Post by Ana Somnia on Jun 16, 2022 23:32:13 GMT -5
III.
“ALLIGATOR BLOOD”
W.C.A. FIGHT CLUB.
DENVER, COLORADO.
THURSDAY, JUNE 16th.
11:25 p.m.
“ALLIGATOR BLOOD”
W.C.A. FIGHT CLUB.
DENVER, COLORADO.
THURSDAY, JUNE 16th.
11:25 p.m.
At this hour, the W.C.A. Fight Club facility has emptied out, leaving only the proprietor within the confines of its decorated walls. Our camera rests on a tripod in front of the owner and face of the facility, ANA SOMNIA, who sports a black pair of jeans, a sleeveless black Forge sweatshirt, and a black W.C.A. Fight Club beanie. Her eyes, however, are not oriented toward our camera, but toward that which resides upon the desk separating her from our lens.
Our foreground focuses, illustrating a single bullet on the desk with ИРИНА scratched into it. We refocus on Somnia as she reaches out and takes the bullet in hand. The sound of ammunition scraping its way into the cylinder of a Nagant M1895 revolver permeates the air. After pressing the bullet into its proper place, Ana shoots her eyes up to the camera with narrowed eyes. She spins the cylinder and flicks the weapon to the side, snapping the cylinder into place without knowing which pull of the trigger for which the bullet sits inside.
She lifts the weapon and presses the barrel against her right temple.
And then she pulls the trigger.
“I would like to play game with you, Irina,” she says, unphased by the possibility of having ended her life. “You and I, we share heritage. We share… similar views on violence and sport. But we do not share same level of skill, of talent, of bloodlust. I must admit, I respect you. But my respect only goes so far, you see. My respect for you will not save you from what I will do to you, what I must do to you.” She shakes her head. “Да, you have fought your way to Infinite Power Finals— and for what, маленький девочка? To kneel at my feet? Or to fall at my feet? Either way, Irina, there is no victory for you in our little game. There is only defeat, subjugation, and death.” With her upper lip curled in contempt, Ana presses the barrel of the revolver to her temple again. She squeezes the trigger for emphasis. “You have potential, да, but potential does not deserve world championship. Potential does not deserve to represent company or sport. Potential… is for another day. To make simple for you, you are not ready for this fight, this… opportunity. This means this is shame I must end your career before you have true chance to begin.” Again, Ana shakes her head disdainfully. “But I will do this— because I must! You see, сука, I have plans for this company. I have plans for sport. And these plans, Irina, they demand Infinite Pro Heavyweight Championship rests around my waist like crown upon head. My victory at First Contact is what is best for title, best for company, and best for sport. What I will do to you is mere means to end.”
“But I will nonetheless enjoy watching color drain from your eyes.”
“I might not have,” she concedes. “If you did not act as if you belong in ring with me, sharing same stage as me. But instead of offering me respect, offering me what I deserve, what I have EARNED, you delude yourself into believing not only you belong, but you have chance in hell of defeating me.” Ana shakes her head for seemingly the hundredth time before pressing the gun to her temple again. Click. Three empty chambers. Three to go. “This would amuse me if this did not insult me. As you will soon learn for yourself, I do not take kindly to insults. In fact, I do not allow those who insult me to survive long enough to tell tale. I once thought you and I could be cut from same cloth. Cold streets of Mother Russia have way of… hardening resolve. I once thought you could have place in future of sport. You were not overachiever like Liz Karlson. You were not glorified showman like Alastor Touchdown. You were ferocious rising star with heart of violence and long future ahead of her. But now? Now you have no future at all.” As if reinforcing the notion of a nonexistent future, Somnia once again pulls the trigger with the gun pressed against her temple. Nothing. Two to go. “But me? I have long life ahead of me. My future is filled with success and many more victories to come. Most importantly, Irina? My future features your head on my mantle… my name on tongue of everyone in our sport… and Infinite Pro Heavyweight Championship around my waist. And all I must do to obtain this future is end your career... end your life? I have faced hikes more challenging. So there is no doubt I will leave First Contact as Infinite Pro Heavyweight Champion.”
“This, like me, is inevitable.”
“Because this future of mine I speak of?” she asks rhetorically. “This future is no different than future of company, of sport. They are one and same. There is no future of IPW, no future of sport without Ana Somnia to lead, without Ana Somnia to cull ranks and build foundation.” As the corner of her mouth curls into a venomous sneer, she places the gun to her temple and squeezes the trigger again. Her brains remain intact. Only one of the two remaining chambers is empty, yet her demeanor is unchanged. “I will not allow mere prospect to keep sport from reaching this future. I will not allow mere prospect to stand in way of progress. Because those who stand in way of my cause do not stand for long.” Drawing a slow, deep, and sharp breath through her nose, Ana presses the gun to her temple and pulls the trigger again. Empty. “Because when you step into ring with Devil Herself? When you step into inaugural Infinite Pro Heavyweight Champion’s ring, MY ring?”
