Post by Zahara Matisse on Jun 25, 2016 16:11:15 GMT -6
”Putting smiles on faces is the best kind of magic.”
I. Let It All Out, Cause Home Is The Best Place
”Going home was like walking into a time warp. Wrestling definitely increased my time away from my folks, and though they understood it was still hard to leave them like that. When I still had my apartment it was one thing. Now I live across the country from them. I don’t regret it, really, and after spending several days with them I’ve come to realize that they’re fine with it, too. As long as I know I still have a place here, they tell me, that’s all they could ask for. Still… walking into my bedroom, which they’d kept exactly as I left both when I moved into my first apartment and when I moved my stuff back to their place before relocating to Malibu… I felt like I was fourteen again… complete with out-of-control, irrational teenage emotions.”
The view is quite blurry at first… fuzzy, too. Shuffling noises and a few errant thumps are also about on the fringes of the moment. The confusion is destined to be a short one, thankfully, as the blurriness clears up with the backwards motion of someone from the lens of the camera. Zahara Matisse, leaning so that her hands rest upon her knees, her red-rimmed golden eyes level with the device, stares straight into it. Within that trio of moments there is much to take in; the environment in which the Magical Maiden dwells is an abode more suited to a teenage girl than a young woman and a professional one at that.
Band posters and pin-ups displaying a mixture of actors, musicians and, yes, wrestlers, take up their fair share of wall space where shelves and windows do not. There’s even a couple framed vintage pieces, one bearing a Barnum & Bailey Circus show and two others with David Copperfield and Harry Houdini respectively. The rest of the decor is simple enough as to not invite deeper description, though it is quite a bit frillier than one would expect from an adult. But then, this room hadn’t been lived in for several years. Clean and neat from desk to bed, from carpet to closet, but obviously stuck in a time before the Enchanting One could even drive legally.
And as for the lady herself, well… none of us are unaware of the goings-on at Fate of the Gods II. Another tightly-contested battle to please the crowd and put a spotlight on the bevy of impressive talents signed to the Visionaries of Wrestling roster, more than worthy of its placement on the biggest show of the year. However, it was also another loss. Even now, almost a week after the fact, Zahara had a forlorn look about her. The slight slump of her shoulders, the weathered look to her natural, cosmetic-deprived features and just how very small she looked in those three seconds before she turned from the camera to move to the bed. That said more than anything else. Curling her bare legs and feet beneath her, clad in cut-offs and a half-open white button-down with a purple cami beneath, the magician stares at the camera in near-confusion for a few moments before letting her head lower and, one heavy breath later, managing to speak.
”For two months, perhaps longer for the memories are muddled right now, I was possessed. Determination and desperation taken together are a deadly cocktail just by themselves. Toss in a dash of nerves and sprinkle some fear on top and…”
Pausing in the midst of her analogy, Zahara exhales quietly and shakes her head. Turning to the window as her legs are brought up bent, her arms wrapping around them, she gazes out as sunset gives up the last vestiges of the day’s light to give rise to the evening.
”...barring a fancier description, you get one humdinger of a hangover.”
There might be a smile on her face as she says that. It sounds like it. But without her looking at the camera...
”For five weeks I tasted blood morning, afternoon and evening... in every beverage and meal. For seven weeks I moved with the alacrity of an 80-year-old while trying to get out of bed in the morning, sometimes lasting through most of the day. Mundane tasks required a wealth of determination and grit I never knew myself to possess beforehand, all of which faded to nothing in the evenings.
Some nights I even had to be carried to bed.
No one, not even Catherine or Katalina, knew until this moment exactly the kind of hell I put myself through because I refused to let them see it. I forced down every wall in front of me even if I had to physically and mentally smash myself against them until mortar cracked and bricks crumbled. Did those close to me have inklings? They’re not stupid so I’m certain that they did. But quitting was never an option. Not then, not in my life up to that point, not at Fate of the Gods II and not for the rest of my living days. Now, I’m sure there’s going to be people watching this, and they know who they are…”
Lifting her head enough that she can rest her chin upon her knees, we’re given view of Zahara’s face from at least the left side. The set to her jaw and the perpetual wince which marred her youthful features is not a welcome sight.
