Post by asmalltable on Feb 27, 2024 7:56:18 GMT -5
It was two in the morning when, approaching the last mile, they cut the engine and switched to rowing.
One figure hunched in the bow of the small launch, checked her watch. A few minutes late, she noted, but that didn’t matter too much. They had three hours of silence still to go, maybe four if they got lucky and the shift changes were slow. A tiny sliver of moonlight rippled in the water, just enough to see the outline of the mansion, jutting starkly out above the bay. Modernist, plenty of plate glass and gleaming white plaster. All show, no substance. Tacky. Just like its owner, they thought.
They rowed in just far enough to get round the rocks and opposite the curving beach. She’d spotted the approach in a little bit of surveillance two weeks ago, under the guise of a boat tour, while her partner was fighting an Uncivil War. A set of walled-off stairs - private beach access, leading up to an expansive balcony, curved in just the wrong way to be outside of the camera’s field of view.
Not that it mattered. Once they’d done what they planned, it would be obvious who’d been here, and why. It was a statement, after all - neither a spur-of-the-moment prank, nor a secretive operation. It was about showing that no lock was unbreakable, no wall impassable. No door stayed closed forever.
With a quiet splash, her partner pulled the oars back into the boat, and for a moment everything was silent while they drifted ashore. Just the quiet lapping of waves, and their breath. Enough time to finish the train of thought.
Despite… well, everything about them, they weren’t really the type to have done this as teenagers. Petty shoplifting maybe, once or twice, but they weren’t really bad kids. And now, especially, they had fans looking up to them. Admiring their resilience, their strength, their decision-making. Nothing too saccharine, they weren’t role models - after all, they’d sort of (well, totally) cheated to retain against the Malvados… but still. A part of her - and a smaller part of her partner - was uncomfortable with this. It felt a little below the belt. Not fitting for some of TPW’s heroes. Fortunately for them, and unfortunately for the mansion’s owner, and his partner… the part of them that burned with rage was stronger.
There were few people that Lights Out truly hated in TPW… but Petey and Joey were top of the list.
Back to the present - she’s shaken from her thoughts by the launch gently bumping up against the beachfront. She nods to her partner, who reaches down into the bottom of the boat and pulls up a small black duffel bag, slinging it over her shoulder as, in one smooth motion, they vault over the side.
Got it?
Her partner unzips the bag.
Camera… lighters… sample… yep. Let’s go.
Her partner’s voice is unusually serious, she realises, with a note of approval.
It’s about fifty paces up the beach to the bottom of the stairs. Well, to where it would be, were it not blocked by a five-foot tall gate of smooth, sheer metal, painted white. Padlocked on the inside, no doubt. Nothing doing, for a duo who’ve seen the inside of a lot of rickety cages. One figure kneels, holds up her hand, boosts the other up and over, then steps back, takes a deep breath, runs, leaps… just barely grazes over the top and into her partner’s steady hands.
Right. From here, masks off, so he knows who did this.
Her partner nods, slips off the sheer black mask she’s been wearing, and shakes her blonde hair loose, revealing Ava Arthur’s face - for once, set in a cold, focused frown. Next to her, Alessia’s much the same, as she checks herself over quickly for bruises from the dive, before they nod to each other and begin the climb.
Above them, the mansion looms like an iceberg, cold, white, indifferent. Half-hanging off the beachfront cliff, it stank of hubris. They’d been at the top just a few short months ago, before they’d looked the wrong way and toppled. But the climb had started again, a win over a promising young team the first step on the way back up. Now a real obstacle was ahead, above - metaphorically, and literally. But in some ways, this is where they like it. Underdogs. Inflitrators. Outsiders, ready to upend the existing order. Just like they’d done once already.
At the top of the stairs, they emerge out onto the balcony - polished stone, curling around the side of the house, lined with a long, narrow pool making up the very edge. The layout wasn’t a secret. JMont loved to brag about his Hamptons house, and with the amount of videos on social media from influencers he’d paid to tour it and make shocked faces, Alessia had been able to draw up a pretty good idea of the floorplan. It’d taken a lot of late nights while Ava was away at Lazarus Tact’s compound, but the spite, the hatred of these two self-proclaimed kings, was more than enough to keep her awake.
