Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 1:49:52 GMT
Sunday March 6, 2016 was a good day.
Thirteen sat in her locker room in York Hall in London England with the Monarchy Championship neatly stationed on the bench in front of her.
There was little time to relish the moment. She had a plane to catch for 4CW: Uprising. But she did have time to contemplate this new reality she was faced with: she was a champion, and maybe there was no such thing as bad luck after all.
She looked at the leather strap with polished metal pried fresh from the ever-obnoxious Piper Terry’s scrawny fingers and held it close to her face to smell it’s presence, ran her fingers along the smooth surface and traced them across the M and the W. She felt like she’d just gotten home from a long arduous metaphysical walk through brier and bramble, over hill, through snow, and underground in pitch darkness and a never-ending sea of bullshit luck.
After all of that, after all the troubles she’d seen she’d made it. It was there. It was hers. She’d won the one match that mattered. A rare thing indeed to be able to say without adding a qualifying statement like, “but I also got mauled by tigers.” And as she set the belt back down on the bench in front of her and felt her shoulders relax, a long tense, stress-filled breath 28 years in the making finally exhaled, she began to cry.
She’d gone through hell and kept going. And this is where that path had taken her: a championship; a victory hard-won through skill and hard work, not through antics or cheap shots.
She’d proven it. She could do this. And, in proving it, nothing went wrong.
She cried because things had a way of going wrong, and normally it was a hassle, but not this time. Things played out like she’d trained for them. No lightning strikes. No random acts of God to impede her progress. She’d succeeded and now she didn’t know what to do with herself.
What do you do when your expectations are subverted and actually find the path you’d tried finding for so long. In the end, she’d happened onto it.
She cried because some dreams, once attained, are actually sweeter than the dream itself.
She wiped her eyes, looked at the clock and knew she was scheduled to make an appearance at Uprising and had very little time left to board her plane.
The typical image of this fit Brazilian is one of frantic unease, colossal nervousness often held in the shadow of over-preparedness and vigilance. Today, with that belt, with her victory, Thirteen didn’t rush.
She moved at her own pace, resolute with serenity for the first time in her life. It wasn’t that all problems had vanished; it was that the nagging concern that bad luck had a way of seeking her out and finding her had subsided.
She rode the cab, boarded the plane and made it to Uprising without a hitch.
That night, with more calm and confidence than she was accustomed she finalized a contract with 4CW’s Uprising brand.
It was a strange sensation to do so without looking wearily over her shoulder, or worrying that the ink in the pen might blot or explode. Nothing. Aside from miraculously locking her and Paul Knight in Paul’s office, nothing random, strange, or unfortunate happened.
Paul had been all kinds of helpful even. It was established that her schedule would be full-time but fair and not designed to deliberately drive her into the ground as traveling between Canada and England would be grueling.
Everything worked out.
It was almost boring to see things play out like clockwork, one might say.
Not Thirteen.
She fell asleep in her hotel bed as soon as she entered the room.
She had no recurring nightmares, no dreams, nothing.
It was pleasant.
She awoke and took her time getting ready to once again board a plane back to England. On her phone was a message from Gabriel Hartman offering some interview time.
Thirteen’s earlier hesitancy for promo time had washed away in the deluge of unexpected and welcome success.
She was ready.
When she met Gabriel at the airport she felt her confidence brim.
She dismissed his offer of prep time, and the camera began rolling.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Hello—“
She lifted a hand and signaled she needed no introduction.
And there she stood once more, ready to bask in the glow of the camera’s recording light, ready to finally address what fans she may have picked up thus far, and make her presence known to those she didn’t yet have, and to address those who might especially want to listen.
Thirteen lowered her head, gathering her breath then looked to the camera.
THIRTEEN: “This past Sunday night I accomplished a dream of mine. I won my first championship in Monarchy Wrestling against a woman who, by all accounts, really deserved no respect from me or anyone in the Monarchy locker room. But that’s not how this works. Piper Terry, I respect you. I respect you as the first person to hold the championship I now have in my possession; and the woman I earned the belt from.”
