D2 :: Rageon Wrenley

who are you?
i'm the queen of the nerds
my world is odd
call me a question mark

"It's art, losers," Rageon declares, spewing fake blood in everyone's faces. Hatchet wipes a dribble from her cheek and licks it off of her finger without hesitation; too sugary. She makes of show of gagging dramatically.

"...is it?" Salem questions the rather dubious statement. When no one else counters to say that it isn't, she pulls a small notebook from her pocket, flips to a section titled WHAT IS ART? in precise block letters, and jots down a few new notes about the artistic merits of spitting thickened cherry juice on people while old film reels of maggots wriggling around on a dead squirrel are projected throughout the room. Art is weird.

No one in Nerd Club is as scared or freaked out by Rageon as she tells them to be. She is the queen of fake guts, the empress of pet cockroaches, and the mad ringmaster of niche cinematic masterpieces that everyone wishes they had never seen. "I preferred your vampire era," Hatchet criticizes with a deadpan tone to rival Salem.

"Vampires are for middle schoolers and October. Rageon is all grown up now," Sevyn chimes in and, like always, Rageon has no idea how to take the comment. Vampires are for children and she is all grown up now... so why does her blood suddenly prickle with frustration? Sometimes it feels like Sevyn takes everything in the world seriously except for her. It's patronizing. Probably? Maybe not. Why does everyone in Nerd Club hate inflection so much?! Sure, Rageon feels enough feelings for all of them, but, like, it wouldn't kill them be a little more expressive from time to time. Hatchet is too cool to be seen caring about anything, Salem just flat-out doesn't interact with the world in that way, and Sevyn... is either a perplexing mix of the two or she's something entirely beyond the bounds of the Venn diagram of the club's collective personalities.

Slumping back in her chair, Rageon pouts without remorse over once again being tragically misunderstood even by her own people. "Whatever. I didn't expect you guys to get it anyhow." Petulantly jabbing at buttons on a small remote, fog begins snaking around their feet to set the mood as discordant music screeches quietly in the background. "Let's just play already."

Sevyn pulls a massive, gnarly staff out from under the table and stomps it against the floor. BANG. BANG. BANG. Bizarre hand-forged charms, tangles of moss, and colored braids of leather whip around and jangle ominously. Everyone exchanges glances. How did no one notice her bringing that in. "I hereby call the twenty-third meeting of the A/V Club of Born Losers to order. The game —" She rolls her eyes, the distaste for her most beloved creation being belittled as a mere game is well-known by everyone. Usually Rageon would be more respectful, but today it's an eye-for-an-eye. "— is Ephialtes of the Damned and if you didn't finish leveling up at home like I told you to," Sevyn narrows her eyes at Hatchet, who giggles in a satanic sort of way that manages to be twice as threatening as the glare directed at her, "then this time you forfeit your experience points. I have stuff to do tonight." Stuff is what Sevyn always calls her hacking projects, downplaying her hobby because she's usually doing something outrageously illegal, but she doesn't like to brag about it because she's not an idiot. "So I'm not wasting half the session on dumb questions again."

"I have a dumb question," Hatchet immediately counters, halfheartedly raising her hand. "Last time I got stranded in the Second Circle of Hell, trapped in a swarm of reality tv stars and high-level MILFs."

"Yeah. You did that to you. You asked for that swarm. Also: Not a question."

"Obviously. But, like, what I'm trying to say is that I'm a level twelve dominatrix succubus with a sexy duel class in primordial blood sorcery, wielding a Certified Kinky Whip^TM with the ability to cast leather aesthetic on anything. I mean, you're the one who made it custom just for me — I didn't even ask for it — in our last loot drop. I also have a vampiric fertility aura that passively multiplies my power based on other people's sexual energy and I have enough spell slots to cast my Self-Replicate illusion like... so many times. I can essentially make infinite mes that whip everyone in this ring into begging to be my pet subs. As they should. Can't I just turn this level into the Simp Circle of Hell?"

"N—" No, you fuckin' can't, Sevyn starts to scold and stops herself. It's actually a pretty brilliant loophole. "Say more words." Hatchet just broke the entire game. Sevyn should hate her, but this is by far the coolest idea she's heard all campaign and she can't pretend to be anything less than totally into it.

Rageon and Salem automatically turn towards each other. So much for actually playing the game today. "Was that your squirrel?" Salem asks conversationally, gesturing at the disgusting film projections still flickering across the walls. Her natural lack of intonation makes her sound equal parts shockingly casual and utterly kind in this particular scenario, like it totally wasn't weird at all for Rageon to be playing this stomach-turning scene for them.

