Post by mystifyingoracle on Feb 27, 2021 15:02:28 GMT -5
OOC: I recommend reading the results for Chaos 106 as well as, 'Control,' for background information, but it's not necessary. Previous RPs against Cat referenced in this are from Chaos 100 and Chaos 101 if you would care to read those for additional background, as well. If you prefer a more traditional black text on white background reading experience, please use the link in the title to access my Wordpress account. Enjoy, all!
"There's an old saying: 'All power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' The more I've learned, the less I believe it. Power doesn't always corrupt. What power always does is reveal. When a guy gets into a position where he doesn't have to worry anymore, then you see what he wanted to do all along."
- Robert Caro
“Can you believe there are promotions operating today where this match wouldn’t be possible?”
Silvio is laying down on his back on his tattoo chair, hands folded behind his head, looking up at the camera positioned on the ceiling. He’s dressed in jeans, red Converse, and a black shirt with the astrological symbol for Venus printed across it in white.
“When I was looking for a promotion to join, it was important to me that they had intergender matches. I wanted to fight the best, regardless of gender. I didn't want limits. And when I was doing my research - watching matches, reading up on peoples’ experiences - something I noticed was that there was a stark difference between the treatment of men and women in the business.”
He spreads his arms.
“Many have been conditioned to think that violence is inherently male and peace is inherently female. Therefore, when women aren’t permitted into violent spaces, plenty of folks think this is right and just.”
He gives a theatrical shrug, a sarcastic note coloring his words.
“However, for some reason, women and people who support them just keep on insisting on access! The problem is, most of these spaces are controlled by men, and if they’re going to let the girls into the boy’s club…they’re going to have to follow some extra rules.
“Sometimes this extends to segregating off the genders entirely. Men only fight men, and women only fight women. If you’re intersex or non-binary? Well, that’s a whole other can of worms most of these folks are terrified of opening. If you want access?”
Tapping his chin, the Oracle raises a brow.
“…Well, okay, but it’s only acceptable if you do it while playing a certain role that won’t threaten the status quo too much. Funnily enough, I’ve found a lot of the same roles emerging in video games. I bet you’ve noticed too, Cat. Let’s start with the obvious.”
Silvio snaps, and in an instant, the World Champ’s attire changes. Instead of his t-shirt and jeans, he’s wearing the pink gown, ovular turquoise brooch, and dainty golden crown of Princess Peach. He spins a parasol in one hand, still looking up at the camera.
“The damsel, the innocent, the princess in need of rescue. She exists in these violent spaces not to fight, but to give the men around her a reason to. She reminds us of all that is soft and gentle and worth preserving. Sure, she might get in a shot or two now and then to show she’s got a little moxy, but that’s not the main reason for her being there. Not up to being the damsel? You could be…”
Snapping again, Silvio’s voluminous gown changes to a sleek, black catsuit with a chest window in the shape of a crescent moon, white opera gloves, and a pair of what appear to be stilettos with guns attached to the heels. He twirls a tiny lollipop between his fingers, giving the camera a come-hither look.
“…The seductress…the sex pot…the dominatrix…”
He writhes suggestively, his Bayonetta cosplay gleaming in the light, running a hand up his chest before sticking the lollipop in his mouth. Drawing it out again free of candy, he makes a face.
“Huh. Not much staying power with this one.”
Tossing the stick aside, he touches his lower lip.
“Sex and violence! Two great tastes that taste great together! A woman can be permitted into the realm of combat without much complaint from the fellas’ as long as they’re being…titillated.”
Waving a hand, he raises a brow.
“But maybe you’re not comfortable with that. In fact, you could always go the complete opposite direction.”
Snapping again, his cosplay changes into shining orange and yellow power armor, one arm sheathed within a space-age looking cannon, head obscured by a green-visored helmet. When he speaks, his voice is modulated, as if coming through an electronic filter.
“You could just be one of the guys! If femininity is associated with peace and, ‘weakness,’ then just get rid of it. Sometimes it’s physical – cutting your hair, cultivating a more ‘masculine,’ body shape, wearing specific clothes. Sometimes, it’s behavioral – drinking hard, smoking hard, and swearing hard. Disavow your feminine signifiers and you, too, can play with the boys!”
Samus Silvio hums thoughtfully, his cannon arm raising to scratch the side of his head, grating against the helmet.
“No dice? Well, we gotta get people buy into this somehow, so…”
This time when he snaps, Silvio is wearing jeans, and a ragged, blue-grey button down over a grey shirt. His face is speckled with blood, a backpack laden with supplies sits off to the side, and in his hands he holds a recurve bow. He glances at his right arm before looking back at the camera, shrugging helplessly.
“Look, I tried putting Ellie’s tattoos there, but the real-estate’s already occupied. This one’s a little harder. You’re going to have to suffer. A lot. You’re going to have to experience loss, degradation, humiliation, maybe even mutilation. You’re going to have to suffer enough for everyone watching to be cheering for you to beat the daylights out of those who inflicted that pain upon you in the first place, regardless of gender.”
