Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 2:09:17 GMT
Adventures in Expectation; versus Devin Hawk
OOC NOTE: The parts marked PRESENT DAY, happen at the same time as Devin's Hawk's role-play: "Laid to Rest"
London, England
March 22, 2016
“You are the scariest person I will ever have to face.”
Thirteen’s cell phone rested on the dresser propped against the wall with the camera aimed at her and recording. Her hands shook nervously as she slid one short wooden beam down between two end pieces till they snapped together. She exhaled loudly, like she’d just thrown a punch into a heavy bag then glanced up to the camera looking tired and worried, but most of all sincere.
“I won’t lie, or put forth a faulty brave face. I’ve never been more afraid of the challenge you pose. You could single-handedly destroy everything I’ve painstakingly built for myself. It’s very possible that you could be that one thing that finally breaks me.”
She was thoughtful and sad as she considered the arduous process she’d undertaken to this point to situate her life and spoke almost to herself.
“A sea of horrors and calamities and all the terrors of this world combined can’t amount to the danger you now represent to the delicate balance I’ve carved for myself.”
She shook her head, almost bewildered and staggered by that honest realization. She gulped and whisked a strand of hair behind her ear then leaned on the short wooden beam in front of her and stared matter-of-factly into the camera.
“I’ll tell you something about myself that, right now at least, is completely true. Maybe in the future it won’t be so true, but it’s true right now: I’m the person who gets knocked down and rises up again stronger than before. That’s my thing. I’ve made a living out of it. But this? You? You’re what I’ve been dreading. You’re the point of no return. There’s no coming back to the way things have been after I finally meet you. But, if I’m being honest, and I mean really honest. Like, no one here but me and the camera and you honest, then I think the promise you hold is absolutely exhilarating. You’re here, you’re now and I’ve never felt more prepared than I do to face you.”
It made her chuckle with disbelief she was even admitting it, her head once again shaking incredulously before glancing back to the camera.
“I guess, of all the life lessons I’ve learned, that I’ve been forced to learn whether I wanted to or not, this is the big one. The hurdle. So, let’s make this big lesson I’m learning, your first lesson…”
She looked long and direct into the camera a moment, gathering her thought and making sure it was advice she was willing to give, and take at the same time.
“…It takes a while to find your footing. It takes a long time to discover who you are, what you want, and where you fit in to a world that does not give up space easily, if at all.”
It was enough of a thought to make her blink away an impending tear of recollection of all the times the words she’d just spoken had proven true. She whisked the same stubborn strand of hair from her eyes back behind her ear.
“But, in time, you find it. Like we’ve now found each other. You’re what I’ve been looking for.
A true test.
A test of me, and all that I am, of what I’m truly capable of. I’m going to tell you now I don’t care what it costs me; how much blood, sweat and tears I have to give; if you’re mount Everest, the true challenge of my existence, a new unexplored frontier to conquer, the biggest lesson I’ll ever have to learn in life, what I’ve been seeking all this time and failing to get anywhere near a place where I’m fit and ready to do so, then consider this my letter of intent that I will conquer the challenge you present to me.”
She exhaled loudly and firmly stating something she believed deeply. The camera’s auto-focus readjusted with her movement and the artificial light of the room. Hair in a ponytail, grubby clothing, sweat dancing off her brow, she shook her head as her eyes cast uncertain glances around the spaces of the room the camera lens couldn’t see as if looking ahead to places unknown, and seldom traveled to for a reason.
She inhaled and crouched, still in view of the camera through wooden bars. She lifted a screw and a screwdriver and began to tighten the screw into place with precision and another deep thought-filled inhale. Her eyes moved from what she was doing back to the stationary camera on the dresser.
“Best that you know deep down that everything I now do is the ultimate preparation for you. And I wanted to make sure you knew that. This will either be the glorious triumph of my existence, or the cataclysmic event that steers the rest of my life to wherever it will go from here. I don’t mean to make this into something more than it is. And I don’t mean to sell it short. I’m just being honest. You’re the real deal. You’re exactly what I’ve been wanting for years.”
