: Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”


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Jun 26 2015, 03:23 PM
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<div style="background-image: url(; width: 450px; height: 500px; margin-left:0px;"><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color:#8B795E; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: lighter; font-size: 50px; text-align:center;">ARIES </div></div><br><div class="potatoes">
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<P>Once upon a time, the Reavers were a very different breed of ‘crazy’. A long, long time ago, in a galaxy not so far away – they were run by an asshole named ‘Pox’. Pox was probably one of the cruelest (and ugliest) motherfuckers you’d ever wanna meet before Cain betrayed him and Pox ended up taking a dirt nap six feet under. Before that happened however, there was Aries.
<P>Aries here was the head slaver and one of Pox’s closest friends LOOOONG before Cain ever entered the scene and by God, was he ever a brutal fucker. Dispassionate and vicious at the same time, Aries was VEEEERY good at his job – one of the best and probably better than anything the Reavers have nowadays. He also tended to scare the ever-living shit out of everyone else. You see, there used to be rumors floating around that Aries was a devoted Satanist. It’s completely up to you if those rumors were true, however; Aries did seem to follow somewhat of a code that put him at odds with most of the other Reavers and Pox in particular. Aries never raped and he never harmed children.
<P>It was when he met my character Carla that he finally split from the group. He had led a very small group on a quick slaving run through a small settlement where Carla was living with her husband and her two daughters. She was just a simple housewife, albeit one married to a rather cruel man and who was pretty deadly when a 12 gauge was placed in her hands. From that point on, both parties maintain a mistruth about the actual events that took place. Aries says they destroyed the town with ease, captured everyone and took them as slaves. Carla…surprisingly, maintains the same.
<P>That’s not what happened at all. In fact; the settlers of that tiny little settlement had a surprising ally. The Hellhounds would frequently make stops there to trade out weapons for supplies such as food and tobacco and they were very well armed because of it. The Reavers lost that fight but Aries was spared. It was a split decision, and many of the townsfolk wanted him dead thinking he was more a liability alive rather than in the dirt. It was Carla who pleaded for his life on the basis that he could be useful in terms of information. Strung up between two posts in the barn, Aries was kept as their prisoner for well over a month. It was during this month that Carla and him grew intimate. It wasn’t love; it wasn’t anything even similar to love but something more out necessity. They both needed it and they were available to one another. And it never mitigated the fact that he was her prisoner for all intents and purposes. It was also during this month that Aries came to see the depths of her husband’s cruelty.
<P>The barn was a good hundred feet away from their homestead and yet…he could still hear that animal’s screaming rage and the cries of those little girls and screaming matches Carla would get into him before the crash of furniture and deathly silence. When she would come to him in the mornings to check on him, he’d see the bruises and the limp in her step and the blood that caked her thighs that she’d tried to wash away and only succeeded in smearing just that much more.
<P>He eventually broke free and helped her kill her husband before taking her and her girls, promising he was going to take them somewhere safe. He took them back to Pox, fully intending on demanding Carla be made a Reaver. It didn’t happen that way. Pox had Carla and her daughters tossed in the Basement as sex slaves, it was this event that caused Aries to finally split from the Reavers.
<P>Obviously Carla holds a lot of animosity and rage towards him now. The way she sees it, he was a liar, he had always planned on having her thrown down there and even if he wasn’t the one who raped and killed her daughters in front of her after having witnessed their sexual abuse for years down there; it was his actions that caused it. He left the Reavers and it’s up to you as to where he went, but Carla fully intends on tracking him down. She’s quite the beast of a fighter now, having never lost a match in the Coliseum and she’s plotting her escape which will eventually happen and when it does, these two meeting again will be like clash of the titans.
<P>I used Billy Huxley for the play-by because oh my god, look at his face but it’s open if you really don’t like him. He just needs to be good looking with the potential for scary as hell. </div>

Jun 1 2015, 10:54 PM
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like 2 words or something</div></div> </div>
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There was blood and there was fear and there was an absence of death that perhaps should’ve meant far less than actually did. She craved the violence and they all knew it. A common courtesy would’ve been to at least let her kill something but she was left unsatisfied and so frightfully clean of the gore she wanted. Carla was not a woman of clean skin. She was not a woman of washed hair and bloodless teeth. She wanted the death and the fire. She wanted the screams.