”...are going to try and make with the funny about my saying that considering the outcome of the Xcel Rules Match at Fate of the Gods II. And who can blame them? It’s low-hanging fruit, well within reach of the lurkers who love to bring others down with insults and degradation... people who I won’t glorify by saying their names. And y’know what? I did quit. Loud and clear, in fact. Vocally, rather than by slapping the mat, which somehow makes the weight of the act heavier to me. And I did it because Constance Chapin is that darn good. And she’d have made every one of those lurkers tap out, too!”
The magician’s voice takes on an edge for a few moments, almost grating in its presence. Immediately after the last word leaves her lips she squeezes her eyes shut and her jaw clenches tighter. There’s a few moments where she tenses heavily, enough that her body trembles, before it’s let go.
”Upwards of 18,000 people cheering me on, practically serenading me at points, screaming at me to fight the pain and turn the champion on her ear. And how did I repay them? How did I repay Catherine for the sacrifices of time and effort that she made for over two months, attempting to make a warrior out of me? How did I repay the opportunity, regardless of the circumstances around it, that Visionaries of Wrestling afforded this fresh-faced rookie from Jersey?”
As if to lighten the weight of her barrage of questions, Zahara lets slip that Italian accent gifted her by her mother, saying ‘Jersey’ like a true native. Almost to the point of sounding like some reality show caricature, in fact. A smile does its best to turn up her lips but earns little more than a twitch.
”I lost.”
Finally finding the courage to look to the camera again, the smile finally finds its way to her face, though it is weak and wavering. It is, if nothing else, natural.
”Losing is a part of life, no matter what you do for a living, no matter how well-off you may be. And the rational part of my brain knows that a loss is nothing to be ashamed of, especially when you have the entire arena on their feet cheering you even in defeat. Before I even touched down in St. Paul I knew how the match would turn out for me. It wasn’t until the middle of it, when those amazing Minnesota fans started lavishing songs and screams on me that… that I thought I might shock the world and bring down the mighty Constance Chapin. It’s amazing what those wonderful people are capable of when their hearts are in it.
And any snark in my calling her that is unintentional. I tell you true, folks: Constance is every bit as powerful physically as she is mentally.
But it wasn’t to be. My friends, my family… the woman I love more than anything… they all say the same, that I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, that there will be other opportunities in the future. They’ve been all hugs and words of encouragement since Thursday night, both over Twitter and in person. It means so much to me that I have such a support system for the hard times in my life. It makes me all the more determined to be there for them just the same. Again, my brain gets it. Mentally… I have the right of it. Suck it up, learn from my mistakes and keep charging forward. That is, inevitably, what I will do until the day I hang up the boots.”
Zahara puts her forehead against her knees again, her shoulders trembling slightly before settling again. Just once her breath hitches… then she continues.
”Emotionally, though… I’m crushed.”
A noise has her lift her head, the sharp sound of knuckles rapping on wood. Not in the hallway beyond the door, but down on the first floor. Raising her head and blinking, Zahara glances toward the window, then leans in toward it in an attempt to see who’s calling at this hour.
II. She Didn’t Come All This Way For A Hug!
”Never underestimate someone’s feelings. Ever. It seems like I did that with Catherine. What is it with the biggest hardheads I’ve ever met having hearts like this? Of course, I know by relating this that I’m asking for it when her and I step into the cage again, but… worth it. Some people deserve recognition, unwilling or otherwise, for doing the good they do.”
The brick townhouse set far enough back from the concrete and asphalt to allow room for a modest yard with a well-tended garden lining the front walls. Two stories up and likely older than the folks living within it, it had nonetheless stood the test of time well thanks to proper care and maintenance. A black Explorer sat in the driveway before a closed garage door, a nearby bucket and hose, along with the vehicle’s shine, telling us that someone had taken advantage of the lovely weather earlier.