Thirteen licked her lips. She didn’t notice Gabriel Hartman frowning to the camera man and shift uncomfortably. She continued.
THIRTEEN: “And now I face another challenge in Leon Cashmere. Leon… there are those in this business who would call me soft for respecting you. There are those who would assume it makes me weak. The problem with that is that anyone who’s ever stood toe-to-toe with another competitor and bowed their head in respect for the combat about to take place, and the skill the opponent has arrived with, knows that you never take your eyes off that opponent. To bow is courtesy. What follows is one hell of a fight.
I’ve never taken my eyes off you Leon Cashmere. You’re someone worth respecting. You’re worth the fight I’m going to have with you this upcoming Sunday at Monarchy: Live!. You’re worth training for. You’re worth pushing my body to the limit for. You’re worth that, Leon Cashmere.
And while I respect you, I have no intention of letting you walk out of our match with a victory. I can’t allow it. Not now. Not after all I’ve worked for. Rest assured that ‘respect’ doesn’t mean I go easy. Respect means I don’t take you lightly. Respect means that in spite of whatever friendship we can foster outside the ring, I realize fully and completely that come Sunday I either pin you or you pin me. Hurting you comes before that.”
Gabriel Hartman shakes his head, motioning to the camera to cut. Thirteen frowns and eyes him.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Okay, what are you doing?”
THIRTEEN: “What do you mean?”
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Are you going to cover your match and opponents at Uprising or what?”
“THIRTEEN: “Uprising?”
Thirteen’s frown grew. Gabriel Hartman looked exasperated.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Yes. Uprising. The 4CW brand? You signed a contract with them on Sunday. You have a fatal four-way match against Neveah, Joey Harris and Chris Mosh on March the 20th. They just booked this. Are you going to get to that, or just deal with some guy nobody in 4CW’s even heard of?”
Thirteen’s frown turned to sheepish discomfort.
THIRTEEN: “You-you don’t cover Monarchy Wrestling?”
Gabriel Hartman had heard a lot of things in his life, but cutting a promo for the wrong federation’s backstage interviewer was a new one. He almost chuckled.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Fuck no. I cover the 4CW brands. You know? 4 Corners Wrestling? I’m not like the omni-interviewer who covers every wrestling federation on the globe. What, you thought I was from Monarchy Wrestling?”
Thirteen gulps with concern. Sails losing some wind here.
THIRTEEN: “But, I thought—“
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Yeah. Okay. Well, how about we catch you when you know a little something about your opponents, and you’re not preoccupied with toilet paper, huh? Maybe you can start taking your contract with 4CW a bit more serious, too?”
Gabriel and his cameraman were disgusted, and Thirteen stood and felt as if she would shrink as he told her off with a last look of disappointment.
“Puta que pariu.” She rolled her eyes, sighed heavily while loading her luggage for her flight and boarded the plane not willing to let that blemish mar an otherwise flawless couple of days. It was a fluke. It’s not going to stop my stride, she thought. At least I know I’m set to cut my promo for Monarchy Wrestling, she looked on the bright side and took her seat on the plane.
Once on the plane she took advantage of the WiFi to investigate her actual opponents. She watched training footage of Neveah with a frown at the small screen resolution with her ear buds in. The man next to her leaned in and lifted his voice to ensure Thirteen could hear him.
…: “That’s Neveah. Training in Battle Arts Pro. She’s gonna be huge. But you can take her though.”
Thirteen looked from the screen to him with disinterest. She plucked the ear buds out and questioned him with a glance.
…: “Name’s Matt.”
He extended his hand, and she shook it with a half-hearted smile hoping this Matt didn’t end up in the same position the last Matt she met was. (Read 4cwrestling.com/forum/index.php?topic=698.msg1526#new if curious – H.R.) He continued,
MATT: “I know who you are. Monarchy Wrestling, right? Thirteen.”