She paused to regard the tightened screw then shifted backwards, her backside threatening to tip an open can of paint next to a set of used paint rollers behind her. She winced; her eyes shifting back to the camera with an awkward smile as she stood now holding the paint can in hand with a grudging smile to the camera amidst looking around for a place to set it.
“Sorry.”
She moved from the camera’s view a moment and set the paint utensils out of reach. She moved back in front of the lens, her face taking up the frame with a nervous smile as she lifted the camera from its spot and spoke into it.
“Do you want to see your room?”
She gave a big, bright smile as she shifted the camera around, catching a momentary glimpse of the errant dabs of pink paint that polka-dotted her scrub clothing before focusing a clear shot of the room she’d been working on for the better part of two days since returning to London, England from Hamilton’s Uprising show.
“I know it’s not much,” her voice trembled.
The camera shook mildly as she presented the crib whose construction she’d just completed in the center of the room then gave a scan of the four freshly painted pink walls with decorative animal designs sprawled across them like a makeshift children’s jungle. She brought the camera back around to face her desperate-for-approval expression. She paused, and looked apologetic and bumbling.
“I’ve never had a baby before, well, I mean, not that you’re mine, exactly, well, we’ll get to that whole thing when you’re ready. I mean: if you’re ready, well… we’ll leave that up to you. It’s complicated, and I’m really not sure I understand it all myself. I just wanted to start with these video diaries so that you— for when you’re able to watch them, so you that you know that someone cared about you when it might have seemed like no one did.“
She choked on her words, and returned her apologetic expression back to the camera lens.
“I—I’m horrible at this, aren’t I? Sounds like I’m cutting a wrestling promo.”
She shook her head at herself.
“You don’t even have a name yet, so I don’t know what to call you. But, if I have my say, I’m going to name you Rose. A woman I knew very well when I was a 6 years old, who helped raise me, who was the only light in a very dark time and place in my life. I hope you like that name. And I hope you wear it with pride just as she did.”
She blinked away a tear and pretended it was a lump in her throat she lowered her face from view to pretend to clear before looking sincerely back into the camera with wet eyes.
“There’s so much that’s happened already in your life and you’re less than 2 days old. And, I’ll tell you that the odds have not been in your favor, sweetheart. Nearly 2 months premature. Your mama… my Gosh… I don’t need to tell you that the fact you’re even watching this is a miracle—“
She gulped, eyes widening with a growing sensitivity to the tenuous nature of the intended audience of the video she was currently recording. She looked resolute into the lens.
“I need you to know that it can get better. It does get better. Maybe when you’re older and watching this, this’ll be a lie, but I’m walking proof of turning everything to your advantage, and making the most out of life’s lemons.”
The video feed went on pause as the phone buzzed and signaled an incoming call.
“I can only—.“
Thirteen blinked and answered.
“Hello?”
Her face brightened once more at the sound of the voice on the other end of the receiver.
“Hi! I was just—Oh.”
She listened with a frown.
“Yes, I can be there in a few minutes, why is something wrong?”
Her smile came back down to earth slowly before plummeting entirely.
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Present Day
Thirteen stoops on a locker room bench in repose. One knee lifted, the smooth sole of her boxing shoe resting on the edge of the bench as she slowly and methodically ties the laces. The room is dimly lit; she is thoughtful within a sliver of hammer light casting shadows on her downcast features. The cell phone camera records her.
“I competed in my first Uprising the same night I successfully defended my Monarchy Championship. There are those who would dismiss that out of principle. That’s there, this is here and this here matters and that there doesn’t. They’ll say it on both sides of the pond, in both companies. I wish I could compartmentalize it, or make one more important than the other. The problem is, the night of an Uprising show always falls immediately after I’m booked to compete for Monarchy Wrestling.
