Post by Shione "SURGE" Ōshima on Sept 25, 2013 20:30:41 GMT -4
~Friday, 20th September, 10:15pm
Krog Ilsken Padda, Stockholm~
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.
With each statement of the passing hands, time slithers a little further from Shione's clutches as she lies upon her back, hazel gaze fixated upon the ceiling – where lights swim in merry chaos, flashing and spinning, whirling and winding. But, of course, in truth they do not; the only light within the room is that of the sun blazing brightly from beyond the windows. Those upon the ceiling are a refracted illusion, a manifestation of her body's pain and confusion-- her body's, the woman is careful to note, and not 'her own'. She's not confused in the least, and means to feel not the agonies bestowed on her. That, she reasons as she bats her eyes, attempting to find balance and vision, is exactly what he would want.
?: Such a shame, Miss Oshima. You were so very close. Too close to trust a man like le Singe.
Ah yes, him. She still doesn't know his name – only that her deal with the monkey-faced lunatic in Paris has led her here, to the back room of a seedy gambler's den in Stockholm. She can at least see his face; but he lacks the wings, the fangs or the saintly complexion to suit his moniker of 'Angel'. Neither does he appear Mexican. She's bad at accents, but reasons the one he sports is British. He reminds her of Robina. It's a stray thought that makes her smile.
She replies without accessing her thoughts, allowing the unlikely guile of her auto-pilot to assume control.
Shione: Le Singe. Of course it was him. He betrayed me.
The man leans in close, filling her still-swimming stare with a vision of dark, well-groomed hair and dour features that at least seem well-moisturised. He looks after himself. It just makes him seem even more false. A clockwork mannequin.
?: 'Of course', she says. As if any other outcome were possible. Damien is a liar and a trickster; that's why we continue to work with him. He plies his trade dishonestly, and he plies it well. Better, I'm sad to say, than you.
This time, she barely stops herself from outright grinning. The result is an open, innocent expression that well suits her features; the man looming overhead suddenly appears all the more triumphant. A true Alpha. A conqueror.
Shione: You think so?
And then she allows herself hubris, daring gods and men both with the broad slash of a grin she carries forth.
Shione: Perhaps I am not the only one he betrayed. I like your clock.
Momentary pause turns to mocking, crowing laughter, and he leaves the claustrophobic confines of her view. She hears him pacing the faux-marble floor, polished patent leather creaking with each step.
?: Miss Oshima, as shrewd and cunning as you so nearly were, you shame your family with your grasp of this tongue. Deception is not your strong suit, and neither is speaking English. You grasp at words as you grasp so forlornly at meaning; but do tell me, what do you like so much about my clock, Noriko?
She flinches at that loathed name, deriving another enthused chuckle from her would-be tormentor; little is he aware that she's unbothered by his merest knowledge, and concerned instead with a child's lingering rebel-spite. It's this surging, bucking emotion that twists her words, pouring bitter bile into each syllable – and oh, how she savours them...
Shione: I like the noise it makes. I like how it has kept you talking. I like...
He cuts in quickly. Too quickly. She can sense the tremor of the disturbed within his tone.
?: Yes? Do tell.
Shione: I like how it has covered up the sound of the timer in your pocket.
Tock. Suddenly, the background rhythm diminishes in volume – continuing, abated, as the second source of that self-same sound comes to a jarring halt. Shione's opponent, the second player in a deadly game, spits a wordless curse and fumbles for the pocket of his tuxedo, drawing a slender digital timer upon which the display is now flashing steadily. 00:00.
?: How...?
His question is cut short by a terrible, muted thump. It comes from several rooms away; where a spreading torrent of flame engulfs a walk-in safe stuffed with bank notes, cheques and – perhaps most importantly – contracts. Only now does Shione twist upon her back, springing to a crouch even as her head swims in protest. A few spatters of blood course down her back, the wound in the back of her skull pulsing furiously. She's in time to meet the barrel of a gun.
Shione: I have friends in high places.