<P>He had been a young one and perhaps that’s why they wanted him spared. So terribly young, a mere teenager sent against the lioness hiding in the cage because he’d mouthed off about the wrong subject to a father who shouldn’t have been a father. They were expecting her to be easy, to be tame under the orders given, to scare him, to make him a mockery of the crowd, to bloody him just enough that he never spoke of being a champion of the pit ever again. They hadn’t expected her to take the whole arm. Maybe a few cuts, maybe a good black eye and a few teeth knocked into the dirt. Not the whole arm, never the entire limb. But the Reavers had been foolish in their assumption that Carla was a woman who could be controlled by something as petty as ‘punishment’. Oh yes, she’d felt their punishment, she’d felt the whips and she had laughed.
<P>Their first mistake had been giving her a weapon. Even something with an edge as dull as a garden spade, she could use. Anything edged. Anything.
<P>Carla opened her eyes and she hated. Blonde hair obscured her features but when was that not the case. Sitting up, she hissed as the creaking bones of her spine. Those memories had been young, only of the day before. Strange how quickly everything fades, though she doubted it such for the one-armed boy. She grinned at her guard. Almost an insult if she could be insulted by anything outside of the ring anymore. A single man left to guard me should I wish to leave this place? Perhaps it was hubris, a sin if there ever was one – that she should think herself so high above the men charged with keeping her but Carla held little humility. Even in the dirt, she was the one wearing the crown of the people. “Normally you don’t face me, Danny. Got something to say?”
<P>“Oh, you know me – I’ve always liked watching the wildlife.” The weakest barb he could’ve conjured and yet it stung. How little was she worth? How little did she even fucking matter in this place. She wore a crown but maybe it was rusted more than she knew.
<P>“And the actual reason is…?” He produced a sheet of paper and a pen, hidden underneath the confines of his jacket. A crown is still a crown. No matter how ruined. “Took you long enough, fucker.” He was cruel, snatching the paper just out of her reach when her fingers passed the bars to grasp it.
<P>“I’m not sure I’m a fan of that tone, Carla.” It was the jolly look in his eyes that sent her at the cellgate, snarling like an animal – her arm reaching through the bars. Her fingers were hooked like claws and if he hadn’t been so quick, she was sure she would’ve drawn the blood she so wished for. “Please…please…” She hissed, her voice stinging in the back of her throat. “It keeps me to sane, to pretend to write to them. Please…” The kohl she kept smeared around her eyes to help with her vision in the sun had long since streaked her face in lines of sweat and blood but she wouldn’t cry for it. She knew it would do her no good.
<P>The paper was pressed to hand. “One more thing, Danny. Find me a courier. I don’t care who.”


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May 18 2015, 06:51 PM
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<center><div style="width:450px;height:450px; background-image: url(;"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color: #8B795E; opacity: 1; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 400; font-size: 25px; text-align:center;">CARLA</div><br><div style="line-height: 60%; text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #6E6E6E;">LUKE, 21, HE/HIS, PACIFIC, AIM/PM</div></div></div></center></div></div>

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<center><div style="width: 380px; height: 380px; margin-top:27px; opacity:1; padding: 10px; background: #FFFFFF; color:#000000; font-family:'arial'; text-transform:none;"><br><div style="width:352px; height:357px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;"> They’ve kept you waiting for 30 minutes; standing in the disgustingly drab hallway outside the ‘interview’ room. You find it actually somewhat amusing that the Reavers would even have such a thing and you’re positive that it’s really a broom closet or an old storage room they cleaned up because no one wants to end back up on your shit-list. Regardless, the hallway smells of old tires and urine and you’re surely hoping they’re at least planning to hose the bitch off before you have to deal with her. Slaves are not kept in the best of conditions; especially the coliseum slaves and you have a rather important interview in a few days with the Speaker. An interview that could absolutely make your career on the Strip. You don’t have time to worry about getting the smell out of your clothes. The door cracks open, just partially and a face appears on the other side – rheumy eyes giving you a once over, as if inspecting yourself for imperfections. “You’ll do. Come in.” You raise an eyebrow at the tone of the man and give a slight roll of your eyes before following him through the doorway. You’re surprised by how clean it actually is. Clean, concrete floors – simple, barred windows. The walls are whitewashed though the paint looks…fresh. You pay it no mind as you make your way to the table. “Where is she?”