She smirks, before pointing the gun at the camera.
“NO ONE SURVIVES!”
And then she pulls the trigger.
Fade.
“Let's play a game of Russian Roulette. I'll load the gun, you place the bets. Tell me who will make it out alive.”
— Bring Me the Horizon
Our foreground focuses, illustrating a single bullet on the desk with ИРИНА scratched into it. We refocus on Somnia as she reaches out and takes the bullet in hand. The sound of ammunition scraping its way into the cylinder of a Nagant M1895 revolver permeates the air. After pressing the bullet into its proper place, Ana shoots her eyes up to the camera with narrowed eyes. She spins the cylinder and flicks the weapon to the side, snapping the cylinder into place without knowing which pull of the trigger for which the bullet sits inside.
She lifts the weapon and presses the barrel against her right temple.
And then she pulls the trigger.
“I would like to play game with you, Irina,” she says, unphased by the possibility of having ended her life. “You and I, we share heritage. We share… similar views on violence and sport. But we do not share same level of skill, of talent, of bloodlust. I must admit, I respect you. But my respect only goes so far, you see. My respect for you will not save you from what I will do to you, what I must do to you.” She shakes her head. “Да, you have fought your way to Infinite Power Finals— and for what, маленький девочка? To kneel at my feet? Or to fall at my feet? Either way, Irina, there is no victory for you in our little game. There is only defeat, subjugation, and death.” With her upper lip curled in contempt, Ana presses the barrel of the revolver to her temple again. She squeezes the trigger for emphasis. “You have potential, да, but potential does not deserve world championship. Potential does not deserve to represent company or sport. Potential… is for another day. To make simple for you, you are not ready for this fight, this… opportunity. This means this is shame I must end your career before you have true chance to begin.” Again, Ana shakes her head disdainfully. “But I will do this— because I must! You see, сука, I have plans for this company. I have plans for sport. And these plans, Irina, they demand Infinite Pro Heavyweight Championship rests around my waist like crown upon head. My victory at First Contact is what is best for title, best for company, and best for sport. What I will do to you is mere means to end.”
“But I will nonetheless enjoy watching color drain from your eyes.”
“I might not have,” she concedes. “If you did not act as if you belong in ring with me, sharing same stage as me. But instead of offering me respect, offering me what I deserve, what I have EARNED, you delude yourself into believing not only you belong, but you have chance in hell of defeating me.” Ana shakes her head for seemingly the hundredth time before pressing the gun to her temple again. Click. Three empty chambers. Three to go. “This would amuse me if this did not insult me. As you will soon learn for yourself, I do not take kindly to insults. In fact, I do not allow those who insult me to survive long enough to tell tale. I once thought you and I could be cut from same cloth. Cold streets of Mother Russia have way of… hardening resolve. I once thought you could have place in future of sport. You were not overachiever like Liz Karlson. You were not glorified showman like Alastor Touchdown. You were ferocious rising star with heart of violence and long future ahead of her. But now? Now you have no future at all.” As if reinforcing the notion of a nonexistent future, Somnia once again pulls the trigger with the gun pressed against her temple. Nothing. Two to go. “But me? I have long life ahead of me. My future is filled with success and many more victories to come. Most importantly, Irina? My future features your head on my mantle… my name on tongue of everyone in our sport… and Infinite Pro Heavyweight Championship around my waist. And all I must do to obtain this future is end your career... end your life? I have faced hikes more challenging. So there is no doubt I will leave First Contact as Infinite Pro Heavyweight Champion.”
“This, like me, is inevitable.”
“Because this future of mine I speak of?” she asks rhetorically. “This future is no different than future of company, of sport. They are one and same. There is no future of IPW, no future of sport without Ana Somnia to lead, without Ana Somnia to cull ranks and build foundation.” As the corner of her mouth curls into a venomous sneer, she places the gun to her temple and squeezes the trigger again. Her brains remain intact. Only one of the two remaining chambers is empty, yet her demeanor is unchanged. “I will not allow mere prospect to keep sport from reaching this future. I will not allow mere prospect to stand in way of progress. Because those who stand in way of my cause do not stand for long.” Drawing a slow, deep, and sharp breath through her nose, Ana presses the gun to her temple and pulls the trigger again. Empty. “Because when you step into ring with Devil Herself? When you step into inaugural Infinite Pro Heavyweight Champion’s ring, MY ring?”
She smirks, before pointing the gun at the camera.
“NO ONE SURVIVES!”
And then she pulls the trigger.
Fade.
“Let's play a game of Russian Roulette. I'll load the gun, you place the bets. Tell me who will make it out alive.”
— Bring Me the Horizon
