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Atara Raven · (03-09-2020)

Clack...clack...clack.

It was the repetitive smack of a jump rope hitting the floor. Echoing throughout the emptiness of a Chicago gym, it was rhythmic, so much so you could have timed the day to each slap. Part of a ritual, an experienced ear would have known the workout was as practiced and as accustomed to Atara as she was to breathing. She may have won the genetic lottery but it took long hours and even harder work to maintain what the gods had blessed her with. A fact that slipped minds when her appearance was a topic for trash talk segments.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Faster now, the whirl of the rope reverberated through the air. Alone, Atara watched herself in a ceiling to floor mirror plastered to a gym wall. Beads of sweat trickled down her body, the loose bun atop her head becoming more and more disheveled with each jump. She had lost track of time, of purpose, even a sense of her own body trying to tell her enough was enough. There was the sight of her and the memory of yesterday.

The Ex.

The Fucking Ex!

Clackclackclackclack.....

An inhuman speed, the whirl around her had become a semblance of the hum of a lightsaber but the heat from this metaphorical plasma blade was in the fiery gaze Atara aimed at her own reflection. Distorting, her face twisted in the mirror. Twisted, shifted and reshaped itself into the face of that gold-digging bitch she had just by coincidence found at Shawn's place the day prior. Coincidence her ass. The clack of her jump rope dissipated suddenly, thrown into the mirror, it's noise was replaced with a crash just a few seconds after. The reflection she saw cracked, shattered and disappeared into a thousand tiny shards of broken glass across the gym floor. A thousand tiny shards across the floor framed by a rope shaped into what appeared to be a heart.

The imagery was enough to give Atara reason to pause. She stood for a moment, awestruck, looking down at the floor in front of her and in that moment all her anger vanished instead replaced with the coldness of fear. Panicked, she flung herself to the floor and bare hands went to work trying to pile up and piece back together what destruction her fit had caused. What may have seemed like another coincidence to most was again, to her, anything but. You may not believe in them, you may laugh at her for thinking it possible, but omens were a very real and at this moment very terrifying possibility in this realm of reality.

Tears had begun to well up in her eyes and she ignored every knick and scrap she suffered. "No, no, no...." her voice pleaded while bleeding fingers patched a broken heart. She was no oracle and she couldn't interpret fully what this might have meant, but she remembered fully the last time they had spoken to her. Christmas and the elimination match. Things hadn't bode well for her in that outing despite her string of success leading up to it and here she was again, off a recent win and with things relatively in her favor. Both in the ring and out.

"Please....no. Not this time, not with him. Please, just tell me what I have to do," she whimpered, she begged and looked skyward in hopes of some divine response. Silence, Atara was answered with silence. Her eyes diverted down to the pile of broken glass and all the anger from before swelled internally. On an impulse, the same bare and bloody hands she had used to piece it all together slapped at the pile in a fit of rage and scattered it across the floor again.

Later that Day...

"Hello Doves!"

Here we are again for our favorite part of the promotional process. The monologue, the trash talk, the verbal bashing of two people who more likely than not have a great deal in common but refuse to acknowledge it for the sake of your entertainment. That might typically be the case, but for this segment, I am going to acknowledge the things I have in common with my opponent if for no other reason than to dissuade any delusion that he has an advantage over me. The exception is obviously his size, and in that, I'm not even exactly sure it's an advantage. It's my experience in the XWF that the larger and more successful the men think they are the more anxious and willing they become to be under me.

The Engineer, Fuzz, Noah, and most recently Centurion, each and everyone as had Atara on their mind and my name roll off their tongue. Me Big D, a rookie green as grass with little to no true accomplishment, just a pretty face with a pugnacious attitude to match. Who knows for what reason, but the point is this. There was a time the same could be said of you, years ago perhaps, but true all the same. You were relevant, you were a threat greater than anything Peter Gilmour could hope to be...but now. Now D, you're a coat-tailing has been riding the Notorious Ned wave into what you hope to be March Madness victory.

You're not a threat to anyone. No one is clamoring for a match with the former TV champion, we're not even buying your action figures or did that really change in a few week's time because you pledged yourself subservient to Ned's title run?

Subservient.

Ned's cuck.

The Engineer's new whooping boy.

How does your wife feel about that? Did you cry yourself to sleep that night? Did she have to console you after whatever nightmare you had about what Shane

did to you?
Or did she put you on the couch and tell you to grow a fucking pair? Stop being the crybaby bitch we all know you are? Because if she did Big D, after round 2 of this tournament you can probably look for divorce papers and not because of the hurt I'm going to put on you. I'll bet money you get victimized again and not because of Engy needing to further whatever example he's trying to display, but because it's easy.

Whatever you think you have left to prove, whatever fight you think you have left in you...it's just not there and if it was, no one here cares enough to see you triumphant. That's why they are going to target you. The people care about Ned, he's money. The people care about the Engineer, he's money. You. You're expendable. Deep down you know it's true. Deep down you know your just a body the XWF is using to fill a match card and its the Atara's, the Geri Millers, and as much as it pains me to say...the Madison Dyson's the people are paying to see this March.

Not you. Not anymore. Go to your bathroom, look in the mirror. Admit it. Cry about it. Then get out of the future of this company's fucking way.

Til next time Dove.

*winkyface*

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