It's an odd courtesy, she thinks, that he doesn't take the shot until she's done speaking – giving her a chance to evade that she wantonly fails to take. The muzzle coughs perilous fire, and she feels more than sees the tiny, insidious projectile surge headlong toward her chest. It's a beautiful shot – the hollow-point round would find her heart, engulf her own precious rhythm in a messy conniption destined to end her song forever. The Crashing Wave has crashed her last...
...or so he believes, until the sickly grin on his lips turns sour. Shione falls, but catches herself upon her elbows, breathless and already half-drunk from adrenaline. Her chest burns where she was struck; it hurts, but she'll recover.
That's when two things happen at once; or, three, if you're willing to pick hairs. First, and/or second; the door bursts open, and a pronged spark of wild electricity finds the man's gut. Second, or third, Shione reaches to yank apart the blood-spattered dress shirt upon her torso, revealing a flattened 9mm round lodged against guarding kevlar. It's the last thing 'Angel' sees before he's a whimpering bundle of nerves upon the floor, easy prey for what follows...
~Wednesday, 25th September, 12:09pm
Holiday Inn, Helsinki-Vantaa Airport~
Shione drops her duffel bag beside the door, taking several slow, long strides until she reaches the room's solitary chair. Sinking down, she lifts one hand to her forehead as the other drifts across her torso until it comes to rest upon the aching, ugly bruise upon her left breast. She's shown it to nobody – and it's thankfully easily covered by the oversized APW hoodie she's sporting today – but she remains fully and awkwardly conscious of its presence. Like an itch upon her very soul, she finds it impossible to evade with the touch of mind and hand both. It's like a reminder...
...of something she has yet to do. Her eyes abruptly widen as a thunderbolt strikes.
Hazel eyes stray from beneath the shadow of her raised hand to the dropped duffel beside the door. She keeps predominantly essentials inside – workout clothes, roll-on deodorant, a lip salve, her purse and whatever keys she currently needs – but... also that steadily-growing stack of letters sent from home. Unable to leave them behind, but ever finding an immediate excuse to leave them unopened, the throbbing in her chest now tells her it's time.
She breathes a sigh, stands, and crosses the hotel room to retrieve the pile. They're arranged chronologically.
She opens the first, tearing the envelope clumsily in her eagerness to elude further procrastination. 'My daugher Noriko', the first letter begins. It turns her stomach. She fumbles for the next, ripping and rending, bringing it quickly to her vision. 'My daughter Noriko', again. Next. 'My daughter Noriko'. Next! 'To my daughter'. She almost puts it aside, then pauses.
'There comes a time in an old man's life when he must question the decisions he has made, and make new choices to ensure he leaves behind him a fruitful legacy. Pressures in the workplace have forced my hand in naming a worthy successor, and as you know, I have had no sons. You are my only progeny. You were always a difficult girl, and I have no doubt that your new life in America appeals to you more than the life you would have had here. I risk a great deal in telling you that I am glad for this; your marriage would have been a sham, as mine has been...'
Shione's forced to stop, because she finds herself short of breath. For the first time in nigh-on twenty years she feels a surge of emotion toward her father, unable to process the words that follow because they represent a meaning she thought lost – and because she's unable to properly return the sentiment they convey. Her hand trembles, and she drops the letter. Without thinking, banishing the very need to think, she reaches for the next.
It begins simply, 'Shione,' and she is enraptured.
'Today I have signed the papers formally naming you as sole heir to my fortunes, and to the leadership of Oshima Industries. This has displeased a great many people, as you might imagine. There will be an uprising in Osaka soon, but the deed is done; the only way your claim can be disputed is if you renounce it. I hope you have read my previous letters and know that I mean the best for you. I hope you understand why I have done this. Please respond, and at least let me know you are well. You may not believe it, but I love you. I miss you. Your father, Yuuichi'.
"Friends," she whispers to herself, standing up and moving to the narrow window overlooking the airport, the letter now half-crumpled as it's clutched against her throbbing breast. "In high places."
"Time is running out."
