Imperfect III

[Shione "SURGE" Ōshima]

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The pain of a fall...

Shione Ōshima awakens with a start, the recollected thrashing of desperate limbs unleashing a convulsion more instinctive than breath; more natural than the rhythmic thrum of heartstrings. The first thing she smells is the coppery tang of her own blood, but the first thing she sees is the beast that bled her, looming in the midst of a victory yet to come. A victory – she cannot yet realize – that's never going to arrive. It's this imagined simulacrum at which she lashes, the back of her left hand flung broad and hard by powerful muscles yet to realize, for their part, how over-burdened they are.

The wayward blow is caught with an effort that elicits a not-unkindly grunt, and the cocking of a relieved half-grin.

That which looms above her is not the monster she believes, but one of a very different breed.

Shione: Mumf...

She slurs the name – hard to say with an accent so thick – until it sounds more like the prelude to a terrible sickness, the nausea of a battered and weary body crashing upon her like an ocean's wave. But never throughout the annals of history has a mere slur come so loaded; emotions wind through the clumsy syllable in imperfect tandem with the widening of hazel eyes. Her hand remains raised, a moment passing before she registers that it's already been released. With a wistful air she lowers it, glancing at sticky, bloodied fingertips in mute wonder as the man above her sketches a bow.

Mad Mumf: Shione.

It's not really a moment for words. The brightly-clad powerhouse, bathed now brighter still in the wash of her own crimson – and that, too, of Victor Hades – opens and closes her mouth twice before looking up, rather belatedly answering the formal gesture with a bob of her head. A stream of fluid dislodges to scatter down a cheek. Cautiously she reaches to dab at it, then runs a finger more directly through it, flicking her gaze to what she gathers.

Shione: Did I...?

The man confirms it with a curt nod, folding his hands upon the baseball bat held before him.

Mad Mumf: You did.

His confirmation gives the Japanese woman pause. For a moment or three she seems frozen...

Shione: Ah...

***TURN UP VOLUME AND PRESS PLAY NOW!***

***TURN UP VOLUME AND PRESS PLAY NOW!***

She imagines a sound then, a caterwaul she'll later swear was as real as night and day. Hammer striking anvil, it seems at first: the forging of a chain that's been whipping free and wild since she collapsed upon the ring apron. Quickly the thought-strands disengage and re-entwine, sending exploding into her beleaguered brain the certain knowledge that she's hearing – at long last – the ringing of the bell to signal her victory. Her first. The first of many.

Shione: Ah!

Her gasp says about a single thousand-millionth of what she'd muster had she the faculty and poetry to do so. It's the imminent grin that has to deal the rest, rippling across bruised and bloody features until the fire ignites in those eyes. In this precise moment, Shione Ōshima sees only three things; the memory of Hades, the empassioned clenching of her own fist at the fringe of her gaze, and the form of Adam Mumford standing above her with a calmer returning smile. His gesture needs not be overt; it's the burning taper to her densely-packed firework. Careless of the onlooking medics and the scattering of locker room talent also backstage with them, Shione lets out a squeal and begins to laugh uproariously. Suddenly a blur of energy, she throws herself from her gurney and into a wild leap.

Boom. It's all this particular 'Monster' can do to keep his balance as he's struck by a flying bearhug from the elated Japanese woman. There's a fussing doctor beside them in a moment, as the laugh becomes shared and then dies in Mumf as Shione finds her feet and lifts him off his own, manic in her celebration and utterly deaf and blind to anything else.

It's a moment she'd preserve forever, if she could. If only her legs didn't give out a few seconds later.

At least the laughter doesn't die. She's still at it when she's being dragged back onto the gurney by the doctor and two nurses, the Crashing Wave a billowing summer flame, flinging both arms into the air, her head back and eyes closed as she voices to the very heavens one last instant of sheer joy before the road to recovery begins...

Shione: Yatta~!

The thrill of the ensuing rise.

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APW Presents: Shione "SURGE" Ōshima
Imperfect III
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Our first shot is... almost plain, by contrast to those that have preceded it. The Crashing Wave stands in her by-now familiar, colourful ring garb amidst an ocean of trimmed green grass reaching – it seems – to the very horizon behind. A field, well-kempt and brushed by the descending rays of the summer sun. Untouched by grazing beasts, unmarred by the visibility of weed or a single patch of bare waste ground, this is – perhaps – the 'perfect' field.

