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Atara Raven · (06-19-2020)

Everyone has their sad story. That one tragic event, an aspect of their personality, a mental defect, a flaw that's suppose make them appeal to the empath in all of us. A pity party is still a party after all, misery loves company and all that mess. Atara was no different in the regard she had her sad story. A tale heard a thousand times over and then some.
The dead parent, woe
is me, and where is my cave of gadgets trope we've seen over and over.

I mean, not as many times as we've seen sad legends recounting the past in hope to appeal to the nostalgia in all of us, but close. If it works, why not, both are just as effective because they are the stories that never cease. Seriously, they never end. Watch Robert Main and CCP. Were Atara is different however, is that her sad story is not central to her person nor is it a crutch to be leaned on to garner attention. She didn't need it right? She had tits. She had ass, a pouty smile and eyes that trapped the most alpha of men in their gaze. No, Atara didn't need your tears.

It was doubtful anyone inside the XWF even knew her mother was dead. Shawn, of course. Raven, sure. Maybe Centurion even had cared to dig. These were after all the only three people to look past the tits, the ass, the smile, and the eyes to see her as an entire individual comprised of the same flesh and bone of the human roster. A sentient human being capable of everything they were capable of. They didn't give her sympathy, they didn't throw down lofty expectations, no insult or cat call. They offered her truth and they gave her respect. Sad stories and past exploits can't guarantee those things. History is regarded by the eye of the beholder and stories are oft one sided affairs with little truth and heavy embellishment.

Atara had her sad story. She had her own history. She had her truths and while as embellished as they may have seemed when she told them they were truth. Sadly, sometimes the truth hurts, sometimes it cuts deeper than any tragedy. A double sided sword cutting ever which way its swung and the hardest blows were when you were not the wielder but a friend or confidant had been. It wasn't her sad story that Atara had been coping with these past weeks, it wasn't the horrific loss marked in her history, it was the truths she had been given.

Sat in front of a vanity she was touched by the wind from dancing in through an open window. It tickled Atara's hair and kissed her cheek, the warmth making her body its perch. The smell, oooh the smell, it reminded her she was home. Gave cause for her lips to part in the softest of smiles. No, she definately wasn't in New York where she had spent some of her youth. She was actually home. Hellas. Greece.

It wasn't the savage place of Warsteins dreams but the comfortable and safe Greece of her reality. Far removed from friends, from colleagues, Athens favoured daughter had removed herself from the spotlight she so adored. Hid away from the world she had needed time. Time to heal, not of the bruises left by Ravens hands but wounds left by his words. She needed time to come to terms with the truths she had learned from him. Truths she had heard from and seen watching Centurion. Truths given by Shawn and the truths given by his and her opponents.

She was not ready.

She was not good enough.

She was...dependent.

Looking into the mirror, Atara had began the daily ritual of facial cleanse and the mundane process of applying her face that none of you care to hear. Wind blew again and all the sensations from moments before flooded back. Home. The same spot this had all started some weeks ago...years ago. Staring back from her vanity was her reflection, the older visage of the girl who had witnessed an XWF legend brutalize her father to near death. Who nearly had added to the sad story she yet to told. Staring back was the same face that same man had tried to cave in weeks back. Healed and still immaculate as ever, Atara's beauty itself had become a mask hiding the scars beneath.

Her face, the longer she worked the more it contorted and twisted into his face until James Raven looked back at her as if he were there. Truth trapped in silvery glass reminded her of so much time wasted, so much energy tossed. Years of her life devoted to this circus that was wrestling to find that man and put him in the hospital. So she could look down at his bruised and swollen face, watch him struggle to breathe. Grasp for life. So his children could look at what was suppose be their rock. Broken. Scared. So that Atara could look those children in the face, silently with just a stare telling them that it was her fists that had done it. When they looked up, sorrow filled eyes and begging for an explanation Atara would turn her back and simply walk away. Give them nothing, No apology. No explanation. Not even an excuse. Let them wonder and fear for the future.

It was what she had gotten. Nothing. A girl of fifteen already at odds with the world, already motherless and with two younger siblings to look after should her father pass. The reminder looking at her, she wanted to be angry. Wanted all the hatred harboured over the decade to boil over, but she couldn't find it. Only remorse and a tinge of gratitude hidden in the pool at the bottom of her lids.