However, none of this was gathered into the senses of the blue-haired female now approaching the house… not as she made her way at a brisk pace down the street nor as she made a sharp turn and marched up the walk. Catherine makes her way up to the oak front door, giving it a sound knock before stepping back. Moments later, an older woman with black hair and a lined-yet-pretty face arrives at the door and answers with a warm smile.
”Good evening. May I help you?”
”Hey. Is Zoey home?”
The woman nods, looking over Catherine's attire and blue hair, before making her way back inside. Catherine presses her hands together behind her back as she looks over her surroundings properly for the first time. Moments later, she hears a voice from inside. And thusly we have the reason for the previous interruption...
”Catherine? What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Malibu?”
”Came to talk. Let's go.”
It almost seems like an order, delivered just before Catherine turns and makes her way toward the sidewalk. Zahara watches her a moment and sighs, stepping into a pair of sandals and calling out behind her that she’d be back shortly. Stepping out onto the walk, she shuts the doors gently behind her before trotting ahead to catch up with her trainer.
What's this about, Ca-”
Catherine cuts her off as she turns around and begins running her fingers along the side of Zoey's face at eye level. Eventually, the magician steps back, pushing Catherine's hands away.
”What are you doing?”
”Dry. Little rough. You've been crying, haven't you?”
”What?”
”No lotion. Didn't want to hide it from your parents. They can always tell, after all. Seeing your brother in photos? Or losing the title opportunity?”
”You don't-”
From the moment the word ‘brother’ passed Catherine’s lips in any fashion, that flash of anger from earlier rematerialized, indicating that Zoey was about to go somewhere she might have regretted once toward Catherine. She catches herself, mostly because she can tell Catherine isn't bringing that up to get some heat from her. It’s still a tense moment, though.
”Fine. Yes. I cried. It was an emotional loss for me. But you can't tell me you didn't cry after losing yours.”
”First time I was happy 'cause the company was going under, it was the last show, meant I never had to see that fucking bitch again. All other times I had to keep strong. Summer would've freaked all over me if I wept even once.”
”Alright, well… what are you doing here, then? You said something about wanting to talk. What about?”
Out of sorts at the surprise visit, the magician is immediately on the defensive.
”How long are you expecting your career to last?”
”I don't… know.”
Blinking a few times, Zahara finds herself further flabbergasted by the sudden question.
”I guess as long as I can keep going to that ring and giving my best every show? I haven’t put much thought into it.”
”How long have you been in this already?”
”Eight months… you know that al-”
”Wow. That's a big number. Eight months.”
Irritation starts to overtake confusion in Zahara, who folds her arms and locks her attention on Catherine. The blue-haired woman doesn’t retreat an inch, though… she stares right back.
”Where are you going with this, Catherine?
”I know where I'm going, I just want to know where you're fucking going, Zoey.”
Catherine, it had come to be known over the past few months, has these momentary slip ups where her true feelings for Zahara come out. Not often and never acknowledged, even though Zahara has pointed them out before. Now, it's just a part of their relationship, which is about as chaotic as it would be possible to get while still maintaining a semblance of cordiality. Still, though she’s quite accustomed to Catherine’s brusque nature, her trainer’s tone catches the magician off guard.
”I want to know I haven't been wasting my fucking time with someone who looks at this industry like it's some fucking hobby.”
”I don't think that way, Catherine! I’m insulted that you’d even say that!”
”Then the fuck are you doing running home to cry into your childhood pillow, huh? Come out here to fucking find yourself? Look in a fucking mirror! That's who the fuck you are!”
Zahara just watches the irate woman, who only continues on, mostly because, as the magician has found out over their past couple months together, Catherine is an avid ranter.
”So you lost a fucking title shot twice in a row in month-fucking-eight of your career. You know what I was doing my eighth month? Still opening the fucking show. So go on... tell me how fucking butthurt you are after having lost two title shots in your first year. Just lay it the fuck on me.”