He makes a face.
“Honestly? Not really hungry for anything on the menu right up until now. All of these start with the assumption that to engage in violence, women must be convinced to go against their fundamental, ‘peaceful,’ nature. These are all ways to contend with that assumption and while they’re by no means the only ones, we don’t have all day. But Cat? You’re not any of these.”
Snapping once more, Silvio’s outfit changes into an orange jumpsuit whose unzipped upper half he’s tied around his waist, revealing layered tank tops of blue and white, one of which is emblazoned with a logo that reads, ‘APERTURE LABORATORIES.’ His footwear is a complex affair of white plastic and black shock absorbers, and a strange, gun-like contraption with spindly black pincers at one end glows blue where it rests in his hands.
“You reject the notion that violence isn’t yours to access because of who you are. If anything, your heritage encourages you to seize it as your birthright. You do not allow yourself to be objectified sexually, but you don’t deny yourself your own expressions of sexuality.”
“I think the fan fic is proof enough of that. You don’t believe that disavowing your femininity is part of the path to power. Your skill with putting together costumes, your slick nail polish, and sweet hairstyle all exude what most would consider traditionally feminine qualities. You don’t put an excess of suffering on display for a cheap shot of pathos. If anything, you’re always out there to entertain, making people happy. You reject the idea that violence is the domain of men that women can only enter under exceptional circumstances. Hell, the thought’s probably never even crossed your mind.”
Spreading his arms, still holding the Portal gun, Silvio raises his brows.
“We work in an environment where violence is the tool used to get results. In our world, violence is synonymous with power. At Carnage, violence is egalitarian. We could break things down to ‘violence good or violence bad,’ but that’s too simplistic. The better question is – what is our violence in service to?”
Looking at a little wheeled tray on which sits some tattoo supplies and a card. Stretching his hand toward it, his frowns as it’s just out of reach before looking at his gun. Looking off screen, he aims the gun, and pulls the trigger, a strange, warping sound emanates from it as it fires. As he switches the color to glow orange, he fires again at the floor beside him, creating a swirling vortex. He reaches through the orange portal and his hand is seen groping for the card on the table through the wall beside it before he draws it back out again and closes both vortexes with a satisfied little grin. He winks at the camera.
“Ax has some cool SFX friends from Hollywood he loaned to me.”
He flicks the card between his fingers.
“Does your violence consolidate power or share it? Is it possessive or protective? Does it foster a vertical or lateral power structure?”
He looks thoughtful as the hand playing with the card becomes still.
“Let’s put a pin in that. This is my first title defense. It’s one thing to win a belt. It’s another to keep it.”
His expression shifts, eyes momentarily distant.
“And if it wasn’t for you, Cat, I don’t think I would be where I am right now.
“You reminded me of how strong you have to be to get back up after you’ve been knocked down. You reminded me of how strong I am.”
Raising a brow, he gives a sardonic smile.
“Considering how unlucky my past was, I honestly wonder if I unknowingly shattered a store full of mirrors while walking under a corridor of 13 ladders with an entire herd of black cats breakdancing across my path. You’d think I’d remember that occurring, but being stabbed to death is a helluva drug.
“Among my, ‘get back up,’ moments, that ranks pretty high, though it shockingly isn’t number one. It did, however, leave me different from the others, because for a moment, I became nothing.”
“I know you could say I already was socially speaking, but I mean it in the literal sense. For a short time, I wasn’t here anymore. I was gone. Whatever electricity animates my mind and body fizzled out and I. Was. Nothing.”
He purses his lips for a moment.
“You don’t consciously remember being nothing. That’s kinda part of the whole deal. But there’s something in you that knows it happened, and you carry that piece of knowledge with you in your bones. In your soul. In the shape of your name. In the reverberation of your voice. In the color of your dreams. There is always that hollow spot that’s no longer innocent to the mystery of what happens to you after everything is over. That’s traumatic. It can infect your concept of yourself in insidious ways and lead you to sink deep into the cold, pillowy comfort of nihilism. I mean…”
Shaking his head, he shrugs.
“…I walked away from a loving relationship without saying a word on my way out because why wouldn’t I? A significant other, a boyfriend, a husband? They wouldn’t do that. But nothing? Nothing steps right out the door without a backward glance. And it’s taken me a long time to realize that infection was still there and doing damage. It took having to get back up again after being knocked down to recognize it for what it was. It took needing to re-engage in the mechanics of rising to see part of what had made me fall in the first place.”
He looks up at the camera.
“It took you, Cat.”
“And I wouldn’t have known if we weren’t allowed to fight. I wouldn’t have known if Carnage wasn’t egalitarian in its access to violence. To power. Once I realized I was strong enough to survive the fall, I lost any inhibitions I had about climbing as high as I wanted. And the first thing I did was test that new resolve against the best competitor this promotion has to offer.”