The entrance door they’d chosen was flush with the wall, no handle, designed to slide open seamlessly and automatically when approached. During the day, of course. At nighttime, state-of-the-art - supposedly - security held it closed. But of course, JMont being JMont, he’d bragged about the system. Mostly how much it cost, but he’d also mentioned something else. So when Alessia feels around underneath where the handle would be… the little blue panel lights up, just as promised.
She gestures back to Ava, who feels around inside the bag, then withdraws a small picture, laminated, about the size of a polaroid. Of course, Joey’d gone for the most pricey option - iris recognition. But after a week of training together for Uncivil War, Ava had finally talked her team into taking a few pictures together, just to hype the match up. So she’d said. The camera had been unusually high resolution, but JMont hadn’t noticed her turning up the zoom…
She passes it to Alessia, who holds it up, holds her breath… and the door clicks open.
Like she’d said, they aren’t trying to stay unnoticed for ever, but as they slip through into the dark hallway beyond they’re glad they didn’t have to break out the big guns just yet. Smashing a window would’ve worked, in some ways, but Alessia’s sure there’s got to be a system monitoring those. The lights are all off, though - Ava’s right, he’s already left for training with Vaughn (his private jet tail numbers are on record to TPW employees, so they can roll out the red carpet whenever he arrives, and so they’re easy enough to track.) Nobody home. She’s a little surprised that there isn’t anyone guarding the place… but that’s more Petey's style, isn’t it, to surround himself with backup in case of any danger. Joey’s far too arrogant for that.
The first stop on their route is third on the left - the garage. Room for three vehicles, though in this case only one sits there - Italian, of course, red, beautiful, the 2023 Ferrari SF90 Stradale. With all optional extras, and, of course, vanity plates. As Ava finds the lightswitch, smooth mirrored walls - interrupted only by the heavy metal door, Joey’s far too vain to have such mundane things as tools on display - seem to stretch the room out into infinity. A million copies of the Ferrari, trapped in crystal glass. A small part of Alessia’s heart, her Italian heritage, hurts that they’re going to do this to something from her country, something so beautiful.
Luckily, Ava has no such worries, and has already pulled the boxcutter from her bag. Of course the car’s alarmed - there’s probably backups on backups. But the tyres aren’t, as she systematically slashes each one, filling the room with the slow hiss of escaping air. And while the shock sensors are well calibrated, they aren’t so sensitive as to pick up a slow, steady scratch - otherwise they’d go off for every little crash and bump. So as Ava hands it off to Alessia, she steadies her hands, exhales, and slowly carves into the hood. DEATH TO ALL KINGS. LIGHTS OUT.
She gives herself a few moments to admire her handiwork, before they slip back out into the corridor and move on.
It’s the work of a few moments to sabotage the home gym. Again, nothing too elaborate, nothing that’ll trigger the alarms - just a slow cut spilling sand from the punching bag, de-tensioning the ropes holding up the practice ring. (They’d worked enough small indie shows to have doubled up as crew plenty of times. Alessia doubted someone with either Joey or Petey’s overblown egos would ever do that.) They’re about to leave when Ava sees the huge photo print hanging on one wall, JMont holding up his American Championship in the middle of the ring, that same old smug smile plastered on his face. It’s only a minute or two extra to climb on Alessia’s shoulders, balance, and slash that grin open.
Luxury bathrooms next - keep it simple, let the taps overflow, water seeping into the walls, eating away at the beams. The whole marble and gold edifice, slowly rotting from the inside. Appropriate, isn’t it?
Into the lounge, with its two-storey windows looking out over the bay, carefully installed to not have any other houses visible. Death by a thousand cuts. They’d won so many matches by attrition, now - outlasting JMont in the rumble, nearly toppling Vaughn in a brutal, bloody battle before a surprise attack brought Ava down. Cut a wire here, break a connector there, join them in the wrong place, and a power surge shatters a whole string of crystal chandelier bulbs in one go. Wicked-sharp glass rains on the varnished wooden floors. Ava silently thanks whatever motivated her father to become an electrician, and all the DIY lessons he’d given her and her brother over the years. Reverse-engineering the effects wasn’t hard. Alessia scoops up a shard and barely flinches as she slices her palm open, then lets the blood drip over the silk and velvet of the sofas. The cleaning bill would ruin her, though to their opponents it’d be a drop in the bucket… but they’d never be able to wash out the knowledge that for all the thousands of dollars of security, blood could still be spilled, right in their sanctum.