We fade in on Shione standing alone upon a cliffside; at least, a jagged spur of rock that reaches from and forms the end point of one particular cliff, a windblown, icy finger of bladelike flint standing sentinel over the thundering tide below. The Japanese Mega Star is clad in her usual style, ring gear unsuited to the harsh climate – though her cheeks tell the ruddy story belied by her open smile and the unrelented blaze in hazel eyes. She spreads her arms wide, drawing and releasing a breath following her opening words, looking for all the world as if she loves being where she is.
"Isn't that what they say to the dying, to the sick and the infirm? They tell their relatives they are running out of 'time', that ineffable thing we define with numbers and rhythms, always ignoring how wildly such a concept varies for every living creature. A day to I and you might pass in an instant when locked up in pure enjoyment, or pushing for a deadline; how many days does a fighter see dwindle into mere moments when on the eve of a great battle? A week feels like the blink of an eye, a day the buzzing of a mosquito wing... but to the mosquito?"
She glances around as if tracking something-- and ridiculously, perversely, in spite of the weather, a buzzing speck wafts into view, drifting along until her eyes are crossed in following it. Shione brings her hands together sharply. Clap.
"To such a creature, a day is forever! But you, Miss Pointy, Robina Hood... the former North American Champion..."
Dusting her hands, she looks up with a quirked eyebrow, before planting one hand to her hip.
"You are not so low a thing, are you? No. I have watched you for longer than you knew I existed; I knew you would be a challenge, as you have been to so many others. You are one of the most vicious, brutal women I have seen step through the ropes of a wrestling ring. And yet your days must last forever – so much loss, so much misfortune, living ever in the knowledge that your time is coming to a close and you must claw for every last, precious moment..."
Her voice becomes a pained drawl, expression playfully downcast until her lip even begins to protrude. Shione ends up making huge puppy eyes into the camera, at least until she can't subdue the feverish grin any longer.
"You may not be a bug, but you are sick. With every match that passes you by, we draw closer to our Night in Hell; the night you need to be yours, a night which might be the first not to lead to the brightness of day – but a dark, painful end to the road you began so long ago, when first you failed to take that belt for your own."
She holds up her free hand to one side, and a cartoonish thought bubble appears in the windswept air above her shoulder, expanding as footage begins to play of Robina's various matches over the past twelve or so months. Naturally, it culminates with her loss to Shione the week before; with glimpses of both Kaylyn and Amy conveniently provided.
"You see, Miss Pointy, I beat you last week; whatever you might say, I beat you fairly and I beat you soundly. But it means nothing. A buzzing of a mosquito wing, an instant so short I've almost forgotten it already, because what matters is what happens this Thursday, in Helsinki. A fitting name, isn't it? Helsinki. Hell... sinki."
The footage gives way to the promotional logo for the upcoming PPV, flames burning hot in the chill atmosphere.
"The road to One Night in Hell has begun, and the battle lines are drawn. We will have four sides that night, but first we work as two; first we prove which pair wants this more. Which pair can not just fight for themselves, but work with and against the others-- just as important in a battle that goes four ways. A warrior cannot strike thrice in the same instant. Teamwork is important. Respect is important. And knowing your enemy is utmost."
That comical bubble is gone now, leaving Shione frame-centre, folding her arms across her chest as her tone takes on a harder edge. Mischief is replaced by burning intensity – as is common, without ever quite dying completely.
"You are hard, cold steel. Deadly but unchanging. I have said before that one must adapt; and now you must adapt to work with another predator. The Pussycat is cunning, I will give her that; she bested me, and I do not begrudge it. She has shown she can learn, she has shown she can evolve, she has shown she can not only embrace change but become it; how else would she be able to form such a Perfect stepping stone for the returning Johnny Rebel?"
A shrug from broad shoulders, and Shione lowers her arms, throwing her hands briefly wide.
"Kaylyn James Evans; you can take a hit. I admire that. You took many and more of mine before you put me away... but while you have been taking harder strikes, while you have been left for near-dead by a warrior of greater ambition, I have been remembering our time together and forging myself into your foil. My friend Amy Zing has beaten you before, with and without another at her side, and while I will not emulate her..."