Less can be said for the young woman at the centre, fists pushed to her hips and posture at once proud and girlish, an equally familiar, hugely-toothy grin plastered across her face and hazel eyes bright with that twinkling mischief so easily turned to a warrior's excited instensity. Why less? For the jagged cut running across her brow, stitches still unhealed and ugly, and the unconcealed bruises upon her dimpled cheeks. Any off-kilter beauty she might have is marred. Imperfect.

"Boo!"

Her grin only grows once she speaks, only dimming as she casually shifts her hands from her hip to fold powerful arms across her chest. Leaning into her heels, she relaxes, the grin dimming to a mere smile, eyes still holding that same fire.

"Meltdown. Michigan. It has been a long time coming, since last I bled for APW. But the wound is still fresh."

Her words are thickly-accented and somewhat halting; a reminder that she's not using her native tongue, and is only approaching full fluency in the one she speaks. Every word is careful, considered; they come slower than they would.

"As am I. Though I am not new to the fight, not new to this sport, I am new to your eyes. One--"

Shione lifts an arm from her chest, index finger curling outward until it's held straight before the camera.

"--for one, and just barely. My battle against Kerberos, my trial at the cruel gates of Hades, was one I escaped by a single fuzzy whisker. This was not a perfect victory, but it was a victory. I have said before that we all stumble and make mistakes, that no man or woman may obtain the truth of perfection; and, I ask, would we even want to?"

Her head cocks to one side as she pitches the query, an eyebrow arching and both arms now falling away to open beneath either hip, flopping somewhat as she releases all tension for just a moment. In that same moment, the grin re-flares.

"It's the falls from which we learn, the troubles and the pains that build us from men into titans. Without light..."

She snaps the fingers of her left hand, the sharpness of the sound a piercing point betwixt her words. Suddenly, the view dims; the background changes. She's still standing in that field, but it takes a second or more to discern that much, because the sun no longer shines – moonlight provides the glow to highlight Shione in the foreground. Day has become night.

"There would be no darkness."

She continues with a hearty, satisfied release of breath, counting off phrases on fingers raised before her.

"Without destitution, there would be no charity. No sun without moon, no rich without poor, no gods without men, and no man without a woman to bear him. Without the ugly we perceive no beauty. Without losing we can never understand what it means to win. So I ask you again, each and every one watching, would you want to be 'perfect'?"

Her hands spread now, beseeching those watching as the camera slowly, subtly zooms in, framing the woman alone.

"To be perfect is only to be. A thing made of sculpted clay. A figure of crystal or porcelain, locked as eternal fragment – it will never age or die so long as it goes untouched, never change unless it is broken. Static. A pretty, pretty bauble frozen in 'perfection' for all time and time again. To some, maybe static is safe, maybe static is their desire."

Shione pauses, giving a single shake of her head and releasing another sigh, this one heavier and almost touched with a melancholic regret – at least until her downcast gaze sparkles back toward the lense, lips quirking and cheeks dimpling.

"I say, static is boring. Static never learns to be greater. Static is static alone."

Abruptly, a finger shoots up into the head-and-shoulders shot, punctuating the asian's next word.

"But! Kaylyn Mary Beatrice Annabelle Farrah Desiree Bertha Baxter Evans..."

Her head tilts, a brow arches, as the finger falls away. One imagines her hands are back upon her hips.

"...you are not alone, are you? A list of broken hearts as many and more as the perfect crystal stars in perfect ebony skies, and perhaps even an ally or three to marvel at them – worshippers at the altar of perfection? Or others who just as simply and stupidly believe they cannot be undone because they cannot change with the tides..."

Shione rather briskly shakes her head.

"It doesn't matter. More chaos. More noise. This may be the only time we meet, Kaylyn Alexa Tamsin Heather Rebecca Clara Marmaduke Evans, because we stand at opposite ends of the same imperfect whole, but one kind is as another does. Overdrive has the threat of the Black Hand, the rise of chaotic trumpets in the dark, and Asylum--"

She's already lifted one arm, clenching a fist some way out from her left shoulder – the viewfinder adjusted once more to compensate for this broader gesture. Leaning conspiratorially toward the lense, she lifts her other, bearing a second fist.

"--has the same Hand on another arm. At Meltdown, they simply form as one."

Predictably, she brings her fists crashing together. They collide with a hefty thump before intent hazel eyes.

"Perfect, isn't it?"

Pulling her hands away, they drop once more. Shione lets the question hang a moment, smile slowly fading until her lips first purse and then form a down-sloping crease, the bottom lip protruding a touch as she shakes her head to and fro.

