Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 1:52:48 GMT
THIRTEEN REAL
Meet Amy Temple.
Amy stayed up late with her father and caught Monarchy Wrestling’s: The Coronation on Challenge TV. She’s been hooked ever since.
Amy attends Farraday Private School, and today she turns five years old. As part of her birthday celebration her parents and the school arranged to have Amy’s favorite Monarchy star come to wish her a happy birthday.
She didn’t like Piper Terry; Amy thought she wasn’t very tough. And Amy thinks Ashley Tierney should smile more and be less of a grouch. And, while Amy is impressed by Ryan Lecavalier, she’s stand-offish and uncertain about whether the star will ever find her footing. Ever the stalwart, Amy’s been smitten with one Monarchy talent since day one, and seeing her walk into Amy’s classroom caused a commotion easily the equal of some wrestling crowd’s this particular Monarchy Star’s faced.
The initial shock subsided, Thirteen balances the beaming girl on her shoulder and flexes her left bicep and poses with a wide smile for the camera.
FLASH!
Amy’s well-off parents spared no expense. They hired a professional photographer, Adam Ansel, to memorialize the event. Local news showed up to partner with Challenge and help advertise the brand, and wrestling product. Pulled away from the well wishing and photo opportunities, Thirteen put her best face forward for the reporter, David St. Hume and his camera crew.
“I think it’s great. I had no idea I’d made this kind of an impact so early it’s really overwhelming.” Thirteen’s smile widens with pride, glancing over her shoulder at little Amy explaining with five year-old ferocity to her classmates why Thirteen is her favorite.
“Obviously, with your arrival here for little Amy’s birthday you’ve been the bearer of a wonderful birthday gift, but you’ve also brought more than yourself. Can you tell us what else little Amy has to look forward to?”
Thirteen’s smile gleams as she looks back to the interviewer and gets excited.
“Yeah! I was lucky enough to receive free passes to this Sunday night Edition of Monarchy: Live for Amy and her whole family!”
In the frame behind Thirteen, at the mention of the free passes, little Amy Temple cheers enthusiastically, jumping up and down, her birthday, and potentially her week, maybe her whole life made all the more better in this one wish come true.
“And, naturally, everyone else will either have to buy their own ticket, or catch it live on Challenge?”
Thirteen’s smile softens at the cheap plug.
“Naturally.”
“And you, squaring off against Leon Cashmere, a man-mountain in his own right, what can little Amy and her family expect from Thirteen in this Sunday’s Main Event?”
Thirteen hasn’t lost the grin, but it turns modestly sly.
“Well, Amy, and everyone else, can expect the unexpected when Thirteen’s in the ring. I’ve been working on my technique, learning a few new tricks here and there, so hopefully I’ll be able to impress out there. And, I mean, Leon’s a tremendously skilled fighter, and definitely a strong and silent leader in the locker room. Everyone can expect a match without pretense, but plenty of jaw-dropping moments, to be sure. I’m not going to make any predictions, but I’m guessing it’s going to be explosive, and hugely entertaining for everyone at home and in the stands.”
“Absolutely. So, tell us, now that we have you on camera, ‘Unlucky’ Thirteen. Is it true? Are you really that unlucky, or is it, you know, just a gimmick?”
Thirteen shifts a little, the interviewer playing away the agreed upon kayfabe nature of the interview. Thirteen’s smile doesn’t dwindle. She readies her answer before Amy Temple draws her attention.
“Thirteen! Can you show me the Monarchy Championship belt?!”
Thirteen’s eyes widen. Her smile falters as she looks back at her young starry-eyed fan. Everyone in the room brightens at the great idea/publicity magnet.
“Absolutely. Great idea, Amy. Let’s get some shots in of you and the kids with the belt.”
Thirteen’s wide eyes turn back to the interviewer who’s already instructing the off-camera team to prepare for some group shots. Thirteen gulps hard.
“I—I, uh…” Even her best attempts to hide the awkward direction this has suddenly taken is swept away by the enthusiasm of the kids in Amy’s class all gathering around Amy who is preparing for the continuing uptick of an already stupendous birthday.
“Come on. Get over there with the belt. What’s the matter?”