Her pause is neatly filled by a particularly loud, echoing boom from below. Wave striking rock.
"I would not be the Crashing Wave if I did not gather all at my disposal. Unlike you, Pussy of Perfection, when the Crashing Wave finds herself beside greatness, she focuses on how it became great – on why it is great – not on how pretty it is, or how many times she can bend it around her finger. I have learned from Amy, and I am going to learn more when I stand beside her and at her back. Power and force do not put you away so easily, Pussycat, so I must improve..."
She shrugs again, the uplift of her shoulders heralding a series of manifest thought bubbles that array themselves in a loose overhead crescent from shoulder to shoulder. Moments of victory are shown; over Victor Hades, A.C. Smith, Leon Roberts, and – just to rub it in a little further – a final repeat of the defining moment against the Emo Princess.
"Some might say I already have. But there is always, always room for more."
With that last repetition, Shione's all business, making a broad slashing gesture with both arms that seems to stir the very winds around her; the beauty of CGI providing the cutting effect that drives away all four of those little clouds.
"It is not just about me though, is it? The fans of APW need no introduction to the Sensation of Hong Kong – certainly, none that I could better offer – and it is no secret I have a strong, capable partner in that ring on Thursday night. She even fills the spaces I struggle to fill; she is perhaps the fastest on the entire roster, with kicks that blind and shatter, flying on fiery wings like the phoenix where I force my way with strength and power, unbroken as I crush and smash!!"
Enthused, she clenches a fist in front of her, the knuckles quickly whitening, before she slams it against her breast.
"But we meet in the middle, here. With heart. It will be the difference on Thursday night as it will be – for one of us – at One Night in Hell. Robina's iron carapace holds no love for anyone, her vanity a cracked mirror that fools only the fool; and Kaylyn Evans, the Pussycat, is a calculating creature wrapped only in a vestigial warmth... beneath it, you are as brittle as each other, just as prone to breaking when the point of pressure is found. Dangerous in small doses, for certain, but as time creeps on and the heartful refuse to fall... sooner, or later, you will crack into pieces."
She's smiling now, the calm before the storm, a confident little gesture that shares cosy bedclothes with the slow, deliberate cracking of her knuckles as she stands in a regathering surge of oceanic wind.
"Can you cover each other, as I and Amy will? Can you swallow ego and squash pride to stand as one? In Helsinki, none can doubt you will know your opponents... but you will not know each other. Your time is running out. We have a month; perhaps thirty flutterings of a wing, and then we will all stand alone with our hearts and our knowledge to guide us. I will look at Amy Zing, and Amy Zing will look at me, and know who we are fighting and why we are fighting..."
Another heavy crashing from below, this wave kicking up high enough to send a spray arcing over the brightly-clad woman's head. She glances up at it, and briefly flashes a half-grin before she looks back to the camera.
"Kaylyn and Robina, you will look at each other and see wasted sand. Wasted opportunity. Wasted time."
She lifts a hand and tips it to her left; which coincidentally happens to also be the west. To helpfully fill in the viewers, a compass graphic appears in one corner of the screen, the needle swivelling to the 'W'.
"You are your own worst enemies."
The needle tips and swivels again, Shione's hand completing its second gesture just as it stops on the 'E'.
"We... will be the best of both worlds."
The graphic warps, the needle spinning in on itself and the letters jumbling into a fading morass until only the 'W' and the 'E' remain. One crosses over the other, forming a gestalt letter that expands to fill the screen a moment before fluidly morphing into the hands of a clock. Above it, Shione has finally bust out that familiar, wild grin.
"As your time runs out, ours is upon us. Tick, tock, ladies. I will see you when the bell strikes three."
With an air of relaxed, confident nonchalance she raises three fingers to the camera, then drops one to form a 'v' for victory as the screens begins to fade, leaving the wind-whipped Crashing Wave grinning upon her solitary cliff.
