Post by mandi on Apr 28, 2017 9:00:09 GMT
“To rise, the phoenix must first burn.”
Quiet words, murmured into the dark. At first it might be questionable as to whether or not the diminutive blonde even realizes that the camera is there. Then again, of late, most of her videos have been this way, more of a personal musing spoken aloud than an actual address. A token of her personal growth perhaps, that she seems to have abandoned the screaming rages...certainly one was likely expected, given that one of her biggest pet peeves is people interfering in her matches. It isn't that the anger isn't there, because it must be, simmering beneath the surface, showing itself in that old familiar fire that dances behind eyes of storm blue.
“It's a hard lesson to learn and a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes, it's difficult to accept that a loss needed to happen, even harder to accept that there was more to be accomplished, more to learn through it. That maybe, the losing meant more. Sometimes, it isn't the outcome of a battle that matters, but rather, the battle itself. History barely remembers that Leonidas and the Greeks failed to throw the Persians back at Thermopylae. History barely recalls their overwhelming defeat there. What it remembers is that they stood. In the face of overwhelming odds. In the face of certain death. When they were betrayed, when their allies fled. They stood. That that, that is what we remember. “Go and tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here, by Spartan law, we lie.” The words are worn and faded now, from countless hands tracing them, but still there. They still mean something, even today. At Redemption, Chris and I, we were a little like the Greeks standing against the Persians. The odds against us, but still we stood. And like the Greeks, we were betrayed. That betrayal cost us. We might have failed anyway...or we might have managed the upset. That knowledge was stolen from us. And for that...for that there will be retribution."
A moment of silence, one hand lifting to idly trace a fingertip along the faded lines of the scars that mark her arms. They're from early on in her career, her second or third match really. When the cat and mouse game she'd played with BAD ASS, culminated in a brutal no disqualification match that saw him in the ring in a full blown battle suit, spiked gauntlets and all. They'd expected her to bend then, if not outright break. A moment had come, when she'd thrown her arms up to protect her face and head, because it had been all that she could do. And still she fought. With her arms torn and bleeding, she'd continued to wail away at the foe. She'd fallen short then too, failing to secure victory, but her tenacity, her determination, her fearlessness, those things had earned her the respect of someone who does not give it readily. These scars are her badges of honor, though it's taken her a considerable amount of time to reach that way of thinking. Her eyes close, but only for a moment. When they open again, they blaze, her gaze levels on the camera, the first acknowledgment of its presence. Her words go hard and sharp edged.
“I was prepare to accept the possibility of defeat. I was ready to acknowledge that Masaru and Aurora were simply the better team. After all, they are the more established, the more experienced, a veritable force to be reckoned with. Defeat wasn't just a possibility, but a likelihood. And had that defeat come cleanly. Had it come without outside interference, I would have accepted our defeat with grace and began looking to the next step. Working towards the next opportunity...but it didn't come cleanly...did it? What should have been an exemplary exhibition of talent and skill was tarnished, sullied. By the petty actions of ignorant fools who weren't content enough to wait their fucking turn.”
By this point, the young blond is practically snarling at the camera, the act of addressing what happened only bringing the memories swimming back to the forefront, and with them, refreshing the initial outrage.
“There are few things in this world that piss me off as much as someone sticking their nose where it has no business fucking being. The squared circle is sacred. It is a temple in which we all pay tribute, and make our sacrifices of blood, sweat and tears to appease the gods. We break our bodies, our minds, sacrifice our health, our families, our relationships. It takes everything from us. It commands a certain level of respect. An acknowledgment of mutual effort, regardless of your personal feelings about someone. An understanding that we all take the same risks. That we all work for this, and that opportunities come to those who earn them. Not to those who tantrum like petulant little children, reaching out to take things that are not theirs to take...
Hey there boys. Lookin' at you.”
And there it is, at long last, that faint little smirk that pulls at the left side of her mouth, characteristic of when she's about to really cut loose, through tact out the window and say what's exactly on her mind. It doesn't happen quite as often these days, but it does happen.
“Now, I've been sitting at home, turning things over in my head, trying to figure out where I should even start with you. There's just so much ground to cover. From your arrogance, to your misogynistic attitudes, to your blatant fucking stupidity. To be honest, there's not enough time in the day to cover everything, so let's just break this down to what's relevant to this match shall we? I think that's probably for the best.
First of all. Fuck you. Sideways running with a donkey dick and no lube you disrespectful douchecanoes.”
That's...well. Huh.