Which is all a nice enough metaphor, if Ava hadn’t spent a little too long staring at the sparkling shower of falling glass, and not quite enough time noticing the pool of water trickling through the doorway and into the room. Because when she turns around to cross over to Joey’s bedroom, her foot goes down wrong, and she slips.
Time slows.
Alessia’s head turns. Her eyes widen.
In front of Ava, through the window glass, the cold water of the bay stretches out like a cloth, framed by the silhouettes of cliffs and trees and swaying grass. The pool on the edge of the deck sparkles. A light flashes, somewhere off in the distance, a lone car sweeping up a back road, maybe a teenage couple out late.
She throws up her arms to cover her eyes, as she smashes straight through.
Shards rain down, flecks of sharp, hot pain on her back, scratching, cutting. Alessia stifles a shout.
All hell breaks loose.
A piercing, shrieking alarm sounds, deafening them both, as red lights flash. Alessia can’t hear a word of Ava’s shouting as she rushes over, hauls her partner to her feet. The bag lies open, its contents spilling out across the stone. A radio monitor crackles to life - police dispatch. Alarm at the Montouri house. Of course he has a direct line. Why wouldn’t he?
Ava staggers up, bloody red dashes all across the black fabric. She just about landed on her hands, and even through the sudden rush of adrenaline and shock she pushes Alessia away, scrambling over to the bag. It clicks for Alessia about half a second later. The backup plan. Ava gets there first, snatching up an old brick of a cellphone, while Alessia grabs its twin that lies a few feet away. Ava dials 999, Alessia thumbs through a series of voice recordings.
The operator’s voice crackles from the old phone. What’s your emergency?
Alessia thanks her lucky stars that JMont loves to talk so much. And that she’d spent so much time editing her own videos on the indies. She hits play, and on the other phone… a recording of his voice.
SHUT UP! TURN THAT SH*T OFF!
The operator tries to talk. Mr Montouri-
SHUT UP! LEAVE ME ALONE!
Frankly, anyone else, they’d’ve twigged it. Although the poor quality of the phone’s speaker masks it a little, there’s still clear cuts. The speech barely makes sense, pouring out like a drunken, egotistical rant, half-coherent. But for JMont…
Well, that’s about the usual, isn’t it?
OK- the operator struggles against the endless interruptions, as Alessia plays through her soundbites OK- we’ll- we can remotely- Mr Montouri- we’ll get that shut off for you.
The lights flick off. The alarms go silent. Nothing but the sound of the waves in the bay.
Ava’s grinning stupidly wide.
Did that just-
Told you it’d work.
Ava can’t help but burst out laughing, and after a second or so, Alessia does, too. She pulls her partner in, embracing her - Ava winces - ow, ow, watch the cuts - but just as quickly, the coolness returns.
Ok. Forget the rest of it. Let’s finish this. Just grab the camera.
Ava nods, sweeps it up as the two step out onto the balcony, picking their way over glass shards. Alessia gathers up the rest of their supplies, and points, Ava nods. Towards the end of the balcony, a small raised structure, wooden, with a long glass table, chairs, and a huge, double-wide grill. They stoop low, find the release switch, and unhook the canisters of liquid propane, one each, carried back into the house in both arms. Then through the door, up the winding circular stairs, to the very top, where a grassy, neatly-cut lawn stretched over the top of the roof, dotted with garden furniture. Alessia rigs the camera up on the back of a patio chair, as Ava cracks open a canister and begins to pour it over the grass.
Ready?
As ever.
Live in three, two, one…
A red dot blinks on the camera.
Hey Joey. Hey Petey. Recognise where we are?
Don’t worry Joey, your insurance will cover it, right? Since you’re such a special little rich boy. And I know you won’t call the cops. Your ego’s too big. You’ll try to take us on yourself.
You know, aside from… everything else about you, I gotta say…. money really doesn’t buy taste, does it? This place is ugly as sin. Would’ve thought you could spare the money to hire a designer or something. Instead it looks like someone supersized a Holiday Inn. Overblown, overhyped, a mediocre brand that inexplicably survives, but is always second best. Always the fallback, never the first choice.