On paper it’s insane. I’m running literal marathons. I’m traveling over land and sea, from the United Kingdom to Canada, all to push my body to its physical limit in two different wrestling rings separated by an ocean. If you think it doesn’t matter that I take part in two different events, two different companies, you need to re-watch my performance at the last Uprising to see precisely how this decision of mine actually matters, and how it will affect every single opponent set before me regardless of the company.”
She shakes her head, disappointed in herself.
“While you’re waging one physical battle in that ring against me, I’m fighting the good fight against the effects of jet lag, of a match that’s come before the one you find yourself in, as well as the match we share.
Hell, you could get lucky, and I could not even make it to the ring in time for our match due to cab strike, lightning strike, plane crash, or…who knows what else at this point.
It matters that I’m challenging myself like this.
That’s the point.
At first it was a fluke brought on by the decision of another. One I was eager to cast off because I thought: who cares about some other company when I’m focused on this one? But I signed that contract with Paul Knight, with Uprising, of my own free will. Just as I put my body through hell of my own free will. A hell that my opponent for Uprising 10 will likely choose to ignore in favor of one of his own imagining.
I have spent the better part of my life conditioning, toning, training and preparing my body to be able to do what I do in that ring.
I’ve devoted every second of my life to becoming better than I was yesterday.
While here in Canada, at Uprising 9, I competed in 2 matches, and fought a grand total of 8 competitors.
There are those who would say my performance was nothing to sneeze at.
Winning a fatal four-way and making it to the very end of a grueling Battle Royal is a laudable accomplishment.
That same night, before all of what Uprising threw my way, and immediately after facing and defeating a challenger for my title, I was threatened with another match, another challenger, one I would have faced with the same resolve as all the others.
I say this to point out that, regardless of performance, regardless of the setbacks that affected that performance, it still wasn’t good enough.
I wasn’t good enough.
My weeks are spent picking up new skills and new styles. I try Aikido, Judo, and flexibility training. I push my max bench to personal bests and go one further the next attempt.
I suppose the trap is knowing that it’ll never be good enough.
If I go through hell and prove to all those I face that I’m a tough competitor, worthy of your respect, but I haven’t the final victory to prove it, have I really proven anything?
If I make you feel the strength behind every blow and ensure you remember them ever after but cannot claim to have defeated you, do my blows really mean anything other than the bruise that heals?
If I aim to punish you, but you’re too strong to be punished, then who gets the punishment?
The problem with walking down to the ring to spill blood without an eye to walking out victorious is that blood runs out, and victimizing only goes so far.
How do I know?
Been there. Done that. Have the t-shirt.
You need someone to play the victim, to accept it, to stay down.
Take a lesson, for whatever it’s worth.
The Mexica-Aztecs were brutal warriors, so I’ve read.
Blood fed their gods. Blood made them happy.
They needed an hourly sacrifice of blood in order to feed their god.
I read one account that blood ran in a continuous stream down the steps of their temple. War, for the Aztecs, wasn’t about killing your enemy on the battlefield, but taking blood sacrifices.
I’ve read there wasn’t much strategy to it, either.
If my sources were correct, there was almost a sport to it: “you line up on your side, we line up on ours, and we see who can claim more living sacrifices.”
I could be wrong, but as far as I know the Aztecs had one understanding of combat, and one understanding of war.
So when someone shows up with a completely different understanding of those two concepts you have a defining moment on your hands, one that alters courses, and changes directions.
When Hernan Cortez arrived with something like 800 armed and trained Spanish soldiers and inevitably got into conflict with a city full of something like 200,000 Aztecs, the resulting massacre is one you can look up for yourself.
For whatever similarities they had, they weren’t really speaking the same language.
One understanding of war based on fulfilling a bloody need met another understanding of war, one not dedicated to the inevitable spilling of blood for self-perpetuation, but of territorial conquest.
It didn’t matter to the Spanish what had to be done to gain the “territory” they were after.