“I'm not going to sit here and point out your blatant stupidity and inability to use this wonderful little thing called YouTube to do even the most basic, rudimentary research on your opponents. Cockbags. You're an insult to everything I stand for. You think because you're some kind of big bad manly men wannabe gangster thugs that you're just going to waltz into my fucking backyard and rule it. Seriously? Are you completely fucking mental?! No. Don't answer that. That's called a rhetorical question, which means that I'm not actually looking for an answer there. So hi. Lemme enlighten you to a few facts here. One, where you look at me and see some cute little blonde girl, everyone else sees the truth. A hard ass little bitch who will absolutely, positively kick your fucking head in. Because I can. And that's assuming that I don't pop your overworked livers like a gods be damned fucking water balloons. You think this being a TLC match somehow puts the ball in your court? Seriously? Fact check time.
I'm a striker. Not a grappler. Not a technician. Not a submissionist. Or a high flyer. I'm a motherfucking striker. That automatically means that I'm at a disadvantage in any standard wrestling match. Why? Because as a striker, I don't have a fucking ground game. Fucking idiots. I don't have the power to grapple. The size for technical. Or the leverage for submissions. And fuck that flying shit. That means that in a standard match, I have to work three times fucking harder to keep my opponents, who are usually twice my god damned size, down. Now, let's think about this. Gimme a match where I don't have to rely strictly on wrestling skills and I can beat the ever loving fuck out of someone with a chair? Or a ladder? Or put their bitch ass through a fucking table? The odds automatically swing to my favor.
So let me break this down into stupid speak for you. You fucked with my match. You insulted me. My partner. My friend. You've been a blight on something that means everything to me. And if anyone in this match can be said to have a giant, flashing, neon fucking target on their backs, it is absolutely fucking you two. There are no words for just how much I'm going to enjoy smashing your fucking heads in. At this point, it's not even about the Duos Championships, it's all about personal satisfaction.”
A pause. A deep, calming breath drawn in and slowly, slowly exhaled. She wants to be calm, focused for what she needs to address next, though judging by the hard lines on her face. Small wonder though, considering one of the people still left for her to address.
“Masaru.”
It isn't murmured, or spoken, so much as spat at the camera, a barely restrained snarl. So much for finding her calm.
“Let me begin by saying one thing...go fuck yourself you sanctimonious twatwaffle.”
No Faith, tell us how you really feel now.
“Every single time I've come up against you, you rant and rave about how I've changed. And how I'm somehow less than I used to be. You scrape and you dig, and you struggle to find a reason why. Fuck off. You know what, you used to be something. You used to be a force to be reckoned with, on your own. Now? Now you're just the mad dog, barking and snarling at the end of Rori's leash. Without her, you are nothing. I wonder Mazzy, how does that feel? To think, that you used to be the monster people ran from. I look back, on the way things were, and I'm honestly disgusted with myself. I'm disgusted with the way I bowed and scraped to people like you. I'm disgusted by how I felt like I needed your approval, and that the smiles and the pats on the head meant that I belonged.
I loathe you. I want you to understand that, not that I expect that you will. I'm not sure you understand anything these days, considering that virtually everything that comes out of your mouth are the ravings of a deluded madman. I loathe you. There used to be, at least, a small measure of respect. But you've managed to kill that. You've wiped that slate clean. You're just a rabid dog Mazzy, and it's long past time someone put you out of your misery.”
This isn't who she wants to be. She doesn't want to be the violent little monster. She doesn't want to end careers, and break her peers. But maybe, maybe that sense of mutual respect went out the window about the time her skull was getting cracked. Or maybe it was when people she respected, admired, couldn't be fucked to return the favor. Or when people who were once supposed to be her friend consistently used the word 'shitty' as a defining term for her. There are a lot of moments when it could have died, but the list of people deemed worthy of her respect has most definitely grown exceptionally shorter.
“I have grown tired of your constant belittling. I have grown tired of you. You have something that is mine. Your era is finished. It's over. When the Phoenix was reborn, it was meant to be the ushering in of a new age. And with a new age, comes a new breed...or it should. I won't refute that you've done amazing things. There was a time, when you took the Phoenix by storm. Once. But you've changed Mazzy. And not for the better. You've spiraled and fallen. And lack the good grace and common courtesy to step the fuck out. So you cling. You cling to what was, what could be. But not for much longer. That, I promise you. Your time, is rapidly coming to an end, because Tempest will be a storm you do not weather.”
The moment of silence is longer this time, because now, it is absolutely imperative that she get a handle on her emotions. Because Aurora deserves that. Through everything, she's been a friend, a teacher, a mentor. And if sometimes, she has been harsh, it can never be said that she's uttered anything but truths. The girl draws another breath, a slow inhale, slower exhale. Her eyes close as she mentally ticks off the numbers, backwards from ten. It's an old trick, a common one, but one that works. When she speaks, the harshness has gone out of her voice, though the resolve, the determination, remains.