Kinda perfect for you, isn’t it? Almost got to the top. But you choked.
I wonder if you get jealous. Standing on the apron next to Vaughn, the man who actually managed to win it all. Does it hurt you? Remind you of who you could be, if you just were that little bit better?
But you know you’re never going to get there, don’t you? You look at him, and you realise that you’re always going to be second best. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Maybe you’ll hold a title for a bit, but only so someone better, smarter, faster can take it away from you. So in a vain attempt to actually win something for once, you’ve got down on your knees and kissed his boots and begged to team with our great International Champion, so maybe he can carry you to the top.
You always need someone else.
You know, I can’t wait for Junko to finally break you, for all of us.
Hey, Aves is here too. I think she’s got something to say.
Ava tosses aside the empty canister and steps forward, letting the oil seep into the ground. Alessia nods at her, and picks up the second.
Hey. I haven’t seen you since Uncivil War. You know, when I was in the ring, brawling with monsters twice my size, and you ran away ‘cause your little ego couldn’t take it?
Great teamwork. I’m sure that’s made your partner really trust that you can hang in there, when we’re smacking the fake-white teeth out of your mouth on Fury. Remember what happened at the end of the Bohemian Bash? Who was the one in the ring, Joey, and who was the one on the floor?
And Vaughn. Congrats on the DPI win. Great job riding someone else to victory, like always. Surrounding yourself with your Cabal, then teaming up with the walking condom stuffed full of dollar bills that is Alex Marshall. In a lot of ways, you’re a perfect partner for JMont, but instead of piling up money you use your ego as a shield.
But regaining the title doesn’t change that when you were alone, and had no-one else to call on… Knox beat you down, and stripped the belt from you. And burned it all away. On your own, one-on-one… just like Joey, you choked. And this time, when you’re across the ring from me, no Cabal is coming to save you.
You know what I see when I look at you both? A tragedy.
Because you’re good wrestlers. Great wrestlers, even, the type we came here to test ourselves against. Real survivors, real brawlers. We see that in you, just as much as we see it in us.
What sets us apart, is that when we lost, we didn’t complain, we didn’t go crying. We picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and threw ourselves right into the toughest team tournament in wrestling, to earn our way back to the top. Whereas Joey, you took one run at it, lost, and threw your lot in with Petey, who immediately rang Alex and worked out how he could screw Knox back out of the title.
You both could be real legends. Genuine talents, inspirations. You could be the reasons that the new generation comes through, looking to have dream matches with wrestlers they idolise. But instead you choose to grasp onto power with every last twitch of your aging fingers, lying and stealing and cheating - and all the time, Ava’s voice rises, fury building, pretending you’re the protagonists. At least most of the other dickheads in this company are honest about their cheating. At least the Malvados know they’re ‘Mucho Evil’.
Instead, every single thing you ever do, every reign, every title, every record, comes with a black mark next to it. That you couldn’t do it right. What a waste of a career.
Alessia kicks her canister aside, and puts her arm around her partner. Ava’s arms are crossed, staring daggers of black fury into the lens.
Even though we’ve been here nearly a year, mixing it up with the top card, even though we’re ex-champs, everyone still thinks we’re underdogs. Cashe and Warstein are already planning to face you two at TIP3. Counted us out before we’ve even stepped in the ring.
And you know what, we’re fine with that. Because it’s going to make it all the sweeter. You know why?
‘Cause you two build up these castles. Wealth, allies, ego, narcissism. Belts and trophies and titles won by fair and foul. From the outside, a shining city on the hill, a beacon of success. But inside it all, it’s as hollow and as fake as the diamonds on one of Joey’s watches.
Your castle of gold is built on foundations of sand. A fragile alliance of two huge egos, just about managing to hold it together long enough to make it through into round two.
How embarrassing it’ll be, when the underdog pair work their way through those foundations, right up into the inside, and blow it all apart.
We’re going to expose you as the frauds, chokers, failures that you really are. We don’t like you, we don’t even respect you. And when we’re done with you both, everything you’ve built… will be ash.
With a smirk, Alessia pulls out a lighter, flicks it on… and tosses it over her shoulder.
The grass catches quick - no rain for a few days, dry as tinder. And the last thing before the camera feed cuts out, is Ava and Alessia, silhouetted against the burning sky.
