Mission Log 01: Knee-Deep in the Dead
Apr 2, 2020 14:53:15 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Justin, and 1 more like this
Post by Elissa Saint on Apr 2, 2020 14:53:15 GMT -5
Elissa rose from her bed. And cracked her forehead on the ceiling, sinking back down with a groan. Barely a bed. A capsule, rented by the month on the meager funds she had available to her after making her trip to Japan. And because she'd had an impulse cross her mind, she found herself the last one in under the wire. The last person to enter the XHF Rumble. The X*Crown hanging right before her. Years...no, decades of history, all before she'd even been scheduled to make her debut for her "home" promotion. Life had a funny way of handling things.
She pulled herself out of the capsule, groaning and cracking her neck. The damn thing was built for someone easily half a foot shorter than her, if not more. She needed a minute to decompress and limber up, even if all she was doing was talking at her phone's camera and talking herself up for this match. Ahh, promotion. Her least favorite part of the wrestling world. She was here for a fight. She wasn't here to wax poetic. Hell, she was barely here to wax her car. Not that waxing the cheap plastic of the Nissan Micra she'd been able to scavenge up really did much of anything.
Walking past the front desk and replying to the cheery "Ohayo gozaimasu!" from the front desk worker with a grunt and a nod, Elissa walked out to the battered Micra, leaning against it and beginning to put herself through some basic yoga stretches. A loud pop from one of her lumbar vertebrae earned a groan of relief as she slumped against the car, and Elissa rested her head on the roof, wincing and counting backwards from ten.
She'd never been on a flight as long as the one it had taken to get her to Japan. Elissa was still convinced that this whole ordeal was going to turn her into a damn pretzel. There were aches and soreness she'd picked up crammed into that tube that hadn't gone away in the days since she landed. Son of a bitch. Stretch. Massage. Then drink. Whatever it takes to get back to fighting shape. Enemy don't wait for you to get comfortable. No reason to waste your breath on whining about it.
Alright. Showtime. She cracked the door to the car, pulled on a J-ROK tanktop that the office had requested she wear for promotional purposes, and flipped her phone around, tapping a few buttons before inhaling deeply and hitting the big red one.
++++ TRANSMISSION BEGINS ++++
Elissa Saint stands in a mostly-deserted parking lot somewhere in Japan, her eyes boring into the camera. She speaks with a low growl, a vague Southern tinge to her accent.
Elissa: So. They want me to say a few things for the people. Talk about the Rumble. What's there to say? It's chaos. A meat grinder. Bodies left and right, bloodying themselves for a shot at glory.
A pause. A brief, almost imperceptible smirk.
Elissa: Sounds like fun. Numbers aren't good. Long shot that I'll do it with all the new faces to take in. But hell. Can't ask for a better fight than this. Good way to get to know you all. Sure beats some corporate lunch. Wouldn't be able to punch any of you in the face at one of those.
She rolls her wrists, briefly tugging the tanktop she's wearing down to emphasize the logo emblazoned on it.
Elissa: J-ROK corporate says I gotta fly the flag. They sign the checks. They get me the fights. So I've been told. So sure. I'll run the colors when they make me. But make no mistake, this brand? Nothing to me yet. I don't owe anyone anything 'til it's on the tab. Wanna make a friend? Earn it. Show me what you're made of. Wanna make an enemy? Same deal. I'm equal opportunity. And a little amateur dentistry always makes me feel better.
Another brief grin, this one accompanied by the raise of an eyebrow and the crack of gloved knuckles, hand over fist.
Elissa: So let's see how this shitshow goes down. This many bodies, there's only one game plan I really need. Y'all are going to be ruthless. Hungry. But I'll just have to be worse. Rip and tear. Until it's done.
She sketches a quick salute with a nod before the recording cuts out.
++++ TRANSMISSION ENDS ++++
She pulled herself out of the capsule, groaning and cracking her neck. The damn thing was built for someone easily half a foot shorter than her, if not more. She needed a minute to decompress and limber up, even if all she was doing was talking at her phone's camera and talking herself up for this match. Ahh, promotion. Her least favorite part of the wrestling world. She was here for a fight. She wasn't here to wax poetic. Hell, she was barely here to wax her car. Not that waxing the cheap plastic of the Nissan Micra she'd been able to scavenge up really did much of anything.
Walking past the front desk and replying to the cheery "Ohayo gozaimasu!" from the front desk worker with a grunt and a nod, Elissa walked out to the battered Micra, leaning against it and beginning to put herself through some basic yoga stretches. A loud pop from one of her lumbar vertebrae earned a groan of relief as she slumped against the car, and Elissa rested her head on the roof, wincing and counting backwards from ten.
She'd never been on a flight as long as the one it had taken to get her to Japan. Elissa was still convinced that this whole ordeal was going to turn her into a damn pretzel. There were aches and soreness she'd picked up crammed into that tube that hadn't gone away in the days since she landed. Son of a bitch. Stretch. Massage. Then drink. Whatever it takes to get back to fighting shape. Enemy don't wait for you to get comfortable. No reason to waste your breath on whining about it.
Alright. Showtime. She cracked the door to the car, pulled on a J-ROK tanktop that the office had requested she wear for promotional purposes, and flipped her phone around, tapping a few buttons before inhaling deeply and hitting the big red one.
++++ TRANSMISSION BEGINS ++++
Elissa Saint stands in a mostly-deserted parking lot somewhere in Japan, her eyes boring into the camera. She speaks with a low growl, a vague Southern tinge to her accent.
Elissa: So. They want me to say a few things for the people. Talk about the Rumble. What's there to say? It's chaos. A meat grinder. Bodies left and right, bloodying themselves for a shot at glory.
A pause. A brief, almost imperceptible smirk.
Elissa: Sounds like fun. Numbers aren't good. Long shot that I'll do it with all the new faces to take in. But hell. Can't ask for a better fight than this. Good way to get to know you all. Sure beats some corporate lunch. Wouldn't be able to punch any of you in the face at one of those.
She rolls her wrists, briefly tugging the tanktop she's wearing down to emphasize the logo emblazoned on it.
Elissa: J-ROK corporate says I gotta fly the flag. They sign the checks. They get me the fights. So I've been told. So sure. I'll run the colors when they make me. But make no mistake, this brand? Nothing to me yet. I don't owe anyone anything 'til it's on the tab. Wanna make a friend? Earn it. Show me what you're made of. Wanna make an enemy? Same deal. I'm equal opportunity. And a little amateur dentistry always makes me feel better.
Another brief grin, this one accompanied by the raise of an eyebrow and the crack of gloved knuckles, hand over fist.
Elissa: So let's see how this shitshow goes down. This many bodies, there's only one game plan I really need. Y'all are going to be ruthless. Hungry. But I'll just have to be worse. Rip and tear. Until it's done.
She sketches a quick salute with a nod before the recording cuts out.
++++ TRANSMISSION ENDS ++++