Krog Ilsken Padda, Stockholm~
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.
With each statement of the passing hands, time slithers a little further from Shione's clutches as she lies upon her back, hazel gaze fixated upon the ceiling – where lights swim in merry chaos, flashing and spinning, whirling and winding. But, of course, in truth they do not; the only light within the room is that of the sun blazing brightly from beyond the windows. Those upon the ceiling are a refracted illusion, a manifestation of her body's pain and confusion-- her body's, the woman is careful to note, and not 'her own'. She's not confused in the least, and means to feel not the agonies bestowed on her. That, she reasons as she bats her eyes, attempting to find balance and vision, is exactly what he would want.
?: Such a shame, Miss Oshima. You were so very close. Too close to trust a man like le Singe.
Ah yes, him. She still doesn't know his name – only that her deal with the monkey-faced lunatic in Paris has led her here, to the back room of a seedy gambler's den in Stockholm. She can at least see his face; but he lacks the wings, the fangs or the saintly complexion to suit his moniker of 'Angel'. Neither does he appear Mexican. She's bad at accents, but reasons the one he sports is British. He reminds her of Robina. It's a stray thought that makes her smile.
She replies without accessing her thoughts, allowing the unlikely guile of her auto-pilot to assume control.
Shione: Le Singe. Of course it was him. He betrayed me.
The man leans in close, filling her still-swimming stare with a vision of dark, well-groomed hair and dour features that at least seem well-moisturised. He looks after himself. It just makes him seem even more false. A clockwork mannequin.
?: 'Of course', she says. As if any other outcome were possible. Damien is a liar and a trickster; that's why we continue to work with him. He plies his trade dishonestly, and he plies it well. Better, I'm sad to say, than you.
This time, she barely stops herself from outright grinning. The result is an open, innocent expression that well suits her features; the man looming overhead suddenly appears all the more triumphant. A true Alpha. A conqueror.
Shione: You think so?
And then she allows herself hubris, daring gods and men both with the broad slash of a grin she carries forth.
Shione: Perhaps I am not the only one he betrayed. I like your clock.
Momentary pause turns to mocking, crowing laughter, and he leaves the claustrophobic confines of her view. She hears him pacing the faux-marble floor, polished patent leather creaking with each step.
?: Miss Oshima, as shrewd and cunning as you so nearly were, you shame your family with your grasp of this tongue. Deception is not your strong suit, and neither is speaking English. You grasp at words as you grasp so forlornly at meaning; but do tell me, what do you like so much about my clock, Noriko?
She flinches at that loathed name, deriving another enthused chuckle from her would-be tormentor; little is he aware that she's unbothered by his merest knowledge, and concerned instead with a child's lingering rebel-spite. It's this surging, bucking emotion that twists her words, pouring bitter bile into each syllable – and oh, how she savours them...
Shione: I like the noise it makes. I like how it has kept you talking. I like...
He cuts in quickly. Too quickly. She can sense the tremor of the disturbed within his tone.
?: Yes? Do tell.
Shione: I like how it has covered up the sound of the timer in your pocket.
Tock. Suddenly, the background rhythm diminishes in volume – continuing, abated, as the second source of that self-same sound comes to a jarring halt. Shione's opponent, the second player in a deadly game, spits a wordless curse and fumbles for the pocket of his tuxedo, drawing a slender digital timer upon which the display is now flashing steadily. 00:00.
?: How...?
His question is cut short by a terrible, muted thump. It comes from several rooms away; where a spreading torrent of flame engulfs a walk-in safe stuffed with bank notes, cheques and – perhaps most importantly – contracts. Only now does Shione twist upon her back, springing to a crouch even as her head swims in protest. A few spatters of blood course down her back, the wound in the back of her skull pulsing furiously. She's in time to meet the barrel of a gun.
Shione: I have friends in high places.