One figure hunched in the bow of the small launch, checked her watch. A few minutes late, she noted, but that didn’t matter too much. They had three hours of silence still to go, maybe four if they got lucky and the shift changes were slow. A tiny sliver of moonlight rippled in the water, just enough to see the outline of the mansion, jutting starkly out above the bay. Modernist, plenty of plate glass and gleaming white plaster. All show, no substance. Tacky. Just like its owner, they thought.
They rowed in just far enough to get round the rocks and opposite the curving beach. She’d spotted the approach in a little bit of surveillance two weeks ago, under the guise of a boat tour, while her partner was fighting an Uncivil War. A set of walled-off stairs - private beach access, leading up to an expansive balcony, curved in just the wrong way to be outside of the camera’s field of view.
Not that it mattered. Once they’d done what they planned, it would be obvious who’d been here, and why. It was a statement, after all - neither a spur-of-the-moment prank, nor a secretive operation. It was about showing that no lock was unbreakable, no wall impassable. No door stayed closed forever.
With a quiet splash, her partner pulled the oars back into the boat, and for a moment everything was silent while they drifted ashore. Just the quiet lapping of waves, and their breath. Enough time to finish the train of thought.
Despite… well, everything about them, they weren’t really the type to have done this as teenagers. Petty shoplifting maybe, once or twice, but they weren’t really bad kids. And now, especially, they had fans looking up to them. Admiring their resilience, their strength, their decision-making. Nothing too saccharine, they weren’t role models - after all, they’d sort of (well, totally) cheated to retain against the Malvados… but still. A part of her - and a smaller part of her partner - was uncomfortable with this. It felt a little below the belt. Not fitting for some of TPW’s heroes. Fortunately for them, and unfortunately for the mansion’s owner, and his partner… the part of them that burned with rage was stronger.
There were few people that Lights Out truly hated in TPW… but Petey and Joey were top of the list.
Back to the present - she’s shaken from her thoughts by the launch gently bumping up against the beachfront. She nods to her partner, who reaches down into the bottom of the boat and pulls up a small black duffel bag, slinging it over her shoulder as, in one smooth motion, they vault over the side.
Got it?
Her partner unzips the bag.
Camera… lighters… sample… yep. Let’s go.
Her partner’s voice is unusually serious, she realises, with a note of approval.
It’s about fifty paces up the beach to the bottom of the stairs. Well, to where it would be, were it not blocked by a five-foot tall gate of smooth, sheer metal, painted white. Padlocked on the inside, no doubt. Nothing doing, for a duo who’ve seen the inside of a lot of rickety cages. One figure kneels, holds up her hand, boosts the other up and over, then steps back, takes a deep breath, runs, leaps… just barely grazes over the top and into her partner’s steady hands.
Right. From here, masks off, so he knows who did this.
Her partner nods, slips off the sheer black mask she’s been wearing, and shakes her blonde hair loose, revealing Ava Arthur’s face - for once, set in a cold, focused frown. Next to her, Alessia’s much the same, as she checks herself over quickly for bruises from the dive, before they nod to each other and begin the climb.
Above them, the mansion looms like an iceberg, cold, white, indifferent. Half-hanging off the beachfront cliff, it stank of hubris. They’d been at the top just a few short months ago, before they’d looked the wrong way and toppled. But the climb had started again, a win over a promising young team the first step on the way back up. Now a real obstacle was ahead, above - metaphorically, and literally. But in some ways, this is where they like it. Underdogs. Inflitrators. Outsiders, ready to upend the existing order. Just like they’d done once already.
At the top of the stairs, they emerge out onto the balcony - polished stone, curling around the side of the house, lined with a long, narrow pool making up the very edge. The layout wasn’t a secret. JMont loved to brag about his Hamptons house, and with the amount of videos on social media from influencers he’d paid to tour it and make shocked faces, Alessia had been able to draw up a pretty good idea of the floorplan. It’d taken a lot of late nights while Ava was away at Lazarus Tact’s compound, but the spite, the hatred of these two self-proclaimed kings, was more than enough to keep her awake.
