Wait & See

[Shione "SURGE" Ōshima]

"Exquisite apple
Hanging on the tree. Take it
And bite down, bravely."

~Friday, 30th August, 6:57pm~

Shione's pen-tip continues to tap at the page, drumming a staccato rhythm quite at odds with the calm pulsing of her heart. Hazel eyes regard the little notepad as if from a great distance, long moments passing before she exhales and stands. The pen clatters down, discarded, upon the cheap wood beside cheap, lined paper. The cover bears the APW logo, but the materials are barely adequate to their purpose. She's a Mega Star by name, but she's the envy of none.

She was right to enjoy the luxuries offered back in Richmond; her 'welcoming gift' by a management keen to keep talent onboard and satisfied with their decisions. The apartment she now occupies boasts walls of dull cream and few, small windows – a far cry from the open plan, glass-walled opulence set beneath a rooftop pool. It's... serviceable, really.

But still she smiles. If it will service, so it shall; she's not one to expect great things of her environs. Ambition is reserved for body and soul, for the machinations she has within her own limited control. Of herself she expects everything. Of her own physical shell she expects the same and more. To stand without breaking, to stand even when broken. No limits and no excuses where it counts; and where it doesn't, a necessity only that she survive. Survive to conquer.

Pushing chair beneath table – a habit formed through years of diligence not easily forgotten – Shione moves through the humble dwelling until she reaches the narrow confines of the bathroom, drawing to a halt opposite the mirror, her hands supported by lemon-scented porcelain as she smiles levelly at her reflection. She's not wearing make-up, lines of sleeplessness and the bruises of her latest rigours plainly visible upon faintly tan cheeks, but in the gleam of intelligent pupils and the familiar crease of dimples in her cheeks she observes a natural beauty of which she's passably proud.

She might still be a terrible poet, but Shione Ōshima is happy to be herself.

She's drawn from her brief, relaxed revery by a vibration trapped twixt frayed denim. A slow bat of her eyes accompanies a lazy inhalation, and then she pulls her phone free from her back pocket, flipping it around and eyeing the screen. The power bar is low; it runs out quickly since the day she decided to deposit it unceremoniously in her coffee mug, and this only makes her more wary. The number's unregistered. Shione answers it without passion.

Shione: Moshi moshi.

?: Miss Ōshima?

American. She wasn't expecting that. She murmurs assent.

?: I'm calling from Angel Brooke & Associates. We've received papers from your company that we need you to review and sign; this is really very important, I'm afraid I must insist you come within three days or forfeit your right to--

Shione: If it is important, I will come. Where am I going, please?

?: We've arranged transport, Miss Ōshima. A driver will be at your building tomorrow. 7:30am sharp.

Shione: That doesn't--

?: I believe I iterated the importance of this, Miss Ōshima? Do not be late.

Before she can protest further, the line goes dead. For several seconds she stands, glancing sidelong into the mirror as if to question her very reflection – is her contract in APW at stake? Is there some new stipulation to her match? Perhaps, she wonders for an uncharacteristic instant of worry, there's a problem with her VISA. Tucking her phone away, she strides briskly from the bathroom to the side table positioned beside the apartment's front door. Her plane ticket to Paris rests propped against a desk calendar, on which she's drawn a heart around the match date in orange felt tip.

Just seeing her handiwork brings the smile back. Lifting her arms, she stretches upward as she turns away, stepping to the opposite side of the tight hallway to pick up the plain canvas duffel bag flung haphazardly aside. If she's got to be up at seven, that leaves her a good three hours to spare – and there's only one way she knows to stay focused and distracted enough to keep the worry from surfacing. A minute later she's flagging a taxi to the gym, the duffel over her shoulder.


~Friday, 30th August, 10:21pm~

Shione's step is rather uneven as she takes the stairs back to her apartment two at a time, her breathing still heavy with the unchecked intensity of the past two and a half hours. Fumbling key into lock takes a moment, and she's already swinging the bag of sweaty gear from her shoulder as she slips past the opened door. The rather unruly action serves to sweep clean that little side table, the bulky calendar striking the floor with a whump as the plane ticket rides more gracefully downward above a scattered dishevellment of falling envelopes. The Japanese Megastar breathes a curse in her mother tongue, nudging the door shut with one foot as she drops the duffel and bends to clean up her mess.

It takes a moment to chase the plane ticket down from it's newfound home beneath the table, and she's a mite flustered as she replaces the calendar and then the envelopes – enough that she's distracted by the latter. Those letters she's been collecting for months now; all but the most recent bearing the hallmark of Yokohama Industries.

It's not these that ignite the flare of guilt. It's the more recent. Those passionlessly branded 'Ōshima Industries'.

A fingertip runs along the topmost letter, a weary gaze beholding her name stencilled oh-so-perfectly in the address window. For a moment or three she debates flipping the article around, opening it, reading the contents...

