Post by Emma Danielson on Mar 2, 2013 10:07:20 GMT -6
We open on Emma Danielson walking down the hall of a hotel, bag rolling behind her and a smile across her face. Her eyes flick over the number plates of each of the rooms, and as she glances ahead to check if the hall turns off in one direction or the other, her eyes fall upon a familiar figure, standing outside his own room: Andrew Jacobsen. Despite not being booked, apparently he elected to come to town just the same. Emma raises an eyebrow at his presence, but walks along, ready to pass him by without a comment. However, Andrew looks up as she walks by, and immediately he speaks up.
”Emma. We need to talk.”
She casually replies, not even looking at him as she walks by.
”Do we?”
Andrew rolls his eyes, unlocking the door and stepping around her to cut her off. He glares down at her with an icy stare.
”Yes. We do. Because even if you’ve given up on me, I haven’t given up on you.”
She sighs, knowing that, if need be, he would pester her the entire weekend, and turns around, rolling her suitcase into Andrew’s room. He follows her in, closing the door behind them. Emma walks over, sitting on the bed and crossing her arms. Andrew turns back to face her, sighing as he walks further into the room.
”Emma, how in the hell are you just walking around with a smile on your face? Is this an act or something? Because the Emma Danielson I know wouldn’t be skipping around without a care in the world a week after helping damn near end a man’s career. She’d be…well, I don’t know, but this is just screwed up. Don’t you have any guilt?”
Emma groans, standing up and grabbing her suitcase as she heads for the door. Andrew cuts her off again, and she steps up to him, shouting up at him angrily.
”No! No, I don’t! Because I don’t have any sympathy for Davey Ortega’s useless ass clogging up my TV time. Do you really what to know what I feel right now, Andrew? Power. I feel powerful for the first time in a long time. I feel like I have the ability to do something, to make an impact instead of flailing around blindly. And that feels damn good. Have you ever stopped and considered that maybe this is more of who I am? No, I bet you haven’t. Because that’s what you do: you idealize things, you try to make it so that, at least in your mind, everything was better ‘before.’ Well, I may be a second-class citizen compared to Kathy, but at least I’m not as pathetic as you want me to be.”
Emma tries to storm past him, but Andrew pushes her back, eyes wide in bewilderment. He shakes his head in disbelief, about five different sentences being started and cut off as he fights through the multitude of emotional responses he’s trying to bite back. Finally, one breaks through.
”You think I want you to be pathetic?! I just don’t want you to be a sadistic psychopath! Is that so much to ask for, Emma? Is it too overbearing of me to ask you ‘hey Em, maybe could you not retire anyone this week?’ See, I didn’t think it was. But apparently it is. Apparently the new…or old…and improved Emma Danielson doesn’t want anything to do with anything remotely resembling respectability. Know what? Get out. It’s obvious this isn’t going to lead anywhere. Just…go live your life.”
Emma rolls her eyes, muttering to herself about how she wasn’t the one who bulled him in here, and grabs her suitcase. She brushes past Andrew, throwing the door open and walking out without so much as a glance behind her. Andrew watches her go, sighing, and closes the door. He walks over to his bed, falling back and staring at the ceiling wordlessly as we fade to black.
”Power’s an intoxicating thing. Better than booze, better than anything else you can find. Because power doesn’t weaken you. It’s addictive as hell, but it, by its nature, only strengthens you. And the more power you have, the easier it is to get more power. I’m starting to see why Jake and Kathy live the way they do…and one of the benefits of power is being able to squash things that piss you off.”
“Crystal, I’m fully prepared to hear the same spiel from you that’s come out of your mouth every week for the last month and a half, trying to preach at me that ‘this isn’t me’ and that I’m making myself less real by associating with who I do. Well, I’m not listening. Who are you to judge? All you ever wanted to do was change me. You wanted me to be more like you. And now that I’m running with people that want me to be me…you can’t stand it. You’re like a spoiled kid who had a toy taken away. Crystal, let me put this in as clear terms as I can: you don’t get to tell me how to live my life. You don’t get to tell me what’s me or what’s not. Just like everyone else, you get to sit down, shut up, and let me live my life.”
