Post by pretzelbender on Dec 30, 2020 23:53:04 GMT -5
Miles Lucky did it.
What else is there to say? The obvious covers it. After working his way back to her relentlessly, Miles Lucky beat Indi Rhyder. He ended her reign. The sore loser traded in his War Horse Title, for two more. The Union Battleground and the Trench War Championship. He reclaimed his first and only loss in Union and in the process became the company’s Unified Champion.
That covers it, doesn’t it?
Clean. Cut. Dry. Cry.
He cried so much. God, he cried so fucking much, it’s pathetic. His body wracked in the ring with sobs as he was on his hands and knees, as he held her close in a tight embrace. He could barely breathe as tears streamed down his eyes; wide with an undeniable realization.
It’s a surprise that he was even able to speak. To finally tell her what he would’ve told her in the woods, in a separate reality, where they meet after she beats him. Where she makes her way to his cage, and they sit on a blanket against the wet dirt and grass. Where he shows her the tooth in his palm and instead of being disgusted and afraid, she’s intrigued and comes closer. He would’ve told her then.
“I love you.”
That happens somewhere, that date, that picnic, but not here. Not here in the middle of the ring. They were far from the woods, far from ever meeting again anywhere but right here. Still, he says it. In every possibility, in every scenario, across multiple realities, he says it every time.
“I love you.”
And then he destroys her because to get what he wants, he can’t have her. He strangles her in the woods. He kisses her cold lips and laughs. He defeats her. In an excruciating display that saw him mow through everyone in his path, he does what he sets out to do and he wins the match.
This is what a happy ending looks like. This is what you wanted. Miles Lucky, you fucking did it.
So, why are you out here all alone, Miles?
“I am walking alone.”
This is a wasteland. A cold and dull dystopia that would leave the unguarded face of anyone else red and raw. A metropolitan for ghosts, buildings of debris, the calmed and lonely result of destruction. Sand under his worn in a freezing desert city, the wind blows and a portion of it finds its way into his curls. He doesn’t bother dusting it off, he has a long walk ahead of him and so he goes forward on this road.
There is no sign of anyone, it’s devoid of life. The road he is following is barely distinguishable from anything else, covered in dust and sand, as gray as the sooted vehicles he passes, the lifted concrete that found its way into the road before he ever began to walk it. The windows of any fortunate structure are broken. The air is thick. His words hold a slight echo despite not really having anything to bounce off of.
“Why are you out here all alone, Ana?”
It’s a simple question for a complex woman who isn’t here. Still, he continues to speak as he walks, venturing deeper into the nothing left behind. And boy, is it a whole bunch of nothing.
“Why do you live here, all alone? It has to be miserable, isn’t it?”
He runs his hand over a car as he walks, wiping a streak off of whatever’s gathered upon it, only for his hand to be clean when he looks at it. He’s no longer truly asking her anything at all. This road, lifeless and dead and lonely, this is one that she’s walked many times, over and over again before he ever had a career.
This road. The proof that everything she touches dies along with her. This road, an exposure of a lie he told himself. Miles frowns.
Foolishly, he had called to make an example out of her. Anastasia Hayden, with her remarkable ability to deliver herself opportunities, with her legendary status still coasting from the successes of the past that she can’t let go of, in a company that her stupid fucking head can’t shake to save her goddamn life. Anastasia Hayden, he had thought, how lucky could he fucking be?
A dying legend. A monument. A tomb, set for him to defile, set to kick off his start as champion. His first defense, a stepping stone. An example?
No, he knows better.
He can’t make an example out of her when she’s already an example to begin with. A veteran, a manual on what not to do. The woman who will promise constant work in a company that dies, yet stays stagnant in the surviving one where she’s issuing the challenge. The woman who repeats herself time and time again, who drives him crazy from how fucking shallow she is. He likes to go deeper than this, he likes to nestle beneath the skin.
But there’s no blood. No beat. Like the road he walks to mind her steps, obvious that he is frantically searching for something, there is no life. No color.
