A Prelude to a Leviathan

I.

“And lastly, we are sad to announce that this will be .PAAK’s last night here, at least for the foreseeable future. She’ll be debuting in American soon. Therefore, tonight, she’ll square off against Akane Mei in a Shootstyle Wrestling Match!”

Myung Pak sat silently in the farthest corner of the locker room. She stretched and flexed her muscles a bit; they were loose and prepared for the impending hell they would go through shortly. Her wrapped hands laid upon a black pair of knee-pads. It was hot in the locker room; droplets of perspiration began to trickle down her black sports bra.

Even from her secluded corner, she could hear the announcer’s show introduction. SHOOTO had hired him because of his booming voice; however, it was somewhat soothing to Myung. The sound of his voice meant it was time for her to get into her element.

She was distinguished from most professional wrestlers. You see, for most people, their love of wrestling is instilled into at a young age. They grow up watching the greats and the legends―they observe them, the imitate them, and they wish to be them.

Ms. Pak didn’t fall into that classification of people.

Wrestling had never been her dream, wish, or desire. In fact, it would be valid to say that Myung had been forced to wrestle, at least initially. Additionally, a great deal of resources had been spent to build and cultivate her skills. It just so happened that was born with a natural affinity for the sport. It was this affinity, along with constant praise and feedback from the select few she was close to, that willed her to continue her journey as a wrestle.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just gotten word that a couple of our performers are being held up. There was a large accident a couple of town over, and it’s holding up traffic. Therefore, we are going to start this card of with a bang―Mei versus .PAAK!”

Myung listened to the crowd cheer and roar. Traditionally, Japanese professional wrestling fans have always been described as reserved. And, had then been a traditionally Japanese promotion, that sentiment would have rang true. Nonetheless, SHOOTO was traditional. Most people referred to it as an “underground promotion.” This was likely due to it’s “Fight Club” atmosphere. SHOOTO’s set up was intimate: the ring was smaller than an average one, the crowd was more tightly packed together and pushed towards the ring―and of course, the fans were rabid and thirsty for violence.

The sound of various drums began to reverberate throughout the arena, one of Akane Mei’s tried and true intimidation factors. “I don’t need fancy music to kick your ass,” she once said in a newspaper interview. And for the most part, she was correct. Miss Mei was feared competitor in Japan; and, she’d developed a nasty habit over the years of accidentally injuring her opponents.

In theory a shoot match should have turned the tide in her favor―

Knock

Knock

Myung turned her head in time to see Raiden enter the locker room’s threshold. “Myung, it’s time.” He hung by the doorway as the young woman stood to her feet. She gently brushed away some dirt from her black kickpads as she made her way over. Raiden studied her as she made her way over. Her eyes for soft and wandering, almost as if she were nervous or something. However, knew that wasn’t the case; she just hadn’t made the transformation yet―that normally occurred when her music hit. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” she replied.

“Good.” Raiden lightly patted her on the shoulder. “One last match here Myung; one last battle.” She smiled a bit. “For the past couple of weeks, Mei has been talking about you. So, go out there and leave a lasting impression, would you? Remind her that SHOOTO is your home, even in your absence.”

“Consider it done,” she said as they both exited the room.