Blood could be spilled, sure. Lives could be lost. But the goal was permanent and unchanging.
I’m not saying when I face Devin Hawk that we’re like two complex people groups that met each other in unique circumstances over 600 years ago, or that we’re so very similar to that historical conflict.
I am saying we both have a different understanding of what this match means, and how to go about competing in it, and what we want out of it in the end.
I’m sure we agree on one thing: it’ll be a war.
The difference is his war is determined to spill blood, cause terror, wreak havoc, and if he gets “lucky”, he’ll try to kill.
Mine is based on strategy, endurance, and reliance on a body I keep pushing to its limit to complete the inevitable conquest of my opponent so that I can accomplish something I’ve only dreamed of.
Devin Hawk might say that championships are meaningless, that number one contenderships have no value, that victories are meaningless, and that only the fight matters.
But if your life itself hasn’t seen much “winning”; if your life story has never really included “success”, or “respect”, and only pain and conflict has been your purpose for continuing, then a victory sure as hell means a lot more than slaughter for slaughter’s sake.
They say that Devin’s Hawk’s one you don’t fuck with.
He’ll say that.
And I won’t argue.
Maybe it’s true.
His track record speaks for itself, doesn’t it?
He’s got a calling card, one he leaves in the ring after every match in the shape of a bloody opponent.
They say Devin Hawk’s a killer.
He’s made a name of it.
They say lots of things about Devin Hawk.
Me?
Most of the conversation about me seems to hinge on luck.
With a name like mine, luck is what everyone expects this to be about, which completely negates all the training and preparation I’ll have done by the time Devin and I lock eyes for the first time before that crowd.
All the conjecture, and commentary focuses on whether I’ll have good luck or bad on this night or that.
I have a fair guess of what people expect will happen when Devin and I meet at Uprising 10.
Most would expect Devin to prove himself far luckier than "Unlucky" Thirteen.
I’m fairly certain Devin expects he’ll have his way on Uprising.
Well, Devin Hawk, the best advice I hold for myself I now give to you: get used to disappointment.”
London, England
March 22, 2016
The baby had been born at 12:00 PM Greenwich-Mean time on Sunday March 20th. Thirteen had paced the waiting room throughout the birth, her plans of a pre-match workout cancelled. Instead, her mind was on fire with the consequences of “Bad Kitty” giving birth and what it meant directly to Thirteen’s life.
“Bad Kitty”. That’s what the woman had called herself when she’d seen fit to entwine her life with Thirteen’s. Thirteen had received an envelope of money from this “Bad Kitty” to help Thirteen get back into the wrestling business over a month ago. What Thirteen didn’t realize and should’ve was that money came with very particular strings.
It had been a soft agreement between them, a grudging understanding, that Bad Kitty wasn’t just a wealthy good Samaritan out to ensure Thirteen got her wrestling career back on track. Bad Kitty intended a good home for the newborn she deemed herself unfit to raise for reasons she refused to divulge. That home would be Thirteen’s, hence the money.
Thirteen waged war in her mind in the waiting room on March 20th, contemplating what it would mean to make room in her life for a child, to pursue her dreams and remain an active wrestler in two companies all while at the same time shouldering the rearing of someone else’s child.
It wasn’t a binding agreement; it was just a verbal contract she’d repeated to herself angrily until the nurse approached her with the news of the successful birth. Thirteen’s attitude had changed into a triumphant, proud smile. And then the nurse dropped the bombshell that, true to form, altered the course of events.
“Bad Kitty”, had died at 12:03 of an aneurysm. It hit close to home. Thirteen’s mother, so she’d been told, had also died shortly after she’d been born, also premature.
Damn those sobering coincidences.
At that point, there was truly nothing Thirteen could do. All attention had been turned to the baby who was terribly underweight and having difficulty maintaining her own body heat. The news had been passed, Thirteen had quietly made it know she would file for adoption, and when further information was available or required, Thirteen would be there.