She’s a puppet, on strings handled by a walking corpse. Want to see Anastasia Hayden sit in a dark box, want to see Anastasia Hayden contradict herself from start to finish? Do you want to see Anastasia Hayden mention the same demons crawling in the corner of her default room, only to never overcome them, no matter how much time has passed?
Well, you’re in luck. That’s all Anastasia Hayden has to offer.
Emerging from the crumbled city, pausing in wonder at the sight he’s greeted with. Hundred of people, petrified, statues frozen in place as they flinch in horror over something they didn’t expect. He asks again, slowly, as slowly as he walks to approach the unmoving crowd.
“You know what I think?”
A woman, frowning and ashed in place. Seemingly unafraid and unaffected by the horror that occurred here. Miles stares at her for a moment, stares at what’s left. His hand, gingerly, reaches to caress her unmoving face as he explains sweetly.
“I think you’re just a stupid bitch who loves to be miserable because it’s the only time in your life where you’ve showed to be something more than the bullshit you peddle. You force your misery, you force your loneliness, just as much as you force your confidence. Pulling shit out of your ass, hoping it sticks to the nearest wall.”
Miles mirrors the frown of the unmoving woman.
“There’s nothing to you. You’re not authentic, you’re no longer the name that you’re trying to force back into the scene. You say you’re a survivor, but you’re not. You’re doomed because you want to be.”
He’s holding the face with both hands now, practically scolding without reaction. As if trying to breathe life into her. When he gets nothing at all, his frown deepens and he sighs.
“I don’t care who you’ve outlasted. I don’t care what the fuck you think of yourself. I don’t care about the bubble you live in. This is my throne. These are my titles. This is my home. You are the challenger and I am the champion for a reason. When you shoot, you better not miss. Or better yet, when you shoot, aim the gun at your head and die with some dignity attached to your desperate fucking name.”
He pushes over the girl and she tumbles into those frozen behind her. They all fall and crumble from the impact, breaking apart as they all hit one another, clouds of dust erupting, sand falling. The silence of a second death. He watches and when the smoke clears, there is nothing left. It’s as if she and everyone else had never been there to start. The city, you know it then, is a blanket of remains. He lets out a breath he’s been holding.
“You don’t know who I am, do you? I’ll tell you.”
“I’m not you. I’m nothing like you. I’m better.”
He doesn’t stop there and continues down the road.
“I’m not weak like you, I’m not empty like you are. A constant cloud of sadness and doubt doesn’t follow me around. It’s me, biting at my own heels, my ambitions and my plans, the things I want to accomplish, moving me forward with more vigor in my rookie fucking year than your slow, useless eleven-year crawl in this industry toward purpose. This goes beyond needing to know, needing to prove to everyone something I already proved to myself. I know I can be the best fucking champion Union has ever had. So, I will be. Nothing will stop that.”
He speaks into nothingness, hoping it reaches her. The further he walks down the road, the further from the start he becomes. It’s easy, he supposes, to lose sight from here. It’s easy, he would guess, to forget. But he’s better than that, better than getting sidetracked, better than giving away empty promises.
He is the champion of a company he loves. A company that he will forever be proud to represent. It’s not an accolade, it’s more of a responsibility than it will ever be an accomplishment. A responsibility that he will carry on his back. Miles Lucky stops, something catching his eyes in the distance. He goes further down the road to follow it. The longer he walks the road, the more random items appear on the path.
“You’re looking for glory, you’re looking for redemption. I’m not the guy to try and get it from. Really, you won’t get anything from me other than your ugly flat ass kicked right into another bout of silence.”
He picks up a lone golf club, taking a few practice swings on different pieces of junk that go skidding away.
“And that’s the biggest difference between me and you, isn’t it? If I lose this, I’ll be right back on the next card, right at the start of season five, ready to feast, ready to fight. I can’t be kept down and I can’t be kept quiet. Failure fuels me, success doesn’t satisfy me. I lose, I’m still fucking standing. You lose? You’re gone. You disappear. You fall the fuck apart and you learn nothing every time that it happens. Anastasia Hayden, coming out from her hole a half a year later to tell everyone it’s going to be a late winter, but it’s okay because she’s hot, regurgitated shit. You’re nothing more than the poor fucking name across from mine and I doubt that you can even barely recognize it at this point. I’ve been on every card in this company since I’ve been hired, who the fuck are you again?”