<P>“She’s being prepped for the interview.”
<P>Your brow quirks at that and you give the guard a withering look, one that demanded more than such a base answer. I’m going to be kept waiting on her?” His impassive shrug serves only to infuriate you more and he actually has the audacity to laugh. Laugh! At you! “Carla is…” There was that name again. So bloody simple, slid across your desk on a piece of paper, an interview desired by the higher ups, played over the radio as if she were some old-world celebrity. But wasn’t that the case with these things? She essentially is. “She’s a unique case. She has to be properly prepped before being brought out for these sorts of things.”
<P>“What ‘sorts of things’? There’s never been an interview with her before.”
<P>“People have tried to purchase her before. She can be…finicky.” You pull out your chair, settling yourself down in the cold metal, trying not to let the guard’s tone unnerve you more than you already were. You’ve seen her fight a few times, but it’s always hard to tell exactly what’s happening down in the ring given the amount of blood…
<P>Another 15 minutes pass and despite your protests that things be moved along quicker, the guard does nothing but laugh and point to be honest. He knows you’re here under orders and it’s not like you can go back empty handed and so you sit there, silently fuming on being kept waiting for nearly an hour now on a fucking slave. Finally, the door on the opposite wall opens. She’s taller than you imagined she would be in real life, her hair long and wild – a mane of pale curls and tangles but that’s not what catches your breath and twists your heart. It’s her eyes. Steel-grey and just as hard, once they come to lock in on yours, they don’t leave and you feel as if you’re standing in the desert, a wild animal circling you and you’re powerless to do anything to stop it. You take one wrong step and she’ll tear your goddamn throat out. “She can’t talk right now, we had to dope her up a bit. Give her 5 or so minutes and she’ll be able to answer you.” You sigh at that as she roughly manhandled into the chair and you wonder if you should be worried at how she’s restrained, a strait-jacket tight around her torso. “Why…why the…apparatus?” You nod to the device.
<P>Another impassive shrug; “In case you piss her off by accident and we can’t get to the pepper-spray fast enough. Even like this, it’d be wise to be polite.” He chuckles at you, as if this is all some grand game and you’re the unwitting pawn in the center of the board. You don’t like to dwell on how much sense that analogy actually makes. Even with those hauntingly fierce eyes, you can tell their words were true by the drowsiness emanating from her, how she’s slumped in her seat, her jaw somewhat lax. You look over your notes while you wait, double-checking the questions for proper ‘etiquette’ because you actually would like to make it out of this room alive and you have no doubt in your mind that the Reavers would let her gut you with her teeth for the laugh. “...Wh…What do you want?” Her voice is surprisingly clear when she finally speaks, wincing as she tries to sit up a bit more in her chair – the curtain of hair obscuring her face for a few seconds before a Reaver roughly shoves her head back – tying her mane back with an elastic.
<P>“Is that really necessary?”
<P>“She’s easier to predict when you can see her eyes. Whenever she covers her face with her hair, you’re fucked.” The realization that you’re terribly out of your depth here is hard-hitting but you swallow it like a pro. “I…I see.” You tap your pen against the edge of the table, waiting for him to finish but you can’t help notice the tinge of sadness in her eyes as she allows herself to manhandled about as if she was nothing more than an unruly animal. Is she anything more? You quietly slip the recorder out from your pocket, wait for the nod from the guards and press record.