"It is not. Diversity is imperfect. Evolution is imperfect. No matter how powerful you are, unless you can learn to be other and more where it counts, unless you can adapt and grow, then you are just perfectly going to break."

No longer sadfacing, she's now in Warrior ModeTM. Stance spread and shoulders up, she flicks one hand upward to indicate herself with the reverse jab of a thumb. It's about one step short of actually beating her chest.

"Me? I am Shione. I am a thing many times broken, put together one time more."

That same hand brushes over the bruises on her cheeks, and draws attention to the jagged cut upon her brow.

"I could show you a thousand scars upon my body, and a thousand stories to go with them; I could even tell you a thousand more where I gained no scar, but left one upon another. From every story I learned, but perhaps most of all from the first thousand; the thousand where I fell, the thousand where I stumbled and bled, the thousand where I choked or collapsed or had to be carried crying and shattered from an arena full of staring fans. The thousand where I failed."

Suddenly, she grins, but rather than holding the same maniac quality of mischief, it's a harsh and predatory gesture.

"Do you know, I lost thirty two matches before I won even a single one? Thirty two scars just to show me I was wrong. That I was a thing without perfection. An animal – a monster – like any else who ever failed and had to grow. To evolve. This is a natural path to walk; I might say, it is the only path worth walking. Now I can stand before you and say that I am strong, that I can win, that I am a conqueror, because I am absolutely and utterly... flawed. Because I am imperfect."

Her thumb jerks upright again, but this time it's around her chest, and followed by index and middle fingers.

"I fell to Mr. Million Fingers, because I was imperfect. I made my Kerberos my bitch, because I was imperfect."

She twists her hand inward, pulling up the ring finger to join the other three, presenting them straight to camera.

"And now I will break the Pussy of Perfection, because I am imperfect."

Her hand closes tightly, dragging in until it's just beneath her chin – and miming the action she proclaims next...

"I will wring her perfect porcelain neck until it snaps, and the perfect porcelain pieces tumble to the floor. Then I will stamp on them with my ugly, clumpy, flawed feet until there is nothing left but perfectly pretty crystals shining forever beneath my boots. You are not ready for me, Kaylyn Vanessa Trixie Louisa Horace Steven Evans, because you are looking out across a still lake and proclaiming yourself it's mistress... when you should be preparing for the change in the tides, and steeling your porcelain limbs to weather the Crashing Wave. Perhaps this will be the only time we meet..."

Once more Shione shakes her head, but this time there's no expression of sadness – ironic or otherwise – just the steely countenance of a woman ready for war. When she speaks again, it's not with hope but with promise.

"That is why I will make this count. I will find my mark, and I will crush you."

As if the changing tides had not changed enough, they shift again. Shione's expressive mask shifts to one of sudden curiosity, a birdlike wonderment in the tilt of her head. A finger rises to tap thoughtfully at her lip.

"Ah, but, wait. Didn't you lose already, to a man who has adapted and changed? To a man whose Hands are now Black?"

She forms a fist again, glances at it and grins wildly before turning her gaze back to the lense.

"Then half my work is done. You are a broken toy; a kitten without a spine, and all I must do is stomp and stamp."

Thud. Thud. On each word she brings a boot down upon the field's surface beneath her. Less expected are the strangled noises that follow each impact – they're reasonably faint, but sound like the dying squeaks of small woodland creatures. Shione doesn't pretend not to notice; she actually cringes slightly and looks down, breaking her flow before looking back up as if the moment never occurred – confidence immediately regained and intensity riding high.

"You might be the Perfect Ten, Pussy of Perfection, but all I need is an Imperfect Three. All you can do is gather what you have left and do your best to learn and grow for the first time in your static existence; you get one chance to be better than me, one chance to change, and one chance to realize this is not a battle you win by being. This is a battle you win with your sweat and your blood, with pain and broken bones and snapping, protesting gristle..."

She mimes with her hands, twisting necks and breaking bones, unable to stop from grinning anew.

"This is a battle you win by being imperfect, just like me. It is a pleasure to meet you!"

Still mugging away, now occupying some bizarre area between thrilled politas and psychotic violence, she thrusts out an arm as the camera zooms out to once more show a full body shot, Shione imposed over the field at night. Two small mulches of fur and blood sit beneath her bootheels; going utterly unacknowledged as she merely awaits the imaginary handshake from her opponent and then throws her arms triumphantly to either side, posing with mock majesty.

"And it will be a pleasure to stand on perfect porcelain pieces and know that I have truly, imperfectly arrived in APW!"

With one last mighty grin from the plucky powerhouse, the view fades to black.