That time was now.
Thirteen could make a vague sniff in the air of her freshly leased Toyota Prius where Bad Kitty’s water had broken in the passenger seat, so much for the terms of the lease; another “contract” Bad Kitty had inadvertently fixed stipulations Thirteen would have to deal with.
Thirteen drove with unease. She wondered if she shouldn’t lift the cell phone and continue with her video diary. So much uncertainty left her fingers gripping the wheel, and biting the inside of her cheek. 2 Months premature. The little girl still without a name wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Once inside the hospital, Thirteen was directed to sit inside an office where one of the administrators she’d met on Sunday, Ms. Dawes, now sat across a desk from Thirteen looking professional and dour.
“How are you?” She smiled, folding her hands together on her desk. Thirteen shifted awkwardly.
“I’m fine. How’s the baby?”
“She’s fine. Everything is fine, so far.”
Thirteen swallowed hard, relieved. Ms. Dawes’ brief sympathetic smile disappeared quickly. It didn’t fill Thirteen with optimism.
“First of all, we, as in myself, the hospital, as well as adoption services, are deeply grateful for your help throughout what must have been a trying ordeal of getting your friend to the hospital. It’s a brave thing you’ve done putting your name forward for the adoption process as well.”
“Of course.” Thirteen smiled, feeling like she were on a roller coaster slowly rising through the incline. Ms. Dawes smiled once more at Thirteen, fixing a pleased smile on her tightened face.
“Yes. Now, we feel it necessary to maintain complete transparency throughout this process, which is why I’ve called you here to talk with you face-to-face.”
Thirteen didn’t smile. She wondered how steep the drop on this roller coaster was. Ms. Dawes was obviously struggling with it, herself. Thirteen’s back straightened.
“You’re going to tell me I can’t adopt her, aren’t you?”
Ms. Dawes’ already uptight demeanor looked shaken momentarily, her guard dropped for a second as she winced then moved into it headlong.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Thirteen batted away tears with her eyelids. Her head nodded with grim acceptance, a finger lifted to trace along her lips in thought as Ms. Dawes looked at her sympathetically.
“Why?”
Ms. Dawes cleared her throat and adjusted in her chair. The ride on this roller coaster seeming worse for her than it was for Thirteen.
“First of all, to be blunt, it’s still early. There are countless hurdles a baby born this prematurely will face. The infant is barely 2 days old. We’re still struggling to stabilize her breathing. The last thing we want for you is to get your hopes up only to find out she doesn’t survive.”
The bluntness was something Thirteen could appreciate.
“Right.” Thirteen replied callously, leaning her elbow on Ms. Dawes’ desk and propping her chin into her palm thinking back to the bedroom she’d just been decorating, and the videos she’d already decided to delete.
“You must understand this is in no way a final decision. There is so much still to happen. This decision is tentative.” Ms. Dawes’ head nodded with a bright, unconvincing smile. “Understand, we felt it was important to keep your expectations grounded for the time being.”
Thirteen’s face had set in permanent disappointed stone. She stared blankly at Ms. Dawes.
“Of course. Expect the worst.”
Ms. Dawes sighed, unable to contain her honesty.
“There’s more. A head’s up, if you would, an inside track almost.”
“Right.”
Ms. Dawes’ face brightened as if the roller coaster they were both on wasn’t as troublesome as she truly felt it was.
“We finally figured out the mother’s identity.”
“Do tell,” Thirteen stated. The only tell was the layer of tears Thirteen wouldn’t allow to fall from her eyes. Ms. Dawes shifted once more.
“We ran her DNA. Does the name ‘Deus’ mean anything to you?”
Thirteen shook her head slowly, a vague flutter of her eyelids as if to say, ‘get to the point, I’ve got a bedroom to trash’. Ms. Dawes continued.
“We ran her DNA through several databases. You said she was from the United States, so we cross-referenced her DNA with several databases in the United States, including the FBI,” Ms. Dawes swallowed, she couldn’t get the information out fast enough.
