Post by Silver Eagle on Feb 25, 2017 1:27:28 GMT
Worn out, tired, beaten down black and blue but it all felt so good. She was an adrenaline rush of positivity and power, bouncing off the walls with boundless energy. If she closed her eyes she would pass out, but she could not let that happen. There was so much to do, so much to plan, so much to prepare for. Her time was now, and she had to be perfect. She had spent the past few days with her Mother, Lady Magdalena, preparing for the Iron King finals. Her Mother was her original trainer, the star whose guidance got her foot through the door of the business. Anastasia was never much when she first debuted, not truly understanding the sport and simply wanting to play games, to dance and sing. It must have been terribly frustrating for her poor Mother, although she did not know they held that bond at that point. During those early days, her Mama had attempted to discipline her in her own style, the arts of French Savate and technical ground grappling, Lady being famed for her MMA skills above all. But Anastasia had floundered, wanting to do handsprings and backflips that the Frenchwoman so despised. But some parts she did pick up, keeping them at the back of her mind and saving them for a rainy day. And now, the storms raged on as lightning flashed in the sky and the thunder rumbled the very ground Phoenix Wrestling stop upon.
She had returned to her roots before branching out to pastures that she never thought reachable, the lessons she found impossible now came naturally to her. Like a sponge she absorbed every word, hold, throw and kick. Then, like the Mockingbird she began to mimic, not just in voice, which brought unheard of giggles from the Lady, but in movement, style and pose. For days they trained, perfecting every piece of art like Da Vinci or Rembrandt as violins played a black symphony in the background.
The final day was done, and her Mother had left with a kiss upon the forehead and bruises that would surely heal. But the lessons would last an eternity, and what she had picked up she knew her opponents would never expect from her. She was brimming with confidence now. This was her time. It had to be.
Upon the table was a package that she had been waiting for. She had received one every round from her Uncle. Within them there was some hints and tips, DVDs of her opponent’s greatest matches, and usually a short list of things to look out for. Anastasia was always very precise at studying her opponents, and these guidelines were like gold dust. She tore open the package with excitement, knowing the rest of the day would consist of huddling up in her favourite blanket, drinking soya protein shakes and studying up for the Iron King. She felt like a bit of a geek, doing homework on a weekend while her friends were out living life, but every little extra helped.
But this was not what she was expecting.
She dropped it, letting it slip upon the floor as intimate details of her opponents spilled out upon the floor. Reports, doctor’s notes, blood tests and examinations. Every weakness dictated, spelled out in bold text, every past injury highlighted and DVD’s of private training sessions that were not for the public eye. It was Professional Wrestling’s Konami Code, all wrapped up in an official HKW folder.
“Too much… too much, Uncle Andy. No…” she whispered.
But it was not from him. She read the writing, which was exquisite strokes of masterful ink work, more resembling a masterpiece than her uncle’s beastly scribbles:
“A kind gesture can reach a wound that only compassion can heal. And it that kindness, I expect you to use it to kill. Your past has not defined you, destroyed you, deterred you, or defeated you; it has only strengthened you. Use these words, use their past. Define them. Destroy them. Defeat them… and let the symphony ring out, Little Wing.”
She hurriedly scooped up the papers and hurried outside. In the field behind their house there was a dirt path crossroads, and grabbing a spade she reached the centre and began to dig. How could someone send her this? This was cheating, plain and simple. She wasn’t supposed to have her opponent's training tapes. She wasn’t supposed to have their medical reports. All of them wrapped in official HKW folders and signed off with “P”. Who was “P”? And why did he have access? And why send them? What would people think if they found out she had this information of her opponents, all of them Hard Knox employees?
She finished digging the hole and threw them in. From her pocket she pulled out her matches. She took them everywhere with her, and the flames always calmed her as if some beautiful memory from a forgotten past was cradling her in their arms. She struck the match and gazed down. She hesitated. She stared. The bible lay before her in it’s entirety and here she was ready to burn the whole church down.
How much did she want this?
==
I-I’m lost for words.
I’m supposed to be talking about this match, the potential next match and this tournament as a whole, but I have this frog in my throat and my hands are shaking and everything is coming to a head. This is the biggest weekend of my career, and I know I’ve said that so many times over the past year, but it is true. I really don’t think anything I do in the future is going to be as big as this.
Wow.
I’ve competed in matches I never thought I would compete in, against opponents that I thought I’d only dream about facing. Outmatched on paper, outclassed in experience, but never outdone on heart. Even against all the odds and the predictions, I’ve managed to overcome every challenge. I played everyone at their own game and won. I’m Cardinal Pro’s Queen of the Mountain. I’m SSWA’s Iron Woman. Put those names together and what do you get?