"I wish," Rageon laments, "I found the footage in the basement of that old thrift store down the street. The dude who owns the place let me dig around in the storage room. I've got a couple dozen more. They're totally gross. It's my new favorite thing."

There are few things Rageon Wrenley loves more in this world than digging through other people's (often literal) garbage for morbid treasure. Decomposition is, honestly, a beautiful process and if anyone else actually bothered to look closely at things like the way mold blooms then they wouldn't think she's half as weird as most people do. Her friends hardly bat an eye anymore at the dumpster diving, but for everyone else who calls her names she has taken to just... scaring the ever-loving shit out of them so that they keep their distance instead of swirling her head around in toilets or shoving her into lockers.

It probably doesn't hurt anything that joining cheer squad last year has made her surprisingly buff for an A/V club nerd. Yeah, that's right: cheer squad. Rageon is a straight-up monster dreamgirl and she can basket toss your girlfriend without breaking a sweat. She's vers. Base? Check. Flyer? Check. She can herkie while reciting demonic chants and if that doesn't scare the meatheads off then they had better know how to dodge a shuriken. Her aim isn't great, but that just makes her scarier.

"There's this one reel with the biggest murder of crows you've ever seen all settled onto this one huge tree. The weight makes the top of it bend all the way to the ground." Fake blood is still dribbling from the corners of Rageon's mouth, dripping down to stain the shoulder of her t-shirt. It's for some punk metal band no one else has ever heard of because it doesn't actually exist. She got tired of a kid in her math class always trying to chat her ear off about how good their taste in music is, pretending to know everything about everything, so she started inventing fake bands to call their bluff. "All of the birds fly away at once and the tree slingshots up so fast that it cracks in half."

"That sounds fascinating. Why not show us that one today?" Salem tries not to let on that she hates the maggot-y squirrel — that even she knows everyone hates the maggot-y squirrel — but Rageon likes it and Rageon is her friend, so she should try her best to like the things her friend likes. This is a social practice known as BONDING. Her notations for it are in a notebook that predates the one currently in her pocket. These days she feels fairly confident in her understanding of this activity, so she keeps it at home for her records instead of carrying it around for daily reference.

"The celluloid on that one is in really bad shape. I need to transfer it over, but I used the last of my film working on my zombie movie. So it was either this or one of the colonoscopy recordings —" Were those really the only options? She said there were a couple dozen reels. "— and you asked me not to play any more unlicensed medical footage around you."

"It violates consent."

Rageon smiles. "I'll keep it locked up safe in my vault."

"Thank you."

Meanwhile, Sevyn and Hatchet are still deep in discussion over the logistics of weaponizing lust. "Specializing in kink should be an asset in this circle of Hell, not a limiting factor. The entire point is excessive depravity. Are you trying to tell me these reality tv stars are going to say no? To me? In fact, aren't they motivated to swarm precisely because of horniness?"

"Think of the children," Sevyn retorts, openly amused as she sweeps a hand around the room. Rageon scowls and flips her off with both hands.

"Are you trying to tell me that a game based on the nine circles of Hell is supposed to be rated for all ages and that the rules have undisclosed puritanical clauses?"

"Are you telling me you read the rules?" A comically massive leather-bound book is dumped out of Sevyn's school bag to prove her point without further explanation, dense enough to rattle the room as it hits the tabletop. Punishingly intricate, the rule book for Ephialtes of the Damned names itself as the tenth circle of Hell. It's the secret level.

Hatchet leans her elbows on the table, fingers intertwined with her chin coyly resting on top. She stares her foe dead in the eyes, daring her to call her a liar: "Yes." Her gravel-toned voice is so confident, so merciless that no sane person would ever attempt to cross her. "I read each and every one of your little rules. Your handwriting is what my nightmares are made of. No wonder you love typing so much."

Smashing the off buttons for the fog, the scritchy music, and the grotesque film footage all at once, Rageon jumps to her feet and shoulders her bag. "I've got dumpsters to dive into. Have fun arguing about the unholy power level of MILFs!" Her voice is sing-song with something akin to sarcasm, but full of fondness. "I'll show you who the real monster is next time." Pausing her escape to lovingly tuck her decomposing squirrel corpse footage back into its carrying case, she turns her attention to the only person in this room who hasn't spiraled completely out of control of their bullshit today. "Salem: You. Me. Crow date. Soon? Maybe you can help me figure out how to reenact it for some zombie-tastic special effects." She waves goodbye with two clawed hands and a wicked, bloody smirk. "You're all stupid! Love you, losers!"

okay, i'm nerdy
but i'm not stupid, so what?
you make fun of me; you make me cool
bully-bully, bye-bye



^{nerdy by purple kiss.}