Odium RP: Mirror Mirror On The Wall.

Grey. Although usually just a word to describe color, it tells a lot about the atmosphere we see before us tonight, or more accurately this evening. The sun is very big and red in the sky, but still can barely be seen behind a mass of dark, grey clouds. It's not raining, but it's noticeably muggy. Very humid and sticky, uncomfortable. Grey sticks to the old metal of long untended rides and attractions, mixes in with formerly bright and powerfully attractive colors to form a dull, disgusting color. Grey is in steel support beams, holding these mammoth ferris wheels and roller coasters high in the sky, but for no purpose. It's increasingly obvious that not a soul has stepped foot onto this boardwalk in quite some time. The paint on the aforementioned ferris wheel is long since worn away, with a few dull patches left, but it's now more red with rust than any type of acrylic coating. The ground is similarly grey, untended, left for every trace of life spurting from it to die. Greyed brown soil sits bare beneath our feet, with a few scrap remnants of dying weeds and a patch or two of unhealthy looking grass, turning a color that I think we can all guess at this point. The greyest of the structures is, undoubtedly, a building with a large sandwich board in front of it, reading "HOUSE OF MIRRORS" in thick, red letters. The sign is as noticeably old as the rest of the park, ripped, yellowing and green with mold so the text underneath is almost unseeable, but still slightly readable. Behind this sign sits an old, rusty silver box on a large, wooden table. It's locked shut, but has hinges on it. The lock seems useless, because these hinges are too obviously rusted to move had they even be free to. The top of the box has a small slit in it, a tiny rectangle big enough to fit a quarter, albeit just barely big enough. As we stare at this box and contemplate that thought, a hand suddenly moves toward it and places a coin into the tiny slit. Almost unable to believe the thought of any life being here, we think that perhaps it's just a very vivid thought of what the small container was once used for, but the loud clank of metal on metal and the sight of a dark figure making it's way into the building snap us back into reality. Curious, we follow, not bothering to follow the lead of paying the small charge, too enthralled by what we are still trying to perceive correctly as reality. What we see upon entering the house of mirrors is not very surprising - it seems as if we're the first living thing to step foot into here, leaves vermin and rodents, in several years. The ground is dirty, mostly with dust and other random debris, and the walls... well, there are none. Instead of walls, the sides of the house are completely lined with mirrors. This may be a dizzying array of reflective surfaces had the park been well kept, but with spam sticking to the various mirrors, most of which are cracked, busted, and clinging to their frames, it's just, well... a sh*thole. It's hard to grasp the concept of the confusion it was once used for, and as we look around we see that all of the mirrors are destroyed in some way shape or form... except one. One mirror of the entire house is completely in perfect condition, not a crack or a scrape on it. In fact, it's completely shiny, as if recently polished. So amazed by the simple perfection of this mirror among the destruction of the rest, it takes a moment for us to see what is being reflected by it's shiny surface - the same dark shape that we saw before is right behind us. Instead of being overtaken by the instinct to turn to meet him face to face, we continue to stare at this person through the mirror, our back to him.

Trent Draven: I can see your eyes when I look into this mirror. In fact, every time I look into any mirror I can see them. And not just your eyes either. Your entire face. You're entire being. I see you when I look into the mirror. Master of Destruction, I see you whenever I look at myself. Like a ghost you haunt me, everywhere I go I see you. You've become a part of me. Yes, I can see your eyes, but I make a point of not directly looking into them. I simply can't. It brings up too many emotions. Too many mixed up feelings, and I don't like that. I don't enjoy being this mixed up. I like to see things as they are, one general shape, easily distinguished and recognizable. But I see so many things when I look into your eyes, and it makes my head twirl around in my skull, not knowing which way to turn. On the one hand, I see a person that I respect and love immensely. The part of you that's me. Both of us became quickly the head of the pack, the hungriest lions in the den of the WFDC. And naturally both of us vied for the same prizes, to become the leader of troupe. When two passionate beings both want the same thing, naturally there is competition, and there has always been that between us. A spark of passion always led us to butting heads, pushing in opposite directions, each wanting the upper hand. Like two dogs fighting for a single scrap of meat. All the while, of course, both of us were thinking the same thing. "I want it more." I respect you because of all the times we've clashed in this such manner, because I feel I know you almost as well as I know myself. It's quite amazing that our paths should cross again, at a time where once again both of us want to prove our dominance. It seems once again to get to the top, one of us needs to destroy the other, as it has been on so many occasions before. In the past it has seemed like you were just by a small amount the hungrier of the two. And I suppose it may be a little jealousy, but at the same time that I respect you and know I would not have become the person I have without you, I have always had a special little spot of hatred for you as well. It's always bothered me that while we seemed to be on an equal level, it was always inevitably you that got the opportunities to prove your worth before I did. While I was struggling to maintain my spot on the card, you and Total Apocalypse were becoming the tag team champions. While I was completely rethinking and revamping my priorities, you were the National champion. It seems that no matter how similar and equal we are, you always seem to be the dominant of the two somehow. It's funny how it works like that. Personally, I have never been handed anything in my life. What little I have achieved I can smile at and say that I earned on my own merit, and became by my own hand. But what pride is left in that? Aside from yourself, who can honestly can look and give a nod at someone who denotes success and in it's stead accepts hard work for little payoff? I desperately want to be in your shoes, MoD. Further than I am now, because as much as I try to kid myself we are not on the same level. Yes, we started off virtually the same way and have crossed the same path on many an occasion, but there's obviously something about you that I lack. Is it the hair, MoD? Should I cut it all off? Is it my blind, incurable urge to find respect within myself for everything and everyone? Should I lose the morals? Is it because I'm willing to sacrifice every inch of my moral self in order to achieve victory? What is this smudge on my perfect reflection? What is it about me that separates myself from you enough that success seeks you while I must dig through the dirt to find it?