THIRTEEN: “Yeah… you--?”
MATT: “HUGE wrestling fan. Huge. Hell, I would’ve been a pro wrestler, till I took an arrow in the knee.”
His grin was huge, he leaned in ever closer with expectation of a response Thirteen didn’t have. She blinked with confusion.
THIRTEEN: “You had an archery accident? Was that, like, your wrestling gimmick?”
MATT: “No-No. It’s a Skyrim reference. You know? Elder Scrolls?”
Thirteen regarded him blankly. Matt passed it off with obnoxious charm.
MATT: “All good. You’re not a nerd, you’re a gym rat. I know the jist. Like I said, I’m a huge wrestling fan. Eat, Sleep, Video Games, and Wrestling. In that order. Name the federation, I know it all. 4-C-Dubs, Boardwalk, HOW, FIGHT 1, name it.”
Thirteen hoped nodding with increased frequency might expedite the list. It didn’t.
MATT: “…XWA, EWC, PAW, NAME IT.”
Thirteen smiled politely, already fitting an ear bud back into her ear and readying the other. Matt wasn’t done.
MATT: “Seriously. Name it. I even know the obscure shit that’s just starting out. Challenge me. I dare you. I watched you take down Piper Terry last week. Hell of a match. Seriously. Now, for your next match? Not against Leon Cashmere, but this four-way they got you booked in for Uprising, what you gotta do is--”
Thirteen’s smile was even more polite as she rested the ear bud in and raised the volume, trying to give the hint as politely as possible as her fingers searched through the Google search for videos of Joey Harris. The WiFi connection stuttered and slowed to a crawl before an error message appeared revealing that the connection had been lost. Thirteen sighed and removed the ear bud.
MATT: “--and I’m not even saying your kicks aren’t fierce enough. It’s just… well, they could be fiercer. See what I’m getting at?”
The polite look hadn’t worked. Thirteen’s smile had become concerned at Matt who eyed her waiting for her assessment of his assessment.
THIRTEEN: “Right. Fierce.”
MATT: “Exactly. Check it. Selfie!”
THIRTEEN: “What—?“
Matt leaned in and forced Thirteen’s smile before the accidental flash blinded her.
MATT: “Awwww, damn. Sorry. You had your eyes closed there. Not very Professional of you. But it’s okay. You’re just starting out. You’ll get it.”
Who uses their flash in a well-lit area?! He nudged her, with what he must assume was a playfully apologetic elbow; instead it jostled her right into frustration. She grabbed the first flight attendant that passed.
THIRTEEN: “Excuse me. Would it be possible for me to switch seats?”
FLIGHT ATTENDANT MAGGIE: “I’m sorry, we’re full. We’ll be landing shortly.”
The flight attendant continued on down the aisle as Thirteen’s head drifted awkwardly back to Matt who’d removed one of his shoes, rested his now bare foot across his knee facing her and began to pick at a scab on his big toe. Thirteen cringed in her seat and frantically tried willing her phone to reconnect the staggering WiFi.
She managed to load a picture halfway of Joey Harris before the connection cut out. She sighed just as Matt errantly glanced over to see what his travel companion was doing.
MATT: “Heeeeeeeey, Joey Harris. Sweet. One of my favorites. Watch out for him. Unpredictable. Crazy. Makes me think he should have his own cartoon or television show or movie or some shit. You got your work cut out for you at Uprising.”
She smiled gingerly, her eyes fluttering with stifled disgust at his bare foot.
THIRTEEN: “Right.”
She gulped, fearing nausea.
MATT: “But, I mean, what am I saying? You’re Monarchy Champion now. You’re no slouch either. Far as I can tell these people they got you in the ring with need to watch out for you just as much, if not more, than you’ve gotta watch out for them, am I right?”
THIRTEEN: “Maybe. I’ll definitely try my best. Obviously. Just—I really would like to prepare.”