He points the golf club at her, at us, an amused look on his face. He’s worked harder this year than anyone else in Union, and it was an undeniable fact. He keeps the golf club. Drapes it across his back as he goes further down this road. The more he walks, the more we see what he sees in the distance.
“You’re someone who’s grasping for anything at all to fill the void. This belt isn’t a symbol of inner peace, I’m not stupid enough to ever let it hit your lap just so the world can hear about how nothing changed or budged within Anastasia Hayden. Fuck you and fuck your feelings. Fuck whatever you want in life. These titles won’t ever be your validation, I won’t let her or anyone else down. That edge, that oil-driven, smoke pumping throttle forward, the gears that allow the ripping needed to keep your word - you can’t even begin to comprehend it. You can’t even start to wrap your head around the actual sweat I put in while your lazy ass was cruising in a dead division licking up your own pussy like the stray that you are.”
He grips the golf club then. Finally approaching what we all had seen. His own truck. He slams the golf club against it, again and again, screaming out as he does so, still addressing her because he couldn’t fucking stop, even if he wanted to. Denting it, bending the golf club. As if every single piece of emotion he gives in excess will somehow seep into her.
“This is my crusade! My reign!”
With the golf club twisted and bent, Miles uses it to break the windows to the truck. He’s heaving, breaking it the rest of the way with the sleeve of his jacket. He swings open the door, trying to relax, his words spoken between breaths. Quickly losing his cool, as he does.
“Baby? I’m not your motivation. I’m not your happiness. I’m not your personal relationships. I don’t die that easy. As a matter of fact? I’m living forever.”
He gets in the truck. The keys are already in the ignition. He starts the vehicle. One the passenger side lies the fruits of his labor. His two titles. The only clean, glowing and pristine items in the entire scene. He starts the car and stares dead ahead, where a small childhood home is revealed to be touched. Somewhere in North Dakota, somewhere in the back of the mind of a little girl who is just really, really sad. Unfulfilled. Unable to shake the mediocrity she inherited, no matter what she does. She’s a result of her environment, and he can never respect it.
“I’m going to ask you, Ana: how does it feel, knowing that something is coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it? Tell me. Tell me.”
He revs the motor of the truck. Takes a deep breath.
“Tell me and I’ll give you the chance to start over. A chance to live again. To get the fuck out of this place. Are you ready? I don’t think you are, but you don’t decide the pace. Let’s fucking go!”
He speeds ahead, straight into the house; the truck colliding with the structure dramatically and viciously. He’s engulfed, a ball of flame and metal and childhood memories that didn’t belong to him. Everything burns gloriously. From him, came the only source of heat presented on the long road here. A brilliant, burning red that fades into black.
He awakes with the start in the middle of the street, annoyed honking attacking him. Covered in ash and soot from the wreckage, like a deer in headlights, he doesn’t move from his spot on the ground, confusion overtaking him until he sees her.
The Dog. A little way down the street. Laying and lounging. Under her, his titles. All three of them are waiting for him to get it together. He discovers it then. Like a fucking stab to the gut, it hits him.
It’s overwhelming. There’s something devastating about it. Something that brings tears to his eyes as he scrambles to his feet. He walks up to her, the Dog that has been missing for weeks. He gathers his titles and puts them over each shoulder. He looks around and recognizes his city, the city he left in an emotional rush as he was nearing his victory. The life, the bustle, the strangeness of it all; a stark contrast to the barren wasteland where some reside.
“I could never do what you do,” he whispers, taking in the sights and the people once again as he gets out of the street. It’s all he says. It’s pathetic, speaking out the truth.
“I’ll see you at Coup de Grace. Happy Pigeon Day, Ana.”