Finally, he turns over the tarot card to reveal a knight astride a rearing brown warhorse arrayed in armor and yellow robes patterned with salamanders. In one hand, he holds the reins of the horse, and in the other he grasps a leafy, wooden baton, the desert stretching out behind him.
“The Knight of Wands. He is life and fire. He represents passion, inspired action, impulsiveness. He’s adventurous and always finds fun in his endeavors. He wants to accomplish important things and be recognized for his skill.”
He grins, the card flickering between his fingers.
“That’s you all over. It’s part of why I’m excited about this match. You don’t do anything in half measures. When you commit yourself to something, you put everything you are into it. Considering your pedigree, your entire life and career up until this point? I know you’re going to come at me with everything you’ve got; do everything you can to win. Family matters and I know yours has their eyes on you. That’s not a small amount of pressure to contend with, and I know you’ve got moral baggage that comes along with it. I know you’re trying to be a better version of yourself, and there’s significant friction with your perception of what that is and your family’s reputation. Which makes it really important to watch for personal flaws that may get in your way if you’re not careful.”
With a twist of his hand, he holds the card in the reversed position.
“Because the Knight of Wands can also represent impatience, a loss of power, stagnancy, and unstable relationships.”
He tucks the card away and looks back at the camera.
“It’s funny how our experiences have been reflections of each other since we first crossed paths.”
He begins ticking the points off on his fingers.
“…I had a tag team championship match after losing my original partner, I lost, I had a rematch against you, half of the tag team champions at the time, I won, and then I cut a swath through every competitor they put in front of me before getting a shot at the World Title the following PPV and coming out the victor.”
He shrugs and continues.
“Just recently, you had a tag team championship match after your partner had been gone. After you lost, he left you here on your own. You had a rematch with half of the tag team champions, you won, and you’ve been cutting a swath through every competitor they put in front of you before your shot at the World Title the following PPV…”
He stops before ticking off another finger.
“Now the question is,” the Oracle intones, “are you going to keep following in my footsteps?”
Exhaling, he raises his brows.
“The last time we fought, I pointed out a fundamental difference between us. Being the Chosen One versus the One Who Chooses. I know which of the two I am and strive to continue being. But you?
“At our contract signing, you made it clear that you aren’t ready to take responsibility for your own aspirations and motivations. You can't answer your own questions about yourself. When you said you still needed an external voice reassuring you of your capabilities, that was all I needed to hear to know you aren’t ready for this. You aren’t ready to be World Champion.”
He holds up a finger.
He snaps again. This time, his clothes change to his ring gear, the World Title around his waist.
“If violence in this place equals power, then what is your violence in service of? What would you use your power for?
“I’ve been pretty explicit about what I want out of any run I have at Carnage. I want to promote our talent. I want to prioritize people who haven’t had opportunity. I want to lateralize and share power with those who haven’t had it before, because I want to see what they do with it. I want to hear the stories they have to tell when their voices are amplified so we can all listen. I want to protect those who have had to stand alone. I will always be on the side of the marginalized. The cryptid. The underground. The monsters under the bed and the terrors hiding in the closet. Those who have been denied.
“I am very interested in seeing what happens when those people are given access to violence as a tool to change their world. I have no patience for those who would try to limit them for any reason.”
Silvio drums his fingertips briefly against the main plate of the title belt.
“If you still need an external force dictating what you’re able to do, then your power – your violence – and whatever you do with it will always have the potential to be subverted.
“That is the danger of being the Chosen One; of having someone else tell you what and who you are. Because any power granted to you? Any access or permission? It can be revoked. I tried to help you see that the last time you and I tangled, but apparently the message didn’t get through. But practice makes perfect, so it looks like we’re going to be doing a little review.”
He laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out, cracking his knuckles.
“You’re on your own now, Cat. This comes down to you and me; nobody else. No Marlowe. No Zed. No title. You might ask for help, but you have to be brave enough to reach out. No matter what, when you get up again, the strength you’ll have to tap into will be only yours.
“You are not ready for gold again. This will not be your moment, but if you want one in the future, you will have to get up after I knock. You. Down.
“I am going to take you where I have been. I am going to reiterate the message until you finally take it to heart. I am going to make sure it’s necessary for you to find the same strength I did to rise again.
“The world will not shed a tear for your failed ambitions, or your deferred dreams, Cat. So stop waiting for someone to tell you who you are and what you can do and get off the floor!
“If you need me to say what is possible for you, then whether or not you win at this show is my decision to make.
He extends a hand as if inviting the viewer to dance.
“I won’t make you a champion at Act of Defiance,” he says in his sugared smoke voice. “But come into that ring with me and I swear, I will make you a phoenix.”
He snaps one final time, and the scene goes black.