She held up her phone as an invitation for him to silence. He shrugged as she gladly noticed her connection had re-established and began reading Joey Harris’ online wrestler profile before Matt chimed in again.
MATT: “Yeah, I totally get that. I mean, it’s your job to know these people as best you can and prepare for them in an actual FIGHT, right?”
THIRTEEN: “Right.”
Another polite smile as Thirteen tried once more to engross herself in the reading.
MATT: “I forget that sometimes. It’s like your gig. I’m a system’s analyst, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”
THIRTEEN: “That’s great.”
MATT: “Damn though. You sure are hot, eh? Like… you must have the tightest bod going right now. And I mean that in the politest way possible, I mean there’s hundreds of chicks WAY hotter than you, but you’re still damn hot, and don’t let them tell you any different.”
Thirteen eyed him sidelong with an awkward nod, trying to block out the distraction.
MATT: “Yeah. Fucking hot, man. Say… why don’t you show me?”
THIRTEEN: “Excuse me?”
Her eyes wide with surprise, she sighed while her right hand clenched and unclenched. Matt looked nonplussed at her until he realized the potential faux pas and changed his track.
MATT: “The belt. I meant the Monarchy Championship belt.”
THIRTEEN: “Oh. Right. Well, it’s in the back in my luggage. Safe-and-sound. Sorry.”
The flight attendant came over the loud speaker and announced they’d be landing shortly.
THIRTEEN: (to herself) “Thank God…”
MATT: “Damn, huh? Feel like we were really starting to hit it off, too.”
THIRTEEN: “Yeah. It’s been fun.”
Matt placed his sock thankfully back onto his disgusting, scabbed over foot. Thirteen watched with an ever-present frown, feeling gratitude entering her heart as the plane began to descend to the runway at Heathrow airport in England. She ignored Matt as she prepared to exit the plane once it had come to a full stop. She stood and gathered her carry-on bag from the overhead when Matt playfully shot a fist at her abs she quickly dodged and readied her fist to retaliate. She held back and glared at him.
THIRTEEN: “What the hell are you doing?”
Matt smiled obliviously.
MATT: “Just checking, girly. You are fit. Gonna knock ‘um dead.”
Thirteen blinked and grit her teeth. It was only one plane ride. One she was happy to forget. Matt extended his hand to her.
MATT: “Hey. Thanks for the conversation.”
She shook his hand with disinterest, quick to get organized.
MATT: “So… I was wondering, I’m only going to be in town a couple days, but—“
THIRTEEN: “I’m seeing someone.”
She blurted at him. He seemed surprised. But it was an instant dead fall for any of his further conversation attempts. Leaving the plane, her head held once more high and triumphant.
That was behind her. The simple mistake with Gabriel Hartman was behind her as well. She refused to wander back into that old line of belief in bad luck. Sitting next to an asshole could happen to anyone. And her overconfidence had made her first on-air attempt at a 4CW promo go not as planned.
But she had another chance.
But first, Monarchy waited, Leon Cashmere was immediately before her this Sunday, and the beginning of what she intended to be a long title reign as Monarchy Champion, and, she hoped, even more with Uprising.
She smiled with relief. Weight free of her shoulders and feeling light and ready to face her newfound circumstances. She collected her luggage and made her way to the loading zone. She held her bag closer to her and patted the top where the belt was with pride.
Only…
She frowned. That’s weird. She’d set it right on the top.
She stopped walking, moved towards a bench next to the wall, and opened her bag.
No Monarchy Championship sat atop her ring attire.
She stared blankly down at the splayed open bag. She dove her hands in frantically to feel down to the bottom of the bag and came up holding unmentionables in the air, but no title belt.
Thirteen swallowed hard as she sat down next to her bag and stared at the contents strewn out of the bag from her search. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes drooped, and she looked blankly down at the floor with that pained, familiar reality settling in.