Trent reaches forward, running his fingers down the length of the one perfect mirror. There are still no visible flaws, but he seems dissatisfied. He blows on it, fogging up a small area, and furiously rubs at the area with his gloved hand, wiping away spots that never existed in the first place in a wave of obsessive compulsive behavior. His dissatisfaction turns quickly into anger, and he scrubs more furiously at the mirror, now shinier in this area than any other, making the spot look abnormal. In Trent's efforts to fix what doesn't need fixing, he has only caused now blatant and visible damage. He furiously scrubs at another spot of the mirror, horrified at the thought that any little imperfection could leave it ruined just like the rest. Grabbing a handful of his hair in a tight grip, he backs into the mirror directly behind his, glaring deeply into his own eyes in the mirror, looking frustrated, angry, and confused.

Trent Draven: How is it possible for two things to be so closely related and so completely different at the same time? I can't stand the thought of it. I can't look into your eyes until I know for sure just what you are. I can't let myself be confused by these mixed, confused feelings anymore. MoD, it's not about beating you anymore. To be quite honest, that's been done and is in the past. I just want to be able to look at you and respect you again. I don't want to be confused. And the only way for me to be able to get past the confusion is to eliminate my resentment toward you, to get past the hatred. There is really only one way to do that... eliminate the only reason that it exists. If I can prove myself worthy of becoming a champion, achieving a title on my own merit, I will know for sure that I am on the same level as you are, if not above you. There won't be anything left to resent, because I will have evened the playing fields once more. Yes, once I become a champion I will be able to look into your eyes again, MoD. And at this point, you're a stepping stone toward that goal. After all, what better way to prove that I've earned my keep than by defeating someone who has already done just that? MoD, you're not the man in the mirror anymore, at least not for now. For now, you are the man that I must pole vault over en route to success. For this, I will fight no matter how much my body wants not to. I Will stand until my legs are cut from under me. I will bleed, but these wounds will eventually heal. I will scale the highest mountain,and then look back down, gleaming with laughter at those who could not do the same. And then at that very moment, I will look over and stare you directly in your eyes, and only then will I know that I have achieved what I have sought to.

Trent stares directly into the mirror again. It's oddly disproportional brightness glimmers in his eyes as he stares hard at it, this time looking more more concentrated and less confused. He stares hard enough at it where for a moment it seems like he's trying to find something in it beyond it's reflective surface. He looks up and down it's perfectly flat length, looking for something hard to grasp. Once again he begins to become frustrated, but this time catches himself and is able to regain his composure. He begins to walk out of the dirty little fun house, making it to the door before stopping dead in his tracks. From behind, we can see him look up to the grey sky in the doorway, as if he has had some sort of epiphany. The swivels on the balls of his feet, and takes a few long strides before coming face to face with the mirror again. This time, he reaches deeply into his jacket, into a "secret" pocket on the inside. When his hand re-emerges, it's holding a short lead pipe, about a foot in length. He continues staring at the almost perfect mirror, and a small smile crosses his lips as he raises his left hand, still holding the pipe, high above his head. We watch the mirror as he brings it down suddenly with a crash, and his reflection shatters as we look at it, shards of what moments ago showed his face falling to the ground with a showering sound. He drops the pipe to the ground, and makes his way toward the doorway once more.

Trent Draven: Almost there.

And with these two words, he disappears back into the infinite grey.