Atara recalled the promo, the last one Raven recorded. Laced with the jabs and insults of his friends, the humor of Centurions obliviousness and even a hint of bitterness in Raven's own voice, she saw past it all and heard his words. Then, like now, tears pooled and fell as she watched . Atara still received no apology, no explanation, he couldn't even say her father's name. Raven, she knew, was very aware of what she was after and honestly didn't expect it, but what she did hear melted all the hate away. Actual tears rolled down her face that day. He offered respect, elevated her beyond the accessory of Shawn Warstein to her own person. Hadn't down played her. It was almost as if the act of accepting the match was the apology itself. It was her chance, he would pay his due but she had to take it. He offered her the hard truth as well.

Eros never spoke much of the fight, but Atara in that moment couldn't help but wonder if Raven had offered her dad the same respect and given him the same truth. Blunt honesty, they hadn't been ready. They weren't victims but recipients of what was asked for.

No, Atara wasn't ready. If she couldn't handle one legend then how would she handle a ring full at War Games. If she couldn't see and manage her own shortcomings how could she lead a team. She couldn't and she didn't. Lambs to the slaughter the loss would have assuredly been put on her head regardless. Atara didn't want that and whether they realised or not they were better off for it. She wouldn't apologize though. They had signed up for it, they weren't victims. Just getting what was asked. Hard truths.

Minutes passed and Atara was eventually ready for cameras waiting downstairs. It had been a while since she was on screen and she was nervous. Hesitant, the Grecian took her time getting dressed. The only people who needed apologies where the fans and despite what the roster thought these promos, these matches, everything was for and about them. Scared for lack of better word, fans being flippant creatures, she hoped those to words would be enough to get their forgiveness.

Consistency was key to success and the benchmark of consistency had just fallen a day or so ago. Centurion, she had watched him fight better men than HG and come out victorious and in this land of stables of teams hendid it largely week in and week out. It never changed with Centurion, it wasn't boring. It was just unmatched. Atara was no were near as consistent as Cent. She felt she was just as good, but never as consistent. Maybe not friends but she had admiration for him. Even when she had poked him, he like Raven was always courteous. Didn't look down the legend nose at her. Just told the truth. Not today kid. From what she saw Centurion was no different Wednesday. If consistent wasn't good enough anymore..she wasn't good enough either.

Downstairs now, the camera crew came in view and the process of making sure she was on spot, in frame, lit correctly. Wardrobe making adjustments, the whole staff diligent in assuring she looked her best so that when the world tuned in the XWF looked it's best. An accessory to be flaunted for extra attention and thrown back in the jewelry box until it was needed again. When it dulled, they bought cheap polish to shine it back up. Sometimes, when the piece had run its course, the ingenious chopped it up and added it to other trinkets to make them stand out once more. A gaudy gilded king has to impress after all.

A fucking heirloom. A conversation piece. You love it because it is yours, but think little of the damage you cause when showing it off. When getting the oil and grease of the hands of those who want it all over the thing. Eventually it breaks down, corrodes, rust, deteriorates and when it lies in pieces you call it cheap and disown it entirely. Who cares It was a heirloom, passed down. It was never asked for.

Its whole existence, its relevance, is dependent on the keeper. The XWF routinely made clear who King Warstein's conversation piece was. It made routinely clear who Atara was dependent on. How many times had she been put in the jewelery box? Stored away because the King had no use for her. How many times had he used his trophy as the weapon it could be? How many times had he shown up too late to smack oily hands off his trinket. How many times had his prized possession been nearly destroyed by envy and carelessness

How had that priceless jewel been cared for. ..second hand silver polish and inlaid in the next thing to keep eyes on the King. His majesty has fallen on hard times now, his trinket gone, shining brightly on it's own elsewhere.

Atara's eyes were brought back to reality with a snap of fingers and she fast caught sight of a gentleman counting down to call of roll tape

Hard Truths. She may have not been ready for Raven She may have not been as good as Centurion. She may have even draped herself on Shawn's neck dependent on him to care and show her off, but of all the truths she knew. Her truths There was one man she was leaps and bounds greater than...

Camera light was on. Silence on Set. Eyes to lens and pouty smile in effect. Rolling

"Hello Doves!"

"Hello Thunder Knuckles"

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