It's an odd courtesy, she thinks, that he doesn't take the shot until she's done speaking – giving her a chance to evade that she wantonly fails to take. The muzzle coughs perilous fire, and she feels more than sees the tiny, insidious projectile surge headlong toward her chest. It's a beautiful shot – the hollow-point round would find her heart, engulf her own precious rhythm in a messy conniption destined to end her song forever. The Crashing Wave has crashed her last...
...or so he believes, until the sickly grin on his lips turns sour. Shione falls, but catches herself upon her elbows, breathless and already half-drunk from adrenaline. Her chest burns where she was struck; it hurts, but she'll recover.
That's when two things happen at once; or, three, if you're willing to pick hairs. First, and/or second; the door bursts open, and a pronged spark of wild electricity finds the man's gut. Second, or third, Shione reaches to yank apart the blood-spattered dress shirt upon her torso, revealing a flattened 9mm round lodged against guarding kevlar. It's the last thing 'Angel' sees before he's a whimpering bundle of nerves upon the floor, easy prey for what follows...
~Wednesday, 25th September, 12:09pm
Holiday Inn, Helsinki-Vantaa Airport~
Shione drops her duffel bag beside the door, taking several slow, long strides until she reaches the room's solitary chair. Sinking down, she lifts one hand to her forehead as the other drifts across her torso until it comes to rest upon the aching, ugly bruise upon her left breast. She's shown it to nobody – and it's thankfully easily covered by the oversized APW hoodie she's sporting today – but she remains fully and awkwardly conscious of its presence. Like an itch upon her very soul, she finds it impossible to evade with the touch of mind and hand both. It's like a reminder...
...of something she has yet to do. Her eyes abruptly widen as a thunderbolt strikes.
Hazel eyes stray from beneath the shadow of her raised hand to the dropped duffel beside the door. She keeps predominantly essentials inside – workout clothes, roll-on deodorant, a lip salve, her purse and whatever keys she currently needs – but... also that steadily-growing stack of letters sent from home. Unable to leave them behind, but ever finding an immediate excuse to leave them unopened, the throbbing in her chest now tells her it's time.
She breathes a sigh, stands, and crosses the hotel room to retrieve the pile. They're arranged chronologically.
She opens the first, tearing the envelope clumsily in her eagerness to elude further procrastination. 'My daugher Noriko', the first letter begins. It turns her stomach. She fumbles for the next, ripping and rending, bringing it quickly to her vision. 'My daughter Noriko', again. Next. 'My daughter Noriko'. Next! 'To my daughter'. She almost puts it aside, then pauses.
'There comes a time in an old man's life when he must question the decisions he has made, and make new choices to ensure he leaves behind him a fruitful legacy. Pressures in the workplace have forced my hand in naming a worthy successor, and as you know, I have had no sons. You are my only progeny. You were always a difficult girl, and I have no doubt that your new life in America appeals to you more than the life you would have had here. I risk a great deal in telling you that I am glad for this; your marriage would have been a sham, as mine has been...'
Shione's forced to stop, because she finds herself short of breath. For the first time in nigh-on twenty years she feels a surge of emotion toward her father, unable to process the words that follow because they represent a meaning she thought lost – and because she's unable to properly return the sentiment they convey. Her hand trembles, and she drops the letter. Without thinking, banishing the very need to think, she reaches for the next.
It begins simply, 'Shione,' and she is enraptured.
'Today I have signed the papers formally naming you as sole heir to my fortunes, and to the leadership of Oshima Industries. This has displeased a great many people, as you might imagine. There will be an uprising in Osaka soon, but the deed is done; the only way your claim can be disputed is if you renounce it. I hope you have read my previous letters and know that I mean the best for you. I hope you understand why I have done this. Please respond, and at least let me know you are well. You may not believe it, but I love you. I miss you. Your father, Yuuichi'.
"Friends," she whispers to herself, standing up and moving to the narrow window overlooking the airport, the letter now half-crumpled as it's clutched against her throbbing breast. "In high places."
=============================
APW Presents: Shione "SURGE" Ōshima
Time Out
=============================
APW Presents: Shione "SURGE" Ōshima
Time Out
=============================
"Time is running out."