Her jaw slackens just a bit as Zahara stares at her trainer, the woman seething in anger but also making sure to keep eye contact with her student. That latter part… it feels every bit like a dare, a challenge toward Zahara to do something about the harshness being hurled at her verbally. She breaks eye contact for only a moment, looking over her shoulder at her childhood home. A smirk flickers into view on Catherine’s face which quickly turns to an expression of angry confusion and Zahara turns back around and snatches the blue-haired woman by the left wrist tightly.
”H-Hey! The fuck are you-”
”Come with me!”
One would think that once Catherine had made it clear that she was going to follow Zahara that the dark-haired Jerseyite would let her go. But that was not the case as she continued to pull her trainer behind her until they’d reached the end of the block. And even then it was only for a moment; Zahara turned and got two handfuls of Catherine’s collar, pushing her firmly back against a telephone pole. By rights, Catherine should have had no reason to be intimidated by the woman manhandling her, but her expression registered shock… perhaps coming to the realization that she’d crossed a line. Except that, as had happened way too many times for her taste over the last week, Zahara’s eyes were welling a bit. Tears had yet to fall, despite being so far up on the cusp. Except these tears… were born of anger.
”What do you want me to say, huh? Want me to lie and tell you and everyone else that I’m just fine and dandy? Do you think I’m some kind of weak coward for daring to have emotions or something?!”
”You need to chill-”
”Answer me, darn it!”
Her voice cracks and she immediately hates herself for it almost as much as she despises the fact that she let herself curse. Catherine brings her hands up, grasping Zahara’s wrists, which makes the magician hang on more tightly. Yet Catherine hangs on, seeking something to latch on to, perhaps.
”Honestly?”
Gnawing on her lip a little, Catherine looks down.
”I… expected you to walk away.”
Shaking her head, Zahara’s hands start to shake… right along with the rest of her.
”Catherine… you know me better than that. Think back. Think to… to the time we spent in that cage. Every day, sometimes twice or more. You beat the hell out of me and, after a time, I beat you back. How many times did you tell me to quit?”
”I don’t-”
”Tell me!”
”At least once a day. When you didn’t stop after the first day, I figured you might make it, I don’t know, a week? Maybe two? No matter how hard I twisted you or kicked the shit out of you, you kept right on. It became scary after a time, Zoey, and if you ever repeat that I’ll break you in half for real.”
The words were spoken softly but it was the darker, more prominent side of Catherine that spoke them… right before she returned to unwilling remembrance and the quiet that accompanied it.
”You scared the shit out of me, standing there bruised and often bleeding, barely keeping yourself upright while begging me to keep coming at you! You know I ain’t got a lick of fear for that b-... for your girlfriend, but when she saw you at the end of that first week...I almost did until you told her that you asked for it and made her believe you. I’ve never seen a woman that possessed…”
Nothing more gets past Catherine’s lips and Zahara, shaking full-on now, slowly lowers her hands from the woman’s collar. Arms hang limp at her sides, almost as much so as the way her head hangs, unbound black hair masking her face… perhaps appropriately.
”Do you really think… I’d put myself through the hell you call training… just for giggles? I only stopped for those few days before Fate of the Gods II because I had to leave something in the tank for Constance. You… you get that, right?”
Merely nodding, Catherine reaches out hesitantly to place a hand on Zahara’s shoulder but retracts after a moment. The magician never indicates whether she saw or did not see the gesture.
”I didn’t come here to cry about losing or to wax nostalgic for times when life was simpler and easier. I came… to remind myself why I do this. To remember the promise I made.”
”What promise?”
Flinging her head back, sending her dark hair tossing behind her, Zahara stares straight into Catherine’s eyes and goes so far as to cup the woman’s cheeks in both hands so she can’t turn away. The blue-haired trainer presses herself as closely against the pole as she can but is either unwilling or incapable of escaping the magician’s stare.
