Post by Emma Danielson on Dec 1, 2015 5:45:53 GMT
We open on Emma sitting on the end of her bed, staring at the open dresser across from her. Her wrestling outfit sits across from her, hanging on a two-tier hangar. She spins her phone between her fingers, looking down at the screen with an irritated look on her face. A pack of cigarettes sits on the bed beside her, cracked open and half-empty, and a lighter sits atop that cigarette box, poised to topple off the edge at any moment.
Kathleen Conway's contact information sits on the phone's screen, her smiling face beaming up at Emma. Emma closes her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose and sighing quietly. She mutters to herself, pocketing the phone again. "Thanks for the present, Kathy."
She stands up, walking over and looking the wrestling outfit up and down. Emma runs her thumb over the stitching and the hem lines, testing the outfit's tension in her hands. "Hm." Emma looks over at her far wall, a stray thought flicking across her mind. She takes a few steps away, the outfit falling out of her grasp as she walks past.
Her right hand snares the lighter as she walks by, looking at the poster on the wall. The text is in Japanese, but the image in the center is clear: Emma, a kendo stick in one hand and a title belt in the other, blood streaming down her face and staining the battered tank-top and ripped jeans she's wearing. Emma stares at it for a long, hard moment, thumb unconsciously flicking the wheel of her lighter.
Emma's eyes drift to the second poster on the wall, this one of NCW Metamorphosis 2013. The art on that poster features Kathleen and Emma positioned across from a darkly-dressed individual the poster identifies as Rose Acantha. Emma looks herself up and down on the poster, looking from the outfit in her closet to the identical outfit on the poster. A few long moments pass before her eyes narrow again.
She spins on her heel, walking back to the closet and staring down the outfit again. Emma takes a deep breath, reaching out and closing the dresser, and turns to the chest of drawers next to her. Emma pulls the drawers open, rummaging through them, until she comes up with two familiar articles of clothing: a blood-stained tanktop and ripped, battered jeans. A slow grin spreads across Emma's face, and she flicks a cigarette into her mouth, lighting up with a satisfied nod.
"That's more like it."
Cut.
I've been told a lot of things over my career. I'm not pretty enough to be the face of a division. I'm not skilled enough to call myself a professional wrestler. I've got too much of this, not enough of that. I don't tick just the right boxes. But you know what they all tell me to do?
To quit.
They all tell me to give up and go home. Find something else to do with my life. Stop trying to make it where they think I don't deserve to be. It's the same goddamn chorus echoing in my ears, and it has been for over a decade now.
You'll note I'm still here.
Maybe it's because every time they told me to quit, it just kicked me forward to keep competing. Maybe every barb turned into the burst of energy to keep going one more day. Hell, maybe I'm just too damned dumb to stop.
Any sane person would take a look at my I've survived flaming tables, barbed-wire deathmatches, gang beatdowns, a broken arm, broken ribs, a car crash...any one of those might've been the incentive someone else needed to pack it in.
I've lost a lot in my career. I've suffered without the kind of returns that a lot of other people would demand for what I've done. I ain't giving up yet, and it's going to take a lot more than some nasty words to get me to back down.
Mercedes...what are you trying to get out of me? Do you want me to just throw my hands up and say "no, you're right, I'll just lay down and let you win"? Do you hope I'll snap and beat the ever-loving crap out of you? What's your endgame, Mercedes?
Me, I've got no illusions about why we're here. Look at the boss. Look at her last Christmas card list. Go ahead, I'll wait.
Yeah, we're here because of who we know. So what do we do about it, Mercy? Do we make vapid promises and throw limp-wristed slaps at each other's egos to make each other "step up"?
Nah. Not really what I'm here for. It's not my job to be your cheerleader, Mercy. It's never been my job to be anyone's cheerleader. I don't get paid to lift you up. I get paid to beat you down. And right now, I'm getting paid to beat you down and get a chance to beat someone else down with a title on the line. Sounds like a good time to me.
So that's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to go on and on about how mopey and awful my life is, I'm not going to tell you "Do your best, I believe in you!" Nah. I'm just going to walk out there and beat up on you until one of us can't beat up on the other any more. Number-one contendership on the line, that's exactly what we've got to do.
'cause that's what we get paid for. That's why we're here. We're violent people, Mercedes. Whatever we do, whatever kind of lacquer someone might want to put over it, we're gettin' paid to bring the hurt. I'm not going to pretend that it's what I've been doing, but my paycheck's been smaller recently too, and I've got some bills comin' up.
Holidays are here, after all.
Mercedes...you talk about what you WERE, what your title reign WAS. I'm looking back at what I was too: I fought, I bled, and I didn't collapse into a ball every three seconds whining about my feelings. I spent a long time introspecting, and the more I looked inward, the more I realized that I had to get back to basics.