Thirteen scratches her neck and swallows hard.
“Uhm… well, see—“
“Don’t you have it, Thirteen?” Amy asks. Thirteen stutters, looking embarrassed between the group of innocent young and impressionable eyes all staring expectantly at her, and the interviewer and his camera crew who frown with impending disapproval, and now the two parents and Amy’s teacher confusedly wondering at Thirteen’s reticence.
“I—“
“Yeah…?” The interviewer prods impatiently.
“I… I left it at home…” Thirteen says finally after far too much deliberation.
“Awwwwwwww.” Amy and her classmates unanimously roar with disappointment. Amy pouts at the missed opportunity to brush up with actualized greatness. The birthday dreams are made of has suddenly turned to tears as Amy’s disappointment wells up.
“You’re not really the champion, are you?” Amy cries.
“Way to go.” The interviewer grumbles. Amy’s mom collects her daughter, scooping her into her arms and glares at Thirteen with an obvious ‘you ruined my daughter’s birthday’ look. Thirteen backs away like she just dropped an atomic bomb and didn’t mean to, her fingers press tight to her throbbing forehead.
“Oh my God, this is a nightmare,” She murmurs to herself. Thirteen’s cell phone buzzes in her back pocket. Thankful, she apologizes silently to the camera crew and so many frustrated onlookers and moves off to answer the phone.
When she returns after a crescendo of glee on the phone, Thirteen’s smile has returned.
“Great news everyone! I—I can run home quickly and get the belt, and we can do that photo opportunity. How does that sound?”
The chilly air in the room lifts as Amy Temple rubs her reddened eyes still clutching firm to her mother and looks to Thirteen with lifted spirits.
"Yeah?” Thirteen approaches her, shoulders back, chest thrust forward with heroic authority and a confident smile. Thirteen brushes a tear from little Amy’s cheek.
“Yeah.”
It’s all the explanation little Amy needs. She watches with renewed awe as Thirteen grabs her few belongings and bursts out the door. The emergency was real enough as Thirteen directed her cabbie to JC Trophies with urgency.
Optimism fought with pessimism the whole way. Thirteen’s fingers clutched the seat like she was in an ambulance rushing a patient to the E.R. and the prognosis did not look good.
Before she’d boarded the plane back to England she’d been invited to Amy’s birthday party. She’d arranged the free passes without realizing the catastrophe that awaited her upon searching her lone gym bag for the now missing Monarchy Championship. Setting contingency plans instantly into motion behind the scenes, Thirteen arrived at Amy’s school hoping there’d be no questions asked.
As we now know, however, it wasn’t her lucky day. Amy’s tears had all but cemented it, to say nothing of the string of knocks Thirteen had taken after winning the belt last Sunday.
To be fair, no day was her lucky day, and she’d begun to sense a gloom settling back into her heart about that fact. An endless headache had taken up residence in her temples since she’d learned the ominous news of the MIA title belt that threatened her peace of mind at every turn.
Workouts became nothing but stress-busters. Someone pointed to the bruises on her shins and wondered aloud where she’d gotten them. Without a usual filter of politeness, she’d callously informed them she’d been “kicking a fucking wall”, which she had, and had continued to in spite of whatever ramifications could come of it.
She wanted to intimate to Leon Cashmere how great a shape she was in, how toughened up she’d made herself physically to face him, but the cloud hung low and created a dense fog of worry: would she even have a job after they discovered she’d lost their championship before she’d managed to hold onto the damned thing for a week?
She stormed into JC Trophies a woman on a mission. John at the counter recognized her and eyed her over with approval she quickly dismissed.
“Is it ready?”
He smirked.
“No nonsense. I like that.”
He reached down behind the counter and pulled the freshly made Monarchy Championship belt replacement up and slapped it on the glass counter top for her inspection.
“Here you are, babe. One of my finest works, if I do say so myself. They’ll be none the wiser.”
He folded his arms and prided himself on the craftsmanship he’d put into this piece. He watched, more appraising the feminine form before him than anything else as she stared at the title belt long and hard caught in a cringe.
“So. Whaddya think?”