”Look at me, Catherine. Do not… DO NOT… look away.”
It’s too meek of a nod for Catherine, yet there it is.
”Thank you. What… what you did for me for those weeks, the fighter you molded me into… I’ll never forget that. As much as you hate hearing and knowing it, I consider you a friend and I always will… even if you’re a stubborn witch 95% of the time.”
”Screw you.”
And in response, Zahara laughs… not sadly or in a pained fashion, but naturally. It starts low, then gets a little louder until the mirth overtakes her and she lowers her arms to wrapping around herself. Catherine, left shaking her head, can’t escape her own laughter as she mutters under her breath.
”You’re fuckin’ weird, Zoey.”
Finding some respite in her chuckling, Zahara straightens up a bit and pulls Catherine into a hug which, to the woman’s own shock, she finds herself willingly returning.
”You still love me so shut your face.”
They separate after a point and Zahara nods in the direction from which they came.
”Come on. If you think you can rein in your mouth and attitude for an hour, you’re welcome to join us for dinner.”
”That’s nice, but… I gotta get going. Just tell me you’re gonna be alright so I don’t have nightmares or some shit.”
Zahara gives the slightest of nods, which Catherine returns.
”Then I better see your ass front and center at the gym Sunday morning. Don’t make me come find you again.”
Turning on her heel, the blue-haired woman strides off, leaving Zahara standing beneath the streetlamp with a faint smile turning her lips up as the scene cuts to black.
”Thanks…”
III. ...And It Feels So Good!
”I couldn’t go home without taking a list, one that detailed places that I needed to see while I was here. Home was a given, but Vincenzo’s school was high up on there also… not just for nostalgia’s sake but for some, shall we say, new business with a dear friend. But last and not least was the Bergen Performing Arts Center. I did my first full-fledged magic show there, or at least my first solo show. The place is still as beautiful and intimidating now as it was all those years ago but stepping through those doors was like… well, it made my heart swell. All the butterflies I felt the first time came fluttering back, just like they do when I’m behind that curtain, waiting for my entrance theme to play. I hope I never lose that.”
Our view is centered on the stage of a modest theatre, the Bergen Performing Arts Center in Engelwood, New Jersey to be precise. Zahara’s voice echoes throughout the interior as the camera does a full, 360-degree sweep of the classically-styled interior with rows of empty, cushioned red seats facing the aforementioned stage from two levels. Not a one was filled, naturally, though it wasn’t hard to imagine them full of bright, smiling faces watching another bright smiling face upon the stage.
”Thank you for your patience, my dear apprentices… your Enchanting One has at last returned.”
Except… that stage is empty. Aside from the woman behind the camera whose attention is fully upon the stage itself now, that particular area bearing a stool, trunk and little else, there’s naught to be seen of VoW’s Magical Maiden. Her voice still echoes gently around the room with its high ceiling and calm peace. But the woman herself...
”Then again, I never went far. It isn’t a return to the physical, per se… that is, unless you count this.”
A loud pop precedes a burst of dark purple smoke billowing up from the center of the stage where the stool rests. It rises and spreads quickly, though the cloud never becomes too wide. Evaporating with the same swiftness as it appeared, a dark shape begins to form beneath as it begins to thin out. It begins with a pair of sparkly purple heels, giving way to fishnet-covered stems which go on for a good three feet or more. One leg crossed over the other, white-gloved hands clasped around the risen knee and the tails of an equally-sparkly purple jacket swaying gently in the leftover current of the quickly-disappearing smoke. Continue on your way up, because who wouldn’t be staring at this point, and you eventually come to a matching bowtie, an amazing smile and a black top hat perched ever-so-jauntily on a black-haired head.