“See, at least you weren’t coming completely out of left field, though. You were my friend. You were genuinely trying, in your own misguided way, to help me. And I won’t lie and say that I hated every moment of it. Crystal, there’s a part of me that misses you. But there’s a bigger part of me that sees you as just another voice in the chorus. And right now, there’s no voice singing more off-key and more shrilly than Jasmine Barrera.”
“Jasmine, I was willing to show you the same respect Kathy did, if begrudgingly. But then you opened your mouth, and you made it abundantly clear that you’re clueless as to what’s been going on around you. See, Kathy has to hold herself to certain standards. She’s high-class, she’s ‘elegant’, she’s ‘refined’…but I’ve never pretended to be those things, so I can speak my mind without having to watch my words. You’re asking questions that Kathy’s used an almost obscene amount of breath explaining, and moreover you’re completely ignoring who I am in favor of the easy-to-mock caricature I was. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised that someone would twist the facts to fit their preferred narrative. Seems to happen a lot around here.”
“I’ve been sober for four months, eighteen days, thirteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes. The last time I had a drink, Andrew Jacobsen was World Champion. Let that sink in for a minute there, Jasmine. You’re so wrapped up in your own little self-pitying delusions that you ignored a basic fact about my life. I am sober. I HAVE to be sober now. The drinking…it wasn’t me. I liked to drink, but there was pressure from all sorts of people to play it up for the camera. After all, everyone likes a character, so how about the hard-drinking asskicker? Yeah, that’s what I thought too. But now, there’s no gimmicks. There’s no exaggeration. You’re just getting me, unfiltered…and you’re going to find out quickly why you WISH I was still that self-parody.”
“Crystal, I owe you a receipt for that match last week. Jasmine, you opened your mouth and you just dug yourself into your own grave. We’re here to finish the job. So you can piss and moan and whine all you want, but the simple fact is that you two are utterly, simply, inevitably screwed. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to walk out of the arena. If you’re not…well, you saw Collision last week. Say your prayers…”
”Emma. We need to talk.”
She casually replies, not even looking at him as she walks by.
”Do we?”
Andrew rolls his eyes, unlocking the door and stepping around her to cut her off. He glares down at her with an icy stare.
”Yes. We do. Because even if you’ve given up on me, I haven’t given up on you.”
She sighs, knowing that, if need be, he would pester her the entire weekend, and turns around, rolling her suitcase into Andrew’s room. He follows her in, closing the door behind them. Emma walks over, sitting on the bed and crossing her arms. Andrew turns back to face her, sighing as he walks further into the room.
”Emma, how in the hell are you just walking around with a smile on your face? Is this an act or something? Because the Emma Danielson I know wouldn’t be skipping around without a care in the world a week after helping damn near end a man’s career. She’d be…well, I don’t know, but this is just screwed up. Don’t you have any guilt?”
Emma groans, standing up and grabbing her suitcase as she heads for the door. Andrew cuts her off again, and she steps up to him, shouting up at him angrily.
”No! No, I don’t! Because I don’t have any sympathy for Davey Ortega’s useless ass clogging up my TV time. Do you really what to know what I feel right now, Andrew? Power. I feel powerful for the first time in a long time. I feel like I have the ability to do something, to make an impact instead of flailing around blindly. And that feels damn good. Have you ever stopped and considered that maybe this is more of who I am? No, I bet you haven’t. Because that’s what you do: you idealize things, you try to make it so that, at least in your mind, everything was better ‘before.’ Well, I may be a second-class citizen compared to Kathy, but at least I’m not as pathetic as you want me to be.”