“It turns out, your friend—“
“She wasn’t my friend.”
“Yes, well, the woman you brought in, who’s baby you’re trying to adopt, was named Kat Sevigny. That wasn’t her birth name. She had a criminal record we traced and inadvertently flagged the FBI. They’ve been looking for her for several months.”
Thirteen felt the news hit like a freight train, but she barely flinched.
“You don’t say.” Hardly surprising given the mess “Bad Kitty” had left her with since encountering her. Dots started to join in her mind, words “Bad Kitty”, or Kat, had said previously seeming so unremarkable had new meaning. Ms. Dawes continued.
“She was a wrestler. Like you. She wrestled under the names ‘Heaven’, then ‘Deus’, then ‘Unreal’. Have you heard these names?”
Thirteen’s head shook once more, her unimpressed expression growing more dismal at the thought of all the new information coming forward, and even less impressed at its impact.
“It doesn’t matter. She was linked to several slayings in New Mexico and Arizona.”
“She was a murderer?”
“It seems so. The FBI is--”
“What does the FBI have to do with anything?!” Ms. Dawes looked shocked. Thirteen shook her head disparagingly. “Okay, look. I’m sure this has a point, but just because her mother was a nutcase psychopath and elected herself the worst mother ever before her baby was even born doesn’t, and shouldn’t, disqualify me from taking this baby as my own.”
Ms. Dawes shifted once more.
“As I said, there’s a lot of uncertainty. There are concerns about your chosen line of profession. If her mother couldn’t, there are those who wonder whether you’ll be able to provide appropriate stability for the child once she’s ready.”
Thirteen regarded Ms. Dawes’ ‘there I said it’ look with derision and calm resignation. With a gulp of recognition, sort of a ‘how could you NOT see this coming’ clarity, Thirteen felt herself zoning out as Ms. Dawes continued.
“Her mother’s example is an illustration of the manifold risks of your profession. From every source I’ve taken, the job itself doesn’t seem conducive to a ‘sane’ lifestyle choice."
"I can't adopt this child because I'm a wrestler?"
"It’s a risk-taking profession. And it’s our job to ensure the best possible home for the newborn. You could be injured; you could die in the ring. Your schedule includes long distance travel. And frankly, without a partner, the concern is you wouldn’t succeed.”
Thirteen blinked at the mention.
“Excuse me?”
Ms. Dawes shifted once more during this unpleasant conversation, gulping noticeably.
“The thinking is, without a partner you—“
“My lack of a love life’s on trial too.” Thirteen murmured to herself, eyes glancing downward into a pit she had stared into for years. As Ms. Dawes urged Thirteen to whatever reason she could to be optimistic, Thirteen wondered at jumping headlong into the imagined dark crevice before her.
Her eyebrow twitched uncontrollably on the way home, the rest of the meeting had been a blur of words like ‘we’ve given you time to make the necessary changes in order to welcome the baby’, etc. She stared blankly at the road as it whizzed past her, the need to suddenly choose between two things on the horizon.
“Should’ve seen that coming.”
At home Thirteen stood in the doorway of the pink room she’d painstakingly painted, eyes watering at the playful animal characters decorating the jungle scape with loving abandon. Her fists clenched, teeth set, shoulders squared as she glared at the crib she’d struggled to put together and contemplated the correlation between how long the construction had taken, and just how fast she could rip it to shreds.
She went, instead, out to the Mook Yan Jong, her erstwhile Wooden dummy, one of her first purchases after joining Monarchy Wrestling and eyed it standing off-center. One arm had been punched clear out of the socket and she’d tried taping it back into it’s socket. A dent had settled into the wood where she’d kicked repeatedly to build up the strength of her shins.
She shredded the wooden dummy instead. No opponent on this earth, no human being alive could’ve withstood the onslaught of tear-filled rage she unleashed. Sheer frustration saw that wooden dummy’s arms punched off one by one, and the upright training device kicked from its holder like an imperfectly fallen tree, leaving a cracked stump in it’s place.