But while the Magical Maiden is certainly a stunning sight in full stage gear, more so thanks to the heels a dear friend of hers might say, it’s her smile that truly tells the tale. Bright, wide… and completely lacking in any manner of resistance. Lately there’s been some reservation to her smile as she allowed trials and tribulations, both in and out of the ring, to weigh on her young shoulders. Yet, whether it is merely for the moment or a symbolic expression of a rise back to the norm for the young magician and wrestler, this time it’s all natural and filled with the same positivity and happiness that she bore before her first-ever professional match way back in October.
”It feels so good to wear one of these again. I’d forgotten how good they both look and feel.”
Lifting a gloved hand to her face, Zahara strokes her own cheek as though feeling her smile, seeing it without the aid of eyes. Closing her golden eyes, she draws in a cleansing breath before lowering said hand back to its former position.
”I only hope it lasts this time. Anyone who’s been paying attention to VoW lately knows that I’ve been wavering from one end of the spectrum to the other, fighting to stay positive but more often giving in to negative feelings. Chalk it up to whatever you like, my dears, for everyone is welcome to their opinion, but after some serious rumination on the topic, the answer is, to me, quite simple: my considerable naiveté about the wrestling business and many parts life in general.
Losing is hard enough, especially when you’ve been bolstered by several consecutive wins, but it’s more than that. Being defeated, at least, can be gotten used to and drawn from. It’s the lengths to which some will go to get what they want. As if beating someone in the ring isn’t enough, they have to strike out at families and friends, wielding past mistakes and new lies as weapons. It’s a sad state of things, my friend, and VoW is hardly the only place to have such things happen.”
Her smile doesn’t weaken, merely taking on an air of sadness and pity for a few moments. Determined to not let such feelings overwhelm her, though, Zahara lifts her head and waggles a finger at the camera as if to say ‘not this time’. Putting her gloved hands together palm to palm, she draws them apart to manifest her trademark wand, giving it a little twirl before resting it upon her thigh, each end grasped by one hand.
”That’s not a level you’ll ever see me stoop to. No amount of money or championship gold is worth sacrificing my soul for. Giving in to that kind of greed, fury and hatred… it simply isn’t how I’m wired. That’s not the woman my parents raised nor the sister my brother would have deserved. But I understand how easy it must feel to give in to those urges. I see it in a lot of my friends these days.”
Shifting the wand to her right hand, Zahara gives her hat a little tap, causing it to topple from her head and inexplicably roll down her left arm where it is deftly caught in her fingertips. Into said hat she drops her wand, which fully sinks into the accessory without resistance.
”After Fate of the Gods II, I know the urge lies within Stacy Jones to unleash unmitigated violence on Winter Pine. And I’m not going to say that that woman doesn’t deserve it a li-... okay, a lot.”
Recalling her own confrontation with Winter at the aforementioned pay-per-view causes Zahara’s jaw to set and her eyes to narrows while she briefly stares off into space.
”I also know that Stacy is better than that. The poor woman has lost too much and is now rightly focused on getting some of it, with happiness on the side, back again. And I know you’re watching right now, Stacy. You can do this.”
Her free right hand rises, turns and produces a soft pink rose out of thin air, the color symbolizing friendship for those who know their flora. In an offering fashion, she holds it out to the camera, exhaling sharply for a second. The puff of air causes the flower to become a shower of petals that drift out and down, behind which the magician has her smile back again.
”The same goes for Katie Moicelle, stinging over the loss of a title that she put such an amazing amount of shine on… though her pain is turned inward, upon herself. The worst kind. I can see it clearly because that’s the kind of reaction I had upon losing to Constance for the second time. We don’t want to hurt someone else, to displace the negativity on them, so we turn it inward. Better that we hurt than those close to us. But that rarely benefits us, you know?
Once in a while we can turn that negativity into strength and use it to push ourselves to new heights. But sometimes, pain is just pain. We have to deal with it. And the same methods don’t work for everyone.”
Flipping the hat up into the air, Zahara catches and perches it back atop her head, uncrossing her legs and stepping down onto the stage. Every step is a firm, echoing click as she walks over to the trunk. Crouching down, she manipulates the twin locks with her gloved fingertips before the metal latches jump free.