Yes… I’m Mountain Woman. Raaaaaah!
… come on, you know what I’m getting at, don’t you?
So... here I am. And here you all are as well.
And boy, have you all earned it.
Bailey is… so underrated, so much so that I dunno if this has been the most elaborate ruse that has ever been pulled in wrestling. She’s a trainee, a student of RISE that hasn’t even been booked on television yet. It was such a shock to so many when she was announced. A wild card entry if there was ever one. But I’ve been there. Back in FRONTIER, I was the rookie announced for the GFC Invitational. I was a trainee in (R)Evolution, and I think I’d only ever won one match in my life. I wasn’t a natural at first, unlike her. She’s sooooo good. People questioned, and I answered by winning the whole thing. And she is aiming to do the same in the IKT. And she could, maybe, maybe not. She’s like the Leicester City of this tournament. Nobody knew why she was here, then one by one people started to believe as the underdog rose the ranks all the way to the top. But look at Leicester now, tumbling back down to Earth again. Shame. Bailey is too talented for RISE, she should be main roster. She could be main roster anywhere in the world, but she has played what people have called her through this tournament. They called her rookie, so she schooled them like one.
Cassius? Wow, where do I start with him? Charismatic, thought provoking, headline grabbing, the man with a stylish plan. He literally takes your attention and holds it, never letting go until he is done. The way he moves around that ring, he’s like the fists of Muhammed Ali with the footwork of Fred Astaire to the song track of Prince. There is a reason why he is so praised, and it confuzzles me that he has to stoop to such lows in his matches, taking the cheap road to gain his victories. He never used to be like that, and he’s that good that he shouldn’t need to. He should be Armani, but his actions speak like a designer label on Primark rags.
And… the one person I am guaranteed to be facing, Aurora. She’s…
Give me a…
I’m choking up here, I’m sorry, thi--
…
T-this is a dream match, I’m getting a little emotional just thinking about it. Aurora was one of the women I took notice of in the early days of my career, and to say she has been an inspiration is something of an understatement. I haven’t told many people, but I used to have a poster of you on my wall. Feel like a stupid little kid again saying that, but you’re someone I’ve admired, worshipped for your successes, your ringwork, what you represent. You’re the image of what a proud, female wrestler should be. You, and my last opponent Arkia. You could go down as the greatest female competitor in recent years.
But I do mean go down. Because I am going to take you down.
I adore you, I admire you, I even love you for who you are and what you represent to this business. But you are standing in the way of everything I have ever wanted and all I have ever dreamed of. I have gone through too much to have another setback, I’ve dealt with too much shit to be cast aside once more. I’m no longer the pawn, I am the Queen and the King and the whole frickin chess board and I will flip all the pieces and overturn it all if it means winning this tournament. I--I will not let this pass me by. I have been caged for too long, and now it’s time for the Rising Phoenix to be set free of the shackles and I’m ready to spread my wings.
We both saw a match recently, Rori. We saw the unbeatable be beaten. And I’m not talking the cheap way Cassius did. The real way Artemis did. She did it properly. She defeated the undefeatable the right way. The undefeatable man.
You are the undefeatable woman.
Until Sunday. Because if there was anything that six star match taught me, it’s that the impossible can become possible. And I’m going to make the possible definite.
This is not a passing of the torch, because I’m going to set fire to the entire world around you, and it’s going to burn away until only my flame exists.
I love you.
Now I’m going to kill your reign.
==
The bell rang. The match ended. Andreas had fallen and the voices of HELL were heard as the roar filled the arena. Everyone rushed forward, all bar one. Anastasia sat dumbfounded. As her wife rushed to cheer her sister, Ana remained, needing a moment to realize what she had just witnessed.
She heard it then.
Music. Sweet, tender, beautiful music. Her ears pricked to the song and it was like a thousands tiny explosions went off in her head. She knew it so well, haunting, meaningful. It made her want to dance and giggle and weep and reap. It began to consume her mind, soul, her every movement as she almost unwillingly began to prance her way from the scene, faceless figures parting like the Red Sea as she skipped through them, her fleeting thoughts dangerous and her eyes both all seeing and blinded at the same time. Faces melted, hissing and corroding as skin and flesh dripped down and sizzled upon the floor, monolith like horns protruded from broken skulls and flames roared out from mouth and nose and eye. She bid them no mind as HELL descended into Hell itself, and the roaring cries of all those in attendance, worshipping the slaughterous glory of it all as they descended into demonhood, were drowned with the holiest of spiritual waters. A single, Godly ray of light guided the way as she ascended the stairway to heaven and away from the beastly black dogs barking towards the gladiator's ring, floating like a zeppelin up and over, with a misty mountain hop she went in through the out door, away from the battle of evermore and past all the physical graffiti into the houses of the holy.
