Post by Arcadia on Sept 19, 2011 21:25:55 GMT -4
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti sits in the back of the taxi staring out of the window, watching the world pass by in a blur. Anyone would be hard pressed to recognize the little luchadora who had undergone quite a transformation in her ten months out of the lime light. It was more than skin deep and reflected in her emerald green eyes. The spark of light that had once shown there had been replaced by a cold, unfeeling steel. Expressionless, she watches unseeing, out from behind her new mask, this one a deep purple, so dark as to be almost black, with white ghost flames traveling up the jaw, appearing to burn and caress her flesh simultaneously. She sits in the backseat, but her mind is preoccupied with thoughts of last December.
Her head was swimming. She tries to make out voices, and faces, but it was as if she was listening to an old transistor radio while swimming underwater. Arcadia closes her eyes and opens them again. The same. No change. Then, a light shining in her eyes. One of those stupid pen lights the EMTs always use to see if the wrestlers have a concussion. She winces and brings her arm up to her face, shielding herself from the intrusion. Still, the light is there. This man is incessant. Katrina turns her head to the side to get away. The EMT is quick, he never even leaves her field of vision, not for a second. He and his buddies, poking and prodding at her, hovering over her, and she can sense them asking if she is all right, if she can feel this and see that. Why aren’t they helping me up? Arcadia pushes herself off the table top, knowing beforehand that the thumbtacks will dig further in her flesh if she does. She doesn’t care. Anything to get away and get some air. Why is she still laying down? Why isn’t my hand blocking this light? Why is this guy still in my face, what is he signaling for? Move, Katrina. Move! She closes her eyes again, steadying the world. And then she realizes. She hasn’t moved her arm. She hasn’t turned her head. She never pushed off the table. Confused, she looks at the EMT in the eyes again, trying desperately to muddle out the words he is saying. Can you feel this? She sees his mouth form the words. She wrinkles her brow and concentrates hard on him. He is touching her. She can sense this, his proximity is too close for him not to be, and then the world is not right. Her eyes open wide and she stares at him, pleading.
“No. I can’t feel that! Where are you touching me? I can’t feel it! I…can’t…move!” Arcadia promptly vomits, the EMTs rolling her onto her side so as not to risk asphyxiation. She can’t tell if the roaring in her ears is the crowd or the rushing of the blood as Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti passes out from shock.
The cab had slowed to a stop at a red light and The Hardcora Luchadora blinks. It started raining somewhere along her trip, while she was daydreaming. She turns her head, listening to the sound of the drops hitting the roof of the car. Plink! Plink! Plink! Katrina closes her eyes and rests her head back and her shoulders droop as if the weight of the world is on them. The driver turns the windshield wipers on, and the rain speeds up. Plink! Plink! Plink! She puts her arm up against her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, as if she can squeeze out the sound of the rain drumming on the world.
Plink! Plink! Plink! Beep…..Beep…..Beep… Plink! Plink! Plink! Arcadia keeps her eyes closed, trying to tell herself not to try to move again. But she can’t help it. Wiggle your fingers, Katrina. Nothing. Bend your knees, Katrina. No response. Her body had completely rebelled against her brain and from the neck down, she was gone. With all of that, her head was splitting into a million pieces with the pain. Arcadia laughs at the irony, the sound catching her and everyone else off guard. She slowly opens her eyes and tries to adjust her sight and her splitting head to the bright white room. She knows it’s a hospital. She had become fairly acquainted with Stonybrook Hospital quite recently, after Trevor and the RSM had dragged her through the streets behind a motorcycle and into The Exploding Box Truck of Death which she had barely escaped with her life. “Not again.” She thinks as she looks at the ceiling.
Plink! Plink! Plink! What is that? That’s not like any machine I’ve ever been hooked to. She catches a movement in the rim of the surgical light fixture above her. She looks closer but it’s so hard to concentrate. “Doctor? What are you doing?” He swims back into her line of sight holding a long pair of medical tweezers. Between the tips the man is holding a thumbtack pinched tightly in place.