“You know I’m proud of you, right, kiddo?”
“Yeah, Leslie. I know. I’m…hey, if it’s inconvenient to come out for the show just…let me know what I can do to help, yeah? My offer to pay your airfare still stands.”
Silvio paced around the living room of his apartment, phone held to his ear. His laptop was opened on the coffee table, a number of empty Dr. Pepper cans and cup noodles strewn about its surface. He’d been marathoning tapes of Catalina, watching and re-watching their previous two fights. Cat had lit something inside of him he’d never felt before or since, which made the prospect of getting into the ring again with her gloriously tantalizing.
There was a part of him that was both nervous and elated about a possible repeat of what had happened with King at 106. The manic energy, the electrifyingly scrambled senses, the hunger.
He could feel it flickering along his skin as if it were about to ignite, moving through his blood with greater urgency each passing day. A need whose identity he knew, but whose intensity paradoxically brought him to his knees while compelling him onward. It was something he could mistake as a desire for conquest, but that wasn’t quite right upon closer introspection. King had implied a crush, but he wasn’t sure about that, either.
No. What he wanted wasn’t to conquer, but to commune. They’d both taken something vital from each other, but all that meant was that together, they could give the Legion a fight no one else could. She had a spark of his just as he had a spark of hers.
What happened when fire in the shape of human beings went to war?
The Oracle didn’t know yet, but God have mercy on any soul who tried to stop him from finding out.
Silvio wanted to share this with someone important. His mom had passed away and his father had been long gone. It felt a little silly at 25, but he thought it would be nice if…well…one of the closest people he’d ever had to a parent after he lost his mom and his dad left…
“Oh, for goodness sake, don’t worry about that,” Silvio’s tattoo mentor scoffed. “This is important to you and I want to see it. It’s just that…well, like I said, I’m proud of what you’re doing right now, but I’m a little confused.”
“About the abs and muscles and stuff? I know, everybody who knew me back when keeps talking about how I filled out. The secret? Chicken, rice, broccoli, and a lot of work. Just…so much goddamn chicken, rice and broccoli. And my sugar-addicted ass has to work twice as hard. Do you know how many sit-ups you gotta do to burn off one Jolly Rancher?”
“Stop deflecting, kid. I’m immune to the charm.”
Silvio flopped back into his sofa with a little sigh.
“Yeah, okay, what’s got you worried, Leslie?”
“Not worried, just…curious. You’re old enough to apply for financial aid on your own. I thought you’d be trying to get into schools by now. Did you change your mind about being a teacher?”
He picked up a soda can tab off the table and began flicking it along his knuckles, eyes moving along the spines of the test prep books on his shelves.
“Nah, I…it’s not that I changed my mind it’s just…you know, I’ve waited this long, right? What’s a little longer? I feel like I’m doing a lot of good at Carnage right now.”
She sighed, and he could just feel her frowning through the line.
“You’re putting a lot of yourself into it. I can see you trying to take a lot of peoples’ cares into your heart. I just want you to remember there’s only so much of you to go around.”
He made a face, rubbing his forehead.
“Yeah, I know. I just…I’m finally in a place where I can help other people in a tangible way and I don’t want to take that for granted.” Getting to his feet and coming to the living room window, he looked out into the street below just outside of his parlor, people moving about their day-to-day lives. “We know how hard it is. Money doesn’t matter until it does…people say, ‘high school education,’ like it’s an insult…no one in power has your background or understands your problems. Those are things I want to make better. Maybe the world outside isn’t fair, but things can be different here. And I guess I just want to…to stop losing people.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Silvio, why do you think it’s your job to save them?”
He blinked, quiet for a moment.
“…’cuz I don’t…”
His hand moved unconsciously to the scar just above his heart.
“…I don’t know how to save myself.”
Silvio turned back to look at the title belt settled on an armchair, brow furrowed.
Post by Super Smash Cat Inc on Feb 27, 2021 23:24:30 GMT -5
Catalina - Age -1
“Stop being a baby and punch your pregnant wife.”
Dani Cortes saw no reason why an eight month baby bump should be a deterrent to a marital sparring session. Javier Cortes disagreed. “Could we not?” He backed away, toward the patio of their newly purchased Pasadena home.
Even at dusk the November air was hot, but Dani was a walking coldspot. “It’s a ritual, dear. I would think someone from a family of devil-worshipping luchadors could appreciate that.”
Javier pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t worship the devil. It’s just part of the schtick.” Growing up in a Satan-schticking lucha libre family left Javier eager to ease into some semblance of normalcy following his marriage. Who Wants To Be a Millionaire called out to him from the living room. Perhaps in a few years they could incorporate family dinners and movie nights and little league. Anything was better than meeting his wife in the backyard for weekly Mortal Kombat.