As the ghastly creatures of burden and despair faded into ghosts, their ethereal spirits evaporating before her heterochromia afflicted eyes, the symphony rang out, filling her heart with joy and euphoria. A path of glistening silver feathers guided the way as she glided with widespread wings, soaring through the backstage halls in her hallucinated state of mind. She giggled childishly, tap dancing on sunshine, rainbows of ecstasy washing over her as the torch skinned behemoths slunk away, the snakes that replaced their locks once hissing with menace, now coiling about themselves as they turned to stone and crumbled. The corner turned, then another and another, walls dripping in the blood of all those who would doubt the reunion, who would never allow her to reach the end of her path, the way of light and love and the demise of loneliness. Every pain she had ever felt was lifted out of her in this moment, as the cruelty of everything that ever happened in her past was dragged away to the depths. From being told she could never succeed in this business, to both occasions when Magdalena disowned her, to the unfairness of being robbed point blank in her previous title matches and the Young Guns Cup. The agony of Sophie’s unfaithfulness last year, her recent disappearance, the attack by a doppelganger outside her home, the taunting and assault of the SSWA fans, to GRENDEL’s psychotic treatment and her flame wielding vengeance. The anguish of her nightmares and visions, the bandaged man, the clown in the woods, the Thin White Duke who cried her name.
Her excitement and joy reached fever pitch, the warming memories of her Rising Phoenix title win, her masterminded victories over Dragon, Masaru and Arkia. Her tournament glories in the GFC and the Queen of the Mountain, her Royale Battle performance and her five star HKW match. The soul-stirring emotion of finally bonding with the Mother she never knew she had, to her friends, her family. Then to Sophie, the woman she loved, who she forgave, who was her everything. Memories flooded with dances through cherry blossom, a proposal of overwhelming joy and a wedding that was indescribable and wonderful and everything. Everything.
And then it came to the Iron King, as she reached the purple door to the royal chambers. She had all the tools at her disposal, she had the world at her feet and after all she had done, all she had accomplished, here she was. The doubters were silent, respect was earned and the belief she had... the sheer belief she had that she could win it all gave her the highest of highs. She could do it, she knew it in her heart of hearts that she could finally reach the top of Everest itself, to become wrestling royalty, to be recognized as the brightest phoenix, burning like a star in the midnight sky for the whole industry to see. As she obeyed the piper’s tune, the harmony of voice and violin urging her through the door to paradise.
But it was not paradise.
She entered the room, and a cold wind slammed the door shut. The flames of candles flicked as winter itself grasped her throat and all joy and happiness was torn from her, as her glazed look vanished and she saw the world for what it was. Cold, bleak, with stone walls and broken windows and eyes upon the wall. Pictures, one and all. Green eyes, blue eyes, red eyes. All drawn by her, all of her, all right and all wrong. The wind whistled, accompanying the harrowing violin as the figure of a deadman waltzed in the candlelight, two lanterns being held by mirror images, held by hollow figures with hollow eyes and no sense of themselves. A monster lurked in the corner, a growl that shook the very fabric of reality, his face painted for war and his meaty palms hammering upon stone. Even his eyes did not belong to him, one covered by a wet lion’s mane of hair, the other seeming to not even belong to him. The redhead in the corner sharpened her knives, a raggedy hat upon a raggedy doll, sneering at her very presence in distaste and distrust. And then… him. He moved like a cat, with style and grace and fluidity, wearing black upon black as his raven curls danced and swung like chandeliers in a ship’s mess. He stared at her now, the saga of song finally ending as the imagery of bandages flashed in her mind. Here he was, another man’s face with a deceased man’s eyes. His eyes, her eyes, there was no mistaking, no faking. The judge peered upon the accused with the slyest of grins.
“I have long awaited this day, Little Wing,” came his voice, Germanic in accent and smoother than chocolate upon a bed of silk. It was impossible and yet it wasn’t, but she knew. She knew and she dreaded. She dreaded and she feared. She feared and she whispered.
“Isaac…”
He smiled the smile of smiles as he made the most elaborate bow she had ever seen, the Pied Piper finally revealing himself as he stepped into the light of her world. He didn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he was the man they choose to free at Passover.
“Please, Anastasia… Call me Papa…”