But she's got bigger things to consider. Doesn't she always? She doesn't always pause this long.

Ten minutes later she's sprawled facedown upon her bed, dreaming a thousand distractions.


~Saturday, 31st August, 9:59am~

Shione opens the right rear door and steps out of the black BMW into the haze of pollution-clogged sunshine, raising her eyebrows at the non-sight that greets her. The street she's been brought to appears like any other in the rougher part of town; twin rows of dilapidated storefronts broken here and there by damp alleyways rung with overflowing garbage bins. It's a respectable time of day, but the street seems to be all but asleep still, signs of trade dismal at best and the passing traffic composed principally of men in dirty macks and women who likely can't afford to wear more than they are...

She's grabbing for the door she automatically released, turning to pitch her disbelief to the heretofore-stoic driver when the rev of engines just about knocks her aback. It takes every ounce of common sense and discipline she has to avoid giving chase to the BMW as it roars off down the street, leaving her alone upon the filthy curb.

?: You're just in time, Miss Ōshima.

The voice comes from above, but this fact doesn't register immediately as the stunned young woman looks left, right, forward and backward before finally turning her gaze heavenward. Her eyes are narrowed, her frown casting a black storm cloud over an expression so easily given to laughter and smiles. She's met by a visage that couldn't be more professional; the lady perhaps in her mid-forties, hair cut short and smart, make-up applied with the subtlety of an assassin's stiletto to accentuate the more hatchet-like features of a face that could only ever mean business.

?: Come up, please. I'll buzz you in.

The resultant sound is quickly identified as coming from an easily-missed, nondescript doorway just inside the neighbouring alleyway. Shione starts toward it, noting as she pushes the door open that the dented brass plate upon it at least bears the familiar legend 'Angel Brooke & Associates'. This does nothing to make her feel more comfortable. She ascends the stairs beyond in uneasy silence, creaking open the next door to reveal a crudely-decorated room, but for the lavish desk and cushioned chair that sit at its far end. The severe woman is seated here, a neat stack of papers before her and a wholly manufactured smile upon her thin, painted lips. She gestures to the less-comfortable seat opposite.

?: Hello, Miss Ōshima. Take a seat, and I'll begin...


~Saturday, 31st August, 11:03am~

?: At which point, rather than sign the papers, you elected to physically assault Ms. Brooke... who's given a statement suggesting you punched her in the mouth and then attempted to strangle her.

Straight-backed, Shione sits proudly in an entirely different office; quite the opposite case, it is nicely-appointed but occupied by chaotic, sprawling stacks of paperwork, coating tables and bulging from crammed filing cabinets. The sound of phones being answered and culprits being questioned fills the air with a constant hubbub that tears at the concentration. It's all the plucky Japanese girl can do to keep her composure, but keep it she does as she nods to the man opposite.

Shione: Yes.

Gringing a palmheel into his temple, the beleagured cop leans forward, making no effort to hide the frustrated cringe that answers Shione's single-syllable reply. The front of his uniform bears the name 'HERNANDEZ'.

Hernandez: You're really supposed to deny that, miss.

Shione: Why would I deny what I have done?

Hernandez: Because what you've done is illegal. As a non-US citizen, this could mean deportation and--

The young woman cuts in quickly, leaning her elbows upon the table as she levels her gaze with his own.

Shione: Can I still work in France?

Hernandez: Well... look, we can go over the specific ramifications of this later, but for now I have to inform you we'll be retaining you in police custody until such time as we can properly sentence you.

She seems to ponder this for a moment, leaning back once more and folding her hands in her lap as she mulls the point over. Officer Hernandez watches her with eyes wide, utterly lost as to the nature of the odd youngster before him, scratching with bewilderment at the gray roots of his rapidly retreating hairline. It seems an awkward age until Shione looks down with a nod, the calm accuracy of a Soviet sniper in the rhetoric she chooses to fire back.

Shione: I am allowed one phone call, yes?


~Sunday, 1st September, 12:34pm~

The cell door opens with a loud clatter, gears grinding as the mechanism struggles away. Shione has been awake for hours – in fact, she distantly considers, she can't be sure she's really slept at all. Looking up from the edge of her bunk, she flexes the fingers of her right hand in the manner she's done hundreds or thousands of times already, hazel eyes retaining a spark of energy in open rebellion against the pronounced bags beneath them. Officer Hernandez stands there, slumped into his slight gut, one hand upon his hip – scant inches from the threatening butt of his nightstick.

Hernandez: You're, uh, free to go. Ms. Brooke's statement has been retracted. With nobody to press charges...

His voice is as weary as Shione is sure she should feel, his shrug as helpless as she's been all night long. Yet no burden remains upon her as she draws herself straight and then smiles, phrasing a short, humble bow to the aging cop.

