+ See The Puppet Dance [I]

[Archer]

++ "See The Puppet Dance" ++

He had spent the morning re-decorating his hotel room. White walls, purple flowers and a perfectly made bed was certainly not to his liking, not when he entered the room with the darkness of the next Vendetta looming over his head. Now there was glass all over the floor, the purple petals were nothing more than dark spots on the bedding, and the walls were lined with dark red stains.

A small flash of our Architect of Ultraviolence tearing apart the room at its seams, out of pure anger.

Being able to defeat him in a one-on-one match like Lord was one thing, but forcing control was another. The DeLise's had done just that, forced their control upon the likes of the evil enigma that is Archer. A mixed tag team match, making Archer team with the very girl he had spent his RSW career torturing, Raven MacDemare, while Emma had to team with Lord. They had forced everyone's hands by threatening to terminate contracts, and jeopardize Supreme Championship standing.

This idea of being a puppet - it made him sick. Made him furious. Made him want to sink his teeth into bone.

With all the mayhem that had been going on in RSW, Archer had done a superb job of keeping his focus on two things. The disgusting pairing of Lovey and the Supreme Championship. However, the Mean Girl Mafia had made it difficult to stay his course. Come to think of it, ever since Deception, the MGM had inadvertently managed to stick their nose in his business at every turn, for the sole reason of getting Mondae Chaos into the title match at ScreamFest.

Though, with Lord Blake challenging the pair of them instead of just one, it meant he could literally kill two birds with one stone. The thought brought a horrifying smirk to his face, but he'd have to wait. Play the game until Scream Fest. Make them eat their words. Make Shawn and Arianny pay for putting Violent Intent against each other.

Archer reached below the bed, pulling up a slender black briefcase.

Slowly, he placed it on the bed in front of him, starring at it a few moments longer. He seemed to be a bit apprehensive about opening it, maybe it was some last resort. His gaze looked solemn, more melancholy than we've ever seen him inside the walls of RSW. Usually such a sure and dominate person, he now looked unsure. All the same, he reached forward and unlocked the briefcase, several manila folders sitting inside.

Lord Blake.......Raven MacDemare.......Emma Douglas?

Archer grabbed ahold of the file with Emma's name on it, pulling it from the briefcase and clutching it close to his chest. He had always kept notes on people he came in contact with, targets, threats, and so forth. Mostly weaknesses and plans on how to deal with them. Some came in handy, and others, such as in Lovey's case, only succeeded in terrorizing them. However, a folder on Emma?

"I'm sorry my love, but it'll all be for the best."

Archer is no fool. He knew he'd have to work with Raven, defeat both Lord and Emma, in order to move onto something greater. He'd have to do the dance they wanted him to, the way a puppet would, before ever being able to extract any sort of revenge. His time would come, but meanwhile he'd have to dance with Emma in the middle of the ring whether they wanted to or not. They had been on opposite sides before, long ago, but never like this. He'd have to go through with the match, they both would, and that's all there was to it.

He placed the folder upon his lap, regret almost written upon his face before he snatched it back. His gaze turned back to the open briefcase, and again he flipped past the two names at the front. There was a reason Lord and Raven remained at the front, but now it appeared that Archer had other matters to tend to. Not too far back from where Emma's name was, lie a rather large manila folder. Lots of loose papers were sticking out of the sides, overflowing with heinous acts.

The Mean Girl Mafia.

The Architect of Ultraviolence brought the folder up into the light, holding it above his line of vision, simply starring. His eyes told a different story now, transfixed on the very name. One fueled with fire, hate. Unforgiving.