Carrying twins did little to slow Dani. As she advanced, their relationship flashed before Javier’s eyes. The conversations about her job, her evasiveness, something about a centuries old ninja clan embracing multiculturalism while expanding further into corporate sectors. Women, he would often chuckle to himself. This time the chuckle was cut short when his wife pressed her index and middle fingers to his forehead, her eyes piercing his like icicles. A moment later, searing pain brought him to his knees. It felt like the worst ice cream headache he ever had. His scream tour through their idyllic suburban neighborhood. Birds flew from the trees, dogs barked, a neighbor boy crashed his bike.
“There,” said Dani, catching her breath. She made the ice-karate look effortless, but it still took a toll. “You’ve been bested. Our children are winners and they’re still in the womb.” She let her husband writhe for another moment. When he didn’t speak up, she continued. “I settled on Leonardo.”
Javier thought he would bite through his own teeth, but slowly the pain dulled and he could open his eyes again. They spent months arguing over names for their twins, before finally reaching an agreement. Dani would name their son, while Javier named their daughter. His senses returning, he blinked tears out of his eyes. “DiCaprio or da Vinci?”
“Da turtle,” Dani said. It may have been a joke. As a rule, Dani only ever laughed when she wanted to unnerve and to menace. “Katanas, stoicism, blue. He was always my favorite.”
The blinding pain reduced to an ache, Javier stumbled back to his feet. “Leonardo isn’t anybody’s favorite. I was thinking Catalina.”
It was Dani’s turn to wince. “Where she was conceived? When she acts out as a teenager, we can tell her that and watch her vomit.”
“I just thought it sounded nice,” said Javier, fighting back his own desire to vomit. “But now that you mention it, if I thought about my parents… making me. And I knew they named me after the place where they did, I think I’d wake up every night screaming and that would keep happening until the day I died.”
A humorless chuckle escaped Dani’s throat. “I rather like Catalina. Let’s stick with it.”
“My favorite was Raphael,” said Javier, trying delicately to broach the subject of naming their son after his least favorite turtle. A glare from Dani told him that the conversation was over. Still, he wanted to get another shot in before their sparring session ended. “Do you ever think you’re too controlling?"
Dani shrugged. “I’ll reign it in after they’re born. Wouldn’t want them to get a complex.”
Catalina - Age 9
“That’s what you get for picking Chimchar, stupid.”
Catalina’s words echoed from the living room. In the kitchen, Dani stopped chopping celery to exchange a look with her husband. Javier stopped mixing his locally famous Greek salad, placing the bowl back on the counter, then went to stop his children from berating each other. Theoretically, at least. In practice, it was always Catalina doing the berating. It was a psychological edge rapidly spreading through all their activities, but it started with video games.
From what Dani understood of Pokemon, there was a thing called type advantages(something to do with a penguin beating a monkey). Catalina had a talent for using them against her brother. But her skill wasn’t limited to Pokemon.
Last week it was, “That’s what you get for picking Toad, stupid.” A trio of red turtle shells cost a mushroom-headed little boy a go-kart race. Apparently Catalina’s green dinosaur didn’t have to hit a single opponent with all three, but she did so solely out of spite.
A month before it was, “That’s what you get for picking Luigi, stupid.” A blonde woman in a bodysuit used a laser to blast an Italian man off the edge of a besieged castle. He disappeared in an explosion and again Catalina was the victor. Over and over. Tears, fights and broken controllers followed.
A realization struck Dani’s brain, like a particularly nasty ice cream headache. She stabbed her knife into the cutting board and cursed while her family argued in the next room.
“She’s got a complex.”
Catalina - Age 19
“I know what you’re going to tell me,” Catalina said, leaning over the ring ropes of the Flamingo Academy’s center ring. She insisted on using that one when she practiced. It only made sense that the school’s best student should be the focal point during training. “Great job, Cat. Perfect springboard. Then you would clap. You can still say it and still clap. I’ll act surprised.”
Don Flamingo’s shoulders slumped. He asked Catalina to stay behind following class to address issues outside of her agility, and the notion exhausted him. Whether she was training, talking or merely existing, Catalina seemed utterly inexhaustible. There were a handful of students left, either chatting or changing. Flamingo hoped to have the conversation away from prying ears, but everyone was aware of the issue. Everyone except for Catalina. “It’s about your attitude.”
“Dude,” Catalina groaned. Like everything else, she could switch from pompous prodigy to petulant brat with inhuman quickness. “Not this again. You asked me to be nicer, I’ve been nicer. While you were wasting time with dropkicks, I showed everyone how to do a springboard four-fifty. See? I’m helping.” That evening Cat flawlessly hit the move upwards of twenty times onto a crashpad in the center ring, while her classmates looked on. When class was over, her training partners left with zero ring time.
“You showed everyone that you can do a springboard four-fifty,” Don Flamingo said, his mustache twitching. “There’s a difference.” It was true that she dominated the ring for the sake of her demonstration. But even if her classmates weren’t participating, they were still watching and learning. Nothing made a person want to learn more than sheer, jaw-dropping awe.