So, what I'm trying to say is...basically, you're screwed. Brace yourself, Mercy. Hell's a-callin', and it ain't taking no for an answer.
Three...two...one...GO.
Kathleen Conway's contact information sits on the phone's screen, her smiling face beaming up at Emma. Emma closes her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose and sighing quietly. She mutters to herself, pocketing the phone again. "Thanks for the present, Kathy."
She stands up, walking over and looking the wrestling outfit up and down. Emma runs her thumb over the stitching and the hem lines, testing the outfit's tension in her hands. "Hm." Emma looks over at her far wall, a stray thought flicking across her mind. She takes a few steps away, the outfit falling out of her grasp as she walks past.
Her right hand snares the lighter as she walks by, looking at the poster on the wall. The text is in Japanese, but the image in the center is clear: Emma, a kendo stick in one hand and a title belt in the other, blood streaming down her face and staining the battered tank-top and ripped jeans she's wearing. Emma stares at it for a long, hard moment, thumb unconsciously flicking the wheel of her lighter.
Emma's eyes drift to the second poster on the wall, this one of NCW Metamorphosis 2013. The art on that poster features Kathleen and Emma positioned across from a darkly-dressed individual the poster identifies as Rose Acantha. Emma looks herself up and down on the poster, looking from the outfit in her closet to the identical outfit on the poster. A few long moments pass before her eyes narrow again.
She spins on her heel, walking back to the closet and staring down the outfit again. Emma takes a deep breath, reaching out and closing the dresser, and turns to the chest of drawers next to her. Emma pulls the drawers open, rummaging through them, until she comes up with two familiar articles of clothing: a blood-stained tanktop and ripped, battered jeans. A slow grin spreads across Emma's face, and she flicks a cigarette into her mouth, lighting up with a satisfied nod.
"That's more like it."
Cut.
I've been told a lot of things over my career. I'm not pretty enough to be the face of a division. I'm not skilled enough to call myself a professional wrestler. I've got too much of this, not enough of that. I don't tick just the right boxes. But you know what they all tell me to do?
To quit.
They all tell me to give up and go home. Find something else to do with my life. Stop trying to make it where they think I don't deserve to be. It's the same goddamn chorus echoing in my ears, and it has been for over a decade now.
You'll note I'm still here.
Maybe it's because every time they told me to quit, it just kicked me forward to keep competing. Maybe every barb turned into the burst of energy to keep going one more day. Hell, maybe I'm just too damned dumb to stop.
Any sane person would take a look at my I've survived flaming tables, barbed-wire deathmatches, gang beatdowns, a broken arm, broken ribs, a car crash...any one of those might've been the incentive someone else needed to pack it in.
I've lost a lot in my career. I've suffered without the kind of returns that a lot of other people would demand for what I've done. I ain't giving up yet, and it's going to take a lot more than some nasty words to get me to back down.
Mercedes...what are you trying to get out of me? Do you want me to just throw my hands up and say "no, you're right, I'll just lay down and let you win"? Do you hope I'll snap and beat the ever-loving crap out of you? What's your endgame, Mercedes?
Me, I've got no illusions about why we're here. Look at the boss. Look at her last Christmas card list. Go ahead, I'll wait.
Yeah, we're here because of who we know. So what do we do about it, Mercy? Do we make vapid promises and throw limp-wristed slaps at each other's egos to make each other "step up"?
Nah. Not really what I'm here for. It's not my job to be your cheerleader, Mercy. It's never been my job to be anyone's cheerleader. I don't get paid to lift you up. I get paid to beat you down. And right now, I'm getting paid to beat you down and get a chance to beat someone else down with a title on the line. Sounds like a good time to me.
So that's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to go on and on about how mopey and awful my life is, I'm not going to tell you "Do your best, I believe in you!" Nah. I'm just going to walk out there and beat up on you until one of us can't beat up on the other any more. Number-one contendership on the line, that's exactly what we've got to do.
'cause that's what we get paid for. That's why we're here. We're violent people, Mercedes. Whatever we do, whatever kind of lacquer someone might want to put over it, we're gettin' paid to bring the hurt. I'm not going to pretend that it's what I've been doing, but my paycheck's been smaller recently too, and I've got some bills comin' up.
Holidays are here, after all.
Mercedes...you talk about what you WERE, what your title reign WAS. I'm looking back at what I was too: I fought, I bled, and I didn't collapse into a ball every three seconds whining about my feelings. I spent a long time introspecting, and the more I looked inward, the more I realized that I had to get back to basics.
So, what I'm trying to say is...basically, you're screwed. Brace yourself, Mercy. Hell's a-callin', and it ain't taking no for an answer.
Three...two...one...GO.
Well howdy there pardner.