We fade in on Shione standing alone upon a cliffside; at least, a jagged spur of rock that reaches from and forms the end point of one particular cliff, a windblown, icy finger of bladelike flint standing sentinel over the thundering tide below. The Japanese Mega Star is clad in her usual style, ring gear unsuited to the harsh climate – though her cheeks tell the ruddy story belied by her open smile and the unrelented blaze in hazel eyes. She spreads her arms wide, drawing and releasing a breath following her opening words, looking for all the world as if she loves being where she is.
"Isn't that what they say to the dying, to the sick and the infirm? They tell their relatives they are running out of 'time', that ineffable thing we define with numbers and rhythms, always ignoring how wildly such a concept varies for every living creature. A day to I and you might pass in an instant when locked up in pure enjoyment, or pushing for a deadline; how many days does a fighter see dwindle into mere moments when on the eve of a great battle? A week feels like the blink of an eye, a day the buzzing of a mosquito wing... but to the mosquito?"
She glances around as if tracking something-- and ridiculously, perversely, in spite of the weather, a buzzing speck wafts into view, drifting along until her eyes are crossed in following it. Shione brings her hands together sharply. Clap.
"To such a creature, a day is forever! But you, Miss Pointy, Robina Hood... the former North American Champion..."
Dusting her hands, she looks up with a quirked eyebrow, before planting one hand to her hip.
"You are not so low a thing, are you? No. I have watched you for longer than you knew I existed; I knew you would be a challenge, as you have been to so many others. You are one of the most vicious, brutal women I have seen step through the ropes of a wrestling ring. And yet your days must last forever – so much loss, so much misfortune, living ever in the knowledge that your time is coming to a close and you must claw for every last, precious moment..."
Her voice becomes a pained drawl, expression playfully downcast until her lip even begins to protrude. Shione ends up making huge puppy eyes into the camera, at least until she can't subdue the feverish grin any longer.
"You may not be a bug, but you are sick. With every match that passes you by, we draw closer to our Night in Hell; the night you need to be yours, a night which might be the first not to lead to the brightness of day – but a dark, painful end to the road you began so long ago, when first you failed to take that belt for your own."
She holds up her free hand to one side, and a cartoonish thought bubble appears in the windswept air above her shoulder, expanding as footage begins to play of Robina's various matches over the past twelve or so months. Naturally, it culminates with her loss to Shione the week before; with glimpses of both Kaylyn and Amy conveniently provided.
"You see, Miss Pointy, I beat you last week; whatever you might say, I beat you fairly and I beat you soundly. But it means nothing. A buzzing of a mosquito wing, an instant so short I've almost forgotten it already, because what matters is what happens this Thursday, in Helsinki. A fitting name, isn't it? Helsinki. Hell... sinki."
The footage gives way to the promotional logo for the upcoming PPV, flames burning hot in the chill atmosphere.
"The road to One Night in Hell has begun, and the battle lines are drawn. We will have four sides that night, but first we work as two; first we prove which pair wants this more. Which pair can not just fight for themselves, but work with and against the others-- just as important in a battle that goes four ways. A warrior cannot strike thrice in the same instant. Teamwork is important. Respect is important. And knowing your enemy is utmost."
That comical bubble is gone now, leaving Shione frame-centre, folding her arms across her chest as her tone takes on a harder edge. Mischief is replaced by burning intensity – as is common, without ever quite dying completely.
"You are hard, cold steel. Deadly but unchanging. I have said before that one must adapt; and now you must adapt to work with another predator. The Pussycat is cunning, I will give her that; she bested me, and I do not begrudge it. She has shown she can learn, she has shown she can evolve, she has shown she can not only embrace change but become it; how else would she be able to form such a Perfect stepping stone for the returning Johnny Rebel?"
A shrug from broad shoulders, and Shione lowers her arms, throwing her hands briefly wide.
"Kaylyn James Evans; you can take a hit. I admire that. You took many and more of mine before you put me away... but while you have been taking harder strikes, while you have been left for near-dead by a warrior of greater ambition, I have been remembering our time together and forging myself into your foil. My friend Amy Zing has beaten you before, with and without another at her side, and while I will not emulate her..."