”One of my opponents at Breakthrough 47, Joanna Thade, is handling hers by refusing to take part in anything not involving her partner as a jab against the company. At least that’s how I’m understanding it, and when it comes to the Horsewomen… understanding is hard to come by. Even with Katalina at times.”
Over her shoulder, through that ebony mane, Zahara gives the cutest of winks before lifting the creaky lid of the battered-yet-durable trunk, her attention on the contents. That wink was most likely for the special lady in her life, but we all were allowed to enjoy it.
”You’ve never been an easy woman to figure out, Joanna. The first time we went round-and-round you gave every appearance of trying to shed your violent, bloody past and become a better person. There were smiles, attempts to curb your special brand of violence… and dare I say it, you got those people in the stands to believe in you. I certainly believed. Seeing the woman you were in GPW and elsewhere and that which you were, we all believed, trying to become in VoW… we wanted to applaud that. We wanted you to succeed.
I know actors, composers, playwrights… people who have been at their chosen vocation for years upon years who would thrill to possess your level of talent with emotional manipulation. That, I suppose, is both compliment and condemnation. Aside from the fact that you’re my opponent for the second time, though, I don’t have a personal problem with you as a person. Despite your predilections, you’ve always been quite cordial to me. I do, however, have a problem with you arbitrarily deciding that all non-Chaossworn matches are beneath you.”
She’s digging around for something within that trunk, leading a lot of silly, cartoonish noises from honks to squeaks to, honest to Betsy, squawks and ribbits. Still not finding what she’s after, though, Zahara keeps digging while giving periodic glances toward the camera in continuance of her monologue.
”This early into my career, every match that I participate in has meaning. There’s no such thing as a throwaway match which has no purpose to me. And that’s how it sounds like you’re treating this triple threat involving us and Datura, Joanna. Not to put words in the mouth of our opponent, but I’d be willing to wager that she feels at least somewhat the same as I.”
Perhaps it’s frustration, but soon Zahara is no longer looking but tossing. Squirting flowers, decks of cards threaded with string, cans that pop open and spew springy snakes upon impact… the magician makes quite a mess as she digs through the trunk. The heated nature of her efforts begins to reflect in her tone and comments, going hand in gloved hand.
”First time around, I was caught up in yours and Emma’s game, taking some lumps before I even got to the ring. It was a show of guts and determination that led us to agree to compete in our match that night anyway, and against Winter Pine of all people. Through that match, Joanna, I admired you even further. I told you so backstage after pinning Pine and taking the win. And even when you reverted to form, that respect didn’t falter. It actually increased as I watched you and yours continue to go against the norm, fighting the system and rebelling against the status quo… all that good stuff. Truth told, I think that you and Emma should be walking around with your heads high and the Twin City Championships over your shoulders. That’s just my opinion, though. Gina Neon might not be pleased with my saying so, but honesty is what it is.
But right about now, you’re looking for the point. And that’s simple:”
Feather boas, a cape… even a rabbit hopping away from within a spare hat that got chucked. That trunk has to be close to empty by now...
”I’m treating this match seriously whether you do or not. And if you think losses don’t matter in the grand scheme, I invite you to wonder how quickly you’ll get another opportunity at gold if you don’t show up with your work boots on. You crave a title, Warchild. I know this. I know it because I see the same craving in myself whenever I look in the mirror. Losing to me? It won’t get you there. Think on that.”
For some reason, once the last item is tossed from the trunk, Zahara stands up and gazes down into it with her arms folded. She’s got a small smile on her face, mischievous almost, as she slowly turns to address the camera directly.
”Which brings me to you, Datura. Aside from Twitter I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”
Turning with a bit of a flourish, Zahara bows deeply to the camera, sweeping her hat off in the midst of the graceful gesture.
”Zahara Matisse, Mistress of Magic and Bringer of Smiles… humbly at your service.”
Rising with the same fluidity, Zahara puts her hat back in place with her sparkling smile at full mast. Then she… steps into the trunk.