“We have to remove all of these and quickly. We are prepping you for emergency surgery. You’ve received a cervical fracture and your skull has a hairline fracture as well.” He picks up a metal pan and drops the thumbtack into it where it lands with a plink. Katrina turns her mouth with grim resignation. She can handle it. Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is a machine. She is hardcore. She can survive it. Arcadia watches the doctor in the rim of the light, her vision swimming in and out as she lays complacent under his ministrations until the concussion cause her to pass out once more.
The driver lurches the cab forward as the light changes and traffic starts crawling again but Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is too deep in her thoughts to notice.
“It’s not so bad, sweetie. You’ll be better in no time, you just wait and see.” Player One nods numbly as the nurse wheels her back to her room. She is too weak to make anymore than the slightest movements, and had already been informed that though the paralysis was only a temporary symptom of the pressure on her spine since relieved by surgery, she would require physical therapy and could end up in a wheelchair permanently if she continued to wrestle her high risk style in the future. Alone for the first time in days and able to move without assistance, Katrina slowly wheels herself to the bathroom. Leaning on the shower rail, she strips down and gets the first look of herself in the mirror she has had since before the match that had landed her in surgery almost a week ago. She doesn’t even recognize the waifish girl staring back at her. Her hair is butchered, shaved in one spot for where her head was cracked open and chopped to her scalp haphazardly in most others to better remove the thumbtacks that had lodged themselves in her skull. She has deep bags under her eyes and her skin is sickly white from being so weak. Her neck is bloated, making her head appear unproportionately fat. There are butterfly stitches in her head and one clean black line of stitches across the side of her neck from the bone fusion surgery. She lightly fingers the wound, testing it, prodding the rods and pins she can feel under her skin. Those strange anomalies are now a part of her, holding her together like the gears of a clockwork girl. She can see the burn marks and barbed wire scars on her arm, where they will remain for the rest of her life. If she turns to the side, she can see the scarred flesh of her back, still red, but healing. She knows that while these burn marks may fade to white, they will mar her skin forever. The Hardcora Luchadora can accept that. She knows that sacrifices need to be made. This is the life she chose. But here, alone, locked in a small bathroom in a hospital that she has grown to hate, the Hardcora Luchadora is missing. The mask is off. Instead, Katrina Olivetti stands in her place. And in perhaps her most humiliating moment to date, a tear runs down her face, followed by another. So young, she cries for her career she knows is over. So innocent, she cries for her ruined body no one has ever touched and now no one will ever want to. So bitter, she cries for her failure. And when Katrina Olivetti, the vulnerable woman, has shed the last tear and last bit of light from her eyes, only the Hardcora Luchadora is left standing. Cold, callous, and uncaring.
The Hardcora Luchadora runs a hand through her short curls, making them bounce back to her jaw. She rather likes the new hair cut, though it took her long enough to grow into it. She stretches her legs out across the back seat, still grateful for the complete control she has over them. She earned every last bit of it back. Ten grueling months filled with physical therapy and retraining. Sometimes she thought she would die from the pain. But every last bit of it was worth it. Every time she fell weakly to the ground, every blister, every drop of sweat, every single bruise she got relearning her body was worth more than its weight in gold to her. And now she was better, faster, stronger than ever. Now she had a chip on her shoulder. And now she was ready to aim that chip at a well deserving target. She had new tricks up he sleeve and a new attitude to match. That little girl who cried in a bathroom stall all by herself was gone and she was never coming back. Today, the Hardcora Luchadora is ready for revenge and more. And nobody is going to stand in her way or take her down. She had been through hell and back and had the scars to prove it. She isn’t afraid of what might come her way, and she isn’t naïve enough to make any new alliances. Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is after something and nothing is going to stop her but satisfaction.