“Aurora...they call you the Queen, but you are so much more than that. You've become a legend. Victory over you, the unicorn wayward Knights chase in hopes of proving themselves. The dragon that must be slain, that few manage to survive. Every time I come to this moment I struggle. It's hard to tell yourself “I can. I will.” when you come up short every time you try. But here's the thing...I learn. It's what separates me from everyone else. I don't make excuses when I come up short. I step back, pull the tapes, review the matches over and over and over again until I find where I missed up. Until I find the gaps, and then I work to close them. You know this. You've seen me do it. And this makes match number four. That's four experiences I've had to learn from. Four opportunities to find the flaws, the openings.
I won't say that the synergy that you and Maz has isn't daunting. It is. That kind of chemistry is rare, and difficult to beat. Especially for a team that had its origins being haphazardly pieced together from the remnants of others. Well, that might be how we started, but Chris and I have grown from that. We may not have some catchy, pretentious name, but this doesn't make us any less of a cohesive unit. In fact, I'm not sure I could ask for a better partner. When I said “we have work to do.” He didn't question. When I said, “I need you in Detroit, so we can work through this.” He was there. No complaints, no arguments...we may not have quite the same synergy as you guys do, but we are united.
And we are tired.”
The glass comes up, but then she appears to think better of it, and returns it to the table with a shake of her head.
“We are tired of being written off. Tired of being discounted. Tired of being put down. And Rori, I love you to pieces, you know that I do. But you have this condescending arrogance about you that sometimes makes me want to choke you. Before Redemption, I spoke at length about how I've put you on a pedestal. It's a dangerous thing I tend to do with people who I greatly admire and respect. And in doing it, I doubt myself. I question my capabilities. Which is foolish, because you and I, we both know what I'm capable of, don't we?
I have spent, the better part of my professional career standing in someone else's shadow. I've always been 'almost' there, but just not quite. I keep getting told 'be patient, your time will come'. And I realize, that those words are an end. They are complacent. And they are empty. My time is now. I am through waiting in the wings. I am through with being 'almost' anything. I will tear through anyone and anything put in my path until I claw my way to the top of the mountain.
The Duos Championship match at Tempest isn't a match. It's a warzone. And no one. No one does war quite like a Spartan.”
Quiet words, murmured into the dark. At first it might be questionable as to whether or not the diminutive blonde even realizes that the camera is there. Then again, of late, most of her videos have been this way, more of a personal musing spoken aloud than an actual address. A token of her personal growth perhaps, that she seems to have abandoned the screaming rages...certainly one was likely expected, given that one of her biggest pet peeves is people interfering in her matches. It isn't that the anger isn't there, because it must be, simmering beneath the surface, showing itself in that old familiar fire that dances behind eyes of storm blue.
“It's a hard lesson to learn and a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes, it's difficult to accept that a loss needed to happen, even harder to accept that there was more to be accomplished, more to learn through it. That maybe, the losing meant more. Sometimes, it isn't the outcome of a battle that matters, but rather, the battle itself. History barely remembers that Leonidas and the Greeks failed to throw the Persians back at Thermopylae. History barely recalls their overwhelming defeat there. What it remembers is that they stood. In the face of overwhelming odds. In the face of certain death. When they were betrayed, when their allies fled. They stood. That that, that is what we remember. “Go and tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here, by Spartan law, we lie.” The words are worn and faded now, from countless hands tracing them, but still there. They still mean something, even today. At Redemption, Chris and I, we were a little like the Greeks standing against the Persians. The odds against us, but still we stood. And like the Greeks, we were betrayed. That betrayal cost us. We might have failed anyway...or we might have managed the upset. That knowledge was stolen from us. And for that...for that there will be retribution."
A moment of silence, one hand lifting to idly trace a fingertip along the faded lines of the scars that mark her arms. They're from early on in her career, her second or third match really. When the cat and mouse game she'd played with BAD ASS, culminated in a brutal no disqualification match that saw him in the ring in a full blown battle suit, spiked gauntlets and all. They'd expected her to bend then, if not outright break. A moment had come, when she'd thrown her arms up to protect her face and head, because it had been all that she could do. And still she fought. With her arms torn and bleeding, she'd continued to wail away at the foe. She'd fallen short then too, failing to secure victory, but her tenacity, her determination, her fearlessness, those things had earned her the respect of someone who does not give it readily. These scars are her badges of honor, though it's taken her a considerable amount of time to reach that way of thinking. Her eyes close, but only for a moment. When they open again, they blaze, her gaze levels on the camera, the first acknowledgment of its presence. Her words go hard and sharp edged.