”Just a moment, if you please?”
Taking to her knees within the now empty container, we no longer see her until her gloved hand and purple-sparkle sleeve rises from within, slamming the lid down hard enough that the latches snap into place. Mere moments later, we hear her voice again with that same echoing quality it had at the start.
”I saw a little of you in GPW as well, Miss Datura, though not enough to have a proper opinion for which I hope you’ll forgive me. What’s been shown me in VoW, however, has been quite to my liking… including your impressive victory at Fate of the Gods II. Presumptuous of me to say so though it may be, I think you have the most beautiful soul.”
The camera soon starts sweeping the environs, seeking a shot of the Enchanting One. When neither left nor right bear her vision, Farrah turns it upward on a whim to see Zahara lounging on the catwalk over the stage… and looking quite pleased with herself.
”Despite all the dark intentions that seem to surround you, I love the artistic spirit within you, the way you dissect details and manipulate with detachment yet passion. See, you even have me waxing poetic just thinking about it. Of course, we all know the end result of your observations a lot of the time. Someone gets damaged in that ring and you have your arm raised high. Even if they get past you they have at least a day worth of soreness to deal with it. You make pain look like art, Datura, something that reminds me of my lady love.”
That stray thought only makes her smile more widely.
”I’ve never faced anyone like you. But that...”
Zahara rises first to a sitting position, then to her feet, without much help from anything nearby.
”...goes both ways.”
Turning and leaning a little upon the hanging rail with both hands, Zahara gazes downward at the camera.
”It took longer than it should have, with many tears shed, but I’m finally where I need to be after my second loss to Constance Chapin: in control. Facing forward. Moving down that long winding road to my destiny. I’m still hurting, though. A sharp gal like you, Datura, can probably see that even now as I’m fighting to not show it. It’s there, though. Except I’m not bemoaning it. I’m reveling in it.
I don’t have the Xcel Championship around my waist, but I’m a much better wrestler than I was before Fate of the Gods II. I’ve got another loss on my record but that’s just gonna make it twice as hard for the next opponent to hand me my third. See where I’m going with this, Datura? Perspective. Yours is already a unique one, and in my position I think you’d say the same though… perhaps more eloquently, with a little more panache.”
Turning with a smile, she strides along the catwalk, every step audible until she comes to the edge. She’d moved out of sight a few steps prior to that… and though her voice still carries, once more with that reverberating property, she’s once more lurking beyond us.
”Every loss that happens teaches me better how to handle them. The wins, as well, feel more fulfilling. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting more mature or maybe my brain and heart are finally syncing up, but… I’m liking the feeling. Being champion would be better, sure, but my time will come. You know all about such things, Datura. I’ve seen your accomplishments. They inspire me… not just to find my own accolades, but to defeat you and prove that I’m worthy of them.
Funny how the past can catch up with someone like that. Your success, Datura, is my motivation. Your past is my goal. Well… minus the hallucinogens, that is. I make my own magic.”
The last few words come without echo, but a touch more volume… the kind necessary for an address from a distance. Prompted so, the camera is turned again and Zahara is shown sitting in the center of the front row on the balcony, long legs crossed and propped up on the railing. Removing her hat once again and retaking her wand from within, she smiles down at us from above.
”Joanna, I already know her answer to this, so instead I pose the question solely to you, Datura: are you ready for the show of a lifetime?”
A little swish and flick (Harry Potter represent) sends confetti and streamers popping from the tip of Zahara’s wand, showering the seats below as she rises from her seat. Pressing up the brim of her had with the tip of her wand, blowing residual smoke from it, the magician locks eyes on the camera for the last time.
”You’d better be. Both of you. Because I’m not just coming to Breakthrough to make people smile. No, I’m coming to send a message: the Magical Maiden is back, baby!”
Bowing once more, Zahara is then engulfed in another cloud of dark purple smoke… disappearing as magically as she appeared.