And with that, he and the Dog walk their own road together, right back to where it started. To the Warehouse we go.
What else is there to say? The obvious covers it. After working his way back to her relentlessly, Miles Lucky beat Indi Rhyder. He ended her reign. The sore loser traded in his War Horse Title, for two more. The Union Battleground and the Trench War Championship. He reclaimed his first and only loss in Union and in the process became the company’s Unified Champion.
That covers it, doesn’t it?
Clean. Cut. Dry. Cry.
He cried so much. God, he cried so fucking much, it’s pathetic. His body wracked in the ring with sobs as he was on his hands and knees, as he held her close in a tight embrace. He could barely breathe as tears streamed down his eyes; wide with an undeniable realization.
It’s a surprise that he was even able to speak. To finally tell her what he would’ve told her in the woods, in a separate reality, where they meet after she beats him. Where she makes her way to his cage, and they sit on a blanket against the wet dirt and grass. Where he shows her the tooth in his palm and instead of being disgusted and afraid, she’s intrigued and comes closer. He would’ve told her then.
“I love you.”
That happens somewhere, that date, that picnic, but not here. Not here in the middle of the ring. They were far from the woods, far from ever meeting again anywhere but right here. Still, he says it. In every possibility, in every scenario, across multiple realities, he says it every time.
“I love you.”
And then he destroys her because to get what he wants, he can’t have her. He strangles her in the woods. He kisses her cold lips and laughs. He defeats her. In an excruciating display that saw him mow through everyone in his path, he does what he sets out to do and he wins the match.
This is what a happy ending looks like. This is what you wanted. Miles Lucky, you fucking did it.
So, why are you out here all alone, Miles?
“I am walking alone.”
This is a wasteland. A cold and dull dystopia that would leave the unguarded face of anyone else red and raw. A metropolitan for ghosts, buildings of debris, the calmed and lonely result of destruction. Sand under his worn in a freezing desert city, the wind blows and a portion of it finds its way into his curls. He doesn’t bother dusting it off, he has a long walk ahead of him and so he goes forward on this road.
There is no sign of anyone, it’s devoid of life. The road he is following is barely distinguishable from anything else, covered in dust and sand, as gray as the sooted vehicles he passes, the lifted concrete that found its way into the road before he ever began to walk it. The windows of any fortunate structure are broken. The air is thick. His words hold a slight echo despite not really having anything to bounce off of.
“Why are you out here all alone, Ana?”
It’s a simple question for a complex woman who isn’t here. Still, he continues to speak as he walks, venturing deeper into the nothing left behind. And boy, is it a whole bunch of nothing.
“Why do you live here, all alone? It has to be miserable, isn’t it?”
He runs his hand over a car as he walks, wiping a streak off of whatever’s gathered upon it, only for his hand to be clean when he looks at it. He’s no longer truly asking her anything at all. This road, lifeless and dead and lonely, this is one that she’s walked many times, over and over again before he ever had a career.
This road. The proof that everything she touches dies along with her. This road, an exposure of a lie he told himself. Miles frowns.
Foolishly, he had called to make an example out of her. Anastasia Hayden, with her remarkable ability to deliver herself opportunities, with her legendary status still coasting from the successes of the past that she can’t let go of, in a company that her stupid fucking head can’t shake to save her goddamn life. Anastasia Hayden, he had thought, how lucky could he fucking be?
A dying legend. A monument. A tomb, set for him to defile, set to kick off his start as champion. His first defense, a stepping stone. An example?
No, he knows better.
He can’t make an example out of her when she’s already an example to begin with. A veteran, a manual on what not to do. The woman who will promise constant work in a company that dies, yet stays stagnant in the surviving one where she’s issuing the challenge. The woman who repeats herself time and time again, who drives him crazy from how fucking shallow she is. He likes to go deeper than this, he likes to nestle beneath the skin.
But there’s no blood. No beat. Like the road he walks to mind her steps, obvious that he is frantically searching for something, there is no life. No color.