The entrance door they’d chosen was flush with the wall, no handle, designed to slide open seamlessly and automatically when approached. During the day, of course. At nighttime, state-of-the-art - supposedly - security held it closed. But of course, JMont being JMont, he’d bragged about the system. Mostly how much it cost, but he’d also mentioned something else. So when Alessia feels around underneath where the handle would be… the little blue panel lights up, just as promised.
She gestures back to Ava, who feels around inside the bag, then withdraws a small picture, laminated, about the size of a polaroid. Of course, Joey’d gone for the most pricey option - iris recognition. But after a week of training together for Uncivil War, Ava had finally talked her team into taking a few pictures together, just to hype the match up. So she’d said. The camera had been unusually high resolution, but JMont hadn’t noticed her turning up the zoom…
She passes it to Alessia, who holds it up, holds her breath… and the door clicks open.
Like she’d said, they aren’t trying to stay unnoticed for ever, but as they slip through into the dark hallway beyond they’re glad they didn’t have to break out the big guns just yet. Smashing a window would’ve worked, in some ways, but Alessia’s sure there’s got to be a system monitoring those. The lights are all off, though - Ava’s right, he’s already left for training with Vaughn (his private jet tail numbers are on record to TPW employees, so they can roll out the red carpet whenever he arrives, and so they’re easy enough to track.) Nobody home. She’s a little surprised that there isn’t anyone guarding the place… but that’s more Petey's style, isn’t it, to surround himself with backup in case of any danger. Joey’s far too arrogant for that.
The first stop on their route is third on the left - the garage. Room for three vehicles, though in this case only one sits there - Italian, of course, red, beautiful, the 2023 Ferrari SF90 Stradale. With all optional extras, and, of course, vanity plates. As Ava finds the lightswitch, smooth mirrored walls - interrupted only by the heavy metal door, Joey’s far too vain to have such mundane things as tools on display - seem to stretch the room out into infinity. A million copies of the Ferrari, trapped in crystal glass. A small part of Alessia’s heart, her Italian heritage, hurts that they’re going to do this to something from her country, something so beautiful.
Luckily, Ava has no such worries, and has already pulled the boxcutter from her bag. Of course the car’s alarmed - there’s probably backups on backups. But the tyres aren’t, as she systematically slashes each one, filling the room with the slow hiss of escaping air. And while the shock sensors are well calibrated, they aren’t so sensitive as to pick up a slow, steady scratch - otherwise they’d go off for every little crash and bump. So as Ava hands it off to Alessia, she steadies her hands, exhales, and slowly carves into the hood. DEATH TO ALL KINGS. LIGHTS OUT.
She gives herself a few moments to admire her handiwork, before they slip back out into the corridor and move on.
It’s the work of a few moments to sabotage the home gym. Again, nothing too elaborate, nothing that’ll trigger the alarms - just a slow cut spilling sand from the punching bag, de-tensioning the ropes holding up the practice ring. (They’d worked enough small indie shows to have doubled up as crew plenty of times. Alessia doubted someone with either Joey or Petey’s overblown egos would ever do that.) They’re about to leave when Ava sees the huge photo print hanging on one wall, JMont holding up his American Championship in the middle of the ring, that same old smug smile plastered on his face. It’s only a minute or two extra to climb on Alessia’s shoulders, balance, and slash that grin open.
Luxury bathrooms next - keep it simple, let the taps overflow, water seeping into the walls, eating away at the beams. The whole marble and gold edifice, slowly rotting from the inside. Appropriate, isn’t it?
Into the lounge, with its two-storey windows looking out over the bay, carefully installed to not have any other houses visible. Death by a thousand cuts. They’d won so many matches by attrition, now - outlasting JMont in the rumble, nearly toppling Vaughn in a brutal, bloody battle before a surprise attack brought Ava down. Cut a wire here, break a connector there, join them in the wrong place, and a power surge shatters a whole string of crystal chandelier bulbs in one go. Wicked-sharp glass rains on the varnished wooden floors. Ava silently thanks whatever motivated her father to become an electrician, and all the DIY lessons he’d given her and her brother over the years. Reverse-engineering the effects wasn’t hard. Alessia scoops up a shard and barely flinches as she slices her palm open, then lets the blood drip over the silk and velvet of the sofas. The cleaning bill would ruin her, though to their opponents it’d be a drop in the bucket… but they’d never be able to wash out the knowledge that for all the thousands of dollars of security, blood could still be spilled, right in their sanctum.