She limped into her bedroom, packed a bag, and quietly decided with reckless abandon she didn’t want to look at this apartment for a while.
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Present Day
Her face tilts down out of view of the camera as bangs pool to watch herself calmly wrap her hands with boxer’s tape like it were a ritual. The cell phone camera keeps recording.
“There’s much to be said about bad luck. Nothing I haven’t heard before, really. Some look to luck as an excuse for their fortunes, whether good or bad. While others debate the existence of luck entirely. Some have even made whole careers out of trying their luck.
I’m not one of these people; though with the name I go by, it’s no surprise I’m often associated with bad luck. The second I signed at Uprising, it’s like I invited everyone to make the crack I always hear, but politely pretend I’ve never heard about how my ‘luck is about to change’, or my ‘bad luck continues’, etcetera.
If I sound annoyed, I’m really not. Someone I barely knew asked me once if I’d ever thought of changing my name.”
Her head lifts calmly to face the camera while her hand methodically coils the tape between her knuckles, turning her palm up, then down, the tape looping in a dance known only to her.
“The thing people miss about a name like mine: Thirteen, is it’s a handy, and often purposeful Red Herring. Like when you tell someone not to look at something, doesn’t matter what it is, they always do.
What I find, is opponents I’m set to face often act like the waiter who approaches the table and asks if I’ve ever been to their particular establishment before, and, of course, they know just the thing to set me up.
‘Have you had Bad Luck before? Let me tell you what I recommend.’
I feel like I’m frequently offered this chance at a manufactured Eureka! Moment by those who would assume they understand anything about me and what I’ve been through, or what I’ve done with it.”
Thirteen, for a brief playful moment, smacks her head like, ‘duh’.
“‘Shit! You mean I could turn my negatives into positives?’
Bloody brilliant! Hadn’t thought of turning a shitty circumstance into fuel to turn things around. Thanks for the tip I’ve received for the first time ever in life.”
Her face straightens. Her hands wrapped, she sets her palms on her knees.
“That’s what people see. And they leave room for me to tell them what they’ve missed.
I’m not stupid. Everyone has shit handed to them. Everyone has obstacles to overcome. I’m not special, or alone in having to make the most of the unhappy accidents that land in my lap. What I am is practiced. Experienced.
I’ve made it a habit to expect unfortunate circumstances and prepare myself like a well-oiled shit-eating machine ready to adapt to whatever life hands me with a sinister smile. It’s not the most polite of ways to explain my personal ethos, but sometimes life hands you lemons, and, what I’ve learned is, sometimes you just have to spit them back in a hail of vicious gunfire.
I was told to be afraid of Devin Hawk when I found out we’d be facing one another at Uprising 10.
While you’d hope I’d bat an eyelash, or tremble, or, call for extra life insurance, I shrugged.”
She blinked as she thought about it with all seriousness.
“A bona fide shrug.
Not to downplay Devin Hawk. Or to pretend like this were any less a challenge than it truly is, because it is a challenge of the highest order. One that I will not shy from, rain or shine, win or lose. Without a hint of a lie, I’m most enthusiastic to put myself against a true, supreme warrior like Devin Hawk.
I watched Devin’s match against Harley Addams and was, bona fide, impressed with the both of them. Devin, you cut her open, she didn’t score the win, and I somehow doubt that’s really high on your list of priorities.
So, Unlucky Thirteen enters a match against a bloodthirsty killer who’s not validated by a win, but by sheer carnage.
I shrug because that doesn’t scare me.
When you’re amazed you made it down to the ring in one piece, Devin, everything else is vanilla.
I shrug because I’m expecting all of what Devin Hawk promises whenever I walk through the front door of my house.
Seriously.
I’m prepared for carnage, Devin Hawk.
I’m prepared for mayhem, destruction, terror, wherever I go.