Her pause is neatly filled by a particularly loud, echoing boom from below. Wave striking rock.
"I would not be the Crashing Wave if I did not gather all at my disposal. Unlike you, Pussy of Perfection, when the Crashing Wave finds herself beside greatness, she focuses on how it became great – on why it is great – not on how pretty it is, or how many times she can bend it around her finger. I have learned from Amy, and I am going to learn more when I stand beside her and at her back. Power and force do not put you away so easily, Pussycat, so I must improve..."
She shrugs again, the uplift of her shoulders heralding a series of manifest thought bubbles that array themselves in a loose overhead crescent from shoulder to shoulder. Moments of victory are shown; over Victor Hades, A.C. Smith, Leon Roberts, and – just to rub it in a little further – a final repeat of the defining moment against the Emo Princess.
"Some might say I already have. But there is always, always room for more."
With that last repetition, Shione's all business, making a broad slashing gesture with both arms that seems to stir the very winds around her; the beauty of CGI providing the cutting effect that drives away all four of those little clouds.
"It is not just about me though, is it? The fans of APW need no introduction to the Sensation of Hong Kong – certainly, none that I could better offer – and it is no secret I have a strong, capable partner in that ring on Thursday night. She even fills the spaces I struggle to fill; she is perhaps the fastest on the entire roster, with kicks that blind and shatter, flying on fiery wings like the phoenix where I force my way with strength and power, unbroken as I crush and smash!!"
Enthused, she clenches a fist in front of her, the knuckles quickly whitening, before she slams it against her breast.
"But we meet in the middle, here. With heart. It will be the difference on Thursday night as it will be – for one of us – at One Night in Hell. Robina's iron carapace holds no love for anyone, her vanity a cracked mirror that fools only the fool; and Kaylyn Evans, the Pussycat, is a calculating creature wrapped only in a vestigial warmth... beneath it, you are as brittle as each other, just as prone to breaking when the point of pressure is found. Dangerous in small doses, for certain, but as time creeps on and the heartful refuse to fall... sooner, or later, you will crack into pieces."
She's smiling now, the calm before the storm, a confident little gesture that shares cosy bedclothes with the slow, deliberate cracking of her knuckles as she stands in a regathering surge of oceanic wind.
"Can you cover each other, as I and Amy will? Can you swallow ego and squash pride to stand as one? In Helsinki, none can doubt you will know your opponents... but you will not know each other. Your time is running out. We have a month; perhaps thirty flutterings of a wing, and then we will all stand alone with our hearts and our knowledge to guide us. I will look at Amy Zing, and Amy Zing will look at me, and know who we are fighting and why we are fighting..."
Another heavy crashing from below, this wave kicking up high enough to send a spray arcing over the brightly-clad woman's head. She glances up at it, and briefly flashes a half-grin before she looks back to the camera.
"Kaylyn and Robina, you will look at each other and see wasted sand. Wasted opportunity. Wasted time."
She lifts a hand and tips it to her left; which coincidentally happens to also be the west. To helpfully fill in the viewers, a compass graphic appears in one corner of the screen, the needle swivelling to the 'W'.
"You are your own worst enemies."
The needle tips and swivels again, Shione's hand completing its second gesture just as it stops on the 'E'.
"We... will be the best of both worlds."
The graphic warps, the needle spinning in on itself and the letters jumbling into a fading morass until only the 'W' and the 'E' remain. One crosses over the other, forming a gestalt letter that expands to fill the screen a moment before fluidly morphing into the hands of a clock. Above it, Shione has finally bust out that familiar, wild grin.
"As your time runs out, ours is upon us. Tick, tock, ladies. I will see you when the bell strikes three."
With an air of relaxed, confident nonchalance she raises three fingers to the camera, then drops one to form a 'v' for victory as the screens begins to fade, leaving the wind-whipped Crashing Wave grinning upon her solitary cliff.