Thirteen gulped, her shaky finger smoothing over the faceplate of the belt and looking up at him with rapid blinks to hide the onset of worried tears.
“You put the M and the W backwards. This says Wrestling Monarchy.”
“Yeah. So what? That’s what it’s supposed to say.”
She blinked at him, then down at the title ready to erupt into tears. He frowned and looked at what she meant. He shook his head. “No. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Wrestle Monarchy. I checked ‘um out on the Twitter to make sure.”
Numbness with intermittent pins and needles set into Thirteen’s otherwise pleasant face. She eyed him with disbelief.
“No. No, that’s… like name availability or something. It’s supposed to be Monarchy Wrestling.”
It took a moment to sink into John’s consciousness. He looked from Thirteen down at the belt where the now obvious mistake punched him in the face.
“Huh.” He intoned futilely. Thirteen swallowed hard again and had to brace her palms against the glass counter in case she fainted.
“I’m—I—I’m not paying for this.”
John straightened up and inhaled sharply. This was the part of the job he least looked forward to.
“Well, look, we can fix this. Give me a couple of weeks, and—“
“Couple of weeks?! No. I need this today. Like right now.”
John’s back was up, his eyebrows raised ready for an argument.
“Today? You said before that you needed it by Sunday.”
Thirteen’s palm slammed carefully on the glass counter top.
“That was before I--. Look. Can’t you just buff the letters out and make new ones or something?”
“Sure I can. That takes time. Need a whole new plate. Several of them. Plus we already have a backlog of orders. Yours took priority. We fulfilled that priority. Now we have other priorities.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Damn right it’s ridiculous. Ridiculous you come in here telling me you ‘lost your championship belt’ or some shit and expect me to just whip you one up based on a description that was apparently false.”
“I showed you the picture!”
“You did, but apparently the image was reversed in the image you showed me.”
Thirteen grumbled. No way. No fucking way this was happening. She calmed as best as she could and eyed John from JC trophies with her best poker face.
“Look. I need that title belt made to spec for Sunday night. Is there any way you can do that?”
John eyed her with estimation far exceeding sheer inventory backlog. He hid his negotiator’s grin.
“I can do that for you, yes. But, we’re gonna have to put a lot of jobs on the backburner to fix this mistake, and that’s not going to come cheap.”
Thirteen’s eyes narrowed.
“How much?”
“$5000.”
Thirteen blinked.
“And that’s not including the time and labor already invested in this one here.”
He patted the title belt. Thirteen’s eyelids fluttered incredulously.
“That’s—that’s $10,000.”
“Aye, it is.”
Thirteen gulped. John looked sympathetic.
“How bad do you want this belt?”
She brushed some bangs behind her ear and looked down at the belt and debated what measures she could take to conceal the obvious mistake. There were none. Her neck muscles tightened like they were trying to strangle her. She nodded reluctantly and felt her cell phone buzz once more. It was Amy Temple’s mother wondering when she’d be returning.
“Is it possible for me to take this belt for like—“
“We close in an hour, lady. If you wanna pay for this belt now, you take this belt and we renegotiate the replacement tomorrow. Only thing is I can’t guarantee we’ll give it the same priority then as we will now.”
Thirteen left JC Trophies empty-handed. She sent the text of disappointment to Amy’s mother, received a series of expletives in reply, and got in a cab and hid every single tear but not the sniffles that came with them. She could imagine how that little girl must feel right now being so utterly disappointed by someone she revered. Thirteen had felt it often herself as she grew up.
Part of her thought: ‘Good. Get used to disappointment, kid'. But she couldn’t follow the thought through with any solidity. Amy Temple, today on her fifth birthday, may as well have been Thirteen on every birthday up to and including the last one she’d had this past February 29th. No celebration. No fanfare. No importance, only disappointment and unfairness at being unluckily born on a leap year where your birthday comes once every four years.
Poor Amy Temple.
Poor Thirteen.
Was it luck, or shitty decisions?
Where the ever-loving fuck had she left that title belt?
Had it been stolen?
The truth was the belt could be anywhere and Thirteen faced the darkening reality that she may have to present herself at Monarchy: Live with either a cheap substitute and hope no one noticed, or not show up at all like a coward.