Cat shrugged, then dropped cross-legged to the canvas. Their eyes met through the ropes. “Right now you have twelve students. How many of them have a real chance at being future world champions?” She held up a single finger, then pointed to herself. “Quality over quantity, dude. Trying to get them on my level is a waste of time.”
“I’m teaching them to do the best with what they have,” Don Flamingo said. “Not everyone’s born into a famous wrestling family.”
“Was that a dig?” she asked. Cat’s temper and competitive streak were hopelessly intertwined. Any semblance of a challenge, particularly one she couldn’t dominate, was enough to stoke her anger. “I could go train at the Temple if I wanted to. They’d treat me like royalty.” Templo del Diablo was built in tribute to Catalina’s great-grandfather. Santo Diablo was a legend of lucha libre villainy. Any descendant of his would be welcomed into the Temple with open arms. The Flamingo Academy had a single world champion to its credit, and was not shy about advertising that fact. Moxie posters were all over, commemorating the triumphs of Don Flamingo’s greatest student. His students were all fans to some degree, but Cat tried to downplay her obsessiveness for fear of seeming uncool. There was a very particular reason she did not want to train at the premiere school for rudos and chose a glorified gym instead. Hero worship.
Some of the trainees only signed up under the assumption they would meet their idol, but those were the ones that quickly washed out. Moxie’s appearances were sporadic to the point of nonexistence, but her most rabid devotees kept training, eagerly awaiting the moment they could showcase their skills to wrestling’s High Priestess of Punk when she finally graced them with her presence. Catalina was determined to impress, but in the meantime, she was being utterly insufferable. “I’m gonna treat you like one of my students,” said Don Flamingo. “As long as you’re one of my students.”
The alternative didn’t need to be said. Catalina could leave if she wanted to. “That would be a huge loss for you,” she said, trying to wrest back control of the argument.
“You too,” Don Flamingo said. “We’ve having a tournament in December. The first annual Flamingo Cup. If you’re still around, you’ll be in it. And you’ll get to meet her.”
Cat’s biggest gripe about wrestling school was that it wasn’t officially a competition. Even if she was the best student by a mile, there were no official honors, no title belts, no trophies. The satisfaction of showing off could only sustain her ego for long. She needed something tangible. Something she could win. In a tournament, her classmates had no hope. They might make marginable improvements between now and the Flamingo Cup, but that would give Cat just as much time to scout their weaknesses. She would have no trouble defeating all of them, and she would do it in front of her idol. When she finally met Moxie, it would be as equals. Appropriately, she was a Saggitarius, because the Flamingo Cup would be Christmas and her birthday all rolled into one. “You realize nobody here can beat me, right?” Catalina asked, popping back to her feet like a lightning bolt. “I’m going to wreck this shit.”
“Great,” said Don Flamingo. “In the meantime, learn to share the ring and try to be more considerate. Winning isn’t everything.”
Catalina laughed, receiving a dirty look in return from her trainer. The laughter cut off with a cough. “Wait, were you being serious?”
Catalina - Age 20
“Well,” said Dani Cortes. “That was a spectacular failure.”
The night of the Flamingo Cup came back to Cataline in flashes. She remembered putting her gear on; it was ice-themed on one side, fire on the other. She remembered running into Moxie in the hallway, a few minutes before her opening match to kick off the tournament. The specifics of the exchange eluded her. In her memory, Cat floated disembodied through the ether, watching in abject horror as she fan-girled and squealed and fawned over her hero, while Moxie dismissed her like some lost child. She recalled seizing Moxie in a vice-like, unreciprocated hug. Embarrassment was an understatement. And then finally, Cat released Moxie so that she could make her entrance. That was when it happened. The words still echoed in her ears.
“I’m totally rooting for you, Catrina.”
It wasn’t just the name. It was the tone. Catalina Cortes, pride of the Flamingo Academy, lucha libre royalty, was utterly brushed off. But at least it was a private humiliation. Her subsequent loss to Lucy Lennon, specifically a tornado roundhouse in the first ten seconds, was a public one. Cat was already numb at that point. She didn’t feel the sting of the loss as it happened. But now she was left to deal with the consequences. Specifically, her family’s response to her first great failure. As her father put it, her family advantages had been revoked. When she begged them to let her train at the Academy instead of the Temple, their permission came with certain expectations. Regardless of her success as a student, Cat’s loss demanded penance. She was given a week to decide how she would restore her place. Don Flamingo suggested Baltimore. Now she was left on the couch in the Cortes living room, where she spent so many years being a winner. Dani and Javier stood before her, like towers of disappointment.
“It’s cool,” Catalina said, knowing it wasn’t. “Flamingo got me a spot in Carnage Wrestling. In Baltimore.”