“I was prepare to accept the possibility of defeat. I was ready to acknowledge that Masaru and Aurora were simply the better team. After all, they are the more established, the more experienced, a veritable force to be reckoned with. Defeat wasn't just a possibility, but a likelihood. And had that defeat come cleanly. Had it come without outside interference, I would have accepted our defeat with grace and began looking to the next step. Working towards the next opportunity...but it didn't come cleanly...did it? What should have been an exemplary exhibition of talent and skill was tarnished, sullied. By the petty actions of ignorant fools who weren't content enough to wait their fucking turn.”
By this point, the young blond is practically snarling at the camera, the act of addressing what happened only bringing the memories swimming back to the forefront, and with them, refreshing the initial outrage.
“There are few things in this world that piss me off as much as someone sticking their nose where it has no business fucking being. The squared circle is sacred. It is a temple in which we all pay tribute, and make our sacrifices of blood, sweat and tears to appease the gods. We break our bodies, our minds, sacrifice our health, our families, our relationships. It takes everything from us. It commands a certain level of respect. An acknowledgment of mutual effort, regardless of your personal feelings about someone. An understanding that we all take the same risks. That we all work for this, and that opportunities come to those who earn them. Not to those who tantrum like petulant little children, reaching out to take things that are not theirs to take...
Hey there boys. Lookin' at you.”
And there it is, at long last, that faint little smirk that pulls at the left side of her mouth, characteristic of when she's about to really cut loose, through tact out the window and say what's exactly on her mind. It doesn't happen quite as often these days, but it does happen.
“Now, I've been sitting at home, turning things over in my head, trying to figure out where I should even start with you. There's just so much ground to cover. From your arrogance, to your misogynistic attitudes, to your blatant fucking stupidity. To be honest, there's not enough time in the day to cover everything, so let's just break this down to what's relevant to this match shall we? I think that's probably for the best.
First of all. Fuck you. Sideways running with a donkey dick and no lube you disrespectful douchecanoes.”
That's...well. Huh.
“I'm not going to sit here and point out your blatant stupidity and inability to use this wonderful little thing called YouTube to do even the most basic, rudimentary research on your opponents. Cockbags. You're an insult to everything I stand for. You think because you're some kind of big bad manly men wannabe gangster thugs that you're just going to waltz into my fucking backyard and rule it. Seriously? Are you completely fucking mental?! No. Don't answer that. That's called a rhetorical question, which means that I'm not actually looking for an answer there. So hi. Lemme enlighten you to a few facts here. One, where you look at me and see some cute little blonde girl, everyone else sees the truth. A hard ass little bitch who will absolutely, positively kick your fucking head in. Because I can. And that's assuming that I don't pop your overworked livers like a gods be damned fucking water balloons. You think this being a TLC match somehow puts the ball in your court? Seriously? Fact check time.
I'm a striker. Not a grappler. Not a technician. Not a submissionist. Or a high flyer. I'm a motherfucking striker. That automatically means that I'm at a disadvantage in any standard wrestling match. Why? Because as a striker, I don't have a fucking ground game. Fucking idiots. I don't have the power to grapple. The size for technical. Or the leverage for submissions. And fuck that flying shit. That means that in a standard match, I have to work three times fucking harder to keep my opponents, who are usually twice my god damned size, down. Now, let's think about this. Gimme a match where I don't have to rely strictly on wrestling skills and I can beat the ever loving fuck out of someone with a chair? Or a ladder? Or put their bitch ass through a fucking table? The odds automatically swing to my favor.
So let me break this down into stupid speak for you. You fucked with my match. You insulted me. My partner. My friend. You've been a blight on something that means everything to me. And if anyone in this match can be said to have a giant, flashing, neon fucking target on their backs, it is absolutely fucking you two. There are no words for just how much I'm going to enjoy smashing your fucking heads in. At this point, it's not even about the Duos Championships, it's all about personal satisfaction.”
A pause. A deep, calming breath drawn in and slowly, slowly exhaled. She wants to be calm, focused for what she needs to address next, though judging by the hard lines on her face. Small wonder though, considering one of the people still left for her to address.
“Masaru.”
It isn't murmured, or spoken, so much as spat at the camera, a barely restrained snarl. So much for finding her calm.
“Let me begin by saying one thing...go fuck yourself you sanctimonious twatwaffle.”
No Faith, tell us how you really feel now.