I can’t face them.
Without that belt, what am I?
She sat numb in the back of the cab headed for her apartment and stared blankly out the window with nothing but rhetorical questions as it began to rain.
She sat like that in her apartment, too. Catatonia would have been relief at this point. Hell, a kitchen knife across the wrist would have been a relief, and she shuddered when the thought crept through her mind and threatened to stay.
There was only the same solution there always was. She went over to the Mook Yan Jong and fought the fight of her life with the wooden dummy and felt the whole way like she were preparing for some forgone conclusion.
As eager as they’d been last Monarchy: Live, Jan Van Der Roost, Leon Cashmere, none of them would be quite so hastily at her side in the wake of this discovery once made. There was no match you could have to magically replace a missing title, and she doubted there was any form of insurance coverage the company had set in place for this unforeseen contingency.
You can’t make this shit up, she thought.
No one would bail her out for this, and who knew what disciplinary action might take place on behalf of Monarchy Wrestling. She pushed herself harder knocking her elbow so hard into the wooden dummy she knocked one of the pegs out onto the floor.
Just my luck, she thought trying to reattach it unsuccessfully.
“Well there’s another fucking thing broken.”
Her head had taken to shaking incomprehensibly at the circumstances stacking one on top of the other. She feared that, finally, the weight of the world would crush her. It made her gulp and sit down at the lone stool seated at the island in her kitchen and rubbed her temples with her fingers. This was, indeed, the limit, and she’d reached it.
It wasn’t the grueling tournament at the Coronation; it certainly wasn’t Piper Terry, and if she made it through to Sunday without a ruptured artery or stroke, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Leon Cashmere. This was the culmination of a life marred by, well, this. She stared blankly down at the marble counter top in front of her and felt she might drift off. Instead she set her jaw, slid over a piece of notepaper, grabbed a pen and began to write the letter.
Dear--
And then a knock on the door.
Thirteen looked up, startled.
“Who is it?”
No answer. She reluctantly stood from the stool and approached the door not expecting visitors. Hell, she didn’t know anyone save “Bad Kitty” who knew where she lived. She peeked out through the peephole and saw an empty hallway. Her frown tightened. She turned back and eyed the soon-to-be note to end all notes when the door knocked again.
She spun around and swung the door open with one fist clenched regardless of who it was.
They stepped into the doorway, the two of them, almost drunkenly.
“Hello,” he said wearing an antiquated looking plumed helmet. He and his female companion wore togas but spoke in cockney accents and made her think of Roman busts that were currently moving.
“I’m Hubris. And this is Hamartia.”
Their grins widened.
“We’ll be your undoing for the evening.”
“One of us, love. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
They walked past her into the apartment with pomp and circumstance, like they were sightseeing. Thirteen gaped and held the door open and watched them with the perma-frown struggling to make sense of it as the one called Hubris cast his arm toward one of her many blank white walls and ‘ahh-ed’ as Hamartia held her fingers to her chin and appraised.
“Definitely the one. Hasn’t decorated. Do I count that, or do you? What’s the score?” Hamartia asked her companion, the two ignoring Thirteen entirely.
“Poor interior design is hardly a personal flaw, my dear.” Hubris informed her.
“Am I dreaming this, right now? Who are you people?” Thirteen intoned feeling light-headed. She began to shut the door.
“No, actually,” came a voice behind her. Another toga-clad individual stepped in and stopped the door from closing.
“Oh good. It’s the know-it-all.” Hamartia and Hubris slumped their shoulders with disappointment upon hearing the voice, looking toward the door with simultaneous rolling eyes.
“You’re currently partaking in a complex auditory and visual hallucination due to overstress and extreme lack of sleep.” The woman’s face peeked in pleasantly through the door at Thirteen who blinked.
“Oh.” She slowly opened the door, the new guest standing up straight and expectantly.
“Gonna invite me in?”
“I don’t even know what’s going on.”
“I told you.”
“Oi. This stuck-up bitch is Panacea. Thinks she’s the answer to everything.” Hamartia intoned jealously.
“And usually happens to be right.” Hubris finished pompously holding up an eyeglass to the blank wall as if inspecting some unseen art piece.