There is such thing as bad luck…
“Puta que pariu I lost the Monarchy Championship…”
Thirteen sat in her locker room in York Hall in London England with the Monarchy Championship neatly stationed on the bench in front of her.
There was little time to relish the moment. She had a plane to catch for 4CW: Uprising. But she did have time to contemplate this new reality she was faced with: she was a champion, and maybe there was no such thing as bad luck after all.
She looked at the leather strap with polished metal pried fresh from the ever-obnoxious Piper Terry’s scrawny fingers and held it close to her face to smell it’s presence, ran her fingers along the smooth surface and traced them across the M and the W. She felt like she’d just gotten home from a long arduous metaphysical walk through brier and bramble, over hill, through snow, and underground in pitch darkness and a never-ending sea of bullshit luck.
After all of that, after all the troubles she’d seen she’d made it. It was there. It was hers. She’d won the one match that mattered. A rare thing indeed to be able to say without adding a qualifying statement like, “but I also got mauled by tigers.” And as she set the belt back down on the bench in front of her and felt her shoulders relax, a long tense, stress-filled breath 28 years in the making finally exhaled, she began to cry.
She’d gone through hell and kept going. And this is where that path had taken her: a championship; a victory hard-won through skill and hard work, not through antics or cheap shots.
She’d proven it. She could do this. And, in proving it, nothing went wrong.
She cried because things had a way of going wrong, and normally it was a hassle, but not this time. Things played out like she’d trained for them. No lightning strikes. No random acts of God to impede her progress. She’d succeeded and now she didn’t know what to do with herself.
What do you do when your expectations are subverted and actually find the path you’d tried finding for so long. In the end, she’d happened onto it.
She cried because some dreams, once attained, are actually sweeter than the dream itself.
She wiped her eyes, looked at the clock and knew she was scheduled to make an appearance at Uprising and had very little time left to board her plane.
The typical image of this fit Brazilian is one of frantic unease, colossal nervousness often held in the shadow of over-preparedness and vigilance. Today, with that belt, with her victory, Thirteen didn’t rush.
She moved at her own pace, resolute with serenity for the first time in her life. It wasn’t that all problems had vanished; it was that the nagging concern that bad luck had a way of seeking her out and finding her had subsided.
She rode the cab, boarded the plane and made it to Uprising without a hitch.
That night, with more calm and confidence than she was accustomed she finalized a contract with 4CW’s Uprising brand.
It was a strange sensation to do so without looking wearily over her shoulder, or worrying that the ink in the pen might blot or explode. Nothing. Aside from miraculously locking her and Paul Knight in Paul’s office, nothing random, strange, or unfortunate happened.
Paul had been all kinds of helpful even. It was established that her schedule would be full-time but fair and not designed to deliberately drive her into the ground as traveling between Canada and England would be grueling.
Everything worked out.
It was almost boring to see things play out like clockwork, one might say.
Not Thirteen.
She fell asleep in her hotel bed as soon as she entered the room.
She had no recurring nightmares, no dreams, nothing.
It was pleasant.
She awoke and took her time getting ready to once again board a plane back to England. On her phone was a message from Gabriel Hartman offering some interview time.
Thirteen’s earlier hesitancy for promo time had washed away in the deluge of unexpected and welcome success.
She was ready.
When she met Gabriel at the airport she felt her confidence brim.
She dismissed his offer of prep time, and the camera began rolling.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Hello—“
She lifted a hand and signaled she needed no introduction.
And there she stood once more, ready to bask in the glow of the camera’s recording light, ready to finally address what fans she may have picked up thus far, and make her presence known to those she didn’t yet have, and to address those who might especially want to listen.
Thirteen lowered her head, gathering her breath then looked to the camera.
THIRTEEN: “This past Sunday night I accomplished a dream of mine. I won my first championship in Monarchy Wrestling against a woman who, by all accounts, really deserved no respect from me or anyone in the Monarchy locker room. But that’s not how this works. Piper Terry, I respect you. I respect you as the first person to hold the championship I now have in my possession; and the woman I earned the belt from.”