The cab pulls into the arena parking lot and Arcadia steps out, pulling a large duffel bag with her. She readjusts her mask and scrolls through her mental checklist. The list that reminds her who she is after and what they owe her. She has come to demand payment on a few of those debts. She smiles grimly to herself as she thinks of the first on that list and what they will never see coming. Her current target? The Red Shield Mafia. And if anyone feels like they should have first dibs on them or her, she will graciously give that person the top spot on her list.
“I’ve got time.” Arcadia slams the cab door shut and walks into the building.
Her head was swimming. She tries to make out voices, and faces, but it was as if she was listening to an old transistor radio while swimming underwater. Arcadia closes her eyes and opens them again. The same. No change. Then, a light shining in her eyes. One of those stupid pen lights the EMTs always use to see if the wrestlers have a concussion. She winces and brings her arm up to her face, shielding herself from the intrusion. Still, the light is there. This man is incessant. Katrina turns her head to the side to get away. The EMT is quick, he never even leaves her field of vision, not for a second. He and his buddies, poking and prodding at her, hovering over her, and she can sense them asking if she is all right, if she can feel this and see that. Why aren’t they helping me up? Arcadia pushes herself off the table top, knowing beforehand that the thumbtacks will dig further in her flesh if she does. She doesn’t care. Anything to get away and get some air. Why is she still laying down? Why isn’t my hand blocking this light? Why is this guy still in my face, what is he signaling for? Move, Katrina. Move! She closes her eyes again, steadying the world. And then she realizes. She hasn’t moved her arm. She hasn’t turned her head. She never pushed off the table. Confused, she looks at the EMT in the eyes again, trying desperately to muddle out the words he is saying. Can you feel this? She sees his mouth form the words. She wrinkles her brow and concentrates hard on him. He is touching her. She can sense this, his proximity is too close for him not to be, and then the world is not right. Her eyes open wide and she stares at him, pleading.
“No. I can’t feel that! Where are you touching me? I can’t feel it! I…can’t…move!” Arcadia promptly vomits, the EMTs rolling her onto her side so as not to risk asphyxiation. She can’t tell if the roaring in her ears is the crowd or the rushing of the blood as Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti passes out from shock.
The cab had slowed to a stop at a red light and The Hardcora Luchadora blinks. It started raining somewhere along her trip, while she was daydreaming. She turns her head, listening to the sound of the drops hitting the roof of the car. Plink! Plink! Plink! Katrina closes her eyes and rests her head back and her shoulders droop as if the weight of the world is on them. The driver turns the windshield wipers on, and the rain speeds up. Plink! Plink! Plink! She puts her arm up against her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, as if she can squeeze out the sound of the rain drumming on the world.
Plink! Plink! Plink! Beep…..Beep…..Beep… Plink! Plink! Plink! Arcadia keeps her eyes closed, trying to tell herself not to try to move again. But she can’t help it. Wiggle your fingers, Katrina. Nothing. Bend your knees, Katrina. No response. Her body had completely rebelled against her brain and from the neck down, she was gone. With all of that, her head was splitting into a million pieces with the pain. Arcadia laughs at the irony, the sound catching her and everyone else off guard. She slowly opens her eyes and tries to adjust her sight and her splitting head to the bright white room. She knows it’s a hospital. She had become fairly acquainted with Stonybrook Hospital quite recently, after Trevor and the RSM had dragged her through the streets behind a motorcycle and into The Exploding Box Truck of Death which she had barely escaped with her life. “Not again.” She thinks as she looks at the ceiling.
Plink! Plink! Plink! What is that? That’s not like any machine I’ve ever been hooked to. She catches a movement in the rim of the surgical light fixture above her. She looks closer but it’s so hard to concentrate. “Doctor? What are you doing?” He swims back into her line of sight holding a long pair of medical tweezers. Between the tips the man is holding a thumbtack pinched tightly in place.
“We have to remove all of these and quickly. We are prepping you for emergency surgery. You’ve received a cervical fracture and your skull has a hairline fracture as well.” He picks up a metal pan and drops the thumbtack into it where it lands with a plink. Katrina turns her mouth with grim resignation. She can handle it. Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is a machine. She is hardcore. She can survive it. Arcadia watches the doctor in the rim of the light, her vision swimming in and out as she lays complacent under his ministrations until the concussion cause her to pass out once more.