Emma tries to storm past him, but Andrew pushes her back, eyes wide in bewilderment. He shakes his head in disbelief, about five different sentences being started and cut off as he fights through the multitude of emotional responses he’s trying to bite back. Finally, one breaks through.
”You think I want you to be pathetic?! I just don’t want you to be a sadistic psychopath! Is that so much to ask for, Emma? Is it too overbearing of me to ask you ‘hey Em, maybe could you not retire anyone this week?’ See, I didn’t think it was. But apparently it is. Apparently the new…or old…and improved Emma Danielson doesn’t want anything to do with anything remotely resembling respectability. Know what? Get out. It’s obvious this isn’t going to lead anywhere. Just…go live your life.”
Emma rolls her eyes, muttering to herself about how she wasn’t the one who bulled him in here, and grabs her suitcase. She brushes past Andrew, throwing the door open and walking out without so much as a glance behind her. Andrew watches her go, sighing, and closes the door. He walks over to his bed, falling back and staring at the ceiling wordlessly as we fade to black.
”Power’s an intoxicating thing. Better than booze, better than anything else you can find. Because power doesn’t weaken you. It’s addictive as hell, but it, by its nature, only strengthens you. And the more power you have, the easier it is to get more power. I’m starting to see why Jake and Kathy live the way they do…and one of the benefits of power is being able to squash things that piss you off.”
“Crystal, I’m fully prepared to hear the same spiel from you that’s come out of your mouth every week for the last month and a half, trying to preach at me that ‘this isn’t me’ and that I’m making myself less real by associating with who I do. Well, I’m not listening. Who are you to judge? All you ever wanted to do was change me. You wanted me to be more like you. And now that I’m running with people that want me to be me…you can’t stand it. You’re like a spoiled kid who had a toy taken away. Crystal, let me put this in as clear terms as I can: you don’t get to tell me how to live my life. You don’t get to tell me what’s me or what’s not. Just like everyone else, you get to sit down, shut up, and let me live my life.”
“See, at least you weren’t coming completely out of left field, though. You were my friend. You were genuinely trying, in your own misguided way, to help me. And I won’t lie and say that I hated every moment of it. Crystal, there’s a part of me that misses you. But there’s a bigger part of me that sees you as just another voice in the chorus. And right now, there’s no voice singing more off-key and more shrilly than Jasmine Barrera.”
“Jasmine, I was willing to show you the same respect Kathy did, if begrudgingly. But then you opened your mouth, and you made it abundantly clear that you’re clueless as to what’s been going on around you. See, Kathy has to hold herself to certain standards. She’s high-class, she’s ‘elegant’, she’s ‘refined’…but I’ve never pretended to be those things, so I can speak my mind without having to watch my words. You’re asking questions that Kathy’s used an almost obscene amount of breath explaining, and moreover you’re completely ignoring who I am in favor of the easy-to-mock caricature I was. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised that someone would twist the facts to fit their preferred narrative. Seems to happen a lot around here.”
“I’ve been sober for four months, eighteen days, thirteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes. The last time I had a drink, Andrew Jacobsen was World Champion. Let that sink in for a minute there, Jasmine. You’re so wrapped up in your own little self-pitying delusions that you ignored a basic fact about my life. I am sober. I HAVE to be sober now. The drinking…it wasn’t me. I liked to drink, but there was pressure from all sorts of people to play it up for the camera. After all, everyone likes a character, so how about the hard-drinking asskicker? Yeah, that’s what I thought too. But now, there’s no gimmicks. There’s no exaggeration. You’re just getting me, unfiltered…and you’re going to find out quickly why you WISH I was still that self-parody.”
“Crystal, I owe you a receipt for that match last week. Jasmine, you opened your mouth and you just dug yourself into your own grave. We’re here to finish the job. So you can piss and moan and whine all you want, but the simple fact is that you two are utterly, simply, inevitably screwed. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to walk out of the arena. If you’re not…well, you saw Collision last week. Say your prayers…”