Thirteen licked her lips. She didn’t notice Gabriel Hartman frowning to the camera man and shift uncomfortably. She continued.
THIRTEEN: “And now I face another challenge in Leon Cashmere. Leon… there are those in this business who would call me soft for respecting you. There are those who would assume it makes me weak. The problem with that is that anyone who’s ever stood toe-to-toe with another competitor and bowed their head in respect for the combat about to take place, and the skill the opponent has arrived with, knows that you never take your eyes off that opponent. To bow is courtesy. What follows is one hell of a fight.
I’ve never taken my eyes off you Leon Cashmere. You’re someone worth respecting. You’re worth the fight I’m going to have with you this upcoming Sunday at Monarchy: Live!. You’re worth training for. You’re worth pushing my body to the limit for. You’re worth that, Leon Cashmere.
And while I respect you, I have no intention of letting you walk out of our match with a victory. I can’t allow it. Not now. Not after all I’ve worked for. Rest assured that ‘respect’ doesn’t mean I go easy. Respect means I don’t take you lightly. Respect means that in spite of whatever friendship we can foster outside the ring, I realize fully and completely that come Sunday I either pin you or you pin me. Hurting you comes before that.”
Gabriel Hartman shakes his head, motioning to the camera to cut. Thirteen frowns and eyes him.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Okay, what are you doing?”
THIRTEEN: “What do you mean?”
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Are you going to cover your match and opponents at Uprising or what?”
“THIRTEEN: “Uprising?”
Thirteen’s frown grew. Gabriel Hartman looked exasperated.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Yes. Uprising. The 4CW brand? You signed a contract with them on Sunday. You have a fatal four-way match against Neveah, Joey Harris and Chris Mosh on March the 20th. They just booked this. Are you going to get to that, or just deal with some guy nobody in 4CW’s even heard of?”
Thirteen’s frown turned to sheepish discomfort.
THIRTEEN: “You-you don’t cover Monarchy Wrestling?”
Gabriel Hartman had heard a lot of things in his life, but cutting a promo for the wrong federation’s backstage interviewer was a new one. He almost chuckled.
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Fuck no. I cover the 4CW brands. You know? 4 Corners Wrestling? I’m not like the omni-interviewer who covers every wrestling federation on the globe. What, you thought I was from Monarchy Wrestling?”
Thirteen gulps with concern. Sails losing some wind here.
THIRTEEN: “But, I thought—“
GABRIEL HARTMAN: “Yeah. Okay. Well, how about we catch you when you know a little something about your opponents, and you’re not preoccupied with toilet paper, huh? Maybe you can start taking your contract with 4CW a bit more serious, too?”
Gabriel and his cameraman were disgusted, and Thirteen stood and felt as if she would shrink as he told her off with a last look of disappointment.
“Puta que pariu.” She rolled her eyes, sighed heavily while loading her luggage for her flight and boarded the plane not willing to let that blemish mar an otherwise flawless couple of days. It was a fluke. It’s not going to stop my stride, she thought. At least I know I’m set to cut my promo for Monarchy Wrestling, she looked on the bright side and took her seat on the plane.
Once on the plane she took advantage of the WiFi to investigate her actual opponents. She watched training footage of Neveah with a frown at the small screen resolution with her ear buds in. The man next to her leaned in and lifted his voice to ensure Thirteen could hear him.
…: “That’s Neveah. Training in Battle Arts Pro. She’s gonna be huge. But you can take her though.”
Thirteen looked from the screen to him with disinterest. She plucked the ear buds out and questioned him with a glance.
…: “Name’s Matt.”
He extended his hand, and she shook it with a half-hearted smile hoping this Matt didn’t end up in the same position the last Matt she met was. (Read 4cwrestling.com/forum/index.php?topic=698.msg1526#new if curious – H.R.) He continued,
MATT: “I know who you are. Monarchy Wrestling, right? Thirteen.”