<P>“So, for the people back home and on the street; please identity yourself.” You expect something. Some sort of emotion, some of registration of active thought. You receive nothing. “This is Carla…” The name seems to hang in the air for a few seconds too long, the name so many had chanted in prayer at the edge of the ring. Their favorite. “That’s right, folks. We have the enigmatic pit-champion; Carla with us here today. A multi-tournament winner and victor of over 150 matches. Carla, may I call you that?” Her nod is practically microscopic; “Tell us about the pit, Carla. Give us some background before we get down into the nitty-gritty; what’s it like in the pit?” You slide the recorder a few inches closer to her, those eyes never leaving yours. Bloody.” A beat of dead-air passes before you realize that’s all she apparently has to say on the topic. We’re going to have to edit this shitstorm to hell and back.
<P>“Surely there’s more to it than that! Blood can’t be the only thing down there.” Her eyes finally break contact with yours when she rolls her own, shaking her head slightly – a dry laugh on the edge of her lips and tongue. “Blood. Skin. Muscle. Death. That’s it. It’s war. It’s carnage. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you’re looking for some sort of cathartic divulge of information about my strategies and my tactics, you’ll be disappointed.” Her voice is musical and you find that to be somewhat odd, given the woman’s countenance. Musical, yet thick and scratchy. You realize this is probably the first time she’s actually spoken in quite a while.
<P>“Well, your outlook has certainly seemed to serve you well. You’re one of the best fighters down there, never lost a match – even a non-lethal one. And you’ve certainly gained quite a few fans, what do you think of that?” There’s a stillness about her you don’t quite understand. Most people when faced with questions – of any type – have some sort of physical reaction. Besides the eyeroll, she hasn’t moved a muscle, her eyes back at yours, straining. “I think people need to get out more often if I’m their only source of entertainment.”
<P>“You don’t think that sounds a little ungrateful? From what the Reavers have told me, you’re treated quite well given your popularity with the masses.”
<P>“You’re right. I only get raped every other day now when I’m not in the ring.” You hit the recorder button at the same time a baton gets slammed across her jaw. Blood spurts from her lips but she actually laughs at the pain more than anything before her vicious eyes swing back, glaring death and daggers at the Reaver. Even he has seemingly has the good sense to take a single step back. “We can’t have her mentioning rape.” You glance at one of the guards, shaking your head slightly. “She’s too well-liked and neither the Reavers nor the nobility need the bad publicity, we’re already dealing with the Renegades – if the common people find out their favorite fighter is being mistreated, there could be more riots and more people rioting against you and your people and I hate to break it to you, but the V.S.F. will not be lending assistance if that happens.”
<P>The guard looks to the woman, who sits in stony silence – her eyes back on yours, her face completely expressionless except for the small trickle of blood from the edge of her mouth. “Carla. Behave.” The man says but she shows no hint of having heard or comprehended him. “Yes, sir.” You sigh at her final assent that comes a beat later. “Alright…we’ll just…let’s move on, shall we?” Clicking the record button once more, you find yourself back in your proper element. “So Carla, I’m dying to know – what makes you keep fighting? Many slaves – especially women – are known to give up in the ring, their desire to live fading. What keeps you going and keeps you swinging?” She tilts her head, almost as if she was trying to once more obscure her face with her hair only to be thwarted by the fact that it was tied back. You shiver at the fact that you must’ve said something wrong. Whenever she covers her face with her hair, you’re fucked.
<P>She waits another second before finally speaking, her tone even and calm; “I’m angry and killing makes me less so.”
<P>“Why do you believe that is, Carla? What makes you so angry? Is it your imprisonment?” She sits up a little more in her chair, shaking her head slightly from side to side. “No, it’s not. I don’t care about that. I did but not anymore.”
<P>“What changed?”
<P>“He left.” You quirk your brows at that, cautiously reaching forward and flicking the record button before looking over your shoulder at the guard. “Is she talking about the last leader before Cain? We can’t have him mentioned for…delicate reasons.” For once during this entire fucking debacle, the guard is actually helpful! “Nah, she’s talking about Aries.” You’ve never heard that name and the guard smirks when he realizes that by the look on your face.