Which is all a nice enough metaphor, if Ava hadn’t spent a little too long staring at the sparkling shower of falling glass, and not quite enough time noticing the pool of water trickling through the doorway and into the room. Because when she turns around to cross over to Joey’s bedroom, her foot goes down wrong, and she slips.
Time slows.
Alessia’s head turns. Her eyes widen.
In front of Ava, through the window glass, the cold water of the bay stretches out like a cloth, framed by the silhouettes of cliffs and trees and swaying grass. The pool on the edge of the deck sparkles. A light flashes, somewhere off in the distance, a lone car sweeping up a back road, maybe a teenage couple out late.
She throws up her arms to cover her eyes, as she smashes straight through.
Shards rain down, flecks of sharp, hot pain on her back, scratching, cutting. Alessia stifles a shout.
All hell breaks loose.
A piercing, shrieking alarm sounds, deafening them both, as red lights flash. Alessia can’t hear a word of Ava’s shouting as she rushes over, hauls her partner to her feet. The bag lies open, its contents spilling out across the stone. A radio monitor crackles to life - police dispatch. Alarm at the Montouri house. Of course he has a direct line. Why wouldn’t he?
Ava staggers up, bloody red dashes all across the black fabric. She just about landed on her hands, and even through the sudden rush of adrenaline and shock she pushes Alessia away, scrambling over to the bag. It clicks for Alessia about half a second later. The backup plan. Ava gets there first, snatching up an old brick of a cellphone, while Alessia grabs its twin that lies a few feet away. Ava dials 999, Alessia thumbs through a series of voice recordings.
The operator’s voice crackles from the old phone. What’s your emergency?
Alessia thanks her lucky stars that JMont loves to talk so much. And that she’d spent so much time editing her own videos on the indies. She hits play, and on the other phone… a recording of his voice.
SHUT UP! TURN THAT SH*T OFF!
The operator tries to talk. Mr Montouri-
SHUT UP! LEAVE ME ALONE!
Frankly, anyone else, they’d’ve twigged it. Although the poor quality of the phone’s speaker masks it a little, there’s still clear cuts. The speech barely makes sense, pouring out like a drunken, egotistical rant, half-coherent. But for JMont…
Well, that’s about the usual, isn’t it?
OK- the operator struggles against the endless interruptions, as Alessia plays through her soundbites OK- we’ll- we can remotely- Mr Montouri- we’ll get that shut off for you.
The lights flick off. The alarms go silent. Nothing but the sound of the waves in the bay.
Ava’s grinning stupidly wide.
Did that just-
Told you it’d work.
Ava can’t help but burst out laughing, and after a second or so, Alessia does, too. She pulls her partner in, embracing her - Ava winces - ow, ow, watch the cuts - but just as quickly, the coolness returns.
Ok. Forget the rest of it. Let’s finish this. Just grab the camera.
Ava nods, sweeps it up as the two step out onto the balcony, picking their way over glass shards. Alessia gathers up the rest of their supplies, and points, Ava nods. Towards the end of the balcony, a small raised structure, wooden, with a long glass table, chairs, and a huge, double-wide grill. They stoop low, find the release switch, and unhook the canisters of liquid propane, one each, carried back into the house in both arms. Then through the door, up the winding circular stairs, to the very top, where a grassy, neatly-cut lawn stretched over the top of the roof, dotted with garden furniture. Alessia rigs the camera up on the back of a patio chair, as Ava cracks open a canister and begins to pour it over the grass.
Ready?
As ever.
Live in three, two, one…
A red dot blinks on the camera.
Hey Joey. Hey Petey. Recognise where we are?
Don’t worry Joey, your insurance will cover it, right? Since you’re such a special little rich boy. And I know you won’t call the cops. Your ego’s too big. You’ll try to take us on yourself.
You know, aside from… everything else about you, I gotta say…. money really doesn’t buy taste, does it? This place is ugly as sin. Would’ve thought you could spare the money to hire a designer or something. Instead it looks like someone supersized a Holiday Inn. Overblown, overhyped, a mediocre brand that inexplicably survives, but is always second best. Always the fallback, never the first choice.
Kinda perfect for you, isn’t it? Almost got to the top. But you choked.