Shione: Thank you.

Officer Hernandez shuffles, rather nervously returning the smile as he scratches at his scalp.

Hernandez: Hey, listen, this is... sort of embarassing, but before you go, could I grab an autograph?

It's about the only thing he could have said to pull Ōshima up short. She looks positively stunned.

Shione: What?

Hernandez: It's for my kid. He's huge on wrestling. From what he tells me, you're supposed to be taking on that A.C. Smith guy in Paris next week, is that right?

Gathering herself, Shione bobs her head and mouths a simple, direct reply.

Shione: It is.

Hernandez: Smith's good people. Used to be one of us. Maybe we can trust him to knock some sense into you, and you won't come back, uh? You seem like an honest kid, and I'd hate to see your ass in jail for that.

The aging cop's manner is disarming, and rather charming for it. The Japanese Megastar can't help but laugh, the glint of mischief and merriment setting the blaze back to her features. She flashes him that trademark grin.

Shione: The only place my 'ass' is ending up is in Paris. Beyond that, I cannot promise anything...

Hernandez: I don't know what's gone on here, or why those charges were dropped, but you just be careful, alright? I've been a cop long enough to know when something's up, and if you end up in here again...

Shione: You will do what is necessary, as will I. You are a good man.

Officer Hernandez can only shrug at that, reaching to offer Shione a hand up and guide her from the cell.

Hernandez: I'm just a man who does his job. You can ask your opponent what that means after he beats you.

He hesitates, now in close proximity to Shione as his expression becomes guarded.

Hernandez: Er, he is going to beat you, right?

The Crashing Wave draws and holds a breath, glancing aside and then back to the policeman with a re-spreading of that grin. She reaches out to take the notepad he's still not properly offered her, tugging it gently but insistently from his grip, pulling free the attached pen and scrawling her signature – practiced a hundred million times, in all its flamboyance. She hands it back to him with a calmer smile on her lips, the woes of the past two days rolling off her back...

Shione: You will have to wait and see.

===============================
APW Presents: Shione "SURGE" Ōshima
Wait & See
===============================

There's no fanfare at all this time, nothing upon the screen to greet the retreating darkness but a simple chair in a simple room – backstage at an APW house show. Shione is fresh from the showers following a match of little import, her fire-touched hair pulled up and back with an orange butterfly hairclip, a few strands left to hang pleasantly over her brow, just a hint of careless dishevellment to the otherwise typically-girly accessorising. She otherwise wears a pair of faded jeans and a rather stylized take on the classic 'I <3 NY' motif upon her t-shirt, all faded scratchy lettering in several colours. The astute will probably notice these are her customary colours. Orange, yellow, black and white, with a red heart. Relaxed and smiling, the Crashing Wave is at her least bombastic and most confiding as she looks at the camera.

“In only a couple of passing days, I will be facing the Big Apple Man, which is why... like my friend, the new North American champion, Amy Zing, I am here as simply Shione. I think that this time, only this matters.”

She tosses her head, but otherwise remains still, continuing in the same manner as which she started.

"Allow me to say it plainly, before I say or do anything more: A.C. Smith, I respect you more than anybody else I have faced, not just in APW but throughout my career. All of my one thousand scars mean nothing compared to those that I gain in Paris this Thursday. I have thought long, and I wonder how I came to be here – how I came to earn this. I could defeat my Kerberos by a whisker, but now by falling to the deceptive pussycat beyond... somehow I've risen. Beyond the Hands of Black and far from the fingers of lesser men, I am allowed to face the epitome of what I strive to become; as a champion, and as a Mega Star. People will laugh. People will know I am going to lose.”

Distantly, Shione rubs a thumb along her jawline, smile growing momentarily wistful before it sparks with a hint of her usual energy – not withheld, but dormant only because she's electing not to push it to the fore.

“I look at them and I can only smile. This battle will be a blessing. It will be a gift.”

Her head tilts a touch, tone subtly shifting gears as she turns to addressing her opponent directly.

"A.C., I am not going to posture, pretend that we are sworn enemies, or claim that I am better than you simply through being; you have earned your position as a champion, and taken a place in the hearts of the APW fans. Every drop of blood that you have spilled upon this screen, upon every ring from Auburn Hills, Michigan, to Buffalo, New York, attests that in this contest there is one better man and one woman who can only strive to match him as best she can."

Slowly she nods, as if considering points made from offscreen.

“I am young. I am fresh. I am new to your eyes and the eyes of APW. For nine months you have been a champion. Nine months ago, I was in Montana – still teaching myself to be something other than violent, to fight outside of a bloody brawl. Learning to be technical. Learning to be cautious and careful. Learning to be more than Shione.”

There's a brief flaring of her trademark grin, before she dims it with a gentle clearing of her throat.