The driver lurches the cab forward as the light changes and traffic starts crawling again but Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is too deep in her thoughts to notice.
“It’s not so bad, sweetie. You’ll be better in no time, you just wait and see.” Player One nods numbly as the nurse wheels her back to her room. She is too weak to make anymore than the slightest movements, and had already been informed that though the paralysis was only a temporary symptom of the pressure on her spine since relieved by surgery, she would require physical therapy and could end up in a wheelchair permanently if she continued to wrestle her high risk style in the future. Alone for the first time in days and able to move without assistance, Katrina slowly wheels herself to the bathroom. Leaning on the shower rail, she strips down and gets the first look of herself in the mirror she has had since before the match that had landed her in surgery almost a week ago. She doesn’t even recognize the waifish girl staring back at her. Her hair is butchered, shaved in one spot for where her head was cracked open and chopped to her scalp haphazardly in most others to better remove the thumbtacks that had lodged themselves in her skull. She has deep bags under her eyes and her skin is sickly white from being so weak. Her neck is bloated, making her head appear unproportionately fat. There are butterfly stitches in her head and one clean black line of stitches across the side of her neck from the bone fusion surgery. She lightly fingers the wound, testing it, prodding the rods and pins she can feel under her skin. Those strange anomalies are now a part of her, holding her together like the gears of a clockwork girl. She can see the burn marks and barbed wire scars on her arm, where they will remain for the rest of her life. If she turns to the side, she can see the scarred flesh of her back, still red, but healing. She knows that while these burn marks may fade to white, they will mar her skin forever. The Hardcora Luchadora can accept that. She knows that sacrifices need to be made. This is the life she chose. But here, alone, locked in a small bathroom in a hospital that she has grown to hate, the Hardcora Luchadora is missing. The mask is off. Instead, Katrina Olivetti stands in her place. And in perhaps her most humiliating moment to date, a tear runs down her face, followed by another. So young, she cries for her career she knows is over. So innocent, she cries for her ruined body no one has ever touched and now no one will ever want to. So bitter, she cries for her failure. And when Katrina Olivetti, the vulnerable woman, has shed the last tear and last bit of light from her eyes, only the Hardcora Luchadora is left standing. Cold, callous, and uncaring.
The Hardcora Luchadora runs a hand through her short curls, making them bounce back to her jaw. She rather likes the new hair cut, though it took her long enough to grow into it. She stretches her legs out across the back seat, still grateful for the complete control she has over them. She earned every last bit of it back. Ten grueling months filled with physical therapy and retraining. Sometimes she thought she would die from the pain. But every last bit of it was worth it. Every time she fell weakly to the ground, every blister, every drop of sweat, every single bruise she got relearning her body was worth more than its weight in gold to her. And now she was better, faster, stronger than ever. Now she had a chip on her shoulder. And now she was ready to aim that chip at a well deserving target. She had new tricks up he sleeve and a new attitude to match. That little girl who cried in a bathroom stall all by herself was gone and she was never coming back. Today, the Hardcora Luchadora is ready for revenge and more. And nobody is going to stand in her way or take her down. She had been through hell and back and had the scars to prove it. She isn’t afraid of what might come her way, and she isn’t naïve enough to make any new alliances. Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is after something and nothing is going to stop her but satisfaction.
The cab pulls into the arena parking lot and Arcadia steps out, pulling a large duffel bag with her. She readjusts her mask and scrolls through her mental checklist. The list that reminds her who she is after and what they owe her. She has come to demand payment on a few of those debts. She smiles grimly to herself as she thinks of the first on that list and what they will never see coming. Her current target? The Red Shield Mafia. And if anyone feels like they should have first dibs on them or her, she will graciously give that person the top spot on her list.
“I’ve got time.” Arcadia slams the cab door shut and walks into the building.