“Garbage wrestling,” said Javier, mouth twisting in disgust.
Dani’s eyes never left Catalina. “The city’s suitably dreary, but we’re not sending you there to jump on thumbtacks and get thrown into barbed wire.”
Cat shifted into saleswoman mode. Carnage was her only option, but the prospect of escaping her parents’ oppressive gaze actually gave it some allure. “That’s one division. The roster’s got plenty of actual wrestlers and the world champ’s like eighty. Gimme six months and I’ll run the place.”
Her parents exchanged a glance, but she could tell they didn’t want to argue. They wanted her to present a solution. “We expect you to focus,” Javier said. “You’re there to win matches.”
“No screwing around, Catalina,” Dani said, in her best knock-that-shit-off tone. “Don’t think for one second we’re exiling you to Baltimore so you can goof off and play video games.”
Cat nodded along. “One-hundred percent. No video games, no goofing, no human connection of any kind. Totally.”
“I’m booking your flight right now, you little shit,” said Dani, yanking her phone from her purse.
Bounding from the couch, Cat sped off to her room. “Hold up, I gotta pack my Switch,” she mumbled to herself. Before her parents could object, she screamed back, “I SAID TOOTHBRUSH!”
Catalina - Age 21
Her Eeveelution hoodie collection left in the closet, Cat arrived at Fort McHenry as incognito as possible for a world title challenger. She hid her hair under a purple Batgirl hat, combined with a limited edition Zed Hotley’s Kit-Kat Connection hoodie, a piece of merchandise no person would possibly wear. Speedwalking and keeping her head down allowed her to navigate through most of the Legion members on her way into the arena, only having to pause for a few quick selfies and autographs, then dashing off. She was afraid to get a read on the crowd. Nausea hit whenever she considered whether they would side with her or Silvio, so she did everything she could to push those thoughts from her mind. Earbuds and Spotify were her best natural defense, but they had a type disadvantage against anyone willing to yank an earbud from someone’s ear. Catalina made a mental note to finally splurge on some wireless ones after Act of Defiance.
The earbud puller was familiar, though it took Cat a few seconds to file search her brain. Last time they met was before Redemption, when Marlowe recruited a tween fan(or urchin) to wear a CATALINA CORTES IS MY FAVORITE WRESTLER shirt, as a way of motivating her. To prevent any investigation on Cat’s part, little Amy said she was dying from Covid-20. With the lightest of research, Cat was able to expose the scam, though she appreciated the effort. Unfortunately, Amy was less of a Catalina Cortes fan than she pretended, as her shirt was emblazoned with the Avenger. At least it wasn’t Silvio Leon.
“Sup, Cat?” said Amy.
Being disrespectful herself, Cat wasn’t sure if Amy should’ve been more respectful when speaking to an adult. Cat was so rarely the grownup in situations, that she was unclear on the rules. “Hey, Amy. Here to cheer me on?” Cat forced a smile meant to show she was kidding and didn’t actually want an answer to the question, despite the fact that she very much did.
“Not really,” said Amy, shrugging. “Got the tickets for Christmas when Adrienne Levi was still working here. But good luck, I guess.”
“Thanks,” said Cat, desperately peering through the crowd, hoping to get some count on how many Catalina Cortes shirts were in attendance. It was an attempt to reassure herself, but as her brain did the work, her mouth betrayed her. “I’m sure there are plenty of people cheering for me. But really, the important thing is that I’m cheering for myself.”
Amy blinked at her. “What?”
Cat blinked back, abandoning her count, hoping she still might have a chance of coming across as a respectable authority figure. “Amy, as you mature you’re gonna learn that external validation isn’t as important as internal validation. You have to love yourself first.”
“My mom’s a psychiatrist,” Amy said.
Cat nodded. “So you know all this stuff already.”
“Even if she wasn’t,” Amy continued. “That’s pretty basic.”
“Right,” Cat said, fumbling to get her earbud back in. “Your generation is more attuned to the importance of mental health.”
There was a pity in Amy’s eyes, but also a competitive indignation that Cat both identified with and despised. “No, I think you’re just overly impressed with yourself for coming to a realization about something that’s pretty obvious.”
The earbud was back in, and Cat was eager to drown the fan out and everything else out. “Gotta go, big match, also just remembered I hate children.”
Catalina - Age 21(Again)
The promotional backdrop was minimalistic, limited entirely to a white backdrop with CATALINA CORTES embellished in black. There were no artist renderings, no fancy fonts, not even a cat face in place of the O. Catalina’s wardrobe was similarly minimal. Her jeans were naturally torn at the knees, her hair was up in a bleach blonde ponytail, and her black t-shirt read simply HI I’M CAT.
“Check it out, I’m Catalina Cortes: Real person.”
She laughed nervously, her voice shifting into promo mode with a performative casualness, a turn from Cat’s usual false bravado.