THIRTEEN: “Yeah… you--?”
MATT: “HUGE wrestling fan. Huge. Hell, I would’ve been a pro wrestler, till I took an arrow in the knee.”
His grin was huge, he leaned in ever closer with expectation of a response Thirteen didn’t have. She blinked with confusion.
THIRTEEN: “You had an archery accident? Was that, like, your wrestling gimmick?”
MATT: “No-No. It’s a Skyrim reference. You know? Elder Scrolls?”
Thirteen regarded him blankly. Matt passed it off with obnoxious charm.
MATT: “All good. You’re not a nerd, you’re a gym rat. I know the jist. Like I said, I’m a huge wrestling fan. Eat, Sleep, Video Games, and Wrestling. In that order. Name the federation, I know it all. 4-C-Dubs, Boardwalk, HOW, FIGHT 1, name it.”
Thirteen hoped nodding with increased frequency might expedite the list. It didn’t.
MATT: “…XWA, EWC, PAW, NAME IT.”
Thirteen smiled politely, already fitting an ear bud back into her ear and readying the other. Matt wasn’t done.
MATT: “Seriously. Name it. I even know the obscure shit that’s just starting out. Challenge me. I dare you. I watched you take down Piper Terry last week. Hell of a match. Seriously. Now, for your next match? Not against Leon Cashmere, but this four-way they got you booked in for Uprising, what you gotta do is--”
Thirteen’s smile was even more polite as she rested the ear bud in and raised the volume, trying to give the hint as politely as possible as her fingers searched through the Google search for videos of Joey Harris. The WiFi connection stuttered and slowed to a crawl before an error message appeared revealing that the connection had been lost. Thirteen sighed and removed the ear bud.
MATT: “--and I’m not even saying your kicks aren’t fierce enough. It’s just… well, they could be fiercer. See what I’m getting at?”
The polite look hadn’t worked. Thirteen’s smile had become concerned at Matt who eyed her waiting for her assessment of his assessment.
THIRTEEN: “Right. Fierce.”
MATT: “Exactly. Check it. Selfie!”
THIRTEEN: “What—?“
Matt leaned in and forced Thirteen’s smile before the accidental flash blinded her.
MATT: “Awwww, damn. Sorry. You had your eyes closed there. Not very Professional of you. But it’s okay. You’re just starting out. You’ll get it.”
Who uses their flash in a well-lit area?! He nudged her, with what he must assume was a playfully apologetic elbow; instead it jostled her right into frustration. She grabbed the first flight attendant that passed.
THIRTEEN: “Excuse me. Would it be possible for me to switch seats?”
FLIGHT ATTENDANT MAGGIE: “I’m sorry, we’re full. We’ll be landing shortly.”
The flight attendant continued on down the aisle as Thirteen’s head drifted awkwardly back to Matt who’d removed one of his shoes, rested his now bare foot across his knee facing her and began to pick at a scab on his big toe. Thirteen cringed in her seat and frantically tried willing her phone to reconnect the staggering WiFi.
She managed to load a picture halfway of Joey Harris before the connection cut out. She sighed just as Matt errantly glanced over to see what his travel companion was doing.
MATT: “Heeeeeeeey, Joey Harris. Sweet. One of my favorites. Watch out for him. Unpredictable. Crazy. Makes me think he should have his own cartoon or television show or movie or some shit. You got your work cut out for you at Uprising.”
She smiled gingerly, her eyes fluttering with stifled disgust at his bare foot.
THIRTEEN: “Right.”
She gulped, fearing nausea.
MATT: “But, I mean, what am I saying? You’re Monarchy Champion now. You’re no slouch either. Far as I can tell these people they got you in the ring with need to watch out for you just as much, if not more, than you’ve gotta watch out for them, am I right?”
THIRTEEN: “Maybe. I’ll definitely try my best. Obviously. Just—I really would like to prepare.”