I wonder if you get jealous. Standing on the apron next to Vaughn, the man who actually managed to win it all. Does it hurt you? Remind you of who you could be, if you just were that little bit better?
But you know you’re never going to get there, don’t you? You look at him, and you realise that you’re always going to be second best. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Maybe you’ll hold a title for a bit, but only so someone better, smarter, faster can take it away from you. So in a vain attempt to actually win something for once, you’ve got down on your knees and kissed his boots and begged to team with our great International Champion, so maybe he can carry you to the top.
You always need someone else.
You know, I can’t wait for Junko to finally break you, for all of us.
Hey, Aves is here too. I think she’s got something to say.
Ava tosses aside the empty canister and steps forward, letting the oil seep into the ground. Alessia nods at her, and picks up the second.
Hey. I haven’t seen you since Uncivil War. You know, when I was in the ring, brawling with monsters twice my size, and you ran away ‘cause your little ego couldn’t take it?
Great teamwork. I’m sure that’s made your partner really trust that you can hang in there, when we’re smacking the fake-white teeth out of your mouth on Fury. Remember what happened at the end of the Bohemian Bash? Who was the one in the ring, Joey, and who was the one on the floor?
And Vaughn. Congrats on the DPI win. Great job riding someone else to victory, like always. Surrounding yourself with your Cabal, then teaming up with the walking condom stuffed full of dollar bills that is Alex Marshall. In a lot of ways, you’re a perfect partner for JMont, but instead of piling up money you use your ego as a shield.
But regaining the title doesn’t change that when you were alone, and had no-one else to call on… Knox beat you down, and stripped the belt from you. And burned it all away. On your own, one-on-one… just like Joey, you choked. And this time, when you’re across the ring from me, no Cabal is coming to save you.
You know what I see when I look at you both? A tragedy.
Because you’re good wrestlers. Great wrestlers, even, the type we came here to test ourselves against. Real survivors, real brawlers. We see that in you, just as much as we see it in us.
What sets us apart, is that when we lost, we didn’t complain, we didn’t go crying. We picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and threw ourselves right into the toughest team tournament in wrestling, to earn our way back to the top. Whereas Joey, you took one run at it, lost, and threw your lot in with Petey, who immediately rang Alex and worked out how he could screw Knox back out of the title.
You both could be real legends. Genuine talents, inspirations. You could be the reasons that the new generation comes through, looking to have dream matches with wrestlers they idolise. But instead you choose to grasp onto power with every last twitch of your aging fingers, lying and stealing and cheating - and all the time, Ava’s voice rises, fury building, pretending you’re the protagonists. At least most of the other dickheads in this company are honest about their cheating. At least the Malvados know they’re ‘Mucho Evil’.
Instead, every single thing you ever do, every reign, every title, every record, comes with a black mark next to it. That you couldn’t do it right. What a waste of a career.
Alessia kicks her canister aside, and puts her arm around her partner. Ava’s arms are crossed, staring daggers of black fury into the lens.
Even though we’ve been here nearly a year, mixing it up with the top card, even though we’re ex-champs, everyone still thinks we’re underdogs. Cashe and Warstein are already planning to face you two at TIP3. Counted us out before we’ve even stepped in the ring.
And you know what, we’re fine with that. Because it’s going to make it all the sweeter. You know why?
‘Cause you two build up these castles. Wealth, allies, ego, narcissism. Belts and trophies and titles won by fair and foul. From the outside, a shining city on the hill, a beacon of success. But inside it all, it’s as hollow and as fake as the diamonds on one of Joey’s watches.
Your castle of gold is built on foundations of sand. A fragile alliance of two huge egos, just about managing to hold it together long enough to make it through into round two.
How embarrassing it’ll be, when the underdog pair work their way through those foundations, right up into the inside, and blow it all apart.
We’re going to expose you as the frauds, chokers, failures that you really are. We don’t like you, we don’t even respect you. And when we’re done with you both, everything you’ve built… will be ash.
With a smirk, Alessia pulls out a lighter, flicks it on… and tosses it over her shoulder.
The grass catches quick - no rain for a few days, dry as tinder. And the last thing before the camera feed cuts out, is Ava and Alessia, silhouetted against the burning sky.
OOC - 3,500 words by wordcounter, JMont's house used with permission from handler. Thanks!