<P>“Who the fuck is Aries?”
<P>“He was a slaver that used to work for the Reavers way back when. Long before Cain’s scrawny ass ever showed up on the scene. Dude was brutal from what I remember, an absolute monster in every way a person could be one. Grew up out east, I think? One of them flyover states, Nebraska or some shit – a tribe of devil worshippers.” The guard jerks his chin towards the woman sitting across from you, glaring at the table. You can tell she doesn’t like having this information repeated. “He was the one who captured her.”
<P>“Carla’s been here since before Cain? Why doesn’t anyone know that?”
<P>“She used to be a sex slave in the Basement. She was just a number back then.” You cringe in distaste at the mention of that nightmarish place, having taken a tour through there a few years back for a story. The very name sends a shiver up your spine. You turn back to Carla, her eyes still fixed on yours but having gained some dark edge to them. Some hate you’re afraid to press too far in on.
<P>“Is that all true?” She nods. You flick the recorder back on. “Who’s ‘he’, Carla?” You tilt your head towards her, as if to urge her on despite having already heard what she was about to say. “Aries. The man who enslaved me and my two children.” You flick the recorder off once more, rubbing at your temples. “Are you guys fucking serious? I can’t have enslaved kids on this, really I can’t.” Standing from the table, you head towards the window – lighting a cigarette along the way. “She’s giving you what you asked for.” You roll your eyes at the self-satisfied smirk you can practically hear in his words.
<P>“Okay look, just…” Fuck. “Just, will one of you press record, please?” The guard reaches forward and flicks the switch while you lean against the wall for a second, taking one last drag off your half-finished smoke before snuffing it out against the wall and sitting back down. “I see. So please expound upon why his departure from the Reavers has lessened the anger and rage you feel at being enslaved?”
<P>“Because I won’t be enslaved much longer…” She smiles at the cryptic phrasing, and the expression is actually rather pretty – though you can easily tell that this is a woman who doesn’t smile particularly often. “What do you mean by that? Does someone intend to buy you?”
<P>She sits forward, a fast movement that causes everyone in the room to jump slightly; the Reavers pulling their batons and pepper spray just in case she makes an attempt on your life. “You wanna know why I’m angry? You wanna know why I like to kill people? Why I like to get drenched in gore and bite into their flesh and hear their dying screams? It’s because you all fucking deserve it. Yeah; I was taken as a slave along with my two little girls. The prettiest little things you could ever fucking imagine. Sweet, innocent little girls! Maybe I wouldn’t be angry if they’d been sold to some nice Noble families. Or someone who would’ve been able to take better care of them, but instead – they ended up in the Basement with me. They were children and I was forced to watch what happened to them down there!” You know you shouldn’t be recording this, you know something should be happening but her voice and her eyes have you glued to your chair, horror spread across your features.
<P>“I watched them get raped, I watched them get tortured, I watched them die. Some sick fuck decided the only way he could get off was to watch them get fucking impaled and he wanted to hear my screams when they did it. I was chained to the wall, watching while my children screamed in agony for me to help them. For me to save them. I begged for it to be me, for them to be spared and he laughed at me. He thought it was funny to shove red-hot rods up into my little girls, to watch them have fucking seizures from the pain.” You swallow a thick knot in the back of your throat, your hands clenched into hard fists at the rage in her eyes, at the hissing venom in her voice. You glance at the recorder.
<P>“I see. That…that’s terrible, Carla.” You whisper the words, but they are paltry and small change and she knows it. You can see it in the way she reclines back into the chair, all her rage and hatred locked up behind the confines of her strait-jacket, those steely eyes once again tearing into yours. She has the most unnerving gaze. The question burns at the back of your throat and you mull asking it over a few times inside your head before finally deciding to bite the bullet, that this would be a far more interesting story if you went the candid route. You could always bullshit something together for the common people’s consumption, it’s not like any of them would know the difference. But this…? This could have some excellent potential. “How exactly did you get out of the Basement?”