She’s a puppet, on strings handled by a walking corpse. Want to see Anastasia Hayden sit in a dark box, want to see Anastasia Hayden contradict herself from start to finish? Do you want to see Anastasia Hayden mention the same demons crawling in the corner of her default room, only to never overcome them, no matter how much time has passed?
Well, you’re in luck. That’s all Anastasia Hayden has to offer.
Emerging from the crumbled city, pausing in wonder at the sight he’s greeted with. Hundred of people, petrified, statues frozen in place as they flinch in horror over something they didn’t expect. He asks again, slowly, as slowly as he walks to approach the unmoving crowd.
“You know what I think?”
A woman, frowning and ashed in place. Seemingly unafraid and unaffected by the horror that occurred here. Miles stares at her for a moment, stares at what’s left. His hand, gingerly, reaches to caress her unmoving face as he explains sweetly.
“I think you’re just a stupid bitch who loves to be miserable because it’s the only time in your life where you’ve showed to be something more than the bullshit you peddle. You force your misery, you force your loneliness, just as much as you force your confidence. Pulling shit out of your ass, hoping it sticks to the nearest wall.”
Miles mirrors the frown of the unmoving woman.
“There’s nothing to you. You’re not authentic, you’re no longer the name that you’re trying to force back into the scene. You say you’re a survivor, but you’re not. You’re doomed because you want to be.”
He’s holding the face with both hands now, practically scolding without reaction. As if trying to breathe life into her. When he gets nothing at all, his frown deepens and he sighs.
“I don’t care who you’ve outlasted. I don’t care what the fuck you think of yourself. I don’t care about the bubble you live in. This is my throne. These are my titles. This is my home. You are the challenger and I am the champion for a reason. When you shoot, you better not miss. Or better yet, when you shoot, aim the gun at your head and die with some dignity attached to your desperate fucking name.”
He pushes over the girl and she tumbles into those frozen behind her. They all fall and crumble from the impact, breaking apart as they all hit one another, clouds of dust erupting, sand falling. The silence of a second death. He watches and when the smoke clears, there is nothing left. It’s as if she and everyone else had never been there to start. The city, you know it then, is a blanket of remains. He lets out a breath he’s been holding.
“You don’t know who I am, do you? I’ll tell you.”
“I’m not you. I’m nothing like you. I’m better.”
He doesn’t stop there and continues down the road.
“I’m not weak like you, I’m not empty like you are. A constant cloud of sadness and doubt doesn’t follow me around. It’s me, biting at my own heels, my ambitions and my plans, the things I want to accomplish, moving me forward with more vigor in my rookie fucking year than your slow, useless eleven-year crawl in this industry toward purpose. This goes beyond needing to know, needing to prove to everyone something I already proved to myself. I know I can be the best fucking champion Union has ever had. So, I will be. Nothing will stop that.”
He speaks into nothingness, hoping it reaches her. The further he walks down the road, the further from the start he becomes. It’s easy, he supposes, to lose sight from here. It’s easy, he would guess, to forget. But he’s better than that, better than getting sidetracked, better than giving away empty promises.
He is the champion of a company he loves. A company that he will forever be proud to represent. It’s not an accolade, it’s more of a responsibility than it will ever be an accomplishment. A responsibility that he will carry on his back. Miles Lucky stops, something catching his eyes in the distance. He goes further down the road to follow it. The longer he walks the road, the more random items appear on the path.
“You’re looking for glory, you’re looking for redemption. I’m not the guy to try and get it from. Really, you won’t get anything from me other than your ugly flat ass kicked right into another bout of silence.”
He picks up a lone golf club, taking a few practice swings on different pieces of junk that go skidding away.
“And that’s the biggest difference between me and you, isn’t it? If I lose this, I’ll be right back on the next card, right at the start of season five, ready to feast, ready to fight. I can’t be kept down and I can’t be kept quiet. Failure fuels me, success doesn’t satisfy me. I lose, I’m still fucking standing. You lose? You’re gone. You disappear. You fall the fuck apart and you learn nothing every time that it happens. Anastasia Hayden, coming out from her hole a half a year later to tell everyone it’s going to be a late winter, but it’s okay because she’s hot, regurgitated shit. You’re nothing more than the poor fucking name across from mine and I doubt that you can even barely recognize it at this point. I’ve been on every card in this company since I’ve been hired, who the fuck are you again?”