“Every single time I've come up against you, you rant and rave about how I've changed. And how I'm somehow less than I used to be. You scrape and you dig, and you struggle to find a reason why. Fuck off. You know what, you used to be something. You used to be a force to be reckoned with, on your own. Now? Now you're just the mad dog, barking and snarling at the end of Rori's leash. Without her, you are nothing. I wonder Mazzy, how does that feel? To think, that you used to be the monster people ran from. I look back, on the way things were, and I'm honestly disgusted with myself. I'm disgusted with the way I bowed and scraped to people like you. I'm disgusted by how I felt like I needed your approval, and that the smiles and the pats on the head meant that I belonged.
I loathe you. I want you to understand that, not that I expect that you will. I'm not sure you understand anything these days, considering that virtually everything that comes out of your mouth are the ravings of a deluded madman. I loathe you. There used to be, at least, a small measure of respect. But you've managed to kill that. You've wiped that slate clean. You're just a rabid dog Mazzy, and it's long past time someone put you out of your misery.”
This isn't who she wants to be. She doesn't want to be the violent little monster. She doesn't want to end careers, and break her peers. But maybe, maybe that sense of mutual respect went out the window about the time her skull was getting cracked. Or maybe it was when people she respected, admired, couldn't be fucked to return the favor. Or when people who were once supposed to be her friend consistently used the word 'shitty' as a defining term for her. There are a lot of moments when it could have died, but the list of people deemed worthy of her respect has most definitely grown exceptionally shorter.
“I have grown tired of your constant belittling. I have grown tired of you. You have something that is mine. Your era is finished. It's over. When the Phoenix was reborn, it was meant to be the ushering in of a new age. And with a new age, comes a new breed...or it should. I won't refute that you've done amazing things. There was a time, when you took the Phoenix by storm. Once. But you've changed Mazzy. And not for the better. You've spiraled and fallen. And lack the good grace and common courtesy to step the fuck out. So you cling. You cling to what was, what could be. But not for much longer. That, I promise you. Your time, is rapidly coming to an end, because Tempest will be a storm you do not weather.”
The moment of silence is longer this time, because now, it is absolutely imperative that she get a handle on her emotions. Because Aurora deserves that. Through everything, she's been a friend, a teacher, a mentor. And if sometimes, she has been harsh, it can never be said that she's uttered anything but truths. The girl draws another breath, a slow inhale, slower exhale. Her eyes close as she mentally ticks off the numbers, backwards from ten. It's an old trick, a common one, but one that works. When she speaks, the harshness has gone out of her voice, though the resolve, the determination, remains.
“Aurora...they call you the Queen, but you are so much more than that. You've become a legend. Victory over you, the unicorn wayward Knights chase in hopes of proving themselves. The dragon that must be slain, that few manage to survive. Every time I come to this moment I struggle. It's hard to tell yourself “I can. I will.” when you come up short every time you try. But here's the thing...I learn. It's what separates me from everyone else. I don't make excuses when I come up short. I step back, pull the tapes, review the matches over and over and over again until I find where I missed up. Until I find the gaps, and then I work to close them. You know this. You've seen me do it. And this makes match number four. That's four experiences I've had to learn from. Four opportunities to find the flaws, the openings.
I won't say that the synergy that you and Maz has isn't daunting. It is. That kind of chemistry is rare, and difficult to beat. Especially for a team that had its origins being haphazardly pieced together from the remnants of others. Well, that might be how we started, but Chris and I have grown from that. We may not have some catchy, pretentious name, but this doesn't make us any less of a cohesive unit. In fact, I'm not sure I could ask for a better partner. When I said “we have work to do.” He didn't question. When I said, “I need you in Detroit, so we can work through this.” He was there. No complaints, no arguments...we may not have quite the same synergy as you guys do, but we are united.
And we are tired.”
The glass comes up, but then she appears to think better of it, and returns it to the table with a shake of her head.
“We are tired of being written off. Tired of being discounted. Tired of being put down. And Rori, I love you to pieces, you know that I do. But you have this condescending arrogance about you that sometimes makes me want to choke you. Before Redemption, I spoke at length about how I've put you on a pedestal. It's a dangerous thing I tend to do with people who I greatly admire and respect. And in doing it, I doubt myself. I question my capabilities. Which is foolish, because you and I, we both know what I'm capable of, don't we?
I have spent, the better part of my professional career standing in someone else's shadow. I've always been 'almost' there, but just not quite. I keep getting told 'be patient, your time will come'. And I realize, that those words are an end. They are complacent. And they are empty. My time is now. I am through waiting in the wings. I am through with being 'almost' anything. I will tear through anyone and anything put in my path until I claw my way to the top of the mountain.
The Duos Championship match at Tempest isn't a match. It's a warzone. And no one. No one does war quite like a Spartan.”
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