“Yeah but no one ever listens to me.” Thirteen stood aside and let Panacea step in. More polite than the other two, she waded into Thirteen’s apartment and gently took a seat at the stool. Thirteen checked the empty hallway before closing the door and addressing her uninvited guests with confusion.
“Look, I’m not exactly, like, a people person, so--”
“Oooo, score one for me.” Hamartia glared like a braggart at her companion who rolled his eyes. Thirteen looked between the two.
“What is going on?”
Panacea opened her mouth, ready to answer all of Thirteen’s questions. Hamartia stepped in and swatted her.
“Don’t tell her!” Thirteen’s frustration mounted. She shook her head angrily and scratched the back of her neck.
“Fuck it. I’m not dealing with this shit. I’m fine with going nuts. So be it. That’s not going to stop me from preparing for my match.”
Her jaw set, shoulders squared, she brushed past Hamartia and Hubris.
“1-1.” Hubris whispered to Hamartia who scowled silently at him. Thirteen went back to the wooden dummy as if they weren’t there.
The sound of her training filled the room awkwardly before she glanced at all three of them eyeing her expectantly. She stopped and glared.
“What?!”
“You lost your title belt,” Panacea placidly stated, doodling on the notepad with the pen, “they seem to think how you respond to the crisis will be the end of you.”
“Oh really?”
Hubris and Hamartia nodded cheerily at her. Thirteen gritted her teeth.
“Well you’re wrong.” Her fist clenched, punching with increased ferocity into the side of the wooden dummy. Hamartia and Hubris eyed her movements with concern.
“What would you call that, love?”
“Stupidity.”
“Who scores that one?”
Hubris shook his head, mystified.
“Not sure you can count that as a tragic flaw…”
“Then it’s mine!”
“Well no. It’s neither a personality trait, darling. It just… IS.”
“Fine, we’ll call it a draw.” Hamartia pouted. Thirteen stopped and glared once more.
“Do I have a brain tumor or something?”
“No. But, the rate you’re going you will.” Panacea said haphazardly. Thirteen sighed and leaned an elbow on the wooden dummy.
“So… okay. What’s the point of all this then?”
“No point. We’re merely the personification of literary devices and abstract concepts that you’ve only a rudimentary knowledge of, and therefore we exist in your mind. We can only adjudicate based on information you already have, we can’t present new knowledge.” Panacea pointed out.
“So… I am going nuts.”
“Oh, god no. You’re just under a metric ton of distress because you fear what losing that belt will mean for you.” Hubris moved to sit down on the armchair, Hamartia sat down beside him on the arm.
“There’s no way in hell I’m losing that belt to Leon Cashmere. This match isn’t even for the title.”
“Yes, but neither was the match you won the belt in originally.” Panacea casually intoned. Hubris and Hamartia smiled and nodded in agreement. Thirteen sighed loudly.
“I don’t care. I’m not losing that belt.”
“You already lost it, my dear.”
Thirteen gulped and felt her stomach tighten into a near-knot. She leaned back against a wall and felt herself pouting.
“I’m replacing it. They’ll have it done before Sunday. I—“
“You know, this might not be such a problem if you learned to rely on others, right? Maybe if you called your employers, they’d even understand?” Panacea eyed her motherly.
“I don’t need anyone else, okay? Never have. Never will. I got myself into this mess, I’ll get myself out.”
Hubris lifted out of the seat and gloated at Hamartia.
“HA! 2-1. Mine.”
Thirteen slid down along the wall, her hands gripping her forehead.
“This means nothing. I’m still a champion even without that belt.”
“Are you sure about that?” Hamartia asked with a clever smirk at Thirteen. Thirteen eyed her before looking for help to Panacea.
“Will this ‘hallucination’ resolve itself after I learn my lesson?”
Panacea shrugged.
“That I can’t answer. Doesn’t look like it though, does it?”
“No. No, it doesn’t.” Thirteen sighed. The others watched her silently. She looked down to the floor and shook her head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I finally win something and somehow, someway, the jaws of fate chomp down on it like I were just MEANT to be a failure.”