She held up her phone as an invitation for him to silence. He shrugged as she gladly noticed her connection had re-established and began reading Joey Harris’ online wrestler profile before Matt chimed in again.
MATT: “Yeah, I totally get that. I mean, it’s your job to know these people as best you can and prepare for them in an actual FIGHT, right?”
THIRTEEN: “Right.”
Another polite smile as Thirteen tried once more to engross herself in the reading.
MATT: “I forget that sometimes. It’s like your gig. I’m a system’s analyst, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”
THIRTEEN: “That’s great.”
MATT: “Damn though. You sure are hot, eh? Like… you must have the tightest bod going right now. And I mean that in the politest way possible, I mean there’s hundreds of chicks WAY hotter than you, but you’re still damn hot, and don’t let them tell you any different.”
Thirteen eyed him sidelong with an awkward nod, trying to block out the distraction.
MATT: “Yeah. Fucking hot, man. Say… why don’t you show me?”
THIRTEEN: “Excuse me?”
Her eyes wide with surprise, she sighed while her right hand clenched and unclenched. Matt looked nonplussed at her until he realized the potential faux pas and changed his track.
MATT: “The belt. I meant the Monarchy Championship belt.”
THIRTEEN: “Oh. Right. Well, it’s in the back in my luggage. Safe-and-sound. Sorry.”
The flight attendant came over the loud speaker and announced they’d be landing shortly.
THIRTEEN: (to herself) “Thank God…”
MATT: “Damn, huh? Feel like we were really starting to hit it off, too.”
THIRTEEN: “Yeah. It’s been fun.”
Matt placed his sock thankfully back onto his disgusting, scabbed over foot. Thirteen watched with an ever-present frown, feeling gratitude entering her heart as the plane began to descend to the runway at Heathrow airport in England. She ignored Matt as she prepared to exit the plane once it had come to a full stop. She stood and gathered her carry-on bag from the overhead when Matt playfully shot a fist at her abs she quickly dodged and readied her fist to retaliate. She held back and glared at him.
THIRTEEN: “What the hell are you doing?”
Matt smiled obliviously.
MATT: “Just checking, girly. You are fit. Gonna knock ‘um dead.”
Thirteen blinked and grit her teeth. It was only one plane ride. One she was happy to forget. Matt extended his hand to her.
MATT: “Hey. Thanks for the conversation.”
She shook his hand with disinterest, quick to get organized.
MATT: “So… I was wondering, I’m only going to be in town a couple days, but—“
THIRTEEN: “I’m seeing someone.”
She blurted at him. He seemed surprised. But it was an instant dead fall for any of his further conversation attempts. Leaving the plane, her head held once more high and triumphant.
That was behind her. The simple mistake with Gabriel Hartman was behind her as well. She refused to wander back into that old line of belief in bad luck. Sitting next to an asshole could happen to anyone. And her overconfidence had made her first on-air attempt at a 4CW promo go not as planned.
But she had another chance.
But first, Monarchy waited, Leon Cashmere was immediately before her this Sunday, and the beginning of what she intended to be a long title reign as Monarchy Champion, and, she hoped, even more with Uprising.
She smiled with relief. Weight free of her shoulders and feeling light and ready to face her newfound circumstances. She collected her luggage and made her way to the loading zone. She held her bag closer to her and patted the top where the belt was with pride.
Only…
She frowned. That’s weird. She’d set it right on the top.
She stopped walking, moved towards a bench next to the wall, and opened her bag.
No Monarchy Championship sat atop her ring attire.
She stared blankly down at the splayed open bag. She dove her hands in frantically to feel down to the bottom of the bag and came up holding unmentionables in the air, but no title belt.
Thirteen swallowed hard as she sat down next to her bag and stared at the contents strewn out of the bag from her search. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes drooped, and she looked blankly down at the floor with that pained, familiar reality settling in.
There is such thing as bad luck…
“Puta que pariu I lost the Monarchy Championship…”
TO BE CONTINUED…