"Maybe I am still not done. But is anyone ever done learning? A man like you knows that we are not. To become a champion takes everything that you have – it must – but to remain so... knowing that every man and woman you face along the way has seen your all, has seen every trick and memorized every weakness, you must adapt and evolve. A man might win the same way twice, or three times, but four or five? Ten or twenty? Soon enough, a man must change. Become more. Perhaps to follow the urge that makes him a monster; perhaps the easy way, or just maybe..."

Suddenly she leans back, the camera seamlessly following her in as she folds her arms across her chest.

"Maybe he becomes something bigger than that. Maybe he learns to be less primal. Isn't that evolution? Where others find the reckless abandon of pain and blood and destruction, you – A.C. Smith, man and legend – you have found something that pushes the boundary of extremity itself. You do not find abandon. You abandon abandon."

She shakes her head, just once.

"Please do not deny this. I know it because I have seen it, but moreso; I know it because I am it."

"Let me ask you: when the blood flows down your face, when the mask of crimson becomes a mask that you taste, a mask that you revel in because you must, do you feel the lurching of violent intent, the need to hurt and maim? Or do you, instead, feel at absolute peace – and know that here, on the edge of this razor, is where you walk with your back straight and head held high. Peace by force. Abandoning abandon. Removing the 'X' from 'Extreme'...”

Her smile returns, cool and calm and so bright it brings a shimmer to hazel eyes.

“Leaving only the stream. Like water, extremity brings the perpetual controversy of change. Creation spirals from the destructive urge that it ignites. Water rushes and crashes, it makes and destroys, and yet in all of our religions and philosophies it is a thing that is good. A thing of peace and beauty and tranquility. Our bodies are made from it. Our lives sustained by it. There is a message in that to all men and women who would be truly great; that to be at peace is not to relinquish our nature of destruction, but to embrace it. More than that. To be it. Be the water. Be the tide crushing, the wave crashing. Be the ocean. Force without forcing. Power without the desperate need for manufacture...”

Shione leans forward once more, her hands folding in her lap and gaze peering more intently into the lense.

“When you need it, it is there, because it is you. I believe that you understand this just as I do, A.C. Smith.”

“I do not care about your title, I do not care how much fight people believe I can give. I do not care about winning or losing, about who is best and who is worst. There is no morality here, and no fight beyond the fight we will have in that ring. My concern at Overdrive, A.C. Smith, in the city that gives birth to so much romance and love...”

“Is that we take each other to that razor's edge. Where love and hate collide, where violence and peace bathe in the turbulence of our mortal souls, the Crashing Wave will meet you with everything that she has. You will do the same, Big Apple Man, because we are the same in our hearts – we are fighters who know the extremes to which we will go, more intimately than we know anything or anybody else. You will push me, as I will push you, and people will leave that arena saying that the night belonged to us. That time stood still, and in that infinite moment there were no limits.”

“Set your belt aside, A.C. Smith, as you must. But step into that ring every bit as much the champion as you will leave it. My fight will not be less because I have less to gain – I will gain what I always gain, be what I always am. So do not presume for one tiny instant that I will not throw everything I am at you. If you think for one moment that the Crashing Wave will slow because there is no belt beyond you, stop and think again. Or, perhaps I misspeak... do not think. Just be the man that you are. Because that's the most extreme thing of all, isn't it? That is why you have your title?”

Her hands spread, as if to say 'just so' in agreeable echo with her own words, and then they tip toward her.

“Like you, I am my own weapon. Like you, I am not afraid to hurt or be hurt. But like you, I do it for the right reasons. To be better. To swell and grow, and create from the expansion of my soul a person that I can look straight in the eye and say that I am proud of; whether there is gold that glints around my waist, or whether there is not.”

She lowers her hands and suddenly rises from her seat, reaching out to draw the camera in close.

“I am Shione Ōshima. I am the Crashing Wave. And I am no champion, yet. I have not earned it. But I am as extreme as any person you have met. Watch me, mark me and know that I always find my mark...”

Her grin flares, quirking crooked but possessed of the familiar passion as she delivers her promise to the world:

“In Paris, France, I shall wrestle the greatest match you never expected. A great man versus a great woman.”

She delivers those final words as though they were exactly that; the view even begins to fade to black, her words seemingly done. ...before the camera suddenly jiggles rather violently, Shione's face fading back in with wide eyes and a self-admonishing blush to her cheeks. Drawing a breath, she sighs around her next words.

“I have... one last thing to say.”

Her smile now holds no promise of things to come; there is no Crashing Wave, no boisterous brawler or plucky powerhouse. For the moment that follows, she's entirely in the moment, entirely and simply Shione.

“Thank you, A.C. Smith. Whatever happens; thank you.”

~Fin~

“La belle pomme exquis
Accrocher sur l'arbre. Prendre
Et mordre, bravement.”

~Fin~