“The first time I beat Silvio Leon, I made the mistake of saying I got lucky. Not accurate, he called me out, he was right. Circumstances being what they were, I pinned him in a tag match that was straight chaos, made more chaotic by the presence of Zane King and a betrayal by Zed Hotley. Christopher Marlowe put Silvio down with my move. I got the pin. We got the W. And I’m still the only person to get one on Silvio. Pretty cool.”
Cat gave a double thumbs-up.
“Then, here’s the too-long didn’t-read version, one show later Silvio pinned me and now we’re one-and-one against each other. Different circumstances, sure, but we really got a two-sides-of-the-same-count, both-destined-to-kill-each-other thing going on here. Before we get to our inevitable murder fight, we have to have a normal wrestling match at Act of Defiance. At least, as normal a match as a spoopy-boi future-seer and a Twitch-trash cosplay queen can have, for the Carnage World Championship. If the Legion wants to change it up for 2021, then here we fucking go.”
She pulled the camera in closer in an effort to create a phone-blog vibe.
“Much as I want to accuse Silvio of being eaten alive by my big win, I’m not a silly-billy. It took him two weeks to bounce back and even us up. This time he’s had months to feel his feelings and he even came into the possession of the big belt in the meantime. He wouldn’t have it if he didn’t know how to keep his head in the game, which presents a problem for someone like me, who likes to throw her opponents off by being an annoying little shit. Silvio is the last person in Carnage who would make the mistake of taking me lightly. All the cosplays and Twitch streams and silly tweets in the world won’t do it. He doesn’t need Future Sight to foresee that I’m a killer and I will put a knee to his face the first chance I get. The trial period on anyone thinking I’m a goober is officially over.”
Her eyes dart off-camera, following a halfhearted raspberry blown with ungooberlike poise.
“This is gonna sound dry coming from me, but if I win, I win because I’m better. Maybe not all the time, but at least at Act of Defiance, against Silvio Leon, when the title’s on the line. Over Christmas he had plenty of time to get over the new-belt euphoria and realize a title reign looks a lot better when you start racking up successful defenses. Hey, remember when me and Marlowe kept doing that with the tag belts? Pretty cool. Wow, even completely serious, I’m still extremely funny. How am I this good at everything?”
Her tone turning to a conspiratorial whisper, Cat leaned closer to the camera, confiding in it.
“I’ll let you in on my plan, because it’s a very good one. Silvio Leon is the Carnage World Champion and he is ready for me. There’s nothing I can throw at him that his mental magic-eight-ball won’t see coming. The tricksy Hobbit knows I’m here for his precious and I will plancha straight into Mount fucking Doom if I gotta. So I got no surprises. I’m just gonna hit everything I can think of until one of us is down. Nothing but pure, uncut Catalina Cortes. Best wrestler in the world?”
Catalina shook her head.
“Probably not. Best in Baltimore?”
Her usual informality returned, her face fighting off a smile.
Catalina - Age 21(Still)
A handful of fans in Fort McHenry gave Dani Cortes double-takes when they saw her. There was a resemblance, but the hair and height and dimensions were all wrong for her to be Catalina. The fact that she wore her daughter’s Glaceon hoodie made the confusion more understandable. It was Cat’s least favorite Eeveelution and the one she had no qualms about abandoning in California.
Her son and husband back in Pasadena, Dani made excuses about a last minute work trip(ninja corporations kept unusual hours) and disappeared for the weekend. Javier and Leo would no doubt be watching Catalina’s World Title match at home, rooting her on with all the joy and envy accompanying a loved one’s success. Dani didn’t want their reactions to pollute the experience for her. She wanted the purest glimpse of her daughter’s greatest success. As a mother, she preferred to keep her praise faint and her disappointment scathing. But for one night, provided things worked out, she could revel in her daughter’s elation, even if it was from the second deck of Fort McHenry.
She so infrequently took part in public amusements, particularly in the Covid Era, but she picked up a Coke and popcorn so that she could enjoy the full experience. Judging from the shirts, the Legion members in attendance were divided on their support for the main eventers. Catalina was always so desperate for praise. No doubt she would make a spectacle of her entrance, a last minute dose of theatricality to sway any fence-sitters to her side. Dani usually scoffed at such displays, but for one night, she hoped it would work. Unlikely as it might be, the thought of an arena packed with fans cheering for her daughter wasn’t an entirely unpleasant one. She wouldn’t participate herself, but she looked forward to the experience. On the way to her seat, she noticed a strange, nagging feeling within her. A sip of soda didn’t wash it away, nor did a handful of popcorn. It wasn’t until Dani Cortes found her seat overlooking the ring, where her daughter would soon fight for a world title, that the realization hit her. It felt like an ice cream headache, but that might’ve been the frosty Coke. She laughed at herself for being so sentimental, and gobbled a handful of popcorn to muffle the word as it escaped her brain.