Go ahead, Devin.
Kill me.
I triple-dog dare you.
I don’t fear you. I definitely respect you, and all you’re capable of and have managed to accomplish in this sport, and will undoubtedly continue to accomplish regardless of the outcome of our match.
But I don’t fear you.
I don’t fear blood, or broken bones, or torn sinews, or pain.
Not to steal anyone’s dark shtick, but my whole life is a roadmap of pain.
Sorry, I don’t fear death.
Been dead once already, in fact.
At this point in my life I have nothing to fear if I’m dying well, doing what I love, kicking the shit out of some dude only out to do damage and not legitimately defeat me.
That’s what having “bad luck” has taught me.
I prepare for the worst.
I’m not only prepared, I’m hoping you come down to the ring ready to rend me asunder, tear me limb from limb, rip my damn heart out why don’t you?
Prove my expectations correct.
And guess what?
When it’s all said and done, blood spilled, cartilage torn, heart ripped out and still beating, broken bones and the stretcher being brought down to ringside, I’ll still find that last bit of strength to rise One. More. Time. And I’ll still do you one better.
Because that’s what I prepare for: the worst.
Frankly, where I’ve been, what I’ve seen and had to do, I’m surprised I’m not crippled, scarred mentally, or otherwise out trying to do to people what Devin Hawk’s trying to do.
It’s what you make of it right, Devin?
I’m sure you’re prepared to hammer the final nails in the coffin of a life whose trajectory seems to be downward.
Aren’t you?
You’re Devin Hawk, after all.
The Terror.
Out for my blood.
Out for carnage and mayhem and destruction, and most assuredly out to break me.
I have news for you, “Terror”: If the last million or so shitty circumstances haven’t broken me, you’re sure as hell not going to, no matter how many bones you’re willing to break.
You’re coming into my life after a string of bullshit: rapes, prison, forced slavery, brutal beatings, broken bones, and whatever else there’s been that I’m not listing because, frankly, there’ll be more.
There’s always more.
Badges of courage, new suits of armor I can wear.
And I’ll always get right back up after whatever knocks me down with the aim of making it permanent.
It never will be.
Cause that’s what I do.
It’d be a lucky break to just die already.
I honestly believe that some days.
But I’m prepared to rise from the dead if I have to.
If you can’t kill me at Uprising 10, Devin Hawk, expect to find yourself pinned to the canvas, me walking out the Number One Contender for the Chivalry Championship and you resolutely, emphatically deciding in a mixed pool of our blood that of all the badass women you’ve ever had to face…
No.
This goes beyond mere gender.
Out of EVERYONE you have, or ever will face, (provided you don’t get yourself crippled at Uprising 10)…
In whatever state you leave that ring, Devin Hawk, you’ll know one thing for certain:
Thirteen is the one you don’t fuck with.“
She looked resolutely into the camera, poised then stood and shut off the recording. She tucked the cell phone back into her locker, tied her hair back, and got on a pair of 16oz training gloves.
Without letting anyone know, there wasn’t really anyone to tell she blankly informed herself with a vague hint of lament, she’d exchanged one plane ticket for another and traveled to Canada to lay low. She didn’t wish to risk being spotted in the UK and have to put on a pleasant face for anyone.
She’d been coming to this gym a few days out of the week, in between cross fit training at another complex.
She’d kept her head down successfully, and kept her eyes looking forward to Sunday, Monarchy: Live and Uprising 10 without looking back, even with every tingle and pang of guilt and concern over the baby being nursed to some semblance of health.
Exiting the locker room, her head characteristically down, face stoic she moved to a heavy bag and began to work up a sweat. Until, that is, she noticed someone out of the corner of her eye that made her head swivel to get a better look.
Devin Hawk.
Her eyes narrowed. He’d noticed her as well. The two opponents’ eyes locked on one another, and then simultaneously greeted each other with the same words spoken in unison.
“What are you doing here?”