“When they unchained me, I attacked them. Killed 8 by the time they restrained me…” You can only imagine what the carnage must’ve looked like. You’ve seen her fight and it was one of the goriest events you’d ever witnessed. You give her the slightest of nods, a show of understanding.
<P>“You said that you weren’t going to be enslaved for much longer, Carla. What did you mean by that?”
<P>You shiver at the smirk that breaks across her face; “I meant that soon, one day – very fucking soon – I’m gonna kill my way out of here…” You sense a palpable tension fill the air, each of the guards just slightly adjusting their stance to her seemingly immense amusement. “And then when I do. I’m gonna hunt that fucker down and I’m gonna torture him and then I’m gonna find a metal rod, and I’m heat it up real nice…” Her sick smile sends a wave of nausea arching through your stomach. Your mouth is dry when you ask it; “And then what?”
<P>She settles into her chair, her eyes finally breaking contact, the smallest of shrugs she can accomplish so restrained as she is. “After all is said and done, I’ll put a bullet in my brain. I’d like to see my daughters again.”



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<center><div style="margin-left: 0px;"><table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="1"><tr><td><div class="biotag">SLAVE</div></td><td><div class="biotag">PIT SLAVE</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">CHAMPION</div></td><td><div class="biotag">AUGUST 16TH (35)</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">HETEROSEXUAL</div></td><td><div class="biotag">MARIA BRINK</div></td></tr></table></div></center><br><br><div style="width:352px; height:262px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;">So this here is Carla. A champion of the Coliseum and perhaps one of the most 'well known' slaves in all the mojave, she's considered to be quite the fan-favorite amongst both the common people and the nobility who go to watch the bloodsports. She's extremely dangerous and a very volatile woman, having suffered seeing the heinous deaths of both her children. Carla's lost any sort of true 'empathy'. She feels nothing for the average person unless you manage to earn her respect and doing such is a very hard thing to accomplish. She's vindictive and vengeful and desires nothing more than killing any and all who had anything to do with the death's of her daughters before taking her own life. She's one of my few characters who actually has a solid goal though I'd definitely like her to not reach it since I like writing as her.
<P>Friends are a funny thing for her. She's not a friendly woman by any stretch of the imagination, terrifying more people than she delights unless of course you're betting on her winning. That's not to say she doesn't have friends, she does, it's just not exactly the right word. Carla cares about strength and if you're weak in her eyes, then you're nothing and she won't blink an eye if she has to kill you and all subsequent generations of your family. If you manage to gain her respect (almost always accomplished through either wit, being able to make her laugh, or actual strength and skill in combat) then you've managed to gain a particularly dangerous ally. Carla's loyal but to a point. Interfere with her goal or her revenge and she'll collect your head as well.

<P>Enemies aren't actually a huge thing for Carla. She's a slave, so she's pretty much at the bottom of the totem pole even if she's a semi-celebrity. Anyone who had a hand in the rape and murder of her little girls are obviously on her shitlist, as well as anyone who directly antagonizes her but Carla's very good at killing her enemies, hence her...well...lack of living ones. If you treat children badly in front of her however, she'll feed you your own intestines.

<P>Lovers could be a thing. Carla's hard to get to know and even harder to actually get her interested in knowing you but that's not necessarily always a detriment depending on the person. Carla's not very sexual in nature, she's not exactly asexual but she's awkward when confronted with the idea of it. She once had a husband but he's...well he's dead now and when her daughters were killed, Carla pretty much gave up on ever finding love or someone who actually gives a damn about her beyond her ability to kill. I'd like for her to find someone, but it'd have to be a natural thing and they'd have to be compatible (and able to deal with the fact that Carla's a very broken woman.)

All in all, that's Carla. She's dangerous, she's volatile, she'll kill you and not think twice about it but she's also an intensely sad woman. She's not looking to be 'fixed' however. She's simply looking for revenge and then...peace.

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