He points the golf club at her, at us, an amused look on his face. He’s worked harder this year than anyone else in Union, and it was an undeniable fact. He keeps the golf club. Drapes it across his back as he goes further down this road. The more he walks, the more we see what he sees in the distance.
“You’re someone who’s grasping for anything at all to fill the void. This belt isn’t a symbol of inner peace, I’m not stupid enough to ever let it hit your lap just so the world can hear about how nothing changed or budged within Anastasia Hayden. Fuck you and fuck your feelings. Fuck whatever you want in life. These titles won’t ever be your validation, I won’t let her or anyone else down. That edge, that oil-driven, smoke pumping throttle forward, the gears that allow the ripping needed to keep your word - you can’t even begin to comprehend it. You can’t even start to wrap your head around the actual sweat I put in while your lazy ass was cruising in a dead division licking up your own pussy like the stray that you are.”
He grips the golf club then. Finally approaching what we all had seen. His own truck. He slams the golf club against it, again and again, screaming out as he does so, still addressing her because he couldn’t fucking stop, even if he wanted to. Denting it, bending the golf club. As if every single piece of emotion he gives in excess will somehow seep into her.
“This is my crusade! My reign!”
With the golf club twisted and bent, Miles uses it to break the windows to the truck. He’s heaving, breaking it the rest of the way with the sleeve of his jacket. He swings open the door, trying to relax, his words spoken between breaths. Quickly losing his cool, as he does.
“Baby? I’m not your motivation. I’m not your happiness. I’m not your personal relationships. I don’t die that easy. As a matter of fact? I’m living forever.”
He gets in the truck. The keys are already in the ignition. He starts the vehicle. One the passenger side lies the fruits of his labor. His two titles. The only clean, glowing and pristine items in the entire scene. He starts the car and stares dead ahead, where a small childhood home is revealed to be touched. Somewhere in North Dakota, somewhere in the back of the mind of a little girl who is just really, really sad. Unfulfilled. Unable to shake the mediocrity she inherited, no matter what she does. She’s a result of her environment, and he can never respect it.
“I’m going to ask you, Ana: how does it feel, knowing that something is coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it? Tell me. Tell me.”
He revs the motor of the truck. Takes a deep breath.
“Tell me and I’ll give you the chance to start over. A chance to live again. To get the fuck out of this place. Are you ready? I don’t think you are, but you don’t decide the pace. Let’s fucking go!”
He speeds ahead, straight into the house; the truck colliding with the structure dramatically and viciously. He’s engulfed, a ball of flame and metal and childhood memories that didn’t belong to him. Everything burns gloriously. From him, came the only source of heat presented on the long road here. A brilliant, burning red that fades into black.
He awakes with the start in the middle of the street, annoyed honking attacking him. Covered in ash and soot from the wreckage, like a deer in headlights, he doesn’t move from his spot on the ground, confusion overtaking him until he sees her.
The Dog. A little way down the street. Laying and lounging. Under her, his titles. All three of them are waiting for him to get it together. He discovers it then. Like a fucking stab to the gut, it hits him.
It’s overwhelming. There’s something devastating about it. Something that brings tears to his eyes as he scrambles to his feet. He walks up to her, the Dog that has been missing for weeks. He gathers his titles and puts them over each shoulder. He looks around and recognizes his city, the city he left in an emotional rush as he was nearing his victory. The life, the bustle, the strangeness of it all; a stark contrast to the barren wasteland where some reside.
“I could never do what you do,” he whispers, taking in the sights and the people once again as he gets out of the street. It’s all he says. It’s pathetic, speaking out the truth.
“I’ll see you at Coup de Grace. Happy Pigeon Day, Ana.”
And with that, he and the Dog walk their own road together, right back to where it started. To the Warehouse we go.