“How do you know this wasn’t the result of your own poor choices?” Hubris gleamed at her.
“Exactly.” Thirteen nodded finally.
“Fate versus responsibility is one of the oldest themes imaginable.” Panacea said. “Not one that easily resolves itself, I’m afraid.”
Thirteen bit her lip.
“So what do I do?” She spoke softly to herself. It didn’t mean much to speak to literary devices at this point.
“I’ll walk down to that ring with a cardboard belt if I have to. There’s literally a kid going to be in those stands watching me whom I already let down once and I’m not going to let that happen again. Title belt or no, I’m still the champion, and I’ll walk through as many fires as I have to prove that.” Slowly, her head lifted sadly to see the empty apartment around her. She exhaled loudly, the back of her head hitting the blank white wall behind her.
With resignation she slid up to a stand and looked back at the note she’d only just begun and stepped back towards the stool where formerly “Panacea” sat. Thirteen frowned to see the doodles on the page and shrugged it off and began to write. She wrote until her cell phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then out the window to see that it had become day already, and JC Trophies had urgent news that required her to come back down to the shop.
She got on her jacket, and eyed the note, wondering if she’d ensure it’s delivery before Sunday. So much depended on what was about to happen down at JC Trophies.
Dear Leon Cashmere,
No regrets. Plenty of respect, and admiration for everything you are, have been, and will be in this business. I can’t pretend to have watched your career, or know it’s ins and outs, or all the hells tyou’ve walked through to get here. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a mountain I have to climb. And this Sunday, at Monarchy: Live, I must stand up next to that mountain, and chop it down with the edge of my hand.
Yeah, I know. Cheesy use of overused song lyrics, but it works. Track with me.
There’s a lot of people in this business that would see “Non-Title” in the rider for our match and think it was less significant than were I slated to defend the Monarchy Championship.
Those people are dead wrong.
I need you to understand that, regardless of what that booking reads.
As far as I’m concerned this match is for the title.
This match is for more than the title, damn it.
I have a million reasons to feel this way, the least of which is a little girl sitting out in the stands who, right now, is having a hard time believing in me.
That to say nothing of the fact that the person I beat this title for was a husk of herself and cornered when I got the three-count. A win is a win, and frankly I don’t think I need to explain to you how it feels to be on the receiving end of a loss. It sticks with you. It festers. It grows sharp teeth and fangs and every time I, personally, step foot in a ring it threatens to pull me down into a pit and never let me out. I don’t honestly know if you feel the same.
What I’ve learned is it’s really two heads of the same coin: Losing, and Winning.
And now I’ve finally seen the other side of that coin, and I rather prefer it.
Alexis Terry can stay on the horizon hoping she’s haunting me, thinking she’s something worth worrying about as she waits in the wings, but the truth is, right now, here in front of me is you.
You’re big as they come physically, and you cast a shadow whether you believe it or not.
Don’t take this personally, Mr. Cashmere, but I have to beat you.
I have to beat you to prove incorrect any naysayers that might want to detract from a reign you yourself would claim I’ve earned.
I need to beat you to because you earned that shot against Piper Terry just as much as I did.
I need to beat you so Alexis Terry doesn’t think she actually stands a chance of winning even with the month’s worth of preparation and recovery time she’s getting.
I need to beat you, Leon.
No questions asked, no threats, nothing but the fact that I this non-title match ha everything to do with me earning the right to keep the title that…
The title that I apparently lost somewhere in London, England or London, Ontario, Canada.
I’m telling you this so you understand that even if this were for the title, neither of us will be walking out with the real thing if my replica is ready.
I’m fighting for a concept, Leon, as much as I’m fighting for a win on my record. That’s all it really is.
This isn’t bragging rights to say I beat Leon Cashmere, or you beat some chick with a number for a name cause, realistically, in the case of us both not many people give a damn who we are.
I’m willing to go as far as I have to not for the real belt, which may forever be lost to us, but the sheer the right to be the champion of Monarchy Wrestling.
The one sitting at the top.
Right now, that’s me.
I don’t need a fancy throne.
I don’t even really need the actual belt.
I do need to beat you and prove that’s where I belong.
Sincerely,
Thirteen
